CLOCKWORK PHOENIX 2: More Tales of Beauty and Strangeness by Mike Allen Page B

behind him.
    An angry mutter passed through the crowd. The minotaur snorted. A human might have sighed.
    “Go to your homes,” he said, and turned on his heel. He let go his captive’s wrist. “Go.”
    She stared at his broad back as he strode from the tower. The hammerers closed again around the gate. She struggled free, buffeted and bumped, and hurried after the minotaur. She tugged at his sleeve to stop him, and pointed to the male statue.
    The slump of his shoulders was answer enough. He said, “Only he who gave life to you can give it to your mate. I cannot help.”

    She fought with her tongue. “When?”
    The minotaur glanced back at the tower. He shook his head. “Come back tomorrow, and see.” The pocked skin around his eyes was tight, as though something pained him. “Come. I will see you fed. You can bed in front of my hearth. Cassiann, is my name.”
    She looked back over her shoulder, at her mate in his cloak of briars. Her gaze travelled up the black face of the tower, to the balcony, silent to the entreaties raised below.
    They returned to Cassiann’s house. He had to duck his head to fit through the door, and remain stooped, inside, so as not to scrape his horns on the ribs of the ceiling. Inside, a wooden bench stood along one side of the hall. The door of the front room was open, the room lined with shelves of jars and vials and tins, every one labelled in meticulous script. A high table with an ornate set of scales stood in the centre and, to the rear, a padded couch and scale curtain to pull around it.
    He was an apothecary, Cassiann said, and when it was plain she did not know the word, explained that he healed people with magic and medicine. He led her down the hall to the kitchen and parlour in back. He pointed to the stairs, leading up to rooms where he slept and studied, and showed her the larder, the lavatory chute and the water pump. He tossed a fresh log onto the hearth, set out fruit and cheese, and a bowl, and cloths, for her to wash herself, should she wish. Then he said he had customers to prepare for, had missed appointments already. He closed the hallway door, and she was alone.
    She stuffed the food into her mouth, hardly chewing before she swallowed. Finished, she wriggled back in the seat of his solitary chair, so that her feet dangled clear of the ground. Her stone hand was cold beneath her living palm. She stared into the flames that licked inside the hearth. Her stomach still grumbled, but her hunger lacked the urgency it had before.
    Presently, she heard voices, the minotaur’s and another, higher in pitch. She listened for a while, idly trying to discern their words. Her gaze wandered around the room, settled on the staircase, then up the curve of the wall to the joists of timber and giant ivory that crossed the ceiling.
    She slipped down from the chair.
    The lowest stair creaked beneath her foot. She crept quietly up, across the small landing at the top and into the bedroom. She padded past the long bed, to the window that opened over the street. The panes of polished leviathan scales let in light, but revealed only the murkiest outlines of the world beyond. She examined the latch, gave it an experimental tug. The window swung outward. She pushed it open.
    Cool air brushed over her face and arms. She leaned her elbows on the damp sill and gazed up at the dark tower, high on its hill. She saw a black stone face, and fingers reaching for her own.
    * * *
    She awoke early the next day, in the dull red light of the coals in the hearth. Her mate’s face faded slowly from her mind’s eye.
    Cassiann was already in his surgery, mixing powders. He paused when she appeared in the doorway. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
    She shook her head.
    The minotaur returned to his work, tipping a measure of pale green powder into a jar already half filled with white. He stoppered the jar and shook it vigorously to mix the powders together, then placed the jar on a shelf. His hand