Mud and Brass
Page 1
Mud and Brass
A Steampunk Short Story
by Andrew Knighton
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Copyright © Andrew Knighton 2014
The right of Andrew Knighton to be identified as the owner of this work is asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior express written permission of the copyright holder.
Contents
Mud and Brass
About the Author
Dedication and Thanks
Mud and Brass
Gas oozed up through the thick, putrid mud, bubbles bursting with a dull 'phut' and spattering Niggle's coat with green-brown blobs. Some awful things must be rotting away in the river bed, but Niggle didn't need gas to tell him that. He'd spent years watching the filth dumped in the River Burr. Even now, the dregs of Mercer Shackleton's dyeing vats seeped into the water, ribbons of black, red and blue mingling to brown as they trailed away from the brick cliff of the factory. Up above, porters came and went, throwing waste from an empty air dock. Higher still the Mercer's chauffeur pissed out the window of his airship, laughter whipping on the wind as he tried to hit the gulls.
Mud squelched half way up Niggle's boots, thick, foul and full of promise. He settled down on a step by the bank, nudging around in the muck with the tip of his boot. He remembered when this was his livelihood, young and barefoot, his toes feeling for shapes in the mudflats by the river. Those toes had been able to grasp a cogwheel or a penny out of the mire. He'd been filthy and stinking, but he'd only had to go neck deep for the really big salvage. Now he had his own shoes, and a room to go back to at the end of the day.
The banks of the Burr were scattered with mudlarks, whether pale faced children or lithe old men, their faces scarred by pox and war. Some of them bore the bruises of the stick-men's weekly raids, when the city cracked down on the unwashed and unwanted. All the mudlarks were intent on scouring the mud.
A mudlark squelched up to Niggle. He was maybe thirteen, and nearly as tall as Niggle, as tall as he was likely to get. Men grew like mushrooms in the city's shadows, short and grey.
'Here Mister Niggle, I got somethin' for ya.' He held out a clump of interconnected brass gears, clogged with sewage and pond-weed.
Niggle took a magnifying glass from his pocket and peered at the proffered mechanism. This time of day, after the factory lunch whistles, sunlight managed to slip between buildings, and the device gleamed in his gloved palm. He turned it over and over, scrutinising its parts, while the mudlark idly nudged the nearby muck.
'I'll give you sixpence,' Niggle said, stowing the magnifier and pulling out a draw-string purse.
'Shilling.'
'Ninepence.'
'Ten.'
'Done.'
Niggle counted the coins, adding an extra ha'penny for luck. Other mudlarks were approaching, rummaging through their bags. They'd saved up anything that might interest the Clockwork Institute, from tuneless music boxes to tarnished watch facings and rusty screws. Shadows were creeping over the Burr by the time the last mudlark squelched away.
A splash grabbed Niggle's attention. A woman's filthy body was sinking into the river, ragged dress spreading around her. He throbbed with anger as he glimpsed her emaciated face disappearing beneath a heavy current. His fingers stroked the scarred and twisted flesh of his right wrist. The memory of pain flashed through him, the crunch of gears closing in on his infant hand, the flood of panic at his mother's screams as he reached for her and the looms roared and the whistles blew and -
He snapped back to the present. Someone was laughing.
Three figures peered down from Shackleton's water dock at the sinking figure. Two porters in grey bowlers, brushing their hands on their jackets, and a large, white-haired man in an immaculate suit, watching the body with a sneer. Shackleton himself, come to see off another of his worn-out workers.
Did it make it better, Niggle wondered, that the Mercer himself had come down? Did it matter? It was all the same to the poor souls worked to death at a dye pit or mangled in the arms of a loom. Seeing machines thrown from those docks made Niggle melancholy, and seeing the bodies made him angry, but seeing Shackleton himself, standing bold as brass while his henchmen tossed someone away, that filled Niggle with rage.
'Third this month,' a passing mudlark said, looking up from the body to the factory's chimneys, smoke billowing hundreds of feet above their heads. 'What do they do to 'em in there?'
Niggle rubbed his wrist. 'You don't want to know.'
Niggle's street shoes rubbed at his ankles as he made his way up Rowdersgate. He preferred his boots, but if he walked round here covered in muck he'd be chased off by the stick-men or the college porters. So the boots were slung in his bag, along with his mud-spattered coat and today's purchases.
He paused in his usual spot in the lee of a hatter's stall, watching the door of a coffee house. After a few minutes a group of women emerged, deep in conversation. One of them paused before descending to the street, looking around with a soft smile on her face, taking in the bustle around her. Just like every time before, Niggle marvelled at her beauty, her slim face above a slender body, the dark curls of her hair tied back from the curve of her neck. Her skirts swirled as she descended the steps, revealing a brief glimpse of blue stocking.
She paused again at the bottom of the steps, peering at a pocket watch. The rest of the women had gone and she stood alone, frowning as she tapped the watch.
Niggle looked around. This was his moment. Everyone was busy passing by. Some, young men particularly, glanced at the woman as they passed, but none even looked his way. Still, he felt like the whole world was watching him, judging him for even daring to think about her. He took a deep breath, forced down the churning fear, and took a few terrified steps forwards.
'Um, excuse me,' he said. She didn't seem to hear, so he cleared his throat and spoke a little louder. 'Excuse me?'
She looked up with a puzzled smile.
'I'm terribly sorry,' she said, 'you must think me awfully crass, but do I know you?'
'Is it broken?' Niggle pointed at the watch.
'Yes. Well, maybe.' Even her frown was beautiful. 'It's stopped, and I'm sure it's wound, but...' She shrugged. 'Do you know anything about watches?'
Niggle pulled the magnifying glass from his pocket. 'May I?'
She held out the watch, and Niggle caught a hint of her scent. This must be what flowers smelt like. So sweet, so delicate. He tried not to tremble as he took the watch and pried open the casing.
It was an old watch, beautifully made and perfectly preserved. But the gears were starting to wear out, and the balance wheel had come loose, dislodging pinions as it caught in the spring.
'Isn't it amazing?' She was leaning close, peering through the magnifying glass beside him. 'All those tiny parts, working as one.'
'Or not.' Niggle handed her the glass and pulled out a pair of tweezers. He teased the gears into place, feeling the click of well matched parts. He closed the casing and set the time by the college clock.
'Thank you so much!' She beamed as she took the watch. 'It belonged to my mother, and I'd feel simply wretched if it were broken.'
'You should replace the balance wheel,' Niggle said. 'Some smaller gears too. If not, it'll keep stopping.'
'Can you do that?'
Niggle nodded. 'It's quite simple.'
Her eyes lit up. 'Would you? I'd be so grateful.'
Niggle nodded.
'
Oh thank you!' She pulled a fountain pen and notebook from her small satchel. 'Here's my address. Could you come tomorrow? Perhaps at three?'
Niggle nodded and took the sheet of neat, curling writing, lost for words now he was looking at her and not the workings of a machine.
'Oh, how embarrassing, where are my manners?' She held out a white gloved hand. 'My name is Gloria Shackleton, and I'm incredibly pleased to meet you.'
Niggle shook her hand.
'Thomas Niggle, at your service.'
'Well Mr Niggle, I'll see you tomorrow.'
She smiled and walked away, leaving Niggle alone, heart racing, clutching a piece of paper. A piece of paper that led to her, and to something more.
The Clockwork Institute was quiet during the day. Most of the members were evening learners who spent their days at factories or yards, putting bread on their tables and wealth in the pockets of their employers. A few old men roamed the tiled halls, reminiscing with the Institute's lone porter or studying in the library.
Niggle followed the sharp echo of his own footsteps down a narrow corridor, up three flights of spiralling steel stairs, and into the employees' workroom. Piddlesy and Bovis, the Institute's other two full time artisans, were huddled over a work bench in the middle of the room, peering into the open casing of an analytical engine. They looked up as Niggle came in.
'What've you got today, lad?' Bovis asked, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
Niggle