The Havoc Machine (4 page)

Up close, many of the tents and wagons showed wear and dilapidation—holes, dings, even scorch marks. The illustrated sign out front that read K
ALAKOS
C
IRCUS OF
A
UTOMATONS AND
O
THER
W
ONDERS
bore signs of water damage. Thad wove his way among it all with an unconscious dexterity born of childhood practice. He sighed and relaxed a little. It didn’t matter what city the circus was in, or even what country; a circus was home. He had only been with this particular circus for a few months, but everything about it—the creak of ropes, the snuff of elephants, the whisper of a knife blade clearing its sheath, the stale smell of fried food and old peanuts—brought back memories of being a little boy with his parents. He had learned the delicate art of knives and swords from his father, an expert thrower and swallower. He had learned the art of control and patient fearlessness from his mother, Dad’s assistant and target. From them both and from the rest of the circus he had picked up a dozen languages and the ability to be at ease in a hundred cultures.

And then Thad had fallen in love and left them all for his dear Ekaterina in Poland. Thad set his jaw again and ducked under a tent rope. After any loss, the question that always plagued the survivors was whether or not they would do it all over again. It was a stupid question. There was no way to do it all over again, so what was the point in figuring out an answer? Still, Thad pulled at it like a child pulling at an old scab and making it bleed while the smell of stale peanuts and elephant’s breath swirled around him. Would he do it all over again?

He still didn’t know.

“Shut it, shut it,” Dante muttered.

“Take your own advice, bird.”

“Sharpe is sharp.”

It broke Thad’s heart to see the shabby shape the Kalakos
Circus found itself in. The Kalakos was elaborate, enormous, famous—or it had been all those things. Two years ago, the circus had had the misfortune to take in a clockworker named Gavin Ennock and go to Kiev, the birth of the clockwork plague itself. Thad, who was new to the Kalakos, had only gotten bits and pieces of that story. He’d heard about how the Dnipro River dam had inexplicably burst, of course—all of Europe had heard about that—and he’d heard about the way the succeeding flood had miraculously swept off the Gonta-Zalizniak clan of clockworkers who had ruled the Ukrainian Empire and treated its inhabitants like laboratory animals. But the circus folk were strangely tight-lipped about the rest of it, even among other performers. All Thad had been able to figure out was that the circus had come away from the flood much worse for the wear. A great many performers had fled, and much of the circus’s equipment had been destroyed, including its iconic mechanical elephant. This sort of thing came of dealing with clockworkers.

At least clockworkers, unlike zombies, didn’t spread the plague. People who became clockworkers seemed to do something to the disease that kept it from spreading beyond them. This was, no doubt, small comfort to the flood victims of Kiev and to the Kalakos Circus.

Thad arrived at his little wagon, parked near the train in the residential area of the circus. He unlocked it and hopped inside, where he lit a candle. The thin light revealed a close, efficient space. At the front of the wagon stood a low wardrobe with a double-wide bunk atop it. Clever fold-down shelves on the walls could create small tables, stools, or even beds at a moment’s notice, and
high, brimmed shelves held a few books and other knickknacks. A knife grinder’s wheel took up the front corner opposite a tiny stove. And from the walls hung a variety of damaged machines.

Each machine had a different design, but all of them were clearly wrecked beyond repair. There were whirligigs with bent blades and spiders missing their legs, energy pistols with broken barrels, and automaton heads split in half, showing gears like metal brain matter. More than two dozen machines covered the wall, in fact. The shadows from the candle played across them, and their dead eyes seemed to focus on Thad. But none of them could actually move—a hard hammer and a satisfying set of nails had seen to that. As Thad set down the candlestick, Dante jumped from his shoulder and landed on a perch among them.

“Sharpe is sharp,” he said.

Thad opened the wardrobe. One half contained dull clothes and bright costumes. The other half clanked with weapons—short swords, silvery knives, heavy axes, thin stilettos, a spiked mace. And pistols. Six of those, including one of the new Smith & Wesson revolvers that accepted cartridge rounds. The rounds were much more accurate but also much more expensive, so Thad rarely used them. He hesitated, then touched the torn money pouch in his pocket. With a grim nod, he holstered the Smith & Wesson revolver at his belt. His long leather jacket fell open, revealing another small armory of knives and other blades. He checked to make sure they were all in place, put Dante back on his shoulder, and went back outside, carefully locking the little wagon behind him.

From a storage box attached to the wagon’s outside wall, he took a bridle and saddle while Dante shifted uneasily. Thad glanced at the moon and realized he’d have to hurry if he wanted to make it to the village and the clockworker’s castle in time to go in tonight. For a moment, he considered waiting a day or two. It might be better to scout the area out, find out more about Mr. Havoc and his defenses.

“Drink up, drink up,” Dante squawked.

“Hm,” Thad said, absently touching Dante’s head. Dante had a point, however accidentally. The men drinking in the tavern had recognized Thad, known what his business was. It wouldn’t take long for word to filter back to Mr. Havoc that Thad was in town. Clockworkers were insane but they were also frighteningly intelligent, and it wouldn’t be much of a strain for for Mr. Havoc to assume that Thad was coming for him and to strengthen his defenses. Hell, he might even attack Thad—or the circus—as a defensive measure. No, Thad would have to take care of Mr. Havoc tonight. Now.

Thad retrieved his horse from the large, plain tent that housed the rest of the horses, and moments later he was on the road. For a bad moment, clouds rolled across the moon, blocking Thad’s light, but a chilly autumn breeze chased them off again, leaving the path ahead of him as clear as a snake made of mercury. He urged the horse into a canter with Dante clinging to the pommel.

At a spot where stubbly fields met at a crossroad, Thad saw a horse and rider. His hand went to his revolver, but the figures resolved themselves into Sofiya atop the brass horse, motionless and gleaming beneath the stars. Her scarlet cloak looked like dried blood.

“What took so long?” she demanded. “I have been waiting forever.”

Anger stabbed at Thad as he reined in. “Let’s be clear, Miss Ekk. Your presence on this mission is neither required nor desired. If you don’t care for the way I work, you may take back your money and I’ll happily go to bed. Question me again, and that’s what will happen. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.” She seemed unruffled. “I was only making conversation.”

“Pretty boy, pretty, pretty boy.”

“And keep that walking pile of shit away from Blackie. I don’t want it to contaminate him or me.”

“Blackie?”

Dammit. “My son named him.”

“Ah. And where—?”

Thad slapped Blackie’s flank, and the horse leaped into a gallop. It was some time before Sofiya and her brass horse caught up. The automaton’s gait was smooth and regular, and it snorted steam from its nostrils at every fourth step. Sofiya didn’t speak again, and eventually Thad was forced to slow Blackie down. Sofiya’s horse matched pace without comment.

“I am sorry,” Sofiya said at last.

Thad glanced at her. That was unexpected. But talking with Sofiya was like walking blindfolded through a bomb field. One moment she was explosive, the next she was refined, and he could never tell which was coming. “Sorry for what?”

“For the death of your son. And, I assume, of your wife. I assume a clockworker was involved.”

“How did—” He cut himself off. “Never mind. I don’t talk about it.”

“Nevertheless. It was not my intention to cause you pain, and I apologize. I only want the invention.”

“And I want the clockworker dead. We can both have what we want.”

“That would be a small miracle, Mr. Sharpe. But I will settle for Havoc’s machine.”

Thad shifted in the saddle. “What does this machine do, anyway?”

“I have no idea. And before you ask, I do not know why our employer wants it, either. That does worry me somewhat.”

“Oh?”

“I do not wish to give him a clockworker invention that might hurt a lot of people. So I will have to examine it closely. That is another reason why I am coming along, you see.”

That surprised Thad. “But you work for him.”

“And yet I somehow still think for myself. Do you find this so incredible?”

They reached a village of peasant houses. Like most in this region, the dwellings were low buildings made of logs or sod and topped with thatch. None had windows—they were too poor for that—and no lights burned anywhere. At this time of night, everyone was in bed. Thad judged that they had two or two and a half hours before sunrise. The dirt road threaded between the houses, forked west, and rose up a high hill. Atop the hill, Thad could just make out the silhouette of stone buildings. It seemed to him there should been a storm, or a least a rumble of thunder, but the night was calm and clear.

As they neared the edge of the village, one of the doors opened a crack and a woman peered out, probably
wakened by their hoofbeats. When she saw the direction Thad and Sofiya were heading, she ran out into the road, heedless of her bedclothes and her nightcap.

“You must not go this way!”
she called in desperate Lithuanian.
“You must not!”

Thad halted.
“We will be fine, mistress.”

“No! You must not!”
She ran up and caught Blackie’s bridle. He snorted and tried to toss his head, but she clung hard.
“That way is the path of a demon!”

“A clockworker?”
Thad asked.

“An evil man.”
Her eyes were pleading. She looked barely older than Thad himself.
“He has taken many people from Juodsilai and done terrible things to them. We have begged the Cup Bearer and the Master of the Hunt to help us, but they do nothing. He took my sister…”

“I am sorry,”
Sofiya said for the second time that evening.

“Vilma!”
A man in a nightshirt was standing in the doorway.
“Come away!”

“The demon comes out at night. If you need a place to stay, come to our house. My husband will not like it, but—”

Thad reached down and gently freed Blackie’s bridle from her hand.
“I am not the Master of the Hunt, mistress, but I have come to destroy the demon clockworker.”

“Death, doom, destruction, despair,” Dante said.

“Truly?”
The woman clasped Thad’s hand and kissed it several times.
“Thank you, my lord. Thank you, thank you so much. Wait!”

The woman dashed past her surprised husband into the house and emerged a moment later with a small jug and a cloth-wrapped bundle.
“Take these,”
she said.

Thad recognized both objects by smell. The bundle was rye bread and the little jug contained a homemade vodka strong enough to make his eyes water. He thought about refusing such a rich gift from a poor household, but the woman’s expression was powerfully earnest. Thad also recognized the gesture for what it was. The memory of his own loss made his throat close up as he met Vilma’s eyes. She understood, and turning down her sacrifice was unthinkable. So was refusing to face Havoc.

“Thank you,”
he said. With the gravity of a priest, he slipped the objects into the capacious pockets of his coat.
“What was your sister’s name?”

“Olga.”

“I will make sure that word is the last sound he hears, Mistress Vilma.”

Without another word, he turned Blackie and rode away with Sofiya close behind. For once, Sofiya didn’t speak.

They climbed the hill, which was dotted with birch trees whose bark and leaves turned to silver and paper beneath the moon. Halfway up, Thad dismounted near a birch grove and put Dante on his shoulder. Frost had already killed off the insects, and the birds had migrated long ago, leaving the night eerily devoid of life sounds. Anticipation mingled with uncertainty in Thad’s chest, and he found himself checking his weapons over and over—stilettos, revolvers, bullets, knives, stilettos, revolvers, bullets, knives. He had other equipment as well: silk rope, lock picks, a small hacksaw, matches, and other handy objects. His fingers itched, and he couldn’t sit still. Evil rested at the top of that hill, an evil that terrorized
men and killed women’s sisters, and for once Thad would strike it before it struck him.

“You stay here,” he told Sofiya. “After this point, the horses—and you—will be a nuisance.”

“As you wish. Perhaps I will nap.” Sofiya made her horse kneel, and she spread her cloak in a half circle in the brass shelter of its body. “Remember, the invention is a spider with ten legs instead of eight and—”

“—it has strange markings,” Thad finished for her. “I remember.”

“Sharpe is sharp,” Dante squawked. “Doom!”

“No talking, bird,” Thad told him, “unless you want Havoc to extract your gears with a spoon.”

Dante settled his feathers with a clatter, but didn’t respond. Thad touched his knives one more time, then headed up the road toward the ruins and the clockworker named Havoc.

T
haddeus Sharpe scanned the castle ruins with a practiced eye. In his considerable experience, clockworkers liked hidden, enclosed spaces. Castles, sewers, underground rooms, and similar places made them feel safe, like rats in a burrow. Ruins gave them the solitude they often craved; clockworkers did not work well with others. They fell to arguing too easily and tore one another to pieces, sometimes literally. Thad had once managed to set one clockworker on another, and the results had been tremendously satisfying.