The Fire Cage

by Scott Hungerford

  “Yes,” Rajon agreed. “Which implies that there has to be a mold, and a press machine, and evidence indicating who would go to such trouble to make a screw in such a fashion.”

  Davin turned the little bit of shining metal over in his hands as he looked at the thing. “Florin’s. I’d bet my inheritance on it.”

  “Don’t do that,” Rajon said, as he gingerly took the tiny screw from Davin. “At least not without me there to bet beside you. But this screw is an interesting find. Whoever tried to kill you today has ties to Florin’s, which gives us our first lead into finding out who is behind this plot.”

  Now more intrigued than ever, Davin settled down and started cutting his way into the engine compartment, wondering what else he would find. After a minute of nicking and separating rubber and tubular strands, he finally peeled back the housing, revealing the inner workings of the metal serpent.

  “By the Saints,” Verona said. “Isn’t that…”

  “Yes,” Rajon said, equally stunned. “I think it is.”

  Stunned, Davin just stared down at the slightly oblong metal cube that sat in the heart of the serpent’s innards, a perfect match for the one they had just seen described in Mercuri’s blueprints.

  “It’s a fire cage,” Davin said as the shadow of the mechanical butterfly passed over the floor, as the fluttering thing danced and circled its way up the shaft of light. “From the blueprints, one and the same.”

  “Then that is one, too,” Verona sighed as she watched the butterfly wind its way upwards. Even from here, Rajon and Davin could both see that the toy’s wings attached to a tiny version of the same metal cube described in the blueprints.

  “If we want to get to the bottom of this,” Rajon said, “the answers lies within Florin’s. No single screw is ever made there all by itself. Screws are always in batches of thousands, or hundreds of thousands, and there has to be trail of paperwork and payments that we can follow.”

  “The factories are well guarded,” Davin said. “There are Bastards and Foremen everywhere, keeping watch to make sure no machines or secrets gets stolen.”

  “So we’re cooked, then?” Verona asked. “No hope?”

  “No, I know a way to do it,” Davin replied, as he looked up with bright eyes at the fluttering butterfly. “But it’s going to be risky.”

  “I think we can afford to risk our stake about now,” Rajon said with a devilish smirk. “What’s your plan?”

  Chapter Eight

  Standing in front of the main gates of Florin’s in the early morning light, within the shadow of the cog, the three of them watched as workers surged in and out of the facility, their faces uniformly grim. While Davin and Verona were both outfitted in grease-stained worker’s clothes they’d bought in the market for pennies, with gray pants and tattered shoes for Davin and a rust-colored skirt and slippers for Verona, Rajon was dressed in a black silk suit, with the addition of an outlandish black top-hat that made him look like a courting Banker.

  “For this to work,” Davin said, “we’re going to need to have good timing. In a few minutes, the whistle for break will blow. At that point we’ll strike, with Verona and I moving to the factory floor, and you, Rajon, going for the records rooms.”

  Verona looked back at the factory gates and nodded. “They’re like mazes inside mazes with no way out.”

  “Davin has given me enough directions to let me get to my destination,” Rajon replied. “You just focus on what you need to do, and let me do the dirty work to get what we need.”

  “We should get moving,” Rajon said. “It will take time for us to get into place. Once we’re free and clear, we’ll meet back at the house before the Guard can be called.”

  Davin nodded. “Good draw to you.”

  “Good draw to you, as well,” Rajon replied, then moved himself into the current of workers, his top hat bobbing above the sea of wool caps and bald heads.

  “Come on,” Davin said, reaching out to take Verona’s hand. After hoisting her knapsack over her shoulder, she took his hand gladly, and let Davin pull her through the gates into the throng.

  Cutting through the courtyard, Davin cast one final glance to make sure Rajon was going the right way, but he saw no sign of the man. Hoping that the gambler would be successful, he walked with Verona over to the cafeteria doors, enjoying the feel of her skirts swishing against his leg as they stepped along. When he glanced over at her, he expected to see worry on her face. But instead, she smiled at him, and seemed light and airy and on the verge of being full of fun.

  Moving through the doors and past the first of the soup dispensers, Davin stopped Verona by a table, where a couple of oily machinists were eating gruel with elongated spoons. “Verona,” he whispered, “you’ve really got to be a little more grim, or you’re going to stand out. If you look like you’re gaping in the hall of wonders, people are going to know we’re up to something.”

  “Grim?” she asked. “Oh. Right.” Adjusting her knapsack for a moment, Verona then put on a spectacularly grumpy face, with crazed, mad eyes peeking out from beneath her bangs.

  “Well,” Davin said, resisting the urge to step back out of her scary reach. “That will do.”

  “Come up, then,” she barked at Davin in a gutter-accent, getting the full attention of the cereal-eaters by their side. “You show me where to go, before I put my foot up your arse.”

  “Right,” Davin said, already sorry he’d asked. “This way, please,” he announced, as he gestured towards a set of doors at the back of the cafeteria hall. As she quickly began moving for the far end of the hall, stumping along like an old woman, one of the machinists caught Davin by the sleeve as he tried to catch up to her.

  “I’ve got to know,” the old man asked through a mouth of blackened, rotting teeth. “Is she your sister?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Davin said on the fly. “She’s my… fiancée.”

  “I was right,” said the other machinist, banging his fist hard enough on the table that he nearly spilled his porridge. “I knew it.” Grudgingly, the first machinist pulled out a small five-piece from his pocket and pushed the small coin towards his friend.

  Davin’s eyes goggled at the laughing men and their bizarre accusation. “How do you mean you knew?”

  “Take it from me,” said the winner. “You two seem to belong together. Which means you should probably do one of two things — either knock her up, or drown yourself in the Dob.”

  “Excuse me,” Davin said, pulling his arm free even as he felt his face start to blush. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Take it from me, son,” the man called out behind him as he scurried after Verona. “Drown yourself in the Dob. It’s much, much easier!”

  Flustered, Davin managed to catch up with the young woman just as she was about to reach the end of the tables. Moving along with the girl stumping along next to him, he got more looks than he’d like from some of the workers, but most of them involved something closer to pity than suspicion. Most importantly, with Verona putting on such a show, people didn’t give him a second glance, and nobody seemed to notice he was the factory worker who’d recently come back from the dead.

  Pushing his way through the doors, Davin led Verona out into the darkened alley, trying to step around the worst puddles from the kitchen tubs. Dropping the Mad Verona act, she followed along behind him, pinching her nose against the combined smells of garbage and lye. Heading into the next building, Davin began threading the maze of corridors and doorways until he reached the way he was looking for. Up ahead, in front of the doors to Foundry #3, sat a security desk occupied by a guard that Davin had never seen before.

  “Balls,” Davin said under his breath.

  “What’s wrong?” Verona asked.

  “It’s a different Bastard than I’m used to. And he isn’t sleeping.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I’ll think of something,” Davin said, even as he led the approach.

  The old guard, thin
as a rail with steel-gray hair, looked up from the flyer he was reading. “Your business?” he asked.

  “I’m late for my shift,” Davin replied, showing his tattoo.

  “And her?” he said, gesturing with his flyer. “I don’t see no cog on her hand.”

  “She’s my fiancée — ”

  “I’m his sister — ”

  Both of them stopped, their lies overlapping one another. Davin resisted the urge to kick Verona, right in the shin, right where it would really hurt.

  “That’s interesting,” the Bastard said, standing up to his full height behind the desk. “You realize Imperial decree makes it a Judging offense to marry one’s own blood?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Verona said, her eyes widening with horror as the man’s fingers came to rest just above the haft of where his nightstick hung from his belt.

  “Then what did you mean, exactly?”

  “I’m his sister-by-law. There’s nothing against that, is there?”

  “Except bad taste,” the Bastard replied, unsheathing his weapon, so the shaft sat ready in his hand, like a snake about to strike. “No rings either.”

  “We’re too poor,” Davin said, too quickly.

  “Mmm,” the Bastard replied, just as he whipped Verona hard in the side of the head with his weapon, sending her tumbling to the floor.

  “All right!” Davin exclaimed, offering as much candor as he could muster, hoping that he wouldn’t get Verona hurt any more than she already had. “I work here. She’s a friend. I’m bringing her so she can sing for the Foremen.”

  “There’s always jobs for singers on the factory floor, if they’re good enough.” Verona added from the floor as she clenched her head.

  “Really,” the Bastard said, now completely unimpressed. He held his stick at the ready, obviously prepared for a second strike. “That’s what the Employer’s Office is for.”

  “She can’t afford to lose what little she’s got with the application fee. Non-refundable and all.” Davin said.

  “Then you’d better sing a few notes for me, dearie. The last two I let through both strangled the cat, and I’m not about to allow a third.”

  Verona nodded, sat up, and then sang a sweet, uplifting little trill of notes, a refrain from one of last year’s popular holiday songs.

  “Mmm,” the Bastard said, obviously impressed, but doing his best not to show it. “All right then. You can go through. When you get to sign, be sure to tell them that Threnody sent you in.”

  “Yes, sir,” Verona said, trying hard to repress a vengeful little smile.

  “Just sing like a lark,” he replied, “or I’ll beat you until you do.”

  “Come on,” Davin said, helping her up. She managed to hold her tongue until they passed through the doors into the noisy interior of the Foundry building.

  “He was a piece of work,” she said, as she gingerly touched the rising goose-egg with her fingers. “But I don’t think he broke me any.”

  “We’re almost at whistle,” Davin said, as he brought her up a short flight of stairs to a catwalk balcony overlooking the factory floor. The noise from down below was quite deafening, loud enough to make the balcony shiver beneath their feet. “You do just like I told you, and this will all work out fine.”

  Even from the vantage of the catwalk, they could see that the morning shift was going at a brisk pace, with Engineers, Singers, and Foremen moving from one automaton to another with speed and urgency. Nearly every support pylon was occupied by an automaton under construction, with swarms of Technicians working on ladders to ensure that every joint and fitting was in order. Amidst wheelbarrows of rivets and other freshly minted parts stood the Singers, going through their musical paces at the Foreman’s instructions. With their eyes on his every movement, the women followed their master’s most minute gestures just as a well-tuned orchestra would follow the dizzying motions of the conductor’s baton.

  Verona and Davin stood a few steps back from the rail, looking down upon the impressive sight. Even though Davin was always a little awed at the majesty of the scene before him, Verona was openly stunned by the display of the giant machines.

  “Is it always this noisy?” she asked, yelling a bit over the din of shouting and the clang of hammers.

  “Just about,” Davin shouted back.

  “I swore to never set foot again in one of these places,” she yelled. “My father lived his life in one of these tin-holes and even died in one.”

  “Which one? What did he do?”

  “He was a Technician over at Karlaxle. He built those,” she said, gesturing at the automaton floor beneath them. “But he wasn’t an architect or an inventor. He was a playful man with steady hands who loved to make the crankers move around.”

  “That’s terrible,” Davin said, thinking of his own tattoo. “Was your mother a Singer?”

  “Yes,” Verona said. “But I really never knew my mother, though. I was too young. But I do know that I’m not going to spend my life down there like a caged nightingale. I’d rather die before than happened.”

  Somewhere in the factory rafters, a high pitched steam whistle blew, indicating the beginning of third shift. Almost instantly, the noise quieted down as workers began climbing down from their ladders, setting aside tools, and began packing up their kits before the next crew could arrive. As the din lessened, Davin gently shoved Verona towards the rail.

  “Now,” he said. “Now is the time.”

  “You really think this is going to work?” she said, as she tottered up to the bar.

  “Trust me,” Davin said. “Just do what Rajon told you, and you’ll bring down the house.”

  Verona nodded. “That’s exactly what I plan to do.”

  “Remember,” Davin said. “You have about five minutes. Then we go out the way we came. There’s no other fast way.”

  “Right,” she said

  As Davin melted into the background, Verona gripped the dirty rails with both hands and looked down at the floor a dizzying two stories beneath her. Then, gathering her resolve, she sang a note, a perfect core note, building intensity as she put volume into it. Just like Davin said, a wide number of the workers and a Singer or two all turned and looked up to her, wondering who she was and what she was going to be able to do. Even the lead Foreman, setting his clipboard under one arm, stood and waited, ready to see whether the young woman was worthy of a Singer’s job.

  As she started a set of measured notes, steadily climbing up and down the scales, she watched for any sign of the Bastards coming to arrest her for trespassing. But Davin was right; nobody was moving a muscle. Singers were a precious commodity in each of the factories, more valuable than a hundred workers. So she set to work, carefully building up her song, laying the framework for the moment to come.

  .oOo.

  At the exact moment that the whistle sounded, Rajon smartly stepped up to the door of the Ledger’s Office and rapped on the frame with his cane. Within the Business Wing of Florin’s, a maze of dim, low-ceilinged carpeted corridors branched off of a single central hallway like so many leaves on a tree. While it had taken longer than Rajon would have liked to find the office he was looking for, there had been enough helpful young stockboys running about to guide him to his destination.

  But now, standing here in the open, with penny-counters and deal-makers swarming past him in the hope to make it to the cafeteria and back with a quick cup of coffee and a pastry, Rajon did his best to control himself and not just rap on the door again. Only a few paces away from him stood two smug black-clad Bastards, with sticks on their belts, standing watch over the mid-morning rush of bureaucratic livestock.

  After a few more seconds, when the door still didn’t open, Rajon rapped on the frame again, this time hard enough to leave tiny dents in the wood.

  “Excuse me, guv,” said a voice from behind him. Rajon turned, to find one of the guards coming up to him. “May I help you with something?”

  “I’ve found the of
fice I’m looking for,” Rajon said, as impertinently as he dared. “If they would just answer the damned door, I could get along with my business.”

  “Perhaps they be off for a cuppa,” the Bastard said, his fat belly making him an island in the rushing tide of passerby. “Maybe you should come back later.”

  “I’m determined that he’s here. I have urgent business with the Ledger that can’t wait.”

  “Suit yourself,” the guard said, even as he gave Rajon a suspicious look. Rajon turned, about to rap a third time, when the door finally opened. Pushing the door inward with one hand, he forced his way past the befuddled Ledger into the interior of the tiny office, big enough only for a single desk amidst a standing army of overstuffed wooden filing cabinets.

  Standing by the door in his spectacles and his green tweed suit, with tufts of gray hair sticking out of the sides of his fashionable cap, the Ledger looked at Rajon with shock, as if he hadn’t seen a live person in quite some time. “Who the bloody hell are you?” he asked.

  “I’m here about the invoice,” Rajon said, as he turned and closed the door with a push from the butt of his cane. “And the great disservice Florin’s has cost me due to your complete ineptitude.”

  “My ineptitude?” the old man stammered. “How dare you — ”

  “My firm,” Rajon yelled, drowning out the old man’s objections, and hopefully throwing the Bastards outside off the track. “My firm deals specifically with the creation and assembly of factory shelving on a massive scale. For the last eight years, we have ordered parts from Florin’s without problems or difficulties. Eight long years, good sir. Even this month, we received our order from Florin’s on time, on our loading docks, packaged precisely as you promised.”

  The bureaucrat’s eyebrows furrowed. “Then what is your damned problem?”

  “All the screws you sent me,” Rajon said, bringing his voice down low, nearly to a whisper, “are backwards.”

  “What?” the old man said, suddenly looking just a bit nervous. “That’s impossible.”