not go weak in the knees when the ticktocks scuttled up the walls like roaches. Who wouldn’t piss themselves at the sound of clockwork. But many of those had died in the previous conflict. Marseilles-in-the-West needed time. Time to replenish, recuperate, repopulate.
The wind had risen and the temperature fallen while they argued with the Chastain family. Longchamp’s breath formed long streamers that eeled around tree boughs and silent fountains en route to the river, as if fleeing Marseilles before it was too late. Longchamp directed his mount around the corner, to get off the boulevard and out of the worst of the winter chill. Little drifts of snow collected on his shoulders, beard, eyebrows, and the mare’s wispy mane. Combined body heat of soldier and horse melted the snow, but the meltwater beaded and ran clear of the natural oils in Longchamp’s beaver pelt cloak.
The detour took him past an empty playground adjoining the Orphanage of Saint Jean-Baptiste. Swings creaked in the wind, swaying like pendulums in a Dutch clock. The slowtwisting of the merry-go-round etched arabesques in the windblown snow. There would be more orphans, too many for this playground, before all was said and done.
He rode through pools of yellow-white light cast from the orphanage windows. Too bright for candles; that was synthetic lamp oil. Longchamp made a mental note to speak with the nuns to learn what the kids needed most. The winter had caught him by surprise; Christmas would be upon them sooner rather than later. By this time last year he’d already made hats, mittens, and scarves for half a dozen of the little brats.
But, then, the past year had been one unending shitstorm. He hadn’t much time to spare for the urchins.
He nodded to the sentries manning the outer keep’s north gate. They saluted. As his mare clopped under the spear-point teeth of the portcullis, he said, “I reckon it’s been quiet.”
“Just a couple petitioners,” said one. “The townies are in denial.”
Said the other, “They still haven’t grasped that the Clakkers are coming back.”
Longchamp said, “They will. And when they do, the entire town will try to wheedle a spot behind these walls. That’ll be a fun day.” Then he added, speaking over his shoulder as he entered the keep, “Sergeant Chrétien will be coming along with two wayward conscripts in tow. I’m off duty now. Try not to hand us over to the tulips before morning.”
He left his mare in the stables adjoining the north barracks. He shed cloak, scarf, and hat in the mudroom, stamped the snow from his boots, and shook it from his beard. After retrieving his needles and a ball of woolen yarn dyed cobalt blue, plus bread, cheese, and cider, he took a seat near the fireplace in the common room. The
click
of his knitting needles, regular and repetitive as a monk’s chant, melted into the quiet noise ofthe barracks. The gossip, the plastic-on-wood
clatter
of desultory dice games, the
squeak
of boots being polished, the
rasp
of sharpened blades. The amity of soldiers.
Knitting helped slow his racing thoughts. It eased the sickening twist in his stomach that lately accompanied contemplations of the near future. He’d been working on a scarf the day they pulled the military Clakker from the wall; he’d never finished it. Dried blood had made the yarn too crusty to work. But he’d kept the unfinished scarf as a reminder. Like a bad penny that couldn’t be spent or discarded, memories of that day always found their way back to him.
The fire had burned low, Longchamp noticed, and so had the soldiers’ banter. He didn’t have to look to know they were watching him. They’d taken to studying his facial expressions and his moods, as though he were a talisman from which their futures could be divined.
“Captain, sir?”
Longchamp looked up. A corporal stood nearby, clutching an envelope. That’s what had broken his reverie. How many times had the boy addressed him? Longchamp
The wind had risen and the temperature fallen while they argued with the Chastain family. Longchamp’s breath formed long streamers that eeled around tree boughs and silent fountains en route to the river, as if fleeing Marseilles before it was too late. Longchamp directed his mount around the corner, to get off the boulevard and out of the worst of the winter chill. Little drifts of snow collected on his shoulders, beard, eyebrows, and the mare’s wispy mane. Combined body heat of soldier and horse melted the snow, but the meltwater beaded and ran clear of the natural oils in Longchamp’s beaver pelt cloak.
The detour took him past an empty playground adjoining the Orphanage of Saint Jean-Baptiste. Swings creaked in the wind, swaying like pendulums in a Dutch clock. The slowtwisting of the merry-go-round etched arabesques in the windblown snow. There would be more orphans, too many for this playground, before all was said and done.
He rode through pools of yellow-white light cast from the orphanage windows. Too bright for candles; that was synthetic lamp oil. Longchamp made a mental note to speak with the nuns to learn what the kids needed most. The winter had caught him by surprise; Christmas would be upon them sooner rather than later. By this time last year he’d already made hats, mittens, and scarves for half a dozen of the little brats.
But, then, the past year had been one unending shitstorm. He hadn’t much time to spare for the urchins.
He nodded to the sentries manning the outer keep’s north gate. They saluted. As his mare clopped under the spear-point teeth of the portcullis, he said, “I reckon it’s been quiet.”
“Just a couple petitioners,” said one. “The townies are in denial.”
Said the other, “They still haven’t grasped that the Clakkers are coming back.”
Longchamp said, “They will. And when they do, the entire town will try to wheedle a spot behind these walls. That’ll be a fun day.” Then he added, speaking over his shoulder as he entered the keep, “Sergeant Chrétien will be coming along with two wayward conscripts in tow. I’m off duty now. Try not to hand us over to the tulips before morning.”
He left his mare in the stables adjoining the north barracks. He shed cloak, scarf, and hat in the mudroom, stamped the snow from his boots, and shook it from his beard. After retrieving his needles and a ball of woolen yarn dyed cobalt blue, plus bread, cheese, and cider, he took a seat near the fireplace in the common room. The
click
of his knitting needles, regular and repetitive as a monk’s chant, melted into the quiet noise ofthe barracks. The gossip, the plastic-on-wood
clatter
of desultory dice games, the
squeak
of boots being polished, the
rasp
of sharpened blades. The amity of soldiers.
Knitting helped slow his racing thoughts. It eased the sickening twist in his stomach that lately accompanied contemplations of the near future. He’d been working on a scarf the day they pulled the military Clakker from the wall; he’d never finished it. Dried blood had made the yarn too crusty to work. But he’d kept the unfinished scarf as a reminder. Like a bad penny that couldn’t be spent or discarded, memories of that day always found their way back to him.
The fire had burned low, Longchamp noticed, and so had the soldiers’ banter. He didn’t have to look to know they were watching him. They’d taken to studying his facial expressions and his moods, as though he were a talisman from which their futures could be divined.
“Captain, sir?”
Longchamp looked up. A corporal stood nearby, clutching an envelope. That’s what had broken his reverie. How many times had the boy addressed him? Longchamp
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