face he knew was there, but he didn’t seem to have much choice. He turned, his eyes caught on the bloody patterns on the magician’s hands, the spot in his back burned like someone had struck him with a poker and everything went dark.
Interlude
Eleven years earlier
Vocho sparred against himself in the mirror, checking a thrust that left him overextended and made his new shirt stretch alarmingly. He didn’t want to ruin the effect or waste the money the silk had cost him. It looked good, and so did he. His little fluff of beard, all he could yet manage, was his pride and joy.
Kacha sat and watched him, her eyes dark and unreadable. She’d been off with him – with everyone – for days, weeks, longer. She was never about either; always off somewhere, and no matter how he tried he couldn’t winkle out of her what the problem was or where she was going. He’d given up trying to get a smile out of her or a rise to his insults. So instead he sparred and preened and looked forward to later. To the time when, almost certainly, he’d be called on to take his test to become a master. At fourteen too! There was no doubt in his mind either.
Eneko had called the meeting with the usual words, commanding all journeymen and lessers to present themselves at the courtyard under the clockwork duellist, all masters available to attend. A few of the smaller lessers had strung bunting around the courtyard, and the smell of roasting lamb wafted up from the kitchens. It had to be a master’s test – there was nothing else it could be. And how many journeymen were there? Five who could take the test at present. Himself, Kacha and three others. The rest were just there for the education and would leave before taking the final test, or weren’t yet up to scratch.
He couldn’t help but hum a cheery little tune of battles won and glories told. That he’d get there before Kacha – maybe that’s what she was sulking about. Oh, perhaps they’d give her the test too, but she wouldn’t get there before Vocho, and that’d rankle like buggery with his perfect sister. He hummed louder.
A sound echoed up from the courtyard and Vocho took a look – three lessers hitching the big mechanism at the centre of the courtyard to the links and gears that ran underneath and somehow connected up to the underwater wheels that ran the change o’ the clock.
They said the automaton of the duellist was as old as the guild – certainly as old as the grinding machinery that spun the city once every three nights. Vocho had watched the automaton’s face every night for years, wondering what it was she wanted from them. Outside, in the city, people had cast off the old gods with something approaching glee after the revolt and now prayed to the Clockwork God the prelate told everyone had made the world. Vocho prayed too, when he remembered, but it was the duellist which caught him, which inspired his most urgent prayers, which looked over the guild, watched them, guided them. It had dimmed a little, that fervent belief, as he’d grown, but now on the cusp of everything he wanted it came back in a rush. Since he’d left home he’d cared about only two things: keeping his promise to Da, maybe earning a bit of praise, showing the old bastard that he was good for something after all, and becoming a master. What they’d drilled for, taken bruises and whacks galore for, trained and studied and sparred for, learned all the stupid rules until he could recite them in his sleep. This was it.
The clock above the entrance to the arena began to chime, sounding tinny and harsh. One, two, three – not the call to arms, that was two bells. Four, five, six – not sparring, that was four. Seven, eight, nine – not a journeyman’s test, that was eight. Vocho shut his eyes as the last came. Ten.
The bells stopped, and Vocho let out a great breath. He grabbed Kacha, whirled her around until she had no choice but to laugh, and set her down again. “Come on!”
He ran out of the door, down stone steps worn by thousands of feet over hundreds of years until they had a groove in the centre, past others running, all shouting and laughing. The cloister was full of them – lessers,