God of Clocks (35 page)

She was near the summit of an impossibly high tower, surrounded by oddly shaped buildings made from the same obsidian stone that dropped sheer below her window: inverted pyramids and vast windowless blocks with rows of leaning funnels. Giants lurched like cripples along the thoroughfares between these structures, weaving through crowds of smaller figures and clouds of green specks that darted to and fro like flies.

Carnival had no wings to hinder her as she climbed out on the window ledge. She sensed the touch of an unnatural sun on her skin, cold and vaguely unpleasant. A light fuel-scented updraft stirred her hair, perhaps fumes from the strange industry so many thousands of feet below.

She jumped.

“The year 442, by the Herican calendar,” Sabor announced, opening the outer door of the timelock. “Or 1603 in Deepgacian terms. We are now almost fifteen hundred years before the time we set off. Here Rys has freed himself from our mother's earthly yoke, and his great Pandemerian civilization is now flourishing. Ulcis gazes up in hunger from the pit under his chained temple. Hasp here commands Hell's garrisons, while Hafe still broods in his world of Brownslough tunnels. Mirith and Cospinol at this time are traveling: Cospinol in
his ghastly ship, and Mirith in a bathtub upon the Strakebreaker seas. And I…”

A stern voice answered from the Obscura Hall below the balcony. “I welcome myself and my new companions to a castle crushed by war.”

Rachel peered down over the gallery balcony to find a replica of Sabor looking back up at her from the center of a group of half-naked savages. These men were as dark-skinned as John Anchor, equally powerful in stature, but painted with whorls of ochre. They wore knee-length skirts of a green and blue crosshatched pattern, adorned with bone fetishes at their broad waists. They appeared to have been in conference with the god in their midst who, from boots to hauberk to cape, wore entirely black raiment. He seemed no younger or older than his other self, and yet his hair appeared greyer. “Crushed by war?” Sabor called down.

“There are now hundreds of new universes around us,” his other self replied, “and almost all of them are burning. Even this one has come under attack. We've been forced to mount recursive sallies in order to keep the enemy from our own doors. Tell me, brother, what
have
you dragged through Time behind you?”

Sabor slapped his open palm upon the banister. “We are pursuing
them”
he said. “We chase the forces of Alteus Menoa.”

“Our
foes are human men,” the other Sabor said.

The god of clocks frowned at this, and said nothing more until they had reached the lowest level. Rachel and Mina negotiated a path through the dark-skinned giants, gaining the attention of more than twoscore curious stares. Many of the warriors made quick gestures against their chests when they saw Dill. Hasp regarded them with approval. “Riot Coasters,” he announced to the resident Sabor. “If I were besieged, I'd want men like this by my side.”

Sabor now faced his other self. The pair almost made a mirror
image, but for the color of their hauberks. “You are certain these attackers are men?” he said.

“The Sombrecur,” the other said. “The same Pandemerian sect who razed Rys's temples at Lorn and Logarth in 411. They do not know for whom they now fight, only that this battle fulfils what they believe is an ancient prophecy.”

“Then the lands here are not bloody enough for Mesmerists? Menoa simply planted a lie in the Sombrecur's past and then allowed events to unfold.”

The other god nodded. “The land has not yet been drenched with enough dead blood to allow the king's hordes through. My Riot Coasters will not use blades against the Sombrecur, but we are outnumbered and Hulfer's warriors must fight time and again without respite. I have tried to quench this false prophecy, but to no—”

Just then the double doors creaked open. A gruff hail issued from the antechamber beyond, and a second, smaller band of Riot Coasters entered. These new arrivals showed their exhaustion in every movement of their limbs. Sweating and huffing, they limped into the hall on tired legs, greeting their waiting fellows with handclasps and back slaps. Bloody wounds on their flesh told of recent battle. A great number of them eyed Hasp with evident awe.

Hulfer's warriors?
Rachel recalled the story from one of John Anchor's songs.
A hundred men against five thousand Sombrecur …
There were far fewer than a hundred here.

Sabor's resident warriors searched eagerly amongst the newcomers, as though looking for friends.

But then Rachel realized the awful truth of it. Those who had waited and those newly arrived were both versions of the same men. The battle-weary fighters were greeting themselves.
Returned from the past?
Rachel now understood what Sabor had meant by recursive sallies.
The warriors who have been in the god's company since
I first looked down …
Were they now about to travel back in Time to fight the same battle their other selves had just returned from?

It made sense in a twisted sort of way. And yet not all of the warriors
had
returned.

Ten of the Riot Coasters did not find themselves amongst the returning survivors. The grim knowledge of this shadowed their expressions.

Oh gods, those men know they're not coming back.

“Garstone,” cried the dark-caped Sabor. “Let's do this quickly.”

An older version of the multiplicious assistant appeared, wearing round-rimmed spectacles and a faded green suit. He bowed to his master and then ushered the original Riot Coasters further up into the castle, towards whatever door would lead them to the battle.

Amongst the warriors who remained below, one raised his head to those who now marched away, and shouted three words in a language Rachel did not recognize.

The warriors on the gallery laughed. One replied in a single harsh word that Rachel took to be repartee, for his battle-weary colleagues now joined in the laughter of their departing selves.

Once the warriors had gone, a bleak silence fell upon the hall. For several moments the resident Sabor conferred quietly with another of his Riot Coasters, then he turned to his temporal brother. “Hulfer died bravely,” he said. “His men have sworn to avenge him as soon as they are rested.”

“How many times have these men gone back to fight?” Rachel enquired.

“Twelve times.”

“Against men?” Hasp growled. “I'll join the fight and even the odds. Menoa's parasite can't take orders from
these
foes.”

“You can't,” Mina warned. “If you fight along with the Riot Coasters, you won't come back. Look around you! You
haven't
come back.”

Hasp made a dismissive gesture. “That hardly matters.”

Mina stared at him for a moment longer. “If you go, then I'm coming, too.”

Rachel turned to her. “Mina!”

“I won't allow it,” Hasp said. “Use your own logic, thaumaturge. Do you see yourself here amongst these survivors?”

One of the Riot Coasters spoke in his own language to the resident Sabor.

“He says Hasp fought like a god of old,” the dark-suited Sabor said. “He killed many Sombrecur. The women and the phantasm, too, proved their bravery on the battlefield. Without their help, the Obscura would surely have fallen.”

Rachel felt a chill in her heart. She hadn't actually planned on returning to fight, and certainly had no intention of sacrificing herself during the next few hours. Their path lay elsewhere. She was determined to reach Heaven at all costs.

The Riot Coaster had continued to speak.

The resident Sabor translated. “He says you were delayed at the lakeshore, because one of the Pandemerian holy men had intelligence relevant to your mission. He then says the first boats were successfully repelled, and the Sombrecur are regrouping across the lake. You are no longer in danger, and you have promised to return before nightfall.”

“You see?” Hasp said. “It's evening now. I'll be back with you in less than an hour from now.”

“We'll all be back,” Mina confirmed. “Rachel? What do you say?”

But Hasp became suddenly angry. “You two are staying here,” he insisted. “I'm going on my own.”

“But history—”

“To hell with history,” he growled. “I don't need or want a couple of frightened girls with me. You'll just get in my way and slow me down.” He stormed away, roaring, “Garstone! One of you show me which godforsaken door I need to take.”

Mina hurried after him. Rachel exchanged a glance with Dill, and they both followed. They caught up with the Lord of the First Citadel just as he was about to step into the timelock.

“We were
there,”
Mina protested. “So you know we're coming back with you now.”

“You are
not.”

“What's the matter with you, Hasp?”

He opened the timelock door. “Just get the hell away from me. If you try to step in here beside me, I'll murder all three of you myself.” With that he disappeared into the timelock and slammed the door behind him.

Rachel peered through the porthole. She saw Hasp reach forward to open the outer door beyond, and then he faded from sight. “He's gone,” she said. “Maybe we should just wait for him downstairs.”

“He might not make it back to the castle without us,” Mina said. “We were there, Rachel. If we don't follow him back now, we'll change the past. Anything could happen to him.”

“All right.” Rachel exhaled slowly. “How far back are we going?”

A passing Garstone said, “Six hours, miss.”

Together the three of them stepped into the timelock.

The suite beyond was no different from the others in the castle, a musty storage space for old furniture and clocks. Hasp had already left. Rachel briefly glimpsed the back of his head as he closed the outer door.

In a moment they had followed him out of the timelock and caught up with him again.

He wheeled on them savagely. “I ordered you to stay.”

“And we ignored you,” Mina said. “Get over it.”

Blood flooded the glass scales covering the god's face, giving him a frightening appearance. “You'll all die here today.”

“But the Riot Coaster said—”

“The Riot Coaster said no such thing. I understand the man's
language!” He sucked air in and out of his nose, then continued in a harsh whisper. “Sabor did not translate that warrior's speech truthfully. The god of clocks lied to you. The Sombrecur will slaughter us. Only Dill survives, and that's because he's already dead.”

A sinking feeling invaded Rachel's stomach. Her mind groped for solutions. “If we remain in the castle…”

“We can't,” Mina said wearily. “Our presence at the battle might well have kept the Sombrecur from taking over this castle, and if we lose the Obscura to the enemy, then there's no way back for us.” She glanced at a nearby clock. “We need to think of a way to keep events consistent with what the Riot Coasters saw.”

But Hasp stormed off, calling back over his shoulder, “It's simpler if we just die in battle.”

Carnival woke lying on the floor of the same white room. This time there was no mirror, no bed or other furniture, and no window, either—nothing but a featureless box with a tiled floor.

Alteus Menoa stood in one corner, gazing at her. He was wearing a toga of white cloth slung over his shoulder and wrapped around his midriff, revealing the bronzed muscles on his chest and arms. His golden eyes were unreadable, but his expression was not unkind. “Why do you continue to destroy yourself?” he said.

She eased herself into a sitting position, glancing at his throat as she judged the distance she would have to traverse to seize it. She averted her eyes again.

The Lord of the Maze waited for her to reply and when she didn't he said, “My priests are eager to torture you.”

Her eyes flicked up.

“But I fear you would only relish their primitive methods.” He studied her for a moment longer. “So how do I make you appreciate
what you've been given? By showing you the alternatives?” He lifted a finger.

Carnival's whole body froze solid. She glanced down to see her skin and clothes harden and quickly adopt a porcelainlike lustre. She could not breathe or move as much as an eyelid. Her dry eyes remained fixed on her glassy white knee, so smooth and brittle. Menoa's footsteps sounded as he approached across the tile floor.

“What is destruction to you without pain?” He kicked her.

Carnival felt nothing, but she heard a noise like shattering pottery, and the world spun dizzily around her.

When the room settled again, she found herself gazing at pieces of a broken face: lips, a nose, a shard of her jaw, all cast from glazed white ceramic.
Her
face. The fragments of her body lay scattered across the floor in front of her. Unable to blink or move, she could do nothing but stare.

She heard his footsteps behind her, and crunching sounds.

“Should I now return the use of your nerves to you,” he said, “and let you experience what this damage
feels
like?” He continued to pace. “Or would that simply be giving you exactly what you desire?”

Her nerves began to throb as the broken pieces of her body lost their smooth sheen and reddened. The throbbing intensified and sharpened until countless needlelike sensations crawled over her flesh. She felt him standing on her, his heels pressing down into her muscles…

The surroundings blurred.

Carnival was on her hands and knees upon the floor, her body once more restored to Menoa's flesh-and-blood ideal. She blinked and sucked in a shuddering breath, then spun round to face her tormentor.

“It's more complex than that,” he declared. “Pain is only part of the answer, not the full objective of your desires.” He walked around her slowly. “Nor is it simply a rejection of beauty. If I turned
you into a hag, would you accept yourself better then?” He shook his head. “So how can I make you appreciate this gift?”

“Give me a knife.”

He smiled. “You'd use it on yourself.”

“Not right away.”

The Lord of the Maze ignored that. “You embrace suffering, but not just
any
suffering,” he said. “Your agonies need to be self-inflicted because you wish to punish yourself.” He cupped his chin in one hand thoughtfully. “But why? I admit that at first I presumed your behaviour to be merely a rejection of the natural laws. You are by nature a predator, thus driven by your hunger, and could never hope to attain any higher purpose. Your penchant for self-harm and suicide seemed to me to be the inevitable rejection of determinism.” He stopped pacing. “But now I no longer believe that that's true. You are a complete enigma, Rebecca.”