Night's Engines

by Trent Jamieson

  There was a will against us, a great and terrible will.

  Well, we had terrors of our own. Not least of them Master Milde.

  Recollections Recollected, A Buchan

  THE CITY OF HARDACRE

  973 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL

  What little guilt Margaret Penn possessed about following David evaporated the moment the Vergers had attacked. David could be angry at her all he liked, but the truth was she had saved his life. With David dead, the Roil could never be stopped. The Roil had destroyed the metropolis of Tate, subsumed her mother into its mind, and taken away everything else that she cared about. She lived for its destruction, and David was so tightly bound in any possibility of defeating the Roil that his welfare had become far more important than her own.

  He was the key that engaged the Engine of the World. She needed him alive, and she had to believe that David wanted to live as well. He went on and on about being hunted. But what did he really know about that?

  Margaret, on the other hand, was well acquainted with pursuit. It filled her dreams as much as the destruction of her city. Her mother hunted her.

  She knew it as surely as the twin moons that shone in the sky. Just as she knew her mother would be relentless in that hunt. Margaret had seen the things that her mother had at her disposal; she’d seen the great works of the Roil, and how quickly it had washed over first her city, and, not long after, the city of Chapman. When such industry was combined with such intellect it was unstoppable.

  Almost, and it was that almost that tantalised and horrified her.

  If David hadn’t destroyed the iron ships that had followed them after their escape from Chapman, she’d most probably be deep in the Roil now, part of the thought within its massed mind, as an ant was part of the thought of its nest.

  It sickened her, just how close she had come. And just how dependent she was on David.

  She’d followed him, partly to see that he was safe, partly to spy, and mostly because she was bored. They were stuck here in Hardacre. They should have gone weeks ago, left this chaotic little city for the north.

  He was taking Carnival again; she had seen him purchase the drug two corners from Hardacre’s main square, not hours after he had sworn that he was not. She'd watched the curious dance of the transaction, the doffing of hats, the sleight of hand. The sort of thing you didn't notice, unless you were really looking. Margaret had been disappointed, but at least she knew now. Her hopes were pinned on a man in the thrall of his addiction.

  She walked into the pub alone, felt gazes fall upon her. Her skin was too pale and she was too tall. She stood out, no matter how much she hunched over, or how tightly she drew her coat about her.

  She couldn’t see David, he was probably already in the kitchen. The boy had grown an appetite over the last few weeks. One that was at least the match of their benefactor, Mr Buchan. She lifted her gaze, saw the former mayor of Chapman sitting at his usual table.

  Buchan sat, belly creased around the table edge, at the rear of the pub where he could smoke, and eat and watch what was going on. The man saw everything, even when he was eating. And though he didn't own the pub he possessed such a proprietary air you would have thought he owned half the street as well. He gestured at her as she entered, a quick wave in his direction.

  Margaret hoped she managed to hide the scowl she knew was building on her face, working its way through muscle that was most often shaped in a scowl anyway. She pushed her way through the pub towards the big man. Once the smell of ale would have annoyed her, now she hardly noticed it, which in turn annoyed her even more.

  Buchan’s table was crammed with more food than Margaret could have eaten in a week, there was a map folded neatly on one corner of the table, next to a small bottle of map powder. She recognised the map, even folded, the one Buchan claimed to be the only accurate study of the north.

  “Margaret, Margaret. What a delight!” Buchan cried, wiping sauce from his lips, map powder clinging to his nostrils. “Food, drink, can I tempt you?” Margaret sat down. Buchan lowered his voice. “David?”

  Margaret shook her head. “I don't want to talk about him.”

  “You two fought?”

  “We had a disagreement.”

  Buchan frowned. “My dear, I know that you feel put-upon. But really, you must nurture some subtlety. Everything about you gives away how you feel, and who you hate.”

  “I don’t hate you,” Margaret said.

  “And I didn’t say you did!” Buchan laughed. “But that is good to know.”

  “When are we leaving?”

  Buchan held her gaze. “Every day you ask me that. And every day I give you the same answer. As soon as we can.”

  “And you can’t see just how unsatisfying that is?”

  “Oh, I see it. I see it indeed.” He lifted his ale, drained what was left of it with a grimace, looked at the empty glass as though it had somehow betrayed him. “We are all of us frustrated, but just think how much harder it would be if we were in the tents outside the city? Here we are with food and shelter, and some influence.”

  “You’re saying I should be grateful?”

  “I’m saying it could be worse. We are doing the best we can, and that that is better than you could hope without us. Keep David on our side, keep him as the dear friend he is, and you will be doing your part, and keeping a roof over your head. It would be a dreadful shame if you weren't to join us on the journey north.”

  “I’m not fond of threats.”

  “And I’m not fond of making them… to friends.” His gaze flicked to her rifle. “And for goodness’ sake, if you’re going to walk around those weapons, please be more discreet.”

  Margaret pushed herself up from the table. “I’ll be in my room,” she said.

  “Margaret, we won’t be here forever,” he said, voice low. “I promise.”

  Margaret pushed her chair under the table. “We don’t have forever. We may not be moving but the Roil is. You should have never let Kara Jade go.”

  Now it was Buchan's turn to scowl.

  “She was called back to Drift. I could no more stop a pilot from doing as she willed than I could wrestle a Vermatisaur. There was no money that I could offer her to make her stay. The pilots of Drift, they're loyal to the Mothers of Sky, and will be until the damn city comes crashing to the earth.”

  “You could have tried harder.”

  “I believe the same could have been said of you,” Buchan said.

  He was right, but she didn't have to let him see that she knew that.

  “Don't look to Drift to save us,” Buchan said. “The sky city is having troubles of its own.”

  “What troubles?”

  “There are rumours of a coup. The Mothers have been very quiet of late. Only one has been seen.”

  Margaret shook her head. “You're talking about the most politically stable government in Shale.”

  Buchan rubbed his chin. “But everything changes. Hardacre isn't where our journey will end.”

  She turned without a word, made her way to the stairs and began to climb; not before catching a glimpse of David, his plate stacked with food, the Engineer's ring glowing ever so faintly on his finger. The boy was smiling, damn him. How could he smile? They’d just killed two men.

  “Monster,” she breathed.

  She knew all about monsters. She’d spent her whole adult life killing them. You didn’t negotiate with a monster, you couldn’t, and she wasn’t about to start trying.

  And yet, she didn’t have any choice. After all, as Buchan had pointed out, David was the closest thing she had to a friend.

  CHAPTER 3

  After each defeat in the south, Hardacre grew, and the capital of the north truly became that. More blood within the city’s veins meant more blood spilled. For when a population grows there are always elements of it ready to take advantage, to murder, and to steal. And as Hardacre’s population exploded, those elements thrived. The darkest of those flowered in the we
eks after the fall of Mirrlees. The murders were gruesome. Death had never become so lurid.

  Added to that were rumours of a Cuttle army massing in the south, driven north by the greater dark of the Roil.

  It was a perfect time to be a good fellow such as I. Now let me take you to Miss Gentle's boudoir, where we did not go so gently at all.

  Callahan, an Erotic Memoir,

  Christopher Callahan

  CITY OF HARDACRE

  972 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL

  Something scratched at the window, and for an awful moment, David thought it was him. Not Sheff, who was most definitely dead, but Cadell, the Old Man who had cursed him just weeks ago onboard the Roslyn Dawn, with a bite, and the Orbis Ingenium: a ring that Cadell had claimed was a universe folded up on itself.

  He was everywhere. Cadell was everywhere. Not just in his dreams. Why not a dark shape scraping its nails against the glass, or an Old Man’s memories building in David's blood and his bones? And like the Old Man, imprisoned for millennia, David was obsessed with the dimensions of the room that caged him. That was the bit of Cadell in him. Frequently he dreamt of a small room, windowless, with a single reinforced door, bolted shut with something that hurt his head. So often had he had this dream now, that space had come to overlay his own room.

  It was three steps from the desk to the window and five from the bed to the window, or three to the door. David knew the dimensions of this little room too well. He’d spent too long in it.

  There was another soft scraping against the glass.

  David stood up from his desk – where he had been trying to write a letter to his Aunt Veronica – and holding his pen in front of him as though it were a Verger’s knife, took those three steps to the window. He wasn’t ready for this, didn’t know if he would ever be. His hands shook a little despite the Carnival in his veins.

  Nothing.

  The street below was empty. Perhaps it had been an auditory hallucination. In some people Carnival generated all manner of colourful experiences. David had never taken the drug for that, more its ability to calm. As Cadell himself had implied (well, more than implied), to shield him from the worst sensations of a life subsumed by tragedy. Carnival suppressed doubt, blunted terror’s edge. It was what allowed him to stand at the window considering the possibility of the Old Man, and what made it, ultimately, addictive. If David had grown wild with visions and terror every time he’d taken a dose, he wouldn’t have taken it.

  Cadell was out there, somewhere. David had been expecting it, he couldn’t explain how, but he knew this was the consequence of the Old Man’s death, and the “gift” he had given him.

  Tens of people already dead in the city of Hardacre, and David had yet to bring himself to search him out. He was frightened of what he might find, and what he had to do. There hadn’t been much in the way of serious investigation yet; all of these people had been refugees from Chapman, and even a couple from Mirrlees. He’d heard whispers that one of them had even been a Verger.

  Carnival kept it at distance and allowed him to study his terror with a dispassion that he could never hope to attain without it.

  A source had been easy to find. If you knew what to look for, and the signals were universal, Carnival dealers were never far away, particularly in these darkening days. And the refugees from Chapman’s destruction had flooded the market. David had thought that it would be harder to score the good stuff, but apparently a lot of the people who had been carried on the winds had taken it with them. Supplies might drop in the weeks ahead, particularly if the rumours about the exodus from Mirrlees were true. But right now, scoring Carnival was easier than finding fresh fruit.

  Getting away from Margaret and Buchan and Whig had proven harder, but he’d managed it, and transactions weren’t a lengthy affair. How could he explain to Margaret, hardly a sympathetic ear at the best of times, that Carnival was the only thing that suppressed Cadell’s increasing influence within him?

  And all it did was slow the process.

  Perhaps if he had explained that today, she would have grown more sympathetic; then again, she may have regarded him with even more suspicion.

  David’s finger brushed the Orbis on his right hand. It was cold, colder even than his fingertips. He’d tried to remove it several times, but it was not just the case of a ring too tight to drag over his knuckle, but that his flesh and the Orbis Ingenium had fused. Indeed it was growing inside him, filaments of that ring were doing things to him, and the more it did, the more he understood its process, and the less he liked it.

  Twice he’d tried to cut it off, just beneath the knuckle, only to faint when he reached for a blade. That had occurred early in the transformation, a defence mechanism, he guessed. Now he was curious to see just what was happening, what endpoint lay ahead.

  He’d grown a moustache as an act of defiance (in part, it also served to change his appearance somewhat); he couldn’t decide whether or not the moustache made him look younger or older.

  David didn’t know if anyone else had noticed, but he’d also grown an inch taller in the last two weeks, and his shoulders and arms had thickened, which was quite a feat for a Carnival addict. All of it the better to accommodate Cadell, he supposed. He didn’t think the Old Man was going to come bursting out of him any time soon, changing the slope of his brow, or the curve of his lips, but he was there, and with every passing day there was more of him.

  He stared out the window. Hardacre was so much smaller than Mirrlees; from here he could almost see to the edge of the city. Really, it was barely deserving of the name. Hardacre could scarcely be larger than the largest suburb in Mirrlees, though there everything was out of scale: its levees, its bridges beneath which a whole community could hide and rot. He missed his city, despite the rain, despite the fact that he had been hunted there. Somehow that vastness was easier to encompass than these narrow streets, and houses tacked onto other houses, tall and teetering. Thin curling streets gave out to broad squares, where you’d step from shadow to bright light in an instant, as though waking from a dream, and David’s life was becoming too dreamlike as it was.

  But Mirrlees was gone now. He couldn’t go back, and soon this metropolis would be behind him too, if Buchan and Whig could get them moving again. All of a sudden he experienced a longing for another city, much more ancient and one that he would be going back to, even though he had never been there before. Tearwin Meet, the home of the Engine of the World. Not that he knew what he had to do beyond its high walls. The northern city remained a mystery to him.

  A whistle blew in the distance, followed by others. Another body had been found. Guilt gripped him. While he did nothing, people died. He wasn’t Cadell; he never wanted that sort of guilt to consume him.

  He turned from the window just as someone knocked at the door. Once again he swung the pen in front of him, mightier than the sword and all that.

  “David,” came a soft voice.

  Margaret.

  “What do you want?” he asked, trying to inject more urgency into the request than the languid calm of Carnival would allow.

  “You know.”

  David looked at his watch. Midnight had died long ago.

  “It’s late,” he said, trying to sound tired. “Tomorrow.”

  Margaret sighed. “I’ve heard you pacing around in there. I know you’re as likely to find sleep as I am.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I’m in bed… you,” he yawned, “you just woke me.”

  “Open this door, or I’ll kick it down.”

  David walked to the door, hesitated, one hand reaching out towards the latch. He considered the veins, raised along his wrist, and the nails that he kept short with a pair of clippers that Mr Whig had provided. It was the arm of a gentleman, the son of a politician, a Carnival addict and a fugitive. His hand shook a little, and he steadied it, though all it did was seem to drive the shakes deeper into him, as though, at his core, all he contained was fear.

  “Don’t j
ust stand there,” Margaret said. “I’m not feeling patient today.”

  When was she ever patient? She’d spent the last week arguing with Whig and Buchan, demanding why they hadn’t already set off into the north.

  “You have a second, no more and then I–”

  David opened the door because he knew that she would, and if she did it would be a damn sight harder to close again.

  Margaret pushed past him, spun on her heel, in a movement as precise and swift as a dancer’s, and jabbed a pale finger into his chest. “You can hear them out there, can’t you? The whistles blowing?”

  David considered her. Much paler than his brown skin, her hair a bone white that still surprised him a little when he saw her. She looked like she had been waiting for just this moment, to come springing from her bed, all accusation and sharp fingers. His jaw moved a little, but he found that he couldn’t quite manage to speak.

  Margaret grimaced. “What’s wrong with you?” she demanded. David shook his head. “I’m tired. I’m just tired. I was ready to go to bed.”

  And he realised that this time he wasn’t lying, he’d been sitting there with his pen in hand trying to think, just how to write what he had to write. Doubting the letter would even reach his Aunt Veronica.

  “And sleep, eh. Rest for another day of doing nothing,” Margaret spat. She walked to the window and tapped the glass; more whistles blew, louder, closer together, beneath them David thought he could just make out shouts. “Waiting for another night of death.”

  David felt sorry for her, almost as sorry as he felt for himself. “Another body will show up tomorrow.” said Margaret.

  “I would say so,” David replied.

  Margaret peered at him. “Are you all right? You really don’t look it.” David shrugged; honestly, he didn’t know. “What are you suggesting we do?”

  “We both know it’s him,” Margaret said, turning from the window. “Don’t lie; I can see that you know. We need to find Cadell. Stop him before someone else dies.”