by Gareth Ward
Having checked that Velvet was unhurt, Lilith zeroed in on Eldritch. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Eldritch held his hands out placatingly. “It wasn’t me. I assure you.”
Sin clamped his palm to his shoulder, the warm blood painful on his scolded hands. Although the cut wasn’t deep enough to be dangerous it stung like a whiplash. He took in the lifeless battlers. Why hadn’t time slowed? What was different from all the other times? He may have saved Velvet but somehow he felt he’d failed himself. If he couldn’t rely on his ability, then it was like playing Ruskovian roulette, not knowing when his luck was going to run out.
Zonda rushed to Sin’s side. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s just a scratch. Like I said, what’s the worst that could happen?”
CHAPTER 13
ESCAPE FROM DETENTION
Sin peered through the telescope at the formal gardens. He hadn’t yet managed to check under the bench, his plans having been thwarted by an afternoon spent in the sick bay. The cut to his shoulder had been glued and bandaged, while a gooey green cooling gel applied to his hands had miraculously removed all signs of the scolds. Madame Mékanique had insisted he rest for the afternoon under observation. Finally, after ensuring he’d eaten an evening meal of her special medicinal soup, she’d released him from the infirmary and he’d gone straight to the lab for detention.
Nimrod clattered through the doors, an ornate toolbox in one hand, a slice of Battenberg cake in the other. “Of all the things I wished I’d invented, I think Battenberg cake has to be top of the list. Alas, that credit goes to another.” He deposited the toolbox on the bench and depressed a button. Clockwork whirred and the box unfolded, trays and compartments appearing almost magically. “Mr Kipling, a master baker and brilliant poet. Some people are just over achievers.” Nimrod scooped tools from the bench and loaded them into the box. Retrieving a chisel, he sliced his cake in two and handed half to Sin. “This evening, detention is going to be a practical introduction to mekanika. We need to investigate what went wrong with my Battler Boy.”
* * *
The arena was deserted, save for the bladed battler that lay inert on the circle of sand. Nimrod plonked his toolbox next to it and Sin helped him roll the battler onto its front. A ripping sound drifted across the arena as Nimrod removed the padding from the battler’s head. “Velkrow, another invention I missed out on.” Nimrod placed the padding to one side and examined the control panel revealed beneath. “I met Velkrow Evans once. A tiny Welsh man with wiry hair. He said he got the idea from cockleburs that were forever attaching themselves to his head.” Nimrod fished a screwdriver from his pocket and prodded the panel. “Oh dear.” He directed Sin’s attention with the screwdriver’s tip. “This is the control bar. You can see it’s on intermediate boxing.”
“So Eldritch was telling the truth. He had set it right?”
“Yes, but see here, below the bar. The control rod has sheared off, so no matter what you select, it remains on the sword-master setting.” Nimrod began unscrewing the control panel. “The thing is, that control rod is made from brassanium, so it would take a monumental degree of force to snap it.”
“You think someone bust it on purpose?” asked Sin, helping to remove the screws.
“No other logical explanation presents.”
“Why would someone do that?”
“It would be naive to think the government aren’t aware of us. Those that are baying for war may want to send a message.”
Sin rubbed his shoulder. That message was inscribed on his skin. “Zonda reckons you’re richer than the King. Can’t you just use your money to prevent the war?”
“Money can get you many things, but it would be a very sad day for democracy indeed if moneyed men and wealthy businesses controlled our government.”
“But with all your coin you could hire the best soldiers and spies. Why recruit kids?”
“Soon, when you go on undercover missions, you will appreciate pounds, shillings and pence aren’t motivation enough. Money only buys loyalty until someone pays higher. You have all been selected because you bring special skills to COG.”
This was the opportunity Sin had been waiting for. “Why me? I’m just an urchin; I’m nothing special.”
Nimrod put his hand on Sin’s shoulder. “You survived for years on the streets. That’s pretty extraordinary.”
“Don’t make me special, plenty of others survived too.”
“They’re not you, Sin. You have the potential to be the best COG operative we’ve ever seen. Even better than Noir.”
So the magician was their top agent. Why would Nimrod think he could be better?
“I don’t understand, sir. You don’t even know me.”
Nimrod smiled and tapped the side of his nose. “Let’s just call it a scientific hunch.”
Sin slotted the screwdriver’s blade under the control panel’s edge and levered it clear.
“Well, would you look at that,” said Nimrod. He snatched a magnifying glass from his toolbox and held it over the damaged control rod. “Cut marks. Someone went through this with a hacksaw.”
A loud clatter issued from the far end of the arena, startling them. Sin leaped to his feet. “Stay here, I’ll check it out.” He sprinted in the direction of the noise. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder but otherwise it seemed good. He slowed his pace as he neared the arena walls, which were covered in racks of weapons. He could easily picture one of the cruel blades in the hands of the saboteur, ready to complete the message they’d started earlier. On the floor rested a chunky spear, apparently having fallen or been knocked from a rack. Sin approached with caution. The Fixer often used what he called a “come on”. They’d place a bizarre object in a back alley and when some poor unfortunate went to investigate, they’d jump him. Sin scanned the surrounds but there was no hiding place from which to launch an ambush. He bent to pick up the spear and noticed the faintest of scents hanging in the air. He inhaled deeply. Visions of barrows and market girls filled his head and the sweet memory of overripe strawberries tantalised his tongue.
He replaced the spear and returned to Nimrod, who now had the battler in pieces. “Just a weapon slipped from a rack,” said Sin.
“Right-ho. Let me explain how the battler works.”
Sin could tell Nimrod was keeping his explanations simple, but even so he glazed over at times when the words or concepts held little meaning to him. As they replaced the damaged parts, Sin tried to identify the different metals by their unique feel. The copper steam pipe was warmer and softer on his palm than the cold, hard brassanium control rods, while the steel of the clockwork mainsprings was smooth and oily.
Nimrod snapped the control plate back into place and with Sin’s aid they screwed it back down.
“Good as new,” said Nimrod.
“Apart from that flipping great hole I ripped in the padding,” said Sin, pointing to the ragged-edged leather that still bled horsehair.
“The saddle maker can fix that. We need to look at the boiler room.”
* * *
Nimrod led Sin down a concealed flight of concrete steps on the outside of the building and unlocked the sturdy oak double doors. “The heart of any building, or indeed ship, airship or other vehicle, is its boiler. If you really need to throw a spanner in the works, that’s the place to do it.” He pulled the door open and they headed inside.
The air was hot and humid. Colour-coded pipes ran along the walls, interspersed with wheeled valves and pressure gauges. They traced the route of a thick conduit to a massive steel sphere that perched like a giant egg on a nest of pipes. Behind the sphere, the arena’s ironglass safety screens rested on massive pistons that would raise and lower them through the floor above.
“This is an experimental design of mine. A violent chemical reaction heats the water so there’s none of that laborious mucking about with coal.” Nimrod slapped the sphere and a hollow thunk echoed around the basement. “If th
e Sky Navy knew about this little beauty, they’d shoot me dead and steal it in an instant. Imagine how far they could fly their blimps and their bombs if they didn’t have to carry tons of coal.” The scientist tilted his head, momentarily lost in thought. “But it’s the steam console we’re interested in. Someone must have tinkered with it to raise the screens and trap you with the battlers.”
Nimrod disappeared behind a cluster of pipes. “Here we are. Oh. Oh dear.”
The console contained rows of brass-rimmed dials and gauges. Although Sin hadn’t the faintest idea what they represented, the fact that their needles were all in the red was not a good sign.
“Is the boiler going to explode?” asked Sin.
Nimrod wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “Boilers rarely explode these days, dear boy, too many safety features. No, it will dump steam if the pressure gets too high.”
“So we’re safe?”
“From being ripped to pieces by exploding boiler shrapnel, yes.” Nimrod hesitated, then tapped one of the gauges with his knuckles. “From having our skin peeled from our bodies by a deluge of venting steam, probably not. I think perhaps we should vacate the area.”
They hurried to the exit and Sin slammed into the oak doors, pain piercing his shoulder. The doors hadn’t budged.
“I didn’t lock them,” said Nimrod, his brow furrowing. He jiggled the key in the lock. The doors held fast.
Maybe he was imagining it, but Sin was sure it was getting hotter. Needle pricks itched his palms and he tried not to think of the scolding pain in his hands from earlier, or how that would feel magnified across his entire body. Steam hissed from a pipe at his ankles and he flinched away. “How long have we got?”
“A couple of minutes. Maybe less.”
“You designed the boiler, you must be able to switch it off.”
Nimrod scuttled back down the passage. “I didn’t design it with saboteurs in mind.” He lowered himself to the floor and sat cross-legged, contemplating the mess of pipes. “I need to think for a minute.”
Steam jetted from pipe joints across the basement. Sin wiped a hand across his forehead. “Are you barmy? We don’t have a minute!”
“Go check the dials and let me ponder in peace,” snapped Nimrod.
The needles on the console climbed further into the danger bands. Sin felt helpless. Someone had tried to kill him this afternoon and now it looked like they were intent on finishing the job. He was used to his life being dangerous but this was different. On the streets you knew who your enemies were, and if someone had a score to settle they were up-front about it. Here the enemy was invisible, hiding behind mekanika and science. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t decent.
With a loud crack the ironglass on one of the controls splintered and steam gushed forth.
Nimrod stirred. “Sin, this is going to require some technical finesse.” He rummaged inside the toolbox and pulled out a large wrench. “I need you to smash all the pressure gauges. Try denting the metal around the outside so the ironglass pops out. It won’t be easy but it should buy me some time to shut down the boiler.”
Gripping the heavy wrench with both hands, Sin slammed it into the side of the nearest dial. The blow reverberated along the pipe and sent a wave of pain through his injured shoulder. He gritted his teeth, pushing down the pain, and struck again. Steam spurted from the dial and the ironglass sprang free in a pandemonium of steam.
“Good lad,” said Nimrod. He lifted the toolbox and threaded his way into the nest of pipes below the boiler.
Sin’s forearms burned and sweat dripped from his body. Every dial he destroyed added to the oppressive heat. If the Sisters had been telling the truth about the crucible of Hell, then surely it must feel like this. His ears ached from the discordant screech of venting steam and his lungs felt raw. Nimrod emerged from the swirling mist, his face a ruddy pink, his glasses opaque with condensed steam. “It’s no good, the reaction’s gone critical. There’s nothing more that I can do.” He took a grimy handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and rubbed his glasses clear.
Sin lowered the wrench. “Your handkerchief.”
Nimrod pushed his glasses back onto his nose. “What about it?”
“Is it a flamekerchief?”
“I really don’t know, dear boy. It might be.”
Sin held out his hand. “Give it here and start praying that it is.”
Nimrod passed him the handkerchief. “I’m a scientist. I don’t believe in God.”
“Don’t mean he don’t believe in you,” shouted Sin, sprinting to the oak doors. He twisted the material into a wick-like tube and fed it into the lock so only a small tail protruded from the keyhole. An errant thread hung from the material. He teased it free and trailed it down to the floor.
“You got a match, Professor?” said Sin.
“Even better than that. I have a Zinc Acid Pyrotechnic Originator,” said Nimrod, pulling an ironglass and metal contraption full of liquid from his pocket.
Sin took the device from Nimrod with an air of reverence. He’d seen them for sale at the Corn Market, but costing in excess of twenty guineas, they’d been as unobtainable as Phileas Pines’ watches. “You’ve got a ZAPO lighter, that’s well rich. How long you had it?”
Nimrod brushed some dirt from his sleeve. “Pretty much ever since I invented it.”
Sin depressed the gas paddle and the zinc and acid reacted producing a hydrogen flame. He held it to the bottom of the thread and a bright orange sparkle fizzled towards the handkerchief.
From the direction of the boiler a shrill whistle sounded.
“I’m guessing that ain’t good,” said Sin.
“It’s the steam-dump warning.”
The flamekerchief exploded in a ball of fire and the oak doors flew open, a charred black hole where the lock had been. Behind him Sin heard a cacophonous hiss. He glanced over his shoulder to see a billowing white cloud roiling towards him.
“Gap it,” he shouted and grabbed Nimrod’s arm.
Dragging the scientist, he stumbled outside and up the steps as a torrent of steam erupted through the doors. Sin pushed Nimrod safely aside, out of the steam’s path. The scientist staggered to a halt and rested his hands on his knees as the white cloud dissipated harmlessly into the air. “That was close,” said Nimrod between wheezing breaths.
“I hope all your detentions ain’t like that, Professor,” said Sin, rubbing his ears, which still rang from the explosion. He stared into the darkness surrounding the arena. His sense of relief at escaping was now replaced by a feeling of foreboding. Was the saboteur out there, watching them? Waiting to strike again?
CHAPTER 14
NIGHT TERRORS
Collapsing into a padded leather armchair, Sin leaned back and gazed at the elaborate plaster decoration on his room’s ceiling. Raw from the steam, his skin prickled and his shoulder ached. He contemplated falling asleep where he slumped, but images of Lilith skulking along the hedge flashed through his mind and he knew there’d be no rest until he checked under the bench. His original plan of scoping out the garden during the day had been thwarted, so now he was left with plan B: sneak out under the cover of nightfall. It was a simple plan and in essence straightforward, but there was one major complication: the grounds were off limits after lights out. That was a Cast-Iron Rule.
Sin locked his bedroom door and pocketed the key. The flamekerchief explosion and steam dump had attracted a good deal of attention, but fortunately it was on the other side of the palace and so should work in his favour. He slid the room’s sash window open and clambered onto the wide stone ledge. Despite being only one storey up, it was still a lethal drop. The height didn’t bother him. He’d spent many nights running the rooftops of Coxford where, much like the palace, the fancy stonework made for easy climbing. He moved his foot to a recess in the masonry and gripped onto a decorative carving. The stone was rough on his fingers but solid, unlike the flaky sandstone of some of Coxford’s older colleges.
He stretched for a lower handhold and his fingertips sunk into slimy bird poo. In a flap of feathers, a wild-eyed pigeon burst from its roost. Startled, Sin’s fingers slipped from the stone and he lost his footing. Dangling from one arm, Sin winced as pain lanced through his injured shoulder. His hand spasmed and he tumbled backwards.
The sound of the pigeon became distant, the ringing in his ears died and time slowed. The stonework drifted past as he fell, the pockmarks and weathered carvings suddenly appearing far more detailed, his eyes viewing the world with a magnified clarity. He targeted the passing handholds and clutched at the sides of a column. The rough stone chafed his fingers but he slowed enough to kick his toes into adjacent footholds. The pigeon’s wing beats returned and pain coursed through his shoulder. Blood thumped in his head and he inhaled deeply, fighting the urge to scream. His legs began trembling. In the gang they’d called it jelly legs and he knew he didn’t have long before the adrenaline rush faded and he’d lose all strength. He hurried downwards, conscious that now speed was more important than safety.
Dropping the last few feet onto the gravel path, his legs gave way and he crumpled in an undignified heap. A figure rounded the corner at the end of the East Wing and patrolled towards him. He didn’t have the strength to stand and there was nowhere to hide. He shuffled back into the lee of a protruding column and pressed himself flat into the shadows. The figure marched closer. There was something peculiar in the way it moved, the motion unnatural and precise, the timing of each stride as regular as clockwork.
The mekanika’s matt black head scanned left and right, its eyes pulsing red. In one hand it hefted a jagged-edged blade. Sin’s heart pounded and a sudden cold gripped his body. Could it sense his presence? Would he be geometrically sliced like one of Doctor Donodroid’s cucumber sandwiches?