The Sightless City

by Noah Lemelson

  Ewald laughed and grabbed her hand. “It is a pleasure, madam. I consider it an honor to meet one of the hardworking women who keeps our grand city running.”

  Sylvaine nodded, dumb. No one had ever declared the act of meeting her to be “pleasure” or an “honor.”

  Lazarus gestured to the sitting man, lanky and gaunt, whose gaze was locked onto the book in his hand. “And this is Gath Melikoff, a gadget merchant.”

  Gath did not look up, but instead simply growled a “hello.”

  Sylvaine nodded, and glanced at the final man, who looked like a butler.

  “Oh yes,” Lazarus said. “And Namter,” he addressed the man directly, “why don’t you start boiling some tea?”

  The man left the room with a curt, “Yes, sir.”

  Lazarus took her bag, and Ewald pulled up a seat. “Please Sylvaine,” Lazarus said, “make yourself at home.”

  “Thank you,” Sylvaine squeaked out. She had never been invited into a client’s apartment before, she felt out of place. She could smell the dust on herself, mixed with sweat dripping from her fur.

  “It’s uh, so nice to meet you all. I’m sorry that I’m so dirty entering your beautiful home. Please let me wipe myself off.” She walked across the room and tried the door. It was locked.

  “Not that one,” Lazarus said. “Wrong door. Place is still under construction, so we keep that locked. Just metal and dust, I’m afraid. The other one.”

  She made the short walk as fast as would be appropriate, hoping her fur hid her abashment.

  * * *

  Sylvaine splashed cold water from the marble washbasin onto her face. The now grime-infected liquid swirled down the drain. Her fu— no hair, was sticking out in all directions. Bags hung under her eyes, her face worn from weeks of late-night studies.

  It was unusual to be treated with such hospitality. She considered herself lucky when she received even basic professionalism, and not thinly veiled fear or disgust. Something in the back of her mind told her it was all wrong, that she needed to leave, but when she pressed her instincts, they couldn’t give a reason why. The situation just smelled odd.

  But nice. She realized she liked the way Lazarus looked at her, as if the hair and teeth and claws didn’t even register in his mind. Was this how other women felt?

  * * *

  She left the bathroom to find the butler pouring tea. Lazarus took a sip and closed his eyes, savoring it. Then he gestured her to an open seat.

  “Utarran white, please have a taste. No truly civilized conversation has ever started without a cup of tea. It’s pleasant to have some company here. I just moved into town, you see.”

  Sylvaine smiled. “It’s pleasant to have a client bring me tea.” She took a sip. It tasted like distant mountain air, natural and fresh, free from the smoke and smog of industry. She didn’t really like it.

  “I take it you’re still in the Academy,” Lazarus said. “Otherwise I can’t imagine why someone of your talent is still working maintenance.”

  “Third year,” she admitted.

  “Ah, so you must have taken æthermantics,” Ewald said. “My cousin just went through that sequence.”

  Sylvaine avoided his gaze. They could see what she was, they must know, but then, why did he ask? The three had lifted her up with compliments, and she didn’t feel like popping her own balloon.

  “Well, I have been working on a project that involves a lot of æthermantics.” She pulled her notebook from her bag. “Just an attempt to design a new negative-density generator. Nothing too special, I know every other student tries a crack at it at some point, considering the history of the city.”

  “Nonsense,” Lazarus said, taking the book. “It’s a fascinating subject.”

  He stared at the esoteric scribbles, then passed it to Gath. “Too much for me. I’ll let our gadgeteer have a shot.”

  Gath seemed irked to be involved, but he opened the book and stared. Finally, a smile forced its way onto his face, and for the first time he looked at Sylvaine with interest.

  “Novel way to modulate æther frequency,” he said. “Very, very interesting. So, this section here, it equalizes the frequency of the inflow and the sample?”

  “It’s a read-match system,” she explained. “The sample remains steady, the inflow is altered in real time, to maintain a consistent, precisely modulated outflow.”

  He thought on this a moment, then nodded. “Have you made a prototype?”

  Sylvaine paused, then sighed and shook her head. “I haven’t managed to.”

  “There’s plenty of engineers in this city who would jump on an exciting new project,” Ewald said, “and if you’re looking for financers, I know people.”

  Sylvaine tried to come up with an excuse, but her expression prompted Lazarus to speak first.

  “No need for explanation Sylvaine, a project sent to another engineer is no longer your project. I understand, to most folks a designer is just a name on paper. I am sure you poured your soul into this, and you deserve the full recognition for creating it.” He looked her over. “But you can’t. Because you lack the Knack.”

  There it was. Sylvaine avoid the man’s gaze and kept silent.

  Lazarus laughed. “No need to be bashful. The Knack is one of the stupidest ideas under the Demiurge’s sun. Elitist hogwash. There is no Knack. It’s all just confidence and skill. You know how many lifelong mechanics I’ve seen turn into æthermancers?”

  He pulled out a vial of scarlet powder, clumps of which stuck to the glass.

  “This is Slickdust. Boosts creativity, heightens energy, and—” He paused, lifting the vial up so the sunlight glinted off its red. “—helps to spark æther. It’s an experimental wonder drug, I tell you, used by half the engineers I know. Here, have some.”

  He poured a pinch’s worth into her drink.

  Sylvaine eyed the tea; the pale-tinted translucence swirled with veins of red that slowly congealed into a vaguely brownish liquid. She had heard of some students experimenting with deepshrooms, or cog-loosening pills, but never something called slickdust. Then again, if anyone would have been left in the dark, it would be her.

  Is it safe?”

  “Of course,” Lazarus laughed, “see?” He poured some into his tea and drank.

  She sniffed it as subtly as she could manage. It smelled faintly of iron mixed with something she couldn’t place. It seemed too perfect, a drug that could solve all her problems, give her the Knack? It was like a dramatic turn in a pulp novel: a young girl trodden by everyone, given magical powers to save her town and earn the respect she deserved. In fact, that was the plot to Maiden Firehands and The Troll Lords, which was sitting under her bed back home.

  She lifted the cup slowly. It was odd how much she wished to be at her dingy shack of an apartment at that moment, despite the luxury and outward cordiality of Roache’s penthouse. But no one was nice without reason, at least to her. She was just some student, some ferral student; why would he want to help her? The whole idea was ridiculous, a medical cure for a lack of Knack? Then again, if it was a simple problem of biology, why shouldn’t there be a simple solution? There was no reason for Lazarus to lie. Unless he was trying to sell her some waste-snake oil, but then, no price had been stated. What did else would he have to gain? Genuine concern, she reasoned, was the only logical explanation.

  Her hand shook slightly, tiny waves dancing from one side of the cup to another. She could sense them watching her, not directly, but subtly, side glances, polite stares, the kind refined folk would give, those who would never gawk at a ferral, but neither would they miss their chance to study the oddity.

  She placed the glass down with a clunk.

  “I have to go.”

  Lazarus gave a look of concern. “I didn’t mean to scare you off, of course if you don’t want to take it…”

  “I’m late.” She grabbed her bag, embarrassed she couldn’t think of a better excuse. As she
ran out the door she caught a distant, “It was nice to meet you!”

  * * *

  Sylvaine stopped and gathered her breath half a block from the apartment. She leaned back on the side of an alleyway, trying to quiet her mind. Some instinctual sliver of her brain was relieved, but the rest of her cursed itself. A man had been kind to her for the first time in, well, a very long time, and she had fled.

  Maybe he was going to try and to use her. But he didn’t ask for money, or favors, or anything. He had drunk the liquid itself, so it couldn’t be toxic. Even if the possibility of slickdust working was minute, it was everything she had ever wanted, wasn’t such a chance worth some risk?

  She stared up at the window, now distant above her, half hoping to see Lazarus again, beckoning her back. No, she couldn’t go back, she’d seem even more foolish. But then, why should she let being a fool stop her now?

  Her regrets, fears, and second guesses battled it out in her mind as she turned down the alley, and nearly ran into the chest of a large man.

  “Sorry” she muttered, as she tried to move past him.

  “It is not your fault,” the man said, making himself an obstacle. “May I ask you something?”

  He was thickly built, completely bald, his face tanned and etched with scars, some barely visible, others deep cuts. On his face the man wore a smooth metal plate, a strangely unadorned mask that covered his left eye, sunlight dimly reflected on its dirtied surface.

  Sylvaine shook her head, muttered something about being late, and sidestepped him.

  “You are an engineering student,” the man said, following her. “Do you know a Professor Gearswit?”

  She glanced at him, and quickly regretted it, as it was clear he took it for a yes.

  “I need to speak with this Gearswit, would you be able to send a message?” he asked, as they both turned an alley corner, an open and busy street not far ahead.

  “He has a mailbox with the Academy,” Sylvaine said.

  “Yes, I am aware. I sent him some important documents, I was hoping to discuss them in person.”

  Sylvaine increased her pace slightly, and the man grabbed at her arm. She recoiled, and the man slid to her side, hands up as if to say he wasn’t a threat, but standing too close for her to be confident in that sentiment.

  “I do not wish to bother you, but did you meet with that man, on the top floor?” He stared at her. “Mr. Roache he is called. I just need to speak about him a quick moment.”

  A siren blared out from the street ahead. Sylvaine glanced over to see a police autocar zip by, on call to some distant corner of the city. She turned back to face the stranger, several choice words on her lips, only to find the strange man had disappeared.

  Sylvaine hurried out to the main street, for once happy to be among crowds. Demiurge’s Hammer, she thought as she walked, Icaria is a city of freaks.

  Chapter 6

  “Corvin Gall… Yeah I think I know him, he’s that gearhead right?” the drunkard said, shaking his empty mug.

  “Another one for my buddy here,” Marcel shouted to the bartender, who shrugged and poured half-a-litre’s worth of cheap waste-brewed beer into the stained cup. The drunkard, who had given his name as Vik, took it and drank with clumsy enthusiasm, spilling more than a few drops onto his wrinkled and oil-stained Lazacorp uniform.

  “Yeah, that sounds like the guy,” Marcel said, “an old friend of a friend. You speak with him much?” Marcel tried not to let his excitement leak into his words, lest his new “buddy” realized the value of his gossip and demand a price greater than just a few beers.

  Vik scratched at a sore on his chin, and sipped. “Yeah, he’s not the chatty kind. Seen him working on some projects round Blackwood Row, fixing the piping and the like. Had to deliver to him a good many parts, I tell you. Just about whenever I finish one shipment I get a call for another, so he must be hard at work, I guess.”

  Marcel tried to etch every word into memory, wishing he could simply take pen to paper and transcribe the conversation in his notebook. He’d had considerable trouble these past two weeks uncovering anything of substance concerning the two men Lazarus had asked him to look into. The name “Kayip” had led only to looks of confusion, the madman seemingly a myth, if the stares of most folk he asked were any indication. Gall, at least, Marcel could confirm existed, and lived in Blackwood Row, but that’s about all he could manage to find.

  Most Lazacorp employees had tightened their mouths as soon as they figured out that Marcel was a private investigator. The Lazacorp guards were the worst, most lacking even the dignity to toss some excuse, instead responding to Marcel’s questioning with loud, surprisingly inventive, strings of curses and insults. This was… unusual to say the least. Normally at least a few Lazacorp employees had been pliable in the past, but with Lazarus out of town, lips sealed themselves.

  As limited as Marcel’s overall success had been, “The Drunken Taur” was still the best watering hole for listening in on booze-loosened words. Marcel chose his own carefully.

  “Yeah, I was just wondering how Gall was taking to his new job,” Marcel said. “Do you get a chance to talk to him at work?”

  Vik shook his head. “They keep us busy. If he talks much with anyone I guess it’d have to be with those skinsick fucks.”

  “The mutant workers,” Marcel said, catching the irritation in his tone. It seemed an unfortunate habit among many Huile-folk to refer to mutants with casual slurs. Such waste-infected prejudice was certainly unseemly, but there was no sense sinking an interview over some loose talk.

  “Sure, whatever,” Vik said, sipping. “Doubt he talks to them much. Nobody talks to them much.”

  Gall was clearly an obsessed craftsman. A useful tidbit, Marcel supposed, but it didn’t bode well for an easy investigation. “Does he drink much with the other workers?” he asked.

  Vik seemed to mull on this a bit, staring into the puddle at the bottom of his mug. Marcel glanced around. The barroom was in an old, unrefurbished building, an increasing rarity in Huile. It was about as grimy and rundown as the city got, which, since its uplifting by the UCCR, wasn’t all that grimy or rundown. The furniture was mostly waste-style, scavenged junk held together by welding or tape, but at least kept relatively clean. The walls were covered with faded advertisement posters. One was older, by a century at least, pre-Severing War. It displayed, on a cracked browning sheet, a smiling soldier in the now defunct Republican Guard uniform. In one hand he held a bayonetted rifle, and in the other a bottled drink. “When fighting under the El’Helmaud sun, our boys can’t resist a cold bottle of Sted’s Sugarized Pop!”

  Marcel had never heard of Sted.

  Over the past few hours the bar had been a mix of waste-merchants comparing scrap, off-shift Lazacorp workers drinking loudly, old men playing flickerdiscs, and a gaggle of bored teenagers who argued about nothing. A fairly usual crowd judging by the bartender’s bored demure, as she languidly smoked a clope, back against the wall. One metal-armed man had returned Marcel’s stare, though in the dim lighting Marcel couldn’t guess if the look was friendly, a threat, or if the man was simply lost in some drunken stupor.

  Finally Vik nodded, and tapped his glass again. Marcel forced himself not to roll his eyes while waving down the bartender. Only after Vik had taken another long sip did he answer:

  “Nah. Never saw him drink.”

  Marcel glared, letting a hint of his frustration through.

  “I mean, he doesn’t drink with us, you know, the cargo-pushers and the paper-signers and the like,” Vik continued. “The guards keep to themselves, that’s how wastefolk are, so I don’t know if he does anything with them. Honestly, I never saw Gall off the job. Inferno, I barely saw him then. He mostly worked hidden the monolith.”

  “The… monolith?” Marcel asked.

  Vik waved his hand. “Nothing strange, just what we call that… whatsit … that water filtration thing they’re building. Covered it
up in a big box of a building, looks monolithy. I guess it’s to keep out the fumes.”

  Marcel nodded, more for politeness than anything. There was little useful the man had told him that Marcel hadn’t already heard in the few miserably short conversations he had already managed to wring out of other workers.

  “Did Gall… get into any trouble?” Marcel offered. “Find himself in fights with any other workers, feuds, misunderstandings?”

  The man chugged the rest of his beer, and stared at the glass. Marcel couldn’t figure out if the man was lost in memory, or if Vik was calculating how many more drinks he could stretch this interview out for.

  The door flew open with a clatter, the entrance of someone who desired a whole bar’s worth of stares. Marcel provided his, squinting up past the blinding midday light at the brick wall of a man he recognized as Dutrix Crat. Crat was one of Verus’s many hires, though to what exact position he held, Marcel had never been sure. The man strode over, his long, swaying coat covering all but his buzz-cut head, which was decorated by a collage of tattoos: eyeballs and scarred men interspersed with abstract letterwork. He looked down at Marcel and Vik with a glare usually reserved for piles of excrement found unexpectedly on one’s front porch.

  “Vik,” he said. “You’re supposed to be on shift.”

  “Shift?” Vik said, breaking his gaze away from his drink, “but I’m not on…” He slowed his speech as he realized who it was he was speaking to, and then just let his mouth flap open, unwilling to commit to any specific sentence.

  Crat did not give the man time for discussion or excuses. He grabbed Vik’s arm and pulled him out the door.

  “Wait!” Marcel shouted, running after. Despite dragging the drunkard, Crat moved with impressive speed, having already shoved Vik into an autocar by the time Marcel caught up.

  “Inferno do you think you’re doing?” Marcel asked.

  “Returning a worker to his work,” Crat replied.