by James Duvall
"Well? Any ideas?" Graham asked. Wicker and his men looked back at him in silence for a moment.
"Ehm... worms?" one said. Then, when he saw a dozen or so scornful eyes turned toward him amended, "big worms?"
"Maybe they was looking for a treasure chest?" another ventured.
"Golems don't want treasure, and besides, we'd know about it, wouldn't we?"
Everyone shifted uncomfortably, murmuring "no" and "you're making us look stupid, quit it."
"I'm just saying," the would-be treasure hunter spoke up, indignant over the din. "It looks like they were digging for something."
"Golems don't dig!" someone snapped at him.
"Yeah, well, they don't march in formation either!" he shot back. "Maybe you should've told 'em that when they smashed through the wall and started killing all of us!"
Graham raised his hands for silence, and was somewhat surprised when he actually got it. "Captain Wicker, do we know anything about what might have been buried here?"
Wicker shook his head.
"Uhm, Sir Graham?" someone asked.
"Yes?" Graham asked, scanning the ranks for the voice's owner. A young man stepped out and dug a rag out of his pack, something was wrapped up inside it. Graham didn't recognize him from the hike over, which meant he was one of Wicker's scouts.
"I found something in one of the holes before you all got here," the scout said, unwrapping it. Contained inside was a rough red crystal, jagged and unrefined and in a few places still clinging to bits of gravel and dirt.
"I think it's the stuff they make heartstones out of," he said, offering it to Sir Graham. "It's what makes the golems go, sir."
"He knows how a golem works; everyone knows how a golem works!" someone jeered.
To this the scout turned and shouted back, "well maybe he doesn't! People in Camden have more important things to worry about than rocks. Like the ralians and the dragons and the dwarves."
Captain Wicker sidled up to Graham and peered down at the crystal with the look of someone that knows just enough about what they're looking about to be able to talk about it, but not really enough to do anything about it.
"Familiar?" Graham asked.
"Well it does look a lot like a heartstone," Wicker said, "but it's all wrong, it's all ruddy and dull and the edges should be... rounder, yes. We should have a mage look at it to be sure. It's entirely possible that this is what they were digging up, raw heartstone."
Wicker's thoughts caught up with his words and his eyes widened a little. "Sir Graham, you don't think... they were building more?"
He nodded grimly; he did.
Chapter 30
The Fire Within
Patros, Calderr
"Sound the alarm!" the watchmen shout
When all the lights go out
"All men take up arms!"
At ready stand the riflemen
When all the lights go out
in defense of King and Kin
But no good men were left about
When all the lights went out
When all the Lights Go Out, A Calderrian poem, Author Unknown
The Calderr Express blew its whistle twice, warning its passengers that morning had arrived and with it, the Shell. Syrrus Danso muttered quiet complaints to no one as she struggled to sleep a little longer, bunching her pillow up against her ears to drown out the clamor coming from the hall. Other passengers were already awake and preparing to disembark. They had nothing left to face of the journey except a few more minutes on the westbound rail and then dragging luggage through a crowded station.
Syrrus marked the time. It wouldn't be long now. She stretched lithely, arching her human back and rolling the motion down through her hybrid hips and down the length of her feline spine. Her claws slipped from her paws. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Closing her eyes she pictured herself in other places in times before the wars had changed her life. She was a cub again, bouncing at her mother's side as they prepared the traditional dishes for the Feast of the Wandering Pilgrim. She was a teenager, splashing through the slushy streets of Andrlossen with her friends on their first tour of Fangor University. She was a young woman, curled up in a comfortable reading nook poring over Derinor Beldin's Theory on Night Magic.
The trains whistled sang again. Syrrus felt her hearts beating faster. The Shell drew near. Maybe when this was all over she would get a place of her own. A little cottage on the edge of Auldon would do nicely. Still in Fendiss, but close enough to the dragonlands that Ralia would be a thing for far off places to worry about. They would summon her if they needed. She lay flat on her bed, pressing her chest and belly snug against the sheets. She was invisible. She was smooth like a river rock. She was an arrow. She would glide right through. The shell struck like a battering ram.
For only an instant Syrrus saw the shimmering wall pass into the far end of her cabin. It snapped into life like a thin pane of glass and swept across the room in the span of a blink, striking her like a barbed mace driven hard into her chest. Tendrils of hate grabbed at her as the momentum of the train carried her through. They grabbed at her, marrow and bone, wrenching with a special enmity reserved for her alone. When at last it was gone Syrrus sank back to her bed, feeling as though she had been tied behind a horse and dragged through a bed of burning coals. Pain throbbed in every muscle, bruised deeper than any surgeon could see. The air felt dank and oppressive, as though a cold wet blanket had been tossed over her and in her weakened state she could not hope to muster the resolve to stand. Outside, people still talked and laughed, the Shell having passed them by unnoticed.
There was no sweeter sound to her ears than the metallic scream of the train's brakes as it drifted into the station and lurched to a stop. She escaped the coach on wobbly legs and stumbled out onto the platform like a sailor too long at sea. She crashed against a sturdy-looking pillar and clung to it like a drowning woman. In the distance the Shell shimmered impassively. Syrrus glared back at it with cold, baleful eyes. A hand took her by the shoulder. When she looked up she found no sympathy in the man's eyes. His brow was furrowed and he wore a scowl that his bushy mustache was not hiding well.
“What are you doing here?” The man demanded. Beyond him, Syrrus could see dozens of judgmental eyes fixed on her. Harsh words flit back and forth on whispers, heard only in tone by the distressed sadean panther. One word rose above the bitter murmur multiple times and made its way to her inquisitive ears: Mage. It carried with it all the loathing and contempt for the damned on their way to the gallows.
Syrrus felt her hackles raise. Like a wild animal she crouched against the pillar with wrath in her eyes and her claws extended as though to promise great injury to anyone that dare try to separate her from the pole she still clung to.
“That's my business; not yours,” she said coldly, looking at him in askance as she tried not to move much, instead preferring to keep her eyes locked on a spot on the floor that felt particularly still. He wore a nice coat and carried a cane. A flash of pearl caught her attention at his hip. It turned out to be the inlay of the butt of his piece. His hand hovered over it.
“I am the station master, therefore it is my business.” The stationmaster grabbed her by the back of her vest and hauled her away from the pillar. Resistance seemed fruitless in her weakened state. Despite all efforts she could feel her paws padding along as she was led and finally tossed toward the open coach. Weak-knees gave out from the impact and she landed on her side with a soft thud. When she had righted herself the gun had been drawn and when she turned around it was pointed into her chest.
“You are not welcome here, mage,” the stationmaster announced, as though it still needed saying. Syrrus could see he wasn't looking at her though, he was scanning the crowd, drinking in the adulation.
“I have noticed,” Syrrus snarled. She took a step toward him and he took a reciprocal step back. Again she advanced and again he withdrew.
"You can take her," someone cheered. "The She
ll did a number on her!"
“Get back on the train,” the stationmaster demanded, firming his grip on the pistol. “Get back on the train and go. We do not want you here.”
“Tough,” she said and pushed past him. All at once no one wanted anything to with her and the crowd eagerly parted to let the angry panthress through.
***
A cold rain fell on the black brick streets of Patros. It had driven nearly everyone indoors. Smoke poured from every chimney. It was the perfect weather for Syrrus' arrival. A cool breeze helped to ease the lingering nausea from her encounter with the Shell, and her few companions on the street were too busy avoiding puddles and managing their umbrellas to notice the mage in their presence. It reminded her of Andrlossen in the rainy season, hopping from puddle to puddle when she was little. The shimmering sky overhead was a stark reminder of just how far from home she was. Looking up at it she sighed softly. The Shell's reach was all-encompassing of the kingdom of Calderr. It weighed as heavily on her as the rain soaking her clothes and fur.
At last Syrrus came to the corner of Baker and Sprocket Lane. Rainwater poured from a broken downspout off the corner of Marwick's Machinery and Parts and formed a little moat of muddy water in front of the steps. It was a small stone building with fogged over windows, jammed in tightly on the corner between two other workshops. Syrrus stopped just long enough to dig out Marreth's note and check the address. This was the place.
A little mechanical nightingale stood on a post near the door. The key in its back began to turn and it sang a tinny little song as it worked its beak in repeating cycle that bore no regard for the song chirping from its hollow gut. Syrrus gave the door a little knock, then pushed it open. A quiet jangle of bells announced her arrival. It was a quaint little shop, and the sharp smell of cinnamon candles was doing a good job of masking the subtle scent of machine oil. A half-dozen clocks hung ticking over the counter, each of unique and curious design.
“Anyone here?” Syrrus called. That was when the creature emerged, slowly at first like a cat on the prowl. The whisper of whirring gears beneath its brass chassis was nearly lost beneath the hiss of steam from its nostrils. It was draconic in form with wings affixed to its back. The wings were formed from a series of sharp, curved blades that gleamed menacingly in the light. They swished against each other like knives as it folded them. Metal claws clicked against the stone floor as it walked. The bladed tip of its tail swiveled as it looked up at her with red, glowing eyes. Amber light seemed to leak from every joint in its body. Syrrus found herself taking a step back, reaching instinctively for the staff she had not been allowed to carry onto the train.
A sandy blonde-haired woman poked her head in from the back. “Geartooth! Go back inside!”
The dragon regarded her for a moment as though thinking, then folded its wings, turned tail, and slunk away like a beaten dog. Baleful golden eyes tracked it until it had passed through the door. Her eyes seemed almost the right color to be... but no, Marwick was a Calderrian name.
But still, those eyes.
“Caela Marwick?” Syrrus asked.
The woman nodded and stepped into the shop on lion's paws, closing the workshop door behind her. Despite her obvious faryian heritage, the shopkeeper was dressed in Calderrian clothes, a rugged red work vest over a sleeveless white shirt. The vest had many pockets, some with tools, bits of metal, and screws poking out. A pair of goggles crested her forehead, and she had a half dozen little pouches and satchels fastened about her waist and along her feline sides on a dark leather harness. Strapped to her foreleg, the butt of a pistol protruded from a leather holster.
Caela's golden faryian eyes blinked quickly, as though she were just as surprised to find a sadean woman in her shop as Syrrus was to find a faryian woman behind the counter of a calderrian machineworks. The nation was almost exclusively human.
“I am very sorry about that,” Caela said, straightening her vest. She scrubbed furiously at a faded grease stain and quickly gave up. “He knows better than to sleep in the front of the shop. I think I woke him up with my hammering.”
“It... sleeps?” Syrrus asked. She did not know much about machines but she was reasonably certain they couldn't 'wake up.' Not without a golem heartstone. Then, of course, they would not be a machine anymore, but a construct of magic.
“All the time,” Caela answered. “Keeps the crooks away though.”
“I'm sure,” Syrrus said numbly.
Stress lines creased Caela's forehead. Crow's feet appeared on skin that looked a little too young to bear such a mark. The machinist had a weary look to her. Her fur had probably borne a bright golden hue with warm brown highlights in her early years, but the sheen of youth had long ago faded and matured into a soft mix of grayed amber and earthen brown that was the beauty of a faryian woman approaching middle age but not quite on her way to the grays and whites of her senior years.
Syrrus found herself studying the woman and struggling to imagine what kind of project she could have been undertaken for Marreth Stormwood.
The shopkeeper extended her hand in an effort to draw her patron's attention back to the here and now. “Caela Marwick.”
Syrrus shook it lightly. “Syrrus Danso.”
“What can I do for you, Syrrus?” Caela asked, leaning up against the counter. “If you're looking for a harness I do modifications but there's a leatherworker over on Bellweather Road that does good work for panthers. There's also a sadean chef over on Copper Court that does traditional fendian food if you're looking for a taste of home.”
Syrrus felt the letter in her pocket. “I heard you were good with automatons.”
Caela brightened visibly and answered with confidence, “I am! I do new builds and repairs. You are fortunate, as the queue is a little low at the moment so I can promise you a good turn-around time. I guarantee quality craftsmanship and you'll of course get a full demonstration and inspection of any product before payment is expected. Though I do require a security deposit on larger jobs. I can also do watches, but not jewelry. For that you're going to be looking for Jeremiah Locke down the street.”
Syrrus waited politely for Caela to finish her sales pitch, then dug Marreth's note out of her satchel and pushed it across the counter to her. "Actually I was referred to you by Marreth Stormwood.”
Caela's smile evaporated into a hard-set scowl so chiseled into her face as to resemble the very golems Syrrus had come calling to inquire about. Caela pointed to the door. “Out.”
Syrrus frowned back; this was not the reaction Marreth had promised.
“Did you not hear me? Get out!”
“You think I came all this way to turn around and leave?” Syrrus asked, incredulous. “I'm not going until I can ask you a few questions. I can pay!”
“Oh yes you are,” Caela said. Her hand shot to her hip and came back up with the pistol, hammer cocked. She pointed it at Syrrus and motioned to the door with a nod of her head. “Go. Now!”
Summoned by the noise, the mechanical dragon scurried back into the room. Smoke poured from its jaws. Caela gave him a worried, sidelong glance. "I have this under control," she said. "Go back into the shop."
“It's him, isn't it?” Syrrus asked, her voice barely a whisper as she pointed at Geartooth. “He's the one that talks. The automaton you made with Marreth.”
The dragon stopped smoking and looked to Caela. She shook her head slowly and mouthed a silent “No” at it. The dragon turned to Syrrus, and for just a moment she thought she could see a grin in those glowing red eyes of his.
“I am,” he said in a rich, oily voice
“Damnit Gears!” Caela pounded her fist on the counter and tossed the gun aside. “She's a mage!”
“I know,” the dragon said. “I can tell by her wobble. She's been through the Shell.”
Syrrus crouched down to look the brass dragon in the eye. “This is incredible. How does it work?”
“That's none of your concern,” Caela answered indignantly.<
br />
Geartooth seemed to grin again, exulting in the attention.
"I am quite an enigma, aren't I?" he asked. "You may call me Geartooth."
"He's so well-spoken," Syrrus said.
Calling Geartooth a 'he' had an immediately visible effect on Caela. She growled and harrumphed in frustration, then slouched against the counter. She strummed out an irritated rhythm with one hand while the other propped her head up by the elbow, revolver still in hand.
"Are you quite finished?" Caela asked. Syrrus and Geartooth both looked up at her. She spared some amount of her vitriol for the clockwork dragon and pointed toward the shop, where he reluctantly returned.
“Calderrian hospitality really lives up to my expectations," Syrrus said once the dragon was gone. "Chased off a rail platform and had a gun shoved in my face twice. All in one afternoon. I haven't been this popular since the War of Ashes.”
“You seem used to it,” Caela said and shrugged indifferently. “What do you want with me, Syrrus?”
In the wake of Geartooth's revelation all the vitality had drained out of the inventor and Syrrus could see the dark rings under her weary eyes. A brass key hung on a silver chain around her neck that Syrrus hadn't noticed before. Caela yanked it off when she saw Syrrus looking at it and stuffed it into one of her pouches. Mages were good at keeping secrets, but Calderrian craftsmen were masters. Syrrus knew she had her work cut out for her.
“Just a few questions and I'll be on my way,” Syrrus promised.
Caela straightened up a little. “Fine. Automatons, ask away.”
“How do you know Marreth Stormwood?”
“I had business with him,” Caela answered shortly. “It is not a mistake I am keen to repeat, and if you are so interested to find out the nature of our business I assume you can ask him. Unless of course he is dead which would be a least some small bit of fortune to me as I can expect this to be the last Arcamynian mage come to ruin my business. Do you have any idea what it's like to be a panther in Calderr? People assume we have sympathies for practitioners like you. Just having you standing her degrades my reputation and calls into question my sensibility.”