Made Things

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  And maybe Ferrulio knew nothing, and she could brazen with the best of them, a face fit to win card games.

  “Could you just leave, if you needed to?” she asked them.

  “We could.” Tef shrugged. “We’d lose all we’ve built. And if the word really is out, we’d have to abandon this city. And maybe word would spread. Better to be under a thief-lord’s thumb in secret for a while than have all your kind spreading stories of the little people living amongst them.” Coppelia could fill in the blanks. Access to Loretz’s magic was more important for them than for her.

  “We can’t make the decision alone. We need Shallis and the others to speak their piece. But if you go, I think we’ll ride with you, to listen to what this Iron End has to say,” Tef guessed. “And if the worse comes to the worst, we’ve killed humans before.” It was something Coppelia would expect from Arc, who’d make it all bluster and bombast. From calm, mannered Tef, the words were chilling.

  * * *

  The Barrioni gang-lords fancied themselves sophisticates. Was this not Loretz, after all, where learning was king and the greatest magicians of the age ruled the sunward side of the city? Should their opposites and equals be any less urbane and elegant? That equal was entirely within the minds of the Barrioni: they shared out the city’s meanest district for their stamping grounds and constantly tested the boundaries set by the Convocation without ever quite breaching them. But within the Barrio, their authority was life or death, and they feuded constantly to see who could be king of the most nothing.

  Gaston Ferrulio, who exalted in the nickname of the Iron End, was one of the youngest and simultaneously one of the strongest: ambitious, pushy, heedless of traditions that let his seniors sink into decadent complacency. At thirty years, he cut a trim figure, thin face barbered to a point and wearing a robe of green slit down the middle to show well-turned legs. He was known as a duelist in his own right, lucky in games of chance, farsighted in games of strategy and absolutely the worst man in the Barrio to make an enemy of. Standing in his presence, Coppelia could barely look at him for all the magic he was festooned with: rings, pendants, brooches, belt buckle, ear stud, even the bone beads in his long hair were enchanted. This was what it meant to be rich in Loretz, even rich on the wrong side of the law. No doubt he had protections against every poison, against blade and bow and all manner of assassin’s tricks. If it were easy to kill a Barrion, then Ferrulio would be dead a hundred times over.

  He held court about a great gilt-topped table that itself was a repository of magic, probably scrying by Coppelia’s guess. His underlings had at least put in the effort to look like courtiers rather than thugs, but few of them had any success approaching that of their master. Kernel Jointmaker, when he took his place at Ferrulio’s right hand, looked like an ungainly peasant. But then, he wasn’t exactly retained for his social graces.

  There were precisely two seats free at the table, both all the way down from the Barrion himself for which Coppelia was profoundly grateful. It wasn’t that the Iron End was a ruthless gangster; it was that he was suave and handsome and drew the eye just like a polished knife does. She preferred her monsters to look monstrous.

  In anticipation of the Barrion’s magical accoutrements, she had already dispensed some stern words to Arc about the foolishness of making off with anything, no matter how much it might suit the homunculi’s cause or his personal taste.

  Auntie Countless was not a stranger to Ferrulio’s presence, though Coppelia could tell the old woman was on edge. Still, she bowed and then curtseyed, one companionable hand on the puppet-maker’s shoulder, and they sat when the Barrion waved a languid finger towards the vacant chairs. Coppelia hunched her shoulders in. There was a broad, pig-like man on her left who was surely a child-murderer, and on Auntie’s far side was something not remotely human, a bloodless-looking man-shape with huge owl eyes, a slit of a mouth and no nose at all, dressed in brocade and velvet like a merchant on feast-day. The crouching presence of Tef and Arc beneath her shirt only made things worse, because surely some mage or half-mage would wonder what kind of enchantments an orphan could have acquired and want to take them off her. Except everyone there had a few magical trinkets on them and nobody spared her a second glance, barely even a first one.

  Coppelia wanted out as soon as possible, because she felt the axe hanging over her, waiting to see if Ferrulio would suddenly start talking about little mannikin people stealing on his turf. Apparently, business amongst the Barrioni wasn’t done like that, though. There was food first: fish with lemon and cloves and thyme, little pastries full of chillies, tiny minced-fruit tarts that reeked of rum. She had never tasted anything like it before, just as she had never worn fabrics like Ferrulio’s fine robe, or had the use of a room as grand as his dining chamber.

  The Barrion himself ate sparingly, picking at each dish, exchanging bons mots with the woman on his left, and sometimes telling jokes that were obviously at Jointmaker’s expense and which made the enforcer glower down at his plate. And then, even as most of his guests were still mauling their dinner, he clapped his hands together, and apparently, that meant business.

  “Let’s talk about puppets,” he declared, and for a horrible moment, Coppelia thought she was intended to put on a show for this audience of killers and thieves, and of course the only mannikins she’d brought had minds of their own. But Ferrulio kicked back in his chair, slinging his pointy-shoed feet up onto the tabletop, and gestured. “You’re known for a certain way with the little wooden mummers, Auntie, and we hear some promising things about your Moppet there.” It was the first time Coppelia had been glad of the name, because it meant Ferrulio wouldn’t be speaking her real one. “You’d call yourselves experts, then? Willing to look into a piece of business for me?”

  Coppelia found herself gripping the table edge and made herself stop. “Business” meaning little people getting where they’re not supposed to? She tried to smile, feeling the expression stretch and deform on her face. Auntie was sweating a little, even without a burden of guilt to dampen her, but she bared her black teeth and said, “Barrion Ferrulio, my sweet, this old woman has forgotten most of what she ever knew, but between us, we can put on a creditable show.”

  Ferrulio grinned, and when he turned the expression on Coppelia, there was a moment when she liked him, when it was just he and she, and he was laughing at the fakery he had to put on for the others. Then it was gone, leaving her chilled by how suddenly she’d been won over. “Why, then, Auntie, I have a puzzle box for you to open, because one of mine has come across something quite intriguing while going about her business.”

  Here it comes. Coppelia could feel her heart hammering, out of her control. Then Tef’s tiny wooden hand stroked down her shoulder blade: the lightest of matchwood touches, but it meant solidarity of a sort. It calmed her, just a little.

  “Shabby, if you’d regale us,” Ferrulio said to the woman on his left, who stood with liquid grace. Shabby Lilith Yarney had either cleaned up well since acquiring the name, or else it was like calling a big man Tiny. She was a pale woman with raven-dark hair in spiralling plaits, wearing a white neckerchief and black boots and her fine clothes every shade of grey in between. Coppelia knew her by name as a burglar of the first water who plied her trade well beyond the safe borders of the poor districts.

  Her voice was pure Barrio, cheerful and coarse enough to set Ferrulio wincing. “We had an in-’n’-out job up top on the Siderea, certain mage-merchant’s townhouse where the cellar got dug too close to the old Semper Chapel grounds, what used to be up there. Crypts’re still down below, though, aren’t they. Only a bit of chisel work to be in amongst the good stuff.” She grinned, three silver teeth throwing back the light. “’Cept we got lost as buggery down there and, next blush, we was out in some other place none of us knew, all buried down there, tunnels for miles. Well, Rosso wanted to bail, but I—”

  “Perhaps on to what you actually discovered,” prompted the Iron End.

  �
��Right, chief. Only, we worked out we was under the palace, right enough. And we found some decent swag, just lying about all covered in dust but magic as you like. And we found a workshop.”

  Coppelia’s ears pricked up, because this was definitely moving away from homunculus territory and into guilt-free areas of interest. By her side, Auntie was very still, meaning very thoughtful.

  “All kinds of tools and benches and stuff, for wood and metal, mostly fine pieces. I reckoned it was jewellers, maybe some smiths the nobs had nabbed to make their fine tiaras,” Shabby went on. “Only, there was a hand there, like a metal hand, all the fingers and bits, big as mine. And there was a frame, like you’d stick armour on, if you was a nob and wanted to show off. And Rosso came back sharpish then, and spooked to arse and back. There’d been a man, he said. A man of metal, jointed like a big old puppet, just standing there. And we were both freaked by then and we legged it with what we’d grabbed.”

  “A fascinating tale,” Ferrulio drawled, obviously wishing it had been told with a little more showmanship. “It would appear one of our betters in the high city had a little side project, now or in times past. Certainly not one nosed about in public, which, given how servants overhear and how they talk, means either long forgotten or very secret indeed.” He seemed very sure that, in the normal run of things, he’d know what was going on. “And what about that for a thought? A mannikin the size of a man, not just some puppet or music-box toy. What do you think?”

  Coppelia stole a guilty look at Auntie, but the woman was intent on the topic at hand.

  “I think nobody has even tried to animate a true golem since Arcantel,” Auntie declared. “And even he achieved only doubtful success, if you read the true histories. I think many have tried. Archmagister Phenrir himself was about it, decades ago, so this old woman hears, and maybe this is his failure, or maybe it is some competitor’s success. I think that such a thing, if it could even twitch, would command a king’s worth should some enterprising young blade get it out of the city to sell. Or some other Convocation magus would swap half his trove of trinkets for the chance to learn the secrets of its manufacture.” She sucked at her lacquered teeth noisily. “I think you thought the same the moment you heard this nice young lady’s story, but I think you reckoned, not so easy to get out of the mage-lords’ cellars with a life-sized statue. And then you started thinking about how a golem is just a big puppet, in a way, and of certain of your subjects who have talents in that direction and might be able to get it to stir its stumps. Has this old woman torn out the guts of it for you, your honour?”

  Ferrulio, his thunder if not stolen then at least reduced to a few closing rumbles, nodded grudgingly. “Auntie Countless, your perspicacity has always been your most noted commodity, and here you have an apprentice with a young pair of legs to carry a cupful of your wisdom when Shabby here goes back with a proper crew to get the job done. What do you say?”

  Coppelia was gripping the table again, because the whole conversation had just dropped into free fall as far as she was concerned. I am not a thief. Although she was, of course, just not in the same league as Shabby Lilith Yarney. She couldn’t just . . .

  “It’s good of your honour to worry about my infirmities, but for this, I would crawl on my knees if I had to. The girl can help me and be my hands, but these old eyes aren’t so tired they don’t want to look on a real golem. If that’s what there is, and not just some mage-lord’s self-praising statue.” She cocked a look at Shabby and the thief shrugged.

  “Rosso said it had joints and all. Didn’t see it myself.”

  “Do I take it you’d be willing to assist in a little venture, Auntie?” Ferrulio said. What struck Coppelia was that he did actually ask, and with every indication of respect, even though the old woman was just a moderately successful grifter and he was lord of all the shadows he surveyed. And if he hadn’t needed Auntie, then doubtless he wouldn’t have pissed on her if she was on fire. And he wasn’t asking Coppelia herself, doubtless written off as just some tributary creature of Auntie’s. But the courtesy was still there, however shallow. She was horrified to find herself actually warming to Gaston Ferrulio, and that was a very unwise thing indeed.

  “Let’s talk terms, your honour,” Auntie said, her black grin widening.

  5.

  “THIS IS HUMAN BUSINESS,” Shallis told them both. “You risked enough going before the thief-lord. If he hadn’t been blinded by his own finery, he’d have found us.”

  They’d all gathered there in the Beetle Chamber. Its floor was a pan, its ceiling poked with holes to let in the moonlight. Effl the scrimshander had caught some fireflies, in that way she had to sneak up on living things effortlessly. Now the tethered insects battered and buzzed about the upper reaches of the room like a maddened candelabra. All very well, but someone would have to clean away the worn-out husks come morning.

  “And what then? We’d just be taken for toys of the Moppet,” Arc pointed out. “They have so much here. Why would they care that she has some magic dolls? Eh, Tef?”

  The wooden homunculus shook her head slowly. “It’s not like that. You’d think it would be, but it’s not. Because they have plenty, do they share it around?” Tef went on. “This city is ruled by magicians who hoard their magic. The poor are ruled by thieves who hoard gold and what magic they can get. Anything the human girl has can be taken from her.”

  Shallis coughed, a dry, rustling sound, quiet and yet enough to demand silence. “And yet you trust this child, even though she’s human.”

  Tef rolled the joints of her shoulders. “I do. You’ve seen the bodies she made. They’re good work.”

  The Folded One’s expression creased inwards. “When there are more of us, we won’t need to rely on this . . . hired help.”

  “When that day comes, perhaps we’ll have a deal in place with the humans anyway,” Tef countered. “I’m not saying they’re all our enemies. Probably most of them we could get along with, even. But the ones who control things, they’re bad news.” Her features clicked into a bitter expression. “No different to how it was in the Tower. My father’s mother was all splits and splinters by the time I took life, while the Varnished Lords live on in perfection because they kept all the riches for themselves.” She glowered about, ready for dissent, but then none of them was a thing of gilt or gold thread. The rich lineages had stayed where their power was, in the Tower. The colonies were for the adventurous poor with nothing to lose.

  The whole colony had come to hear her and Arc’s recounting. Lief had his knees drawn up to his wooden chin, hands still working on a piece of hardwood, carving the segments of a thumb almost absently as he listened. Morpo slouched against the wall, relishing the night’s cool, the firefly light gleaming greenish from his wax body. Beside him, coiled in a heap, was Kyne the Fabricker, resting her elbows on the serpentine coils of her stuffed body. Across from the pair of them, with a definite space around her, was Effl Ratkiller, a creature of intricately scrimshawed animal bones, spidery and delicate, polishing the fish-hook end of her polearm. Finally, there was Lori, sitting silent beside Lief and trying to copy his pose. She had been alive for precisely half a day, and Lief was working hard to teach her everything she would need to know. She had no words yet, and every movement was as though yanked by a palsied puppeteer. She was the first Loretz native among them, though; the first of many, they all hoped.

  “The workshop of the Maker!” Arc declared, arms spread wide. “We know this is where he came from, before he built the Tower. We’ve seen the statue, or some of us have. Arcantel, they call him. Centuries later and they still remember how mighty he was. And now some gutter thief has found his workshop, surely! What might we learn from it, even if this golem is just fancy and shadows?”

  “Enough!” Shallis hissed, waving crinkled paper hands. “Enough from you, empty-headed Scull! Tef, you agree, then, that we should let this business alone for humans to meddle.” She was their magician-leader, their font of wisdom, but t
here was a scratchy note of whining in her voice. Too many changes, too many deviations from tradition. Shallis’s page had been torn from a magical book, but without the strong spine to support all this pressure.

  And Tef felt sorry for her, and wanted to reassure her, but there were other considerations. . . . “I will go,” she declared. “Whether this is what they say it is, I will go. And like Arc says, maybe this will be a whole new lease on life for all of us, for all our kind.” She didn’t believe it. Something rang wrong about the entire business.

  “This is because of your human, the puppet-maker,” Shallis accused bitterly. “You would betray our presence here for the sake of your pet.”

  Tef thought about outright denial, but unlike Arc, she was ill-suited to the theatrical gesture. “There are ten thousand humans in this city, hundreds of thousands in the land beyond. Millions, maybe, in lands past our ken. And each one could crush any one of us without even noticing. Each one lives surrounded by material goods beyond our comprehension and thinks themselves very poor. And here we have one, just one, who has kept faith with us, these months, and worked for us, and not sold us to the thieves or the mage-lords.”

  “Whose domain she is about to venture into,” came Shallis’s hollow, fearful voice. “And of all the humans, if they should learn of us . . .”

  “All the more reason we go along to keep her safe.”

  The prospect of Tef and Arc being able to keep a human safe from other humans was too much for Shallis to countenance and she just rattled her edges against each other, throwing up her hands in disgust before stalking from the chamber.

  “That’s settled, then,” said Arc brightly, straightening the gown he’d taken from Coppelia’s marionette and adjusting the hang of his razor. “The workshop of the Maker it is. Secrets!” he added, hands out to frame the idea as though it were a portrait. “Wonders!”