He ducked his head in deference, placed his hand upon the warded box affixed to the compass and rudder, and winced. When he drew his hand away, I saw where the silver needle had pricked him, its tip glistening with fresh blood. It dripped down the needle and collected in a tiny reservoir where it blackened and smoked. The stink of sulphur bloomed, like spores from a ruptured mushroom. Hellfire.
The infernal device made a whirring noise, soft as insect wings, and glowed. ‘She’ll keep true course now, for an hour or so, at least,’ Ysmay said, and sucked his finger.
We moved toward the stern, an area of the Typhon where none of us had ventured yet. Ysmay twisted the circular locking mechanism and swung open the door, revealing another swivel gun control room. We found no leakage and, according to Ysmay, all appeared well. Beyond that was a munitions storage where there was a small stock of carbines and Hellfire rounds to go with them, in addition to the larger swivel rounds packed in straw and cotton-filled crates. The walls of this chamber were warded heavily, built into the metal of the floor, walls, ceiling, and hinged steel doors. We moved on.
The next door was even more intricately warded, the engravings more dense, more intricate. It was hot here, and stank of ozone and brimstone. There was what appeared, almost, to be a ball centred in the room, surrounded by piping and a long tank. More warding, steam hissing and jetting in places.
‘This is the devil Typhon’s cage. I’m sorry you cannot witness him, for he is tremendous,’ Ysmay said.
‘I’m not,’ I said. The heaviness that comes with the infernal settled upon us like a pall. I felt the throbbing presence of the daemon, bound in its silver warded cage, pouring off energy. A trapped dynamo sloughing heat to excite water into steam to turn the Typhon’s screws.
‘This is the engine room, where we get the power and behind it, the motor room, through that door, where the power is turned into motion.’
‘Does he require blood?’ Tenebrae asked.
‘Yes,’ Ysmay said. ‘But only in the summoning. Or the banishing. Far more for the banishing.’
‘Why do you have to give blood to some regularly, and not to others?’ I asked. It was something that had niggled at me, ever since the Valdrossos.
‘There’s great risk and effort to summon a daemon – or archdaemon – and much blood. Those go into ships. And they require enough blood, usually, or some equal sacrifice, to near kill the summoner,’ Ysmay said. ‘But the small daemons, the imps we bind into lamps, into Hellfire rounds, the automatic piloting device – these are lesser creatures and need sustenance – though that’s not really what it is to them – to perform whatever function the engineer has set before them.’
‘How do you set them to these smaller tasks? Is there some reasoning there?’ I asked.
He remained quiet for a bit and finally said, ‘I cannot tell all. To do so would mean death, possibly, if the Collegium of Engineers discovered it. And I want to live.’ He shook his head and looked at me. He was frightened, but there was something about his face that told me this was one line that I might try to cross, but he would not bend. Only break. Because death was the consequence. ‘But I can say, as you might already know, the art – and science – of engineering is an understanding of physical forces, stressors, material strengths. The other part of it is creating covenants, and that is far more difficult, especially when dealing with creatures from beyond this world.’
‘I have been told that they come from a rift between worlds, these daemons. One that was torn open by a sorcerer of old, looking for absolute power,’ I said, thinking of Mister Ilys. He’d abstained from the use of Hellfire guns, until he had a change of heart. ‘That they are simply forces of nature, and not malevolent at all.’
Ysmay shook his head. ‘Some very well aren’t, I’d hazard. But something doesn’t have to be evil to kill you. And there’s no daemon that won’t do that. Their essence is anathema to this world. More than poison. Incendiary,’ he said, noticeably uncomfortable with the conversation.
‘How much maintenance does Typhon require?’ Tenebrae asked.
‘I check the wards, daily. I do whatever engraving touch-ups are needed but that is not too often. Lascars check water pressure – two of them were rated mechanics.’ He looked bewildered. ‘But now it’s just me.’
‘Heavy maintenance?’ I asked.
‘Any structural repairs have to be done in port,’ Ysmay said.
I stood there, looking at Typhon’s warded housing. It was beautiful, in a way. Pragmatic yet intricate. I knew not the functions of the piping, and even less of the warding, but it all cascaded out in radiating concentric circles away from where I knew the daemon to be. When I closed my eyes – as when Beleth summoned the Crimson Man – I saw swirls of red and orange and black behind my eyelids and there was a dark figure there, pouring off heat. He loved me not.
I shivered, despite the warmth.
‘All right, Mister Ysmay. Why don’t you perform your inspection and maintenance now, while Mister Tenebrae and I are here.’ I noticed Carnelia at the doorway. I motioned her in. ‘Go on deck. Perform a visual inspection of the hull, as best you can. Let me know what you can see of the shore or our pursuit.’
‘Aye, Captain,’ she said, and clasped a hand to her breast and then shot it out, palm down, in the Ruman salute.
‘None of that, sissy. Just go,’ I said.
‘I live to do your bidding, master and commander,’ she said, and grinning, turned and dashed away to the main control centre.
We watched Ysmay at his inspection, and I drew Tenebrae back. ‘We should be here with him, during inspections.’
‘He should never, really, be alone,’ Tenebrae responded. ‘He’s the only one who can keep us alive and the ship in working order.’
‘Let’s take him on deck, after this, and have the chat.’
‘Agreed,’ Tenebrae said.
We watched Ysmay trace the warding with his strong, very articulate fingers. A man who worked with his hands, the direct extension of his mind; they were lithe, yet possessed of a surety many hands do not possess. An artist’s hands. He sank to his knees and began tracing the intaglios of engravings on the floor.
‘This is where the care is needed, and around the edges of doors, where most wear takes place,’ Ysmay said. ‘For a while, Albinus ordered the lascars—’ He fell silent.
‘Albinus ordered the lascars to do what, Mister Ysmay?’ I said, letting my voice crack like a whip. I wanted no omissions. I wanted no secrets.
He jumped. I will not lie: his physical response to the sound of my voice gave me a shock of something that felt very close to pleasure. But I tamped that emotion away: exploring it any more would mean I was a murderess through and through, taking pleasure from the havoc my mortal actions wreaked upon this soul. No, I could not take joy there. ‘Please, sir. We are very interested in what you have to say.’
‘Booties,’ he said, glancing at us from where he bowed. ‘Little cotton booties, like socks. He made us all wear them in here. I never saw any man of the sea come so close to mutiny as then.’ He shook his head, ruefully. Maybe he was thinking about those we killed. Those men I killed. ‘They just stopped coming in here, altogether. It was my domain, anyway. Typhon’s Bower, they called it. I assure you, it is far from it.’ He looked at his hands for a long while, considering. He shook his blond head and blinked as if waking, then he went back to inspecting the warding on the floor.
Seeing something, he crouched lower, examining it as closely as possible. ‘Something I should attend to.’ He stood, went to a small, metal cabinet affixed to the wall just beyond the border of the largest ward on the floor. From there he removed an awl and mallet and began some minuscule repairs on the warding. Tap tap tap scratch scratch. He blew on the surface, and passed his hand to clear small curls of metal away from his freshened marks. ‘The Malus ward had grown worn in one spot. Nothing really, but best to be safe,’ he murmured. A quick smile crossed his face, either at his work or his wo
rds, and then died. He stood. ‘I try to keep from stepping on any of the warding but that becomes impossible.’ He moved to the walls and began running his fingers over the etchings there.
In Salonica, when I visited as a girl with my mother, there had been an angelis fever outbreak years before, and a good number of the population – though hidden away for the most part – had been infected, husked out through whatever entity had possessed them all. Minds shattered, they would totter about the town, dressed in white gowns by their caretakers, and count stones in walls, cracks in casements. Number leaves on trees, count the sluggish warm waves lapping at shore. Ysmay’s reverent examination made me fear, if but for a moment, for the integrity of his mind. What forces come into play when summoning? What other consciousnesses vie for the summoner’s attention, for his or her soul?
Carnelia returned. She glanced at the engineer performing his inspections, and crossed her eyes at Tenebrae, who smiled but did not laugh at her antics. ‘The hull seems fine, as far as I can tell without any experience. The front swivel is worse off, I fear, from the hasty descent. I’ll say this, the guns are very cleverly constructed, with no moving parts exposed.’ She held up her hand – it was black, and matched the great swath on her tunic and the smear on her chin. ‘I warn you, don’t touch them. They’re literally caked in grease.’
‘The seas will eat them away,’ Ysmay said, distracted. ‘Without oil. Stores of it are back there. Motor room.’ He gestured toward the aft door in this chamber, where all the piping converged and disappeared.
When Ysmay seemed to come to a stopping point – though he was bemused and distracted the whole time he was in the daemon’s chamber – we drew him away and onto the deck. Leaving the close confines of the ship, breathing the freshening air, tasting the salt spray from the Occidens on my tongue, my spirit soared. I’d been oppressed by the tightness of the ship and it was mirrored in my body, the tenseness of my shoulders, my hands and arms. I felt as though a great pressure had been lifted from me.
Carnelia handed Ysmay a flask of rum, and indicated he should drink. Ysmay took it in hand, smelled it, and then made to hand it back to Carnelia. ‘I don’t like strong spirits,’ he said.
‘You’re going to make an exception, tonight,’ she said, and pushed the flask back. ‘Drink, sir. Drink.’ She had a way about her, my sister. Her ‘sir’ sounded more threatening than any curse or profanity she might’ve uttered. Ysmay blanched. He took a sip, winced and then stood there, on deck, holding the flask in unsure hands, looking about.
‘Another few draughts will serve you well, Mister Ysmay,’ Tenebrae said, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘It’s been a long day.’
After he’d taken a few more swallows, Ysmay’s face became flushed. ‘My first ship, she was a big brute,’ he said, looking into swells and swaying on his feet. ‘Nothing like this little mackerel.’ The wind skirled across the face of the sea and made small wind-wracked breakers at the tips of the waves. Ysmay’s hair whipped about his face and I found my own coming undone from the braids Carnelia and I both wore.
‘The Pantalion was massive, and kept a huge crew. I was just a wardsman, apprenticed to the master engineer – they called us the bloodless, since Wythys always needed more. More power, more munitions, more heat. More blood.’ He held up his arm and pulled back the sleeve. There was a fine patina of scars there, silvery in the light from blue stars and moon above. One single daemonlight lantern hung from the main stack where the peering device from below came to its height. ‘We patrolled the Nous, the Occidens, and later the Bay of Mageras. But nothing like when we went into the North.’
‘The North?’ Carnelia asked, pensive. Maybe she’d been sipping the rum as well. ‘What more than the Northlands are there?’
Ysmay shook his head and laughed. The liquor had infused him with a desperate geniality. ‘Oh, so much more. Beyond the wilds, we sailed. I was twenty-three then, I think.’ He fell silent for a while, watching the water.
Lupina appeared on deck and brought Fiscelion to me. I pulled back my tunic and let him at my breast – in other company, they might have been offended, or scandalised. I cared not at all, at this point. The pain as he sucked was sharp but it centred me, somehow. I had taken life. I gave it. He was growing large, despite all the travails and insecurity of the past months. If infanthood imprints itself upon the person when they grow old, Fiscelion would be a traveller – it was his internal momentum from his first push of life. He came squalling into the world like a bullet fired from a gun, ripping through Kithai, the Nous, Latinum, and now the Occidens.
Ysmay went on. ‘We sailed on, past countless shores, and then, once it grew cold and the sun never set, we sailed west and west again where the sun would flirt with the horizon but never kiss it. The Pantalion always needed blood and she stank of the burning stuff. At night, when I could give no more, Durian and I would hang our feet off the stern, pale and exhausted, and let out hooked spoons on twine until they would whip and twirl in the moon-shattered wake of the Pantalion and the silvergullets and yellowed pickering would snatch up the lures and we would haul them in, hands raw and bleeding.’ He laughed, remembering. ‘Durian was fast with a knife and always had a flask of garum about. He’d fillet the fish like drawing the simplest pellum ward and we’d soak the gobbets of fish in the salty garum and feast in the darkness. We needed meat, and the silver gullet and tunny refreshed our sanguiducts of the red stuff.’ He lifted the flask to his lips and took a large swallow of rum. ‘Until we came to Terra Umbra.’
‘Terra Umbra,’ I said. The sound of my voice shocked the engineer from his reverie. ‘I know of this place, from engineer Samantha Decius. She said it was where Emrys split the veil between worlds and let the daemons in.’
Ysmay waved his hand. ‘Something like that.’ He was not concerned with the legend, now. Or at all, really. What to us, the outsiders, the neophytes to his initiated knowledge, was huge and significant, to him was simply to be brushed aside.
‘Tell us of Terra Umbra,’ Tenebrae said.
Ysmay’s eyebrows raised. ‘I have heard her call you “Shadow”,’ he said. ‘So it makes sense you would be interested.’
‘The Shadowland,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said. His eyes took on that far-off stare that we had seen in Typhon’s Bower. ‘Only one away ship went ashore, and we stayed a week before we realised that none of the party were coming back. The second mate, and his lascars, never returned.’
‘What did you see?’ Carnelia asked. She seemed quite urgent about the whole tale.
‘The island itself was huge, mountainous, like it was hewn from the sea floor by vulcanic actions. But there was forest and foliage, birds wheeling in the heavens above the isle. The smell of dirt and life. The smell of land. But far off, in the centre of that dark-green isle, stood a tremendous storm, arrested except for circular motion, a maelstrom-like force, swirling upon itself. But unlike a whirlpool it was inverted. Where the sea sucks downward, this reached up. A storm that never seemed to dissipate. Tongues of flickering light, flashing about, and a column of multicoloured smoke reaching out of sight in the sky.’
‘Well, that sounds like a shitstorm,’ Carnelia said, rubbing her shoulder. I glanced at her and shook my head.
‘Did you see anything else?’ Tenebrae asked.
‘When it became clear the second mate and his party weren’t going to return, we took the Pantalion as close as we could to shore to see what we could see. All of the men stood on deck, peering westward. It was late in the day and the sun cast most of the shore into darkness but I swear—’
He fell silent, looking off into some middle distance only he could apprehend.
‘What did you see?’ I said, very low.
He shook his head and looked at me. ‘Figures. Very tall figures on the shore. They ran along as the Pantalion steamed past. Impossibly fast. Leaping, jumping.’
‘Vaettir,’ I breathed.
Ysmay said, ‘I have never seen an
elf, but that may be what they were. But—’
‘But what?’ Carnelia said in a much less kind tone than we’d been taking with the engineer.
‘They disappeared. Like tide flowing out of a bay, yet much faster. And then it appeared.’
‘It?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Ysmay said. ‘It. He.’
He tilted up the flask and drained the rest of the rum and looked away across the waves, and then his gaze travelled from wherever it was in the west all the way back to my face.
‘The dragon,’ he said.
‘Ah!’ Tenebrae broke into laughter. Carnelia followed. ‘A very good jest, Mister Ysmay! Very good!’
Ysmay looked at us, puzzled.
And then he vomited up all the rum in a thunderous rush.
We were quiet after that. Ysmay belched an apology and sat down heavily on the deck while Carnelia found a bucket below and sluiced away the vomitus.
It grew colder the longer we stayed on deck. Ysmay would take no more rum. The wind strengthened, the seas rose, and the sky grew bruised but never really faded into blackness. A strange glow permeated the night and I was reminded of the golden fog that came to us that one night months before when the Malphas had drawn near Jiang. But an unease settled upon me and I knew this was not the same.
‘Look,’ Lupina said, speaking for the first time that night. ‘Behind us. The sky is aflame.’
I turned back, looking east. The low-hanging clouds there were lit from underneath with a pulsing red glow and beyond the horizon some great fire burned. A sinking feeling came upon me then, and I looked to my companions – Carnelia, Tenebrae, Lupina, and Ysmay – and saw my own despair mirrored in their eyes.
‘Rume,’ Tenebrae said, and sank to his knees. ‘The Immortal City burns.’
FIFTEEN
Here Is As Far As We Will Allow Rume
WE FOUND THE Dvergar silverlode and never reached the dwarven city.
Infernal Machines Page 13