by S. C. Green
Nicholas gripped Aaron’s arm as he was pulled through the surging crowd, ducking into the alley between the Isis and Aether cathedrals and emerging on one of the side streets. Smaller churches crammed the roadside, built leaning up against each other and jutting out at odd angles. These churches didn’t have the patronage of wealthy Royal Society members, so they built their houses of worship with what they had available — usually wood, brick and metal salvaged from the now-defunct shipyards. Some of these religions were affiliated with official Gods of Industry, while others, like the Metics and Dirigires, were cults devoted to strange foreign deities. (The Metics — who believed imperial measurement was an affront to the Gods — and the Dirigires — men who flew great balloons and worshipped a goddess of the sky — were both French religions, which meant they’d never found much favour in England.)
Down another side street, only a block from where Nicholas had attended Marc Brunel’s school as a boy, Aaron stopped on the corner and pointed up. “Here you are: the Chimney.”
He gazed up, unable to believe Isambard had really created this. The Chimney was a modest building, the spire a disused smoke stack that had formed one of the earlier Ward workshops. The Stokers had reshaped the workshop, widening the space and creating a vaulted nave. Short wings protruded from either side, slotting into the gaps between the giant Lord Byron shrine and Joseph Banks’ Aether Church that flanked the structure. The giant iron doors were closed. Engineers wearing the robes of the Great Conductor sat on the steps, and Stokers rushed in and out, attending to various chores.
Aaron rapped his knuckles against the door. A slot opened and two beady eyes peered out suspiciously.
“We’ve no services today,” the mouth belonging to the eyes said.
“Don’t pretend you can’t see me, Peter. I’ve brought Nicholas Thorne to see Isambard.”
Nicholas paled. “Please don’t use that name,” he said. “It’s Rose now.”
“Nicholas Thorne?” The man spat. “The scoundrel who done killed our brother?”
Nicholas stepped away, shocked by the resemblance between Aaron and the priest. Although at least ten years his senior, the priest shared Aaron’s piercing eyes, curled black hair, and gaunt features. Nicholas remembered the fearsome reputation of Henry’s elder brothers among the Stokers — priests who delighted in finding religious transgressions within the Ward to bring before the Council. They’d been particularly diligent in weeding out troublesome Stokers, and had played a crucial role in convicting Marc Brunel. Nicholas decided it was prudent to keep his mouth shut.
Aaron had no such qualms. “Henry got himself killed with his own stupidity, and you will too if you don’t open this door.”
Aaron’s brother slammed the cover over the slot, and with a hiss of steam, the door swung inward. Peter — who towered over them both in his silk robes — scowled at them. “What’s he doing here?”
“Priests don’t ask questions,” Aaron said. “That’s the price you pay for not ever having to get your hands dirty.”
“You’d better watch your tongue, or I’ll report you to Oswald.” But Peter sloped off into the shadows, leaving them alone in the Nave.
“Oswald?”
“My other brother. He’s Head Priest, and not as angry as Peter, but even more dangerous. You’ll meet him in time.”
“I thought your brothers were priests in Stephenson’s church.”
“They were — and a fine penny they were making from it, too. But Stephenson refused to take them with him when he left for the north. Being Stokers, he didn’t consider them trustworthy.” He snorted. “They’ll do anything to avoid manual labour, and Oswald was smart enough to realise the priesthood of Isambard’s church would incur no wrath from the Stokers. It’s less power, less money, but it’s an easy life. We take the elevator here.”
He pulled aside a panel decorated with a pattern of rivets forming a Stoker cross, and stepped into a metal cage. Nervous at once again entering the darkness, Nicholas stepped in beside him. Aaron closed the panel and leaned his weight against one of the levers sticking out from the floor of the cage. With a jerk, they lurched downward.
Aaron had brought no light with him, and Nicholas had plenty of time, lost with his thoughts in the darkness, to wonder what awaited him at the bottom of that elevator shaft. It occurred to him briefly that maybe he was being set up. Maybe Isambard had used Aaron to lure him here, to exact revenge for Nicholas’ part in Marc Brunel’s sentence. The knife in his pocket felt heavy, and Nicholas wondered if he would have to use it.
The din of the compies still came upon him in waves, but it was abating. Not even the compies would come this far into the earth.
Finally, the elevator jerked to a stop. Nicholas heard Aaron pull open the grate, and a hand grabbed his sleeve. “Through here,” Aaron said, directing him through a low door.
The workshop was dim, lit by a roaring furnace in the far corner and a row of Argand lamps scattered across the benches. Nicholas could barely make out the shapes of the long tables, laden with strange machines and rolls of technical drawings smudged with oily fingerprints. Sheets of metal, half-formed cogs and stacks of miscellaneous parts leaned against one wall.
“Nicholas.”
The voice startled him. He whirled around as Brunel stepped out of the darkness and rushed forward to greet him.
His emotions on edge, Nicholas’ first instinct was to step back, his hand flying to his pocket. Isambard, seeing his distress, held up his hands in surrender. He extended one, and after a few awkward seconds of staring at it, Nicholas stepped forward and shook.
“It’s been too long, my friend,” Isambard said, his cold, bony fingers entwining with Nicholas’ own. “Please, sit with me.”
Isambard pulled a stool in front of the furnace, and Nicholas sat on it gingerly, still nervous in the presence of his old friend. Isambard sank into a wing-backed chair opposite him. Once opulent, its fabric was now blackened with soot and the stitching was unravelling around the arms. Aaron sat on the floor behind Brunel, his thin legs stretching across the floor.
“I’m sorry, I do not have any tea to offer—”
“You did not answer my letters,” Nicholas blurted out.
“No, I did not.” Isambard stared at his hands. “I treasure them, every one, but I could not bring myself to read them, let alone reply. You have to understand … I felt like a failure. You and James went off on your adventure, but I was trapped in Engine Ward. You would both return as gentlemen, your Stoker heritage forgotten, and our friendship could not continue, for gentlemen do not associate with Dirty Folk. I knew your letters would be filled with new sights, strange smells, great adventures … but I had no stories to tell in return. I woke up, I shoveled coal into the furnaces ’till my fingers bled, I fell asleep, and I did it all again the next day. I wanted to wait ’till I had this,” he gestured around the room, “to show you, but by then you had stopped writing. But you’re here now, and can see it with your own eyes.”
“And it is truly amazing, but Isambard, you should have known James and I would not judge you. We knew against what you’ve fought. You must be the bravest man I know to have built this church right under the nose of Stephenson and the Royal Society.”
Isambard’s face brightened. “Wait ’till you see my locomotives. But please … I want to hear about your adventures. Aaron tells me you came to England from France. A border crossing is no easy feat—”
“No, it is not. And you must appreciate that I can’t discuss it,” Nicholas said, his voice sharper than intended. He didn’t mean to offend Isambard, but he had to keep the details of his flight as secret as possible. His survival depended on his presence in London remaining undetected.
“But you have been studying at one of the French schools?” Isambard pressed him.
“I have not sat for a degree,” Nicholas answered, not willing to explain any further. “But I have studied under many of the great European architects. My knowledge of a
rchitectural principles is sound. Aaron tells me you have a job for me?”
Isambard led him to a table, covered in a grimy cloth. He whipped away the cloth, and Nicholas leaned over to get a better look at the intricate model that spread out across the bench. The model of London city sprang to life, clockwork gears crunching under the table as the figures crossed the narrow streets. Around the perimeter of the city, bisecting many of London’s richer suburbs, was a high wall. Atop this structure, a locomotive and two carriages made a lazy circumnavigation of the city.
“This is my design for the engineering competition,” said Brunel. “But I am a man of machines, Nicholas. I know how to make something work, but I don’t know how to make it appealing to the discerning eye. The poets and artists of the Isis and Morphean sects are going to have something visually stunning, and for my Wall to impress the King, it needs the touch of an architect.”
“You want me to—”
“Make my Wall beautiful.” He handed Nicholas a sheet of paper. “The fee is modest, I’m afraid, but there will be a permanent job for you with me when we win.”
“If we win,” Aaron corrected.
Isambard laughed. “Mr. Williams doesn’t share my optimism.” He circled the table, pointing out details of the design. “Each gate operates with steam-powered doors. These pistons drive the locks. If the French ever think to invade, they’ll have to break through these first. And here.” he pointed to the districts of Belgravia and Kensington. “We will build the Wall double height.”
“Why?”
“The richest people in London — including the men on the Council — have residences in these suburbs, and they will want to maintain an atmosphere of exclusivity. When I build the railway, it will go through a tunnel in Belgravia, and so their garden parties and croquet games are unspoiled by the soot and steam. We’ll install separate gatehouses and private train platforms, also.”
While Brunel explained the various features of the Wall, Nicholas scribbled notes and watched Aaron out of the corner of his eye.
Aaron leaned back against the workbench, closed his eyes, and rested his head against his chest. Within moments, he’d fallen asleep, his head bobbing against his chest as he let out a loud snort.
Brunel noticed him watching Aaron. “He often falls asleep down here. His wife must keep him busy at night,” he said, smiling.
Suddenly, Nicholas realised the reason for his friend’s slumber. He’d been so awed by entering the workshop and seeing Isambard again, so thrilled with the prospect of working on the Wall, he hadn’t noticed the most remarkable thing of all.
Down there, in the depths of the earth below London’s churning engines, nothing stirred. Not a rat or a compie or even a lowly earthworm. They were down so far, behind so many walls of solid metal, that no animal’s thoughts penetrated his skull. Nicholas’ mind, for once, was silent.
***
Soaking his cloth in the bowl of warm water beside him, Joseph Banks unscrewed the medicine bottle on his lap and tipped a few drops onto the sodden rag. He turned toward His Majesty King George III and motioned for him to remove his clothes.
The King lifted his tunic over his head, and Banks once again marvelled at the results of his treatments. He’d been physician to the King for nearly forty years — for as long as England had been without a Parliament — and his medicine had not only cured the King’s madness, but had remarkable effects on his person. At ninety-two years old, George’s muscles still retained their firmness. His skin pulled taut around his body, showing none of the telltale brittleness of a man his age. His physique was that of someone forty years his junior, aside from the burns and blotches that marred his once flawless skin — a side effect of Banks’ unusual treatment.
George had barely aged since Banks had begun administering to him. As a wide-eyed youth just out of medical school, Banks had been appalled at the King’s rapidly deteriorating condition. The court doctors were stumped, and Queen Charlotte — May Aether protect her soul — had called on him after reading his revolutionary essay about the healing effects of certain lead-based tinctures.
His Majesty had been so incoherent, so close to death, they dragged his son before Parliament and declared him Regent before Banks had even uncorked a medicine bottle. No one expected him to recover, but he did. With remarkable control of his faculties, King George III marched down to Parliament and disbanded it, declaring the Council of the Royal Society the new governing body, and had the Prince Regent — his own son — executed for treason. The other princes died a few months later of an “unknown” illness (brought about by a certain substance Banks added to their brandy), and several of the more outspoken politicians met with a similar fate.
England’s new government handled both religious and secular affairs, and proved remarkably effective. The country ran so smoothly that, despite some of his more radical decisions — such as closing the borders of England to foreigners — no one had questioned George’s sanity since. At least, not openly.
While Banks tended to his wounds, the King discussed the competition entries. Rolls of drawings, scale models, and intricate moving machetes decorated his private chambers. Whatever entry King George chose, it would be Banks’ job to force this decision on the rest of the Council at their meeting tomorrow. It will take all of my persuasion to convince each Council member not to vote for his own church’s designs.
Banks’ hand slipped, knocking a blister off one of the sores. Bright, metallic blood oozed down the King’s torso. Banks went to wipe it away, but the King swatted his hand. “Enough of that, Joseph. I have something to show you.”
The physician set down the medicine, and the King handed him a roll of drawings. “This is the winning design.”
Banks unrolled the first drawing, revealing a detailed map of London, completely encircled in a wide iron wall. His eyes widened as he recognised the hand who had designed it.
“Are you certain, sire?”
“Of course I’m certain.” George pulled his tunic on, fastening the buttons with deft fingers. “He couldn’t have designed anything better if he were privy to my plans. Since Stephenson refuses to budge, I don’t see why Brunel shouldn’t be the one to build me what I need.”
Panic rose in Banks’ throat. “But sire, it’s Brunel. He shouldn’t have even been allowed to enter the competition. The Council will never agree—”
“That is why I have you, Joseph. With your powers of persuasion, I’m sure they’ll soon see things our way. I knew it was the right decision letting him into the Society.”
Banks sighed. “Choosing Brunel will anger the poets, the Aetheriuns, Turner’s folk, not to mention Stephenson and his Navvies. This could drive a wedge between the sects that we cannot repair.” It will shift even more power into the Great Conductor Sect, was what he didn’t say.
“Then it will be time again to purge the Council of my enemies. I want this Wall, Joseph, and any engineer who opposes Brunel also opposes me, is that understood?”
Banks choked back his fear, and opened the plans again. This time, he tried to imagine this monstrosity surrounding the city, the high iron wall crisscrossing the districts, more of a fortress than a city. There had been an attempt, at least, to make it appear less intrusive — the architect had decorated the outer faces with rows of straight Ionic columns supporting a row of decorative arches and pedimental sculpture — homage in iron to the classical motifs so in vogue right now.
George watched Banks scrutinise the plans as he smoothed his clothes. “The design is certainly commendable,” Banks managed at last.
“Who is the architect?”
Banks squinted at the name scrawled in the corner. “Nicholas Rose. I’ve never heard of him. He’s certainly not a member of the Royal Society.”
“I wouldn’t expect Brunel to work with one of the established architects, not with most of them joining Turner’s church. You’re to bring Brunel to me, Joseph, tomorrow. And I’ll see this Nicholas Rose, as well, if y
ou please.”
Joseph was about to protest, when a loud crash sounded from across the palace, followed by a long scream, cut haltingly short.
Banks turned to the King, horror in his eyes. “Sir, not again—”
“Attend to that for me, won’t you, Joseph?” the King smiled. “It seems another of my children has broken free of the nursery.”
***
Lieutenant James Holman, Esq.
His Majesty King George, Prime Minister Joseph Banks and the Learned Council of the Royal Society cordially invite you to attend a special meeting of the Royal Society on Thursday the 15th of July. On this illustrious occasion HMK George III will announce the winner of the engineering competition, and following this, Charles Babbage, engineer of the Metic Sect and inventor of the Difference Engine, will answer the charges of treason brought against him by the Council.
Formal dress required. Brandy and light supper provided.
***
In the days since they’d handed in the drawings, Nicholas had spent every spare moment in the Chimney with Isambard, returning to the guesthouse only to sleep. Isambard cut him a key, so he could come and go as he pleased, and even offered to let him sleep in the workshop. Nicholas had to admit the idea of spending the night without the voices was tempting, but he did not want to take advantage of his friend. Also, he was afraid Peter might sneak downstairs and kill him in his sleep.
Both Nicholas and Isambard had guarded their thoughts for years, but the more they talked, the more conversation came easily. Nicholas wondered if he could ever trust Isambard enough to tell him the truth about why he’d fled France. Isambard, who had now read all of Nicholas’ letters, knew his friend’s story up until the time he left the Navy, and so filled Nicholas in on his own life in a haphazard fashion. He would talk fleetingly of people, of deaths and births and important events, dwelling for hours on revelations in the design of his locomotive — the construction of the chassis, the drive-wheel, the pistons.