Machine (16 page)

“What
was
my father’s ratio?”

“Twenty-eighty, as I recall. But that’s hearsay. He didn’t have to wear his numbers.”

That was a shock. “Why? Every
other
adult Taintwellian Mongrel has been marked.”

Mrs. Scrubb fingered the kerchief she wore around her throat. It concealed her own ratio. “Your father didn’t live here all his life. He was several years past twenty when he and Mercy settled in Taintwell. Rumor had it he escaped branding by sharing the results of his research with the AIA.”

Fanule nearly spat out the coffee in his mouth. “Good gods, that’s like aiding and abetting the enemy!”

“Most Taintwellians felt the same way.” The widow’s voice, tighter now, bore lingering resentment. “Some wanted him tarred and feathered.”

No surprise there. Purinton’s Alien Identification Agency was responsible for keeping records on Mongrels, establishing their ratios, and marking them. How could Zofen, allegedly so proud of his heritage, share the fruits of his research with the very people who disdained and persecuted Mongrels? Worse, how could he do it to spare himself the iron while his neighbors continued to suffer beneath its sizzling press?

“I’m so sorry,” Fanule said, profoundly ashamed.

Mrs. Scrubb softened. “Oh, it’s nothing to do with you, Eminence. You have your father’s looks but not his character.” She drained her teacup.

“Did he ever… talk about religion? The old religions that aren’t much in favor anymore?”

“Not to my knowledge. But I suspect he despised them, since they viewed Mongrels with contempt and even encouraged violence against us.”

How strange…. So when and why had Zofen taken up the calling to be a “foe to Evil” and “friend to Good” and recognized the old religion’s holy days? Mrs. Scrubb wouldn’t know.

Fanule placed his empty coffee mug on the tray. He’d drunk enough at Simon’s cottage and didn’t want to make his nerves jitter. “Was he a lightsucker too?”

The widow quickly chewed the biscuit she’d slipped into her mouth. “In a manner of speaking. You have a more diluted version of Zofen’s special power. He could draw in the Spark. That’s what he called it.”

Fanule frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“And
I
don’t have your father’s vocabulary,” the widow said good-naturedly, “so bear with me.” She poured another cup of tea for herself, slid the tray aside, and leaned toward Fanule, taking a drink before she spoke. “Here’s how it was explained to me. The Spark is that unique light inside each of us that makes us who we are. Zofen could drain a person of… essence, I guess you could say. Suck it right out and leave that person alive but hollow. But he couldn’t do it to another Quam Khar.” She eased against the backrest of her chair. “I think that power terrified your mother. She once told me she’d seen Zofen ‘play’ with it. ‘But at least,’ she’d said, ‘he can’t make the emptiness permanent. He can’t capture the Spark for more than a few hours. After that, he must return it.’”

Stupefied, Fanule fumbled up from the table. “I really must go now. There’s someplace else I have to be. Thank you for answering my questions.”

“My pleasure.” Mrs. Scrubb lifted a plate from the platter. “Would you like a biscuit to take with you?”

“That’s a very kind offer, but I’m afraid it would only get broken in my pocket.”

Fanule had to restrain himself from sprinting down the hall and out the door. Pebblesworth had once mentioned that “spiritdrainers” were the most feared and respected of the Quam Khar. Then—and how vividly the memory now formed—he’d smiled at Fanule and said,
“You have a variant of that power, young man. You should be proud.”
But the schoolmaster had made no reference to Zofen Perfidor as a spiritdrainer, so Fanule’s young mind hadn’t made the connection.

His feelings were all in a tangle and thrashing about. Fear was the most prominent, a blaze of red-orange in a squirming black knot of hatred and destructive rage, self-doubt and agonizing worry. Except for Zofen’s religious fervor, everything made terrifying sense now. Somehow, in the years between his flight and this nightmarish November, he had discovered how to drain people of their essences for more than a few hours. Perhaps he could render them spiritless for as long as he chose.

How in the world could Fanule, damaged as he was, combat this threat? What hope did he possibly have of saving those who’d already been victimized and preventing further victimization?

In addition, he had to figure out what Zofen ultimately did with the spirits he’d drawn in. Cast them into some cosmic waste bin? He couldn’t possibly contain them all within himself. He’d go stark, raving mad. Although Fanule was a mere lightsucker, he found it a painful strain to contain too much light for too long. It made his eyes, his whole head, feel on the verge of exploding.

A rising wind, carrying the tang of the sea, shuffled in clouds from the northeast. Fanule allowed Cloudburst to gallop across Owl Dive Meadow toward the dark wall of Howling Wood. No wildflowers bloomed. No waving plumes of goldenrod or nodding coronas of brown-eyed Susan greeted horse and rider. What had been, last month, a vibrant field of color was now a frost-blasted expanse of brittle stems, their gray heads lolling.

Except… there. In a patch of sunlight just at the edge of the wood, all but concealed by the surrounding vegetation, was a huddle of purple petals outlined in silver.

Compass flowers. They struck a brief, muted chord of joy in Fanule’s heart. Blooming through winter’s first dusting of snow, they were considered the earliest harbingers of a spring still months away. Or a final reminder of the previous summer’s bounty.

“I wish to have a compass flower.”

Fanule pulled Cloudburst to a halt beside the brilliant cluster. After dismounting, he carefully snapped off a single stem. It would be wilted by the time he arrived at the Mechanical Circus—and if William wasn’t there, would end up looking like a piece of string with lint dangling from one end—but damn it, if gestures could contribute to redemption, he’d make the gesture.

Heading along the tree line, he kept a lookout for the little-used and overgrown path long since replaced by proper roads. He finally saw the entrance, like the ragged mouth of a tunnel. “Come on, my friend,” he said to Cloudburst, “you might get your ribs tickled, but it’s passable.”

Fanule kept a careful pace. Charging headlong through Howling Wood wasn’t wise for a traveler on horseback. Roots and rocks erupted through the floor of the path, and the trees delineating its edges hadn’t been cut back in many years.

He was roughly halfway through the wood when, ahead and to his left, a dark figure rose like smoke from a fallen elm and disappeared into the underbrush. If Fanule had only glimpsed it from the corner of his eye, he might’ve mistaken it for a raven. But he’d seen the figure full-on. He’d seen the pale, lilac-tinted ears sweeping skyward from a tempest of silvered black hair.

Once Fanule reached the spot, he leapt off Cloudburst, prepared to give chase. Shielding his face with his arms, he pushed as far as he could through a gnarled mass of thorn bushes, vines, and low-hanging pine boughs. Flustered and cursing, unable to make headway, he returned to the path.

“Zofen, you fucking coward, come out and face me! Whatever you’ve done to my friends and neighbors, I demand you
un
do it!” Fanule peered through the sun-dappled shade. Leaves and needles whispered around him. Deeper in the wood, a glimmer danced off a reflective surface.

Yes, there was a clearing in that direction. Fanule didn’t know if it was accessible to a team of horses and a wagon. He hadn’t explored it since his youth.

The sun withdrew, steeping the wood in chilly gloom. Birdsong stopped. The trees went still.

“I swear,” Fanule shouted, turning in circles, “if you’ve harmed Clancy Marrowbone and William Marchman, I
will
find you again and I
will
make you pay.”

Giddy laughter came from everywhere, nowhere. “So you want to add patricide to your other sins, eh, Fanule? I’m afraid you’ll find that quite difficult.”

That was Zofen’s voice, no doubt about it, but where had it come from? The squirrel that stared down at horse and rider, flicking its tail? Or the jay that flitted from branch to branch? Fueled by apprehension, Fanule’s imagination raced. Had the Mongrel Extraordinaire mastered shape-shifting in addition to his other abused power?

In any case, he had spoken the truth, and Fanule had no answer. For all his blind rage at a man who was essentially a villainous stranger to him, he knew he could never take his father’s life. And Zofen
was
his father. The cord that connected them was hopelessly frayed and stretched thin, but Fanule could still feel it, like a tight pinch in his solar plexus. It was through that connection he’d recognized Zofen, instantly, on the Green.

“Be on your way,” the voice said wearily. “You cannot find me if I choose not to be found. There’s nothing we can do to one another, anyway… except scar each other’s soul.”

“You’ve none to scar,” Fan said bitterly.

“I hope you’re right” came the reply. “By the way, your friend Simon Bentcross is lucky you stayed with him last night. I’d intended to put him in the same boat as his bloodsucking paramour.”

“Stay away from him!” Fanule yelled. “Haven’t you done enough damage?”

“I don’t see it that way. But you needn’t worry about Bentcross. I’ve decided to focus on Taintwellian Mongrels. That Fober fellow, for example—he’s quite the insatiable tomcat, isn’t he? Perhaps I’ll visit
him
tonight.”

Fanule was hardly an admirer of Jusem Fober, but he couldn’t in all good conscience encourage this course of action. “I wish I knew how to stop you,” he said.

“Ah, if wishes were horses….”

Frustrated by his impotence, Fanule mounted Cloudburst and continued his journey. He couldn’t waste time playing games with this madman. He had to find William. Once that was done, he would track down Zofen. And he would be prepared to take whatever action his conscience allowed.

T
HE
G
UTTER
at the Mechanical Circus looked as pathetic as Fanule’s house felt. Many of the caravans were gone. Most of the others seemed deserted. Staked canvas covered some, an attempt to protect their colorfully painted exteriors from the ravages of winter. The dining tent, which served as the Gutter’s social hub, had been taken down and put in storage. Only the voxbox post remained, a vertical timber with nothing to support.

A nipping wind made trash cartwheel across the rutted dirt. Some pieces paused in the charred pits left by campfires. Finding these accommodations unsuitable, they tumbled on until caught by one of the fences.

Just north of the Gutter, the buildings and amusement rides of the Marvelous Mechanical Circus looked decidedly unworthy of that name. The weathered Rolling Surf Trackway seemed as skeletal and rickety as old, abandoned scaffolding, and the dance pavilion and concert hall sent out echoes of silence.

Filling in the vista to the west, Purinton belched more filth into its perennial haze.

All this bleakness insinuated its way into Fanule. He walked Cloudburst toward William’s caravan as he looked around for any sign of life, tried to smell someone’s lunch or hear someone’s laughter or see a curl of smoke from the narrow pipe of a chimney.

“
My living wagon is easy to find. It is yellow with blue trim and a mollycroft roof. There are carved painted panels with nymphs and satyrs around the door. My name is on the doorplate. I’ll keep one lamp lit.”

Tears sprang to Fanule’s eyes as soon as those lines sprang into his mind. They were from the first letter William had sent him, shortly after they’d met.

He spied the caravan ahead on his right just as two boys in knickers, their shins rail-thin and grubby, came into view on the other side of the pitted pathway. Alternately laughing and bickering, they rolled a rusty barrel hoop between them, each trying to steal it from the other. The boys stopped when they saw Fanule and Cloudburst. The horse greeted them with a few bobs of his head. Fanule pulled out his handkerchief and quickly swabbed his face, as if to clean away the dust of a long ride.

“You a rozzer?” one of the boys asked with a suspicious squint, “or one of Fizzing’s men? We’re up on our rent and di’n’t steal nothin’, just so’s you know.”

The other lad set his newsboy cap at an angle, undoubtedly to convey his tough worldliness.

Fanule let out a curt, disbelieving chuckle. “I’m neither. I’m actually a Branded Mongrel.” He pulled aside his collar to display his inked ratio, and the boys’ eyes rounded like crown coins. “I’m looking for Leander Wadsworth, just to ask him some questions about the night of those disappearances. We’ve had some strange goings-on in Taintwell, too.”

His honesty seemed to disarm them, and the fact he was a Mongrel had certainly piqued their interest. Boys that age always liked to think they were flirting with danger.

The taller one stepped forward. “I’m Leander.”

Fanule dismounted. His height, and probably other aspects of his appearance, must’ve been daunting. Leander retreated farther than he’d advanced.

“It’s all right. I’m not a monster.” Fanule dropped to a squat, forearms resting casually on thighs, to make himself less imposing. “So tell me what happened.”

A female voice called out of a nearby wagon, “Lee? Curly? Come in now and eat some lunch!”

Curly, who did indeed have corkscrews of blond hair erupting from under his cap, looked indecisively back and forth. He didn’t want to miss out on anything, but he didn’t want to risk a cuff, either.

Fanule smiled slightly. He understood the boy’s dilemma. Impossible as it now seemed, he’d once been Curly’s age, which he estimated at eleven or so. Leander looked two or three years older. Fanule had once been that age, too.

Curly, opting for a placated mother and full belly, dashed off.

Leander didn’t budge. “Whatcha wanna know?”