by Ian Irvine
At the end of his third year Nish had moved above the middle of the prentices, but there, to his intense chagrin, he stayed. Sheer intelligence and hard work, no matter how well directed, could raise him no further, for he simply lacked the aptitude for artificing. It galled him, but Nish was nothing if not self-aware and wrote to his father telling him so, and expressing the wish that he might go back to being a merchant’s scribe.
His father showed neither surprise nor disappointment. Jal-Nish merely wrote, ‘You’re doing well. Don’t forget to write, every day.’
Nish bent his head to the clanker parts he had been wrestling with all morning. They formed the lower half of a mechanical-leg assembly, and putting it together was a job he particularly hated. The parts had been made in a dozen different sections of the manufactory and if any one was infinitesimally out of tolerance the assembly became a nightmare. Sometimes he spent days on the most tedious work only to find that one part had to be machined again, and all his labour undone.
He banged the housing with a dirty fist. He was covered in grease, as always. Nish hated that – he liked to look his best. The women of the manufactory tended to sneer at artificers, mere ‘fitters’ as they called them, because it was such a filthy job. Many of the fitters were women, and they were friendly enough, but Nish disdained them. Artificers were beneath him, though he was one himself. He looked to the top of the heap, where he belonged.
At that moment Tiaan walked by. Most respected in this manufactory were the artisans. They worked with their hands, but only with precious things: gold and silver, platinum and quicksilver, copper, amber and crystal. They never got dirty doing it and the best were brilliant, lateral-thinking designers. More importantly, artisans worked with their senses. They had special talents, akin to the Secret Art that was the province of mages and mancers.
Nish could never hope to be an artisan; he lacked the vital talent. But prestige was everything to him and he wanted one of them for his woman. There were four artisans here, though only two were available. Of those, Irisis went by the fitters with her nose in the air, for she was of the House of Stirm, a crafter’s daughter and a crafter’s niece, made for better things than a lowly artificer. Nish hated her for it, but he understood her too. She was much like him.
Tiaan was a different matter. He felt that he might be in love with her. Now he looked up to see Tiaan on her way back. Putting down his wrench, he stared at her. She was above him, and yet beneath, for she came from the breeding factory and did not know her father. To lose a father was commonplace, in these times. Not to know his identity was a major failing in a world obsessed with family and Histories.
Tiaan carried her head high, though not aloof as Irisis did. Tiaan seemed oblivious to her surroundings, as if the only world that mattered was inside her head. The Ice Virgin, some called her, but Nish knew better. He felt he understood her too. She had the reputation as the hardest worker in the manufactory, and the cleverest. She was trying to make up for something. Was it her unfortunate birth? Her lack of a father?
She wore loose trousers and a blouse of grey flax, with old but well-cared-for grey boots. More was not tolerable here, just across from the furnaces. Her breasts bobbed with her light step, a sight that liquefied his middle. Desire made him forget everything.
Do it now! She’s a quiet little thing. She will listen and be flattered. He hesitated too long. Without a glance, without even knowing he was there, Tiaan went by. She wore a faint, internal smile. Her glossy black hair bounced against the back of her neck.
Soon she would turn the corner and be gone, down to her own workroom in the cold part of the manufactory. Go on, you fool! Today you have something to offer. Not even the Ice Virgin will refuse you now. She has the breeding factory in her blood and her belly. She’s just holding out for the best offer, and no one can best you.
Dropping his tools on the bench, Nish wiped his greasy hands on a rag and ran after her, up the aisle and round the corner to the section where the artisans and all the other clean crafts worked. Inside, the artisans’ workshop was sealed off by double doors designed to exclude all dust and dross.
Tiaan was already out of sight. He burst through the doors without putting on a clean overall or taking off his filthy boots. Everyone stared. He did not notice.
‘Tiaan!’ he cried. ‘Artisan Tiaan!’
She was going through the door into her own cubicle, but turned at his wild cry. ‘Yes?’
He ran up to her, froze, then forced the words out.
‘Tiaan, I admire your work tremendously. I … I think you are the most brilliant woman I’ve ever met.’
For an instant he saw panic in her eyes. Anger covered it up. ‘If you admire it so much,’ she said frostily, ‘why are you dropping your filth and grease everywhere?’
Recalling the state of his clothes, he flushed. Sheer desperation propelled him on. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll clean it up.’
‘Don’t bother. What do you want, artificer?’
‘Just to talk to you. You’re brilliant, Tiaan.’
‘You already said that.’
‘Would you … Would …?’ He faltered under her astonished stare. Her lips were the reddish-purple colour of pulped blackberries. He wanted to crush his mouth against them.
‘What?’ she snapped.
‘I thought … perhaps dinner … or a walk along the path to the lookout … and then …’ He couldn’t get it out, with the prentices sniggering and rolling their eyes at each other. Artisan Fistila Tyr, who was heavily pregnant, set to with her grinding wheel to cover it up.
Tiaan turned those unusual eyes on him, scanning Nish from smoky cheeks to grease-stained hands and filthy boots. He felt sure he knew what she was thinking. Not only is he dirty and spotty and inarticulate, but he’s a runt!
‘Yes?’ she said in a low voice that had the prentices bending over their work. Nish recognised the danger, but if he did not speak now he would never be able to.
‘We both have our duty to perform. I thought we might share your bed!’ he burst out. ‘Or mine, if you prefer. I have …’
Her honey skin flushed red-brown. For a full minute she could not meet his eye; then Tiaan drew herself up. ‘How dare you!’ she hissed. ‘How can you imagine that I would give myself to a dirty little artificer, and not a very good one either? The thought makes me sick. Get out!’
Nish flushed beneath the dirt. Across the room, Irisis was watching the show with open mouth. This afternoon he would be the laughing-stock of the manufactory. There was only one way to recover.
‘I don’t think you realise who my father is, Artisan Tiaan,’ he said coldly. ‘He is Perquisitor Jal-Nish Hlar, one of the most important people in the land. He is a high inquisitor! He can make you, Tiaan, or he can break you. And my mother is a chief examiner, nearly as important.’ Looking over his shoulder, he softened his voice. ‘I know you and Irisis are rivals, Tiaan. Think what you can achieve with a perquisitor’s patronage. You need never fear her again.’
He gave an uncertain smile, for Nish was new to this game. He’d not tried to use influence before and wasn’t quite sure how to go about it, despite having often seen it done in his scribing days. He lacked the authority, and the easy arrogance that told him he deserved whatever he desired.
‘What do you say, Tiaan? We can take pleasure from each other and your career will blossom. Do you want to work in this dungheap of a manufactory forever? Come –’
‘I would sooner mate with a lyrinx!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t care who your father is. I will never lie with you. Now get your squalid self out of my workroom!’
‘Why won’t you do your duty, artisan? What are you afraid of?’
Tiaan paled. ‘Go away, little man.’
Nish’s fury was barely controllable, but he made one last effort. ‘If you knew who I really am,’ he hissed, ‘you would not be so –’
‘Get out!’ she roared and, seizing a pair of red-hot tongs resting in a brazier, Tiaan brandished
them before his face.
Nish broke. Bursting through the double doors, he raced past the infirmary, out through the wall and down towards the furnaces. He could not go back to his own bench, for everyone would see the tears of rage streaming down his face. Creeping around the back of the furnaces, he hauled a recalcitrant sweeper boy out of a warm niche, clipped the lad over the ear for neglecting his work and crept in to lick his wounds. He would ruin Tiaan, somehow. Then he would bed her and cast her off.
Shortly he heard soft footsteps and to his astonishment Irisis appeared. She squatted down before him, offering a snowy handkerchief.
‘Artificer Cryl-Nish,’ she said softly, winning his undying gratitude for using his name and not the detested nickname. ‘Would you like to learn how to pleasure a real woman?’
Nish could have fainted with astonishment. Irisis was not known for her kindness. Surely she was playing a cruel joke. He did not know what to say.
Bending forward, she gave him a savage kiss on the mouth. His body responded instantly. She laughed and took his hand, though she wrapped the handkerchief around it first. ‘Come to my room.’ Then she wrinkled her pretty nose. ‘No, to the bathhouse first, I think. We’ll neither of us be missed for an hour or two. Time for a couple of lessons.’ Her eyes met his. ‘And after that, we’ll find plenty to talk about on our pillows.’
‘Talk about?’ he said dazedly.
‘About who our friends are. And our enemies!’
FOUR
Irisis propped herself up on an elbow, inspecting the youth who lay dozing in post-coital bliss beside her. She was not attracted to Nish at all, though she had to admit he had been vigorous, not insensitive, and displayed an admirable willingness to learn what pleased her. That was more than could be said for her previous lover. Her interest had been stirred by what he’d said to Tiaan, her rival here since childhood.
Irisis ran a hand down his chest. Nish was the least hairy man she had ever seen. She liked that, and the way their bodies touched. He smiled in his sleep. She slid her hand lower, tangling her fingers in the downy hair and tugging. He snapped awake.
‘Cryl-Nish, lover,’ she whispered, her breath tickling his ear. She wanted him capable of thinking just one thing.
He rolled over, pressing himself against her. Irisis kept him away with her hip. He froze. There was a message in the movement, though clearly he had no idea what it was. Good.
Irisis inspected him, the sheet up around her throat. As if by accident she let it fall, revealing one heavy breast swaying above his face. His eye followed it and she knew she had him.
‘We know what you want, Cryl-Nish.’ He reached for her. She moved back, saying thoughtfully, ‘I hear your father is no longer an examiner.’
‘He is chief perquisitor for the entire Einunar region,’ he said importantly.
‘Oh?’ Irisis was impressed but did not want to show it. She allowed him to bask in reflected glory for just a moment. ‘But what about the scrutator?’
His chest deflated. She had caught him trying to make his father seem more important than he was. He looked down at the rumpled bed, perhaps thinking that she was trying to make a fool of him.
‘Anyway,’ Irisis waved a hand, knowing it made other parts of her oscillate delightfully, ‘who cares about all that stuff? I’m much more interested in you.’
‘Me? Why?’ Nish was staring at her dark, puckered nipple. He would do anything to have more of her.
‘I’ve always had my eye on you, Cryl-Nish.’ That was a lie, of course. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
He began on the story of his life, suitably edited to impress. He had not gone far when she interrupted. ‘I know all that. But there’s one thing I don’t understand …’
‘What’s that?’
‘Why you’re here at all. You’re not an artificer, Cryl-Nish.’
‘I am!’ He sat up angrily. ‘And I’ve worked damned hard to become one.’
She pushed him down. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. Of course you’re an artificer, and a good one too …’
‘Don’t patronise me!’ Rolling out of bed, he reached for his trousers.
The sheet slid away, exposing the other breast and her artisan’s pliance hanging between them. He swallowed. Putting out her arms, she pulled his face against her bosom. Nish resisted, but not for very long.
‘What I meant to say was … Your father sent you here for another reason, surely? A more important one than becoming an artificer. You would be much more valuable as a scribe, an assistant to a merchant, or even, one day, secretary to the scrutator.’
‘Yes,’ he said thickly, intoxicated by her. He lacked the experience to put her body out of mind.
‘What is it?’ Irisis stroked his chest with two fingertips.
‘I’m also a prober,’ he said rashly. That meant a prentice inquisitor, lowest on the rank that ran prober, querist, perquisitor and, unthinkably powerful, scrutator.
‘A spy!’ she exclaimed, tucking the sheet across her front.
He reached for it, more confidently now. She allowed him to caress her through the fabric before drawing away again. He hastened to reassure her.
‘Not a spy. A watcher, helping to maintain order. This is a vital manufactory …’
‘Is it?’ she said. ‘But there are hundreds. Why is ours so important?’ Irisis leaned forward.
‘We build the best clankers, because we make the finest controllers of all.’
‘Why is that?’ she whispered, taking his hand and sliding it inside the sheet.
Nish’s eyes bulged. Sweat broke out on his forehead. ‘Because,’ he said hoarsely, ‘we have the most perfect hedrons and the best artisans anywhere. The scrutator wants to know why, to protect us from harm and make sure no one steals our secrets.’
‘Someone has to be the best. And if we have the best crystals, it stands to reason we would make the best controllers …’
She looked at him sideways. He hesitated, knowing he’d said more than he should. She slipped her hand lower. He groaned.
‘It’s something about this place!’ Nish burst out. ‘Our artisans are much better than others, even when they use inferior, imported crystals. It must be the node here.’
She resumed her caresses. ‘A lowly prober isn’t sent to solve those kinds of problems. That’s mancer’s work.’
Nish looked chagrined, as if he’d revealed too much already.
‘How long have you been a prober, Nish?’
He flushed. ‘Just since my father’s letter came, a week ago.’
‘And perhaps if he knew what you’ve told me, you’d be a prober no longer.’
He went still. She considered him, head tilted so that the glossy hair stroked his shoulder. Her eyes ran up and down before settling about his middle. ‘I know something else you may like.’ She bent over him.
Now he moaned when she stopped prematurely. ‘What are you really probing for, my little spy?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ he gasped. ‘A prober who talks is no prober at all, and likely to end up a slave. Or dead!’
‘Or in the front rank of the army, which amounts to the same thing. Let’s see if I can guess. This place is full of rumours but who can tell truth from falsehood? What does a prober do? He stays alert for people who aren’t doing their job, those who have unfortunate ideas, and those who think someone else could run the world better than our leaders. None of that here, though. This is a well-run, happy manufactory.
‘But there’s one other thing that probers do.’ She paused, gave him a long look, then bent her head again. He choked. She looked him fair in the eye. ‘They hunt spies!’
The expression on his face almost made her laugh. He could not think straight. How she loved this power she had over men. Few women did these days.
‘Please,’ he whimpered.
She just stared at him. He put his hands around the back of her head, trying to pull her down. She went with him a little way then stopped, and when
he tried to use his strength she bared her teeth. They were alarmingly sharp.
There was only one way to get what he wanted. Nish licked dry lips. ‘There is a spy, father is sure of it. Twice now, secrets of clankers made here, and only here, have been discovered far away.’
‘Who is the spy?’
‘We don’t know. Whoever he is, he’s too clever.’
‘Or she!’
‘Or she,’ he repeated.
‘I’ll help you. People will be wary of you, since your father is known to be perquisitor. But why would they suspect me?’
He looked uncertain.
‘You’re worried that I’ll take the credit,’ she said with a lazy smile. ‘You need not – spycatcher is the last thing I want put to my name.’
‘What do you want, Irisis?’
‘What you offered Tiaan. What is mine by right. I want to be crafter, in charge of the entire controller works, and, one day, chanic of the province.’
‘But you’re only an artisan, and it’s not long since you were prentice.’
‘Crafter!’ she said coldly. ‘Then chanic.’
‘Most artisans never become crafter, and few – very few crafters will rise to be chanic.’
‘I have the talent for it; and the heritage. My father, my uncle, my grandfather, my great-grandmother and her mother before that, all were crafters or better. For four generations my family has held the position here. I’m going to be the fifth.’
‘You’re not old enough.’
‘That rule can be broken, in an emergency.’
‘Not by me.’
‘A chief examiner can. You promised it to Tiaan. I heard you.’
‘You didn’t want me at all!’ Nish cried. ‘All you wanted was what you could get out of me.’
‘Are you unhappy with what I’ve given you?’
‘N-no!’