Chapter 141 Strings

The first row of masks hit the van before Ganzo finished the word, sixty hands clawing for the doors. He caught the roof rack in one fist, the whole van rocking as dancers climbed his arms like ivy.

"Gently, my friends, gently, I am a very large coward about hurting you," he boomed, red threads already looping his wrists.

Bruno bundled the sleeping woman into the passenger seat, then planted himself in the open doorway, feet braced. Two hundred more villagers pressed against the Captain’s back, every one of them weeping behind a painted smile.

"Captain, one swing of Tusk would clear this road, I merely mention it."

"It would clear the people standing on it too, Steelhorn, they are the road," Ganzo said, his shoulders shaking under the weight.

A captain who could level a whole block stood frozen with a hundred villagers hanging from his limbs. If he flexed even once, every wire on him would snap, taking the tied wrists along with it.

"I am a wall now, a stubborn one, go and find the man who owns that wretched music box," he growled through his clenched teeth.

More doors banged open along the square, villagers in festival masks pouring out in neat rows. Every right hand waved on the same slow beat, as though one string worked them all.

"Chat, the census promised four hundred twelve villagers, my scope counts six hundred twelve wrists, someone added strangers," she whispered.

Zinnia drew her rapier, "They must be every auditor and traveler who ever came looking for this poor town."

A scrap of violet silk fluttered on the roof above the clock, where the cloak crouched. Brickle still sat on the steps below, smiling at nothing, his pencil scratching on its own.

"Every smile in this square is exactly the same width, I counted twice, it is the worst thing I have ever seen," Jingles squeaked from the rack.

Nilo stood a half step back with his thumb on the bandolier, brass hooks cool against his ribs. Every villager’s eyes shone wet in the noon light, like pebbles at the bottom of a deep well.

’Nobody here is smiling, somebody just pulled the corners of their mouths up.’

"Darling, what a dreadful audience, not one of them is clapping for the right reasons," Cadenza sighed.

A boy of about seven stepped out of the front row with a hay fork twice his height. Its tines swung up toward Zinnia’s ribs as his small arm jerked, once, twice, like a hooked fish.

Nilo’s voice dropped to almost nothing, "Put it down."

The boy’s mouth stretched wider while two fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

The wires hummed overhead, sending every villager in the square lunging forward at once.

Nilo flicked his wrist before the first scream finished, the Weeper’s mask settling over his face. His coat lengthened into a hooded rain shawl that dripped, silver-blue hair spilling down his back.

A staff of water-glass dropped into his grip, a little lantern burning at its head.

"Oh, little ones, you are all crying, I can hear every one of you," the Weeper said, soft as drizzle on a window.

Hot tears spilled down Nilo’s face before he could blink, cutting clean tracks through the road dust.

[ LEDGER ]

[Mask: The Weeper]

[Price: tears fall through every fight]

[Status: in force]

Bruno waded into the front rank with Toro blazing on his brow, lifting two farmhands off the ground. He set them down behind him as gently as crates of eggs, never once raising a clenched fist.

"Forgive me, goodman, this is a rescue and not a brawl," he bellowed, catching a pitchfork on his pauldron.

Zinnia shouted, "Bruno, left—"

A scythe whistled past his ear before she could finish her warning.

The farmer who swung it was weeping openly, his arms driven by wires he could not see. Bruno caught the handle on his bracer, the blade stopping a finger’s width from his bare throat.

"My apologies, sir... I do not intend to hurt you, only to confiscate your scythe," he said gravely.

Nilo spun the lantern staff through a wide circle, its glass head knocking three hay forks aside. The tears kept falling the whole time, soaking the shawl, the bandolier, every brass hook on it.

"You are dripping on the entire rack, I was not built for rain," Jingles squeaked.

"Darling, my feathers were gilded for a stage, not a flood."

"Young man, rust is a gentleman’s mortal enemy," Clangor said stiffly.

Zinnia slid her rapier tip through a wire, "Crying while you fight is not a lie, so I will not count it."

"I’m not crying, my face is just leaking."

"That sounded like a lie, I am saving it for later."

Four copies of Zinnia flickered across the square in a looping dance, drawing the lunging villagers toward shimmering decoys. Whenever a hand grabbed a phantom, the wire above it tugged taut, freezing the villager still for a breath.

"The wires are the target, not the villagers, I only need to find where they end," she called, ducking a swinging broom.

Pipa fired once, a husk round whining across the square to sever the wire over the baker’s wrist. The wire whipped back like a lash, spinning her around by the rifle barrel before she could duck.

Pipa spun around yelling, "Chat, new rule, never ever shoot the wires, the wires shoot back!"

"Six hundred twelve strings, taut," Zilch said from the rack.

The church doors stood open at the end of the square, a black mouth under a crooked steeple. Inside, something creaked like a very large chair turning slowly toward the open entrance, patient as a spider.

Bruno cracked his neck, "If the puppeteer is in that tower, I can climb it, a Steelhorn has never met a staircase he could not intimidate."

Zinnia sighed, "You cannot climb a tower with six hundred villagers holding your ankles."

"Chat, he is going to try it anyway... place your bets," Pipa murmured.

Nilo caught the boy’s hay fork on the lantern staff, its steel tines ringing against the water-glass head. A tear fell on the wire above the boy’s wrist, turning the silver strand limp for one heartbeat.

’Wet wire goes slack for a second, then the tune snaps it tight again.’

"His mother hums to him every night, little one, I can hear her through the wires," the Weeper murmured.

"Little one, you are trembling," the Weeper added softly.

"It’s the price, nothing else."

"No, it is the sorrow of six hundred people, you were never built to carry that much alone."

At the edge of the square a woman swayed in time with the wires, her lips shaping a lullaby. Her eyes found the boy briefly, then slid quietly away in shame, telling Nilo exactly whose song it was.

"Somebody who likes an audience is playing with them, that is the only thing I’m sure of," he said, tears dripping off his chin.

The lantern at the head of the staff flared, throwing warm gold light across the whole square. Every wire lit like lightning, the six hundred lines bending upward to meet at the bell tower.

[ SKILL ]

[Lantern Light: reveals every bond between the mourner and the cause]

[Source: The Weeper]

"There, all of them end at the same belfry," he said, pointing the staff upward.

"Then the puppeteer sits in the tower, which makes the tower the only target worth hitting," Zinnia answered.

’Six hundred people, one belfry, and somebody who wants us to walk in the front door.’

Hauling Brickle behind the well by his sleeve, she called, "Examiner, stay down, this is not part of the examination."

"Everything is part of the examination, young lady, that is the entire point of an examination."

Brickle scribbled on his form with a trembling pencil, three fat raindrops from nowhere already smearing the whole page. He peered at the cloudless sky, then lowered his gaze very slowly to the water dripping off Nilo’s chin.

"It is raining from the knight, I have never recorded that before," he whispered.

He clung to his clipboard, peering through jar-lid glasses at the lantern staff. "You there, the weeping knight, state your name for the form."

"Nilo."

"Knight Nilo, noted... how is that spelled?"

Before Nilo could finish answering, every villager in the square stopped moving at exactly the same instant. The waving hands dropped, the hay fork went still, six hundred heads turning toward the church tower.

Silence fell over Halloway so completely that Nilo heard his own tears hitting the cobbles, each drop sharp as glass.

Six hundred shadows stretched toward the church, long fingers pointing at the open doors.

Pipa lowered the scope, her face gone pale as she counted all six hundred heads turned slowly toward the tower.

"Chat, I have run out of jokes, that has never happened to me before," she whispered.

"Then we all walk in together, a Steelhorn never enters a strange church alone."

The bell rang once, a flat note rolling across the rooftops like a dropped coin.

In one voice, six hundred mouths said, "Do come in, the show is about to begin."