Children of Artifice

by Danie Ware

  He turned his hands over, and back. He extended his fingers, wincing. Not one of them went completely straight. He looked back at the kitbag, slumped like a corpse in the centre of the floor.

  If he ran away, there would be no more pressure, no more failure, no more family name…

  But Aden…

  No – he caught himself – this couldn’t be about Aden. Not about chasing some hot and breathless phantom, some dream of the wharfside…

  Twice, he’d woken up alone.

  The hope was foolish, and he knew it.

  He straightened the sash, more reflex than necessity.

  And he went across the hall to his mother’s study.

  He found Jularn standing at the edge of her table, its complex brass inlay exposed. She had a piece of raw, greenish stone resting in her hand. He paused at the sight, and, as he watched, he saw the veins of copper glow through the rock, saw them shift and begin to coalesce – the pure metal flowing, gathering. He could feel the resonance of it, the tones that she hummed, almost too deep to hear, all under her breath.

  He’d seen such things before, but they still left him awed – this was real metallurgy, the skills that his equations should reveal. What he knew as a clinical study, his mother could bring to life.

  It was the tiniest fraction of what the Builders had been able to do, but it was still miraculous. And after she’d married his father, she’d turned her skills to research, both practical and academic – she could touch the very life of the stone, and her breakthroughs were significant.

  It wasn’t something that he’d never been able to emulate, despite many attempts.

  She laid the stone on the table, now cold, dark rock. In her other hand, she held pure copper.

  He said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Jularn looked at him, unspeaking. She laid the metal down, reached under the table, and produced a box, plain and polished steel. It bore no district or family marker, only a hook to keep it closed. She held it out to him, said, ‘I think you made the right choice, Talmar.’ Her tone held neither triumph not smugness. ‘I hope I can trust you.’

  He nodded, took the box. It was unexpectedly light.

  She said, ‘I mentioned a project with which I needed your help.’

  Caph wondered if that was it, if Aden or the wharf would ever be mentioned again. If he would ever be able to lose his name, walk freely. The room was suddenly airless – he found the shirt collar chafing, closed like hands about his neck.

  But he let out a very long breath, striving for calm. He’d made his choice, and there was no going back.

  He reached for the hook.

  ‘Before you open it,’ Jularn said. ‘Please understand that this project is outside my normal studies, and has taken a great deal of my spare time. Sadly, I don’t… I don’t know how to finish it.’ Her face flickered with tension. ‘But I do need to know if the time has been wasted.’

  Carefully, Caph laid the box down and unclipped the lid. He felt like he was opening some portal of wonders, like his face would be bathed in sudden light, in answers from another place.

  But the inside of the box held a delicate glint of metal. It took him a moment to realise what he was looking at, then--

  ‘By every hell,’ he breathed, awed. ‘By every bloody hell and spirit.’

  Jularn made no response. She waited.

  He breathing caught; he reeled with disbelief, as if he’d seen that other world. He gave his mother a single blazing look – a request for an explanation – then, very carefully, took the first shape out of the box, lifting it to the light. It was incredibly delicate, brass, and silver, intricate and perfect and cold on his skin – an external skeleton, glinting in the morning sun. As he carefully tried to spread it out, find its shape, check every detailed and individual finger, he could see the subtle bracing for the joints, the narrow rings that would encircle the bones and muscles, the wires that would stretch between them.

  ‘Actuators.’ He said the word like a taste, as if it was new. ‘You built me actuators.’

  Shivers went down his back – wonder, and sheer, cold terror. He had no idea why she’d done this for him; he was the golden boy who’d failed. And more than that: they also meant that he had no choice, he had to face his fears, his lost music – it was time to get over it. Carefully, he laid the thing down on the table, and took out its opposite, laying that one down beside it. And then he stared, looking past his broken hands at the new ones, at his mother’s ability and ambition and compassion, at his own future reclaimed.

  He said, to himself rather than his mother, ‘Why?’

  But Jularn said softly, ‘Currently, I’m afraid, they’re just so much jewellery, they have no power. I have silver, and copper, conducting materials that should…’ she broke off, then said, ‘…I can’t make them work.’

  He said, hearing himself through the ringing in his ears, ‘You can’t wire metal to nerves, no-one can.’

  ‘Silver has the right conduction,’ she said. She turned her wrist to show him a web-work of tiny white scars, the places where the experiments had failed. ‘And it’s not impossible, there are rumours, breakthroughs…’ Passion shivered in her voice, and again, she caught herself. ‘These were taken from the casts of your hands when your zanyar was made,’ she said. ‘Before we take this anywhere else, I need to know if they fit.’

  Anywhere else?

  With trembling hands, he picked the right one up, drew it over his fingers like a particularly fine, metal glove. It didn’t quite fit him – he could feel it pressing against his skin where his fingers were bent, like feeling the ghost of the hand that had been his own. Fine wires trailed from the wrist at front and back.

  He held it up, moved his fingers within it. It caught the light like hope.

  ‘Why have I never seen these?’ he asked her.

  ‘Because you didn’t deserve them, Talmar,’ she said. ‘I grew weary of your excuses and your laziness and your philandering – yet I kept the project going in odd moments of time. Perhaps I was hoping you’d grow up.’

  ‘Growing up is overrated,’ he said, half-joking.

  ‘That’s more true that you know,’ Jularn said, smiling faintly. ‘The secret is to learn to fake it.’

  He picked up the other hand and flexed his fingers into it. ‘And these will help?’

  But the moment of almost-banter had passed. Jularn drew herself to her full height like a priestess, her expression alight. She said, ‘You miss your playing, and I know you do. You may fool yourself with your denial, but I’m your mother.’ She flickered a brief smile. ‘And there’s been a new metallurgical breakthrough, something unseen since the time of the Builders.’ Her tone was trembling now, wonder or envy. ‘There’s a man in Kier, a student who was once at the Academy – and he’s broken every rule I’ve ever learned, every barrier that’s ever been put in my way. Talmar!’ And now she caught his gaze, her voice whispering with intensity. ‘He can make these work.’ Her eyes met his. ‘Give you your music back. His name is Raife, and he has become a showman, a man of great presence and theatre. He’s invited you, he wants you to go and see him. And he can—’

  The door slammed open, and the moment shattered. Caph could almost see the pieces, like a mirror in shards on the floor.

  A sense of horror swamped him; he turned.

  In the doorway was Darrah, his poise forgotten, his face white. Behind him stood Bec, her arms folded and her expression dangerous.

  ‘What do you want?’ Jularn demanded. ‘How dare you—’

  ‘Ma’am…’ Darrah stopped, as if searching for words. Genuine emotion looked strange on his face – he was drawn and anxious, trembling. ‘Ma’am… I fear I bear ill news.’ His eyes flicked to Caph and then back. ‘The mines… the mines have suffered a cave-in, and the machinery may fail. You’re needed.’

  Jularn was mov
ing before he’d finished the sentence, sliding open the drawers beneath the table and retrieving items – a leather case, a pair of gloves.

  ‘Ma’am…’ Darrah said. ‘The wharfinger… he suspects sabotage.’

  CHAPTER NINE: ARTIFICE

  Caph stood at the front of the boat, hands on the railing.

  The wind was as cold and sharp as salt-crystals, the sun warm on his cheek and shoulder. Across the shadowed hues of the water, the rock of the crater wall grew steadily to fill his vision, a colossal layering of colours and refracted, glittering light. He’d never seen it this close, not even the morning after Aden, never seen the arches of the mines’ entranceways and the patterns of symbols – the same ones that lined the stairway to the upper city – here crafted by the Builders themselves. Like the colossi at the sealed gate, this was history overwhelming, a whole world that lay behind his own.

  Ten thousand years towered over him, and they left him silent.

  Leaving her accompanying guards in the cabin, Jularn had come to stand beside her son, her face rapt and her slim frame upright. She was shivering, yet Caph got the impression that it was with anticipation, not cold.

  She said, ‘I haven’t been out here in years.’

  Nervous, not sure why she’d asked him to come, Caph made no reply. The thought of Aden lingered briefly in the sunlight, but it tangled round his memories of Ganthar, and his family’s ambition. He wondered where he would be once the Selection was over.

  Are you two… talking?

  As if in sympathy, the waters grew rougher and the boat began to pitch, forward and back, the currents swelling beneath it. His belly pitched with it and he braced his feet on the decking, his tension rising. The craft was wooden, old but flawless, and the inside of the housing had been decorated with the Builders’ ancient, angular art.

  He could hear the grunt of the rowers below, the occasional call of the captain.

  Eventually he said, ‘Do you know what happened?’

  Jularn touched his hand with her own, gripping it for a moment where it lay on the railing. The touch was maternal, rare, and slightly awkward; her rings were cold. She said, ‘Did you know that Darrah’s family run the mine and the harbour for us? We’re fortunate in their loyalty.’

  Most of the high families had similar arrangements – affiliated families and guilds that had been loyal to them for generations; he could her the subtle reprimand in her words. He said, ‘But what happened? Why are we out here?’

  ‘If the mine has been damaged,’ she said, ‘Then that damage needs to be assessed. And repaired, if possible.’ She watched the rising stone, the silent golem, then said, ‘The timing of this is critical. Our assets must not be seen to falter.’

  The wall grew closer, angles of sunlight and shadow slanting across the rock. He could see the glass, glinting sun-red like some promise the Builders had made and forgotten. As the boat came closer, the wall rose huge to blot out the sky and the wind faded and died.

  It grew colder. Jularn pulled her robe tight at her throat, metal threads shining. She said, ‘Do you remember your history classes, Talmar? As I recall, you had more pressing interests at the time.’

  He gave a brief chuckle, then said, ‘I know the Builders didn’t actually craft the mine.’ His eyes tracked the symbols, curious. ‘They had no need for it.’

  Jularn nodded, loose tails of her grey hair fluttering around her face. ‘You should at least remember the basics,’ she said. ‘That the upper city was crafted by the Builders when they first sealed the gate, the stone raised and shaped by their abilities alone. They revered the life of the rock, and they had no need for mining.’

  ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘And I remember about the war – long before the famine came. Builder fighting Builder in a war of ideology, a battle to decide how the city would grow.’

  Under the blind bows of the boat, the water frothed with darkness.

  Jularn nodded. ‘The tale is an old one – sealed here within their crater, the Builders crafted themselves a haven. A celebration, a fabulous city to stand ten thousand years and more – but a city they did not live to enjoy. As the millennia passed, they lost their way and their vision. They had no more children. Their numbers declined, and they forgot their skills. And at last, their haven became a hell. They couldn’t – or wouldn’t – leave, and they began to die.’

  Birds rose against the rock wall; in places, they nested in the stone. He looked up at them, unspeaking.

  ‘And yet their servants – our ancestors – thrived. Our numbers grew larger with every generation, and we demanded new places to live. We demanded to leave the crafted rock of the upper city, to cross the Taar and to spread across the island. And the surviving Builders were overwhelmed. They were old, and they couldn’t craft swiftly enough to house everyone, to mould the breathing stone into streets and temples and sewers, to craft the living metals into the resources that their servants demanded. Homeless, the servants begged for picks and hammers; they begged to be able to hack ore from the living rock, to kill the stone, to shatter it and to build with it, one block upon another. But it was blasphemy, and the Builders refused.’

  The wall was right above them, now. Standing in its niche, the golem loomed over them, empty eye sockets hiding numberless hundreds of years. It leaned forward as if it were listening, as if it would step down and drown them, one foot pushing them under forever.

  ‘And inevitably,’ Jularn said, ‘Rebellion came, servant facing master. The servants were more numerous, but they had not the skills, and they stood to be defeated – until one of the Builders broke with her fellows and defended them. Her name was Artifice, the renegade – and they called her the greatest Builder of all. She faced her surviving peers, among them her own husband, and she defied them. She taught the servants to smash the stone, to rip it from the crater’s living walls and to build what they needed with it – the streets of lower city. She taught them heresy.

  ‘But her husband stood forth to oppose her, and the resulting war slew them all.’

  Caph felt shivers go down his neck. He knew this tale – it was coming back to him in a rush – but the nearness of the wall, and the golem, and the mines, made it suddenly less like ancient history, and very immediate and real.

  Jularn pointed at the symbols that arced over the entranceways. She said, ‘Water, pressure, heat, magnetism. All ways to rip metal from ore. And all sacrilege. Committing her last act, it was Artifice that crafted the mine. It was her final gift, her legacy for her servants and followers.’

  Jularn was watching the wall, her expression alight with an almost girlish wonder.

  ‘They say that Artifice craved life,’ she said, ‘Above all things. That she alone fought back the despair which destroyed her people, and that she lived on through her servants and the help she had given them.’

  Orders barked below, and the boat began to turn, nosing towards the stone outcrop of harbour.

  Jularn looked across at her son and smiled. ‘There also are those who believe that she was… a little more involved with those servants than just their champion. That, in her desire to survive, she made sure that her bloodline would continue.

  Caph stared at her, having a horrible premonition of what she was about to say.

  ‘It’s the secret I’ve never told you, Talmar, the reason I’m so hard on you, the force behind my abilities. The strength behind your father’s ambition – why he loves and strives for us.’ As the boat pulled into the harbour and bobbed to a stop by its fellows, she smiled like the rising sun. ‘You and I, Talmar, we’re the children of Artifice. And she gave us everything you see.’

  Everything you see.

  Caph had no idea what he’d been expecting. Tunnels and dirt. Trucks, like the ones at the quayside. Miners with filthy faces and picks and callused hands, men and women stooped in darkened stonework, roofs all braced by wooden beams.
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br />   But that was not what Artifice had made.

  As they left the warm, red gleam of the harbour, Caph found himself shivering. He was cold out of the sun, and he was nervous, and he freely bloody admitted it. Ahead of him, two of the household guards bore blades and lights, the yellow glint of sodium making the damp walls glisten; behind them, the other two did likewise.

  Walking carefully, the six of them headed into the tunnels.

  The hem of her robe rustling softly, Jularn stayed at her son’s side. She moved like a Builder herself, like she was Artifice manifest; she had a sense of excitement about her, a tension that felt like thrill. Caph had never seen her like this – somehow never understood that she’d had a past before she’d married his father, that she, too, had once been young and full of wonder.

  And that her wonder had been postponed by the responsibilities of her husband and her children, but never forgotten.

  She belonged here, in many ways, far more than she did in house Caphen.

  And he understood something fundamental: that his father’s ambition was because he loved her so much, and he wanted to be worthy of her…

  Of this.

  Of Artifice herself, perhaps.

  He had no idea how he’d never seen it before.

  He shivered again. The tunnel was bitterly cold, the stone ancient and merciless. In places, there were long, metal supports, some of them eaten away by age; there were huge gaps over his head that lead to tunnels above, black holes at his feet that dropped into tunnels below. He saw great, metal winches, long unused, the occasional, parallel gleam of tramlines under his feet. He had no idea where he was, the whole of the crater wall seemed to be an absolute labyrinth of unseen routes; he felt like an insect, burrowing blind in cold flesh. The only illumination was the glow of the guards’ lights, and soon, the darkness beyond them became utter, a saturation of absolute black.

  He began to stumble, unable to see the floor.