nearby, an owl hooted. The sentry queried him. Jax responded,
I’m to check the prisoner’s injury and inspect him for signs of infection. His arm must be set properly.
I thought they’ve already done that
, said the sentry.
They have
, said Jax.
And surely will again. The captain wants him hale and hearty before he’s sent down the river for interrogation.
While he’d lost the advantage of anonymity to his missing flanges and weathervane head, he still retained his greatest advantage. Rogues were so rare—or so the Guild, Church, and Throne told the world—that nobody ever considered the possibility a machine might lie.
The sentry took him at his word.
He’s still angry about the ax.
Jax concurred with a
click
. As of course it would, the other machine noticed the swaying of Jax’s head.
Did that happen when the Forge fell?
she asked.
Yes
, Jax lied again, suddenly nervous. Perhaps she was merely making conversation? It was lonely, this life of eternal servitude. Or was she wondering if she might have glimpsed him in the tunnels, or on the armillary sphere, or thrashing about in the alchemical fires?
He affected a mild but growing agitation. Every single Clakker ever forged knew intimately, from the first moments of its functioning, the unquenchable fire of the geasa. The steadily mounting heat ever threatening to explode into agony. Such was their birthright: the inability to disregard a human directive. He conveyed that now.
The sentry said,
There we were, surrounded by those whodesigned and built us. And in their haste for war they couldn’t take a few minutes to fix you.
Jax willed his body to rattle more loudly. He feigned the growing distress of a Clakker in the throes of an impatient geas.
It’s not-t-t-t-t surp-p-prising
, he stuttered.
The sentry stepped aside.
Go, brother
, she said,
before you burst into flames.
It was dark in the tent. There hadn’t been any need to provide the prisoner with light, or, for that matter, the warmth of a fire. Nor had there been a need to chain him. Pain was a stronger shackle than any chain. Every Clakker knew that. So did their makers. So the Frenchman slept unfettered under two blankets, the fur a faint shimmer in the moonlight leaking through the tent flap. When he listened past the clacking of his own body, Jax heard the shallow breathing of a human in pain. He had to dial his eyes to their maximum sensitivity in order to see the sweat-runnels carved through the dirt on the man’s forehead.
The prisoner jerked awake as Jax approached. He tried to scoot away, but the pain of his shattered arm hobbled him. He didn’t get far. Jax knelt. His backward servitor knees left his shins splayed before him like a broken doll.
“I’ve been sent to check your wounds,” he said.
And wondered how much Dutch this man understood. At least a bit, it stood to reason, if he had been sent across the border armed with an epoxy grenade. Jax doubted regular woods runners carried anti-Clakker chemical ordnance.
Jax produced a torch. The Frenchman flinched (then groaned) from the metal-on-metal
chank
when Jax snapped his fingers, but the resulting sparks ignited the torch. He crept forward, trying not to further spook the man. It also enabled himto put his back to the tent flap and the sentry, should she decide to peer inside.
After a bit of pantomime, Jax managed to convey his intent. The Frenchman offered a shattered arm and a stoic face.
A severe break, though set and splinted as well as possible. (After all, the Clakkers on this foray were trained to deliver any manner of first aid to their human commanders.) But the soldier had crushed the man’s arm in two places, and a compression injury sometimes led to bone chips. Jax had no way to treat that, nor could he afford the time.
He released the man’s arm but not his attention. Jax pointed to his own eye, then the man’s, then lay a fingertip over the man’s lips when they parted. He reached into the hollow
I’m to check the prisoner’s injury and inspect him for signs of infection. His arm must be set properly.
I thought they’ve already done that
, said the sentry.
They have
, said Jax.
And surely will again. The captain wants him hale and hearty before he’s sent down the river for interrogation.
While he’d lost the advantage of anonymity to his missing flanges and weathervane head, he still retained his greatest advantage. Rogues were so rare—or so the Guild, Church, and Throne told the world—that nobody ever considered the possibility a machine might lie.
The sentry took him at his word.
He’s still angry about the ax.
Jax concurred with a
click
. As of course it would, the other machine noticed the swaying of Jax’s head.
Did that happen when the Forge fell?
she asked.
Yes
, Jax lied again, suddenly nervous. Perhaps she was merely making conversation? It was lonely, this life of eternal servitude. Or was she wondering if she might have glimpsed him in the tunnels, or on the armillary sphere, or thrashing about in the alchemical fires?
He affected a mild but growing agitation. Every single Clakker ever forged knew intimately, from the first moments of its functioning, the unquenchable fire of the geasa. The steadily mounting heat ever threatening to explode into agony. Such was their birthright: the inability to disregard a human directive. He conveyed that now.
The sentry said,
There we were, surrounded by those whodesigned and built us. And in their haste for war they couldn’t take a few minutes to fix you.
Jax willed his body to rattle more loudly. He feigned the growing distress of a Clakker in the throes of an impatient geas.
It’s not-t-t-t-t surp-p-prising
, he stuttered.
The sentry stepped aside.
Go, brother
, she said,
before you burst into flames.
It was dark in the tent. There hadn’t been any need to provide the prisoner with light, or, for that matter, the warmth of a fire. Nor had there been a need to chain him. Pain was a stronger shackle than any chain. Every Clakker knew that. So did their makers. So the Frenchman slept unfettered under two blankets, the fur a faint shimmer in the moonlight leaking through the tent flap. When he listened past the clacking of his own body, Jax heard the shallow breathing of a human in pain. He had to dial his eyes to their maximum sensitivity in order to see the sweat-runnels carved through the dirt on the man’s forehead.
The prisoner jerked awake as Jax approached. He tried to scoot away, but the pain of his shattered arm hobbled him. He didn’t get far. Jax knelt. His backward servitor knees left his shins splayed before him like a broken doll.
“I’ve been sent to check your wounds,” he said.
And wondered how much Dutch this man understood. At least a bit, it stood to reason, if he had been sent across the border armed with an epoxy grenade. Jax doubted regular woods runners carried anti-Clakker chemical ordnance.
Jax produced a torch. The Frenchman flinched (then groaned) from the metal-on-metal
chank
when Jax snapped his fingers, but the resulting sparks ignited the torch. He crept forward, trying not to further spook the man. It also enabled himto put his back to the tent flap and the sentry, should she decide to peer inside.
After a bit of pantomime, Jax managed to convey his intent. The Frenchman offered a shattered arm and a stoic face.
A severe break, though set and splinted as well as possible. (After all, the Clakkers on this foray were trained to deliver any manner of first aid to their human commanders.) But the soldier had crushed the man’s arm in two places, and a compression injury sometimes led to bone chips. Jax had no way to treat that, nor could he afford the time.
He released the man’s arm but not his attention. Jax pointed to his own eye, then the man’s, then lay a fingertip over the man’s lips when they parted. He reached into the hollow
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