Gears of the City

by Felix Gilman

  Heaped on his desk were the files he’d saved from the Chapterhouse. Finally he had leisure to read them. He shut himself up for the day with biscuits and coffee.

  He went through the pile methodically. Shay? Not in this file. Lemuel? Cuttle? Not this file; not that one either. The reject heap grew at his feet. It started to rain outside, and the windows rattled and echoed. Cuttle—yes! That picture, the eerie artist’s likeness! A file for the yes pile! Then Lemuel, Hang ley, Swinburne—so many aliases. Some of the Know-Nothings’ files went back a hundred years or more, yellowing, flaking under his fingers. Some had been updated the day before the War. Shay, Swinburne. The rain turned into a storm. He made notes. His door opened and he slowly became aware of someone standing behind him.

  “Marta.”

  “Plans? Strategies?”

  She was soaked from the storm, and she dripped on his papers. She smoked without asking if he minded.

  “Not exactly,” he said.

  “It’s not over,” she said. “You’re not done yet.”

  “Hmm.” He scanned the file of a Mr. Lyall. Dealing in weapons, unlicensed surgeries, a mysterious disappearance from a locked cell. He flipped through another Shay file, and another Cuttle. Rumors of murders and poisoning, insurrection, conspiracy.

  “Is there anything in there that can help us?”

  “Not yet.”

  A heap of irrelevant folders, gathered by mistake: dogfights, drugs, operators of public houses without license, public urinators. A file on a Mr. Lemuel, who—

  “What?”

  He was standing—swaying slightly in shock. Yellowed papers spilled from the folder in his hand. Dumbly he echoed her, “What?”

  “What is it?”

  He studied her face. Solid, heavy, dark-browed. Was it possible? Surely not.

  “What?”

  “I can’t help you,” he said. “I never could. Good luck.”

  He walked past her, and down the stairs. She came running after him. “What? What?” He didn’t answer. He couldn’t tell her. He turned the corner and was gone.

  The Faces of Ghosts-Flitter’s Owl-

  Sunshine-The Borders-

  Her Predicament

  Ruth Stood on the cliff above the quarry, among the loading wagons and the low concrete offices and the dawn mists. Too exhausted to face the long walk back down, she lay down in the back of one of the wagons, on a heap of dirt under rough canvas, and quickly fell asleep.

  She dreamed uneasy dreams—she walked alone through darkened streets, and faces darted at her out of the shadows. The searchlights of the airships drifted senselessly past. One by one she recalled the ghosts she’d known—the pilot, the astronomer, the sculptress, the soldiers who’d vanished. Even Arjun, who had somehow survived the Mountain and then chosen, unforgivably, to go back. Even Brace-Bel, who now seemed a pitiful figure. Too many losses. A cruel joke.

  The strange owl intruded on her dreams, drifting silently on the cold light of the airships, hunting her, and she stood her ground, too furious even to imagine retreating, and told it to piss off, which, hooting sadly, it did.

  The dream continued. The faces of the vanished haunted windows that went dark, one by one. She turned over in her sleep, whimpering with anger. Shay—her enemy, everyone’s enemy, she would kill him if she could, and she didn’t even have a face for him.

  A face occurred to her.

  She woke with a start. A horrible, ridiculous question nagged at her. She set out down into the depths again.

  Sunlight flooded the quarry. The stones sparkled. The motorcars gleamed.

  The camp was awake and at work. They were cooking a stew of weeds, branches, and what was left of the strays after the Beast had finished with them. No wonder they were so thin! They were decorating themselves, and the cars, and the tents, with the excess bones and teeth discarded by their master. The Beast copied Shay; dimly, pointlessly, the camp followers copied the Beast. Madness all the way down, Ruth thought.

  Silt sat on a rock, having his head bandaged by a large redheaded woman. “You,” he said, jumping up. “Ungrateful creature—how dare you? Assault! Assault! Utterly uncalled for, I should …”

  Ruth walked past him; he spluttered into silence.

  Flitter stood under a short rusting crane, making cooing noises at the owl that perched on the cables.

  Currently the peculiar creature was solid, tangible, almost fully present in the visible world. It was about the size of a doll, or a teddy bear. Its feathers were grey, thick, like old lace skirts. Its eyes were black stones.

  Flitter, raising his cupped hands over his head in offering, presented the owl with a dead mouse. “Here, girl. Good girl. Good morning.”

  The owl sank its head into its shoulders, and shifted farther out of Flitter’s reach.

  Flitter lowered his hands. He looked so downcast that Ruth felt a moment’s sympathy for him.

  He looked up and saw her watching him. He quickly dropped the mouse and put his foot over it, like a schoolboy hiding an illicit cigarette. He smiled broadly. “Good morning, miss! Good to see you up and about! Any …” He made a peculiar gesture, waggling his filthy hands.

  “What, Flitter?”

  “You know. Any … Like my little girl here. Any … scars? You know. What’s it like?”

  “You mean, did the Beast operate on me?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “No, Flitter. We talked.”

  “Oh.” He shrugged. “Shame.” He indicated some of his own scars and stitched wounds. “One day he promised to do me.”

  “You want it to … ?”

  “Of course!” Flitter looked sincerely surprised. He jerked a thumb at the owl. “Look how pretty she is,” he said. “She’ll live forever. Never hungry.”

  He reached up again for the owl, and it jabbed its beak at his hand, drawing blood, which Flitter licked away, smiling.

  “No hard feelings about the other night, miss.” He showed her his wrists. “Old Silt untied me, right enough, and no harm done to him—his skull’s gone all hard with all that law in it. Like a stone!”

  “No hard feelings? Flitter, you were going to kill me!”

  “Not me! Mr. Silt thought it might be best—he’s a very practical thinker. I told him it wouldn’t be kind. You heard me tell him!”

  “There was a sack on my head! You were going to give me to the Beast like a present!”

  Flitter looked genuinely upset. “You were running away!” His own voice rose shrilly. “You would have got lost! It was for your own good! He’d have made you magical, that’s it, you didn’t look happy the way you were, I said to Mr. Silt, she doesn’t look happy, she’s all wrong the way she is …”

  “Don’t you dare tell me …” She stopped; she lowered her finger, which had been jabbing at Flitter’s face. The anger flowed out of her at once, and she laughed. Flitter’s lip wobbled. There was no point in arguing with mad people. “All right, Flitter. All right.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. Then he went back to courting the owl, which looked down at him with every indication of loathing and contempt. Its black eyes studied his fingers like prey. It said, Where’s there? Near?

  “Here,” Ruth said. “Flitter, do you mind if I …”

  “She won’t come to you, miss, she doesn’t even know you. You have to know her moods …”

  “Just a moment, Flitter.” Ruth stood beneath the crane. She lifted up her arms, and before she could even open her mouth the owl had descended into them.

  Its claws gently clutched her forearm. It was heavy—as if beneath its soft feathers it was made of stone, or steel. The eyes—the eyes could not be natural. They were like gems. Perhaps they were gems. Could it see? It said, Who’ll will the whorl of the walls of the world?

  “You’ve got a way with her!” Flitter said. “Oh you’ve got a way with her, all right! Look at you both! You’d be beautiful friends together, when the Beast’s made you …”

  He reached to pet the bir
d’s head. Its beak struck off the tip of his index finger. Then it screwed its head around, and around, and emitted a long hooting sound that turned into a mechanical screech like a train running off its rails. Then it ceased to exist.

  Ruth’s arms were empty; she stumbled.

  Flitter’s finger stump bled all down his bony wrist.

  “You should get that looked at,” Ruth said. Then she walked over to the Beast’s tent.

  The Beast was gone. The tent was empty. The haunts of half-dead strays drifted among the cushions, the cabinets, the sundials, the statues.

  Outside, an indifferent guard sat by the tent’s open flap, drowsing in the sun, whittling a bit of wood into a spear-point. “Not there, is he?”

  She sighed, “No.”

  The guard pointed with his knife at the circle of motorcars. “Took a car. First thing this morning.”

  “Is it—is he gone? Why? Where?”

  “Calm down, miss! He’ll be back. He wouldn’t leave us. You’ll learn if you stay with us—you’ll learn his little ways. He gets all excited in the mornings. It’s the sun. He says he never used to get sun, where he was before, back in the old world. He likes to take the cars and go for a drive. Roaring round and round and laughing. The streets are empty these days and you can go as fast as you like.”

  Feeling lost and deflated, Ruth sat down. She closed her eyes and felt the sun on her face. “Sounds nice,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” the guard said. “Too fast for me. Those things terrify me! He’s a brave one, the Beast.”

  “It sounds like you love him very much.”

  The guard hummed cheerfully as he whittled.

  Ruth wandered the camp. The Beast’s followers shared their food with her, and told her their stories. She didn’t really listen. Everyone had some reason for following the Beast, some chain of coincidences and tragedies and epiphanies that had dragged them there. It was all the same, in the end.

  In the afternoon, the owl came and settled beside her. It came back into existence half shyly, like a missing cat slipping in by the back door. It puffed its breast and shuffled its claws. It seemed to enjoy her company. She felt like she, too, was a provisional and incomplete creature. Its feathers glowed in the sunshine with their own inner light—it shone like a dirty puddle. Sighing, she stroked its head; her fingers tingled. It faded in and out of visibility. It muttered nonsensical questions. Flitter watched jealously, pleadingly, and tried to catch Ruth’s eye.

  Was it possible? Yes—no—maybe. What a cruel joke!

  Sunset filled the quarry with light the color of roses. Darkness followed behind. The Beast’s followers lit bonfires in trash bins and old oilcans. A dull roar of engines echoed over the edge of the quarry—and with its horn honking, its wheels spitting gravel, its kerosene headlamps slicing the night, the Beast’s black motorcar came hurtling recklessly down-slope. It slammed to a halt and the Beast leapt from it. Steam hissed from the car’s hood, and the engine rattled in distress. “Ruth Low,” the Beast beamed. “Still hungry? You have more questions?”

  She followed the Beast into the tent. It lit two lamps, then sank with a sigh into the cushions. “Speed, sunlight, danger,” it said. “Clear the mind.”

  The lamps cast strange shadows, some of which were animate, haunted. Outside, the engine still hissed. The cooling metal of the car’s black cowling popped and clanged, a series of notes, descanting, clear as a bell, and the quarry echoed with it. There was a thump from the corner of the tent, which made Ruth start, and one of the tall lacquered cabinets seemed to sway. Far overhead, the owl cried out. The Beast toyed with a knife. “You have questions, Ruth Low?”

  “Only two.”

  “Only two? Frugal. Go on.”

  “Can we save the city? Can we rebuild?”

  “No. The Hollows will keep coming. The airships will keep coming. Shay is bloody-minded and unsympathetic—he will not change course. He has clearly decided that you are—this part of the city is— an unacceptable weakness; he must cut you out. And he will. He controls the machines of the Mountain. Things down here will happen as he wants them to happen. Your stores will run out. Your farms will fail. You will win only temporary victories, and not enough of them. A long dark Age is coming. Shay will be alone, and there will be no one left for him to fear for a long time. There is no way back to the Mountain. Did you come here hoping I would tell you the way? Oh, Ruth, the routes I was taught have all vanished. The airships leveled those streets. Shay has changed the locks.” The Beast paused, as if waiting for a response.

  “I … I understand.” What else was there to say?

  “Remember, Ruth, I am not a prophet. But this is how it seems to me. I’m sorry. You had another question?”

  How to ask it? She couldn’t come out and say it straight—she had to circle around it, like the narrow streets that circled the Mountain, as if an answer was the last thing she wanted, a ghost in the room that must not be acknowledged … “Ivy,” she said. “My sister.”

  “I remember her well. She is very, very clever.” The Beast admired its own scarred arms. “Look at the suit she helped to tailor for me! I could not have done it without her.” It glanced over at its operating table, and frowned. “Look at all my failures.”

  “Hundreds of people have gone up the Mountain—you said that, right?”

  “Thousands! Hundreds of thousands! More than an ordinary mind can count.”

  “And I … And this time, things were different. With the airships and everything. Shay’s gone mad, or something. Right?”

  “Apparently.” Something thumped in the recesses of the room. The Beast hissed and the strays went shadowy.

  “Someone who went up this time did something different, or was something different. Arjun? I don’t think it’s Arjun.”

  “No. He could not do this. By the standards of madmen and seers, he is remarkably ordinary. Far deadlier men have gone up. I am surprised he ever made it as far as he did, frankly.”

  “Ivy, then.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something? Would you like me to listen to your story? Six hundred years ago the Church of the Spine of Heaven chained me in a golden cage in their sacristy. I listened to confessions. I swallowed sins, supposedly. I listen well, Ruth.”

  “This isn’t my story.”

  “How sad. I rode on a man’s shoulder. I was left behind in a cage. I am a king of madmen in the wasteland. I know what it is not to matter.”

  “Beast, have you ever left the city? Have you ever been to the borders?”

  “No. I have never dared. I am a patchwork thing. I might fall apart. Have you?”

  “No. Ivy has, though. Do you want to hear about it?”

  Slag. Heaps of it. Rusted metal. Spoil and tailings, in mountainous dunes, flat and lifeless plains. Forever, into the void. That was what was at the edge of the city. In other Ages—so Ruth’s books and old paintings said— there were walls, or rivers, or fields. Steaming waterfalls over an abyss of stars; the shores of a bright sea. Storybook stuff. Here, now, there was shadow, waste, and nothing. So Ivy had said.

  As Ruth talked, the Beast leaned in closer. The maimed and shadowy strays clustered around. Something rattled in the darkness. The Beast licked its lips.

  “It’s more funny,” Ruth said, “than it is sad. Really. When you think about it now.”

  One day when all the Low sisters were only children—Marta was perhaps fourteen and going with the boys from the printworks; Ruth twelve, bookish and shy, Ivy ten, eleven, precocious and cunning—the Dad came home rain-soaked from a business meeting and swore bastard and threw his battered briefcase against the wall so hard that it burst open and scattered papers, maps, devices—whatever it was he was selling at the time—all over the floor. And the cabinets shook open and the best plates fell out and shattered, and the Lows could not afford to lose their good plates.

  Ruth remembered this because Mr. Low was generally a cheerful man, and if he was a little distant, a li
ttle remote, it was only because his fascinations, his enthusiasms, his genius, distracted him; and his rages were infrequent, and happened only when he had been thwarted, when he had been cheated.

  What was he? He was an independent operator—an inventor—an explorer—a wheeler and dealer—a crook, from time to time. Too proud to work in the factories. Too difficult and strange to rise in the ranks. Always at odd angles to the world. The city was a hard place for independent operators, even back then.

  Ruth remembered how while she and Ivy waited nervously at the top of the stairs, Mr. Low tore off his tie, loosened his belt and let his round belly sag, rolled up one of the special cigarettes that he used to say, winking, brought visions of how things really are; and then he settled into an evening at the kitchen table sorting through his papers and making notes and tearing things out and swearing and cursing to himself—another failure another failure another fucking failure, bastard that bastard.

  Ruth stayed at the top of the stairs. Ivy went and sat across the table from her father, and Ruth couldn’t hear what they talked about. Marta didn’t come home until the early hours of the morning, by which time the Dad’s mood had improved greatly, and Ruth, relieved, had gone to bed.

  Two days later Mr. Low announced over the breakfast table that he was taking a trip. Since the girls’ mother died he had limited his explorations to the near environs of the house on Carnyx Street, which circumscribed his investigations greatly. There was nothing to see there, and no one knowledgeable to talk to or deal with, and the bloody Know-Nothings were on every street corner making trouble and always questioning Mr. Low about his means of support. And in Mr. Low’s view the girls were old enough now to look after themselves for a bit, with the possible exception of Ivy, which was why he was taking Ivy with him.