Machine (19 page)

Was the Machine among the Hag’s gifts, the Machine William and Mrs. Rumpiton had talked about? There’d been no mention of it during the automatic writing session. So either it was considered part of the wagon, or it was installed at a later date.

“I can’t let the Hag take the wagon,” Fanule said. “Not yet. It’s somehow connected to all the spirits Zofen stole. I have to get inside of it.”

“Yes indeed. And that’s why I felt you’d have to petition the Hag for temporary possession of it. That’s the special favor I referred to before we left.” Betty turned away from him and faced the bog’s lumpy expanse. Lifting her voice, she spoke to the air in a strange, musical language Fanule had never heard before. He recognized Zofen’s name, and his own, but no other words.

At the far end of the bog, the air shuddered and the ground heaved. A sweet fragrance briefly replaced the area’s fetid reek as a figure rose into view—a hazy figure neither male nor female, sitting astride a black unicorn with emerald horn. It didn’t look at the visitors, but it must’ve been aware of their presence or it certainly wouldn’t have appeared.

“Talk,” Betty whispered to Fan. “Make your case. I’ve already explained about Zofen, which was truly idiotic of me. Of course the Hag is aware of the situation and has been following it.”

“Then why the hell is Zofen still around?” Fanule asked, resentment bleeding through the question.

“Because Renewed Agency—or second life, if you will—is a gift neither given nor withdrawn lightly. Now make your petition, Fan, before you lose the chance.”

He cleared his throat and faced the unicorn and rider. “I am Fanule Perfidor, Mongrel of Quam Khar lineage, only son of Zofen and Mercy Perfidor, loving spouse of William Marchman, and duly elected Eminence of the village of Taintwell.”

“Thorough enough introduction, sir,”
said a voice inside his head.
“What is it you feel you require?”

Fanule glanced uncertainly at Betty. She nodded in encouragement. He tried to focus on the Hag, but the more pointedly he stared, the less distinct the figure was. “It’s my understanding—and I admit my understanding is limited—that you could find Zofen Perfidor in violation of his contract with you.”

The Hag neither confirmed nor denied this.

“And if you do, you’ll take back all the gifts you bestowed on him.”

“I will. That is how my contracts are voided.”

“But, you see, the gold wagon supposedly contains some kind of machine Zofen has been using to achieve his ends.”

“I am aware of this.”

Fanule cleared his throat. “Yes, well, in order to help the people he’s harmed, I might need access to that device. So if you’d be kind enough not to reclaim the wagon until—”

“I will give you as long as you need, but only if
you are making progress. Bear that in mind. Should it become clear you are accomplishing nothing, the wagon will be removed from your realm.”

Fanule exhaled in relief. “Oh, thank you. Thank you for granting me the opportunity.”

“I have granted you more of an opportunity than you realize, sir. Use it well.”

F
ANULE
JOGGED
straight to the bedroom when he got home. Betty returned to her cottage but would be back in the morning. Mirabelle glanced up from the rocking chair in which she sat, embroidering a piece of white fabric stretched taut within a double wooden hoop. The delicate work made Fanule think of Yissi Sweetgrass, who was a skilled lacemaker. Or used to be.

The lamplight’s glow would normally have encouraged Fanule to slip into bed. It would normally have been glittering in William’s eyes, touching the seductive smile on his lips, sliding along the smooth slopes of his naked body. But there was nothing normal about this still figure draped in a nightdress and unaware of Fanule’s presence.

“He’s sleeping now,” Mirabelle said softly as Fanule knelt beside the bed. “I read to him, made sure he ate, gave him a sponge bath, led him to the privy.”

She’d kept the stove going, too, for the house was toasty warm. “I can’t begin to thank you, Belle. If there’s anything you need, please let me know.” Fanule lifted one of William’s hands, kissed it, continued holding it. How lovely he looked as he slept, even with that growth of stubble on his boyish face. “He’s no better, then.”

“I’m sorry.” Mirabelle carefully tucked her embroidery needle into her fabric. “I also spoke with Simon Bentcross today. He went hunting—said he needed venison for the winter—so now he has food for himself
and
Clancy.”

“Oh, gods,” Fanule groaned, wearily resting his forehead on his and William’s hands. This was so unnatural. All of it. He had to find Zofen tomorrow, or at least the Spiritorium. When the Hag would recall his father, Fanule had no idea.

“I was rather touched,” Mirabelle said, “to see a compass flower on the nightstand. Not many people know the legend.”

Fanule looked up at her. “What legend?”

“Oh. So you
don’t
know it.”

He shook his head. “William wrote in his journal that he’d like to have a compass flower, so when I saw a cluster at the edge of Howling Wood, I picked one.”

“Hm.” Mirabelle, who had a daughter several years younger than William, held her needlework on her lap, tilted forward, and pulled the duvet up to William’s shoulders in a nurturing, maternal way. “It’s been said, at least among Mongrel wise women, that a compass flower can guide a lost soul home. The longest of the petals points the way.”

“It appears I’ve proved the legend false.” Sighing, Fanule rose from the floor. “William’s soul is still lost.”

Mirabelle also got up. “That’s probably because the flower is here. It can hardly guide his spirit if it isn’t with his spirit. For a sextant to be of use to a ship’s captain, Eminence, it has to be on his ship, not in his home port.”

Even as Fanule conceded the logic of this, he could hardly put his faith in an old wives’ tale. What’s more, he had no idea where William’s spirit was.

But he would try his damnedest to find out.

T
HE
H
AG
hadn’t yet taken Zofen. He was still in Howling Wood, in the clearing, when Fanule rode there the following morning.

The Spiritmaster was walking slowly around his precious Spiritorium, staring up at it, fondly running a hand over the wagon’s intricately carved images of smiling angels and leering demons and fanciful creatures Fanule could not identify, although they somehow felt familiar to him. Perhaps they were depictions of the ancient races that had spawned all Mongrels. Again, Fanule saw no sign of the horses. He guessed Zofen summoned them into being when he moved from one place to another because he fancied having a midnight-black team leading his gaudy gold wagon.

Fanule stopped, his hands thrust in his pockets. He was cold. The motionless air felt glazed with ice. More than the temperature, however, being near Zofen and the Spiritorium sapped him of warmth.

“What made you adopt one of the old religions?” he asked, bypassing any greeting.

Zofen, not the least bit startled by the sound of the intruder’s voice, didn’t even bother looking in his direction. It was as if he’d been expecting Fanule.

He answered with a clipped, derisive laugh. “I haven’t adopted
any
religion. The very thought is absurd. Religion is for weaklings who don’t believe in themselves. I merely realized, after studying various faiths, that some would serve my purposes quite well.” He caressed one of the raised visages on the wagon’s wall. “Words like
good
and
evil
,
angel
and
demon
,
saint
and
sinner
are fraught with meaning for most people, even if they don’t realize it. The concepts of happiness, fulfillment, and contentment are almost always associated with the first word in each oppositional pair. So”
—
Zofen abruptly turned to face his visitor—“I’ve sold my services by preying on people’s guilt over their misbehavior, or their concern for their loved ones’ wicked ways. Nearly everybody wants the wrong sucked out of wrongdoers.” He smiled.

“But you didn’t convince Clancy Marrowbone or William Marchman or all those people at the Mechanical Circus that they needed your services!”

“I didn’t have to,” Zofen said matter-of-factly. “I’m quite capable of drawing in a Spark at will. No one has to invite me to do it. And the Machine has proved an enormous help.”

For some reason this shocked Fanule, although it shouldn’t have. He could certainly suck light without being asked to do so. “Then why bother with this whole ludicrous charade? The costumes and signs, the preachments, the kind of public humiliation you tried to practice on Simon Bentcross….”

Zofen held out his arms as his face broke into a smug smile. “Because such tactics make people malleable.
And
they make for good theater. Religion has always made for good theater. Pardon my cynicism, but why do you think so many heathens have been converted over the centuries?” He ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “Intimidation leavened with persuasion tarted up with grandiosity.” Brushing his hands together, Zofen peered up at the front of the Spiritorium, a side Fanule had not yet seen. “Every salesman needs a gimmick to attract an audience. I come across scores of potential subjects when I set up in public places and begin ranting about sin. And I find paying clients, too, since I do need money for food and clothing.”

“How… how do you decide whom to drain?”

Zofen gave a careless shrug. “Something about the individual—or group, if it’s a siphoning—must intrigue me. I have to see potential for further study, or at least for entertainment.”

Fanule was appalled by Zofen’s word choices and the attitude behind them. Immediately he knew it wasn’t possible to set such thinking right. “That’s why you destroyed Clancy Marrowbone? And William? Because their psyches ‘intrigued’ you?”

“In the case of Marrowbone, yes. He’s a fascinating individual with a very complex, contradictory essence. As for Marchman… I suppose I was curious about what drew him to a Mongrel. Most Pures don’t want to get anywhere near us.”

“You mean,” Fanule said, “you wanted to know what attracted him to
me
.”

Zofen cocked his head indifferently. “Perhaps, although I haven’t had the time to delve into him. Even if I had the time, I might not have the stomach for it. A man with normal appetites such as myself isn’t eager to learn about
your
kind of union.”

“Then release him!” Fanule roared, raising his arms and clenching his fists.

Zofen’s only reaction was a slight puckering of the skin around his eyes.

Infuriated, Fanule lunged forward and gripped his father’s shoulders. He wanted to shake this blasé attitude out of Zofen. Was he unaware of the suffering he’d caused, or was he merely indifferent to it?

“How can you ruin decent, caring people and do it so cavalierly?” he grated. “Will Marchman is the kindest, most loyal soul I’ve ever met. Clancy Marrowbone is more honorable than most mortals. And why have you let well-intentioned people like Mrs. Rumpiton inadvertently hurt their loved ones? Why have you allowed genuine blackguards like Jusem Fober take advantage of your ‘services’ just to incapacitate those who could expose them?”

Zofen hadn’t so much as twitched within Fanule’s grasp.

“Because I wanted to,” he said coolly, “and because I could. Because I am a spiritdrainer.” He jerked himself free. “For decades my ambition outstripped my abilities. Have you any idea how maddening that was? I longed to capture and sample and study
so many
essences, but Nature had imposed limitations on me. It wasn’t until I devised both my mission and my Machine that I could drain strangers, not just people who’d offended or threatened me, and could hoard their essences indefinitely, not merely for an hour or two.” The Spiritmaster smoothed his rich velvet jacket, his hands lingering on the plush fabric. “Now, however, capture and release are moot. I haven’t the energy to do either.”

“You’re lying!”

“No. I’m telling you the truth. Just before dawn I fell into a deep sleep, or perhaps suffered a cataleptic seizure, which I’ve had before. I awoke when a realization cut through the blackness like a finger of lightning. Everything associated with my enterprise will soon fall to dust.” The Spiritmaster’s mouth hooked into a wry, sickly smile. “Or muck.”

So he
does
know he’s not long for this world.
Turning away, Fanule paced as he rubbed his temples. He angled a look at the man who was patently undeserving of his pity but had garnered his pity nonetheless. “This ‘mission’ you say you devised….”

“What of it?” Zofen muttered, still admiring the beauty of his fine velvet suit.

“It’s the lie you peddled to the Hag—isn’t it?—this vow to battle evil. But you didn’t mention what you just confessed to me—that your actual intention was to collect spirits for your amusement, even if it meant turning vibrant people into lumps of clay.”

Zofen’s brilliant violet gaze shot to Fanule’s face. His skin blanched. “You know about my dealings with that entity?”

“Yes, I know everything.”

“But… how?”

“That’s none of your business. Just like you’ve chosen to make my entire life none of your business.”

“Then why even mention it? So you can gloat?”

Sadly, Fanule shook his head. “No.”

“Then
why
?” Zofen demanded.

“Maybe I thought that by reminding you of what you’re about to lose, I could make you want to salvage whatever you could.”

“Like what? Everything’s being taken from me! Life itself is being taken from me! There’s nothing to salvage!”

“Yes there is. There’s your own soul. And there’s us.” Fanule walked up to Zofen until they once again stood face-to-face. “Why do you hate me? I didn’t ask to be born.”