Unbound (27 page)

When he scooped her up to carry her down the stairs, she struggled and writhed, but she was no match for his arms, his lust, his magic. Her duke tossed her onto the scarred wooden table and clasped manacles around her slender wrists. And that's when she let out her first scream.

“You monster!”

Charmant turned to his mirror, digging too-sharp nails into his cheeks. The peach peeled away to reveal acid-yellow skin lit with desire. The beard fell to the ground with one good tug, and he tossed the blond wig into the fire, where it stank of wet wool and burned meat.

“It's just like the fairy tales, then, my love. You be my beauty, and I will gladly be your beast.” He twirled the tips of his mustache in the mirror and turned back to her, love shining in his eyes like a wrecked train's headlights sinking deep into a loch.

“I am not yours,” Coco spat.

“Oh, but you will be.”

Charmant snaked fingers into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a spool. When he gave it an experimental tug, Coco's shoulders jerked up, a look of terror and disgust twisting her fine features.

“What . . . what is that? What is in my throat?”

“Merely a bit of fishing line, my love. A consequence of fine champagne. Relax as I reel in my prize.”

The thread was invisible between his fingertips as he rewound it around the cylinder. Coco's body convulsed as if she might vomit but couldn't find her own throat. Ragged retching started deep within her, and her eyes rolled back to show all whites broken with angry red veins. With one final, happy pull, Charmant tugged past the last bastion of resistance, and Coco's body bowed up from the table with a high, gargling scream.

The tiny bit of glowing fuzz that floated on the end of the invisible string resembled a firefly's light, and Charmant caught it deftly between thumb and middle finger. Coco's body flattened onto the table, mouth open and eyes blank. With his other hand, Charmant stroked the pale lilac wrist, checking for the pulse. Warm, alive. But mindless. So sweet.

Holding the soul-light carefully, the magician used every lens on his complicated artificer's goggles. Even at the highest magnification, he could discern no body, no form, no composition, which confirmed several things he had always assumed about what composed a soul: namely, that it was a useless bit of fluff.

He'd kept the armoire closed to avoid frightening Coco, although, in hindsight, it didn't really matter. Now he unclasped the door and threw it open to reveal the beautiful automaton waiting within.

But . . .

There was something wrong. His construct: she had fallen apart completely.

One of her arms had sloughed off. Her face had running holes for eyes, the rust eating farther and farther into softly painted cheeks. Stains the color of old blood seeped through her celadon dress, and the wig had fallen to the ground in an acid-etched heap of fur.

Every muscle in Charmant's body clenched—except those two fingers that held Coco's soul.

It had to be the solder. That brand new jar he'd opened, just for her. Every place he'd melted silver powder into the metal, every seam—they were all broken. Where had he bought it? Who had dared to sell bad solder to the most powerful alchemist in Paris?

He would find out later. And end them.

But for now, he held a soul. And its glow was weakening.

He tried shoving it back into Coco's fine mouth, but the blasted thing stubbornly floated back out, just as the witch had gleefully promised. Next, he tried to tuck it into a jar, and then a wooden box, and then a clay pot. But outside of his own fingers, the thing could not be contained and gently floated about as if gravity was merely an amusing idea. Charmant's goat eyes dashed around the room, frantic for some way to capture the soul until he could craft another flawless, timeless body that he alone could control.

And then he remembered the automaton's heart. It was iron and hand-hammered and didn't include solder. Perhaps it, alone, had survived. And iron was prized for its immunity to magic.

With one hand, he ripped open the celadon dress. A tug on the chest plate split the torso in half, the once-perfect breasts falling apart and clattering on the ground. There, in the center of the complicated mechanisms within, sat a perfect iron heart untouched by the foul, rusting acid. But it was useless without a body to move, and the damnable witch had said the thing wouldn't last long without a body to inhabit. With a growl, he ripped out the heart and tossed it on the table, where the wires dangled from it like tree roots wrenched out in a storm.

Charmant dug through the pile of automaton parts he'd so recently plundered to build his masterpiece and found nothing but useless chunks. Half a face, a leg, a belled metal skirt filled with cogs. Nothing was complete enough to hold the heart. Nothing had the wires, the capability of connecting with the soul as he'd dreamed.

Except . . . no.

Not that one.

It was finely crafted but inelegantly shaped. It was . . . hideous.

An abomination.

The soul-light was dimmer now, almost spluttering.

He hadn't much time.

He had even less choice.

With a feral growl and a savage yank, he ripped the body from the pile, scattering bolts across his once-spotless laboratory. A few hooks, undone, revealed a flawless chest cavity and a smaller, more primitive mechanical heart still connected to sensitive wires.

The soul-light fizzed like a candle flame about to sputter out. With a fingernail, he unscrewed the cover on the iron heart and slammed the soul-fuzz inside, flipping the door back until it clicked.

For the first minute, he held a hand over the top, praying to the bloodier gods that the damned thing would stick. It was all he'd ever wanted, and he'd held it in his hand. And now he just wanted to be rid of it. The way it stuck to him, clung to him like her harsh words—the thing needed to be captured and kept contained.

His hand trembled as he revealed the cold iron underneath. The soul-light stayed put, did not try to float out. First came a tiny click. Then the tiniest bloom of warmth. Then a glow that shone through the tiny seams. And then the heart was beating, the cogs turning, the fingers twitching experimentally.

And Charmant breathed again and went to enjoy a cabaret girl's soft, pliant, senseless flesh while waiting for Coco's soul to ignite the body of the metal orangutan.

The alchemist was, after all, a practical creature.

He could never have the Coco that obsessed him.

But now he had both her body and a new servant, one who had no choice but to serve him until her metal rusted away, until the long, clever fingers shattered to dust. The metal golem was bound to him with the darkest magic, unable to lift a hand to harm her master. As he climbed off the table and cleaned himself with a handkerchief, he couldn't help smiling, twirling his mustache.

Yes. Perhaps this wasn't the possession that he'd intended, but it was a possession nonetheless.

* * * * *

The next morning, Charmant woke covered in blood. Coco's body lay beside him in his bed, her arms tied to the post as they'd been when he'd drifted into beautiful dreams. But her skin was dead, cold white splashed with red. The daimon dancing girl's throat was slit in a wide, gaping, mocking smile.

Across the room crouched a metal orangutan holding his razor with long, dextrous fingers.

Mark Lawrence

The scars of his name still stung about his neck and shoulders. The sun beat upon him as it had always beaten, as it would continue to beat until the day came at last for the tribe to put his bones in the caves beside those of his ancestors.

* * * * *

The young man held his name tight, unwilling even to move his lips around the shape of it. He had won both manhood and a name in the heat and dust of the ghost plain. Long Toe had led him out a nameless child. He found his own way back, bleeding from the wounds of a thousand thorn pricks. Long Toe had patterned him with the spine of a casca bush. In time the scars would darken and the black-on-brown pattern would let the world know him for a man of the Haccu tribe.

“Firestone, fetch me water.” Broken Bowl rose from his bower as Firestone approached the village, dusty from his long trek.

Broken Bowl watched his cattle from the comfort of his shaded hammock most days. Men would come to buy, leaning on the twisted fence spars, chewing betel until their mouths ran bloody, spitting the juice into the dust. Half a day spent in haggling and they would leave with a cow, two cows, three cows, and Broken Bowl would return to his hammock with more cowrie shells for his wives to braid into his hair.

“I’m a man now. Find a boy to bring you water.” Firestone had known Broken Bowl would test him. Many of the new men still fetched and carried for him as they had when they were boys. Broken Bowl might only have worn his scars five years but he had wealth and he could wrestle a cow to the ground unaided when the time came to bleed one. Besides, his father led the warriors to battle.

“Don’t make me beat you, little man.” Broken Bowl slid from his hammock, and stood, tall, thick with muscle, honour scars reaching in bands from both shoulders nearly to the elbow.

“I’m not making you.” Firestone had carried Broken Bowl’s water and his “little man” for years. He was neither little now, nor ready to carry another gourd from the well. On the ghost plain Long Toe had tested him, broken him nearly, left him dry long enough to see the spirits hiding in the dust, hurt him bad enough to take the sting from pain.

Broken Bowl rolled his head on his thick neck and stretched his arms out to the side, yawning. “End this foolishness, Firestone. The young men bring me water. When you have fought alongside the warriors, when you have Hesha blood on your spear, or a braid of Snake-Stick hair on your wrist, the young men will carry for you too.”

“You’re still a young man, Broken Bowl. I remember when you came back with your scars.” Firestone’s heart beat hard beneath the bone of his breast. His mouth grew dry and the words had to be pushed from it—like ebru forced cover before the hunters. He knew he should bow his head and fetch the water, but his scars stung and his true name trembled behind his lips.

Broken Bowl stamped in the dust, not just ritual anger—the real emotion burned in his bloodshot eyes. Two men of Kosha village turned from the cattle pens to watch. Small children emerged from the shade of the closest huts, larger ones hurrying after. A whistle rang out somewhere back past the long hall.

“Do you remember why they call you Firestone?” Broken Bowl asked. He sucked in a breath and calmed himself.

Firestone said nothing. He knew that Broken Bowl would tell the story again for the gathering crowd.

“Your brother found you bawling your eyes out, clutching a stone from the fire to your chest.” Broken Bowl rubbed his fists against his eyes, mocking those tears. “Your father had to take the stone from you and he cursed as it burned him.”

Firestone felt the eyes of the children on his chest. The scars there had a melted quality to them. One of the Kosha men laughed, a lean fellow with a bone plate through his nose.

“Your name is a lesson, Firestone. About when to put something down and walk away.” Broken Bowl cracked his knuckles. “Put this down. Walk away.”

Firestone carried no weapon, he had a spear in his father’s hut, warped, its point fire-hardened wood. Broken Bowl had a bronze curas at his hip on the leather strap that held his loincloth. The larger man made no move to draw it though. He would beat Firestone bloody but do no murder. Not today. Even now Firestone could fetch the water and escape with nothing more than a slap or two.

“Harrac.” Firestone whispered his true name, curling his lips around the sound. Every prick of that casca spine lanced again through his skin as he spoke his name—all of them at once—a thousand stabs, a liquid pain. He threw himself forward, the lion’s snarl bursting from him.

Perhaps he was faster than he had thought—and he had thought himself fast. Perhaps Broken Bowl hadn’t taken him seriously, or had expected threats and stamping. Either way, when Harrac leapt, Broken Bowl reached for him too slow, fumbled his grapple, and the top of Harrac’s forehead smashed into Broken Bowl’s cheek and nose.

They went down together. Broken Bowl hammering into the dust, Harrac on top, pounding the edge of his hand into Broken Bowl’s face. Broken Bowl threw him off—the man’s strength amazed Harrac but didn’t daunt him. In two heartbeats he was back on his foe. Broken Bowl managed to turn onto his side but Harrac threw his weight upon the man’s back as he tried to rise. Harrac drove his elbow into the back of Broken Bowl’s neck, brought his knee up into his ribs, pressed his face into the ground with his other hand. A red fury seized him and he didn’t stop pounding his foe until the men of the village pulled him off.

* * * * *

Harrac sat on the ground, sweat cutting paths through the dust caking his limbs. The crowd about him, an indivisible many, their words just noise beneath the rush of his breathing and the din of his heart. From the corner of his eye he saw five men carry Broken Bowl toward the huts. Later his father came, and Broken Bowl’s father, and Carry Iron in his headman’s cloak of feathers, and Long Toe, Ten Legs, Spiller . . . all the elders.