The mechanical the alche.., p.3
The Mechanical (The Alchemy Wars), page 3
Wracked by paroxysms of blinding pain, he jackknifed at the waist like a carpenter’s rule. The back of his skull pulverized mosaic tiles. But the noise was swallowed by the growing clamor as the human crowd called for the dissolution of the soulless rogue.
The guards held the prisoner fast as the executioner once again levered open the trapdoor. The rogue’s feet dangled over the pit. Cherry-colored light gleamed on the dented, scratched, unpolished alloys of his lower legs. His body made a tremendous amount of noise. The rattling of loose cogs, the clanking of springs, the tock-tick-tock of escapements and wheeze of chipped bezels… To human ears, the clockwork equivalent of chattering teeth.
Jax succumbed to the unrelenting torment of an overdue geas. He launched to his feet from where he lay writhing on the ground and sprinted at top speed toward the Stadtholder’s Gate. The unbearable pain diminished infinitesimally with every step he took toward the fulfillment of his mandate. Like a raindrop rolling down dry valleys to the sea, his body sensed the contours of agony and helplessly followed their gradient. Impelled by alchemical compulsion rather than gravity, Jax became an unstoppable boulder careering along gullies of human whim.
The leaf springs in his calves had already propelled him beyond the Binnenhof when, moments later, there came the faint clang of metal upon metal followed by a crashing-surf roar of approval from the crowd. But the sound of the rogue’s demise hardly registered, for his thoughts were preoccupied with the noise the doomed Clakker’s body had made in those final moments. For where humans had doubtless heard only the chattering of fear, the involuntary shuddering of mortal terror, the mechanicals in the audience had heard something quite different.
It was a burst of hypertelegraphy from the heart of the Empire, a secret message for any and all Clakkers within earshot. The final words of Perjumbellagostrivantus, rogue:
Clockmakers lie.
CHAPTER
2
A bloodthirsty roar erupted from the Binnenhof. It echoed under the low leaden sky and rumbled throughout the central district of The Hague. The barbarous swell blew through an open window to echo across the quiet spaces of the Nieuwe Kerk. The noise startled Pastor Luuk Visser, causing him to fling the fistful of rat poison he’d meant to stir into a chalice of communion wine.
The deadly crystals pattered like sleet into the hidden ambry. They tinkled across the finely feathered gold inlay etched into the pyx, dusted the filigree of the tabernacle, skittered along the shallow curve of the paten, and settled like dandruff upon the yellowing linen corporal. It collected in miniature snowdrifts in the corners of the secret cupboard, behind his rosary and statuette of the Blessed Virgin. A few crystals even lodged themselves into the cracked leather of an antique microscope. The poison went everywhere but into the wine.
Visser shook the folded corporal above the chalice, salting the wine with poison. His hands shook as he swept the scattered crystals into his cupped palm. He tried to work quickly lest Guild agents kick down the door before the poison had time to batter him into unconsciousness. Any moment, sorcerous clockmakers and their grotesque Stemwinder thugs would come for him.
Suicide was a mortal sin—what an ironic death for a secret Catholic. Depriving himself of divine grace in the final moments of his decades of service to the Holy See? To die for his beliefs was to die a martyr and the only acceptable destiny for one in his position. And, frankly, one that had loomed since his ordination. But the Grand Forge held terrors for men of flesh and metal alike, and the martyr’s path had long ago lost its appeal for Visser since those idealistic days just after he’d kissed the pope’s ring in Québec. Visser knew, as no newly ordained priest could, the sounds and smells of a man hugged with yellow-hot pincers. The screams, the burnt-pork stink of charred flesh… Doubtless his cohort had been subjected to such and worse prior to their executions.
Doubtless they had divulged everything they knew. Including the identity of the final member of their shattered French spy ring. And not just any spy, but a secret Papist masquerading as a leading Protestant pastor. An enemy agent who had painstakingly insinuated himself into the heart of the Empire. The Stemwinders would alight upon such a fellow with malicious glee.
Hence the rat poison.
He was a sinner caught between two terrors. On one hand, affirming his faith to suffer the dark ingenuity of the Verderer’s Office. On the other, rejecting the honor of martyrdom to die in a state of mortal sin.
Visser’s trembling hands knocked over a thumb-sized pewter ampulla. Chrism gurgled from the vessel. The olive oil, shipped from Dutch orchards along the Mediterranean prior to consecration, seeped into the corporal and oozed over the lip of the recessed cabinet. Thin rivulets trickled down the plaster wall. Now, when Visser closed the ambry, the holy oil would form a glistening stain with a sharp edge: obvious enough to tip even the dullest Stemwinder to the presence of a hidden chamber behind Visser’s wardrobe. Where they’d find Catholic accoutrements and, worst of all, the microscope.
“God damn it,” he muttered.
Yes, he thought with a fatalistic snort, a long time since I was a naïve novitiate in Québec.
Visser paused for a moment. Was it worth delaying to clean the mess?
He was already a doomed man the moment Stemwinders and their human masters marched inside. Before that, even, since it would mean his contact in Talleyrand’s network had identified him. So it made little difference if they uncovered actual evidence of the famous Pastor Visser’s secret devotion to the pope. That was merely a formality; they could always plant a Catholic Bible or a statuette of the Virgin somewhere. (“When we caught him, he was praying to a graven image.” That’s what they’d say.) It was merely a formality. Little point, then, in hiding his allegiance to the Vatican. Except…
The microscope. He simmered with frustration. So many years of work, decades of careful observation conducted right under the queen’s nose. Visser flirted with the sin of pride when he reflected upon the complex and unparalleled feat of espionage that brought the microscope, and its optics, into his possession. But it was a pointless pride: the woman who had secreted it behind the alms box had been taken by the Stemwinders the next morning. And by the time Visser had realized it wasn’t a random lucky poaching by the Dutch but a concerted operation to roll up Talleyrand’s network in The Hague, it was too late. Visser’s contact had disappeared into the dungeons of the Verderer’s Office of the Sacred Guild of Horologists and Alchemists.
Had the Dutch waited just a couple of days he could have sent the artifact on its way to the New World. But they hadn’t, and he couldn’t. So now he was stuck with the damn thing. Rotten timing. Rotten enough to make the usual trust in God’s wisdom a bitter balm. Rotten enough to erode the faith of an already cynical priest.
And now he was cut off, unable to get a message to Talleyrand, the French spymaster. News of the executions would eventually make it to the New World. But Talleyrand would lack details about who remained—and, worst of all, would never know that French agents had finally poached a top secret piece of Guild technology.
What had the Lord intended, if not for the furtherance of His cause? Why let Visser get so close, only to yank the rug from beneath his feet? Always were the ways of the Lord mysterious. So be it. But sometimes, it seemed, they were unarguably capricious, too.
Well, Visser decided, if this is God’s plan, no point in trying to hide the evidence. And anyway it was a pain in the ass trying to mop up spilled chrism. Even the lowliest deacon knew that. Let the horologists deal with the mess.
He flicked the last of the rat poison from his sweaty palms into the wine. Then he pressed his trembling hands together and bowed his head.
“Lord,” he whispered, “I beg Your forgiveness for this thing I do. I have ever been Your glad and faithful servant. But I am no longer young, and my flesh is weak—”
Elsewhere a heavy door groaned open. Diamond-hard metal feet screeched across polished marble. A rapid ticktocking echoed through the high spaces of the octagonal church. They’d come for him.
“Well,” he concluded rapidly, “I guess You know the rest. See You soon. Amen.”
Visser lifted the chalice. He flinched at the cold touch of metal to his lips. The familiar scent of fermented grapes couldn’t mask a scorching whiff of toxic chemical astringency. He hoped the adulterated communion tasted better than it smelled. And felt ashamed of his failure to embrace the example of Christ. He lacked the mettle to peacefully await his fate in the Garden of Gethsemane.
The fluting, atonal drone of a Clakker voice reverberated in the empty church. “Good afternoon. Pastor Visser? Are you here, sir?”
Visser paused in the act of tipping the chalice. Fear tremors sent ripples skating across the surface of the corrupted wine. Now, who had ever heard of a Stemwinder that could speak? Their masters deliberately muted the poor brutes, the better to suffer in silence. He listened. It sounded like a single pair of feet rather than the doubled syncopation of a quadruped.
Tightening his grip on the chalice, ready to pour its contents down his throat, he cracked open the vestry door. A lone servitor Clakker strode toward the altar, swaying on its backward knees.
“Pastor Visser?” Its voice warbled with urgency, the tremulous singsong of unsuccessfully repressed pain. It vibrated so violently its silhouette was a soft blur. The poor thing labored under a heavy geas in the late stages of compulsion. The sight of such agony made Visser’s heart ache. So much that he knew he’d choose to lessen the creature’s suffering even if it meant losing the opportunity to slip the verderers’ clutches. Perhaps he would allow them to find him in the garden after all. He’d spent his night in Gethsemane in prayer and panic, but now emerged to meet his fate. A timely twinge of compassion was the nudge he needed to overcome his fear of martyrdom. Mysterious ways, indeed.
He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Thank you, Lord.”
“One moment,” he called. He set the chalice in the cupboard, closed the secret ambry, shut and locked his wardrobe. After checking himself in the mirror for obvious signs of treachery, and errant flecks of poison, he straightened his vestments. He didn’t look too obviously like a spy caught on the brink of suicide. Nor like a priest who had nearly betrayed his own beliefs. He hoped.
He emerged from the vestry. The mechanical’s silhouette grew blurrier as Visser approached; the torment of unfulfilled geas had the wretched creature shivering faster than the human eye could follow. Let’s get this poor fellow on his way. If I’m quick about it, I can free him from his torment before mine begins.
“What do you need?”
Normally he’d have taken a harder tone with the mechanical, aping the cold disregard for mechanicals that was part of the Empire’s cultural bedrock. The prosperity achieved through slavery had a way of blinding men’s hearts to the evil of their own hands. He’d worn that beard in public for years, though it rankled against his impulse for simple Catholic charity. But now that he’d chosen the martyr’s path, he could uncage his heart. He could say all the things he’d never dared.
He glanced at his wristwatch, wondering if he and this Clakker would conclude their business before the Stemwinders nabbed him. In fact… horologists were a conniving bunch, the verderers worst of all. Was this a deliberate ploy to lure him out? The church resounded with the noise of mechanical distress: clicks, clanks, rattles, buzzes. The geas had either been imposed with great urgency or its fulfillment had been unacceptably delayed. Both consistent with a ploy.
The Clakker bowed. Even in the throes of agony it was unfailingly polite. Spasms and tremors peppered the Clakker’s voice with random inflections, though still the reeds and strings of the mechanical voicebox produced an intelligible approximation of human speech. “Sincerest apologies for the interruption, sir. I have come on behalf of my owner, Pieter Schoonraad. I came to retrieve the letter of introduction we discussed.”
“I’m truly sorry,” said Visser—something you never heard a human say to a mechanical, not with sincerity, and not in the Central Provinces—“but you must be mistaken.”
“Begging your pardon, Pastor, but we did speak several days ago. I belong to the Schoonraad family. I am Jax.”
Oh, damnation. The letter. He’d forgotten about that, preoccupied as he was with the sundering of his network and speculation about his own capture.
Martyrdom meant suffering. A bead of sweat trickled down Visser’s forehead, skirted the bridge of his nose, and stung his eye with salt. He mopped a sleeve across his forehead but not before the mechanical noticed his discomfort.
Cogs rattled as the Clakker, Jax, cocked his head. Bezels hummed in his eye sockets, too. Visser knew one of the standard-issue subsidiary geasa had kicked in even before Jax spoke again.
“You look unwell, sir. Do you require physic?”
Visser waved off the query. “I’m afraid I haven’t composed the letter. I’ve been quite busy.”
Jax’s unchecked vibrations grew louder, faster. Visser could have sworn his shoulders slumped, too. Another pang pricked his heart. Were this a human he would have laid a hand on is arm. But the gesture would have been dangerous while the mechanical vibrated so violently.
“Again begging your pardon, sir, but my current geas forbids me from returning until I have obtained your letter of introduction. The family sails for New Amsterdam next month. Many preparations must be completed prior to the voyage.”
Well, then. If somebody needed help accepting his martyrdom, this would be ideal. It would take a bit of time to compose the letter; enough for the Stemwinders to barge in and drag him away. And if his resolve faltered again and he tried to kill himself there was every possibility the servitor would intervene. It certainly would if it came to suspect the pastor was a danger to himself. Visser could even envision a scenario where Jax ripped the vestry door from its hinges and administered violent first aid; in an emergency, a Clakker could force a man to empty his stomach. The calculus of bondage would allow it: the damage done to Visser’s body in the course of the triage would be outweighed by the service to society by ensuring the pastor’s longevity. Any way he sliced it, he landed in the horologists’ hands.
Praised be Your wisdom, Lord. I embrace the path You have chosen for me.
Visser said, “Remind me. To whom am I providing introductions?”
Over the rattling of his own body, Jax said, “My master understands you are acquainted with the minister general of New Amsterdam. He feels that special, personal attention to the family’s pastoral care would ease their transition to life in the New World.” The mechanical paused, cocked his head again. “Have I said something untoward, sir? You appear alarmed.”
New Amsterdam! Visser suppressed the urge to roll his eyes heavenward again. Is this what it appears, Lord?
Miraculous deliverance! And to think Visser had nearly scuttled it in a moment of weakness. From the depths of sorrow to veritable giddiness in the span of a few minutes: such was the Lord’s solace for His faithful. Visser saw now the path forward. Saw his life’s temporal work brought to a successful culmination along with his spiritual journey.
Visser smiled. It wasn’t affected. “I’ll write your letter. Wait here.”
The Clakker bowed. “As you say, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Once in the vestry, with the door shut behind him, Visser retrieved the microscope from the hidden ambry. He set it on his writing desk. The brass-bound leather tube wanted to roll away, so he moved an onyx paperweight to prevent it from toppling to the floor. Then he settled down with fountain pen and, clicking the cap against his teeth, reviewed his last correspondence with an old acquaintance who currently oversaw the clergy of New Amsterdam.
On a blank sheet of letterhead stationery, he wrote:
15 September 1926
To the Very Reverend Minister General Langbroek:
My Dear Coenraad,
Greetings and salutations from The Hague. In response to your letter of last month, I have spoken with M. G. Hendriks to arrange for an additional shipment to New Amsterdam. Several hundred gallons of unconsecrated olive oil should be on their way to you before the first of the month. What news of the cease-fire? We pray it will mean the end of disruption to your clergy’s pastoral duties.
Now another, more pleasant, matter.
I humbly commend into your care the honorable and prosperous Schoonraad family, a well-known and highly respected clan late of The Hague. The Schoonraads have long been steadfast and devout members of my own congregation. I would be grateful if you should see fit to personally welcome them to New Amsterdam.
The rampant corruption and embezzlement by the van Althuis banking concern, and subsequent near-collapse of the Central Bank of New Amsterdam—a scandal with which you must be well acquainted—has been a matter of great concern to the Brasswork Throne. Pieter Schoonraad has been chosen for the formidable task of reestablishing a stable center of finance in the New World. As such he is Queen Margreet’s representative in this matter; any kindnesses shown to him or his family will, naturally, reflect well upon the spiritual leadership of New Amsterdam.
He is a shrewd, methodical man and, I think, equal to the task appointed him. Nevertheless, this journey across the sea to unfamiliar shores will be both adventure and trial for his family. At such times, a solid bedrock of spiritual guidance is an unequaled balm. Thus, though their absence from our community will be a painful loss, it would bring me great comfort to know they have landed under your aegis.
Please let me know when the oil arrives.
I am, as ever, your humble friend and colleague,
Pastor Luuk Visser
He folded the letter, sealed it in an envelope, and scrawled Pastor Coenraad Langbroek, Minister General of New Amsterdam on the outside. As he finished, new footsteps entered the church. These were softer and lighter than Jax’s tread. Human. Horologists? But then the shrill of an imperious prepubescent child made Visser cringe. No, this new arrival wasn’t a clockmaker or one of their mechanical brutes. It was something worse: Nicolet, the youngest Schoonraad. Taking up the letter and microscope, he steeled himself before emerging from the vestry. The church smelled of mechanical lubricant and hot metal. The heir presumptive to the Schoonraad fortune wore a dress of vermilion satin with matching ribbons tied through her blond ringlets. Arms akimbo, she scowled at the clockwork man.
