God of Clocks

Dill smashed his knee in the automaton's face, hurling it backwards into three rows of houses. The ensuing shock wave reduced the surrounding buildings to powder. He flipped the cleaver over, turning it sideways, and swept it sidelong across the broken rooftops. The end of the blade struck another arconite, clashing against its armoured thigh with a hideous peal. Its leg buckled and it toppled too.

Now dust and smoke obscured the battle. Amidst this turmoil Rachel caught glimpses of vast wings moving, monstrous shadows, and geysers of spinning debris. She heard thunderous booms and gut-wrenching metallic bangs, as Iron Head's men worked the oars and their little boat withdrew further into the mist.

“He can't beat them,” Rachel muttered.

Iron Head raised his head from the tiller. “What was that?”

“Menoa's warriors can't be destroyed,” she said. “They lack minds of their own, and so they are incapable of losing conviction in their own invincibility. But Dill is different.” She gazed back into the fog. “He can fail if he loses faith in himself.”

“Just like any other soldier,” the captain replied. “Confidence is good armour.” Then he grunted. “Pandemerian steel is better, of course, but who can afford it, eh?”

Rachel sat on a creaking bench between two militiamen with her arms wrapped around her knees. Mina's plan had fallen to pieces. Dill was supposed to have attacked the gates of Heaven, thereby provoking the goddess Ayen to destroy all of the arconites. Yet now they had no choice but to abandon him here and hope he bought them enough time to reach Sabor's castle. Everything now rested on the god of clocks.

How long could Dill keep fighting?

The town militia heaved at their oars, and the flotilla of skiffs moved out into deeper waters towards the waiting coke barges. Soldiers aboard these larger vessels were busy stoking the air-engine furnaces with shovelfuls of fuel, and the deck-mounted flywheels spun faster as the temperature differential increased. Black smoke trickled from tall funnels and looped over the heads of the women and children who squatted upon the loaded decks. Amidst the rasp and scrape of the militiamen's shovels and the hum of the flywheels, the refugees watched in silence as the ashes rose from their shattered homes.

Behind her, Rachel could see nothing now but Mina's sorcerous fog. The boats drifted in their own grey world that seemed suddenly so far from land. Even the crash of battle from the lakeshore sounded muted and dreamlike.

As the two fleets rendezvoused, skiffs and barges jostled in the cold waters under a canopy of coke fumes. Wet lines were thrown and snatched from the air and tied off. Tamping engines rattled decks and planking.

Iron Head's men helped some of the refugees from the more crowded vessels clamber across to the smaller craft, amongst them Rosella and her husband, Abner. In the fibrous gloom Rachel spotted scores of Oran's men and the Rusty Saw whores seated together upon other barges, and she gave silent thanks to the Burntwater troops for keeping the woodsmen away from the innkeeper and his wife.

Within moments the motored barges had attained full power, their air engines thrumming jauntily as they altered course. Iron Head's men strained over their oarlocks and struck a new path around the flanks of the larger boats. The whole clutter of vessels maneuvered into a surprisingly regular formation, and then set out across the lake.

The air stirred, as an unseen object whoomphed through the mists overhead. Rachel heard it splash into the lake in front of them. Low waves rolled out of the grey distance and set the boats pitching.

Calls rebounded between the leading barges.

“What was that?”

“Looked like a chunk of the sea wall.”

“You see anything else?”

“Nothing.”

Silence descended. The men bent to their oars again. For a long time they continued in this manner: the vague dark shapes of the barges like bruises concealed under veils of grey, the steadily rattling engines and the rasp of shovels, the knock of wood on wood and the constant slosh of the lake water. Lines strung between the vessels tightened and groaned. Hulls shifted to compensate.

In time the noise of battle faded behind them.

A man shouted up ahead, his voice strangely calm and un concerned: “Hericans … Hoy! Who's that? We're steaming down on you.”

Rachel raised her chin from her knees and looked over at Iron Head for explanation.

The captain shrugged, causing the shaft of his hammer to rise and fall behind his back. “Fishermen from across the lake,” he said. “I'd be surprised if they've come to help. These Hericans don't interfere with us much, beyond occasional trade.”

“Friendly sorts?”

“Decent enough folks, but not the sort to take up arms and rush into a scrap. Not unless it's over fishing rights.” He stood at the tiller and peered into the gloom. “And probably not even then…”

But then the voice ahead called back again. “Captain, there's something strange here.”

“What do you see, man?”

“Rafts.”

And then Rachel saw them, too, as first one, then two of the simple craft drifted into view. They were indeed rafts, constructed of nothing more than lashed-together logs, and floating low in the water. Both were unmanned, each empty but for a thickly smoking cauldron fixed squarely to its center. Tar or some other additive had been applied to these pot fires, for they emitted foul black vapours.

Basilis gave a low growl. Mina cuddled the tiny dog to her chest.

“Another three to port,” yelled the unseen sailor. “These ones have fires burning on sheet tin. And two more ahead, nor'west if I'm reckoning right.”

“A trap?” Rachel asked.

Iron Head frowned. “Looks more like a diversion. You'd assume the Hericans are trying to aid our flight by confounding our pursuers. You'd think that, if you didn't know Hericans.” His frown deepened. “Then again, they're not the sort to cause trouble, either.”

The unseen sailor called out into the fog again. “Hoy! You there! Make yourself known.” There was a pause, and then he shouted. “Captain, it's a woman. She's coming over.”

“What kind of vessel?”

“Rowboat.”

An interminably long pause followed, before the sailor raised his voice again. “Captain, she wants to speak to Rachel Hael.”

Me? Rachel straightened in her seat. No one could possibly know she was here. She strained her eyes, trying to discern something in the mist. Nothing but vague shapes.

“Send her over,” Iron Head called back.

They waited another moment. Eventually the sailor answered, and this time his voice sounded more relaxed. “She's just one of Miss Hael's family, Captain.”

Grinning, Iron Head turned to Rachel and whispered, “I have a confession to make, Miss Hael. I've been expecting this. Your sister's here.”

Rachel just stared at him. “I don't have a sister,” she said. “My family is all dead.” She waved her hands in frustration. “I never had a sister. Don't trust this woman, Captain. She is not who she claims to be.”

The captain chuckled. “I have every reason to believe she is exactly who she claims to be,” he said. “Her presence here is a very good omen for all of us. You, Miss Hael, are about to meet someone who has walked through the labyrinth of time.” He pointed ahead. “She's approaching. You will soon see for yourself.”

The impostor who claimed to be the assassin's sister was using an oar to push her tiny boat away from one of the barges up ahead. She nudged her vessel into open water, altered course, and then rowed quickly towards them. She was facing away, bent over the oars, but wore leather armour strikingly similar to Rachel's own. Three burner rafts drifted in the fog behind her, disgorging clouds of inky fumes.

Finally the impostor's boat knocked against the bow of their skiff. Iron Head moved forward, extended a hand, and helped her aboard.

The woman turned to face Rachel.