"So they did, mostly,” Gifford said. “All except for one province in the north. Léon, it was called, though they call it Spain now, España, as if one province can stand in for an entire country."
Tip nodded. She remembered now; one of the tutors had mentioned Léon.
"But the Spanish are powerless, aren't they?” Blunt said. “The country's so tiny you can hardly see them on a map."
"Not powerless anymore, unfortunately. Not for a century, ever since that adventurer of Alfonso and Isabella's discovered the New World. They've been bringing back gold by the shipload."
"Yes, but where would they get the knowledge?"
"They'd buy it, of course. The way they get everything these days."
"Pah,” Blunt said. “Spain and France are at least Christian countries. The people here are unbelievers. They pray to some kind of moon god. And do you know what else? There are Jews here, out in the streets, worshipping openly."
"What are Jews?” Tip asked.
"Stop asking so many questions,” Blunt said. “And go find your master—he won't want to miss our meeting."
She did wonder where Lawton had gone to, but not enough to look for him. Instead, after lunch, she went back to the workshop and spent the afternoon working with Ibn Suleiman. The queen would want her to, she thought, and Lawton could look after himself.
But that evening, as she opened the door to their rooms, she found Lawton there, looking furious. “Why didn't you tell me about the meeting this afternoon?” he asked.
"I was busy,” she said.
"Busy! You're my servant, you're meant to be helping me—"
"I ain't your servant! The queen told me to find out how them monkeys work, and that's what I was doing."
"The queen! She should be in Bedlam, along with all the other lunatics. What was she thinking, sending a child on state business?"
"I understand them monkeys, that's why she did it. I know more about them than you do."
"That's ridiculous. I know things you can't even dream of. And what does she care how they work, anyway? She did the right thing for once and closed all manufactories in England—why in God's name would she want to start them up again?"
Tip stared at him. “She can't close the manufactories. It's like—like one of them steam-cars, going downhill. Once it starts you can't stop it. And we have to learn how to make airships, and that train that we rode on, and—and all of it, everything them Arabs know how to do."
"You have no idea what you're talking about. You're a country boy, aren't you? I can tell from your speech."
Tip nodded.
"And your parents were farmers?” He went on without waiting for Tip's answer. “Tell me—what happened when the homunculi took over your parents’ work? When they lost their land, the place your family had farmed for generations?"
"We came to London. London ain't so bad."
"No? Ask your parents what they think about that. My story's the same—I made shoes for a living. And my shoes were damned good, if I say so myself. Each and every one of them turned out by hand, nothing like those shoddy pieces of work coming out of the manufactories these days. I was about to take on my first apprentice, expand my workshop, make enough money to find a wife and settle down—and then I noticed that people were no longer buying my shoes, were getting them from the homunculi just because they were cheaper . . ."
Tip didn't know what to say. She had never heard Lawton go on for so long. And she hadn't thought about the manufactories as much as he had, about all the problems they had caused. Her parents had died because of them, though—and when Lawton had mentioned her parents it had felt like a dagger stabbing her to the heart.
But she wasn't ready to turn her back on all the new devices, especially now that she was learning more about them. “Well, but you got other work. You ain't starving."
"No? I make about half as much money now as I did when I was a cobbler. Anyone can run a manufactory, or so the owners tell me. And this trip Elizabeth forced me to go on—she isn't paying me a groat for it."
"You want to be paid?"
"Of course I do. I'll be a pauper when I get back to England at this rate."
"Well, but how many people can say they been to Al-Andulus? How many people've ridden in an airship?"
"Oh, never mind,” Lawton said. “You'll understand when you're older."
He started getting ready for bed, and she went into her own room. She was pleased to see that someone, homunculi probably, had tidied up and made her bed. Lawton wouldn't need a servant at all here; the homunculi would do all the work, and she would be free to visit the workshop.
She was lying on her soft sofa and half asleep when she realized that he had never told her where he had been that day.
* * * *
She went back to work with Ibn Suleiman the next day, and every day after that. She discovered that the homunculi would bring her food and drink in the workshop, and she began to spend all her time there. Three times a day, at noon, midafternoon, and evening, all work came to a halt and everyone went off to pray, but she continued on, showing Ibn Suleiman what she'd done when he came back. She had never seen people who prayed so much, and she was even more surprised when Ibn Suleiman told her that they prayed before and after work as well, five times a day.
Ibn Suleiman appeared to take her as she seemed, as a boy who was able to pick things up quickly. She wondered if he was like her, someone who concentrated only on his work, who spoke little because he was bad at conversation. Then, one day after he had returned from noon prayers, he asked, “Where did you learn so much about these engines?"
"I worked at a manufactory,” she said.
"Do they let boys as young as you work in such places?” he asked.
"I ain't so young."
She held her breath, hoping he believed it. He seemed to, because his next question was about something else. “Was that the place where the homunculi rebelled?"
She nodded.
"But what about the Master of Safety? Where was he?"
"What's that, then?"
He stared at her a moment. “Every manufactory here has to have one. That man over there—he's ours. He looks over everything we do, makes sure we keep to the rules of safety."
She turned to look where Ibn Suleiman pointed, and as she did she saw a group of workmen clustered around an engine with propellers. “Is that for the airships?” she asked. “Can I go watch?"
He laughed. “Yes to your first question, no to your second. Caliph Ismail said to show you the homunculi, nothing else."
"But how am I going to learn if I can't see anything?” she asked, impatient. “How do them ships stay up in the air like that?"
He laughed again. “You know, it's a beautiful day outside. Why don't we go and get lunch, and I can show you Cordoba."
Tip agreed eagerly. They left the workshop, and Ibn Suleiman led her down several corridors to a part of the palace she had never seen.
Finally they came to an arched doorway. A brass head stood on a pillar near the door, and as they reached it it spoke, saying something in Arabic.
Ibn Suleiman answered, saying his name and Tip's. It must keep track of the people who leave the palace, she realized. She thought of Lawton briefly, wondering again where he went to and if the head could tell her, and then the door opened and she forgot all about him.
A garden stretched out before them. She saw flowers reflected in shallow pools, a fountain held up by four stone lions. The sun beat down on them, its light shimmering off the water. Ibn Suleiman chose one of the paths leading away from the palace, and she followed him.
She turned around once, to see a pair of homunculi guarding the entrance to the palace. The homunculi made no move to stop them, though; she guessed that they only concerned themselves with the people who tried to enter.
They continued on, to a gate in a stone wall. Ibn Suleiman opened it, and they went through.
The street outside was noisier than anything Tip
had seen in London. People in robes hurried past, and steam-cars and mechanical horses moved down a paved road alongside them. A great steam-car with open sides stopped with a huff of air and people clambered aboard, holding onto poles at the sides for balance.
Tip hoped they would get on the steam-car, but Ibn Suleiman continued walking. They passed more stone walls, some of them painted with images of steam-cars or airships or trains.
"What are them pictures for?” Tip asked.
"Every Muslim must try to make a pilgrimage to Mecca once in his life,” Ibn Suleiman said. “And some of them, after they make the journey, they show on their walls how they got there."
"Why do they want to get to Mecca?"
"Let's sit down, and I'll answer all your questions then."
The street opened out, and they entered a labyrinth of booths and carts, all piled high with the food she had eaten in the palace, oranges, apricots, eggplant. Four homunculi stood in an open space playing music, their drums and lutes fused to their bodies.
Ibn Suleiman turned down a narrow road with rows of shops on either side. There were no steam-cars here, but the press of people was even thicker than before. A wooden lattice covered the street to shield it from the sun.
He sat at a low table in front of one of the shops, and indicated to Tip to take the seat across from him. A man came outside, and they had a quick conversation in Arabic.
"Now then,” he said. “Which of your many questions would you like to ask first?"
"Where did you learn to speak English?” Tip asked.
"I went to England once, to help set up a manufactory. That's one of the reasons the caliph chose me to work on your homunculi."
That hadn't really been the question she wanted to ask, though, just the first one she had thought of. She was silent a while, ordering her thoughts. “Why can't we make our own homunculi, in England?” she asked. “And—and all the other devices, everything you have here?"
"I don't know. I can tell you what I think, but I don't wish to offend you."
"What do you think, then?"
"Well, the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, said, ‘Are those who have knowledge and those who have no knowledge alike? Only the men of understanding are mindful.’ He taught us to learn as much as we can about this world, to study all of Allah's creation. That's why Taqi al-Din Muhammad ibn Ma'ruf was able to invent the steam engine, and why all the other natural philosophers who came after him could build on his work. But Christians, well, they seem afraid of what they don't understand. In Léon, in the north, you know, they burn books that don't agree with them."
She said nothing, thinking about a book-burning she had seen once in London. The man Ibn Suleiman had spoken to came out of the shop and set plates filled with food in front of them. She took a bite of a piece of meat on a skewer; juice ran down her chin and she wiped it away with her hand.
"Maybe you could come and study at the university here,” Ibn Suleiman said. “I met students there from all over; England, France, the Low Countries. You could ask your parents, when you're a little older."
"I don't have parents."
As soon as the words were out she wished she could call them back. The only person she had ever told about her parents’ death was Elizabeth, and that only because she could not disobey the queen.
"Why not? What happened?"
He seemed to truly want to know. She told him about the explosion, about waiting for days for her parents to come home and finally learning that they had died. “I'm very sorry,” he said when she had finished.
She shrugged.
"Could you—would you like to come to dinner some evening?” he asked. “I would like you to see my house, meet my wife."
"I didn't know you had a wife."
"I do.” He smiled. “No children yet, alas. I stay in the palace while I'm working, but sometimes I go home to visit her."
She wanted badly to accept, but she knew better than to get close to someone. She thought about his house, his wife, and suddenly she realized something.
"Where are all the women?” she asked. “I ain't seen any since I got here."
"Women?” Ibn Suleiman said. “Women are too gentle to leave their houses, to come into the rough world of men. How could they survive out here?"
She could tell him, but it would mean the end of their conversation, of every conversation. So this place wasn't perfect after all, she thought.
"There was a woman at the university, now that I think of it, a brilliant mind,” Ibn Suleiman said. “She was unusual, though."
I'm unusual too, Tip wanted to say. It was on the tip of her tongue to confess, to tell him everything.
She frowned. Someone who looked like Lawton was walking on the other side of the street. A homunculus walked next to him—but one like nothing she had ever seen, a dazzling white, shining in the light that came through the lattice overhead. It wore a helmet with wings reaching to its shoulders, and a suit made of carved panels that covered its chest and extended to its thighs like a skirt. The hilt of a sword showed above its belt.
The man turned toward her, and she saw that it was Lawton. He said something to the homunculus, and it hurried across the street, heading straight for her.
She stood quickly, overturning the small table. “What—” Ibn Suleiman said. He saw the homunculus and said, “Run. Hurry. I'll meet you at the palace."
She struggled through the crowd, her heart beating fast. She came to the end of the covered street, tried frantically to remember which way they had come, then headed left. Someone cried out, and she turned to see the homunculus coming toward her, pushing people out of the way.
She ran faster, entering the crowded maze filled with booths and carts. A cart stood in her path and she slammed against it. It broke apart; eggplants and oranges rolled away over the ground.
The cart's owner shouted after her angrily. She risked a look back. The homunculus stumbled on something and nearly fell, and she hurried on.
Another booth loomed up in front of her. She overturned it as she ran, and heard a loud clatter as all the contents fell to the ground. There had been nothing that would stop the homunculus among them, though—and when she looked back she saw that it hadn't even slowed. The next cart held more fruits and vegetables, and she pulled it down as she passed.
The line of carts ended, and she came to the part of the street with the painted houses. She was panting hard now, gasping, sweating in the hot sun. Her legs ached. The homunculus came closer. She reached the gate to the palace and pulled it open, then slammed it shut behind her.
She heard the gate open again, but she couldn't stop to look back. She ran past the pools and fountains and came to the palace door. The two homunculus guards moved in front of it to block her.
"Tip!” she cried, hoping that they were somehow connected to the brass head, that they knew her name. “I'm Tip!"
The homunculi separated, and the door opened. Tip ran inside just as the white homunculus reached the door. The caliph's guards stepped together again, and the door closed.
Tip opened the door a crack and peered out. They were fencing, the two guards arrayed against the white homunculus. Light glinted off the brass and copper of the caliph's homunculi, and the white sword of their opponent flashed in the sun. Even from her place behind the door Tip could hear the clanging sound as they hit, and a strange clacking, like a machine gone wrong.
The white homunculus's sword was longer, with a greater reach against the curved swords of the guards. It engaged one of the guards, and the second one moved to its other side, boxing it in. The white head swiveled back and forth, trying to keep them both in view.
The first guard drove its sword down hard. The hand of the other homunculus broke with a loud crack, and its sword fell to the ground. It still came on, though, using its arms as swords, swinging them against the attacks of its opponents.
The guards pressed in closer, slowly pushing the white homunculus away from the caliph's doo
r, toward the gate. One guard crouched in low and thrust its sword into its opponent's torso. It stumbled and righted itself, then trembled all over, making a loud rattling noise. Then it toppled in sections, first its legs, then its chest, then its head. The guards stabbed it a few times, and returned to the door.
Only then did Tip feel the full horror of what had happened. The homunculus had tried to kill her. It nearly had killed her. And Lawton had spoken to it, Lawton was the one who had ordered it to go after her. But why? Why did he want her dead?
She was trembling like the homunculus, as if someone had stabbed her. She could not return to the room she shared with Lawton, that much was certain. But where could she go?
The homunculus had left the garden gate open, and now Ibn Suleiman came through it. She felt relieved to see him, but she could not face leaving the palace to go to him, could not bear to look at the white homunculus and its broken hand. As she watched Ibn Suleiman bent over its body, a worried expression on his face. “Here!” she called out. “I'm over here!"
He saw her and hurried to the door, then spoke his name to the guards. “What happened?” he asked as he came inside.
"I don't know,” she said. “He—Master Lawton, he said something to the homunculus, and it came after me. What is it? I never saw anything like it in my life."
"It's from Japan,” Ibn Suleiman said. “They know a good deal about steam, about these devices, over there. It's made out of pearl and whalebone."
The word Japan meant nothing to her. “What's Master Lawton doing with it, though?"
"I don't know. Where could he have met people from Japan, and what do they want with him?"
"Never mind that. Why does he want to kill me?"
Ibn Suleiman frowned. “I don't know that either. Well, from now on you're staying with me, in my rooms. And I'll speak to the caliph about this."
* * * *
Tip's life shrank down to two places, Ibn Suleiman's quarters and the workshop. At first he ordered her to stay in his rooms at all times, but she went nearly crazy with boredom and begged to be allowed to go back to the workshop.
Asimov's SF, August 2011 Page 18