Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology (6 page)

His hair was shaggy about his shoulders, and a beard itched upon his chin where he had been fastidiously clean-shaven all his life. The looks he got from people and the shopkeepers who refused him entrance were wearing upon his sunny disposition.

After a few cuffs about the head and angry snarls, he began to avoid townsfolk as much as possible and to look distrustfully on those he did meet.

Still, the countryside was breathtaking. The Alps reminded him of home, though their soaring peaks were much taller and more rugged than his own Great Smokies. Nevertheless, the air was clear and sweet and made his heart sing as his innate good nature reasserted itself. The goatherds were happy to share their fires, not as judging as the townsfolk. He paid liberally for his milk and cheese, and that made him welcome to the mountain men. Here he was more accepted. It lifted his spirits partway back, but not completely.

His first winter of the bargain was spent with an old man and his granddaughter on a peak near a prosperous village. The old man was practically a hermit, so Toby found his prohibitions easily maintained.

He learned to carve beautiful figurines from the soft pine wood that grew in abundance on the mountaintop and entertained the little girl for hours with the tiny dancer spinning insidethe box the Toymaker had given him.

Watching young Heidi bill and coo over the dancer gave him an idea, and he went down to the village and found the best clockmaker in town. “I would like to commission a special item from you,” he told the clockmaker.“A dancing clockwork, this tall.” He held his hands just over two feet apart.

The man looked down his nose over the tops of his spectacles as he examined Toby from head to toe. “I doubt I will be able to accommodate you . . . sir,” he murmured, with a distain that made the final word an insult.

Toby quirked an eyebrow at him.“Well, there's no call to be rude about it. I heard you were the best, but if that ain't so, I'll take my money elsewhere.” He casually withdrew his left hand from his coat pocket, bouncing the handful of gold in his palm.

The clockmaker's eyes lit up at the sight of the gold, and his manner completely changed. “Please, sir, forgive me. It has been a trying day.” He cupped Toby's elbow and led him to a stool beside the counter. “What is it you wished to commission?”

Toby saw the change for what it was: his gold was accepted where he was not. He ground his teeth at the slight, wishing he could strike the man for his rejection. The thought startled and dismayed him.

Toby pulled a scrap of paper from his breast pocket and spread it on the counter. “I would like for you to make a doll, to these specifications, with a clockwork movement that allows her to dance. The finished result should be something like this, on a larger scale.” He showed the clockmaker the dancer in her tiny room.

“I can make nothing as grand as this,” the man breathed, watching the dancer as if hypnotized. “But I will do my best. Give me a month.”

“Sounds good to me.” Toby laid the handful of gold on the counter. “If it comes to more than that, let me know. I'm staying up the mountain.”

The man started. “As you wish.”

Toby walked back to the cabin thinking about the encounter. How dare the man treat him so dismissively when he was a paying customer? It brought a scowl to his bearded features. The doll was to be a present for his little friend. When he moved on, she would still have a dancer of her own. The man’s attitude had robbed the gift of much of its joy.

When he reached the cabin and opened the door, Heidi ran to him with arms wide. She faltered to a stop when she saw his face. “What’s wrong, Toby? Your eyes look so funny.”

He blinked. What was it she had seen in his face?

He hastened to reassure her, but the question haunted him for days.

The weather grew colder before the month was out, and the snow piled high in deep drifts about the cozy cabin. The wind howled around the eaves like wandering spirits, the sun cresting the horizon for scant hours a day. Inside the cabin, fire brightened the walls and warmed the occupants. The nights were long but filled with camaraderie that warmed Toby even more than the fire.

When the day came to retrieve the clockwork doll, Toby almost lost a foot to frostbite tramping down to the village for the dancer and back up again, but it was worth it to him when he saw Heidi's face. The awe that spread over her features, eyes widening to stars, mouth in a little “O” of wonder, lifted Toby's spirits as his foot thawed before the hearth.

When the snow at last melted, he knew it was time to be moving on. His foot had never completely recovered, and he walked now with a slight limp, like Chester with his broken leg. Grandfather presented him with a beautifully carved walking stick the day he left the mountain. Heidi hugged him fast and made him promise to return to see the doll dance again one day. Toby promised with tears in his eyes. He had been happy here.

But as he headed down the mountain, scratching the beard itching upon his chin, he realized he had missed the road as well. The traveling, the exploration called to his soul. He'd been stationary too long.

Still, with his new limp, he couldn't risk remaining in the mountains. Another season in the snow might take the leg. It had been a lovely winter, but he'd better find somewhere warm before the next.

He'd probably be barefoot by then. He would undoubtedly look shabbier than ever, but he would never be hungry. He had good money in his pocket—gold spoke across borders—and a song in his heart. He'd never been one to let the bad times crush him. Even the war hadn't destroyed his innate spirit. Some might shun him, but that was their loss.

The spring was spent wandering through Saxony and Austria. He loved the streets of Dresden—the soaring spires, the cupolas . . . ornate architecture like nothing he had ever seen. He wandered the city wishing he was a painter so he could capture the beauty and take it home with him.

The music of Vienna enchanted him. Opera, waltzes, the symphonies of Mozart and Beethoven—he had never been exposed to orchestral music in the hills of Tennessee, and he could not get enough of it. His first real trial fell upon him in its streets, as he sat outside one of the music halls listening to the orchestra within. He had not yet converted Chester to his new purpose and had the little mechanoid open beside him, as he smoked his pipe. For now, he kept his tobacco and other gear inside Chester's belly stash.

His eyes were shut, drinking in the glory of the music. Suddenly, he heard the clink of metal on metal and his eyes flew open. A gentleman was just entering the music hall and had tossed a ten kreuzer coin into Chester's hold.

His cheeks flamed hot as coals. To be thought a beggar? It was almost more than he could stand. Even Toby's good nature had limits. Begging was the resort of low-lifes and thieves where he came from, and his pa hadn't raised no beggar.

He lurched to his feet to protest—and then reconsidered. He could not divulge his reasons for his appearance. Not without forfeiting his bet. What could he do but take the insult?

He chuckled ruefully and sat back down. He'd better get used to it. To win the bet, he'd have to endure worse.

Soon after, he headed back to his shabby, but warm, room at a rundown inn near the outskirts of town. Along the way, he spied a blind man selling matches in a doorway. Toby stood for long moments contemplating this man—a beggar by all appearances—and realizing that appearances weren't always what they seemed. He dropped the stranger’s coin into the man's cup along with one of his own gold disks and limped away without any matches.

Despite the slights he'd hitherto suffered, they had never struck him so keenly before. He had never been taken for a beggar. Could he keep quiet as his clothing grew ever more disreputable? Would he be able to accept the insults, knowing they were based in misconceptions? It would be hard for his stubborn pride, but worth the price.

Still, Vienna had lost some of its magic. The incident caused the first serious doubt to strike him. The casual largesse of the Viennese gentleman was the first true test of his resolve. He moved Chester along by morning.

The summer found him sampling vodka in Russia and learning to ride the shaggy
aduu
of the Mongolian steppes. Smaller and sturdier than the steeds he was accustomed to, he found it hard to believe they weren't ponies, but the Mongols assured him they were horses, laughing at his surprise.Here, among the hardy nomads, his unkempt appearance was less remarkable, as most of the men sported beards as untamed as his own or worse, and he loved the rugged wilds.

But all too soon, the nights began to grow colder, with the scent of snow in the air. The wind cut through the holes in his clothes like skillfully wielded knives, and he knew he must seek a warmer climate for the winter. It wasn't only the cold that worried at his thoughts; he could buy furs to bundle in—the bet had said nothing against
adding
clothes—though he still thought it would be cheating. No, it was an underlying situation that came to a head one chill night and forced his hand.

He had been sitting beside his campfire, tinkering with the cooking mechanism inside Chester. It was almost done, though he still hadn't tested it. As he was focused on adjusting one of the set screws, a light cough sounded behind him. He started, and the screwdriver slipped, gouging his hand.

“Oh, let me see that!” cried a breathless voice, and Jaliqai—lithe, beautiful, young . . . and the betrothed of the tribal chief's son, Khasar—fell to her knees beside him. She took his bleeding hand in hers, pulling a scarf from around her slender throat and wrapping it around the wound. Lips parted, eyes shining, heart on her sleeve . . . Toby gulped.

“Thank you, ma'am.” He wasn't so innocent that he didn't know trouble when it plopped itself down in front of him. He must cut off any ambitions she might have in that direction. Khasar lived up to his name of “terrible dog.” It made him a good leader, but a dangerous enemy.

“I am no ma'am,” she said with a flirtatious giggle. “If I understand you, that is what my mother would be called in your country.”

“It's what I call any woman I respect,” Toby replied. “Shouldn't you be making dinner for your intended?”

“Khasar is hunting.” She waved a dismissive hand then laid it on his knee.

He felt the blood rising in his face, a flood of heat that cut the cold wind. “The more reason you shouldn't be at my fire, Miss Jaliqai.”

She moved closer, crowding against him. “My hearth is ash tonight. It may snow. Surely you will not turn me away to the cold.”

He put his hands about her upper arms, intending to gently move her away from him and there was a bellow of rage from beyond the ring of firelight. Toby froze. He recognized the sound of a man angered beyond sense.

Toby pushed the girl away from him, and she fell on her backside with a little cry of outrage—which soon turned to sobs. She clambered up and ran to her affianced. “He wanted to hurt me, Khasar. It was awful.” She sobbed against Khasar’s chest, peeking out at Toby with a smirk.

As Toby struggled to his feet, he held his hands out in appeasement. “Now, Khasar, don't go overreacting.”

Khasar was a mountain of a man, taller and a good fifty pounds heavier at least than Toby. He adored his intended, and had no idea she was considered a tease by everyone in the tribe. He gently set Jaliqai behind him and came at Toby, fists flying.

Toby stepped backward, tripping over Chester. He went down in a heap, Khasar on top of him. Toby tried to throw the man off, but the Mongol was too big. He swung it at Khasar—it was like striking a brick wall. He kept trying to fight back, but the blows fell thick and fast. He knew better than to hit his attacker. To do so was an insult to Khasar and the whole tribe, but it was not in Toby’s nature to stand by and take a beating.

He managed to get in a lick or two, but he lost track of the blows Khasar landed, and he lost consciousnesssoon after. When he at last came to his senses, he found himself alone on the steppe with the clothes on his back—luckily, as he still had the Toymaker’s coat and resources—and a battered Chester at his side. The camp had vanished—the nomads long gone. They had not cared if he lived or died, these people he had considered friends.

He knew he had outstayed any welcome Mongolia held for him. No one would believe him over Jaliqai, and Khasar had much influence with the region’s chiefs. So he gathered Chester to his chest and began limping toward the sea.           

He found an isolated camp and managed to negotiate for a horse—at much higher price than it deserved. He didn’t mind the cost, as it saved his aching bones some wear and tear.

Riding to the Turkish border, he sold the horse, giving away the gold to the children haunting the docks. He hopped a steamer headed from Turkey to Egypt and found a job tending donkeys in Alexandria.

His scruffy appearance drew puzzled stares from the other drovers, but he was a pleasant sort and liberal with his gold.Soon,he made friends with many of his fellows.

While he truly enjoyed the work, he had taken the position mostly because it brought him in contact with the archeologists.He thirsted for knowledge—and here, he had a chance to touch history. These men, with their keen intuitions and fascinating tools, spent hours baking in the sunlight hoping to find the next earth-shattering treasure.