Chapter 143 Two Against One

The aisle ran between the pens like a corridor sealed at both ends, lit only by the lantern’s gold. Ahead of him the harp trembled on its stage, a thousand silver strings catching the light like fishing line.

"Act two begins with a simple dance, dear, you step left, we pull right," Spindle called, laughing late.

"Nine feet to the harp, I carry a ruler for every excuse," Lathe added, rising from his stool.

"Then come and measure me," he said, his voice dropping to a murmur.

He crossed the nine feet in four strides, the lantern staff whistling down in a bright arc of gold. Lathe met it with the folding rule, the weapons ringing together hard enough to shake dust from the beams.

The mayor’s arm never trembled, though the floor beneath his feet split in a spiderweb of cracks.

He stepped once to the left, turned the staff aside, then drove the rule’s tip into Nilo’s ribs. His heels skidded backward across the boards, coughing, tears flying off his chin in a wide shining spray.

"Eleven percent of your force went into the floor, dear boy, a very wasteful way to fight."

’Every swing of his is a lesson, I’m the only one in the room taking notes.’

"Every string you snap, dear, tightens one of theirs, that is only fair," Spindle added, plucking a wire above Zinnia’s pen.

From the rafters Brickle shouted, "I wish it recorded that this municipality has failed its inspec—"

A wire snapped his chin shut with a click that echoed through the nave.

Behind the harp, the villagers in the pews wept without sound, their painted smiles shining wet in the light.

"Little one, I can hear a heartbeat inside that harp, slow as a sleeping giant," the Weeper whispered.

"Whose heartbeat is it?"

"I cannot tell... there are too many hands upon it."

Spindle ran her fingers up the strings in a rippling glissando, making the planks of every pen shiver. Through a gap in Bruno’s pen a hand rose to wave at the pews, fingers twitching on wires.

"I am waving of my own free will, madam, a Steelhorn enjoys waving," he rumbled through the planks.

"Four hundred pounds of waving, a remarkable range of motion."

Overhead the walnut drone bobbed out of Pipa’s pen on a silver thread, spinning a perfect pirouette above them. Six hundred tear-streaked faces followed it around the nave, every painted smile stretched almost to the point of cracking.

Pipa gasped, "Chat, my drone just curtsied, I never taught it to curtsy."

"I strung my first dancer at nine years old, dear, back when I still wore a face I liked," Spindle said, laughing late.

"Why do this to them?" he asked.

"A town that dances never leaves, dear boy... that is the whole beauty of it."

"You’ll let them go when I’m done dancing?"

"I measure twice and promise once, dear boy, I am a man of my word to the inch," Lathe said gravely.

"Then I’ll be quick," he answered.

He struck again and again, the lantern flaring with every blow, forcing the mayor back a full step. A drop of rain landed on a hinge of the rule, swelling the segment with a soft creak.

Lathe studied the stuck joint with real grief. "Wet pine, I did warn you, it swells and sulks, then refuses to fold."

"You hate the rain more than you hate me," Nilo said flatly.

"I hate disorder, dear boy, rain is merely its messenger."

He snapped the swollen segment off at the hinge, flicking it away, drawing a fresh rule from his sleeve. Spindle’s wires slid down from the rafters, humming a low chord that raised the hair on his bare arms.

Seven masks hung on the rack, six prices still owed, two Visages standing nine strides from the harp.

"Darling, let me sing, I shall shatter that harp into confetti," Cadenza begged.

"Not yet."

The Weeper’s voice rose softly from the rack, "Mister Lathe, there is nothing inside you to weep for, I am so sorry."

"A sorrow shared is merely a sorrow doubled, dear boy, I prefer mine at zero," Lathe replied.

A flick of his wrist hooked the Weeper away, the Jester’s cracked porcelain sliding over his face instead. Red and teal diamonds spread over his coat, his hair puffing into bell-tipped tails that jingled very loudly.

"Oh no, oh no, I’m on the front lines, tell my pun collection I loved it," Jingles squeaked.

Rubber limbs bent through the silver snares, folding backward under one wire, flowing over the next like a ribbon. Bells chimed in his hand, a clear note that froze Lathe’s knees for exactly half a heartbeat, no more.

Then Jingles’s price struck, a shrill laugh bursting from his throat in the middle of the lunge.

"That was a terrible time for it, I apologize to everyone."

Cadenza sighed from the rack, "Darling, that laugh was almost in tune, it only missed by a quarter tone."

"Almost is what ended my uncle’s career in vaudeville."

"Delightful, a clown with a schedule," Lathe murmured, stepping aside.

The wire whipped across his shins in the stutter of that laugh, tying the rubber legs into a knot.

A flick of his wrist sent the Jester to its hook, the Iron Knight’s helm dropping down onto his brow. Full plate rolled across his coat in steaming sheets, a tower shield slamming onto his arm with a loud clang.

"Young man, at last, a proper suit of armor."

"Let’s see how pine handles a siege."

Knight’s Charge hit the floor like a cannon, the shockwave bursting two pens’ worth of planks into splinters.

Lathe vaulted the blast with his hat still perfectly in place, landing lightly on the harp’s platform. Then the wires reached the armor’s joints, sliding quietly through every narrow seam like needles through cloth.

"Young man, my left elbow has opinions I did not authorize," Clangor said stiffly.

"Do hold your ground, sir knight, a retreat would be so ungentlemanly," Lathe called as the wires slid in.

"Young man, I am honor bound to remain, kindly ignore my knees."

’Wires through every seam, so full plate only gives them more handles.’

[ WARDROBE ]

[Mask: Sir Clangor]

[Condition: limbs under outside control]

A flick of his wrist sent the helm to its hook, the armor melting before the joints could tear. Spindle merely smiled and plucked another note, coiling the silver wires slowly tighter around both of his straining wrists.

"Count the beats," Zilch said from the rack.

The Rattle settled over his face with a clatter of scrap, spiky hair springing up as chains looped his belt. At once every wire in the church rang in his ears, a thousand tiny bells shivering at all different pitches.

"Listen to the harp, every string of hers has its own note, I could name them in my sleep," the Rattle chuckled.

"There’s a rhythm under all those notes, kid, the same four beats over and over."

"Four beats," he repeated under his breath.

"Whispering to yourself, dear, is how the finest dancers rehearse."

Dust sifted down from the beams with every note, settling over his shoulders like flour.

"Magnet Pull," he muttered.

Silver wire shot toward his open palm as though it wanted catching, dragging the harp an inch. Spindle laughed a beat too late, her fingers slipping on the strings with a harsh discordant jangle.

"Careful, dear, that is an expensive instrument."

A black and white tailcoat flared as a top hat appeared from nowhere, his slicked hair streaked white. His hand shot out through the pull, plucking Lathe’s folding rule from his grip like a ripe apple.

"Five Finger Discount, buy one, return it tomorrow," the Magpie said brightly.

"Darling, the audience adores a thief," Cadenza purred from the rack.

Lathe studied his empty hand, then the stolen rule, then the boy holding it like a trophy. He drew another rule from his sleeve with a sigh, like a parent scolding a favorite child.

"I own a hundred and forty of these, dear boy, but I admire the effort."

The new rule cracked against the Magpie’s shoulder with the force of a door falling from a roof. He spun across the stage, the stolen rule flying free, the floor rushing up hard to meet him.

"Mind the landing, dear boy," Spindle sang.

Spindle’s wires were waiting there, catching his ankles, his knees, his wrists in one long smooth sweep. They folded him into a kneel before the harp as gently as a mother tucking a blanket.

"Class, look how well he listens when the music is right."

"Four limbs of four, a very tidy arrangement," Lathe added.

[ STATUS ]

[Limbs: 4 of 4 strung]

[Masks: 8 bound]

The planks around the pens crashed outward, revealing the rest of the squad hanging from the rafters.

"I regret to inform the Bureau that I am now a puppet," Brickle called, dangling.

"Chat, if I survive this I am charging admission for the sequel," Pipa sniffed. Zinnia, Bruno, Pipa and Brickle swayed above the nave, heads bowed, mouths pulled into wide painted smiles.

One pair of eyes found his through the tangle of wires, furious even beneath a painted smile.

Pipa’s glasses hung crooked on her nose, Bruno’s pauldron cracked in two, the rafters creaking under their weight.

Spindle’s fingers flew faster across the strings, the music swelling until the whole church seemed to breathe with it. Every pew creaked in time, the villagers swaying, each tear falling on the same exact beat of the song.

Spindle patted a wire, "Do not worry, Mister Nilo, the strings are quite painless."

A wire tightened across Zinnia’s jaw, forcing her mouth to open against the clench of her teeth. Her voice came out in a bright sing-song lilt, nothing at all like her own dry tone.

"Please dance for us, we are so very proud of you," her mouth sang, her eyes screaming no.

"A Steelhorn does enjoy a good waltz," Bruno’s mouth announced in a flat, cheerful voice.

The wires at his wrists drew taut, lifting his arms to shoulder height, his knees straightening slowly. A smile that was not his own tugged at the corners of his mouth, pulling it wide.

"Little one, forgive me, I cannot weep from the rack," the Weeper whispered.

Zilch’s whisper slid through the rack, "Breathe, count, listen."

’Four limbs, eight masks, one voice, I can’t lift a wrist to swap a single one.’

"Dance, Mister Nilo," Lathe said softly.