The Sightless City

by Noah Lemelson

  Lazarus sipped and shook his head, “You are the first ferral engineer in recorded Guild history. They may credit you with your discoveries, but if you admitted that you took slickdust? It would be seen as reason to dismiss your accomplishments.”

  “Gearswit isn’t like that.” Sylvaine took a bite, chewed, and put down the pulled lamb sandwich. “But is that true? That it is the drug?”

  Lazarus laughed. “Trust in yourself, Sylvaine! Slickdust can’t do anything but awaken what’s already inside of you. And, unfortunately, I am quite sure your professor is like that, damn near everyone is in this city. Even if he’s unusually generous, if you go talking soon slickdust will be the story, not you, not your invention. So trust me, keep it to yourself. For now.”

  Sylvaine thought on this, and nodded, “If you say so.”

  “Namter, some tea for our guest.” Lazarus snapped his fingers. The middle-aged butler with the eye bags of a centenarian lowered the earpiece of a rotary vocaphone.

  “Apologies sir, but your ‘visitor’ has been seen near Wrenchstern Station.”

  “Ah well.” Lazarus stood up with a grumble and walked to a cabinet. “Best you greet him.”

  “I just wonder, sometimes,” Sylvaine laughed, all nerve no humor, “why someone like you, I mean, someone so successful and busy, would spend so much time helping someone like me.”

  Lazarus laughed. “Haven’t you heard of a patron? It’s only right that a man like me should notice talent and cultivate it!”

  She felt herself blush, but it was true, she was talented. That was undeniable, and even if she wanted to deny it, Lazarus’ voice wouldn’t allow it. It was so sure, so confident, so uncontradictable.

  “That’s right. I’m sure I’ll make you proud with my project.” It was a strange and intoxicating confidence that flowed through Sylvaine’s veins. She liked it.

  “I can drink to that,” he said. And they did.

  Her favorite moments, the ones she savored, were not her achievements at the Academy, or even her long hours of work, wrist deep in machine parts, which had previously been the few times in her life that she could declare herself happy. Instead they were the quieter moments with Lazarus, as they took gentle strolls around the city, or long meandering walks would wind up the carved slope of Mount Icaria. She would share her dreams, her ambitions, intricate plans of invention and creation, and in response he would tell her his own stories, dozens of them, of his journeys, his investments, his triumphs. If he were any other man she wouldn’t believe the tales, but with Lazarus, anything was possible. It was impressive that the man had accomplished so much in such a short time, considering that he looked like he could be no more than thirty.

  Sylvaine wanted to do more with the man, walk further, alone, away from the eyes of the city. What she would do then… well she pushed those thoughts out of her head, unprofessional. Instead she contented herself with holding Lazarus’s hand as they walked, sometimes his arm, though she never pulled too closely. At times she desired to get as close to the man as she could, to feel her hair against his skin, but whenever she walked a tad too near, by intention or unconscious desire, he’d move back, laugh, change the subject. She’d blush but he seemed not to notice. It was, she knew, for the best; he had supported her as a patron, and she would use his support to create machines to rival all the creations of Icaria. It was only in her softer moments, that she wondered if a man like him could love a woman like her.

  Chapter 13

  As his master played patron, perused the political parties and dinner tables of Icaria’s high society, and ingratiated himself with any he might take advantage of, Hieronymus Lealtad Namter worked.

  Namter worked every minute of every hour of every day, apart from those necessary for the basic and unpleasant upkeep of life. So far today he had had to: prepare Roache’s breakfast, organize a meeting for Kauf’s colleagues, clean up the kitchen, send orders to his Unblind Brothers, prepare morning tea, organize Roache’s notes on new opportunities in Icaria, pay the heating bills, send a letter reminding Roache’s allies in the Crimson Eye raiders that dalliance meant treachery and treachery meant death, order pastries for a luncheon, tally slickdust supplies, sign forms requesting a leave of taxes from the UCCR (a mere formality), feed the prisoners, send an inquest into Unblind recruiting efforts in the outer Wastes, clean the bathroom, send for a plumbing engineer, greet the ferral, hang her work coat, and read a letter sent from Verus.

  It was this final task that had distressed him the most. In this letter, with his characteristic straightforwardness, Verus accused Roache of setting his engineer, one Corvin Gall, up on false charges via the person of Mr. Talwar.

  Namter knew such a letter was a long time coming, and had dreaded the righteous indignation he knew would fly from Verus’s hand. It was a necessity that the engineer who worked on their upcoming Enterprise was indisputably loyal, Namter understood this clear. The possibility of sabotage, or worse still escape, was not something they could risk. He had wished this matter of hiring practices might have been settled diplomatically between his two masters, but Roache saw diplomacy as a weapon, and Verus had never understood the concept in the first place.

  The pair had been picking at each other for some time, chafing under their forced company and necessary alliance. In his letter, Verus insisted that this recent act had gone too far, that Roache would have to answer for his treachery when the man returned to Huile. It attempted to remind Roache, though Namter needed no such recollection, that they all served the same Master, and that their actions were meant to function in harmony, not foment betrayal.

  Namter had long been Roache’s liaison to his “foreman” (as if the man were merely that!) due to their shared faith in the Brotherhood. It was a task Namter had once cherished. Verus, the great Awakener, had opened Namter’s eyes to the perversity of mankind, their deep and fundamental spiritual rot. Verus had taught him the doctrines of punishment and subservience, the only road to reconciliation between humanity and their proper, pure, and truly divine sovereigns. This creed had spoke to Namter in a way the hollow words of the Church of the Ascended never had, with their banal and toothless insistence that humanity was, in its essence, divine. The world was rotting, anyone with eyes could see it, but only Verus could explain why.

  It would have been easier and more pleasant to ignore Roache, and to speak with Verus directly, but one did not choose one’s place in the order of the world. Namter had his obligations, and despite the long hours, despite the dismissive words of Lazarus Roache, despite the way everyone, even that foul ferral girl, looked at him as if he were a mere domestic, he would perform his duty. It was Verus’s own teachings of complete obedience that forced Namter’s hand on this matter, compelled him to treat his once spiritual mentor with cold distance. Namter did not miss the bitter irony of his position.

  So he took pen to paper and wrote the necessary reply, a vague and useless denial, with the promise for further communication upon Roache’s return to Huile. Their time in Icaria was almost complete, and Namter prayed that soon they would all be realigned upon their proper, divinely mandated, task.

  * * *

  “Namter, some tea please.” Roache tapped his pen on the wood, his spread of notes covering an eighth of the long table. Beside him his ferral client worked away, under the watch of Gath Melikoff.

  “Of course, sir.” Namter nodded and started the kettle.

  “No, no, that’s off-track,” Gath said. “What you got to focus on is the æther modulation. That’s what we… where you have opportunities for real innovation.”

  As the kettle bubbled, Namter wiped off the thin layer of ash-speckled dust that had formed since the morning upon the windowsill. Icaria being higher than the plains of the Wastes, he had hoped that the air here would be cleaner, but the smoke of industry meant Namter’s lesser duties were without end.

  He pocketed the rag and took a rare free moment to glance out the window. The ci
ty lay below him, each tower a monument to hubris, the streets open sewers of narcissistic bustle. Men drove multi-legged vehicles and overloaded autocars, each machine a vile manifestation of the metropolis’s ego. Even the far mountainside was infected with the rusting growth of Icaria.

  The sound of clanging metal echoed out from behind the locked door. The ferral glanced up.

  “Mechanical issues,” Roache said. “Damn pump in there, giving us trouble.” He shot his eyes towards Namter, a silent order. Namter gave no reaction, as was necessary when the ferral girl was here. By his reckoning she was an unnecessary experiment of his master’s, proof that Roache’s gift functions even on the beast-blooded, as if such knowledge was remotely necessary to their task.

  “I could try my hand at fixing it,” the ferral said, eager to shove her nose in other people’s business.

  “No, no,” Roache replied. “You have more important work. Come now, don’t fall prey to silly distractions.”

  Namter drifted to the small cabinet where they kept the key to the mechanical room and the extra syringes of slickdust. He had to wait until the woman was good and occupied in her writing before taking out the necessary equipment.

  Just then the vocaphone smashed its hammers against its bell, and Namter stepped over to answer it.

  “The Unblinking Eye Bleeds,” came a hoarse voice, in the sacred tongue.

  “And Through The Blood It Sees,” Namter whispered, glancing to make sure the ferral was focused on her notebooks.

  “Favor to you, Watcher,” came the voice of his Unblind Brother. “The scarred heathen has been found.”

  The kettle whistled and the woman scribbled. Namter pressed in his open ear.

  “Speak quickly,” Namter whispered, hoping not let his excitement leak out.

  “His nest was a small apartment in the Underb—”

  “Where is he now?” Namter interrupted.

  Roache tapped his pen, over the whistle of steam. “Namter, the tea is ready.”

  “We contacted Kauf’s friends in the police. Together we chased him to an old workshop on Spline Street. He frightened out the few workers there.”

  “Do you have it surrounded?” Namter kept his voice quiet and calm.

  “Namter…” Roache muttered, tapping his pen like a conducting baton.

  “Yes, Watcher. The police have interrogated the workers, we know he has no easy exit.”

  “I’ll be there.” Namter clanked down the receiver, before running over, and turning off the kettle. He poured the tea as quickly as he could manage without upsetting decorum. Roache watched the steam with wariness.

  “A bit hot,” he said.

  “Apologies,” Namter replied, “but I think it might be best if I take a temporary leave. Sir.”

  “Hmm?” Roache raised his eyebrows “You haven’t even handled the water heater, err, pump.”

  The ferral did not notice the error, face down in her writings.

  “Your ‘visitor’ has one last request. I think it below your dignity to bother with him yourself. If it is acceptable, I shall provide the necessary hospitality.”

  “Oh yes?” Roache nodded, “Well, I suppose that does take precedence. I’ll be glad to be finally done with this whole affair.”

  Namter did not smile until he had taken his cane and left the apartment. He too would be glad to finally end the nuisance posed by the monk Kayip.

  * * *

  A red autocar hummed its engines in front the apartment tower. Ewald Kauf, waited beside the door, hands in his red vest pockets. He scowled when Namter walked out.

  “Lazarus not coming?” he asked.

  Namter shook his head. “Just I.”

  Kauf’s driver, an elderly man in a blue suit, rushed out to open the doors to the autocar. Kauf sat himself down. Namter followed, taking the back seat.

  “He’s had me keeping an eye out for his stalker for weeks,” Ewald said, “and he won’t even give me half an hour?”

  The ‘car started down the street.

  “I can assure you, Mr. Kauf, that I am better suited to handle the current situation.”

  The politician grumbled something impolite. His manner might have bothered Namter a lifetime ago, before his eyes had been opened to the truths of the world, which left the petty bickering of men like Kauf beneath his attention. He had plenty of experience with those who imagined themselves climbing the stairs to the highest seat of power, men who didn’t realize the only reason they had been brought along at all was because they had been the cheapest to buy. Namter himself had calculated a lowball offer, in sangleum contracts, to purchase the politician’s loyalty and secrecy, and the man had barely bargained.

  Kauf glanced back through the mirror. “You hurt your leg?” he asked, gesturing to the cane.

  “It will be of use,” was all that Namter replied. He watched the city blur by, men and women walking, mutants and other useless offshoots crowding the streets, golems, those pitiful mechanical mimics of men, carryings goods and directing traffic. Somehow Namter detested this city even more than Huile. The latter was simply a pit with pretensions. Icaria had tried to fly, to soar beyond the restraints set upon man. It had crashed, and it would fall further still.

  Such thoughts were simply background clatter in Namter’s mind. More central was Kayip. The man had been a nuisance for over six years now, shouting his bellicose vows of vengeance, murdering Lazacorp members and Unblind Brothers, attempting to rally opposition from whatever corners he could manage. A series of failures, of course, but the monk’s attempt three or so years ago had caused quite a headache. They had been forced to foment a Principate coup, and then, when that went poorly, a Resurgence countercoup, just to keep their investments in Huile secured. Kayip was worse even than those Vapulus mutants who kept harassing Lazacorp’s Waste-bound caravans, an open sore which hemorrhaged away profits, and suppurated innumerable stacks of paperwork.

  It would be a welcome relief, with all the bickering between his masters, for Namter to finally put a close to the book of Kayip.

  * * *

  The autocar stopped at the edge of Icaria—“edge” here more literal than in most cities. Namter got out and spared a second to glance over the handrail at the end of the street. It was a sheer drop to the scrap-adorned mountainside, marred only by the occasional outcroppings of the Underburg.

  The workshop was an awkward box of a building, and surrounding it idled several police autocars, the mechanically augmented policemen armed and milling, watching the few windows for any sign of movement.

  Kauf marched straight towards them, but Namter walked towards the other group: half a dozen men in hooded jackets who stood by the double doors to the warehouse.

  “Greetings, Brother Watcher,” the foremost, Brother Avitus, said.

  They were rough-featured to a man, and, like Namter, had seen the world clearly, and knew it to be diseased. Several wore their hoods down, displaying without fear their sacred marking of the Eyes, and the unreadable letters of Truespeech. Each held, on the end of a long pendant string, an orb of Oathblood. Namter ignored a muffled stab of envy. Despite his relatively heightened position within the Brotherhood, he had never himself been marked, nor was it possible for him to carry around his own sacred orb. It was too risky in his position, and further, the markings and orb would have made Roache uncomfortable, with its imagined implication that Namter’s loyalty might have fallen to Verus.

  “Where is the false priest?” Namter asked.

  “Somewhere inside,” another Brother, Tullius, answered. “We sent in Pyotr and Valens.” The man paused, looking towards the ground. “They were not sufficient.”

  Namter tapped his cane on the metal paneling that was Icaria’s excuse for a sidewalk. Another infuriating product of his masters’ feud had been Roache’s insistence that he vet the list of Unblind they took to Icaria. If Brother Tacticus or Mateo had been allowed to come, then this madman with a sword would
have been long dealt with. Still there was no good in idle complaints.

  “Underway exits?” he asked.

  Avitus knocked on the half-rusted wall. “According to the workers, this was never part of the city-ship proper, just a few walls and some windows put up a couple years ago. No basement, no access to the sewers. Unless the man has taken up engineering, he has to come out one of these entrances.”

  Namter nodded. Kauf and two policemen walked over, the latter pair eyeing Namter’s Brothers with an emotion somewhere between concern and bemusement.

  “We’ve installed a Shaftsworth’s Fifteen-Hundred,” the leftmost policeman said.

  “A Shaftsworth’s?” Namter asked.

  “A motorgun,” Avitus said, with a tone more often used when discussing animal excrement.

  The cop snorted. “It is much more than that, it is a state-of-the-art¬ anti-personnel weapon.”

  “It’s a useless piece of junk!” Avitus interjected. “It didn’t catch the monk when he went for Brother Valens, and your,” he jabbed his finger at the policemen, “trigger-quick friend was the death of Pyotr.”

  “Our fine police force,” Kauf said with up-curved lips, “usually works alone. If there were some mistakes¬ I’m sure it is merely due to the unusual situation we find ourselves in.”

  “Who are these guys anyway?” the policeman barked. “You know, Kauf, we appreciate your donations to the department, but you never said anything about some cloaked weirdos and their—”

  Namter slammed his cane with an echoing clang that silenced the man. “Thank you, officer,” he said, giving a short bow, “but you will remove your motorgun. I will handle the situation.”

  Seeming to truly notice him for the first time, the officer looked Namter up and down. The butler’s black vest, straight-lined undershirt, and worn face must have made him seem even more out of place than his hooded companions. The officer glanced towards Kauf, who gave a noncommittal roll of his wrist.