Clockwork Boys: Book One of the Clocktaur War Read online

  She wondered briefly if she’d even try to get out of the way. It seemed a matter of academic interest only.

  He’d have to make it a quick death, he’ll hardly have time for a long one…

  Her hands were wrapped around two of the iron bars. He looked down and very deliberately gripped the bars to either side.

  Her fingers were small and scarred and nimble, darkened with ink and spattered with the pale marks of engraver’s acid. Her fingernails were somewhat chewed—a vile habit, but she didn’t expect to live with it much longer.

  His hands were much larger but also scarred, old cuts forming a raised and random pattern across the backs. The sleeves of the prisoner’s tunic were too short for him, and when she followed his wrists upward, she could see the thick band of muscle across each forearm.

  Swordsman, then. God’s teeth and toenails, I believe it actually is Lord Caliban.

  She could smell unwashed flesh and old straw and rankness, but over that, pungently, hung the scent of rosemary.

  Great. I’m paying attention. Now what? Do I offer him the job, or am I supposed to stay as far away from him as possible?

  As usual, her erratic gift offered no advice.

  She squared her shoulders and met the man’s eyes. They were dark and brown and held hers. One eyebrow had an ironic tilt, but behind his eyes, Slate could smell despair.

  There were a great many things she had prepared to say—vague explanations, stripped of any facts that could be dangerous, mentions of the Dowager’s name, promises of amnesty in the unlikely event any of them survived.

  She considered them all and rejected them one by one.

  “Would you like to go on a suicide mission?” she asked instead.

  He smiled. It was the first genuine smile she’d seen all day.

  “I would be honored,” he said.

  Chapter Two

  The warden was not thrilled by the notion of letting a mass murderer go, particularly not a famous one. Slate wasn’t sure if he was making money by taking visitors to gawk at the prisoner, or if he actually expected Sir Caliban to fall on her like a starving wolf the minute he was out of the cell.

  He hadn’t looked much like a wolf when the warden had herded her back to the guard room. The way he’d looked down the hallway after them, face schooled to immobility, had reminded her more of a dog lost and wondering where its home had gone.

  Let’s not get sappy. Your puppy made chew toys out of ten people.

  “I don’t like this, missy,” said the warden. He leaned forward in his chair, his fingers splayed over her documents.

  Slate wondered if going from “ma’am” to “missy” was a bad sign. Probably. “Look, I have signed orders from the Dowager allowing me take any of the prisoners that I feel will be useful. I have the authority to do this.”

  Please, god, I hope I have the authority to do this.

  The Dowager Queen’s exact words had been, “Take anyone from the prisons you feel will be useful. They may have a pardon, in the event any of them survive.” And then she’d gestured with a hand covered in rings, and Slate had been hustled out of the audience chamber, feeling like a mule had kicked her in the gut.

  Clear enough. Slate had a feeling that “anyone” probably hadn’t included Sir Caliban. Perhaps the Dowager had forgotten he was down here.

  Still, the rosemary had been unmistakable.

  Unless it was trying to warn me of danger, and he really is going to kill me as soon as he gets out of the cell.

  Oh well, now or later, it’s all the same, I suppose…

  “Find him some clothes,” said Slate, after the warden had puzzled over her papers long enough. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some nice murderers instead?” he asked plaintively.

  “Quite sure, thanks.”

  “We’ve got some likely lads being transferred in for robbery next shift—”

  “Just the knight.”

  “That one—ma’am—you gotta understand, he’s bad crazy. Demon crazy. It’s not just like he hit somebody a little too hard on accident—he carved up those women like chickens. And he says things at night that aren’t canny.”

  Back to ma’am again. I must be winning.

  “Then you’ll be glad not to have to listen to him any more.” Slate reached over and plucked her papers off the table.

  I suppose we’ll have to get him a sword.

  Well, that’s a quick death, too, if he’s any good.

  The warden gave her a last look of entreaty. “Ma’am—”

  “The Dowager is not to be kept waiting,” she snapped, and turned her back on him.

  I am too old for this. Thirty is much too old to be rousting around prisons any more. If I weren’t going to die, I’d think seriously about retiring.

  She heard the chair scrape back against the stone, and the sound of grumbling. A door opened, and closed. Slate exhaled.

  Now let’s hope he’s getting clothes and not the Captain of the Guard.

  The Captain would back her up. Probably. He’d been pleasant enough to her before, if not to Brenner.

  The warden’s spare keys were on his desk. Slate put out a hand, thought better of it, and then picked them up anyway. She pushed the door open and walked down the hallway.

  Caliban was still standing by the bars. He did not look surprised to see her—it had only been five minutes, after all, and he could undoubtedly hear the arguing from the guard room—but his eyebrows shot up when he saw the keys.

  Slate bit her lip, looked at him, had second thoughts and shot them down. She slid the key into the lock.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked. His voice was still light and dry, not as deep as she’d expect from a man his size.

  “Nope.” She turned the key, hearing the clunk, and pulled it out again.

  They both looked at the cell door for a moment.

  What—does he need me to invite him over the threshold like an unquiet ghost? Should I back up? Is he afraid I’ll bite?

  He reached out a hand and pushed the door, very lightly. It swung open with a long creak of metal that hung in the air like a crow’s caw.

  Slate had made peace with her god several times over in the last few days, but she commended her soul to heaven again just in case.

  A tremor went through Caliban, barely there, but Slate’s eye for detail was finer than most. She looked away, because unlike Brenner, she had never liked the sight of pain.

  Caliban took several steps, and then a final one over the threshold. He swallowed, and seemed briefly at a loss for something to say.

  Slate nodded at nothing in particular. It had been four or five months since Lord Caliban had enjoyed his notoriety as a murderer through the capitol. She didn’t know how long trials for this sort of thing took, but he must have spent at least a season in that cell.

  “Well,” he said, rubbing his palms down his thighs. “I suppose I should ask what you want of me, madam.”

  “You should probably have asked that first,” said Slate. I wonder where “madam” rates compared to “ma’am” and “missy.” Hmm. “But there’s little enough I can tell you before certain—assurances.”

  He raised his eyes from the floor to her face. “Will you require me to swear an oath, then?”

  “An oath!” It startled a laugh out of her. God, he really is a knight. Brenner will have a litter of kittens.

  “I am told that the oath of a killer of nuns and novices isn’t worth much,” he said, eyes hooded.

  “Nobody’s oath is worth much,” Slate said. “It’s nothing personal.” She waved a hand. “Anyway it’s a suicide mission. You—and I, and a…coupla other people…will be going somewhere, and doing…err…something. Which is probably impossible, and we’ll likely all die.”

  He gazed at her levelly. She had no idea what he was thinking.

  She wracked her brain for some detail she could give, something he could mull over, without giving eno
ugh information to be dangerous if he turned her down and gossiped to one of the wardens. “We’re going to Anuket City,” she said finally. That seemed innocuous enough—there were plenty of opportunities to do something suicidal on the way to the city-state of Anuket City, let alone once you actually arrived. And the fact that the Dowager’s kingdom was at war with them was about as far from a state secret as one could get.

  “Ah.” Caliban leaned against the stone wall at the end of the hallway.

  Slate stared at her feet and wiggled her toes. Caliban’s feet were bare. She hoped the warden would bring sandals.

  It was stupid, this staring at her feet. There was a murderer an armslength away.

  Strangling wasn’t as quick a death as she’d like, but it still only took a few minutes. I’ll probably thrash rather embarrassingly. Still, could be worse. I do hope he doesn’t try to bludgeon me to death.

  “The Dowager knows something about the Clockwork Boys,” said Caliban.

  Sonofabitch…

  Slate threw her hands in the air, turning away. “God’s teeth! Why do we even bother with secrecy, if men in goddamn solitary confinement can figure that out!?”

  Damn. I should have kept my mouth shut. I forgot he was a knight—he might even have encountered the Clockwork Boys at some point. I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to put “Anuket City” and “Dowager” and “suicide” all together.

  “Answer the question,” he said, directly behind her.

  “You didn’t ask one,” she snapped, turning around.

  He was closer than she’d expected. He loomed quite effectively in the narrow corridor, particularly since he had nearly a foot of height on her. He reached out and caught her arm in his scarred fingers.

  She considered flinching and didn’t. A snapped neck would probably be the best to hope for, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers. I wonder if he takes requests?

  “She knows something,” the former knight said again. “Doesn’t she?”

  “Not nearly enough,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Not how they’re made, or where they come from. That’s half our job. The other half is to try and stop them.”

  “That is a suicide mission,” he said.

  “Mmm, quite.” She dropped her gaze to his hand. His skin was very white against hers. Probably he had always been pale, but months of captivity had turned his skin the color of wax.

  He was holding her wrist. Why did men always grab your wrist? There were any number of ways to break that grip, of course, but it was mildly infuriating nonetheless.

  He released her, looking oddly embarrassed. Was he trying to scare me? Poor man. “Did you think I was exaggerating?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Assuming you live through it, there’s a full pardon offered. I don’t know if that would include reinstating your title or not.”

  “We won’t live through it.”

  “No, I shouldn’t expect we will.”

  “Even getting to Anuket City right now is a fool’s errand.”

  “Good thing we’re fools, huh?”

  “And what—” he began, but the door at the end of the hall banged open, and the warden gasped.

  “You shouldn’t have let him out, ma’am!” He hurried down the hall and shouldered past Slate to stand between them, bristling like a paunchy bulldog.

  “Why not? You were going to.” Slate reached out and plucked the folded clothes from his arms. She shook them out. Tunic and trousers, neither of them new, but clean enough and neatly patched. “Hmm. It’ll do, I suppose, and—yes, excellent, sandals.” She passed them both to Caliban.

  There was a brief, awkward silence.

  “Come on,” said Slate irritably. “Our inevitable deaths aren’t going to happen by themselves.”

  Caliban rolled his eyes up at the ceiling.

  Damn, he’s having second thoughts. But he guessed too much, and I told him too much, I can’t let him stay here. Damn.

  “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts—” she began.

  It was the warden who touched her shoulder and said “Should leave a man privacy to change, missy.”

  “Oh. Oh. Right. I’ll…err…be in the guard room.”

  She and the warden retired to the central room. Slate returned his keys. He glared. She pretended not to notice.

  The silence got uncomfortable. The muffled sounds of prisoners talking and moving around in the other rooms didn’t help. Slate dug for another handkerchief, didn’t find one, and tried to locate an unobtrusive patch of sleeve.

  The warden cleared his throat. “It’s not too late to put him back.”

  The door opened, and Caliban came through. He looked considerably better in the clean clothes, which were too large rather than too small. He was still dirty and bedraggled and his beard was truly unfortunate, but now he only looked very bad instead of like death warmed over.

  A decent bath and a shave, and we might aspire to “human.” Or, err, demon. Something.

  He can’t still be possessed. They wouldn’t put him in a regular prison if he had a demon in him. He’d be so loaded down with spells and irons that he couldn’t sneeze without banishing himself.

  Well, assuming he was even possessed in the first place. He might just be mad, after all.

  He seems sane enough at the moment, except for the twitchiness. ’Course, if I was in a cell for a season, I’d likely be twitchy myself.

  Slate was probably the only one who noticed the way Caliban paused before stepping through the doorway, as if he still could not quite believe that there were such things as open doors before him.

  “Right!” said Slate brightly, turning to the warden. “I assume you have something for me to sign?”

  “What? Err…yes…” The warden rummaged through a stack of papers on his desk, then in a desk drawer. Slate read a few, upside down, and picked one out.

  “This it?”

  “Oh, yes, err…”

  She signed it with a flourish. Paperwork, at least, Slate understood. “And a copy for me, and one for you, and…excellent!” She folded hers up, saluted with the corner, and strolled out of the guardroom.

  Her heart was pounding. It usually pounded when she offered people documents, but generally that was because she had forged them and was waiting to see if she’d get caught. It was interesting to learn that being on the correct side of legality didn’t help much.

  The warden didn’t stop them. Slate hadn’t expected him to. Once papers were signed, people seemed to give up. It was a strange sort of magic.

  The door led to a hallway, which led to another hallway, and then to a flight of stairs with a pair of guards. Sir Caliban fell into step behind her, a pace back and to her left, a practiced distance. He’s probably been an honor guard more times than I can count. Slate’s lips twitched.

  What the guards might have thought of the small, drab woman and her grim escort was anyone’s guess. She wondered if they even recognized that he was a famous mass murderer. Guards tended to rotate regularly—prison duty was a punishment, not a reward—and many of them might not even recognize him on this side of the bars.

  Of course, anyone with an ounce of sense ought to recognize that a grimy man in ill-fitted clothes, who paced like a bodyguard, was not in the normal run of events. But that was bureaucracy for you. Get past the first layer of guards, present official-looking paperwork, and nobody asked questions.

  They swept by the guards unchallenged. Slate felt a small bubble of triumph, or possibly hysteria.

  There were more corridors and more halls and more guards. None of them challenged her, even when they left the prison and entered a corridor more suited to a palace.

  “This really is foolishness,” said Caliban in an undertone behind her. “The warden should have given you guards—an escort—something. Letting a woman walk out of here with a murderer—I’d have his skin if he were serving under me.”

  He sounded genuinely outraged. Slate had t
o laugh.

  “Relax, mister murderer, you’re not getting off that lightly.”

  She turned her head as she spoke, in time to catch his grimace.

  “Sorry. Sir Murderer, should I say?”

  “Whatever you like, madam,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

  Still raw. He can say it, but he doesn’t like it when I do. Interesting. Not surprising, but the way he speaks, you’d think he’d hide it better. Ah, well.

  “Here we are.” She turned down another, narrower hallway, and knocked on a door at the bottom of a shallow step. Caliban stood behind her, feet apart, his hands folded behind him.

  Good lord, is that parade rest? I think it is.

  Brenner is going to have a field day.

  She knocked on the door again, a bit louder.

  “Enter,” said a voice from inside.

  The room was small and cluttered and full of papers. The Captain of the Guard, an iron-haired, iron-eyed man, looked up when she entered.

  “I beg your—oh, it’s you. Do you have a report, Mistress Slate?”

  “Sir. Uh.” What was the proper military form for this sort of report?

  To hell with it, I’m a civilian, even if they’ve drafted me into this lunacy. They can bloody well deal with it. “I…err…found one.”

  The Captain nodded. “Very well, then.”

  Caliban hung back at the doorway for just a moment, then stepped into the room as hesitantly as if it were cold water.

  “God’s balls!”

  “A pleasure to see you as well, Captain,” said Caliban, inclining his head. One hand went to his side, as if to touch a non-existent sword-hilt, then dropped.

  Slate was pretty sure that no one in the room missed that. She waited for the captain to turn to her and demand an explanation, or demand that Caliban be sent back to his cell or—well, something.

  After a minute, while the two men continued to stare at each other like two tigers in a very small cage, Slate stopped holding her breath.

  Can’t they yell at each other or have a manly hug or something and get it over with?