God of Clocks

paused. “These automatons have engines, don't they?” he asked Rachel.

“The engines are just an affectation, a device used to reinforce the Mesmerist conditioning enforced on the soul. They're not functional; therefore, water won't affect them.”

“No,” Iron Head replied. “I mean they produce smoke, and a trail of smoke rising from the water will betray your friend's position to his enemies.” His brow furrowed again. “If we had more time, I'd have worked on some way to disguise that trail. Some sort of diversion, perhaps.”

The watchtower horn blared a second time. “Time for me to begin the charade, Miss Hael,” the captain said. Hurrying away, he called back, “I look forward to meeting you soon.”

Rachel felt numb. The Hericans' rafts had not been constructed to disguise the Burntwater vessels' own smokestacks. Rather, they had been designed to mask Dill's engine fumes as he fled under the lake. But now, without such decoys, her friend would be exposed. There was no way he could escape by submerging himself under the lake.

And Rachel's older self must have known that.

A voice behind her said, “I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong, sis.”

The assassin's temporal twin stepped out from under the eaves of a nearby building.

Garstone gave the older woman a smile. “There you are, Elder Miss Hael.”

“You can stop that Elder thing right now, Eli,” she replied.

“Sorry, Miss Hael.”

The older Rachel walked up to her younger self. “We could never be sure how much of an effect the Hericans' rafts might have had on the fate of this universe,” she said. “The outcome Sabor witnessed here was too… extreme for us to take any chances. Building those rafts might have altered what we had already perceived, and confused events to such an extent that we wouldn't know exactly when to step in and fix the problem.”

“So you've been keeping this world running the way you perceived it, because you've already figured out the exact moment to intervene? You know exactly what you're going to do.”

Her elder self said nothing.

“And you can't tell me?”

“Not without risking everything.”

Rachel spread her hands in exasperation. “But if it wasn't just the rafts… then what do I do to fuck up so badly?”

Her other self gazed down towards the docks. “You need to keep doing whatever you are planning to do. I'll stay close by, unless I feel that my presence will badly affect the course of events.”

“I was planning to get out of here.”

“Let's go, then.”

They had only just reached Burntwater's waterfront when Dill began his fake attack on the settlement. Rachel heard a dull crashing sound and spun around to see the giant automaton approaching the palisade wall. The plates of Maze-forged armour glowed unearthly green in the fog, and his great tattered wings encompassed the sky. In his hands he clutched the Rusty Saw tavern, much battered now and listing to the side. He hesitated, leaking black fumes from his shoulders, and surveyed the town's defenses with empty eyes.

Had Dill paused like this the last time? Rachel couldn't remember. Her mind spun with vague recollections and countless possibilities. Something was about to go very wrong, an event she herself would cause to happen. She stared up at the automaton's grinning maw, from which another Rachel now peered out, the same woman she had been so recently.

Arrows lanced upward from the town defenses as bowmen let loose. A second barrage followed a moment later. Dill raised the tavern above his head, and roared.

“Don't overdo it, Dill,” Rachel muttered.

Transfixed, she watched the pretend battle unfold. Dill crushed the palisade wall and roared and stamped craters into the ground, careful not to hurt a soul, while unbeknownst to him the Burnt water militia acted out their own charade. They fought back convincingly, loosing their arrows freely because they knew Dill could not be harmed. Events, as Rachel remembered them, unfolded precisely as they should have.

Garstone tugged at her arm. “Miss Hael, I don't think it's wise to remain here. The automaton might decide to head this way.”

“He does, Garstone. He's coming straight for us.”

“All the more reason for us to depart.”

They ran for cover in a dead-end alley round the corner of a nearby house, just as Dill came thundering down the main thoroughfare. He stopped at a wharf, scooped up a small boat from the lake, and then turned and threw it at the advancing forces.

“It's all happening the way I remember it,” Rachel said. “Nothing's different.” She glanced over at her older self, but that woman was too busy watching the lakeside to respond.

Dill roared again and retreated into the lake, his massive ironclad boots smashing boats and jetties to splinters.

And then he froze, let out a terrible groan, and slowly toppled forward to his knees. The resulting wave pitched boats up out of the harbour and slammed them onto the dry land beyond. Cold water sprayed Rachel's face, and she heard Iron Head's men cheering as they rushed forward.

And then she heard a cry for help coming from within the arconite. To Rachel's ears it didn't sound particularly convincing.

Garstone apparently agreed. “I believe that attempt at distress came from you, Miss Hael,” he said. “It is fortunate that you didn't actually need the cry to sound authentic.”

Iron Head and his men played their parts well. They gathered nervously around Dill's jaw, gaping at the fallen giant with genuine awe. A moment later Iron Head himself came forward. Rachel could not hear much of the conversation that took place between the captain and her former self, but those snippets she did manage to catch sounded more or less as she remembered them.

A runner broke through the ranks of the Burntwater militia, calling out for his captain. In the moments that followed, all hell broke loose.

“This is it,” Rachel said to her two companions. “Menoa's arconites have arrived. This is where the fake battle becomes a real one.”

Garstone snuck a glance at his watch. “Perhaps this would be a good time for us to head back to the boat,” he said. “If you are going to meet yourself on schedule, we do not have much time left.”

Rachel had to agree, and yet she was reluctant to leave. Her former self had just stepped out onto the promenade. Mina followed a moment later, cradling her dog in her arms. Basilis immediately began to bark.

“This is an evacuation,” Iron Head yelled. “Women and children to the barges and skiffs. Holden, signal the pilots. Spindle, take your men-you already know what to do. I want twelve units, four to the east…”

Rachel shrank back against the side of the building. Mina's dog had spotted them. Even now he struggled against his mistress's grip, his little eyes fixed on the three intruders.

“… Bernlow, Malk, Cooper, Geary, Wigg, someone else-you, Thatcher-keep the attackers divided, and away from the wharfs. Harry them and then retreat, but don't let those bastards step on you.”

Rachel didn't know what to do. She recalled Basilis barking like that after they'd stepped outside. Still, nothing had noticeably changed. She glanced back.

Mina was staring directly at her. Their eyes met for an instant, and then the thaumaturge looked away. She said something to Rachel's other self.

Nothings wrong with him. He's obviously just barking at you.

Mina! You knew I was here all the time.

The scene continued to unfold exactly as Rachel remembered it. A series of great crashes came from the south. On the opposite side of the promenade Dill set the Rusty Saw tavern down upon the ground. Oran stormed out to argue with his brother. Soldiers were running back up towards the Burntwater defenses in response to the new threat. Three horn blasts sounded the evacuation.

And on it went. Transfixed, Rachel watched herself and Mina carry Hasp up onto Dill's open palm. She watched as Dill raised his hand up towards the heavens. When he finally lowered his hand once more, only Mina and Rachel's other self stepped down.