by Jasmine Walt
Aaron's voice grew cold and angry as he spoke. I sensed a deep, smouldering temper behind his placid exterior.
"To be inside the mind of a man-eater … it is both fascinating and wholly repellent. Their thoughts narrow, every thread of their mind coiling, poised for the kill. Today, inside her head, I could smell Mr. Holman as she smelt him; wild and peppery and absolutely delicious. Against the desire to bite his head off, I pushed. I pushed with my whole mind, and she forgot her hunger, and retreated toward the swamps, where a line of constables and Royal Guard waited with blade and blunderbuss."
Silence descended. I did not feel it proper to speak, as I did not share this unique experience. Finally, Nicholas rapped the table and declared another round of ale. He asked Aaron what his grandfather had done with the power.
"My grandfather hunted the dragons in the fens. It was he who first led the Stokers to success as dragon-hunters, before we were brought to London to work in the Engine Ward." He practically spat out the last part of his sentence.
"Hold on," I leaned forward, my heart racing. "Are you in any way related to Henry Williams?"
"He was my twin brother," Aaron said. "He died many years ago, in a—"
"—beam engine accident," whispered Nicholas. "We know. We were there."
We lapsed into silence as the barmaid slammed three pints of beer on the table, followed by three plates of stewed beef. I dug into my food, glad of the distraction. Aaron did not realise he was dining with the man who'd caused his brother's death. I was holding Mordred, but I was so excited about leaving for the Navy that I was barely concentrating. I'd put the chain down – so stupid – wrapped it once around the railing – not tightly enough – so I could check my pocket for my papers again, so I could glance again at the bright drawings of the port of Halifax that would soon become my home. And Mordred had seen Henry out on the platform and leapt across, taking the unsecured chain with him.
The accident had been all my fault. But I hadn't liked Henry anyway, and I certainly didn't want his death to postpone my embarkation, so I left for the Americas without explaining to anyone what I had done.
And Marc Brunel, who'd already been in trouble for innovating without the sanction of the Council, had been blamed for Henry's death, and sentenced to thirty years’ penal servitude in Van Diemen’s Land. Thinking of Henry's death and Marc Brunel's deportation turned my stomach, and the coagulated gravy on the beef stuck to the roof of my mouth.
"Isambard never speaks of that day," said Aaron. "I thought only he had witnessed it."
A fresh wave of guilt coursed through me. Not only had I caused the death of Aaron's brother and Isambard's father's deportation, but I'd left Isambard to bear the pain of it alone. "We left for sea the next day," I said, struggling to keep my voice even. "We were not here when Isambard's father was sentenced."
"No wonder Isambard does not wish to speak to us," said Nicholas.
"What do you mean?"
"I have been away from London for ten years, and for five of those years, I wrote to him every month. He has not answered any of my letters," said Nicholas. "Have you managed to contact him, James?"
A new guilt flared in my stomach, and I clutched my glass to keep my hands from trembling. Even though I'd been living at Windsor Castle for three years and Brunel's profile had been growing in the city, I had never tried to contact him. I could not face him, knowing my carelessness had cost him his father. "I have twice requested an audience with him on my visits to London," I lied, "and he has twice refused."
"Of all us schoolboys, he was the one destined for greatness. And despite everything, look at what he has achieved – an engineer with his own church – the only engineer ever to rise from the Stokers’ ranks." Nicholas smiled. "He was my dearest friend at a time when friends were few. More than anything, I would like to see him again."
"I am still close to Isambard," said Aaron. "Perhaps I could talk to him on your behalf. I am sure there is a reason for his coldness."
Aaron left around 9pm to begin his shift in the Engine Ward. Reluctant to retire to his desolate lodgings, Nicholas walked with James along the Strand, the Thames to his right and the magnificent city sprawled out in all directions. Watchmen darted in front of them, lighting the streetlamps that twinkled between the buildings like fireflies. Businessmen hurried home to wives and children, or darted through the alleys to the taverns and bawdy houses of Fleet Street and Covent Garden, ducking to avoid the Metic preachers on the street corners, who yelled at the top of their lungs about the evils of Imperial measurement.
Downriver, the London docks lay shrouded in shadow – the once-vibrant port over-run with weeds and vandals. Only one ship waited for cargo, and she was likely moving up-country, rather than across the water. Hardly any ships had crossed from London to Europe in three years – not since Napoleon had blockaded the waters around England and forbade any god-fearing Christian country to trade with Industrians. King George's navy, vastly depleted from his previous losses, had so far failed to dislodge the blockade.
For Nicholas, this was a bittersweet homecoming. After ten years away, he was back in this city, penniless and lost. He'd left England to escape his father's wrath, to make a name for himself, and lose the voices of the animals in the emerging world of warships and industry. Now this Aaron Williams had shown up and in a single night rewritten everything he thought he'd known about himself.
James – his face averted, his eyes sewn shut with golden threads – walked in silence beside Nicholas, his stiff gait betraying the pain in his limbs. Both men wallowed in their uncomfortable thoughts, ‘till Nicholas broke through the silence.
"Thank you for meeting me," he said. "I was afraid I didn't have a friend left in England."
"I'm stuck in that tiny boarding house at the castle with only the six decrepit Naval Knights of Windsor for company. I would've rescued you from France myself if only for a little adventure."
"James Holman, I read your book. You spent four years sneaking into lecture halls and dissecting corpses at midnight using only your fingers as a guide. That's adventure enough for any man, let alone a man in your condition."
"Pfft. Any young gentlemen with a taste for wine and a strong stomach can become a doctor. I have a more lofty ambition." Holman raised his head to the sky, almost as if he could see it in his imagination. "One day, Nicholas, I will circle the globe."
"In a ship?" Nicholas knew from their days in the Navy what time at sea did to James' health.
"Even if an Englishman could still buy passage on one, I cannot afford a ship. I will go on foot, crossing Russia and Siberia and passing over the great land bridge."
"That's suicide!"
"That is the life I seek."
"You haven't changed a bit. Didn't all those years on the Cleopatra teach you that the world's the same no matter where you go? Miles of ocean and endless voices."
"I believe differently," Holman said simply. "I must believe differently."
They wound their way into increasingly poor districts, slipping between crowds of drunks spilling from the public houses and ducking under the outstretched arms of haggard beggars. Nicholas shrugged away a bangtail who'd grabbed hold of his coat.
"There's adventure enough right here, James, if only you thought to look for it." They came out on the edge of the Thames again, and Nicholas stared across the water, watching as the black cloud over the Engine Ward swirled and stretched. Fires crackled and belched within it, creating a maelstrom that churned and circled above the city. Although he was no engineer, but an architect, he felt an inexorable pull toward the place – the only place that had ever been a home to him – the angles and pylons like some intricate tapestry draped across the city. The Gods of Engine Ward working their elemental magic.
"I can no longer look for anything," Holman said cheerfully. "This city has lost her magic since the border closure. If I stay in England, I am doomed to live the remainder of my days in Travers College at Windsor Castle with on
ly twice-daily prayers to Gods I don't believe in to occupy my mind. I have my Royal Society membership, but I've no stomach for politics, and what engineer would hire a blind man? I might have been some use to Isambard, but he does not want me. But if anyone can carve a future for himself in these interesting times, it is you, Nicholas Rose."
Nicholas smiled at the ease with which his old friend had adopted his new name. "You think too much of me, James. I have returned to England with nothing. I am … in danger. I cannot tell you more than that. If I do not find some means of keeping myself, I will be no better than these people." He swept his arm about the street, indicating the unsavoury characters occupying the cobbles, forgetting James couldn't see the gesture.
Holman shook his head. "You have a new name, a clean slate. And you have your mind, and that's more than many can say. You managed to sneak back across the border from France, the country most hostile to England's Gods. That is remarkable, and remarkable men don't go long without work. Isambard always looked to you for guidance, Nicholas, and who knows? Maybe he could now look to you for building design. He's just a minor name now, stirring shit in the Society, but his ideas could transform England forever. He could change what it means to be an engineer, but with you at his side, maybe he will change what it means to be human."
Nicholas stared at the black cloud blotting out the moon. He shivered, wondering if James was right.
ENGINEERS TO RID LONDON OF DRAGON MENACE
The Times, Friday, 20 July 1830.
HMK George III called an emergency session of the Council of the Royal Society last night, following yesterday's dragon attack in Kensington Gardens, during which two women and a Grenadier Guard were killed and the dragon in question caused hundreds of pounds worth of damage to the hydrangea beds.
Dragons have been sighted in the city with increasing regularity over the last few years, but attacks on the public have begun only recently. So far, twelve Londoners have been killed or seriously injured after meeting with dragons in our public parks and squares.
"The hunting and drainage activities in the swamps have caused irreversible damage to the dragon environment. Now that they're no longer being hunted, the species has been allowed to repopulate, and they are moving south and east in search of new sources of food," said Sir Joseph Banks, biologist, Royal Physician, Prime Minister, Messiah of the Aether Sect, and President of the Royal Society. "The dragons are attracted to London because of the warmth from our fires and factories. There is a high concentration of food here, and no competing predators. They will continue to attack with increasing ferocity unless we do something to stop them."
In the wake of the Kensington Massacre, the Council today declared its intention to solve the problem once and for all. "Clearly," said Banks, "Something must be done. The dragons are a menace to public safety."
The Council of the Royal Society – the nation's foremost religious and civic body – are sponsoring an engineering design competition. Engineers from all over the British Empire are invited to submit proposals for an ingenious solution to London's dragon problem. The prize includes the engineering contract to build the proposed design, the sum of £1200 from the Royal purse, and the rank of Presbyter within their chosen engineering sect, if not already occupying this post.
HMK George, addressing the Royal Society for the first time since his recovery from a bout of illness that has seen him unable to attend his duties for several months, encouraged engineers from all the sects to enter the competition. Engineers can submit their proposals to the Royal Society at their residence in Somerset House. His Majesty and the Council will decide the winner, who will be announced at the next Society meeting.
Meanwhile, the Royal Society has commissioned the printing of a pamphlet to be circulated throughout the populace. This pamphlet explains how to keep your home and family safe from dragon attacks, and includes "There be None of Beauty's Dragons", a poem by Lord Byron and a woodcut of several dragon booby-traps designed by Robert Stephenson. The public is reminded to report any dragon sightings to their nearest Police Office.
In the deeper recess of the Engine Ward, Aaron Williams pushed a shovel of coal into the furnace, shut the door, and moved onto the next. He had thirty furnaces to monitor on his shift, mostly the Cornish boiler units, which supplied the steam to the traction pulley systems of the churches above.
Only the Stokers – the mechanics of Engine Ward – were permitted into these underground chambers. A year ago, a Morphean engineer had snuck in and sabotaged the furnaces, causing a great fire to engulf the west wing of the Engine Ward and boiling three congregations of Metics in their prayers. That was only days after an Aristotelian boiler "malfunction" roasted an altar to Lord Byron, Messiah of the Church of Isis.
Aaron was perfect for the job, being a little shaky on the subject of religion. He had been on dubious terms with his own god – Great Conductor – ever since his childhood friend became the only living Stoker to invent something. And these days, inventing something didn't just mean you were clever – it meant you were favoured by the Gods. The closer Isambard got to religion, the less it appealed to Aaron, any sense of faith he once carried inside him long since replaced by a cold resentment for the Stoker's position in the city.
One could not have found a less likely religious leader than Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Their friendship had risen from their mutual grief: Aaron had lost a brother who, despite his flaws, he had loved the most of all his rotten family. And Henry's death had been the last straw for the Royal Society in the case of Isambard's father, Marc Brunel. Incensed at his continued breaches of conduct, the religious court had Marc Brunel banished to Van Diemen's Land.
Born a tenth-generation Stoker, Isambard Kingdom Brunel should never have invented anything. After they hunted the swamp-dragons to extinction and had no means of sustaining themselves, King George had allowed the Stokers into the city to work in his newly formed Engine Ward, but the Stokers would never be accepted as part of the engineering elite. They did not mix with folk who weren't their own, nor were they invited to join the Royal Society or speak in the great churches. They had one purpose, and one purpose only – to keep the Engine Ward operational; to oil the great industrial machine of London.
So for Brunel to design and build a new locomotive and create his own church was doubly impressive. Aaron had seen it coming, of course: only a few years before he'd been helping Isambard spy on the lessons of the other engineering schools. He'd stolen books for his friend from the nearby churches of Grandfather Clock and Meticus, he'd pored over Isambard's technical drawings, and marvelled at the intricate designs. Aaron had always known Isambard wouldn't be content to shovel coal in the engine rooms, and nor did he long to return to the swamps – he had none of Aaron's affinity for animals.
After selling his first steam engine to a wealthy industrialist (who used it as a garden ornament), Brunel purchased a scrapped furnace chimney from the Metics and converted it into a functional, albeit modest, church. Soon, he would complete his second and third locomotives.
London society buzzed with news of this "upstart mechanic" who dared to take the name of “engineer” and create locomotives. Brunel had supporters, too: engineers who sought a change from the strict religious confines of the Royal Society, and they glorified Brunel and his locomotive design as the future of British engineering.
And though Aaron stood by Isambard's side and rejoiced in his success, he could sense the attention was affecting Isambard. His ambitions – once grounded by his poverty and standing – reached ever wider as his influence grew within the Engine Ward. Even as they drank together after the workday had finished, Aaron could sense Isambard's mind ticking away like a Dirigire clock, whirring and churning over future possibilities.
Above Aaron’s head, steam hissed through a pipe, blowing a shrill whistle. He shut the last furnace, checked the oil in the pistons, and hung up his shovel for the night.
With his concentration broken, the voices flooded in.
It should have been quiet on the lower levels, but of course they got into the pipes and travelled as they pleased. They were compies – the small, lizard-like dragons that had beaten down the rat population to become London's most prolific vermin. Their minds sang like a choir in harmony, for they moved and thought as one. Aaron had become so accustomed to their chorus he could sometimes send out a thought and have them pick up on it, forcing them to change direction or stop in their tracks.
I wonder if Nicholas can do that, Aaron wondered.
Isambard was working on installing steam-driven elevators on every level of the Ward, but he'd been distracted with his locomotives, and the elevator down on the sixth level remained unfinished. Aaron clambered up the stairs, listening to the clang of his boots against the steel grating as it echoed through the machinery.
Bootsteps clanged towards him. He tipped his hat at Quartz, who came to replace him. His grandfather's closest friend since before Aaron was born, Quartz had cared for Aaron after both his parents died. A swamp man from way back, even his years in the city hadn't tamed Quartz's feral spirit. His weathered, greying features suggested an age and wisdom far beyond his years, but from behind his yellowed teeth often burst the most blasphemous profanities. If Aaron was unsure of the gods, Quartz was downright malevolent.
"His Eminence wishes to see you." Quartz's wild eyes glimmered as he clapped his hand on Aaron's back. Aaron staggered forward, but managed to keep his balance.
"Did he say why?"
Quartz shrugged. "He wouldn't presume to tell me, a mere mortal, now would he? He should be finished at the pulpit within the hour if you felt like skinning your knees in his presence."