The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy, 2013 Edition

by Rich Horton

  But for the record, the mechanical lobster is not my doing. I owe you much, but at the moment that is all I can give you.

  Yours,

  —Rosalie Syme

  Rosalie:

  Your note arrived well in advance of the regular post, and as a result I’m still in the dark. I’ve heard nothing of a lobster, nor is there any news of a disaster there in Harkuma. As a result I must conclude that you are overreacting. Pull your stockings up and remember that I chose you for a reason.

  And frankly, the only thing you owe me is the starter money for the school. The current state of affairs between Imperial interests and the Hundred Cities is tenuous at best, and I will not have an opportunity to found a branch of the Jenkins School squandered. If you have come to the conclusion that such a school is impossible, then send the money under separate cover, registered mail. I shouldn’t have to tell you this.

  —E. Jenkins (Matron)

  Dear Matron Jenkins,

  I apologize for my earlier note, as well as for the panicky tone of my initial report. I would assume that by now you have received it, save for the fact that the Cromwell children have taken some delight in demonstrating just how destructive their toys can be when fully wound.

  I’m afraid my first impression of Harkuma lived up to the worst assertions of the yellow broadsheets back home. The Hundred Cities as a whole may be quite civilized, but Harkuma is not technically one of them, and its inferior status is made worse by the constant dust storms. (I am given to understand that Harkuma’s elder sister city, Akkuma, is similarly plagued, but the automata of that city have safeguards in place against damage from the storms.) The mark of Imperial commerce is quite present, though, as the architecture of Cromwell House proves, as does my presence, I suppose, since Cromwell and Eutropius

  I’m sorry. I get ahead of myself, and my circumstances are not conducive to concentration.

  What is markedly odd is that despite all this, Harkuma reminds me of my home in the warehouse district. (I do beg your pardon, Matron, for reminding you of this fact.) The constant chaos is not so far off from what the Staves dealt with, although there is a different flavor to it that I cannot yet put into words.

  Of the human population, I cannot begin to find a commonality. In the five minutes I paused at the train station, I saw four Lower Kingdom officials in state dress, two Terranoctan soldiers (or so I assume from their scythes), a Svete-Kulap clanmerchant suffering a bad case of sunburn, and a Lucan noblewoman with her interpreter. To complicate matters, the automata of Akkuma travel freely within this satellite city, and their clattering speech rings out at all hours.

  Unfortunately, the cavalier attitude of the Hundred Cities to the association of automaton and human borders on the reckless. After the officials had carefully evicted the human passengers and inspected the train so that it might pass on to Akkuma, I saw a young man of shifty appearance helping a woman who could not have been younger than ninety onto the last car. The Akkuma train runs at such infrequent intervals that human visitors must bring twice their own weight in water, Matron, and yet this young man packed her onto the train with nothing more than a bag. I cannot

  I have taken a moment to collect myself and remove the canister of spiders that the eldest Cromwell child, Natalya, has placed on my bedside table.

  As you recall—and as I wish to stress, given that my assignment has proven so radically different—I was to undertake the education of the Cromwell children. Mr. Cromwell was somewhat lax in hiring a governess after their mother’s passing several years ago, but his business partner M. Eutropius, currently the children’s legal guardian, contacted the Jenkins School immediately following Mr. Cromwell’s last illness. While all of this is technically true, the omissions are crippling enough to question whether our contract is even valid.

  The problems began nearly as soon as I arrived at Cromwell House. The house was built in both the Harkuma style and that of a northern manor-house, keeping the worst features of each. The lower floors are open and high-ceilinged, but the upper reaches are quite dark and cramped, giving one a choice of agoraphobia or claustrophobia. It did not help that when I first arrived I had to search for a good fifteen minutes before finding anyone, and the housemaid who answered seemed to not know her way around at all, having been here only one week. As I write this, she has already left, hired off to a financier bound for Bis-Nocta. Her successor has also given notice.

  The next problem to present itself was the matter of the children themselves. Though Eutropius’ letter seemed to indicate that they were already on a course of education, it seems that their father let them run amok. Natalya, at eleven years, has some authority over the other three but chooses to exercise it only to prevent interfamilial fights. Irra (nine) is as elusive as a swamplight and as omnipresent, at least until she is noticed, and her brother Serge (six) seems to delight in loudly pointing her out and causing her to flee. The youngest, Sulla (five), would much rather communicate in gestures and what I believe is a poor approximation of automaton-speech.

  Matron, these are not students, even by the standards of the warehouse district scholarship initiative (and believe me, I am well aware of the irony in my saying this). They are a project.

  I did not see my employer until that evening, having spent much of my time in an attempt to introduce myself to the children (and, as I’ve mentioned, sending out my initial report plus lobster). Natalya was the one who found me trying to coax Irra out of hiding. “Uncle wants to see you,” she told me, and handed me the first of the many canisters of spiders. I consider it a small victory that I did not scream and fling the lot away.

  The lower halls of Cromwell House—the high arches, the red clay walls, the tracings in the floor meant for those automata guests who run on wheels—are particularly uncanny in shadow. (If you remember the Gymnasium Specter incident at the School, I believe you will understand why.) The lamps were unlit, and only the glow of fires outside illuminated the hall. I made my way to the foot of the stairs, clinging to the wall for guidance. “Mr. Eutropius?” I called, expecting at any moment Irra and Serge to jump out at me. “Sir?”

  “I am here,” said a cultured bass voice from somewhere to my right. It was the sort of voice to rattle pebbles in dust, and I confess I shivered at the sound of it.

  You have trained me well, though, and mindful of your constant admonitions, I pulled myself upright. “I am Rosalie Syme, of the Jenkins School. You engaged me to educate the Cromwell children.”

  “So I did.” A clank and drag sounded from the darkness, followed by a brief flare: werglass, glowing as thaumic power moved through it. “Come to me if you have need of anything. I have been quite busy in the wake of poor Edgar’s death, but I can certainly spare time for the children.”

  “That’s kind of you, sir,” I said. “Sir—how will I know you, if I need to find you?”

  At this there was a creak and a dull thrum, as of an engine catching somewhere in the house. “My apologies. I forgot you do not see as I do. In Edgar’s absence, I forget myself.”

  A dial spun close to my elbow. At the far end of the hall, the lamps flickered and caught, one by one, illuminating the great shape standing far too close, the inlay of gold on steel, the eight long segmented legs unfolding as he approached, the central spire of a body and the werglass ring of eyes.

  Eutropius is an automaton.

  You have hired me to an automaton.

  Matron Jenkins, please call me home.

  Yours,

  —Rosalie Syme

  Rosalie:

  I will do no such thing. While I admit Eutropius’ nature is startling, that does not in any way change our contract. Remember: I would not have sent you if I did not believe you fully capable, and certainly more so than our non-scholarship students. Now wipe your nose and get back in the fray before I relegate you to that list of fainting nellies.

  And why would I mind your comments regarding the warehouse district? Do you think me ignorant of my st
udents’ backgrounds?

  As a side note, the lobster has arrived, along with the remnants of the post. I currently have it caged on my desk. How long does it take to wind down?

  —E. Jenkins (Matron)

  Dear Matron Jenkins,

  Yes, of course you’re right. My apologies.

  I’ve since acclimated a little, although it is difficult to look out on the low flat roofs of the city and not be reminded of the warehouse district. I confess I did not expect my childhood to find me here of all places. (Though I would like to stress again that my days in the Staves are well behind me, and in any case the rooftops here are too unfamiliar for me to consider similar activities. I think I’ve lost the knack, anyway.)

  Harkuma is a very strange place. Its entire business revolves around what is not present: Akkuma and the gems mined there, as well as the various homes of the trade delegations who make those gems their business. Few of the automata here even treat it as home; Eutropius is Transit-born and considers himself a native of the Glasswalk, and many of those I see during the day return to Akkuma regularly.

  It’s perhaps no surprise that the Cromwell children are so distracted. I’ve abandoned the classroom setting and have adopted a peripatetic method of teaching, which has improved their attitude toward me somewhat. Natalya, in particular, has begun to warm to me so long as I assist her in the kitchen, the position of cook being another that has high turnover. She has even taught me several of the recipes for the dinners the children usually share when no cook is engaged. (Sweet pudding is, unfortunately, at the top of the list. Fresh greens will no doubt be difficult to introduce.)

  Far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, but it seems that the late Edgar Cromwell was one of those people who, after amassing a family, don’t really seem to know what to do with it. Under his wife’s supervision, all was well, but judging by some remarks from Natalya and Eutropius, his attitude was always one of benign neglect. Neglect remains neglect, though.

  Eutropius does deeply care about the children, and it is quite something to see them swarm over their “uncle.” Irra in particular reliably comes out of hiding only in his presence, and Serge cannot be quieted. Apparently he has also taught them some small practical skills; the mechanical lobster, as well as several of their other toys, is the children’s own work, built under his tutelage. (According to him, the lobster should wind down in a matter of weeks, depending on how much it has consumed. I’ve enclosed a key, should you care to deploy it in faculty meetings.) Eutropius, though, is aware that his skill in childrearing is limited, and so it seems that he engaged help well before Cromwell even fell ill, though I must confess I was startled at his other employees.

  Specifically, the same shifty-looking young man who I saw sending the poor old woman off on the Akkuma train is in Eutropius’ employ. He arrived as I was in the midst of showing Natalya how to scrub out the cookpots. Sulla, who had been hanging onto my skirt for the last half hour, was the first to notice him. “Pietro,” she said, giving me an emphatic tug.

  “Pietro?” I stood to see the young man lounging in the doorway as if he belonged there. “Who—”

  Sulla, however, did not hesitate. “Pietro, this is Rosie,” she said, for the first time lacking the stutter that she carries from attempting to imitate automata.

  “Rosie?” He tipped his cap to me—a gesture straight off the streets of the Capitol, and one extraordinarily strange coming from a man dressed in the heavily-embroidered jacket and bands of the Hundred Cities, not to mention his short beard and shaven head. “A pleasure, miss,” he went on, his Imperial only barely accented.

  “Likewise,” I said, attempting to regain what dignity I could while up to my elbows in filthy suds.

  Pietro smiled, exposing one canine tooth that had been replaced with steel. Before he could say more, Serge practically jumped onto him, demanding to know if “Grandma Lyle” was back. The most I could gather from the ensuing chaos was that Pietro was a frequent visitor to the house and often advised Eutropius on how best to take care of the children (including my hiring), and that this was part of his profession.

  What that profession might be, I would hesitate to explain had you not explicitly stated that you are unconcerned with my history. Pietro is what the many travelers through Harkuma refer to as a facilis or, commonly, “greaser.” He makes his living by arranging contact between the various human merchants and the automata of Akkuma. If a person wishes to visit Akkuma, he must do so in the company of one of these faciles who will vouch for him, undertake the shipment of water, even make business connections, as well as monitor the entrepreneur’s movements within the city and make certain that he adheres to all standards of conduct.

  To maintain their positions, these faciles must keep credibility with both sides. A human client who attempted to suborn an automaton or hide in the city would be as damaging to a facilis’ credibility as an attempt on that same human’s life by one of the more militant automata sects.

  The practice of trading on such an ephemeral thing as reputation seemed at first incomprehensible, until I remembered how the Staves used to deal with the other “confraternities,” as you have always referred to them. We did not have the faciles, but we did have our own go-betweens, particularly in regards to selling goods of questionable ownership. In fact, I played a similar role between the Staves and the Redfingers (who ran on the Gestenwerke side of the district) up to the point where I was handed over to the Jenkins School.

  Regarding the satellite school, I have made some minor inquiries, but the first officials I contacted had been reassigned by the time I made a follow-up visit. I will make another attempt, but at the moment I have enough on my hands with the Cromwell children. Sulla has taken to creeping into my room and falling asleep on my bed—in fact, she is there now, and once this letter is complete I will put another blanket over her. Sadly, the frequency of spider canisters has increased (and now diversified into centipedes) even as Natalya and I seem to have connected in our mutual scullionship.

  Courteous as my employer is with the children, his nighttime pursuits are distressing to say the least. Every few nights, a din emerges from the lower reaches, a noise that I can only compare to the clatter of tram cars paired with the whine of a malfunctioning drill. It is a pity, as the city is not lacking in charms, even if I am still shaking the dust out of my skirts every five minutes and cleaning it from every crevice before I sleep. Even when I have a full night’s sleep, every day feels as if I am walking on an uneven surface. But you are right, Matron, and I have some experience walking unsteady paths.

  Yours,

  —Rosalie Syme

  R:

  That’s my girl.

  I’ve attached a list of names of former Jenkins School contacts; if your first endeavors are withering, perhaps this will spur a second round. Don’t fuss so about a little noise; our new dormitory faces the forge district, and I can’t imagine it’s any worse than that.

  —E. J. (M.)

  Dear Matron Jenkins,

  Sadly, not one of the people you name remains in Harkuma. It is as I said; this is a transient town, and few people stay for long. Even the automata do not linger.

  I had some proof of that the other day, when I was taking Natalya and the children back from market again (Serge shows an aptitude for misdirection, which resulted in our first return trip to the market and a very grudging apology from him). I am not sure if I can adequately describe the scene we found on our return. The roads of Harkuma, though just as busy as Admiral Street or any other thoroughfare, are broad enough for automata to pass easily. One may pass by most altercations without even flicking one’s skirt aside, regardless of their violence.

  However, this particular altercation had blocked the entirety of the street. Two automata and a Lower Kingdom official, possibly one of those I saw on my arrival, were in heated disagreement. Of the automata, one had a very Imperial look to its construction—possibly a tram-car before its awakening—and as such, i
t was roughly the size of two dormitory rooms. The other was, I believe, City-born, one of the automata created and awakened among its fellows, and thus both smaller and less practically designed, perching on three delicate legs and shaking a fourth at the official and the tram-car. My knowledge of the Lower Kingdom dialects is flawed (you remember I had trouble with the inflections), but I was able to gather that some temporary business agreement had soured.

  My first impulse was to shoo the children away, but you can guess how successful that was. My second was to move the five of us into the shelter of a nearby fruit-seller’s stall and wait it out. I had no sooner done so than the shouting gave way to ominous silence, and Sulla caught her breath. “What is it?” I asked, picking her up.

  “The big one called the little a—” and here she made a stuttering noise, an automata word that I am glad I do not know, judging by Natalya’s hiss. “And the little one called the big one a man-scraper.”

  Just then the Lower Kingdom official declared that both automata were “unworthy of their metal.” The automata turned to face him, and I covered Sulla’s eyes. I saw plenty of tram accidents when I was in the Staves, and they are not healthy viewing for a five-year-old.

  Before the man could be crushed, however, a tiny old woman made her way through the crowd. It took me a moment to recognize her as the same woman Pietro had put on the train to Akkuma, and by that point she had reached the side of the larger automaton. I could not hear what she said, but the tram-car settled back on its treads and the smaller automaton lowered its leg. Either one of them could easily have crushed her or even just set her aside, yet they remained still. The official attempted to interrupt her several times, but she raised one frail hand and he stopped as if confronted by a pikeman.

  Around us, the commotion in the street returned to its usual state, and Sulla pushed away, wanting to be let down. Unfortunately, her buckles had become caught on my bodice, and by the time we’d untangled ourselves, the old woman had dismissed both the smaller automaton and the official and stayed to speak with the tram-car, one hand on its treads. (I should mention that many Transit-born automata do not like to be touched; it is, I believe, a reminder of their history as machines before awakening.) After a moment, they parted ways, and the little old woman turned back towards us.