by Myke Cole
Heloise kissed her and squeezed her arm. “Thank you.”
“Go!” Basina said, pushing her.
Heloise ran as fast as she could for the second time that morning, racing through the woods that ringed the common, outpacing her father easily. She would still arrive just moments before him, and out of breath at that. He would know, but she felt she had to at least try. Her feet scarcely touched the ground the whole way. Her father would be staying, and he had told Sigir that Poch’s dire prediction might not come to pass. She believed him. She had to believe him.
Even better, she would hide with the Tinkers. Basina would be with her, and they could spend their nights trading secrets by the hearth’s light. Out from under her parents’ thumb, surrounded by the marvels of Barnard’s workshop, her parents alive and well. It wouldn’t be so bad. A part of her was even excited for it all to begin.
She’d thought her father had ambled slowly, but when she emerged from the woods by the well outside her front door, Samson was in sight, hands thrust into the pockets of his breeches, walking toward her. Heloise desperately tried to slow her breathing, to wipe the sweat from her forehead, but it was no use. Samson had to see that she’d just arrived and had come running hard.
Her father only ruffled her hair, ignoring the sweat on her forehead. “You’re a good girl, Heloise. This next bit may be hard on you.”
Three manners of men, the Emperor decreed:
The villager, who toils for the good of all, bearing the name of his trade,
The soldier, who fights for the protection of all, bearing the name of his regiment,
And the Order above all, My Own, My Hand in this world, bearing no name but Mine own.
—Writ. Lea. XIV. 1
CHAPTER 7: LODGING
Barnard and Chunsia met Heloise at the door, grave-faced and silent. They gathered the family together in the workshop, with Bolt and Blade, Barnard’s two hounds, sitting attentively beside their master, as if they were part of the meeting as well.
“You all well know the gravity of this,” Barnard said. “The Order may come looking for her, and it’s up to all of us to make sure that we don’t give them any reason to expect she’s here.”
“I promise I won’t be any trouble,” Heloise said. “I can sleep here in the workshop, and Basina and I can . . .”
Barnard shook his head. “You can’t sleep in the workshop, or anywhere else you might be seen. Hiding you means hiding you. We will bring you meals and let you out for a short while and only then at night. It will be hard for you, Heloise, but you must remember it is the only way to keep you safe.”
Heloise’s stomach fell. This wasn’t what she expected at all. “Where will you hide me?”
Guntar jerked his chin toward the vault door, looking askance at his father.
“Aye,” Barnard said. “The vault is sacrosanct. Only the Imperial Procurer can order it opened. It will be blasphemy to let her see inside, but I suppose we’re well beyond that now.”
Heloise looked at the heavy bronze door, imagined the tight, airless space behind it. Her hands shook. “I have to stay in there?”
“We will be just outside, child,” Chunsia said. “We’ll look in on you as much as we can.”
Heloise felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “Will it be for a long time?”
Barnard smiled. “I hope not, Heloise. We will see what comes of your father’s defiance. I know it is frightening, but you must remember we are doing it to protect you. As soon as it’s safe, we will let you out. I swear it in the shadow of the Throne.”
Basina put an arm around Heloise’s shoulders. “I’ll come in to talk to you, Heloise. Can’t I sleep in there with her, Papa?”
“No,” Barnard shook his head. “If the Order comes calling, they will want to know where my children are. I cannot say you are in the vault. There’s no good reason for a young girl to be in there.”
Heloise did cry now, though quietly. She felt like a diseased creature, separated from those she loved the most for fear of infecting them. “I’m sorry,” she said between sobs. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful.”
“I know you don’t, child,” Chunsia said.
“Come.” Barnard stood and took a great iron key from his belt. “Might be you’ll think more of your quarters once you’ve had a look at them.”
“Now or never.”
“I’m afraid so, Heloise,” Barnard said. “There’s no telling when the Order will come. We’ve already delayed too long.” The iron key fit into a hole in the plain surface of the bronze. The black metal rattled, but it turned easily, the tumblers sounding with a deep thunk that made the door tremble despite its weight.
Barnard put his hand on the ring. “Stand back now, Heloise. Once it gets moving, it’s hard to stop.” He hauled on the ring, stepping back as the thick door swung silently open. Musty air billowed out, drying Heloise’s throat and making her cough. The vault smelled like a root cellar soaked in oil. Its log walls had been lined with small stones to keep out prying eyes, and it was much colder inside than out.
“We’ll give you our thickest blankets,” Chunsia said, “and candles.”
Heloise realized that she would need to keep the candles lit all day long. The tight space was packed with hungry darkness, as black as the night sky in a storm.
Fear gripped her so tightly that she trembled. The thought of being locked up in that tiny space, alone in the darkness with the smell of earth and metal and oil . . . she started to cry again, turned and hid her face against Basina’s shoulder.
“This is where we store our Imperial commissions,” Barnard said. “You’re the first person other than the Procurer to see it. That’s something, eh?”
Heloise knew it was something, indeed. But that did nothing to banish her fear, the tightness in her chest at the thought of all that darkness pressing in on her.
“Come,” Barnard said, stepping inside.
Heloise tried to follow, found her legs would not obey her. Barnard frowned over his shoulder. He had told her there was no time. She imagined the Order riding up the workshop door, shouting in alarm as they saw her. She tried again to step into the darkness, and again she couldn’t.
“Come, Heloise,” Barnard said. “The only way to weather cold water is to jump right in.”
“I can’t,” Heloise said. “I’m not brave.”
“You are the bravest girl I have ever met besides my own daughter,” Barnard said. “Come.”
Basina’s words echoed in her mind. Father says being brave isn’t not being frightened, it’s doing a thing even though you are.
And even though she was frightened, even though a part of her was certain that the moment she stepped past the transom of the bronze door, the cold darkness would swallow her, she took a step and then another, and she was inside.
Barnard was right. It wasn’t so bad. Or, at least it was no worse than she’d imagined. The space was cramped, and the smell of rust and old leather so strong it tickled her nostrils. The racks lining the walls were littered with tinker-engines, some nearly as big as her, some as small as a beetle. Many looked unfinished, with rods and pipes sticking out of them at odd angles.
The room was dominated by two engines shaped liked men, hanging from wooden racks in the room’s center. One of them was unfinished, its arms stubby and half-formed, one leg missing. The other looked more or less complete. As Heloise’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw that they were like suits of armor, giant metal frames articulated with brass rondels to give the rough shape of a man’s limbs. Huge gauntlets hung at waist height, permanently clenched into fists. Black slots were cut out of the knuckles, matching the tangs of an arsenal of weapons still half-forged and propped against one of the thick wooden beams that supported the huge slate roof: axes, swords, pike heads.
Helms topped the giant suits of armor, slumped forward, and Heloise thought they looked like ghostly warriors, heads bowed in prayer, floating before her on the thick air.
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“What do you think, girl?” Barnard’s voice sounded like the metal he worked, dark, deep, booming. “They’re coming together nicely, eh?”
Heloise considered the empty machines, eyes roaming the dark space where a man would fit inside. She imagined the thick metal around her. Who knew what great power the tinker mechanisms would give the wearer? “They’re . . . scary.”
Barnard chuckled, crossed his arms under his broad chest. “To the Emperor’s enemies, yes. But the righteous have nothing to fear from them.”
Heloise didn’t feel frightened now, only curious. “What are they?”
“War-engines. A man inside one of these is as fast as a hound with a scent, as strong as an army, as invulnerable as sainted Palantines themselves.”
“And you built these for the Emperor?”
“I am building them for the Procurer. I am not so high and mighty that he will tell me what he intends them for, but I imagine they will go to the army, yes.”
Heloise pictured the giant metal engine sweeping through a levy line, men flying at the touch of its fists. “How do they work?”
Barnard laughed. “Not so frightened now, are you? It’s heresy enough letting you in here. I’ll not compound it by teaching a child to run a war-machine.” He turned back to Chunsia, who passed him a sack of candles. “There’s a sparking stone and metal in there to light them,” she said, then handed him a platter loaded down with bread and cheese. Barnard smiled and draped a waterskin over Heloise’s shoulder. “I locked myself in here accidentally once. I was in here half the day before my boys got me out. You’ll have air enough.”
The fear returned at the thought of Barnard stepping out, of the great door closing behind him. “Please,” she said in spite of herself. “Can Basina stay with me? Just for the beginning?”
“I will, Father,” Basina said. “I don’t mind.”
Barnard exchanged a glance with Basina before sighing. “I am locking a little girl in a dark closet. This monstrous world makes monsters of us all. All right. But only for a quarter candle, mind me. We risk much as it is.”
Basina hugged her father, and Heloise felt such relief that she sat down where she was, back leaning up against the war-machine’s metal leg.
“You two be careful in there,” Barnard said. “No playing around. Touch nothing.”
Basina rolled her eyes. “I helped you make half of these.”
Barnard laughed at that, and the sound made Heloise easier. “May the sainted Palantines watch over you both, you jewels, you flowers. I love you.”
“Love you, Father!” Basina said, smiling as if being locked in her own vault was as common as breakfast.
Barnard laughed again and the plain bronze door swung shut, slamming home hard enough to make the walls shake, the darkness sending them scrambling for the sack of candles.
Having set the trades of men, the Emperor ordered their houses,
He set the father over his children,
That he may make his trade for the glory of the Throne,
And the wife shall bear him sons, and heed his words, and work his will,
As though he were the Emperor himself.
—Writ. Lea. XIV. 2
CHAPTER 8: HOME AWAY FROM HOME
The candle guttered like a hearth fire, casting the same orange-tinted shadows along the walls. Basina sat with her, but they didn’t tell stories or share secrets. Instead, they held one another and cried out their anguish over what they’d seen outside Hammersdown. To this, Heloise added her fear that the Order would come and take her, or her family, that she would never see her mother and father again, and simply being so tired she could no longer stand it. At last, Heloise had no more tears in her, and she went limp in Basina’s arms, not sleeping but not waking either, her eyes fixed on the flickering candle flame.
It felt like just a few moments before Barnard opened the vault door again and Basina stood to go. She gave Heloise a final hug before going to her father. “Will you be all right, Heloise?” he asked. “Do you want for anything?”
Heloise had never felt more alone in her life. She glanced at the food and water, untouched. There were candles enough to last her a day.
Barnard set a chamber pot on the floor, along with a roll of blankets. “We’re just outside, remember. If you get frightened, or . . . or if you need anything, just knock on the door. Even if we don’t hear, it’ll rouse the dogs, and they’ll rouse us. If . . . if it’s not safe, I’ll knock three times. If I do that, you’re to be as quiet as a mouse. Not a sound, you hear? If I knock only once, that means I’m coming in. Understand?”
Heloise nodded. “Three times for danger, once means you’re coming in.”
“Just in case you’re using the pot,” Barnard smiled, embarrassed. “Anyway, all will be well. Don’t be frightened.”
“I’m not frightened,” Heloise said, though it wasn’t true. “Thank you, Master Tinker.”
Barnard leaned in and hugged her around the shoulders. “I’ll look in on you soon. If the sentries see nothing on the road after sunset, you can walk under the stars for a bit. All right?”
Heloise nodded, swallowing tears. She would be brave. Though the devils themselves should surround her, she would be brave.
“Good girl,” Barnard said, and shut the vault door.
And though he had been so kind to her, Heloise felt anger curdling in her belly at those words. She had faced a Sojourner. She had stood in a Knitting line. How could anyone call her a girl anymore?
Heloise thought of lighting another candle, decided against it. Girls were afraid of the dark. She had seen a village burn. She could do without light. She curled up on the blankets instead, exhausted and watching the remaining candle flicker defiance at the darkness. Its wick grew shorter and shorter, until at last the darkness took everything, though whether it was because her eyes had closed or because the candle had gone out, she couldn’t tell.
Heloise woke in darkness, felt her way to the sack, fumbling the sparkstone and a fresh candle out. She struck the stone against the bit of metal, showering sparks on the oiled wick until the candle finally caught and chased the shadows into the corners. She squatted over the chamber pot before helping herself to some of the food and water. She had no idea how long she had slept, no way to know how much time had passed other than the candle’s life. Who knew how long since it had burned out?
She looked around the small room, the chaos and grief of the past day far enough behind her now that she could truly take it in. It no longer seemed so cramped, and there was really no place to hide, which banished fears of monsters hiding in the shadows. She let her eyes range over the metal constructions that lined the racks. Some looked like brass spiders, others like simple scroll-tubes or bowls surrounded by pipes. She couldn’t tell what they did, or even where one would add the seethestone and water to make them run.
She stood and looked at the war-machines hanging on their racks in the middle of the room. They looked smaller now, the candle-flame reflecting off the brass edging of the rondels, the silver fittings on the pipes that ran the length of the arms and legs. They looked like metal giants whose chests had been flayed open, the space inside big enough to fit a normal man. Heloise remembered Barnard’s cautioning words. Touch nothing.
For as long as she’d lived, the village folk had whispered of the Tinker vault, told stories of the wonders hidden behind the bronze door. Now that she stood inside it, Heloise was disappointed at how plain it all seemed. Nothing beyond her imagination, just tinker-engines much like the ones she’d seen before. Instead of driving an oxcart, this one drove a man to war, but otherwise it was much the same. Still, she should not touch it.
Heloise sat down and stared, waiting as the time whiled away. She would have to ask Barnard for a copy of the Writ. If she was to sit by herself all day, she should at least have something to do, and meditating on the Writ was supposed to be the best use of idle time. Or maybe her writing kit. She could write a letter to her fath
er. Maybe Barnard could get it to him, or at least to Sigir.
Instead, she stared at the war-machines, feeling strangely like they were people, like she wasn’t alone in the vault so long as they were with her. She stood, went to the one that was more complete, letting her fingers run over the leather and metal. Barnard had said she wasn’t to touch it, but he only meant it so she wouldn’t hurt herself, surely. So long as the weapons weren’t attached to the slots in the fist, there was nothing sharp. The machine looked so solid, made mostly of metal, there was nothing a small girl like herself could do to damage it.
She glanced at the bronze door, filled with a weird idea that Barnard could somehow see through it. She had nothing to do. He would understand that.
No, these engines are commissioned for the Emperor. Even entering the vault is blasphemy. But if that were the case, then Barnard had blasphemed by hiding her here, and she had blasphemed by defying the Order. It all made no sense. The world shouldn’t be this way. Villages shouldn’t be burned because of the ravings of a simpleton. Austre shouldn’t be murdered because of where she lived. And Heloise should be allowed to touch a cold, silent metal engine, when she meant no harm, when she was trapped in the darkness, idle and alone. What was one more blasphemy?
She reached up, setting her hands on the war-machine’s knees, scrabbling with her toes as she climbed its legs and into the space inside.
It was built for a man grown, and her head came up only into the machine’s throat, where a heavy metal gorget kept her from seeing out. She leaned her head back and looked up into the helmet. If she were only a tiny bit taller, she would be able to see. The thick smell of oil and leather made her sneeze, and the sound of her breath echoed back from the metal so close to her face.
She slid her hands into the arms, as if she were putting on a coat. The leather was coarse against her skin, ending at handles above the gauntlets that she could just brush with her fingertips. Buckles and straps hung from the inside of the limbs and the torso, dangling across her, jingling as she wriggled among them. She was kneeling on a leather-covered ledge above the machine’s waist, where a man would probably sit. Even if she were sitting on it, she could see her feet wouldn’t quite reach the footrests in the machine’s legs below her, leather straps on top of what looked like more leather-covered wooden ledges.
