Read an Excerpt
Clockwork Lives
By Kevin J. Anderson, Neil Peart, Nick Robles ECW PRESS
Copyright © 2015 Wordfire, Inc., and Pratt Music
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-77090-809-3
CHAPTER 1
As a blue alchemical glow illuminated the rails, the steamliner came into Lugtown on its weekly run toward Crown City, the heart of the land of Albion. The chain of cargo cars and passenger gondolas was suspended by bright balloon sacks, each marked with the loving Watchmaker's honeybee symbol.
The steamliner touched down, steel wheels striking the rails outside of town and decelerating with gouts of steam and showers of sparks. Steam vents hissed, lowering pressure inside the coldfire boiler chambers. The pilot would park at Lugtown for the better part of a day to refill water tanks and take on cargo.
Restless passengers disembarked, the men wearing frock coats and top hats or bowlers; some women wore voluminous dresses, gloves, and button-up black boots; other women wore more casual traveling clothes, or even work overalls on their way to distant job sites.
The steamliner's weekly arrival was extremely disruptive for a person with a schedule to keep and work to do. Standing impatient and then trying to make her way around the crowd, Marinda Peake watched the travelers' expressions shift from optimism to disappointment, apparently not impressed with the little village of Lugtown. They were on their way to Crown City or to parts unknown — and Marinda had her own business here.
She had often considered shifting her regular supply trip into town to a different day of the week, but she had always come on Wednesday, and it would be too unsettling to change. A well-established routine served a valid purpose.
The steamliner pilot emerged from the front motivator car, which was connected to a passenger gondola and smoking compartment. Marinda held a long-dampened resentment toward any steamliner pilot, since her mother had run off with one such pilot when Marinda was just a girl, mesmerized by his stories of far-off places, the freedom, the flexibility to travel. Elitia Peake was never heard from again, and Marinda's father rarely spoke of his long-lost wife, except with a wistful smile and few details. That had been more than twenty-five years ago....
Marinda did not bother with memories of her mother, though. The woman was never coming back, so there was no sense wasting time or mental energy thinking about the faithless woman. She had other things to do.
Now, the barrel-chested pilot barked commands to his crew, and they hooked up water pipes to refill the boiler chambers for the long journey into Crown City. Cargo workers swung down from their drab bunk car to unload merchandise. Villagers came forward, eager to see what interesting items were available for trade, but Marinda had no interest. Such fripperies were a waste of time and imagination, and she and her father already had what they needed.
The people brought wagons and chugging carts loaded with their finest craftsmanship, which they would ship to Crown City. Lugtown was primarily known for burls from local oaks that were twisted and distorted by a perennial fungus. In keeping with the tenet of the Clockwork Angels that "even the ugly can be made useful, possibly even beautiful," Lugtowners carved the burls into furniture, decorative accent pieces, and fantastic sculptures — particularly carvings of the angels. Every house in town had burl tables, burl chairs, burl countertops, burl bowls, even clocks framed with burlwood.
The carvers sent their work off on the steamliner, but none of them bothered to go to Crown City to see their art displayed in galleries. When Marinda had asked a woodcarver about it once, he'd responded with a baffled look. "Why would I want to do that? The Watchmaker granted me the gift to be a sculptor, not a traveler. Should I diminish something I am, for something I am not and do not want to be?" Marinda found that logic eminently reasonable.
A local quarry also produced many thunder eggs — agates — which the Watchmaker supposedly found beautiful. The polished stones went off to Crown City in crates neatly separated from the burlwood items.
Showing no inclination to hurry, since the steamliner would be there for hours, the villagers loaded their outbound cargo and perused the new shipments of supplies. Marinda bustled past them, away from the steamliner station, and made her way into town. Fortunately, with so many townspeople gawking at the inconvenient disruption of the steamliner's arrival, the local businesses would have fewer customers, which made for easier shopping on her part. That allowed Marinda to complete her errands more efficiently.
Lugtown was laid out on the same general map as all of the villages in Albion; the Watchmaker had standardized the whole land more than two centuries ago when he imposed his benevolent Stability. Thus, Marinda adhered to the philosophy that if she'd seen one town in Albion she had seen them all, and it was a lot easier just to continue seeing this one.
With measured steps, she walked down the main street, past shops, clerks' offices, the local newsgraph station. A cloud obscured the sun, and the wind whisked by. Marinda reached up to touch her brown hair, done up in an efficient bun so the strands would not be blown astray; they all remained firmly in place. Marinda believed in stability in her hair arrangement, as with all things.
Though she was only thirty-two and her skin was still smooth, she had already adopted the persona of a much older woman. In that, Marinda was ahead of schedule. The hours ticked away. She ticked away ... and her father was ticking away even faster than the rest.
She reached into the pocket of her gray wool skirt to withdraw her list, reviewing the items she needed to purchase. Today, she had to make a special trip to the apothecary for unguents, prescription powders, and ophthalmic salves, though all of those curatives had less and less effect as her father's health continued to decline.
As she walked past the solicitor's office, the door popped open, startling her with its jingling bell. Benjulian Frull was Lugtown's only lawyer, a master of the fine art of legal language, obfuscation, and loopholes. The fact that he had no competition in Lugtown made it difficult for any legal disputes to become contentious, because Benjulian Frull, Esq., represented both sides, quoting chapter and verse to each party until the matter was resolved.
"Ah-hem, Miss Peake! I saw you passing by, which is quite fortuitous. I need to discuss a matter with you." Frull stepped out to join her on the street. He was a man with a round face and a round belly; in contrast, his arms and legs were quite spindly so that, in summation, he was an average-sized man. "And how is old Arlen doing?"
"The same as always," she said. "Poorly. His eyesight is mostly gone, and he is in constant pain, but he dabbles with his inventions and keeps his clockwork Regulators functioning, although they don't work as well as he thinks. I believe he's much more ill than he lets on." She put her hands on her hips. "My eyesight is perfectly good, and I can see his condition."
The solicitor frowned. "But how is Arlen's mind? Ah-hem ... can he still think clearly? The wheels still turning smoothly?" He tapped the side of his head.
"His body may be failing him, but his mind is not. My father can still daydream, and he likes those silly stories of his more than ever. He wants me to read aloud for him every night."
"Good," Frull said. "I just wanted to verify that in your opinion he is of sound mind? He seemed quite clearheaded when he engaged my services last week, but I wanted to make sure."
Marinda raised her eyebrows. "But he never leaves the cottage. When did he talk to you?"
"Arlen sent one of those clockwork contraptions marching into town while you were away on your weekly errands, summoned me to the cottage. I went out and spoke with him for hours."
Marinda was surprised. "Well, he didn't bother to mention it to me." She knew her father had plenty of secrets, but she didn't realize how much he kept truly private from her.
"It was legal business, a redrafting of his last will and testament. He needs to make certain that you're taken care of. He wants what's best for you. You're aware that he amassed a significant nest egg from his time in Crown City?"
She hardened her expression. "That's all just so much nonsense. People say he has a secret stash of the Watchmaker's gold. If that's the case, he certainly hasn't used it to make our lives easier, and he refuses to speak of whatever he did back then." Some even said that Arlen Peake had once worked for the Watchmaker himself, a long time ago....
Marinda wasn't actually interested in pampered luxuries; she was content with her quiet, perfect life, setting her ambitions low enough so that she met every single one of them. Even if her father did have unimaginable riches from his secretive past, she wouldn't know what to do with wealth.
Benjulian Frull clucked his tongue. "Arlen had me draw up the documents, which are signed and notarized. Although his wishes seem strange, I believe he is in full possession of his mental capacity. I'm glad you agree. He is preparing for the day when he is no longer with us."
Marinda felt uncomfortable with the subject. "I've tended my father for years. Sometimes, he's prone to overreacting." She pulled out her list of items for the general store and the apothecary. "I need to pick up these supplies and get back to my father in time to prepare him dinner. Good day."
Nodding, the solicitor stepped back inside his office.
* * *
Camberon Greer, the round-faced and jovial grocer, knew that Marinda came in every Wednesday, so she never understood why he didn't just have her order packaged up and ready, so as not to waste her time. The grocer didn't have the same respect for time as Marinda did — he never had. Marinda wondered what she had ever seen in that man. If circumstances had been different ...
Much to Marinda's surprise, Greer was closing up his store just as she arrived. She frowned up at the nearest clock tower, looked at the smaller clock mounted on the corner of the building across the street, and frowned again. The sign above the door said Camberon Greer: Grocer, General Store; the hours were prominently marked, and they did not match what she was seeing with her own eyes.
Camberon grinned as he pulled the door shut. "It's Miss Marinda! Happy to see you as always. You're looking lovely." He said that to her every time; she knew he used to mean it, but now it was just a habit for him, and a bittersweet reminder for her.
Marinda pointed to the hours. "You're supposed to be open. I need to purchase my weekly supplies."
"Sorry, but today is special, Miss Marinda." Miss Marinda. Did he always have to remind her of that? "It's my youngest boy's birthday, and we're closing down so we can go crack thunder eggs at the quarry. We might get lucky and find a pearl of quintessence!"
The door popped open again, and three rambunctious boys ran out laughing and harassing one another. They were all redheaded, freckled. Unruly ragamuffins, Marinda thought. They were named Oberon, Albert, and Tom — definitely not the names she would have chosen if she and Camberon had had children. She stopped herself from thinking like that.
"But you're supposed to be open," she repeated. "I need supplies."
Camberon continued cranking down the awning and closing up crates of items on display. "Sorry, it's a special day." He cocked his eyebrows at her. "And I know you and your father have plenty of supplies for another week."
"But ... my list." She pulled out her paper from the pocket in her skirt.
"We're going to see the steamliner," said one of the boys — Albert, she thought, though she never really paid attention. They weren't her children, after all.
"Then we're going to the quarry," said the youngest boy, Tom, the one with the birthday.
"The quarry is always there," Marinda pointed out. "And the steamliner comes every week."
"But today's my birthday," said Tom, "so it's special."
Camberon tousled the boy's hair. "Is your mother coming?"
"She's packing lunch," said Oberon.
Marinda frowned at the inconvenience. It was Wednesday, and she always got groceries on Wednesdays.
Camberon saw her consternation and gave her an understanding smile. "We'll open again at sunset. You're in town, why don't you relax, walk along the stream, go to the park, read a book? There's no hurry, is there?"
Marinda wasn't even tempted by such diversions. She had to get home and care for her father; the words of the solicitor had unsettled her. Old Arlen was not well, and she needed to be there to watch over him. It was her responsibility. She had given up so much to take care of him, year after year.
Camberon's wife, Jasselyn, came from around the back of the store carrying a picnic basket. The three boys jostled, wrestled, and ran forward to cling to her arms. She endured it all with a smile, and Camberon grinned.
Jasselyn had long brown hair like Marinda's, but she kept hers loose, sometimes tying ribbons in it, sometimes adding flowers, other times just curling it into an unexpected mane. She looked much younger than Marinda — which was unexpected, because one would have thought that three busy children would wear a person out. "Hello, Miss Marinda." She sidled up next to her husband, and the children gathered around.
Camberon said, "Please come back at sunset, Marinda. It'll be fine — I promise."
The family walked off, leaving her with unsettling thoughts of what might have been. A long time ago, the Watchmaker had planned that Marinda and Camberon would be married, sending pre-printed engagement cards and everything, and he had been so eager to have children.
But all that had changed when Arlen had gotten sick. Accepting her priorities and responsibilities, Marinda broke off the engagement with Camberon to care for her father.
Planned lives, scheduled happiness ...
"Have a good picnic," she said, but doubted they heard her as they walked toward the steamliner tracks and the road leading to the quarry on the outskirts of town.
CHAPTER 2
Storytellers might have described Marinda's little cottage, yard, and garden plot as idyllic, but no storytellers would ever write about this place. It was just her home, and it was perfect because that was how Marinda chose to define perfection.
Marking the head of the path that branched off to the cottage stood a five-foot-high burlwood angel. This particular angel looked bent rather than majestic; one wing tucked under the other gave the impression that she was flightless. Only perfect burlwood angels were sent to the markets in Crown City, while less successful carvings, like this one, remained in Lugtown like beloved albeit misfit children.
Marinda headed back to the cottage much earlier than expected. But Arlen Peake could be capricious and unpredictable himself, so he wouldn't be overly bothered by the change in schedule.
As an inventor, he was expected to be eccentric. If the rumors were true, the Watchmaker himself had tolerated Arlen's unorthodox behavior — and if the loving Watchmaker allowed it, then the people of Lugtown wouldn't hold it against him (although, truth be told, the eccentric behavior presented its own challenges for Marinda, on top of caring for his other infirmities).
The conversation with Benjulian Frull had troubled Marinda. She knew she had to accept that her father would pass on someday, and then the cottage would belong to her. In the typical blueprint of a life in Albion, Marinda would have settled in that cottage with a husband and a family, maybe three children, maybe even redheaded and freckled boys, but she had deviated from that norm. She would find a profession for herself, do something useful and interesting to occupy her days, and carry on.
The Clockwork Angels said that good work leads to good fortune, and she had no doubt that her fortune would continue, with or without whatever secret gold her father had stashed away from his time in Crown City. Marinda didn't think about it often. We get what we deserve. That was what the Watchmaker always said.
In front of the cottage, she saw the three clockwork Regulators that Arlen had built out of spare parts scrounged from mining machinery at the agate quarry, engineering castoffs from the regular steamliner, and specialized components ordered from providers in Crown City. The mechanical Regulators were powered by tiny rock pearls glowing with quintessence, assisted by standard spring-driven clockwork mechanisms.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Clockwork Lives by Kevin J. Anderson, Neil Peart, Nick Robles. Copyright © 2015 Wordfire, Inc., and Pratt Music. Excerpted by permission of ECW PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
