Before he knew it, Samuel closed in on the caravan, turning away from the road to approach them through the grass. A small flurry of activity within the camp signified he’d been spotted. Torchlight moved about near the collection of wagons, and a party of six moved away from their confines to intercept him. Two flanked wide to his left and one to the right, while the remaining three took position between Samuel and their camp. The apparent leader of the group, tall and broad shouldered, sporting a thick black beard but no mustache, stepped forward into his path.
“Good evening, stranger.” His voice was forceful and deep. “Odd time to be walking so far out in the plains, eh? What’s your business tonight?”
Samuel stopped, taking note of the positions of the men surrounding him. They were agitated, and he had no wish to cause a confrontation. His cloak still hung tight about his shoulders and his face was couched in the deep shadow beneath the hood, which also hid the glow of his eyes. These men would find out soon enough he was not like them. Samuel took stock of his situation and decided being forthright was the least dangerous option. With his good hand, he shook off his hood.
“I’m in need of assistance,” he said, freeing his broken shoulder from beneath his cloak. “If any among you can”—What would be the proper word?—“repair me, I have a rather grave injury.” He gestured to his sling and broken shoulder.
The black-bearded man halted his approach, and the others tensed. “Where is your master, construct?” The tone was tinged with accusation. “You should know the mandate by now.”
Construct. Samuel let the word float in the air for a moment, absorbing the man’s name for Samuel’s kind. A full grasp of the term’s meaning would come with time, and he filed it away as the first helpful knowledge gained since his awakening. The mention of a master had Samuel contemplating his response.
“Well, construct?” the man pressed.
“I…I don’t know.” How much should he reveal? “I came to consciousness with a broken limb and no master to be found.” The image of the blood-spattered hand and the serpent ring came to him, but he thought better of mentioning it. “I’ve spoken to none that could identify a master, and so I’ve been…walking.” Would appealing to their charity have any effect? “Please, sir, if repairs are possible, I’d be grateful.”
Two men moved up to flank Black Beard, a short man with flame red hair muttering something Samuel could not make out. Black Beard nodded and the redhead started back toward the camp at a trot. “Grateful, is it?” he said with a mirthless smirk. “You speak more completely than constructs I’ve known. Your master must be generous.”
Black Beard regarded Samuel for a long moment, narrowed his eyes, and took in a slow, shallow breath. His jaw clenched, then his mouth opened, but no words came out. The men to either side stared at Samuel, their muscles taut.
“Sir, I don’t know what happened to my master,” Samuel said, trying to break the tension rather than increase it. It seemed like some improvisation was in order. “I…I was…left for repairs at a shop down in the valley,” he gestured in the direction from which he had come, “but something happened.” Samuel hoped the big man would not bite on his intentional vagueness.
Black Beard’s shoulders rose in a breath and relaxed, but his hand had dropped to the hilt of a weapon at his side. “We’ve heard a few tales from travelers of an incident in Winston.” The statement hung in the air, half-question, half-accusation.
Behind Black Beard the red-haired man emerged from the camp accompanied by a portly older gentleman who followed him with a gait something between a trot and a waddle. “I know there was a fire, but I know nothing more,” Samuel offered. “It consumed the shop where I’d been left before the shopkeeper could finish his duties. By the time I awoke, it was too late to help.” The hefty man was close now, beads of sweat running down his brow as he neared the group.
Black Beard tensed again. “And why should I believe it wasn’t you who started the fire and are now fleeing?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Hartings,” the portly man interjected. His voice had a nasal quality and registered half an octave above normal. “You shouldn’t wear your prejudices out in the open.”
“It’s out here on its own, Taeman. It says it doesn’t even know who its master is.” Hartings said, never taking his eyes off of Samuel.
Taeman looked contemplative, then spoke to Samuel: “What do you remember, construct?”
Care was needed with this response. “As I told this man,” Samuel gestured to Hartings, “I awoke in the town in the valley—Winston?—with a broken shoulder and no memory.” All true, but where would truth lead him with these two?
“And so you just walked?” Hartings snorted.
Taeman scoffed at the bearded man and stepped in front of him. “And you have no memories, you say?”
Telling them about the few fragmented visions he did have would garner no benefit here. “No, sir, I do not.”
Taeman relaxed and turned to Hartings. “There is nothing to be suspicious of here,” he said. “He must have been in for a wipe, which would explain the lack of memory. The process was interrupted by the fire, and he became disoriented. That’s all.”
Taeman approached Samuel and placed a hand on his good shoulder. The rest of the group started, expecting something that never occurred. “Come, my friend,” Taeman said to Samuel. “Let me take a look at you in better light and see what help I can offer.”
What looked like a random arrangement of wagons from a distance turned out to be a calculated pattern. No two wagons were far enough apart for a horse to fit between, and each gap was blocked by heavy barrels and guards were posted. Taeman led Samuel through the one opening in the pattern, just wide enough for a man’s shoulders, flanked inside by four armed men.
Samuel counted sixteen wagons. Although they were of similar design, each was unique in some way. Many appeared to be vending carts as well as freight haulers, some even painted with bright signs or lettering for their businesses. A bright green wagon bore the name Welcock’s Wares, and another more subdued one read Chamberlain’s Staples of Food and Home.
Hartings and his crew dispersed into the camp, which managed to look larger on the inside than it did from the outside. Some entered wagons, some curled up in bedrolls, and others took guard posts. Taeman led Samuel to the rear of the camp, where he saw a group of what he presumed were other constructs milling about Taeman’s wagon, which bore the words Taeman Bolls, Artificer Extraordinaire in ostentatious gold script on the side. Taeman pointed to a barrel and gestured for Samuel to sit.
The other constructs were simpler in design, lacking Samuel’s bulk or complexity. Their movements were stiff as they performed laborious tasks around the camp. Taeman climbed up the steps into the back of his wagon as Samuel watched them in rapt fascination. These were the first other beings of his kind he’d seen in—by his reckoning—his entire life. Their mere existence lifted a great weight from his mind.
Taeman emerged and made his awkward way down the stairs, carrying a large leather bundle and several strange looking implements. These he set on a barrel next to Samuel, and rolled the leather bundle out on the ground. He removed Samuel’s cloak, folding it and laying it across yet another barrel. Samuel hoped he had not felt the serpent ring in the pocket; that was a series of questions he was not yet prepared to answer.
“Let’s take a look, shall we?” Taeman reached up and untied Samuel’s makeshift sling, allowing his damaged arm to swing free. His examination of the mangled shoulder was sprinkled with the occasional Hm. or Right! as he poked at the damaged metal.
Taeman sat back. “Well, my friend, it’s not the best news in the world.” He rolled the leather bundle back up and placed it on the barrel atop his other instruments. “The joint is damaged, as is the junction beneath. This is preventing flow from your core to the limb, which is why your arm won’t move.” Flow? “Unfortunately, I’m not sure I can repair it with my road gear.”
Sa
muel felt his first pang of disappointment. “Why is that, sir?” he asked.
“You are a bit of an old chap,” Taeman replied. “That joint is well-constructed but rather complex. It looks like you were built before several of the newest design simplifications were made. Normally that would mean an easier repair, but all my travelling equipment is geared toward newer constructs.”
Samuel’s shoulders slumped and he sat forward on his good elbow, letting his bad arm hang at his side. To have his hopes dashed was more devastating than he’d expected.
“I’ll tell you what, though,” Taeman continued, “You’re lucky I was able to call off the hounds out there, what with all the paranoia right now.”
“What do you mean?” Samuel asked.
“Oh, right…the wipe,” Taeman said. “I guess you wouldn’t know, would you?” Taeman leaned forward and began to examine the shoulder again. “Lone constructs aren’t much trusted these days, not after the murder of the Queen Consort.”
“The Queen Consort?” Samuel said. The pleading eyes of the dead woman resurfaced in his vision. Was that why her face was so familiar?
“Aye, yes,” Taeman replied. “And by a construct, no less.” He shook his head and walked around behind Samuel, grabbing the upper part of his broken arm and moving it around, taking stock of the shoulder’s movement. “First time in who knows how long a construct visited violence on someone of its own accord. But that was a long way from here.”
Samuel wasn’t sure what to think. Could he have killed someone? Could that be why his memories were erased? Taeman released the broken arm and moved to Samuel’s other side, examining his good shoulder and running his fingers along the crevices between his shoulder plates. His hand gave an almost imperceptible stutter as it brushed across the stamped letters, but Samuel caught the momentary hitch.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No, no, no,” Taeman said with a pause. “N-nothing to worry about.”
CHAPTER SIX
* * *
Taeman gathered up his gear and tossed it into his wagon, muttered something about speaking with a colleague about Samuel’s shoulder, and waddle-trotted off into the encampment. The artificer’s other constructs were still attending to their tasks, oblivious to their surroundings or to Samuel. He stood and walked over to the one brushing the mule.
“Hello!” he said, trying to sound cheery. The construct tilted its head upward toward Samuel, its face a blank shape of copper so unlike his own, with only indentations where eyes would normally be, a feature that felt oddly disconcerting. The construct’s other features were simpler in design than Samuel’s; large sections of metal with little segmentation and simple, exposed joints.
Without a word, the worker construct turned back to its task. Samuel regarded the others, disappointed at the lack of interaction. He ran a hand over his head, noting the exposed rivets and features that these simpler constructs lacked. All of them seemed to have the same featureless faces and simplistic body designs save one, which had just finished packing a pair of saddlebags. Its face bore more details, including eyes and a mouth-slit similar to Samuel’s. It also seemed more weathered, showing signs of wear and the discoloration of age on its metal frame. Perhaps he’d have better luck with that one.
Samuel greeted the saddlebag-packer in similar fashion, and received the same blank look and dismissal. He tapped its shoulder, to which it turned and offered a longer look. “Hello!” Samuel repeated, but to no avail. It was clear this being’s edict was simplistic, and Samuel had neither been identified as a threat nor an objective.
“You won’t get any delightful conversation out of this lot, friend.” Samuel turned toward the new voice. A man in a long cloak revealed himself, stepping out from between two carts. He moved forward and sat on a large trunk, close enough to speak low and be heard but still a respectable distance away.
Samuel backed up and took his original seat, regarding the newcomer. “How do I know you’re my friend?” he asked.
The man pulled back his hood to reveal a slender, handsome face, framed by dark, shoulder-length hair that flowed down into his open hood. His eyes were deep walnut, his skin dark, unblemished olive.
“You don’t,” he replied. “But I am no friend of the waddling peddler over there…” he gestured toward where Taeman had wandered behind another merchant’s wagon, “and I have no interest in seeing him grow richer through theft of independence.”
Theft of independence. “I’m not sure what you mean,” Samuel said. He did, in fact, know what the man meant.
“Oh, come on,” The man said, producing both an apple and a small knife from beneath his cloak. “It is clear enough you’re more clever than your contemporaries here,” he gestured with his apple to the drones around him, “and it is curious to me you don’t know your own master.” He sliced off a small piece of apple and took a bite, watching for Samuel’s response.
“It seems to me,” Samuel said, watching the man, “I am not the only clever one. What information do you seek from me?”
“I seek no information.” His response came between chews. “But only to provide some. That man over there”—a nod of the head and more chewing—“does not have your best interests in mind. Taeman has never thought of anyone’s best interests but his own.” He finished his first bite of apple and took the rest of the segment, freeing his blade to begin another slice.
“You see these lumbering heaps?” He gestured with his apple slice to the other constructs. “Not all constructs live this way. Not all must live this way. And not all of them were obtained through honorable means.”
“And how do you know the truth of these statements?” Samuel asked.
With a smirk, the man shook his head. “By your own admission, you could be the living embodiment of the idiom born yesterday. I know the truth because I’ve been around this caravan more often than I, or they, would probably like. Taeman’s a hustler, through to the bone. The man’s a talented artificer, but if there’s an honest bone anywhere in his body, he’s likely removed it and replaced it with bronze.”
A bite of apple. “I’ve been to cities teeming with constructs, and in those cities, there are some as intelligent and communicative as you are. Not like these…”—a dismissive wave—“beasts of burden.” Samuel felt his excitement rise at the prospect, but didn’t speak his mind. “These things are masterless hulks, bound to Taeman by a tether—just something to keep them around until he can sell them for more than it took for him to steal them.”
“Stolen?” Samuel asked, genuinely surprised. “These constructs are stolen?”
“Fortunately found, Taeman would say.” He sliced off another apple piece and ate it, looking almost as though he was using the flavor to overpower the disdain that escaped his lips. “Constructs needn’t be dumbed down, and in fact they can be much more helpful if they’re not. Constructs generally aren’t harmful, and the more intelligent they are, the more useful.” He took a few small bites out of the remaining apple core, then tossed the remains under the nearest wagon.
“But if these boys were to remember how they were acquired, they might be more trouble for Taeman than they’re worth. So he flushes them. Rids them of knowledge and intelligence, even of learned traits or common sense. Then he re-acquaints them to the world by filling their cores with menial skills until he can foist them off onto someone who wants to put the energy into making them whole again.”
Samuel lowered his head and mulled the idea over. “How do you know I’m not harmful? I was just told the story of the Queen Consort’s murder by a masterless construct.”
The man smirked. “I can guarantee you the construct was not masterless, and was not acting of its own accord. But it’s a good story, I guess. A good way to wrap up the crime in a neat little bow. Plus, breeding the sort of attitudes you saw in Hartings and his thugs today makes Taeman’s behavior look all the more altruistic.”
Samuel had only just awoke and, although his memories
were lost, he had no desire to lose the remainder of his thoughts. Could he trust this cloaked informant, though? How was he to know that this one was any better than Taeman himself?
“I can tell you’re thinking about it, wondering if I speak true,” he said, as though reading Samuel’s thoughts. “I don’t have any way to make you trust me, not really. This is a judgment call for you. I’ll tell you now, though, you’d be better off leaving before he’s able to do any real work on you. Get out of here and head north to Morrelton. Plenty of artificers there can help you out, and are honest, longstanding businessmen rather than caravanning con artists. I’ll leave you with this, though: have you heard him stutter?”
That got Samuel’s attention, and he raised his gaze to the man in the cloak.
“Ah, you have, then,” he said, leaning forward before standing up. He stepped back beside the cart from behind which he had emerged, but paused before leaving. “He stutters when he gets excited. He’s learned to disguise it for smaller scores, but when he’s faced with something big, he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of hiding it yet. There must be something about you…something he thinks can make him a lot of money.” He looked over toward where Taeman had gone.
“What do you have to gain from all this?” Samuel asked, still scanning the other end of the encampment for the artificer. The cloaked man chuckled. Samuel turned his head to follow up, but he was gone.
His decision was made: any chance of retaining his independence outweighed even the slight possibility of losing it. He scooped up his makeshift sling, throwing it over his neck and arranging his crippled arm into it the best he could, then grabbed his cloak, feeling for the serpent ring. With a glance around the camp, he took note of the guard posts and their direction. Most of the guards faced outward and toward the road, with only one man atop his cart taking watch to the rear.
Taeman was still nowhere in sight, and the rest of the camp’s inhabitants were asleep or otherwise engaged. He moved to the rear of the circle and slipped between Taeman’s wagon and a large blue and yellow cart that read Eagle Talon Armory, crouching in the shadow with the wagons between himself and the low firelight. Atop the armory wagon was a high platform upon which sat this evening’s guard who, although still sitting upright, snored into his own chest.
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