Tin Horses and Paper Planes
Chapter 4 - A Change of Perspective and a Bacon Sandwich
...rose?
A sound, drifting up into nothing.
Ambrose?
It was a good word, he decided. Ambrose. Amb'r Oess. Song of the Second Moon Rising.
Now where had that come from?
...ou awake?
Waking
always required a certain amount of reconstruction. First,
self-awareness, which always came in a small, surprised moment of 'Oh -
I am!' Then other things would settle into place, some easily, others
with a degree of effort: The events of a previous day. The knowledge
that rain fell downwards. The word for spoons. He'd become quite adept
at putting everything together I'm good at puzzles but it was at times like this that he envied other people, normal
people, who could get out of bed and set their feet down on a world
that was complete and intact, with all the useful little mental
instructions about the operation of bathtaps and door handles already
in place. Instead, each day was like emptying out a vast jigsaw onto
the ground and hoping that some of the pieces would land already
connected. Or at least face up.
One day, maybe I'll hear a 'click' and everything will fit together.
"Ambrose, can you hear me?"
He
considered the shape and the weight of the voice, the texture of
suns-warmed wood and leather; a sound foundation to rebuild the
universe around. And he needed something, because today most of the puzzle pieces that were face up were blank. There was something about that voice...
Good morning, Sweetheart.
It was only in his mind, but it was the same warm, rough timbre, and it
drew him down out of the nothing and into his waiting, aching body.
I hear you.
He found his vocal cords unwilling to cooperate; all that came out was
a dry, creaky rasp. Swallowing uncomfortably he tried again, not yet
making the attempt to open his eyes and establish whether there was
more to the world than the pain that rolled gently inside his skull,
heavy as lead. "Did I... thought I got outta bed this morning..." he
managed, hoarsely.
"You did." There was a quiet rustle of movement, off to his r...
to his le...
There was a quiet rustle of movement, off to one side. "You've had a
seizure, Ambrose. We brought you back to bed, me and the doctor. How
are you feeling now?"
Seizure. It was a nasty, sharp
word; a fizzing, invasive sound that made him want to retreat back into
the dull-edged darkness and hide. "Ambrose... 's that me? I don't..."
He didn't recognise it, but he liked the way the two syllables made an
hourglass-shape, with the comforting hum of the 'mmm' in the middle. I'll be Ambrose, then.
He tried to open his eyes and closed them quickly, making a tremulous,
frightened sound in his throat as the brightness translated into glassy
pain. "Do I live here?"
"You do, for now." The presence at his
side shifted, grew briefly distant. "It's too bright for you. Let me
close the curtains..." The painful glare faded with a rustle of cloth.
"Is that better?"
Slowly, hesitantly, Ambrose risked another
try at opening his eyes. "Better," he agreed, gratefully. It didn't
remove that dense, sinking ache that filled his head but, for all he
knew, that was how he always felt. Darkness was definitely better. "Can
I have some water? Please?" Now that the world was comfortably dim, he
was able to watch his solicitous companion cross to a table at the side
of the room and half-fill a glass with water. He moved quietly for a big guy
and his hands, square-knuckled and powerful, held the elegant,
blown-glass jug with surprising delicacy. It was an interesting
contrast, and Ambrose stored it away with the pitifully sparse
collection of knowledge he'd been able to find, combining it with the
voice
suns-warmed wood and
the woods opened out onto a meadow above the city
and at the top of the meadow was this old tree. An oak, maybe? Always
full of
SQuIRRELS
The Society of the
Queens
Inventors
Researchers
Refiners
Engineers and
Learned
Sages.
Hilly laughed like a loon, and Leo said she was going to get a squirrel tattoo on her
but if you waited until the suns were just about to vanish
and the sky was just right
left a smooth place
where
all the
bark was worn away
and you could lean against it.
Warm wood against your back where
the suns
the
suns
a binary star and the peculiarities of the atmosphere
and the sky was just right, there'd be
a flash of brilliant green that set the clouds alight,
and tinted the pale spires of the City
the city
emerald city
"Ambrose?"
Something
cold was being pressed lightly against his wrist and he blinked. The
quiet room was suddenly filled with ambient sound. "S-sorry. What did
you say?"
The tall man was at his side again, offering him the water. "Can you hold the glass, or do you need me to?"
"I can do it..." He wasn't that much of an invalid, was he? Sheesh...
It was only when he tried to move his arm and a burning sensation tore
through the muscles from wrist to shoulder that he changed his mind.
"Can't," he amended, embarrassed. "Did I fall down some stairs, or
something? Hurts to move."
The other man nodded patiently.
"You had a seizure. It's okay. You're safe, in your own room and I'm
gonna be here if you need anything." And he held the glass and tilted
it so that Ambrose could drink.
Obediently, Ambrose sipped a
little of the cool water, his eyes complaining as they tried to focus
on the hand of the quiet-voiced stranger. "Are you a doctor? Your
hands-" he paused to take a drink, "don't look like-" another sip; why
was his mouth so dry, anyhow? "I don't think I do live here," he hazarded, not wanting to contradict his visitor, but - "none of this is ringing the chimes..."
"Well,
you work for the Queen. I guess you live where she wants you to live
and right now, that's here at the winter palace. I don't think you've
been here very long." Ambrose looked up from the glass. There was so
much to be remembered, and he tried to gather it all into a manageable
bundle as the man continued. "I'm not a doctor. I'm just - I'm a
friend, and I'll be here as long as you need me."
A friend -
Ambrose latched onto the words like a drowning man clutching at a piece
of wood - that was something, wasn't it? Whoever he was, whether or not
this room was tricking him with its unfamiliar lines and angles, he had
a friend. This queen whoever she is, and the palace if it really exists,
could wait until he was feeling a little more lively. He leaned forward
for a final sip of water, then fell back against the pillows, grimacing
weakly at the answering discomfort. "Umm...what's your name?" He felt a
flush of embarrassment warm his cheeks. There was a subtle expression
on the other man's face that he didn't know how to interpret.
"Wyatt Cain. We've known each other a little over an annual, but I've been away for a while. Do you remember anything at all?"
Ambrose
tried to bring something - anything into focus. Some shred of memory.
Some hint that there'd been a 'before' to stop the 'now' from slipping
back into the dark. He stared up into the shadows, fighting to keep his
eyes open. Music. Music and colours - even the one he couldn't- "I... I
heard music. Maybe I imagined it." A sweeping, whirling kind of music
that made him want to get up and move but I'm busy with my colours "And someone gave me an apple." Nothing else flashed a fin, and he made an apologetic face. "And then I was h
e
r
e
"...t's
okay, Glitch. C'mon - snap out of it." Cain was tapping his wrist
lightly, and Ambrose blinked muzzily, wondering what he'd done. Glitch
That meant something. "I gave you the apple last night. And this
morning, you went outside and had yourself a little adventure. I should
probably tell the doctor you're awake now..."
No. I don't need a doctor. I don't like doctors. Ambrose made a noise of protest that turned into a yawn. "Tell him I still got the apple..." They keep doctors away, he added, but drowsiness waylaid the words on the way to his mouth. I'll just shut my eyes for a m
***
Wyatt waited to see if there would be any more to the sentence, but Glitch appeared to have dozed off again. He may sleep through the rest of the day.
The zipperhead looked frail and bloodless, only the dark disarray of
his hair marking the border between the whiteness of his pillow and
that of his face. Damn it, Glitch. Why didn't you tell anyone you were ill? Why didn't anyone notice? He let out a ragged sigh, soft as a whisper, and leaned forward to rest his head in his hands.
It's a sign. The thought sounded like his father again, filled with a deep satisfaction that made Wyatt scowl resentfully. Pull yourself together and get back home where you belong, where you can get these sick ideas out of your head.
They're not sick. They're just... different.
Protest as he might, it still felt as if he was carrying something
shameful with him - a dirty secret he didn't dare let anyone find out,
and a suffocating sense of discouragement began to steal over him. I never meant for this to happen. And how could he have predicted it? What was it he'd said to Glitch? We've known each other a little over an annual, but I've been away for a while. A while: a little under an annual. That kind of maths, you didn't need to be a genius to do. I've only really known him a few months...
The whole thing was absurd, wasn't it? What would he have done if Glitch hadn't been ill? Yeah,
I can see it now. "Hey Glitch... listen, this is probably going to
sound crazy, but I kept on thinking about you, when I was away..."
How did you tell another guy that you missed the way they laughed, or
the far-away look they got sometimes when they were thinking? And even
if he'd managed to get away with that, how in the seven Realms could he
have told Glitch that he'd dreamed about holding him, about hearing
Glitch whisper his name, dark eyes wide with wonder? Those were the thoughts that stirred the toxic well of guilt, releasing the condemning voice of his father like a noxious vapour.
An impatient thought broke through. What did it matter how long he'd known him? In a week, the whole world
had changed. Glitch had started as an annoyance, a liability with the
subtlety of a shotgun, but he'd proven himself time and again to be
more than the sum of his maddening, ultimately endearing half-brained
peculiarities and he'd found a way past all of Wyatt's well-constructed
defences and become his friend, whether he wanted one or not. An annual
back at the Cain ranch hadn't changed that, and he might as well accept
it - it hadn't diminished his attraction to the zipperhead.
It
comes to this. I came back to see if he still made me feel the same
way, and, wrong or not, he does. But it doesn't matter a nickel-plated
damn one way or another unless he recovers.
A noise nudged
him from his train of thought, and he looked up to see if Glitch had
woken. Then the sound came again, and he realised it was his own
stomach, reminding him that his last meal had come in a bottle the
previous night. Should he risk going down to the kitchens for ten
minutes? Reason told him that Glitch was unlikely to do anything other
than drowse the day away, but still he hesitated to leave. Finally, he
compromised, calling the guard in from outside and leaving him with
strict instructions to stay by the bed.
"And you don't leave,
okay? Not unless you have to call the doctor. Otherwise, I don't care
if you get word your own mother is on fire. You stay here until I come
back."
The kitchens were busy, preparations for the evening meal
already in progress, but Wyatt managed to cadge a bacon sandwich and a
cup of strong coffee - a skill all seasoned Tin Men learned during
their careers - and found a quiet corner to lurk in while he ate. He
was just finishing the last of the sandwich, which had been thick and
hot, and almost indecently tasty, when he heard someone approach and
glanced up to see DG, a bundled napkin clutched in both hands. She
smiled hopefully and nodded towards the broad bench.
"Is this seat taken?"
"Hey,
Princess." He gestured for her to sit, brushing a few stray crumbs from
the bench before she settled there, resting the napkin in her lap. "How
are you this morning?" She'd looked pale when he'd left her down at the
ball, struggling to maintain a lighthearted demeanour for her mother's
guests. This morning she'd done some clever trick with her makeup -
which Wyatt suspected was taught to women in dark and secretive
coming-of-age rituals - to disguise any puffiness beneath her eyes that
might have told him how she'd slept. There was a redness marring the
startling blue of her eyes, though. Can't cover that up with any amount of powder and paint.
"My
mother's always complaining that I have engine-grease under my
fingernails." She held up her hands, palms towards her - they looked
perfectly clean and respectable to Wyatt. "Last week she threatened to
ban me from the coach-house altogether, but she won't have to worry
about that for a while. I think I've bitten my nails right down to the
knuckles." She switched her eyes briefly towards the upper levels of
the palace. "How's Glitch? Mister Rawlins said the doctor had been in
with him, that he'd fainted, but then Lucas - he's one of the palace
guards - he said it had been some kind of fit out by the lake..."
I guess news travels fast around here
Wyatt regarded her seriously. "He had a seizure. We got him back to bed
and got him comfortable. He came round for a couple of minutes, but
he's been out like a light since then." He briefly recounted the
morning's events, leaving out - for now - his unfavourable impression
of Edgar Krantz. Neither did he mention the photo album or the
ominously inscribed paper plane. If it's medical, maybe the doctor ought to see,
he thought, reluctantly, but he shied away from the idea of Krantz
prying into the intricate layers, destroying that small artefact of
Glitch's past. Let's see what he finds out from his tests, first.
DG
fiddled with the napkin, pulling out a handful of hazelnuts and popping
one into her mouth, munching with a fretful expression. "I was hoping
it'd turn out to be palace gossip. This place runs on the stuff."
"I
only wish it was." Wyatt stared down into the dregs of his coffee.
"Whatever's going on with him, I got the feeling it's gonna take more
than a few night's sleep and an apple to fix it. Listen, is it okay if
I stick around?"
DG nodded eagerly. "I was hoping you would.
The room's yours, as long as you want it." She fiddled with the bag of
hazelnuts again, then seemed to change her mind and found an unbitten
fingernail instead, worrying at it with her teeth. " Mom said she'd go
and see him, and she's sent for Doctor Spicer - he's her personal
physician. Maybe me and Az could..." She waved the hand not getting a
rough manicure.
The gesture was vague, but the meaning was clear enough. Magic.
It was tempting - if it could bring the dead back to life, couldn't it
cure an ailing zipperhead? Wyatt considered it, then shook his head
reluctantly. "I know you want to help, but there's got to be other
things we can try first. I'm not saying you and your sister aren't
capable, but your mom had years of experience using magic before she
brought you back. If something went wrong, you'd have to live with
that." I'd have to live with it. "I can't say I'm fond of this doctor, but I'll give him a chance." Just one chance. He downed the last of his coffee, grimacing at the bitterness, and rubbed his eyes.
"Have
you slept at all since you got here?" DG gazed at him, and he felt his
throat tighten at the warm concern in her eyes. "You said he was likely
to sleep most of the day. Why don't you get a few hours yourself? I can
go sit with Glitch, in case he wakes up." He hesitated, and she wagged
an admonitory finger. "C'mon. Princess's orders. Lie down before you
fall down." She hiked her finger towards the stairs and Wyatt got to
his feet, smiling a little at her stern expression. On his way out of
the kitchen, he glanced over his shoulder.
"Hey, Your Royal Highness? When you send the guard away from Glitch's rooms, tell him his mother isn't on fire."
