The Havoc Machine (5 page)

He examined Havoc’s castle from a safe distance, automatically cataloging it and sizing it up. The castle wasn’t a single building, of course. It was a little complex of outbuildings and a main keep bent in a rectangle around a courtyard, all in stony ruins. The keep and some of the outbuildings were surrounded by a fragmented stone wall that had originally been at least three stories tall but was now tumbling down in most places to the point where Thad could probably peer over it on tiptoe. The moat had dried up long ago. Vines crawled over
everything, and trees poked through shattered rooftops. It reminded Thad a little of the circus, with a main tent holding court over several smaller ones, except here every shadow held a potential trap. Each hole was also a potential weak spot, and the cracks over there might be good for climbing. Up top, however, the gleam of moonlight revealed toothy spikes poking out of the wall, clear signs of recent human habitation, and Thad was fairly certain that said spikes would be poisoned or otherwise rendered unpleasant. A new portcullis blocked the main gate, and Thad saw no mechanisms for raising it on this side. He would have been surprised to find any. A roofless corner tower about forty yards away had half collapsed, and Thad discarded it as a source of danger, at least from this distance.

The high stone keep that made up the main building seemed to stare down at Thad from the other side of the wall, while the chill breeze made the trees whisper and mutter among themselves. Thad studied the wall for a long moment, then tossed a broken branch at it. A section of stone the size of a horse slammed down with a bone-jarring thud. It smashed the branch flat into the ground and cranked back up into the wall.

There was long, long moment of silence.

“Bless my soul,” Dante whistled.

Thad sheathed the knife that had sprung into his hand and took a breath to slow his pounding heart. “This place is no circus.”

“Bless my soul,” Dante repeated. “Applesauce.”

“Why can’t you say
nevermore
or something interesting like that?”

“Applesauce.”

Thad backed up and edged farther west, away from the tower and the portcullis, his sharp eyes searching the wall.

“I don’t hear any alarms going off,” he murmured. “Do you?”

“Nevermore,” Dante said.

“Right. And we can’t touch the walls, but just around that corner we’ll find a convenient gate half hidden by vines. Do you smell what I smell?”

“Gingerbread. Gingerbread.”

“Exactly.”

A moment later, Thad did find the clump of vines that formed an upside-down U—the overgrown gate Sofiya had mentioned. Standing at what he hoped was a safe distance away, he found a chunk of masonry and flung that at the vines. It vanished through them. Thad waited. Nothing. The safe, untrapped entrance seemed to beckon him in, as if he were child lost in the woods with his sister. The real trap would come later, just as it did with a gingerbread house. Even so, something bothered him, but he couldn’t quite finger it.

“Dante,” he said at last.

“Doom,” said Dante. “Death, despair.”

“Go.”

“Applesauce,” Dante replied stubbornly.

Thad plucked the parrot from his shoulder and threw him without ceremony toward the vines. Dante arced sideways into the green curtain with a surprised whistle and vanished. He was too damaged to fly, if he had ever been able to. Thad waited, not sure if he wanted the mechanical bird to disappear forever or not. It might be nice if the universe decided it for him. Thad couldn’t bring himself to believe in God. Not anymore.

“Dante?” he called.

Silence. Then another whistle, but muffled somehow. Was that a good sign or bad? Thad couldn’t tell, and the fact that he couldn’t tell made him uncertain and nervous. With a quick gesture, Thad pulled from his pocket a short brass baton. He pressed a button, and it sprang into its full four-foot length with a
clack.
Cautiously, he used it to push the vines aside. Again, nothing. He moved through the clingy, green-smelling curtain—

—and nearly fell into a black pit. Thad hung there at the edge like a tightrope walker, not quite falling in but unable to draw himself back. The greedy pit gaped before him, trying to swallow him down. Stones made teeth around the edges, and Dante was grimly holding on to one of them with his beak. Thad hung there, caught between life and death. For a mad moment, he thought about giving up and simply letting himself drop into the dark. It would be easy, and any pain would end quickly.
All
his pain would end quickly. Then the weight of the vodka jug in his jacket pocket slowly pulled him backward until he regained enough equilibrium to put both feet on firm ground.

“Idiot,” he muttered to himself. This was what had bothered him—he hadn’t heard the rock hit the ground. He collapsed the staff and returned it to his pocket.

“Bless my soul.” Dante whistled pointedly from the pit’s edge. Thad picked the parrot up and set him back on his shoulder. Dante bit him on the ear. Pain lanced through Thad’s head, and he felt a trickle of blood.

“Ow!” Angry, Thad snatched Dante off again and held him over the pit. “Listen, birdbrain, I’ll drop you in, and see if I don’t.”

“I love you, Daddy. I love you, Daddy.”

“No, you don’t. And if you say that again without permission, I’ll melt you down in Havoc’s forge while I watch.”

“Applesauce.”

“I said, shut it.” But Thad put Dante back on his shoulder again.

Once he knew the pit was there, it was easy enough to edge around it and onto the grounds of the keep. That brought Thad to one of the long sides of the rectangle that made up the inner castle. Ruined outbuildings backed up against the main wall, and an overgrown courtyard with a well and spaces for gardens spread out ahead of him. Thad flicked a calculating glance at the outbuildings—sometimes clockworkers used what had once been the blacksmith’s forge for their own work—but he saw no evidence of such activity. He sighed. It was too much to hope that Mr. Havoc would be outside, where he would be easy to reach.

Thad ghosted across the courtyard toward the main building, already falling into a familiar rhythm: dash a few steps, pause, scan for danger, dash a few steps. Stay to the shadows. Watch for anything that glowed or gave off heat.

A rustling in the grass to his left made the revolver leap into his hand. The hammer clicked under his thumb. Then the shape of a rat skittered away, and Thad relaxed. Dante cocked his head but was wise enough to remain silent.

Thad oozed up to the main keep, wishing he knew something—anything—about the layout of the interior. Most keeps were built around a main hall, with side
chambers for everything from storage to arms to living quarters. Clockworkers needed space, so the main hall was the most likely place to start. One major problem was that clockworkers could—and usually did—go for days without sleeping, so Thad wouldn’t be able to slip up on Havoc while he snored in a bed.

A number of doors both small and large faced the courtyard. A pair of small ones opened onto the garden area, and the large double doors in the center of the high wall stood shut like pair of giants holding back the darkness. Enormous shiny locks held them closed, and the locks had visible teeth in the keyholes. One keyhole gnashed open and shut with an audible
clack
even as Thad examined them from several paces back. He didn’t fancy finding a way around that. He glanced up. Like most keeps, the windows were high and narrow, more arrow slit than anything. The top floor of the keep had crumbled away, but the lower stories were still solid, and Thad saw no way in besides the doors. Another rat nearly ran over his foot, and he jumped back, suppressing an oath. Dante clacked his beak, but didn’t comment.

Thad thought a long moment, then went back to the pit and peered into it. It would have to do. He took out the silk rope, tied one end to a sturdy sapling near the edge, and before he could think too hard about what he was doing, he lowered himself down like a mountain climber. The soft silk kept his palms from burning as he slid into the pit’s dark throat, and Thad had to force himself to keep his breathing steady. Dante gripped his shoulder, apparently unconcerned. The descent went on and on. Thad’s muscles ached, and it soon seemed as if he’d been climbing through darkness forever. Sweat
trickled from his hair down his collar. The only sounds were his own breath and the little ticks and rustles made as he slid carefully downward, bracing himself against the earthen side of the pit.

At last the sounds changed. There was that ineffable shift in noise, and he sensed that the bottom of the pit was close under him. Still cautious, he put his feet down even as his forearms and shoulders screamed for mercy, and touched solid floor. He sighed with relief. Something skittered away from him—more rats, no doubt. Thad fished a candle from his pocket and scratched a sulfur match to light it.

“Bad boy, bad boy,” Dante said softly.

Thad ignored him and raised the candle. The light revealed a simple earthen pit, as he had been expecting. It also revealed a grated gate set in one wall, as he had been hoping. The padlock that held it shut was simple.

“Ha,” he said under his breath.

Havoc hadn’t left the castle gate unsecured in a moment of foolishness, as Sofiya had thought. The crafty bugger had left it open as bait. Thad had seen this kind of thing before. More than one person had used the gate to enter the castle, fallen into the pit, and become fodder for Havoc’s experiments. It was also why there were no alarms or automaton guards—Havoc
wanted
people to come in. The place was a gingerbread house.

Dante obligingly held the candle in one claw while Thad’s picks got the lock open. No need to put heavy security on a gate when the people on the other side were suffering from broken bones. A tunnel beyond it led beneath the courtyard and, Thad assumed, straight into the keep. He took the candle back from Dante and
cautiously moved down the tunnel. It was probably safe to assume that the tunnel would be unguarded and without traps for the same reason the gate had been only lightly locked, but the paranoia Sofiya had mentioned earlier forced him to stay alert. He watched for wires and irregularities in the earthen floor and anything at all that looked like brass or steam. But he saw nothing except a dank earthen tunnel braced with wood.

What was Havoc like? Sofiya had had little information to give him. The moniker
Mr.
indicated he was a man, but how old was he? What did he look like? How had he encountered the clockwork plague? Did he have relatives? Children? What had become of them?

Thad tried to clamp down on the last line of thought, but the tunnel offered few distractions, and it came along even so. Once the plague took a clockworker’s mind, he—or she—didn’t care about people. All that mattered was the experiment, the science, the invention. Thad had come across his third clockworker in the process of making an airship out of human skin. His second had perfected a vivisection device and had gone from testing it on dogs and cats to apes stolen from a zoo and finally to people—five in all, including two children. And his first clockworker—

The candle held back the darkness, but not the guilt. It closed around Thad like a fist and stole his breath. He had to force himself to keep walking.

His first clockworker…

Thad still couldn’t put it into words.
David was his life
seemed trite, or maybe just understated, like saying it was nice to have air when you lived underwater. His dear Ekaterina had died in the birthing bed, leaving
Thad the sole and frightened caretaker of a crying, pink bundle of curiosity with his mother’s blue eyes and red-brown hair. Thad had considered running back to the circus, the one he had left to marry Ekaterina in the first place, but Ekaterina’s mother had persuaded him to stay, and Thad had realized that with David in his life, it would be easier to stay on in Warsaw as a knife sharpener and tinsmith than return to his parents’ life of knife throwing and stage magic.

The early years had been difficult. Thad had no interest in remarrying, which meant he took care of both business and home, though Ekaterina’s aging mother helped as best she could. David grew quickly and got into everything, a dangerous prospect in the shop of a knife man, and Thad found himself almost slavishly devoted to this small, yet strangely enormous, presence in his life. David, for his part, clung ferociously to his father. With a sense of wonder and awe, Thad watched David learn to walk, run, play with other children, ask to help in the little shop, and every day Thad saw something of Ekaterina in him—her laugh, her hair, her smile.

The two of them soldiered through life together. Together they endured hard work and loneliness and even the death of Ekaterina’s mother one long winter. Slowly, Thad began to heal. When David was six, Thad scraped up the money to enroll him in school and endured the little pang in his heart each day when David left in the morning and suffered the little sting when he returned in the afternoon to talk about students and teachers and playmates Thad had never met.

And then one afternoon, David didn’t return home. At first Thad thought nothing of it. David had simply
gotten caught up in a game with some other boys or paused at the sweets shop again. But as the afternoon turned to evening, Thad became worried, then frightened, then frantic. He barely remembered the hours of searching, of asking everyone along David’s route home what they had seen, until a baker, in his shop for the night’s baking, mentioned seeing a boy matching David’s description, right down to the color of his shirt and the school books flung over his back. The baker had seen the boy get into a carriage—or perhaps he’d been snatched, the baker wasn’t certain. What the man did remember was that the carriage bore the crest of the mayor.

Thad stiffened. Mayor Teodor de Langeron, a prince of French and Russian descent, had no sons, but rumor had it that one of his numerous nephews had contracted the clockwork plague. Some of the wilder speculations said he’d become a clockworker.

And it was quite impossible to expect the police to interfere in the affairs of a prince’s family.