Clockwork Heart (4 page)

“No. Not all.” He hesitated, then walked to a desk. The light reflected off his tattooed cheekbones, making his face look even thinner. “Put the net on the table. Make sure the armature doesn't float too high.”

Reminded of her business, Taya tied two ends of the net to the table legs, letting the rest of the bundle float. Cristof returned with two knives and offered her one. His hands were dark with dirt or machine oil, another indication of his outcaste status. Exalteds were fastidious about their appearance.

“It'll be faster to cut the ropes,” he said. “That way we won't bend any feathers.”

“If those bastards broke my wings, I'll kill them.” Taya grabbed the knife, sawing at the cords.

“You may have, already. The man you stabbed was losing a lot of blood.”

Taya cut through a rope and attacked the next. Then she set down the knife, looking at the blood welling from the cuts on her fingers.

Had she really killed a man?

If he got to a hospital, he'd be all right.

Of course, he was a foreigner, and probably not even a licensed resident. Physicians weren't obliged to treat anyone who didn't pay Ondinium's taxes, and any respectable doctor would ask questions about those wounds that the Demican wouldn't want to answer.

Why did she care what happened to him, anyway? He'd tried to kill her.

“Scrap,” she muttered, angrily.

Cristof paused, on the other side of the table.

“What?”

“What about you? You shot him, didn't you? If he dies, he'll probably die from that.”

“Maybe.” The exalted studied her. “Although needlers seldom kill at range. They're intended as deterrents.”

“So if he dies, it's my fault.” The thought depressed her. How would inflicting a fatal injury on a foreigner affect her chance at the diplomatic corps?

“If he dies, it's his fault for going icarus-hunting, not yours for defending yourself.” Cristof went back to work, his slender fingers tugging at the net strands. “And it's his fault for working with Alzanans. A Demican should know better.”

Not feeling very comforted, Taya picked up her knife again.

“You don't like Alzanans?”

“Half the Alzanans in Ondinium are thieves and the rest are spies.” He sawed through another rope. “It doesn't surprise me that they'd want an operational armature. They could demand an imperate's ransom for these wings.”

Taya began working on another rope, considering his words. She knew her wings were valuable, of course, but she'd never thought they'd attract thieves.

“Do you think they were specifically looking for wings?” she asked.

“They came with a net. That isn't a standard mugger's weapon. Did anyone know you'd be on Tertius tonight?”

The rope unraveled beneath her blade, and she sighed.

“Just about everybody in the neighborhood. I was at my sister's wedding.”

Cristof was silent. Taya kept working, ignoring the fresh trickles of blood that ran over her hands as she worked.

She didn't like the idea that those men had been hunting her. They must have heard she would be attending the wedding in armature and— what? Had they waited to see if she'd leave alone? Had they guessed that an icarus would find it easiest to launch from the Market Tower? Was she that predictable?

She could have foiled their plans if she'd been more cautious, but why would she? Nobody harmed icarii. They were Ondinium's couriers and rescuers, its alarm system and its luck.

Of course, those three had been foreigners. They wouldn't have an Ondinium citizen's respect for an icarus.

The armature jerked as the net slid apart. Taya grabbed the harness before it could hit the ceiling and hauled it back down. Without a word, Cristof tied one of the severed ropes to a harness strap and anchored it into place over the table.

“It doesn't look too bad,” Taya said, inspecting the wings. The net had yanked them out of their locked position, which meant they might have sustained damage to the joints, but she wouldn't know until she tried them on again. She caressed the metal feathers closest to her, tugging them. They remained securely fastened to the wing struts.

On the other side of the table, Cristof was doing the same thing, frowning as he concentrated. His dirt-stained fingers moved with confidence as he tested the feathers and their housing.

Taya surreptitiously studied him. His coat was as plain and well-worn as any other craftsman's. He didn't wear any rings or necklaces. He didn't have any pins in his lapels or clasps and jewels in his short black hair. Even his spectacles were ordinary. There was nothing in his appearance to indicate he was anything other than a simple famulate mechanic, except the curling blue waves tattooed on his cheeks.

Once you get past the discrepancy between his castemarks and the way he dresses, he's not so bad looking
, she thought. He still had an exalted's features, after all. His copper skin was smooth and his raggedly cut hair was thick and glossy. His features were sharp, though, and there wasn't much extra weight on his tall, thin frame. Grey eyes were unusual for an exalted. He had foreign blood in his ancestry; Demican, maybe. Those pale eyes were what made his face so cold, their light color emphasized by the silver rims of his spectacles.

“This wing seems all right,” he said at last. She collected her thoughts.

“Mine, too, unless some of the joint mechanisms have been damaged.”

He glanced at her hands.

“You're getting blood all over everything. Sit down.”

“They're just scratches.” She looked down and grimaced. He was right. She'd smeared blood on her flight suit, and blood had dripped on the table beneath the armature. The cuts weren't deep, but working with her hands had been keeping them open.

Cristof pulled off his greatcoat, threw it over a chair, and vanished through a doorway. Relieved to be free of his critical gaze, Taya looked around with wonder.

The clocks and timepieces all indicated the same time, but otherwise they varied widely, from the somber black long-case clock standing in one corner to the fanciful jeweled stag-shaped clock set on a high shelf to the open-geared clock under a glass case that took up two feet of the top of a tool cabinet. Three shelves next to a worktable were covered with wind-up toys, the kind Taya had played with as a little girl. Two caught her eye: small birds that floated over the top of the shelf, tethered with pieces of string. She stood and walked over to them, holding her bleeding hand close to her chest.

The birds were cunningly crafted with tiny, bright enameled feathers and little beaks of gold. The miniature keys between each set of wings looked gold, too. The birds' eyes sparkled, and Taya wondered if they were made of cut glass or gemstones. Gemstones, she guessed, if they were the expensive toys they seemed to be.

“They have ondium cores,” Cristof said, returning with a basin and two hand towels. He put them on the table beneath the floating armature. “Wash your hand.”

“They're beautiful.” She pulled herself away. Blood stained the cold water as she rubbed the cuts clean. “Are you repairing them for someone?”

“They're mine.” Cristof held out a handkerchief, and she pressed it against her cuts. He'd washed his hands, too, she noted, but grease still smudged his shirt cuffs and the sharp bridge of his nose, where he must have touched his face to push up his glasses.

“Do they really fly?”

“Let me see your shoulder. The cut might not bother you now, but your harness will irritate it.”

“I don't think it's too bad.” She tried to crane her neck around to see it. “It aches, but it doesn't hurt much.”

“Let me see,” he repeated, impatiently.

She made a face, then unbuttoned the flight suit's high collar, down to the top of her breasts. A clock repairman wouldn't be her first choice of physician, but she supposed he was better than nothing.

“This may sting.” Cristof lifted the suit away from her bare shoulder. The suit's cotton padding stuck to the coagulating blood as it peeled away, and she winced. Cristof pressed a wet towel between her suit and skin.

Taya shivered as cold water dripped down her back. The outcaste's fingers were cold, too, as he touched the edges of the cut.

“You're right. It's shallow. Have a physician look at it tomorrow. It shouldn't impair your flight tonight.” Cristof's voice was as detached as it had been when he'd reported on the status of her wings. She remembered Decatur Forlore's quip about the repairman's way with machines and felt a flash of amusement. He
had
worried about her armature first and her wounds second, hadn't he? She imagined the exalted touched his broken clocks with exactly the same care and dispassion with which he'd touched her bare shoulder.

He laid the bloodstained towel on the table and picked up the clean one, pressing it over the cut. “That will be enough of a bandage for the flight to your eyrie.”

“Thank you.” She buttoned her suit and reached for the floating harness.

“Give the cuts on your hand a few more minutes to clot.” He pushed up his spectacles, turning away. “Do you want to see them fly?”

Taya studied his back, confused by the sudden change of subject. Then she remembered the mechanical birds.

“Please. If you don't mind.”

He untied one of the toys, holding it gently as he wound the key. The gaslight flashed on his glasses again.

“My mother gave these to my brother and me, when we were little.” He held the bird up with both hands and spread his fingers.

The clockwork wings beat and the little bird took off, darting across the room and hitting the opposite wall. It floated there, its beak pressed against the wall and its wings still flapping uselessly.

Cristof walked across the room and turned it with one finger. The bird flew away again, coming to an abrupt stop at the next wall.

“They're meant to be used outdoors,” he said. “Or in a very long hallway, preferably with an unsuspecting adult at the other end.”

Taya laughed, and for a brief instant Cristof's thin lips twisted upward in response. He retrieved the bird. Its wings were winding down, their beating slowing, but its ondium core kept it floating between his hands.

“My brother broke this one and threw it away. I decided to fix it for him. It took me six years to learn how, but now it flies as well as ever.” Pride shone in his pale eyes as he regarded the tiny mechanism. “Nobody makes these anymore. Using ondium in a children's toy is too much of an extravagance now that the main veins have been tapped out.”

“I think they're wonderful.” Taya smiled. “Did you give it back to your brother?”

“No. By the time I'd fixed it, he'd moved on to other toys and didn't want it anymore.”

“Oh. That's too bad.”

“It's typical.” He turned and tied the bird back to the shelf. “Alister adores his toys until they disappoint him. Then he throws them away.” His voice turned sour.

“Alister?” Taya felt a jolt of recognition. She'd already heard Cristof use that name once today. “You don't mean—” But of course he did. It made perfect sense. “Decatur Forlore is your brother?”

Cristof's hands stopped.

“I thought you knew.”

“No, I didn't.” She faltered. “But, if he's your brother, why are you living down here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he's a decatur, and he's still speaking to you, so why doesn't he bring you back to Primus?”

“I have no interest in going back to Primus.” His voice had turned cold, but Taya forged on.

“But you don't
want
to be outcaste, do you?”

Face twisting in rage, Cristof turned and slammed a hand down on the table.

“My brother and my caste are none of your business, Icarus!”

Taya flinched, then slid off the chair and dropped to one knee, pressing her palm against her forehead.

“I'm sorry, Exalted,” she said, furious at herself. How could she have forgotten her manners around an exalted, even an exalted in exile? Some future diplomat!

“Stand up.” Cristof's voice was tight.

She glanced at him. His face was pale with anger. She bowed again, feeling sick.

“I'm sorry, Exalted,” she repeated.

“Dammit, Icarus, stand up!”

She scrambled to her feet, bracing herself for a slap.

“Look at me!”

She risked another glance and saw him glaring at her. She dropped her eyes again, not daring to anger him any further.

“You see?” he asked bitterly. “That's exactly what I hate about my caste. You're brave enough to stab a Demican who's twice as tall and as strong as you are, but all an exalted has to do is raise his voice and you're on your knees.”

“I apologize,” she said. “I was out of line.”

“Look at me when you speak. You're not a slave.”

She swallowed and looked up.

He started to say something, then closed his mouth and scowled. For a second the only sound in the shop was the ticking and whirring of clockwork. They stared at each other.

“What's your name?”

“Taya Icarus, Exalted.”

“Icarii stand outside the traditional caste hierarchy. The next time an exalted shouts at you, stay on your feet and answer him like an equal.”

“I can't do that, Exalted Forlore.”

“Why not?” His voice was sharp.

“It wouldn't be respectful. An exalted could take away my wings.” She shivered at the thought. “I'm sorry I made you angry.”

“I'm not going to take away your wings, Icarus. I'm barely an exalted now, anyway.”

“You still wear the castemarks.”

He touched his copper-skinned cheek, his scowl deepening.

“Do you think wearing them makes me a coward? Do you think I should burn them away, or ink them over?”