Clockwork Heart (3 page)

Superior insight and intellect.
Her lips quirked as she let her gaze roam across the clutter that surrounded them.
You'd think the product of a thousand fortunate rebirths would be a little more organized.

“Well, I can't say I'm delighted by these statistics, but I appreciate your delivering them.” Forlore set the papers down and looked up. “You're still standing. Sit. You can remove that bust from the chair behind you. Set it on the floor.”

“Are you sure I won't disrupt your filing system?” she asked, moving the head away and taking a seat.

“Not at all. It belongs there with the other P's.” Forlore leaned against the table, watching her.

“I see.” She returned his look, keeping her face impassive. “Would that be ‘P' for Abatha Cardium or ‘P' for astronomer?”

“‘P' for plaster.”

She laughed and he beamed, his green eyes warm with pleasure.

“May I ask you a question, Exalted?”

“You may.”

“How long have you been a decatur?”

“I have been a decatur a little over a year now. I was elected to the Council after Decatur Neuillan was … released from duty.”

Of course. She should have guessed the newest member would be Neuillan's replacement. The older decatur had been caught selling engine programs to the Alzanan government.

Most of the citizenry had demanded his execution, but Ondinium law reserved the death sentence for murder. Instead, the decatur had been stripped of his caste, sentenced to exile, blinded, and flogged out the city gates as a traitor.

“Is there a reason you ask?” Forlore gave her a curious look. “Do I seem different from the other decaturs, somehow?”

He did, but she wasn't about to tell him that.

“I was just wondering why I've never delivered a message to you before.”

“Oh. I'm afraid that's because I spend a great deal of time down at the University with my programming team.” He grimaced. “I've come to the conclusion that the Council keeps its new members in line by assigning them so much work that they're unable to find the time for any other potentially disruptive pursuits, such as framing legislation. But my team has just finished a major project, so I'm free to attend meetings once more.”

“Is attending meetings better than programming?”

“It is
different
, at least. But I fear my job must seem quite dull, compared to yours. Now, tell me about the accident. What happened?”

Taya recounted the story a second time, gratified by his rapt attention. When she was through, Forlore gave a long, low, and very un-exalted-like whistle.

“Astounding. I'm relieved you were there. My cousin Viera is as close as a sister to me. I'd be devastated were I to lose her.”

“She was very brave,” Taya ventured.

“Viera has always been brave. She is also honorable; she won't forget she owes you her life, and neither will her husband. Caster Octavus is a very traditional man in matters of caste and honor.”

“What are his politics?” she asked, eager to learn more about the man. Forlore blinked, looking surprised by the question.

“Well … that's rather difficult to say. Caster's enemies call him an Organicist, but it's a misnomer. He depends on the Great Engine as much as the rest of us, at least in matters of industry and agriculture. But he doesn't care for programs that simulate human behavior, so he's objected to a few of the trade and policy calculators that the Council has adopted.”

Taya studied the decatur's face, trying to see if he were joking.

“You have programs that act like humans?”

“Not precisely.” Forlore chuckled. “I imagine you saw that play down in Secundus last year, didn't you? The one about the analytical engine that goes insane and orders the city's lictors to kill anyone who challenges its calculations?”

Embarrassed, she nodded.

“You needn't turn so red! I was among the handful of exalteds who went to see it. I found it very imaginative, but the playwright didn't have any notion of how analytical engines really work. What we call a human-behavior simulation program doesn't give an engine the capacity for independent thought. What happens is that programmers like my team collect data about how one person behaves, or about how many people behave, under certain circumstances. They develop a behavioral model, code it onto cards, create and run a program, and the Great Engine uses the program's parameters to calculate the most likely behavior a hypothetical person sharing the same traits might adopt in a given situation.”

Taya gave him a dubious look. He smiled.

“You've taken loyalty tests, of course.”

She nodded. Icarii took a loyalty test each year, on the anniversary of their Great Examination.

“Your answers to each test are fed into the Engine, and it compares your new responses to your old responses, notes any changes, compares them to established risk factors, and predicts whether or not you're a threat to city or Council. If there's a reasonably high probability that you're becoming a security risk, you'll be summoned before a Board of Inquiry that determines the truth of the matter.”

“Isn't the Engine always right?”

“Many people assume so, but it isn't the case. If the Engine has a well-tested, reliable program and enough data, its predictions certainly have a high level of validity. But it's impossible to collect enough data to cover all the potential variables. That's why humans make the final analyses.” He smiled. “If the Great Engine were infallible, Ondinium wouldn't need a Council.”

Taya thought of Pyke. “I know someone who always criticizes the Council, but he's never been called up to a Board of Inquiry.”

“Criticizing the Council doesn't make someone a security risk.” Forlore paused, taking a sip of his wine. “Council members criticize each other all the time. A group that never questions itself usually makes bad decisions. Your friend may not be happy with Ondinium's government, but apparently he hasn't shown any inclination to sabotage it.”

“He wouldn't do that,” Taya hastened to assure the decatur. She didn't want to get Pyke into any trouble. Forlore looked amused, as if reading her mind. “Do decaturs take loyalty tests, too?”

“Yes, but….” the exalted paused, glancing at her. “As I said, the Engine isn't infallible. If it were, it would have caught Decatur Neuillan.”

His hesitation was enough to remind Taya that she wasn't chatting with a friend; she was talking to an exalted. Why was she dawdling here, anyway, when her sister was getting married tonight? She stood.

“I'm sorry, Exalted. I've taken up too much of your time.”

“Not at all.” He reached out for her glass. She faltered, then handed it to him. Exalteds weren't supposed to take dirty dishes. “I've enjoyed talking to you, Taya Icarus.”

“Thank you. And thank you for the wine.”

“My pleasure. I look forward to seeing you again.”

“I'm sure you will, Exalted.” She began strapping on her armature again.

“Yes. I'm sure I will, too.”

She glanced up. He was watching her with a thoughtful look, the lamplight glittering off the gold clasps in his dark hair and burnishing the smooth copper of his skin. But even without the ornaments, it would be obvious that he had been born to the exalted caste— his Ondinium coloration and features were flawless.

Taya smoothed her short auburn hair, the all-too-apparent sign of her mixed heritage. To her chagrin, she took after her Mareaux father more than she did her Ondinium mother. Then she blushed and looked down to check her harness once more.

Lady, there's a reason exalteds wear concealing masks and robes!
She had no right to notice Decatur Forlore's face. The only features that mattered between them were her wings and his castemarks.

Think of this as a diplomatic test
, she advised herself.
Act like you're already in the corps.

“Is that everything, Exalted?” She took a deep breath and looked up, smoothing her expression into one of calm professional interest.

“For the moment.” He held her gaze. “Fly safely, Icarus.”

“I will. Thank you.” She bowed once more, her palm against her forehead, and made her way out as quickly as she could. She felt his eyes on her and had to struggle to resist the urge to glance back.

As soon as she reached the hall, she rubbed her hands against her cheeks, trying to convince herself they weren't burning and he hadn't seen her blush.

Lady and spirits. I'm going to have to rush to get to the wedding on time.

Chapter Three

Taya's father ran an iron-smelting factory in Tertius, and her sister was marrying one of his chief engineers. Most of the factory workers had come for the festivities, along with the family's friends and neighbors.

Taya held a cup of weak punch and watched Katerin dance, a flash of white moving through the dark famulate suits and dresses of the other guests.

“That'll be you down there, soon enough,” her father said, at her elbow.

“I'm not in a hurry, Papa,” she said.

“Too busy working, are you? Heard from the exam board yet?”

“No. It's still too soon. Even if I do well on the exam, they'll run background checks and talk to my employers and friends.”

“You've not a thing to worry about, you don't.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I've faith you'll pass your test, and nobody will speak poorly of you, not under the wires nor up in the air. Now, doff your wings and join the dancing. You've done your duty today, haven't you, and then some.”

“I wasn't planning on staying much longer.” Taya glanced up at the wings that curved over her head. The two primaries were still bent. She'd returned to the eyrie too late to ask a smith to repair them, and she'd needed her armature for the wedding. Icarii were considered good luck, especially at weddings, so she'd promised her sister she'd wear her wings to the ceremony.

“Tired?”

“It's been a long day.”

“I suppose it has at that, and the longer for spending your evening with us instead of your own caste.”

Taya shot him a guilty glance, but her father was smiling, one hand on her arm while his eyes followed his youngest daughter with contented pride.

Filled with affection, Taya leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. His red hair, which she'd inherited, was streaked with grey now, and the dirt from his job had ingrained itself into his skin like another tattoo, revealing his caste as clearly as the black circle on his forehead. Taya knew some icarii who were embarrassed to come from the famulate caste, but she was proud of her father.

“I wouldn't have missed this for the world,” she said. “Tomas seems like a good man.”

“He is that.” Her father smiled. “We're glad you came down. Katie's told everyone who'll listen that her sister the icarus was coming to her wedding, hasn't she?”

“She's not jealous of me leaving the caste, is she?”

“Of you, sweetness?” Her father's eyebrows rose. “Lady, no. She thinks you've a dismal life, full of long days and risky work and not a decent man in all those crowded eyries of yours.”

“There are too decent icarii!” Taya protested, shooting her oblivious sister an annoyed look.

Her father chuckled and moved away to talk to his guests.

Taya stuck it out for another hour, exchanging polite inconsequentials with childhood acquaintances who came up to ask about the wireferry wreck and touch her wings for good luck. They were all famulates, and Taya felt the familiar discomfort of having left her birth-caste behind whenever the conversation faltered or turned to local affairs. A few children, clearly on the verge of their Great Examinations, asked her how to become an icarus, but she couldn't give them much advice. She knew that being small and not being afraid of heights were important, but she couldn't begin to guess what other variables the Great Engine calculated.
Decatur Forlore would know
, she thought, then smiled at herself and dismissed the thought.

At last she kissed Katerin and Tomas good-bye and left the party with a distinct sense of relief.

Tertius sprawled at the base of Ondinium Mountain, where it primarily housed members of the famulate caste — miners and metalworkers, engineers and smiths — and those foreigners who'd managed to purchase a labor or residency license, or who were visiting the city on business or out of curiosity. Even during the day, the streets of Tertius were shadowed by wireferry towers and girders and darkened by the ever-present blanket of smog from the factories, pollution that colored the sector's sky a sickly yellow and covered everything in a thin layer of soot.

Taya looked up but couldn't make out the stars, only the lights from Secundus and Primus. Returning to Tertius always gave her a twinge of nostalgia for the sights and smells she'd left at age seven, but her father was right— she didn't belong here anymore. Icarii moved between all the castes but fit in well with none of them, a social position that could be as awkward as it was liberating.

She walked through dark, narrow stone streets toward the Great Market. When she'd been a child, she hadn't noticed how dirty everything was on Tertius, or how shabby.

The Great Engine ensured that nobody starved in Ondinium, but the difference between the heart of the capital's industrial zone and the offices of Oporphyr Tower was inescapable to someone who moved freely between them every day.

Lost in thought, Taya was about to pass beneath the broad stone arch of a footbridge she had played on as a child when she heard footsteps scrape on the cobblestones behind her.

She turned.

Two men stood under a gas lamp, five yards away. One was tall and fair-haired: a Demican, wearing his people's rough native garments. The other was shorter and had the stocky build and bright vest of an Alzanan. Their faces were un-inked. Foreigners.

“Can I help you?” she asked, trying to sound confident. Her gaze flickered to the sky. The way was clear, although she hadn't had to take flight from a flat run for years. But flying meant locking her arms into her wings, and she didn't want to make herself vulnerable unless it became necessary.

“We am lost, Icarus,” the Alzanan said, struggling with Ondinan. “How we go Blue Tree Hotel?”

The Blue Tree Hotel? That was a nice place… too nice for their attire.
They might be meeting someone there
, she told herself, trying to keep an open mind.

Then the thought flickered past:
Or this could be one of those secret diplomacy tests.

“It's on Jasper Street in Secundus,” she said, speaking Alzanan. “This bridge goes up to Secundus, and you can ask the guard at the sector gate how to get to the hotel. You'd better hurry, before the midnight lockdown.”

“This bridge?” The Alzanan began walking forward, his neck craned. His tall companion followed, wearing the flat, stoic expression Demicans cultivated. “How do we get up to it?”

“Go back a block and turn right on Damper, then right again on Alumina. There are access steps on Crate Street. Look for the signs directing you to Whitesmith Bridge.”

“But we were on Crate Street, and we didn't see any way up,” the Alzanan protested in his own language, still advancing. Taya touched the utility knife strapped to her chest harness. It was the only weapon icarii were allowed to carry in armature.

“Please don't come any closer, gentlemen,” she said, still speaking Alzanan.

“You don't need to be afraid of me.” The Alzanan looked hurt. “I'm only asking for directions.”

“Go back a block. Make two rights.” Taya's heart pounded. This could be a test, but it could also be the prelude to mugging. She was on Tertius, for the Lady's sake— people were attacked down here all the time. “Please go.”

“May I touch your wings for good luck?” The Alzanan took another step forward. Taya stepped backward, her hand tightening around the knife grip.

“I'm sorry, but I—”

Then she heard the scrape of metal against stone above her. Instinct took over and she threw herself forward. Heavy coils of rope hit her, jarring her wings and dragging at their metal feathers. Taya staggered, off-balance, and looked up. A second Alzanan leaned over the side of Whitesmith Bridge, leering down at her.

A net. Taya swore, feeling it encumbering her wings. Its awkward weight threatened to pull her on her back.

This isn't a test!

The first Alzanan and the Demican lunged forward. Taya yanked at her harness buckle with one hand and slashed her knife at the Alzanan when he drew near.

“Help!” she shouted, feeling the buckle give way beneath her fingers. She began pulling at the next. The Demican drew a dagger from the back of his belt, his face hard.

They were going to kill her.

“Help! Guards!”

The Alzanan darted in like a knife-fighter, a thin blade materializing between his fingers and snapping across her harness. Its razor-sharp edge cut the backs of her fingers. Taya stabbed at him. He danced backward. A small nick marked his bare forearm.

The second buckle opened and her wings slid to one side across her shoulders. Taya tugged at the buckle around her waist, her fingers slippery with blood. If she could get out of the armature, she'd be able to fight. Right now her wings were nothing but deadweight.

“Guards!” she shouted again, angry. “Dammit, somebody call a lictor!”

The Demican shoved his partner aside, stalking forward with menacing intensity. Taya worked harder to pull the waist strap open. Demicans were hunters and warriors, and this one was about two feet taller and wider than she was.

“What's going on here?” a voice snapped with authority.

The two men looked around, and Taya abandoned the buckle, taking the moment's opening to even the odds. She lunged forward and thrust her utility knife through the Demican's wool shirt and into his chest.

He roared with anger, grabbing her wrist and yanking her aside. The net tangled her feet and she sprawled, losing her knife. She wrenched her waist buckle open, pulled apart her keel, and twisted aside as the warrior's knife slashed down. The point of the blade caught her shoulder as she rolled away, leaving the net behind her.

Scrambling on all fours, Taya snatched her utility knife off the cobblestones.

Something gave a sharp, machinelike hiss. Behind her, the Demican grunted, sounding surprised.

Taya spun, rising into a fighting crouch.

The Demican was staring down at his chest. Two long metal needles stuck out from his shirt, blood spreading around them to match the growing stain where she'd stabbed him.

“Forget her! We go!” the Alzanan shouted in Ondinan, and ran. The Demican staggered, looked at his fleeing companion, and then followed.

Taya craned her neck, but there was no sign of the second Alzanan who'd been on top of the bridge.

Her wings floated a foot off the ground, trapped by the heavy rope net. Taya hoped she could untangle the armature from the ropes without damaging it any further. She turned to ask her rescuer for assistance.

The man was crouched over the drops of blood on the cobblestones, studying the ground. The hem of his greatcoat dragged on the street, and he held a bulky iron air gun in one hand. Taya had seen the air rifles carried by Council guards, but she'd never seen a pistol-sized air gun before.

Then he looked up, light flashing from the wire rims of his glasses. For a heartbeat he and Taya stared at each other with mutual recognition and dismay.

“Exalted.” Taya ducked in a clumsy bow, remembering their disagreeable meeting in Decatur Forlore's office. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

Cristof stood and slipped the gun into his coat pocket, where it made an unsightly lump. Now Taya had to look up to meet his eyes— like most icarii, she was small and slight, whereas he had an exalted's height. The cold night breeze ruffled the uneven ends of his dark hair.

“Well, Icarus,” he said, frowning. “You're either very careless or very unlucky.”

His words irritated her. She turned back to her armature before he could see her expression.

“Actually, I consider myself very lucky,” she said, working hard to keep her tone even. “I'm still alive.”

“You're bleeding.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the dark stain on her flight suit. The wound stung, but it was less inconvenient than the cut across her fingers.

“It's just a scratch.” She turned back and tried to find the bottom of the net.

“Don't. You'll break it if you try to untangle it here. Take it back to my shop and do it in the light.”

She hesitated. She didn't like his manner, and if she weren't so worried about her wings, she'd take great satisfaction in turning him down.

But it wasn't worth damaging her wings for the sake of pride.

“Is your shop close?”

“A few blocks away.” He stepped next to her and began gathering the net's loose ends. She scooped the whole bundle off the ground. He turned his frown on her again. “I'll get it.”

“I can do it, Exalted. It's not heavy, and they're my wings.”

He gave her a cool look, then handed her the rest of the net. As soon as she'd gotten all the ends wrapped up, he began walking, one hand jammed in his coat pocket.

Taya followed, wondering if this might be a test, after all. Her classes in diplomatic protocol had never covered how to deal with an outcaste exalted.

Cristof's workshop was small, tucked into the basement of a larger building that was filled with small businesses. They descended three steps from the street to get to the door, which he unlocked with two keys.

“Be careful,” he said, leading her in. Taya followed, tugging her floating bundle behind her.

The first thing that struck her was the sound — a loud ticking, whirring, and clicking that came from every direction at once.

Cristof struck a lucifer match and lit a wall gas lamp. Taya looked around with wonder as he turned up the flame to its highest level.

Everywhere she looked she saw clocks and watches, pumps and wind-up toys; every kind of clockwork mechanism imaginable. Most were in motion, their hands turning, pendulums swinging, and gears rotating.

“You have so many!” Taya breathed, her annoyance forgotten. She clutched her bundle and stared. Enamelwork and metal gleamed in the bright light like moving jewels. Cristof had a small fortune hanging on his walls and sitting on his shelves. “Did you make them all?”