by Anthony Ryan
She moved to a ladder and started down without delay. They descended successive tiers of scaffolding, Lizanne finding she had to hurry to keep up thanks to her companion’s long-legged stride. Melina exchanged nods and a few muffled greetings with the miners they met on the way. Most seemed keen to maintain a respectful distance although at one point she was obliged to pause and deliver a warning back-hand cuff to a bleary-eyed fellow who displayed an overly tactile interest in Lizanne. The man staggered backwards, blood staining the thin kerchief he wore as a mask, and would have tottered over the edge if one of his fellow miners hadn’t reached out to steady him.
“Don’t take it personal,” Melina said through her mask as they continued to descend. “It’s the mercury, plays havoc with a man’s mind.”
“Mercury?” Lizanne asked.
“That side is all sulphur,” Melina replied, pointing to the stepped earthen banks opposite. “Dig out plenty on this side too but also cinnabar, which is mercury and sulphur mixed up in the same rock. They use it to make vermilion dye so it fetches a high price, but hacking it out is a nasty business. If a Fury misbehaves the Electress will set him to work on the cinnabar seams. Most don’t last more than a year or two.”
They proceeded down through successive tiers of walkway and ladder until Melina paused at a narrow shaft close to the base of the pit. The steam was thick here and, even through her mask, Lizanne could taste an acrid tint to the air. The shaft was unusual in being the only one Lizanne had seen with a grate over the entrance. The iron barrier was secured in place with a sturdy lock which, she noted in surprise, was only accessible from the inside.
“He doesn’t like visitors,” Melina said, reaching through the bars to pull the rope on a bell suspended from the shaft’s ceiling. “Choosy about who he lets in.”
“But he’ll let you in?” Lizanne asked.
Melina said nothing for a few seconds, finally issuing a muttered response barely audible through her mask. “We’re friends.” She raised her gaze as a dim light glimmered within the dark confines of the shaft. “He’s got an unusual manner,” Melina said. “Can be aggravating if you’re not used to it. No point getting angry with him though. He doesn’t understand such things.”
A young man about Lizanne’s age appeared behind the grate, oil-lamp in hand. He was of average height, his slender frame clad in a set of standard prison overalls, heavily stained with grease and flecked with small burns of the kind Lizanne recognised as resulting from spilled chemicals. Unlike his clothing, his face was scrubbed to a level of cleanliness she hadn’t yet seen in this place, and possessed of such aesthetically pleasing symmetry she was instantly reminded of Tekela’s doll-like visage. But, whereas Tekela always had difficulty in preventing her features from betraying her emotions, this man exhibited none at all, regarding them both in placid and expressionless silence.
“Tinkerer,” Melina said. “Need to have some words.” She opened the sack in her hand and extracted a book, holding it up for inspection. “Imperial Railways Locomotive Maintenance Guide, Volume Three.”
Tinkerer shifted his blank gaze to Lizanne, still saying nothing.
“This is Krista,” Melina said. “New arrival. She’s like you, knows things. I thought you might get along.”
Tinkerer stared at Lizanne for a long moment then set his lamp aside and began to fiddle with the lock on the grate. Lizanne saw that it had no keyhole and was secured in place via a series of cogs set into a cylinder. She had seen combination locks before, but they were an expensive rarity. Most relied on a six-cog cylinder, whilst this one had twelve, meaning even a Blood-blessed would find it practically impossible to pick. Tinkerer’s fingers moved with an automatic speed, too fast for Lizanne to even approximate a guess at the sequence. He lifted the lock clear of the grate and pulled it open before retrieving his lamp and disappearing back into the shaft.
“Stay right behind me,” Melina said, stepping into the shaft. “Step where I step. He’s got contraptions rigged to discourage unwanted visitors, and you really don’t want to find any.”
“I thought he wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Lizanne replied, following her into the gloom.
“He wouldn’t, lest any try to hurt him, then it’s a different story. You don’t live your whole life in Scorazin without learning a thing or two.”
“His whole life? You mean he was born here?”
“So they say. The only inmate to have been born within the city walls to make it to adulthood. Newborns generally don’t last long in here with the air the way it is.”
After a hundred paces the shaft opened out into a circular chamber. Lizanne assumed it must have been a junction of some kind at one point, noting the three other passages that split off into different directions. The space was filled with dismembered machinery, cogs, wheels and chains all arranged in neat stacks alongside racks of tools. Tinkerer had taken a seat at a work-bench and begun working on some kind of device, his eyes narrowed in concentration as his nimble fingers made fractional adjustments to the workings with a screwdriver.
“What do you want, Melina?” he asked, not looking from his work. His voice was a curious amalgam of different Corvantine accents, the varying inflections no doubt picked up from the inmates over the years. But there was also a precision to it, as if each word was crafted with the same care he afforded his devices.
Melina took off her mask, nodding at Lizanne to do the same. She found the air inside the shaft musty but still a considerable improvement on the stench outside.
“Someone set off a bomb outside the Miner’s Repose,” Melina said, placing the book on the work-bench. “Bomb with a timer. Wondered if you had some thoughts on the matter.”
“I do not make bombs,” Tinkerer replied. “And have refused numerous lucrative offers to do so.”
Lizanne’s gaze roamed the chamber, eyes alive for anything familiar, any scrap of paper that might bear some resemblance to the work of the Artisan. At first glance it appeared simply a much more well-ordered version of Jermayah’s workshop, but without a single document of any kind. Not one doodle, she thought, scanning the bare walls and finding the absence of blueprints or diagrams a stark contrast to her father’s. Graysen Lethridge had an aggravating tendency to pin his designs to the wall of his workshop for any pair of thieving eyes to see.
“What are you looking for?”
Lizanne’s eyes snapped to Tinkerer, finding him subjecting her to an intense scrutiny. She might have taken offence at the way he tracked her from head to toe, but for the lack of lust in his eyes. Careful, she cautioned herself. This one sees everything you do.
“A lever escapement modified to trigger a mercury-based detonator,” Lizanne replied.
Tinkerer’s mouth twitched in what Lizanne took to be a potential sign of irritation. “You imagine I would craft anything so inelegant?” he asked.
“Function is more important than elegance,” she said, quoting her father.
“Not to me.” His gaze flicked to Melina. “She is very dangerous. You should be careful.”
“Always am, you know that.”
“Not always.” He turned back to his bench, picking up his screwdriver and device once again. “Otherwise you would still have both eyes.”
Melina’s face betrayed a grimace of accustomed annoyance before she forced a conciliatory smile. “You know we have to look around. If we don’t the Electress’ll send people who won’t be so polite.”
Tinkerer’s lips twitched again but he voiced no objection, merely waving his screwdriver in irritated dismissal before returning to his task.
“Don’t break anything,” Melina warned Lizanne, moving towards one of the side passages.
The other chambers proved to be as spartan and well-ordered as his workshop, one contained a neatly arranged cot complete with precisely folded blankets, another held two buckets, one for ablutions and another for bodil
y functions, the contents sprinkled with lye to mask the smell. The third chamber was different and her initial sight of it provoked an excited quickening in Lizanne’s pulse. Books. They filled the space from floor to ceiling, each arranged in stacks of equal height. Moving closer, Lizanne saw they were mostly technical manuals like the one Melina had brought. She angled her head to scan the spine of a book sitting atop one of the stacks: A Treatise of the Correct Operation of Steam Condensers in Maritime Propulsion Systems.
“Don’t,” Melina warned as she reached out a hand to pluck the book from the stack. “He gets awful agitated if he finds anything even a fraction out of order.”
Lizanne shrugged and let her hand fall, continuing her survey and finding only the kind of reading that would have delighted Jermayah and her father but left her mostly cold. She might have inherited some of the famed Lethridge understanding of engineering matters, but none of the passion. Her studies of such things had always been driven mainly by need and rarely coloured by genuine interest.
“Where did he get all of these?” she wondered aloud.
“This is the sum of his wealth,” Melina said. “He fixes things, pumps and winding-gear mostly, and trades the ore he earns for books supplied by the constables. Weird thing is, he only ever reads them once.”
Although, I suspect he could recite every word without fault, Lizanne added inwardly, eyes tracking over each volume. She had hoped to find something related to the Artisan, but instead saw just more references to efficient drive-shaft alignments and differential gears. History, it seemed, was not amongst Tinkerer’s interests.
“Waste of time,” Melina said, drawing her gaze away from the library. “If there’s anything to be found, it’ll be here.”
Melina stood with her arms crossed as she regarded a broad rectangular patch of the chamber wall. The surface differed from the others in being mostly smooth, Lizanne judging it to have been chiselled and sanded down over months or years to provide a usable writing surface. It was covered in a matrix of white chalk: lines, curves and numbers combined into an abstract and indecipherable jumble.
“What is that?” she asked, moving to Melina’s side.
“The product of Tinkerer’s mind,” she replied with a slight shake of her head. “Keeps most of it in his head but even he has to let it spill out sometimes. See anything here that might be taken for your escapement thing-a-bob?”
Lizanne peered closer, eyes flicking from one calculation or grid pattern to another. Some of the lines were faded with time, whilst in other places the chalk was fresh and bright. It appeared Tinkerer felt no need to erase his prior work, simply overlaying it with new insights to produce this oddly fascinating but meaningless tapestry. She studied it closely for several minutes, eyes alive for anything familiar, or bomb related, but finding nothing. She was about to turn away when she glimpsed a very small diagram at the edge of the rectangle. Three overlapping circles of different sizes arranged so as to sound a chime in her head, a chime she hadn’t heard since Jermayah’s workshop in Carvenport. Three circles . . . three moons. The Alignment.
“Found something?” Melina asked with pointed impatience.
“Just a fragment of calculus I learned in school,” Lizanne said, stepping back. “I suppose he must have picked it up from one of his books.”
“More likely he came up with it himself. He does that a lot.”
“You have been here long enough to establish my non-involvement in this matter.” They turned to find Tinkerer standing in the chamber entrance, his gaze fixed on Lizanne once more with the same fierce scrutiny. “I want you to leave now.”
His tone was as flat as before, but Lizanne noted the way Melina stiffened in anticipation of danger, though Tinkerer held no weapon. “Alright,” she said, moving closer. “We’ll be on our way.” Lizanne saw her raise a hand to touch Tinkerer’s arm, hesitate then lower it again. “It’s . . . always good to see you.”
Tinkerer kept his gaze on Lizanne. “I want you to leave now,” he repeated, each word spoken in exactly the same tone as before.
The grate gave a loud clang as it slammed shut behind them, followed by the snick of Tinkerer reattaching the lock.
“Well that was a singular waste of time,” Lizanne said, glancing back at the empty shaft before pulling on her mask. “What do we tell the Electress?”
“The truth,” Melina replied, her one eye suddenly angry above her mask. “Trust me, love, that’s the only thing you’ll ever want to tell her.”
• • •
Anatol’s fist made a wet crunching sound as it slammed into the Scuttler’s face. The force of the blow spun him around, the rope securing his wrists to the basement ceiling straining as he sprayed shattered teeth in a wide arc. The Scuttler sagged, all vestige of his former resolve now vanished from his swollen mask of a face. Blood dripped from his gashed lips as he moaned and bobbed his head in defeat.
“Three punches,” the Electress commented through a cloud of cigarillo smoke. “I’m impressed. Most start babbling at two.”
Lizanne had never found torture a particularly effective means of extracting reliable information. The threat of imminent death had a tendency to loosen tongues at a decisive moment but even then the results were often unpredictable. When Exceptional Initiatives needed detailed intelligence they favoured the more subtle approach of abduction and prolonged interrogation, usually augmented by judicious use of sleep deprivation and resistance-sapping drugs. Electress Atalina, however, proved to be an exponent of the more direct approach.
“Now then, Azarin,” she said, rising from her chair to loom over the unfortunate Scuttler. She lowered her gaze to peer into his bleary, bloodshot eyes. “Let’s start with Kevozan. Who’s the Coal King been meeting with recently?”
Azarin exhaled a red vapour as he struggled to reply, the words a barely distinct sputter. “Never . . . meetsh anyone . . . outshide the Scuttlersh . . .”
“Yes, so I heard,” the Electress said. “Leaves all the outside dealings to lickspittles like you. But I find it hard to credit he’d plan a move against me without a face-to-face with the assassin.”
The captive spasmed as he tried to shake his head, succeeding only in dislodging a few more drops of blood from his face. “Washn’t . . . ush . . .”
“Oh dear.” The Electress moved back a little, drew deeply on her cigarillo then stubbed out the glowing tip on Azarin’s eye. Lizanne was surprised at the strength evident in the scream he produced. “And I thought we’d reached an understanding. Anatol, let’s try another three punches. To the body this time, if you please.”
Three rib-cracking blows and some further questioning later it was apparent that if the Coal King had orchestrated the bombing, this particular lackey had no knowledge of it.
“Still a few breaths left in him,” Anatol said, placing a hand on Azarin’s barely moving chest. “You want me to take him to the pit?”
“No. Wait for nightfall then dump him outside that hovel Kevozan calls a palace. We need to maintain a clear line of communication.” The Electress moved to the basement steps, gesturing for Lizanne to follow.
“I’m guessing this isn’t your first dance,” the Electress observed, casting a glance at Lizanne’s unruffled features as they climbed to the inn’s top floor. “Even Melina puked up the first time I had her stand witness to one of my little chats. But then, I didn’t have Anatol in those days so it was more of a surgical exercise.”
“I saw worse in Imperial custody,” Lizanne said. “Though the Cadre’s methods are a little more . . . artful.”
“Really?” They came to the Electress’s office and she sank into the chair behind her desk before reaching for an inevitable cigarillo. “And did they practice their arts on you?”
Lizanne allowed a short interval of grim-faced silence before replying, “Of course they did.”
The large woman shook a
match and smiled around a mouthful of smoke. “Then let’s hope you learned a thing or two. Tomorrow you can take yourself off to the house of the Learned Damned. Make out like you’re disgruntled, looking for a new home. Shouldn’t be too difficult to win them over with your prior experience.”
“If they’ve undergone anything like my prior experience they’ll kill me the second I open my mouth.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. A fetching little morsel like you spouting all the right dogma will be hard to resist. They’re all still idealists at heart, y’see. Delusion never really fades for the true believer, even in here. I trust you remember it all? Bidrosin’s Credo and all that shit.”
Lizanne made a show of smothering a sigh. “Yes. I remember it all.”
“Good. Best get some rest for the morrow then, eh?”
Lizanne nodded and moved to the door, pausing as the Electress added, “The Tinkerer. You’re sure he had no part in this?”
“As I said, I saw no evidence. And Melina vouched for him.”
“Melina’s overly sentimental when it comes to him. Saved her life, y’know, when she first got pushed through the gates. She was just a skinny slip of a thing then, didn’t know better than to fight when they swarmed at her, did pretty well too but still ended up short one eye with no friends. She’d’ve starved if Tinkerer hadn’t taken her in, though he was scarcely more than a boy in those days. Y’could say they grew up together, till she got tired of life on the margins and decided to make a real life for herself within these walls.”
“She said he was born here.”
“So they say. I’ve done fifteen years and he was here before me. Not many of us left from that time, I can tell you. The constables weren’t so nice back then.”
“His parents?”
The Electress shrugged. “Never knew ’em. Most likely he got squirted out by some poor cow pushed through the gates with a swollen belly. I expect she hated herself for not smothering the poor little fucker the moment he popped out.”
The Electress winced and raised a meaty leg to the desk-top before tugging off her shoe to reveal a swollen and reddened foot. “Bloody corns. Send Makario in, will you? Time he put those fine fingers to some real use.”
