place in an ordered universe,’ he said. Apparently it plays merry hell with predeterminism because it doesn’t fit in with all his observed laws of the universe. Novatonas was a brilliant man, but he’s got a lot to answer for. So many of us died when Bakar came to power. So many. All because Bakar twisted Novatonas’s work to his own ends, to his own religious theories. Time to make amends, don’t you think? Let’s see if his precious clockwork predicts this.”
When he turned back, he had the scalpel in his hands. Vocho saw where this was heading and tried to twist away, tried to yank his hands out of the chains while simultaneously not widdling himself. Wasn’t the burning on his back enough?
“Now, now,” Sabates said. “Not to worry. Just a drop.”
The scalpel darted out, a quick sting, and drew back, leaving a few drops of blood on Vocho’s arm. He sagged in relief, glad too he’d managed to refrain from wetting his pants.
Sabates mopped up the drops with his brush and began to draw on the parchment, lines and swirls that seemed to move and change even as Vocho watched. How could he draw so much with so little blood? Vocho didn’t care, mainly because he didn’t want to have to donate any more.
Another chime, the first bells of the change. Sabates carefully put down his brush and parchment and sat down. Alicia sat with him, and they twined together quite sickeningly to wait out the change. The first tremors began, a slight shaking that Vocho didn’t usually even notice, followed by a series of clicks and clunks and the sensation of smooth movement. Nothing out of the ordinary for any resident of Reyes, though it seemed to put both Sabates and Alicia on edge.
What followed threw Vocho across the floor, chased by the brazier scattering coals everywhere. He rolled out of the way, at the limit of the chains that held him to the wall, and realised that he was dangling at an angle. The walls and floor didn’t quite fit with where his brain said down was. Hot coals danced across the floor to what was now the bottom corner of the chamber, leaving a trail of embers and smouldering straw behind them.
A great grinding screech battered his ears, and the room juddered again as though it was trying to break free of some great hand that gripped it but couldn’t quite gather the strength. Vocho dangled like a fly in some demented spider’s web waiting to have his juices sucked out. His only consolation was the look on Sabates’ face – of mingled horror and terror. Good.
It was a short-lived consolation.
The coals from the brazier in the corner had found something to eat, namely a heap of rancid straw. Smoke began to lick up the wall, blackening the stone and making Sabates’ look of horror grow.
The two magicians scrambled to their feet, both as pale as wave tops as the shudders carried on, rumbling up through the floor so that everything blurred with the vibration. The scalpel came again, and Vocho had no chance to avoid it. A gout of blood washed out of his forearm. Sabates scrambled for his brush, found a piece of parchment and painted a hasty symbol on it.
The smoke grew, twisted, spread, little flickers of flame eating the straw and starting on a chair. The growing heat was making the tattoo on Vocho’s back seem like a mild sting. Fire-tinged smoke now obscured everything, colouring the room orange-black and choking Vocho’s throat, burning his lungs, streaming his eyes. The door slammed open, but Vocho couldn’t tell who was there until Licio spoke: “The clockwork’s stuck! Bakar – he must have…” Air from the open door fanned the flames gnawing hungrily at the chair.
Vocho found he suddenly didn’t give a fig about the prelate or the tattoo on his back. He didn’t give a fig for anything except getting out of these chains and out of the door before he burned to a crisp. Get out, find Kacha, grovel for forgiveness, promise never to lie to her – a promise even he knew he’d break in under a week – and go and live somewhere nice and quiet for the rest of his days.
Licio grabbed hold of Sabates’ robe and almost yanked him off his feet. “We’re stuck halfway – don’t you realise what that means? Up in the bloody air, fifty feet from the street, or where the street was