The Sightless City

by Noah Lemelson

  A good third were damaged fragments. Of those remaining many were technical drawings, schematics, and notes, of which a good number did not seem to be in Gileon’s handwriting. Marcel squinted at the esoteric drawings and realized what seemed so familiar. They were near identical to those that had found the way onto his desk a few weeks back. They were blueprints of the water treatment facility.

  He put those to the side, best to leave them to one who could read them, and started on the letters.

  …know a scrap-trader, associated with the Taur Maw gang. Get the pipes in from him, and they’ll burst within a week. Can make that last at least a month.

  Marcel compared the handwriting to Gileon’s original letter. Mismatch. He lifted up one of the schematics. He was no expert, but the rough slanted l’s and the general harshness of the writing seem to fit. As he suspected, the bottom of these notes were labeled, in the same scribble: C. Gall.

  Among these were receipts written on browning waste-paper, with Gileon Fareau’s signature. Marcel didn’t know how much complex machinery cost, but the prices listed were in mere handfuls of frascs, the value of scrap-metal. Combined with these were receipts of transactions in the other direction, with Gileon playing salesman.

  It hit Marcel quick. Fareau had been selling the real parts and replacing them with scrap.

  He dug through the documents at a fevered pace. Lots of back and forth, between Gall and Fareau, starting friendly, with a bit of an eagerly conspiratorial air, holding quite a few references to “bleeding these idiots dry” and “making a fortune enough to embarrass a caravan-lord.”

  Then the letters took a grimmer, more hesitant, tone. “…could get people hurt…” “…beyond what we agreed…” “…not sure about this…” all in Gileon’s hand. Gall responded with fury: “…don’t need you…” “…gutless coward…” “…keep your damned mouth shut!”

  Beneath these were drafts of the letter Lambert had shown to Marcel, for Lazarus, signed Gileon Fareau, with words crossed out, rewritten in anxious script. Some referenced to imminent danger, other made mention of the water treatment plant by name.

  Marcel pushed aside a few more drafts to find a notepad. Here too the man was indecisive, scribbling down simple sentences in oversized letters. Bring To The Police with a line through it. Sabotage!!! scratched out.

  Then beneath them, circled and underlined: Show To An Engineer.

  * * *

  Marcel could hear the shouts in the next room, Corvin Gall’s violent incredulity echoing over the dispassionate words of his interrogator. Lambert looked through the letters, which he splayed across his heavy desk, beside his steaming mug of maroon tea.

  “A scam,” he muttered, “switching in broken parts and selling the good ones.”

  Marcel nodded. “Seems that way.”

  “Keep the profits off the stolen goods, maintain Gall’s job security and healthy paychecks.” Lambert rubbed the corner of his eyes. “You know Mr. Roache had complained to me privately about the costs of the water treatment venture. Necessary, of course, for the city’s good, but it’s clear now how it became such a money sink.”

  Marcel sat on the dark oak desk, spinning one of Lambert’s intricately decorated, imported Tyrissian pens around in his fingers. “Until Gileon Fareau got spooked. Until it became too real and he wasn’t willing to bring in faulty parts that might get someone killed. Tried to find a way to whisper past the ears of Gall, sent Roache the note, sent me the schematics.”

  “Good thing he did.” Lambert gestured to several pages of said schematics. “Imagine if the plant went to opening day in these conditions. Old pipes of sangleum leaking into the water, good citizens could have well been poisoned.”

  If only Gileon hadn’t been too afraid of being found out himself, if only he had been brave enough to say it straight, then maybe the man would still be alive.

  More shouts reverberated, Gall’s muffled screams of “liar,” “ass-licker,” “griffon-fucker,” and “stiffland-shitgorger” making it through the walls.

  “I don’t think the man will be all that helpful,” Lambert said, sipping. “But, the case is strong.”

  Marcel idly looked over the office, while he thought. It was well furnished, though not to his taste. The walls were decorated primarily with framed photographs of Lambert standing besides the few people in Huile who could be considered celebrities, as well as several paintings of Kaimark landscapes, sharp hills and dense black-green trees, most likely left from the Principate occupation.

  “It would have been trivial for an engineer to fake the collapse…” Marcel said, as he tapped the pen on his knee, uneasy, despite his words. There was clear evidence plenty, overwhelming reasons to be suspicious, but no undeniable proof.

  “Well, we have the means and the motivation,” Lambert said, organizing the scattered notes, “and you saw him break into Fareau’s apartment.”

  “I saw someone,” Marcel corrected.

  “A large man who could ignite æther-oil from a distance. Anyone else in the city who matches that description?”

  “You keep better track of that than me,” Marcel said, lifting himself off.

  Lambert chuckled. “The answer is no. And we found the man preparing to flee last night.”

  Marcel tried to smile. “Thanks for that.”

  “Huile’s finest do their duty with speed.” Lambert laughed. Then, studying Marcel’s worried eyes, said: “Come now, you don’t need to put on such a serious face. The case is strong, you did a damn impressive job.”

  Marcel paced a bit, ending up beside Lambert, where he eyed the notes. It all made enough sense as it was, but he couldn’t toss aside the feeling there was something he was missing.

  “I think Verus might have been involved,” he said.

  Lambert leaned back on his leather chair. “Why?”

  “He…” Marcel tapped his fingers. “… acted suspicious. Rude, bitter, slow, had to squeeze every answer out of him.”

  “Nothing new there,” Lambert chuckled. “I’ve dealt with him more than you, Marcel, and I’ll admit the man keeps his cards to his chest. Combine that with his general incivility… No, I’m being too gentle, his ass-headedness….”

  Both men shared a quick laugh.

  “…I can understand your suspicions,” Lambert finished.

  But there was more to it than that. That mutant who had snuck him the scrap of newspaper. Just like Gileon, he had been unwilling to talk straight, afraid, presumably, to be overheard.

  “You interview the mutant workers?” Marcel asked.

  “Quite a number, in fact,” Lambert said. “Knew nothing of use. As for Verus, well, no one loves the man, but he’s professional and civil enough.”

  Marcel leaned back on the wall. “Could Gileon have sent away the schematics to keep them out of Verus’s hands?”

  “To avoid his own incrimination?”

  “Well sure…” Marcel said. No, that checked out. “Roache never mentioned that I returned the stolen schematics to Verus.”

  Lambert nodded. “They would have gone back to Gall, he told me of his suspicions of that man. Can’t say I agree with the way he handles his foreman, but Roache has a good sense of character.”

  Marcel pushed himself up and paced again. All the pieces fit neat in place, but Verus sat outside the puzzle. Perhaps that monk Lazarus mentioned… no, now Marcel was just grasping at straws.

  “Don’t think I’m dismissing your instincts, Marcel,” said Lambert with a shake of his head. “Quite the opposite. I think Verus wants as few eyes on him as possible, more a pride thing than anything illicit, but it posses a problem. This case seems clear and clean now, but it can become something out of Inferno if he fights us on it.”

  “You think that’ll be an issue?” Marcel asked.

  The vocaphone rang, and Lambert grabbed the mouthpiece. After a few seconds of whispered conversation, he hung up. “Well, its time for us to find
out.”

  A minute later Verus opened the door. The foreman walked with back straight, motions smooth and reserved, thoroughly unlike himself. He sat down across the table, and gave his approximation of a pleasant grin.

  “I heard that there have been some… allegations made against one of our employees.”

  Marcel tapped his finger on the desk. “When I interviewed you yesterday you claimed that Fareau had not asked for any change in shift, yet I have, myself, a letter declaring that the man did exactly that, fearing for his life.”

  Lambert patted Marcel on the shoulder, “We don’t need to start with accusations.”

  “It is all right,” Verus said, smile unmoving, like a painted mask. “There was a mistake on my end. In fact, later last night I checked my records and found there was indeed such a request. Alas, it got lost in the paperwork. These things happen.”

  “And you claimed he was an alcoholic, that he was drunk the night he died.”

  Verus folded his hands, not letting his gaze leave Marcel’s. “And he was. I can find you friends of his to confirm this.”

  “In the man’s apartment, I found barely a drop of alcohol,” Marcel said.

  “I never said he was a… collector.” Verus’s laugh sounded like rusting gears struggling to move, “I would guess that he drank at bars.”

  “Now, now,” Lambert said, “this is all good conversation, but we must get to the heart of the matter. Corvin Gall.”

  Marcel tapped the desk, staring Verus down. The foreman merely pushed his strained excuse for a smile to the wrinkled edge of his face. Marcel sighed. “Yes, Gall.”

  “You must understand,” Verus began, “that I have some questions—”

  “I have a few questions first,” Lambert said, with sudden speed and force. He lifted up his notebook, pen in hand, and before Verus could respond, asked: “Were you aware that Mr. Fareau had been stealing equipment?”

  “No,” Verus said. “Treachery like that would never have been tolerated at Lazacorp.”

  “But the documentation is indisputable that such theft occurred,” Lambert said. Verus blinked, and opened his mouth, but Lambert continued. “And did you have any awareness of ongoing sabotage?”

  Verus’s eye shot back and forth. “We’ve duly informed City Hall about the delays in this project.”

  Lambert raised an eyebrow. “And the reasons for it?”

  “Well…” Verus stammered, glancing up at Marcel. “We haven’t been able to pin down exactly—The details are Lazacorp matters.”

  Marcel tried not to smile, it was unprofessional and inappropriate to the situation. But there was significant enjoyment to suppress, watching Verus wiggle under Lambert’s grilling.

  “There is a clear reason here,” Lambert said, gesturing to the letters. “If we are not certain we’d have to do a more thorough investigation on the Lazacorp premises.”

  Verus fake smiled fell. “I see what you’re doing. It is low.”

  “Then you concur with our assessment about your engineer?” Lambert asked.

  Verus stared down at the floor for a moment. Then a second moment. He bobbed his head slowly, until it became a spiritless nod. “Yes. He must be the cause of all this. It seems the man tricked even I.”

  “And you’ll sign in agreement of that?” Lambert thrust forward a form forward, offering his own pen. Marcel couldn’t help but be a little impressed, his normally leisurely friend could move fast when on the hunt.

  Verus took the pen as if it were discarded offal and read over the form. Finally, silently, he signed it.

  “Excellent. I think the case is settled.” Lambert smiled, leaning back. “We will have Gall sent south to Ordone for trial.”

  “Ordone!” Any last veneer of Verus’s civility snapped, his face twisting into a snarl. “You’re not going to try him here?”

  “The extent and severity of Gall’s crimes goes beyond the norm for a small city such as ours,” Lambert said. “He must be tried in a court system better suited to handling complex cases such as this.”

  Marcel’s smirk was irrepressible. Perhaps Verus had been planning something, but by the look on the man’s face, he had been outplayed left and right by Lambert.

  “This is an unusual decision,” Verus said, in a tone that implied less civil words.

  “It is an unusual case.”

  Verus stared Lambert down, single eye piercing with the same sharpness he had unleashed on Marcel. Lambert smiled, as if he didn’t even notice, and the foreman finally relented.

  “Very well,” Verus said, “but there is one issue I must discuss. There are the documents. Records and notes about the water treatments plant, some you have gathered here, some that were on Gall himself, which your men… took for evidence, I believe the terminology would be.” He tried to force one last smile. “I can assure you that these have no relevance for your investigation. If they could be returned—”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Lambert said.

  Verus tilted his head. “They are Lazacorp property. Without them our project will be delayed even further.”

  Marcel watched the two men. Verus’s face projected calm, but his fingers writhed wildly, like a knot of worms. Lambert did not give any hint that he was perturbed, sipping his tea.

  “Yes, I am aware, and we have sent notice to Lazarus Roache up in Icaria. When he returns and we finish our in vestigation, we can get both your confirmations and then return the relevant documents.”

  “You have been speaking to Roache,” Verus said.

  “We were in communication.”

  Verus stood up suddenly, abandoning all efforts to maintain a composed demeanor. “Yes. Yes, I see how it is.” He turned to Marcel, his smile a blatant sneer. “And you, Mr. Talwar. I must congratulate you. Such vision you had, to discover this all by yourself. Very impressive. You have done a great service, and I thank you for opening my eye.”

  With that the man was gone, door clanging behind him. The interview had been quick and precise, like a Resurgence bushwhack ambush. Marcel sat back down on the vacated chair, noticing the now-tired shouts of Gall murmur out, barely audible. His smirk dissipated slowly, as he waited for the thrill of victory to come.

  And waited.

  But it didn’t come.

  Lambert clapped his hands, “I think that went rather well!”

  Chapter 12

  The days seemed warmer in Icaria, the night sky silkier, the hum of the traffic more musical, the rhythm of Sylvaine’s footsteps more soothing, all since the day she had met Lazarus Roache. Her schedule had not changed significantly—work, school, study, repeat—but now instead of passing out with a textbook as a pillow in her hanging shack, she slept in an apartment two floors below Lazarus’s penthouse, rented out from the man for a mere pittance.

  In between classes she would work in the penthouse itself, on both assignments and her own personal projects. Her extra credit for Gearswit fell by the wayside, and in the frenzy of her new life she had even lost some of the papers, but her professor did not care one iota. He agreed that her time was better spent focused on exploring the theoretical possibilities presented by her negative-density generator. On this matter she was often supervised by Lazarus’s gadgeteer friend, Gath Melikoff. Though the man was as gruff as ever, he did seem to take genuine interest in her work, which was a novel, but entirely pleasing, phenomenon.

  At times Sylvaine found herself struggling with the æthermantics. Her glove would not follow her commands, stubbornly inert despite her mental screams. Or worse it would take gears that were meant to be simply adjusted, and instead melt them into a useless pile with an unintentionally forceful bolt of æther. At these times she’d slip back into old fears, that she wasn’t meant to be doing this, that she was a ferral playing at a human’s game. Then, sure as the ringing of an Icarian clocktower, Lazarus would be appear, a vial of slickdust in hand.

  A supplemented drink or a few
sniffs later, and everything would be in order. How sweet the song slickdust sang in her veins. Its warmth flowed to her very core, heating her to flight. Floating, she felt like air, lighter even. She felt like the city itself as she worked, as if she too flew above all the mess and dirt of the world. Slickdust was the fuel for her destiny.

  With Lazarus’s hand on her shoulder and his wonder-drug flowing through her veins, Sylvaine performed acts that the ignorant would call magic, giving form to metal, purpose to scrap. Whenever she had doubts, or saw a beast in the mirror, she would take some slickdust, and then, standing in front of her, would appear the woman she knew she was: an engineer.

  At the Academy she found herself elevated from a near dropout to the focus of acclaim and jealousy. Her own creation caused all to marvel, herself included, and the machine easily held tight the attention of everyone who bore witness to it. Old men and tired-eyed students who would have never given her a second look, unless to gawk at her ears and claws, now huddled together to study her negative-density generator. Gearswit even pulled her aside after workshop to talk, with the closest the man could display to glee, about the updates and proceedings of the yearly Academy Exhibition, as well as the gossip of his peers. It was quickly becoming clear to all in the know that Sylvaine would be the star of the show.

  Sylvaine never did mention the slickdust to her professor, or anyone else. She considered it, but whenever the topic started to flow its way into conversation, through idle talk, or burning curiosity, she found herself steering clear with a social adroitness she didn’t know she possessed, bringing up the topic of some in vogue innovation, or bouncing away with a joke, or even half-feigning insult at the idea of the topic itself.

  Lazarus commended her taciturnity when she sheepishly mentioned one such conversation.

  “I know how people are, they will look for any excuse to dismiss the extraordinary,” the man said, tapping the edge of his teacup, mixing tendrils of red and white.

  “What do you mean?” Sylvaine asked, leaning back in one of Lazarus’s large leather chairs, inspecting the sandwich platter on his luncheon table.