Coldmarch. Daniel Cohen A.

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СКАЧАТЬ breath’ back in its potion slot, ‘what are the most important ones to know?’

      Leroi crossed his arms, something the Head Tinkerer did quite often. ‘All of them.’

      ‘No, I know that,’ I said, turning away from the cabinet full of solutions and giving him a smile. ‘But I mean the most important specifically for inventing.’

      Leroi gave me an incredulous look, raising an eyebrow.

      I selected the next vial, marked ‘Crushed Marjoram’, and tapped at the bright green powder, a colour I’d only ever seen in Noble eyes. ‘I know it’s important to recognize them all, but we can’t really use everything for inventing. So what I meant is, what are the things in this cabinet to focus on for our line of work?’

      Leroi sat back on his chair and crossed one leg over the other, giving a ponderous scratching of his goatee, looking around the Tavor tinkershop. ‘What is it that you think we do, Spout?’

      ‘Make things,’ I said with a shrug. ‘With metal, and gears, and Cold Charges.’

      ‘And that’s it?’

      I shrugged. ‘Obviously not, but you know what I mean.’

      ‘Course I do. But just because you’re Jadan don’t think I’m going to take it easy on you.’

      I laughed. ‘I don’t think that’s ever been the case.’

      Leroi spread his rough facial hair down at the corners of his moustache. I expected him at least to smile at my joke, but his eyes had become distant and heavy. ‘I imagine that’s true.’

      I nodded, taking out the next vial, with was filled with preserved newtworms from the Hotland Delta. I shook the glass, wondering how much better Jadankind would be if, like these slimy creatures, we didn’t need Cold to survive. I wondered how much Leroi had already experimented with these life forms, trying to discover their secrets.

      ‘What you have to remember,’ Leroi said, ‘is that you will never be finished learning. You will never have only certain things to focus on.’

      I put the newtworm vial back. ‘What do you mean?’

      Leroi sighed, taking his hand away from his face and wiggling his fingers. ‘Art. Inventing is art. The hands of Creation itself. Sometimes you work for the hand of the Crier, sometimes for—’ He stopped himself, shaking his head. ‘Sorry, you don’t need to hear that nonsense. What I mean is, your life isn’t going to be like the Builders or the Patch Jadans or even the Domestics, with certain quotas to fill or tasks to be completed. Inventing is not like other lines of work. There’s no cap, no finishing. Inventors don’t get to specialize in paint, or words, or music, or clay, we work with all of reality itself. Creation to destruction. You need to know everything, and you can never know everything. You need to know that Golemstone reacts violently with Milk of the Dunai. You need to know at what pressure Glassland Black will shatter, and at what temperature it will melt. You need to know how many ounces of Halia’s elixir will dissolve diamonds, or how many drops will make a grown man scream. You need to know your metals and poisons and your powders and your mathematics and your poems, dammit, you need to know what the world needs, Micah, what Jadans need, and Nobles, too, and what this desecrated, Sun-damned, piece of—’

      Cool water splashed my face, snapping me awake. My mouth instinctively gaped, collecting all the water it could. I sputtered and choked as it washed down my throat, but it felt wonderful against my burning tongue. Everything was still out of focus, and I blinked wildly, trying to figure out where I was.

      ‘There. He’s alive,’ a voice announced. ‘Now we get this over with.’

      ‘Give him some time, man.’

      A throaty grumble.

      ‘Spout.’

      A snap of fingers in my ears, then pressure on my chest, rubbing back and forth.

      ‘We can have him ride Picka. She’s small, but strong enough for your little friend. If the Khat’s hounds are on the scent, we need to move.’ Another grumble. ‘Can’t believe you got me into this.’

      I finally heard Shilah’s voice: ‘Spout.’

      ‘Do you know if the baby Sobek bites can have lasting effects?’ Cam asked.

      ‘How should I know?’ the gruff voice asked. ‘If you’re smart, you avoid the damned things.’

      I blinked again, wiping the water off my face, and three bodies came into focus above. Shilah and Cam were pressed against each other, vying for the spot closest to my side. Cam smiled, giving me a rather sheepish wave. He still hadn’t changed out of the loose fluttering robe and blouse and looked like a green cloud. Shilah was straight-faced and standing tall, but her hand was resting gently on my ankle.

      My arm was now covered in a waxy cotton, soaked red all the way through. I imagined Split the Pedlar wasn’t nearly as proficient with needle and gut as my father, whose stitches almost never leaked.

      I felt a wave of nausea, and my body spasmed under the weight of falling memories. I whimpered once, but disguised the next sound by sitting up and coughing, keeping my eyes averted. I pressed down hard over the cloth on my wrist and doubled the pain shooting up my arm. This flushed my mind of anything other than pure physical agony.

      ‘Don’t do that, kid!’ Split demanded. ‘You’ll ruin the stitches! You think this house is made of needle and gut?’

      I didn’t listen, pressing even harder, digging my fingernails through the cloth. It was working. After a few more fake coughs my composure returned.

      The first thing that I noticed was that the shack was rather dull for a Pedlar. The bare walls were decorated with splinters and flecked paint, and the empty shelves were stocked only with dust. The bed was a simple boilweed mattress, with no sleeping sheet. This was unlike the lavish silk accommodations I imagined all High Nobles slept on. A healing box sat open on the counter – recently rifled through – but I couldn’t see any food in the kitchen.

      The one oddity that struck me was the wooden Khatclock in the corner, smaller than Mama Jana’s, but equipped with the same time-locked hands hanging over the Closed Eye face.

      Hands that pointed North.

      I gave the broken clock a nod, as it told me we were at least in the right place. ‘Are you still a Pedlar?’

      Split grunted. ‘Hmm? What’s that?’

      ‘It’s pretty empty in here.’ I worked my jaw and lifted my face enough finally to get a good look at the man. ‘Did you sell everything you own?’

      He crossed his hairy arms, tapping his thumbs against his soft chest. The stout man had the look of someone who could have once picked up his camel, but was now more likely to pick up a plate of cheese. Fair and flabby skin hung loose around his neck, and his belly protruded over his waist. A receding hairline tugged back the top of his head, which was bald and burned red from exposure. Beady eyes were sunken in beside his crooked nose, and his waxen face was chiselled with a deep frown. He wore a hollow sort of sadness I’d seen only once before.

      ‘I peddle СКАЧАТЬ