Heart of Steel

by Meljean Brook

  “You don’t live there?”

  “We do. But what is there to do in the winter? There is nothing to harvest, everyone only sits and waits for something to happen. The soldiers are gone, so all of us that are left have only our own families to feed.”

  And so it was with all of the outposts: the workers allowed outside the walls, but locked in by zombies and their duties. “The soldiers are gone? Where?”

  “To Xanadu, to defend against the rebellion, though the news we receive from outside says there is no rebellion to crush.” Nergüi grinned and clicked her tongue, obviously not fooled by the official statements. “Perhaps they have flung the rebels all away.”

  To the Horde outposts. Just as governing an outlying territory was a punishment, so too was this. With many soldiers about, the outposts effectively became a work prison for entire families. “And what will you do with no soldiers about?”

  “Me? I only cook. The boy only builds.”

  Ah. She was being careful with Yasmeen about—not a soldier, but uncertain why a gan tsetseg and Archimedes were here. Yasmeen gave the old woman a quick explanation, saying that they’d only come to collect some of the barbarians’ equipment, before suspicion led her to ask:

  “Did Terbish build his machine from the parts that were left here?”

  “Yes.”

  So they might not find much at all. But why the horse? If they were rebels, did they plan to use it? It did seem the sort of fanciful machine a young man would make. “And one day, will he ride his pony across the empire?”

  “No, no.” Nergüi’s smile bunched cheeks as round as Terbish’s. “That is just to cross the valley.”

  When the sun rose, Terbish showed them the courtyard. Five airships could have been tethered comfortably within its walls, and it was taken up with a dark machine. Yasmeen stared up at it. Roughly shaped as if someone had chopped off the top of a mountain and placed it in the courtyard—but it was a mountain made of propellers and pistons, valves and pipes—too large to be anything but awe-inspiring. She couldn’t make sense of its purpose. Propellers might have been for direction, but couldn’t provide propulsion—not for something this massive.

  “What is it?” Archimedes said, and Yasmeen was thankful she was not the only one who hadn’t yet figured it out.

  “A flying machine. Of course it is not finished. But in another five years, it will rise.”

  Oh. How to say this without offending? Yasmeen settled for “It’s very heavy.”

  Terbish stared at her. Then a bright smile widened his mouth. “No. This is only the shape. Come.”

  He raced around the machine.

  Archimedes grinned and walked with her—neither one in such a hurry.

  “This is a surprising find,” he said, and she knew he was not speaking of the machine, but Nergüi and Terbish.

  “That is the very best kind.”

  “Yes. We won’t find much here. Nergüi says the fortress is almost picked clean.”

  “Then we’ll enjoy two days of food that doesn’t crawl with worms.”

  “Will they have enough?”

  “Will you offend them by asking?” She lifted her brows. “Me neither. It sounds as if they replenish often, but we’ll give them what we have in our packs, too.”

  And try not to be embarrassed by the offering. The mare’s milk alone had been richer in flavor and more satisfying than anything she’d had aboard Ceres. Still, Nergüi and Terbish might enjoy the novelty of barbarian food at its worst.

  The young man waited for them near a small ledge jutting out from the machine, and hauled himself up. “Come inside!”

  He led them to an opening of a large pipe. More tubes lined the interior. Bent over at the waist, she followed Terbish inside. The pipe narrowed until they were crawling across the metal. Feeling squeezed from the outside in, Yasmeen forced herself to keep following the young man, and when there was no more light, following the sound of him.

  “I think God is angry with me,” Archimedes grumbled in French. “My face is all but buried in your delectable ass, and I can’t see to enjoy a moment of it.”

  Yasmeen laughed, then her palm encountered more metal—smooth, slightly warm. Unsettled by the unexpected texture, she yanked her hand back. Ahead, Terbish lit a lamp, and she found herself at the entrance to a small, spherical chamber, without enough room to stand. The walls were gray and looked softer than they felt.

  Mechanical flesh.

  Terbish ran his hand along the curving wall. “It has to grow, and it will cover all of the iron and steel like a skin, using what it needs from them and discarding the rest. It will be light”—he tilted his head, as if considering—“Lighter. Much lighter. And it will be able to lift itself.”

  Yasmeen had no idea if that were true. But how could he have this? The Khan’s stable had been destroyed. She looked to Archimedes, who was also taking in the chamber with an astonished expression.

  “Where did you find the mechanical flesh?”

  “It was given to me.” He stroked the wall again, and Yasmeen thought that it responded—a slight flexing, like a muscle tensing beneath skin. “One summer when I was still a boy, a man came through the pass. He met with my mother, who was alive, and grandmother while they worked in the valley. He spent the night in the fortress, and my mother, grandmother, and I avoided the soldiers that evening and brought food to him, and we ate with him. They knew he was a magician, and asked him to take me on his journey, so that I could leave this place. They brought a toy that I had built, to prove that I was clever enough to join him—but the magician said he did not know where the road would take him, and to wait, and to build a machine made of my changing dreams, and he would return and help me leave.”

  Obviously not recognizing this for a well-told story, and a family favorite at that, Archimedes interrupted the young man’s telling of it. “How did they know he was a magician?”

  “Because he was made from this. Very big, all gray, no hair.”

  Yasmeen laughed in surprise, and looked to Archimedes. He wore an expression of disbelief. “The Blacksmith?”

  She couldn’t be certain, but the magician’s description resembled his. The Blacksmith of London was the only man she’d ever known made almost entirely out of mechanical flesh.

  Terbish shook his head. “I don’t know that name. He said he was also Nergüi. He left, and I began to make the biggest, grandest machine that I could think of. My first was the pony, as strong as any that Genghis Khan used to ride across the steppes. Then my grandmother pointed to the mountain peaks, so near to the Eternal Sky, and I began to build that, instead. A year ago, the magician returned. He gave to me a piece of mechanical flesh no bigger than this”—he held his hands cupped together—“and told me to put it in the heart of my machine, and she would grow. And she has.”

  Astonishing. Yasmeen could not stop grinning, imagining it. “And what will you do with your flying machine?”

  “I will take my grandmother, and we will either travel everywhere in the world or return and lead the rebellion. Perhaps both.”

  “The Blacksmith didn’t tell you what to do with it?”

  “He said it was mine. He said it was for kindness.” Terbish stroked the metal again. “And that I only have to keep my heart big enough to match it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  After crawling out into the sunlight and dropping into the courtyard’s deep snow, Archimedes turned to her. “Are you as certain as I am that this thing will eventually fly?”

  “I don’t know.” But he could see that she did. She was certain it would.

  “I feel like I should be terrified. Can you imagine this in the sky?” He shook his head. “But I’m . . .”

  “Overwhelmed.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a good story. Let’s hope Terbish doesn’t grow up to be a dictator.”

  He looked to her. “And when will you tell me your story, steel flower?”

  “Tonight. It isn’t
something to tell by sunlight, but with firelight and food and wine . . . or mare’s milk.” She smiled. “Should we begin our search? Perhaps we will find something.”

  They didn’t, but it was still incredible to walk through the fortress, to feel the size and strength of it. With the soldiers gone from the outpost, the worry of discovery was all but gone. That afternoon, he and Yasmeen added their supplies to the food stores, and though Nergüi looked doubtful as she sniffed the dried meats, she cooked a thick stew from it, made hearty with roots and onions and seasoned with herbs. With more fermented mare’s milk, he finished the day pleasantly full and warm. Terbish brought out an opium pipe, and for long, quiet moments, Yasmeen shared it with Archimedes. When she returned the pipe, she looked as fully relaxed as he felt, sitting cross-legged on the bedroll with Archimedes stretched out behind her, up on his elbow and his knee cocked, giving light support to her back. Terbish lay similarly stretched out on his pallet, and the older woman sat on her mat, taking her draught.

  Archimedes wondered, “Do you have nanoagents, Nergüi?”

  She gave an amused cackle. “So that the Great Khan might control us, too?”

  “Rebels have much in common with the New World,” Yasmeen said in French. “But I would never tell either of them that.”

  Archimedes laughed, and watched as she seemed to settle in without moving much at all—just a sigh, and a slight pressure against his leg as she rested more fully against him. “So what sort of story are you telling us?”

  “A tragic one,” she said. “It began with love, as tragedies always do.”

  “If that is your opinion, no wonder your heart is of steel.”

  A sharp shht! from Nergüi. Archimedes stifled his laugh. It had been some time since he’d been hushed, but he settled in, too, watching Yasmeen’s face as she began.

  “There was a warrior queen, clever and strong, who held together the empire through turbulent times. Manduhai the Wise, wife to the Khan and Khatun herself after he died of long sickness, she ruled and all of the empire loved her, but for the heirs of Ögedei, who wanted to tear her throne away.”

  This was not her story, he realized. At least, not as Terbish’s had been, but something she must have heard again and again. Blissed, her voice had taken on the cadence of a poem in the Horde language that her heavy accent seemed to emphasize, lift.

  “She bore many sons and daughters, and taught them all in the ways of the Eternal Sky and the Earth Mother, and taught them to love the mountains that brought men close to the sky, and the rivers that were the mother’s blood. All her children were favored, but none more than her son Barsu Bolod, the Steel Tiger, who everyone agreed would be Khan when her eyes had closed. She told him that he must find a wife, but only to marry one who was as strong and as fierce, as noble and as wise as she. Barsu Bolod searched the empire, looking for such a woman, when he was beset upon by bandits trying to take his gold. He fought, but there were too many. But his warrior’s cries were heard in a nearby village, where there lived a maiden of beauty and boldness. Taking up her spear, Khojen slew the bandits, and their blood spewed into the earth like a thunderstorm. Barsu Bolod saw her, and loved her, and knew that she would stand beside him when he was Khan, and if ever he fell too early, she would defend their people with the ferocity of a tiger. He brought her back to Xanadu, and presented her to the wise queen, who saw that Khojen’s soul was a mirror to her own. They were married, and in their happiness, they agreed to the queen’s wise advice to travel around the empire, so that the people would know them both.”

  She paused. Not to wet her lips, Archimedes saw with astonishment, but because she was overcome with feeling. Her eyes glistened and her throat worked. Perhaps it was only the opium—but whatever she claimed of her heart of steel, she burned with deep emotion.

  What would it be to be loved by her? God, he would give anything to know.

  “They traveled to the lands of Goryeo and read the carved blocks. They walked through the flowered temples of Khmer. They bathed in the sacred river, and floated lamps filled with oil across her waters. They reached for the Eternal Sky upon the highest mountains. They crossed the deserts and walked three times around the house of God.

  “Everywhere, they were welcomed and showered with gifts. But although Lady Khojen was given gems and gold, treasures uncounted, she would not be parted from the gift of the Persian lynx, the caracal with the tufted ears and golden fur. It sat upon her lap, always, purring as she stroked its soft side, and would not allow anyone but Lady Khojen and Barsu Bolod to caress it. Like Lady Khojen, it hunted with ferocity and defended its mistress from those who might come near. But as they traveled, the wise queen grew old. Her heart and her eyes began to fail. When the happy pair heard news of the wise queen’s illness, they returned across the empire, full of all they had seen and heard, their own hearts wise and good. But the heirs of Ögedei had news of their route, and while they rested at a trusted house, they were set upon by the traitorous dogs.”

  Tears gathered in her eyes, began to slip down her cheeks. Her voice never faltered, her breath never sobbed. Nergüi sat across from her, weeping softly. She knew this story, too, Archimedes realized. Perhaps all of the Horde knew it.

  “Warriors in full, they fought, but Barsu Bolod fell. Lady Khojen, the mirror of his mother’s soul, threw herself upon him and took a blade meant for his heart, but it could not save them. Impaled together, they breathed their last, and the heirs of Ögedei raised their knives to desecrate the bodies. But the caracal, who knew by the scent of blood that her mistress had fallen, would not let them touch the once-happy couple. With teeth and claws, it defended them. When friends of the wise queen came to the house, they found the caracal had slain all that attacked her beloved son and his fierce wife. When Manduhai the Wise heard this, she knew the animal would always be friend to the Khan and to the empire, and ordered her magicians to create a woman who would never falter in her guard, a woman of teeth and claws, a woman as beautiful as a flower and as strong as steel, with the loyal heart of the caracal. And so it was done—and the gan tsetseg have served the true house of royal blood from that day.”

  Silence fell. The fire crackled. Yasmeen stared into it, pupils dilated, cheeks wet. After what seemed an endless time, Nergüi gave a snore. Terbish lay with his back to them—sleeping or quiet.

  Yasmeen looked to him and said softly in French, “Except for me. I don’t serve anyone but myself.”

  “And Lady Lynx was more accurate than Zenobia knew.”

  Smiling, she lay down beside him. “Yes.”

  He thought of the rumors that the Horde bred animals with people. He’d never believed it, discarding the talk as the vicious sort that people spoke of their enemies. But there was some truth in it, bits and pieces. Not that women had lain with apes, but they had been mixed, in some way. “Is it through the nanoagents?”

  “Yes. The inventors at the stable combined the essence of the caracal with that of our mothers. I don’t know how. And I don’t know who she is,” Yasmeen added. “The mothers are chosen through the crèches, and we never see them.”

  “And when the gan tsetseg have children? Are they still like you?”

  “I don’t know. I never will have my own—after Bart stabbed me, it was too much for my nanoagents to heal, though they worked so hard they began killing me with the fever. Eben also tried to repair my womb in surgery, but . . . he could not, though he fixed what he could. I would kill Bart again, just for that loss. And the others cannot—they are metal all below. But there must be some in the houses that can’t be altered now that the Khan’s stable is gone, and they will bear children. Perhaps then we will see.”

  All metal below. “Can the others . . . ?”

  She grinned. “Your brain works exactly as every other man’s. Of course they can.”

  “But they don’t have to serve that way, too?”

  “No. If she’s treated like a whore, she can crush them. Quite literally, in every way.” She
turned her head, looked into the fire again. “Doesn’t it bother you to know?”

  “What?”

  To his surprise, she flicked her ear. But they were not even so very different: the same shell as any person’s, though slightly tapered at the tip and topped by that short tuft.

  “No.” He reached out to trace the curved edge, and she drew away, smiling.

  “Not here, Mr. Fox.”

  “Why?” He knew she loved it when he stroked her—and he had scratched a cat’s ears before, had seen the reaction. He lowered his voice. “Are they sensitive? If I stroke them, will you embarrass yourself in front of our hosts?”

  “No, Mr. Fox.” She rolled to face him and came up on her elbow, her mouth almost to his. “It’s just that they’re very, very . . . ticklish.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, stifling his laugh.

  Her fingers stroked the side of his jaw. “Do you stay awake first, or do I?”

  “I will.” Though they didn’t have to worry about the soldiers, it was still best to keep watch. “Five hours?”

  “Yes.” Softly, she pressed her lips to his neck. He heard her deep inhalation, as if drawing in his scent. “Do you know that I have read all of your stories?”

  He didn’t. But now his mind sifted frantically through them, trying to remember what Zenobia had included, what was fact—and what he might hate to have Yasmeen know. Carefully, he asked, “What did you think?”

  “Archimedes Fox did some very stupid things.”

  Ah, yes. Some of those were fact, too. God. Gritting his teeth, he said, “You think so?”

  “Yes.” She sighed against his throat. “And yet, I could never get enough of him.”

  And while he was still trying to find the words to reply, she climbed into the bedroll and closed her eyes.

  Yasmeen would be sorry to leave. The freezing cold, empty fortress, and the two days spent walking through it with Archimedes Fox had been perfect in every way. Yet as they climbed to the southeast tower after saying their farewells to Nergüi and Terbish, his expression was thoughtful, maybe troubled.