Night's engines nl-2

by Trent Jamieson

  “Dream? I guess that works. If that works for you, then yes, dream it is. Though I prefer to couch it in more heuristic terms, the map is the least dreamish part of the whole place. For some, a dream, for others an education.” Cadell tapped a finger against the northernmost extremity of the map, where the great tower rose, fringed in its mountains. “Tearwin Meet is waiting for you. The Engine is waiting to greet you in its grand hall of mirrors, beyond the steel door.”

  “I’m stuck here,” David said. “Things are complicated. Buchan and Whig, they’re doing their best, but-”

  “I’m sure they are. But other options approach you.” Cadell tapped the map again: a small Aerokin slid into the airspace of the city. Even from above, David could see how easily she evaded the city’s defensive airships. She hid comfortably in the clouds, found the darkest routes. “You really need to learn how to get out of your head, or you would have seen it earlier. Another avenue might be opening up for you. Drift has decided to play now.”

  “And if it does…”

  “Be careful, the Mothers of the Sky are not your friends. Nor will they ever be.”

  “They were your friends once,” David said. “I remember that much.” And he did, flashes of a past, all gleaming metals and hope.

  “Yes, before things became a bit mythical, a bit driven by the curse of a mad machine. You know they once tried to rescue us, in fact, they did. It didn’t work. But the past is a meagre ghost, you can’t count on it, it's less satisfying than chewing on bones.”

  “So do I take this other avenue, or not?”

  “That is up to you,” Cadell said. “I am but another one of those ghosts, haunting the long hallways of your blood.”

  “So, I’ve a choice of ghosts?”

  “We all do. What’s the present but the moans of ghosts past and future? All those possibilities and hope, certainties, and failures, you just have access to a larger store than most. If you let me in.” Cadell’s face grew cunning. “The sooner the better. You will need me to do what must be done.”

  David’s stomach rumbled, even in his sleep it rumbled, and he looked up, embarrassed at the broad smile of Cadell. “Why am I always hungry?”

  “You’re hungry because you’re growing, and the kind of growth that you are experiencing requires a considerable amount of energy. David, you’re going to have to bring that cold to bear on an entire world. You’ve not even scratched the surface of your abilities, and they are rising in you.”

  “I’m tired,” David said. “I’m always so tired.”

  “That’s because sleep leads you to me. You shouldn’t fight it as much. In sleep you can focus on all the things that you need to be, and you can become them.”

  “I don’t know if I want to.”

  Cadell sighed. “Then wake up. But remember the one possibility that is a certainty.” He pointed to the map, south again, where the seven Old Men walked. They stopped, seemed to look up, point at the sky. “They will hunt you until you die, or you kill them. Seven Old Men. Do you think you could manage such slaughter?”

  David’s eyes opened.

  Another tapping at the window.

  Not Cadell, his point of entry was different now. David hurried to the window, his hands hesitated at the latch. His body ached. He wanted to sleep again, to find that this was nothing more than a dream. That his parents still lived, and that the Roil existed only in the pulp stories of the Shadow Council — leave all this madness to Travis the Grave.

  He peered out and saw nothing, heard another quick tapping; David caught a flash of movement, tendrils whipping back into the sky. He swung the window open, and looked up. Something hovered there, above the street.

  A juvenile Aerokin, far smaller than the Roslyn Dawn. She lowered a single tendril through the opening. Rough flesh, tipped with multi-jointed segments analogous to fingers, gripped an envelope. An envelope with David’s name, written with flourishes and curlicues, on it. He recognised the writing of Kara Jade. She'd written him a note apologising for her absence that had managed to be part accusatory — why in the Roil's name wouldn't he wake — and rueful — would have loved to see the north.

  He pulled the envelope from the Aerokin’s grasp, the finger-things tapped his arm once and the tendril flicked back outside. The Aerokin lifted a little higher and drifted over the flat roof of the pub. David wondered if she was waiting there in the sky, or simply a messenger.

  David looked down at the envelope in his hand. The paper was still warm. He opened it cautiously. His eyes flicked to the end, saw Kara’s name there, as he'd expected, then he looked back over it more carefully.

  Well, I’m sure you weren’t expecting this. It seems I am in trouble. There have been some political reckonings in my city, of the sort that sees a person in prison — if they're lucky, and dead if they're not. And yes, I am lucky. A man of your particular skills may be exactly what I need. If you could see your way clear to helping me, I would be in your debt — and that's a hard thing for me to say. The Aerokin that delivered this message is waiting for you, she answers to the name Pinch. She will not wait long, an hour or two, no more. Should you decide to help out a dear friend, well, a friend at least, please go to the roof. Pinch will accommodate three people, or two if one of them possesses more weapons than is sensible. I would not have contacted you if I did not think that my life was indeed in peril. Pinch contains more information. I have allies in the city — but I guess you’d get that, because Aerokin (not even little ones) don’t just bend to my will — and they will help you get to me. I am glad you are still alive. You scared us all, even the Warrior Princess (though it’s hard to tell). Yours, Kara Jade Dawn

  David let the paper drop, picked it up, and read it again, looking for some sort of clue, some deeper meaning.

  He held it to the light, in case there were some secret script, some warning; he singed the corner, and no revelation came. Here was a way out, a quick escape from Hardacre, which was starting to feel less of a way station, and more a prison.

  He took a deep breath, plus a half nail of Carnival, and sought out Margaret.

  CHAPTER 14

  In many ways both Buchan and Whig were naive. But it is hard to blame them. The world wasn't what it was. Ironically, so close to its ending events were not speeding up, but slowing down, as though everyone refused to acknowledge the cliff they were about hurtle off, or they were desperately trying to apply the brakes.

  Buchan and Whig hadn't adjusted yet.

  I still feel bad about what we did to them.

  Recollections of a Forgotten World, Margaret Penn

  THE CITY OF HARDACRE 964 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL EDGE

  There was a knock on the door at ten past six. Margaret opened it. “You’re late.”

  “Hardly by any real margin,” Buchan said, a sheen of sweat marking his brow. Whig followed him into the room, and oddly enough David walked through after them, that smug grin on his face. With all four of them in her room, things were a little squashed. Buchan smelt of beer, Whig smelt like honey. David possessed no odour at all.

  “We were delayed,” Whig said. “Another meeting with yet another pilot.” “And, once again, no success,” Margaret said.

  “We will find our path into the north, believe me.”

  “Horses, why not those?”

  “Horses are too slow, the terrain terrible.”

  “We’d be halfway there by now.”

  “We’d most probably be dead,” Buchan said.

  “Yes, I guess there would be few horses that could carry your weight.” Buchan’s eyes flared, his cheeks reddened and he clenched one great hand into a fist. Whig stared at her sternly. He said, “There are animals up to the task, believe me.”

  “I know it’s frustrating,” Buchan said. “But we are doing our best, our avenues here are extremely limited.”

  “And that isn’t remotely good enough,” Margaret snapped.

  “I know how it must sound,” Whig said. “But we have been s
tymied at every turn. Sometimes I think that we are truly being stopped from going any further.”

  “It’s true,” Buchan said. “Paperwork goes missing, airship pilots that initially seem interested change their minds, or are called off to the east. And the bribes.” Buchan wiped his brow. “Ah, I can’t even begin to tell you how much they are costing us.”

  Whig nodded. “Believe us, David, Miss Penn. We are men used to a certain level of unscrupulous dealings.”

  “We can deal with the best of them. But this is a whole new level of greed, if it is indeed greed rather than something that has been dressed up as such.”

  “But who would stop us here?” David asked.

  “David, there are some people that would rather you never made it into the north. That perhaps aren’t even quite aware of what you are, but know that to let us leave Hardacre may threaten everything that they have built.”

  “Yes,” Whig said. “There are some who believe that, even as a last resort, the Engine of the World should not be used.”

  “Then why has the Engine been allowed to exist all these centuries?” Margaret said. “Why hasn’t it been destroyed?”

  Buchan smiled a little wearily. “We lack the means to destroy the Engine, and have for most of that time, if we ever possessed it at all. We are the last and least of our kind, Margaret. Even your great parents, may they rest in peace, were little more than scavengers of old technologies.” He raised a finger in the air to silence her before she could respond. “Let me finish, please. We lived in the shadows of our great towers and levees, and though we may have raised ourselves high, it was never nearly high enough.”

  “Which is why we must use the Engine,” David said. “Which is why we must destroy the Roil.”

  “Yes, we all agree with you. But you must give us more time. When we procure a pilot, we shall be able to make the flight to Tearwin Meet in days. You start walking and the Roil will catch up before you even see its high walls,” Whig said.

  “We will be ready in a week, no more than that,” Buchan said. “For all the delays, for all our excuses, we are finally making progress.”

  “You must excuse our caution,” Whig dragged the pipe from his jacket, tamped down some tobacco. “I know that the wait seems interminable, but even now the distant north is an inhospitable destination.

  “The weather is variable in the extreme, and the changes in temperature mean that the ice that coats much of the north has shifted. It can open and swallow you whole, and we’ve already come so far and lost so much, wouldn’t you say, David and Miss Penn?”

  “A week, another week,” Margaret spat.

  Whig said, “Aerokin are hard to fashion out of nothing. We are not the fierce Mothers of the Sky, we are just men — with some exceptions, of course.”

  “And I would agree if you had nothing. You let Kara Jade go.”

  “I didn’t see you arguing for her to stay at the time.”

  “I’m not the one organising this journey north.”

  “Indeed you are not,” Buchan said. “Actually, I’m not sure what you are, other than someone that complains and does nothing.”

  Margaret’s jaw moved, she could barely speak, she jabbed a finger into Buchan's chest. “You know what I have done. I could show you what I have done!”

  Whig raised his hands. “Please, please, we are all friends here.”

  Buchan and Margaret swung their heads towards Whig, and said, “We are not friends.”

  The words were spat, with a savagery that surprised Margaret, even as she said them. No, they were not friends, but were they enemies? Buchan's jowls shook, he grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his face. Margaret almost pulled it from his hands.

  Whig seemed to wilt. Then he smiled. “Circumstances make friends of us all. Shale grows too small for us to make enemies, a little like this room.”

  “Then get an airship, or an Aerokin, and get us out of this damn city!” She took a deep breath. “I am going to close my eyes, and count to ten. If either of you are in my room at that point, our friendship shall be tested.” She slid the rime blade a few inches out of its sheath, and closed her eyes.

  They were gone before she reached three.

  She kept her eyes closed a full minute before opening them again. David still stood there.

  “What are you grinning at?” she snapped.

  “Aerokin are hard to fashion out of nothing, but I think I have a solution to our problem.” He passed her Kara's note.

  Margaret folded the paper neatly. “Warrior Princess, thank you very much.” She slipped the paper into David’s front pocket. “It’s a trap, obviously.”

  “Certainly,” David said; he leant forward in his chair, eyes bright. “It can’t be anything but. And yet, if we stay here, you know the Old Men are coming. I can feel them, with Cadell gone, I can sense them even more, and they are not far away.”

  “How far?”

  “That, well, I’m not sure. A sense of foreboding rarely comes with a scale.

  A day, a week, not much longer.”

  “So, trap or not, you’re saying we don’t have much choice in the matter?” “Yes, and I know for one that Kara must really be in some sort of trouble.” “What? You don’t think she would betray us?”

  “No, I don’t. But right now there is an Aerokin floating above the Habitual

  Fool, and she’s waiting to take us away from here, to a person that saved both our lives several times.”

  “You couldn’t take control of the Aerokin?”

  “No, my skills don’t lie that way. I could kill her mid-flight, I could send her plummeting from the sky, but what is the point of that?”

  “All right, we go.” She nodded to the bag beside her bed. “Everything I need is there. Shouldn’t we write Buchan and Whig some sort of letter?”

  David grinned. “I already have.”

  He opened the door, ran to his room and came back a moment later with a bag. “I think we were both expecting this, or something like it.”

  Margaret nodded her head. “Yes, there has been something in the air.”

  David smiled. “And now there is definitely something in the air, and it is waiting for us.”

  Margaret grabbed her bag. “So whose window do we take, mine or yours?”

  David dragged his bag inside and shut the door. “One window’s as good as another, isn’t it?”

  CHAPTER 15

  No one chooses the north. It is almost as though, as a species, we have been bred with some deep antipathy for the ice and the cold. Just as the Mothers of the Sky find it an agony to step upon the land. Of course, it is not nearly as severe as that, and not acknowledged. For all industry, the coal and the oil fields, find themselves in the north. Here too are the Greater Forests (or what once were). We need the north. We work it, but we do not like it. Surely it is forced upon us.

  The North Is the North of Course, Landymore

  THE UNDERGROUND 875 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL

  Medicine Paul was in a delicate state of internal political upheaval — like a stomach bug, only much worse. Alliances kept shifting. He was nimble, a survivor, but every time he thought he'd found his footing, it had slipped away beneath him.

  He'd found himself working for Stade, the man who killed almost all of Medicine's allies. He'd found himself leading Stade's people — though weren't Stade's people his too? — nearly a thousand miles to a secret stronghold in the mountains with the aid of his guard Agatha and her soldiers. Through the predatory gloom of the Margin they'd marched, leaving dozens of dead behind. Then they been captured by — and escaped from — Cuttlemen, fled across the sea of grass known as the Gathering Plains, and finally made it to the Underground.

  Within thirty minutes of their arrival Agatha had been executed, and Medicine's authority stripped from him — by people that should have been his allies to begin with. The revolution had come, and he'd somehow been on the wrong side of it.

  Since Agatha’s
execution, Medicine Paul had been left alone. And it was easy enough in the long dark tunnels of the Underground, though that didn't mean he wasn't being watched, or that he wasn't busy. Just that Grappel required nothing of him, demanded nothing but what he demanded of all the citizens of the Underground, that they work and work hard.

  Medicine was afforded a single room, a bed and a desk, a toilet in one corner and a door with a lock on it, of the sort that could be picked by even the most indifferent thief or assassin. Medicine had spent his share of time in prison cells, this was no different, even if he could lock and unlock it at will. He knew that wherever he went he was watched, and that for all the size of the Underground there really wasn’t anywhere to go.

  Twenty thousand people lived and worked here. Medicine was just one of them, and while he worked hard, be it at the infirmary or helping in the construction of inner walls, or the smoothing out of the vent tubes to release heat (while ensuring that something more sinister couldn’t find its way back in), he also knew that he was being regarded with a much greater level of scrutiny, and that he would never be trusted.

  And why should he? After all, he was from Mirrlees, and it was Mirrlees that had so failed the north and Hardacre in particular. It was Mirrlees that had sent on the refugees from the south.

  Work was his only escape, but he didn’t have it for very long. Less than five days after their arrival, Medicine became ill.

  A mild headache became a sweat, which became the worst fever he had ever known.

  He stumbled halfway back to his bed, through the long dark corridors, then fell and kept on falling. When he woke next, he was in his bed, throat burning with thirst, not at all sure how he had made it to the lumpy mattress. He tried to rise, and his limbs shook with the effort, the sheets may as well have been made of lead.