That such a small room could contain so much stuff seemed a miracle to Grit. Countless bottles and vials covered every surface. Bowing shelves with jars of mysterious herbs and powders were stacked haphazardly along the walls, as if they had been erected only when the Amazifier realized he was completely out of space on all the others. Thin, spidery handwriting labeled nearly every specimen, while other drawers full to bursting with wires and cogs were labeled in a fresher, more precise print. Something viscous and purple smoked on a gas burner despite an apparent lack of heat.
A scale model of the solar system—well, what the humans knew of it—hung from the ceiling. It took Grit a moment to notice that the planets were actually moving ever so slowly around the plaster sun. There were diagrams of engines and clocks and automata, and maps of faraway places Grit had never heard of. A model railroad circled the entire room on a track suspended from the wall, still and silent at the moment. Half-empty cups of tea perched precariously on various surfaces, long forgotten amidst all the other clutter.
Carmer’s desk, however, was distinguishable by its neatness. A two-foot-tall automaton in full military regalia stood at attention on the smooth wood surface. It even had its own tiny bayonet. A few of the cylinders Carmer had thrown in the alley also sat on the desk; Grit gave those a wide birth.
“Did you make this?” Grit asked, taking in the soldier’s shiny brass fingers and smart suit and cap.
“Kitty made the costume,” said Carmer shyly. “She named him as well. ‘Lieutenant Axel Hudspeth,’ at your service.” He noticed Grit eyeing the smoke bombs and carefully tucked them in the top drawer. “But yes, I mess about with things. A bit.”
“I think it’s marvelous,” said Grit sincerely, gazing up at the spinning planets. If only she’d known Carmer when she was planning Dusten’s harness!
“You’d be one of the first to think so,” said Carmer. He reached for the toy soldier, cranked a handle on its back a few times, and set it down again. After a few shuddering motions, the soldier marched back and forth across the desk with only the slightest of creaks as his mechanical joints propelled him forward.
Grit leapt out of the way.
“Sorry,” said Carmer, hurriedly stopping the soldier’s progress with his hand. He pulled another lever in the automaton’s back, and it was still. “I suppose I should’ve warned you about that.”
“No, it’s all right,” said Grit rather shakily. “It’s just . . . that cat.”
“Oh. Right.”
Carmer pushed the soldier to the far end of the desk.
“You said you’d never seen any auto-whatsits—
“Automata—”
“Like it before.”
Carmer shook his head and grabbed the soldier again, displaying its back to Grit. “See this handle here? Most automata have something like it. It’s a winding mechanism connected to the mainspring . . . like a metal ribbon. You’d see it if I opened him up. Well, when you wind him here, all the energy is stored in the mainspring. That energy gets released as the ribbon unwinds and powers the motion of the automaton. Until it runs out, of course.”
Grit tried to look less like Carmer was speaking in tongues and nodded slowly. It was the most she’d ever heard him speak since she met him.
“But that cat was different. Its range of motion, its speed, its longevity . . . that is to say, it never seemed to wind down . . . it suggests a different sort of power altogether. Beyond pure mechanics!”
“ . . . So?”
Carmer deflated slightly, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. I get a bit excited.”
“Apparently,” said Grit. “So, energy gets stored in these mainspring things. But what if instead of normal energy, someone found a way to store fae energy? To capture a faerie’s magic and force it to power a machine?”
“Two days ago, I would’ve said it was impossible.” Carmer ran a hand through his hair. “But I would’ve also said you were impossible. Therefore, I can only conclude that it’s entirely probable.”
“Entirely probable?” repeated Grit. “That’s the best you can do, entirely probable?”
“Without knowing more about the cat that attacked us, I can’t tell much else.” Carmer shrugged. “If I could only examine it . . .” He stood up and paced around the room.
“Oh, right, we’ll just put a bowl of cream on the stoop and hope it turns up,” said Grit. “Maybe if we offer to scratch its belly it won’t try to claw our eyes out.”
“You said other faeries, the ones who live on the streets, have been attacked, too?”
Grit nodded.
“Maybe they can tell us what they’ve seen.”
“I’m sure they could,” Grit snorted, “if we could find them. Not all of us have bumbling human boys to come to our rescue.”
Carmer stopped pacing, his ears flushing. “I’ll take that as a compliment. You’re sure you’re the only one who escaped?”
“Echo . . .” mumbled the water fae. “Name’s . . . Echolaken.”
Grit’s wing fluttered involuntarily. She turned away from Carmer and pretended to study the diagram of the soldier on the wall.
“No,” she said finally. “There’s someone else.”
Apparently, Grit’s unfortunate visit to the Green Goddess wasn’t to be her last.
Tracking down Echolaken proved to be a more difficult task than Grit had expected. The brewery near the Green Goddess’s entrance was crawling with humans during the day. Carmer and Grit could hardly traipse around and start shouting questions at the ground without raising a few eyebrows. Carmer stood hovering in the entrance yard, trying and failing to look inconspicuous. Two men rolling great barrels of beer into a waiting cart were already watching him.
“I thought you said you had a plan,” Carmer muttered to Grit, who was once again under his hat.
“There’s never been this many people here when I’ve come!” she protested. “Plus, they probably won’t let me in without faerie dust. Especially not when I’m with you.”
“Excellent.” Carmer sighed.
“Hey, you!” said one of the two men. “You have business here, boy?”
“Um, well, not exactly . . .”
“I haven’t got all day. We’ve no work, if that’s what you’re after.” Other men were starting to stare.
“But—”
“Scram,” the man said flatly, going back to his work.
Carmer had no choice but to obey. He was about to turn back the way they’d come when a rustling sound and a shout stopped him.
Out of nowhere, a murder of crows dive-bombed the entrance yard, circling around the men’s heads and cawing loudly. Carmer and the men all ducked for cover, clutching their hats.
To Carmer’s surprise, Grit laughed as she peeked out of her hole.
“It’s all right!” she said. “Look, follow them!”
Immediately, the crows took off away from the brewery, flying south. With only a moment’s hesitation, Carmer darted past the confused workmen and followed suit. The birds led them away from the street traffic, dropping off in ones and twos, until only a solitary crow—actually, it looked rather big to be a crow—soared above the deserted alleys and industrial lots.
“Why are we following a crow?” asked Carmer.
“It’s not a crow, it’s a raven. And she’s a friend.”
“Good to know you’re on friendly terms with someone in this city.”
Grit scuffed her toe against his ear.
“Caw!” The raven landed on the back of a bench in a shabby little park that looked quite out of place at this edge of the city. There were only two benches and a handful of sad little trees that looked ready to keel over with the next strong wind.
Grit rapped on the inside of Carmer’s hat, and he took it off. She stepped onto his shoulder.
“Thank you,” Grit said, addressing the raven seriously.
Carmer laughed, and then blinked. One moment there was nothing there but their unlikely guide, and the next, the s
econd faerie Carmer had ever seen stood right in front of him. She looked fierce for one so tiny, and her long black braid brushed the backs of her calves. She wore a belt of blades that looked dangerously sharp despite their size. Her wings were a dark purple and, unlike Grit’s, fully functioning.
“Princess,” said the faerie, bowing from the waist and flicking her wings back and forth. A shimmering golden powder rose from them and fell onto the bench. “I sensed you were near.”
“Ravene,” said Grit, “I’m not your princess.”
“No, but you are a princess. You’ve no idea how many faeries are looking for you.”
“They’re not the only ones.” Grit explained the attack from the automaton and how Carmer had intervened.
Carmer noticed she left out the part about him not actually being a Friend of the Fae. Ravene, however, still regarded him skeptically.
“Carmer’s going to help us find the Wingsnatchers,” said Grit, with more confidence than she felt. “And to do that, we need to talk to Echolaken.”
Ravene looked around them and, apparently satisfied that they were alone, floated down to sit on the bench. She motioned for Carmer and Grit to join her, but shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Haven’t any of you talked to her about what happened?” asked Grit. “Abby Absinthe, or any of the Free Folk?”
“The water faerie won’t speak to anyone. She wouldn’t even stay in the Green Goddess, weak as she is.”
“And you let her leave?” Grit sputtered. “She’ll get snatched up by that cat by nightfall, if she hasn’t already!”
“A Free Fae’s business is her own,” Ravene said tartly. “. . . But that doesn’t mean we haven’t been keeping an eye on her.” She looked askance at Carmer. “Can I trust this human?”
“He hasn’t put me in a jar yet.” Grit shrugged.
Carmer felt a tad silly for being intimidated by a six-inch-tall faerie, but there was something about Ravene’s pressing stare that made his hair stand on end.
“Still, he doesn’t go,” decided Ravene. “Not when Echolaken can’t defend herself.”
“Ravene—”
“That’s the deal, or I don’t tell you where she is.”
Grit flushed, and despite only knowing her for a day and a half, Carmer was beginning to learn when she was about to go off in a temper.
“Fine by me,” Carmer said lightly.
Grit glared at him, crossing her arms. “How am I going to get there?”
“You’ll ride Sootlink, of course,” said Ravene. She brought two fingers to her teeth and whistled at a pitch too high for Carmer to hear. A moment later, another very real raven landed on the bench. “He’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
“I don’t suppose he’s expandable, too?” Carmer joked, thinking of Madame Euphemia’s vardo. Still, you never knew.
“You’ll have to make your way on foot, I’m afraid. Away from here,” said Ravene.
Carmer took the hint. “Meet me back at the Moto-Manse tonight,” he told Grit. “I’m going back to the Orbicle to see what I can find out about the Mechanist.”
“The Mechanist?” asked Ravene.
“I’ll explain later,” said Grit.
“Um, nice to meet you,” said Carmer, awkwardly tipping his hat to Ravene, who regarded him as stonily as ever. “See you later, Grit.” He started to make his way back to the city proper.
“Carmer?” Grit called.
He turned around.
“Be careful, right?”
“Right,” he agreed with a somewhat surprised smile, and was off.
Ravene finished her whispered instructions to Sootlink and gave Grit a boost onto the raven’s back.
“I hope you know what you’re doing with that boy,” warned Ravene.
Grit rolled her eyes and tried to squash the sudden and inexplicable desire for Carmer to come with them.
9.
BEHIND THE CURTAIN
The Orbicle during the day was an entirely different place from when the curtain rose at night. A cleaning crew dusted the chandeliers and swept the aisles—Carmer overheard one of them complaining about “all the darn feathers”—and the stage crew was going over a lighting cue with the slimy-looking announcer, Conan Mesmer. Mesmer’s goatee was not quite as expertly waxed as it had been the night before, and he looked rather bored.
Carmer assumed, given Mesmer’s comments about the Mechanist before the magician’s entrance, that the Mechanist was no stranger to the Orbicle’s stage. Most of the other competitors, like the Amazifier, had to make do with temporary arrangements in the chorus dressing rooms, everyone jammed together and jockeying over mirrors. But if the Mechanist was popular here in Skemantis, it seemed likely he’d weaseled into a private dressing room for the duration of the competition.
Carmer slipped unnoticed backstage and into a long corridor with doors labeled “Costumes,” “Propsmaster’s Office,” “Woodworking,” and such. A little way down, some of the doors had stars on them, with little slates hanging on each door bearing the names of performers. Carmer did not have to walk far before he found a door labeled “MECHANIST.”
He knocked sharply three times and, after no answer, quietly pushed the door in. He was thankful but unsurprised to find the room had no lock; this was not unusual, as it deterred high-strung actors from locking themselves in their dressing rooms and refusing to go onstage. However, easy access to the room also meant that no self-respecting magician would ever leave anything of value in it—especially not during a competition, where every magician would be out to poach the others’ secrets.
Carmer didn’t expect to find anything incriminating, but a quick look around couldn’t hurt. He closed the door behind him and prepared an excuse about delivering supplies and taking a wrong turn should any of the theater employees stumble upon him.
The dressing room was much like any other. The Mechanist had not put many personal touches into it. There was a vanity circled by lights—electric, Carmer noticed—big enough to comfortably seat three, a faded pink velvet settee with a tea table next to it, an empty rolling rack for costumes in addition to a large black armoire in the corner of the room, and a slightly worn writing desk with a high-backed chair. But it was the item slung over the back of the chair that really caught Carmer’s attention.
The Mechanist’s cloak.
Carmer was drawn to it as if a magnetic pull were guiding him. He remembered the way it had shimmered so magically under the stage lights, and curiosity got the better of him. The multicolored, faceted fabric glittered like crystals, casting rainbow-tinted shadows on his hands. It felt impossibly delicate under his fingers, as if one wrong slip of his hands might tear the whole thing, but also strangely resilient. It could probably repel water, if anyone dared to test it. Carmer tried to remember where he’d seen such a peculiar texture before, and then it hit him.
The Mechanist’s cloak was made of faerie wings. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, were woven together and sewn into the silk. If Carmer looked closely, he could see the thin strips of cartilage running through the gossamer membranes. Fascination immediately turning to revulsion, he dropped the cloak back onto the chair.
It was then that Carmer heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The doorknob turned and he had just enough time to dash into the armoire before the Mechanist himself strode into the room. Carmer recognized the magician’s back through the slit in the wardrobe’s doors. There was something about his commanding stance that gave him away.
Resisting the temptation to keep the door open and watch, Carmer ever so slowly pulled it fully closed. He didn’t want to attract any attention to his hiding spot, and he prayed the Mechanist would not need to access his costumes just now.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” asked the Mechanist angrily, and for a moment, Carmer thought he was discovered. But a pair of answering footsteps told him someone else must be in the room as well.
“I apologize, Mas
ter,” said the second voice, and Carmer recognized it as Gideon Sharpe, the Mechanist’s haughty apprentice. He did not sound quite as confident now. “The bands aren’t powerful enough to cut through chains that thick . . .”
SLAM. A hand banged against the armoire, making Carmer jump. He clapped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from shouting and rubbed his shoulder where it had bumped into something hard. The looming shape next to him became clearer as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he nearly jumped again.
An Autocat sat across from him in the wardrobe. Its ghastly face was illuminated only by a few rays of light leaking in through the doors, but Carmer was sure of what it was. Instead of glowing orange, this cat’s eyes were pale blue, but they were also dull and lifeless, nothing more than faceted jewels cut into almond shapes. The cat showed no signs of animation at all.
“I grow tired of your excuses, Gideon,” threatened the Mechanist.
“But, Master—”
“I will not tolerate another abysmal rehearsal. The second round of the competition is tomorrow. The tank will be ready by the third.”
“ . . . Yes, sir.”
“Find me an amplifier, Gideon,” the Mechanist growled. “Find me an amplifier, or I will find myself a new apprentice.”
Convincing himself there was no imminent danger of being attacked by the lifeless automaton next to him, Carmer listened closely.
“I will, Master,” said Gideon.
“Ready your beasts and meet me at the factory in an hour. Thanks to your incompetence, we shall have to make alternate preparations.”
The Mechanist slammed the dressing room door behind him. Carmer chanced a peek through the armoire doors and saw Gideon sitting on the settee, head in his hands. Perhaps, like Carmer and the Amazifier, the Mechanist was the only mentor Gideon had left in the world. Carmer couldn’t help but guess he’d gotten a much better deal than the young Mr. Sharpe.
And where was this factory? Would the source of the Mechanist’s faerie magic be there? Carmer wished he could follow Gideon, but he’d already promised to meet Grit back at the Moto-Manse. Tailing a nasty and powerful magician probably wouldn’t fall within her definition of being careful. Gideon was a sharp boy—no pun intended—who would probably notice someone as clumsy as Carmer following him.
The Wingsnatchers Page 8
