God of Clocks

began mopping up spills from the table with a cloth.

Oran stared up at her with hot glazed eyes. “All things are sent to us by Rys,” he muttered. Then he drained the last of his cup, set it down on the table, and grabbed her wrist. “You know what I'm talking about?”

Rosella said nothing. She wouldn't even look at him.

The tables around them grew quiet. Rachel could sense the tension amongst Oran's men. She glanced over at the bar, where Abner was now busy scrubbing the polished counter, his full attention fixed on the task at hand.

Oran maintained his grip on the woman's wrist. With his free hand he lifted the jug and refilled his cup. “If Rys intended that you serve me,” he said to her, “or that you sit and drink with me, how could we argue with his will?” He pulled her towards him and breathed heavily through his nose. “Stay here a while. The witch will give you her seat.”

Rachel stiffened, but then she felt Mina's hand clutch her knee under the table-a warning gesture. The thaumaturge slipped out of her seat, and said, “Thanks for your time, Oran,” then, “Rachel, would you help me find some blankets? We should sort out bedding for all our civilian guests.”

Oran gave them a dismissive wave.

Rachel felt heat rise on her neck, but she followed the thaumaturge back through the crowded saloon towards the rear door. The militiamen watched them go, except Abner Hill, who was still furiously scrubbing at his bar with one white-knuckled fist.

When they reached the back hallway, Rachel whispered, “I should just kill him.”

“And all two hundred of his men?”

The assassin snorted. “I know how to make it look like an accident. I could do it tonight.”

“No.”

“We're losing control, Mina. Oran is trying to usurp our authority, and Hasp is so fragile he could snap at any moment.” Her voice rose. “We've got two hundred men and a drunk of a god all locked up in a fucking inn.”

Mina shushed her, opened the back door, and urged her outside. A gust of wind cooled Rachel's face, but then the stench of death filled her nostrils. It was still hours before dawn, yet Dill's stolen armour illuminated the building and its earthen island and even the surrounding forest in soft green radiance. She heard the distant thud of his footsteps crashing through the vegetation below.

There was little space left. Two yards of compacted earth were left to form a ledge along this side of the inn, although firewood stacked under the eaves took up most of this area. Dill's fleshless fingers curled up over the edge of the mud foundations like the remains of white stone arches. The hilt of his giant cleaver extended into the night air like a battered metal bridge.

Mina set Basilis down, and the dog padded away to urinate against the woodpile. “The remaining arconites now know where we are,” she revealed. “I can sense nine of them within the reaches of my fog: six to the south, one east, and two west of here. They're converging on us.” She looked out into the night as though she expected to see imminent evidence of their approach. “Those nearest are holding back and waiting for the others. It seems they won't challenge us singly.”

Rachel felt a headache creeping up on her. The wound on the side of her head irritated her. She looked back up at Dill, at his vast and uncertain form in the mist. How could such a giant be so vulnerable?

“But we're nearing the Flower Lakes,” Mina went on. “I can sense a large settlement just north of here, a lakeshore trading town built around a harbour. It looks like they export timber and coke. And it's well guarded, too. There's a palisade wall manned by local militia.”

“More locals?”

“These soldiers vastly outnumber our current friends. Recruiting new forces would dilute Oran's influence and provide us with the makings of an army.”

“Or start a war between their two factions,” Rachel said. “Besides, where are we going to put all these people?”

Mina smiled. “We need to steal a bigger building.”

“Not a chance, Mina. If you intend to-”

The thaumaturge's smile abruptly withered. She squeezed her hands against the sides of her head and let out a sudden wail of pain.

“What's wrong?” Rachel reached over to comfort the other woman, but Mina shook her away.

“Didn't you feel that?” she said.

“Feel what?”

“There was a…an earthquake? Gods, I don't know what it was! Like a crack appearing in the fog, a crevasse that ran from one side of the world to the other. Everything jolted. Every-thing-”

A sudden uproar came from the inn. Rachel heard the sounds of smashing glass and heavy objects being thrown to the floor, men shouting and cursing-and, above it all, Hasp roaring, “Cowards!”

“Oh, god,” she said, turning back to the inn. “Stay here, Mina.”

There had been a scuffle inside. Tables and chairs were overturned. One of Oran's men lay unmoving on the floor, blood seeping out from his gut. Two more were rising to their feet not far away, while most of the remaining warriors huddled back against the walls. The Lord of the First Citadel had discarded his robe and stood stark naked in the center of the saloon. Blood pulsed through the transparent etched scales and metameric plates across his body, and stumps of muscle and bone visible under glass protrusions on his shoulders indicated where the Mesmerists had removed his wings. In one fist he gripped an axe.

Hasp wheeled and staggered sideways. He lifted the axe and swiped at the air. A few of Oran's men laughed. The warriors who had risen from the floor circled around the glass-armoured god to flank him. One of them carried an iron-banded club, while the other gripped a long knife.

Oran remained seated at his corner table, with one thick arm around the innkeeper's wife standing beside him. Rosella Hill looked flushed and disheveled, her skirts lifted around her thighs. She suddenly pulled away from her captor and Oran let her go.

Rachel drew her own sword. The Coreollis steel was heavier than the layered Spine weapons she was used to, but it was sharp enough to open throats. “What's going on here?” she demanded.

Oran's gaze fell upon her naked weapon, then he eyed her without apparent interest. “This abomination killed one of my men,” he said.

“You provoked him?”

The woodsman picked up his blade from the floor and rose from his seat. In that dark smoke-filled corner of the saloon he looked as filthy and feral as a wild man. Mud spattered his banded leather armour and clotted his wild grey hair. His eyes smouldered with a feverish light. The scar on his forehead seemed to throb. “Rys sent Hasp to Hell for a good reason,” he said. “He should have had the decency to remain there.”

Hasp's full attention was now focused on Oran. The god was grinning like an imbecile, ignoring the two men now edging towards him from either side.

Oran made a subtle gesture with his head.

As Rachel heard a simultaneous intake of breath from Oran's two soldiers, she focused…

… and the world around her stopped.

A dead silence encompassed the saloon. Candle flames and oil lanterns abruptly ceased to flicker. The light dimmed and yet intensified, becoming simultaneously tarry and harsh. Black particles of smoke waited, perfectly motionless, in the air. On either side of Hasp the two approaching woodsmen were just preparing to lunge. Rachel detected the tiny motions that evinced the coming changes in the stance of each: the slow curl of the lips, the tightening of tendons in their necks as their shoulder muscles began the process of lifting their weapons.

She considered Oran. The militia leader, too, was primed for violence, and his stance suggested that he might throw the heavy blade he wielded. There were plenty of other weapons around him to replace it.

Three targets. Forty paces between them. Rachel didn't know if she could move that far while focusing. Any exertions she made now would leave her collapsed and vulnerable afterwards, at the mercy of every able-bodied fighter in the saloon.

The assassin had little choice.

She moved. Ten careful paces towards the first attacker. As Rachel walked, she kept her body as fluid as