“Wholesale?” Kordas replied. “It’s a lot of knowledge. There are two generations of planning in this. It isn’t getting any easier for me to keep track of it as the Plan is modified.”
“This one understands the burden of this and your other Plans upon you. We would be wise to visit with the Keeper of Records soon. The Keeper of Records speaks through this one often, to share insights and answer you with precision that this one does not possess alone.”
Kordas had always thought of vrondi as—in all honesty, as minnows, swimming in lovely schools, every one of them as smart as, maybe, a toddler. Now, his first impression of Star as being particularly intelligent was challenged. What if every minnow was part of a greater mind, instead of being a thousand little minds? What if they had a collective memory? Then he recalled the sound of Star’s voice when the Doll pleaded to be set free. Maybe that wasn’t the emotion of just one Doll he’d heard in that plea—it was, perhaps, a cry from all of them.
And you know the sound of someone pleading for their life, don’t you? Kordas rubbed at his neck absently, frowning. No, now wasn’t the time to think of that. Really? Feels like any time is the right time. You know what you are. And you’re ready to take on more, aren’t you? You know that even in a tightly controlled operation, someone always dies. Accidents happen, but they wouldn’t happen at all if the operation hadn’t been ordered. So are they really accidents? You know the Plan is going to kill people. A lot of people. That’s the real pity in you—you decided you could live with killing a lot of people before you even figured out how many it would be. You know it, and you’re still not stopping.
As if to match his mood, the Copper Apartment shook and rumbled. Another earth-shaker, and even in the City, they never seemed to be very far away.
Help them through, whenever you can.
“All right. I need to think things through. I need to—to find out what all I have to work with. What’s next—Ah. After Court, will any suspicions be raised if I see how you—vrondi, I mean by that—are imprisoned?”
Star paused a long while. “There is a way. A Duke can walk freely in the Annexes, if a pass-token is worn. A pass-token is issued by someone of superior rank to whoever would scry or confront you. Such pass-tokens are held in a drawer of one of the administrative areas we can freely Gate to.”
“And if we aren’t being observed, I can just take one?”
“This one is not empowered to stop you, nor under obligation to alert anyone if you do. More accurately, this one should file an incident report, but the rules stipulate no immediacy, so this one can wait. Indefinitely.”
“So if I happened to pocket one of these pass-tokens—even if we’re scryed from the Palace, they wouldn’t make an issue of it, because a pass-token had to have been authorized by someone above the scryer.”
“Correct, my Lord. This one can tell you that scrying is a job populated by those of very low ambition, operating devices which do most of the work. Thus, in the interest of their own self-preservation, scryers prefer that their superiors never take note of them, unless they have certainty of a violation.”
“Which a Duke, with a pass-token, wouldn’t qualify as. I like it,” Kordas answered. “There is a lot I need to learn yet, about what happens and where. I want to see the Trap so I can disable it somehow, and free any vrondi caught in it right now. It makes sense to me that the Empire would keep a vrondi-trap close to where Dolls are produced.”
“You are correct. The Trap is in the Fabrication Annex. And yes, the Trap catches my kind continuously.” Star sounded particularly sorrowful. “It has seldom been empty.”
* * *
—
Court filled Kordas with an aching anxiety—a despondent feeling that, while he knew he was present for things that affected countless lives, it was also unspeakably boring. Literally unspeakable; despite the hundred-plus people present, only those there on official business could talk, and even then, they were expected to keep it brief. The other reason it bored Kordas was that he could see their patterns, all based on the Three Games in one manner or another. He doodled in a little sketchbook he’d picked up for his satchel. Horses, of course, and some flowers, and corn, bits of tack decorations, an imaginary landscape with a cottage. Without a doubt, everybody’s minds were being scanned while they were present, so he depended upon the protective amulet behind his crest to make him seem like he’d rather be out riding a Gold on lush green hills than here.
Which was true.
Court ended when the Emperor simply stood and left. He made no special statements, or even gestures—he just went through his office door, and that was that. No guards accompanied him; a Herald proclaimed, “The Emperor has Adjourned the Court.” Claimants and petitioners in line, dressed in their finest, clutching folders of papers and charts, stood around looking stricken, while every noble in the place left through a Gate within minutes.
Kordas returned to the Copper Apartment immediately and flopped on the bed. Star, Rose, and Clover followed Beltran into the bedroom from where they’d waited on his return in the main room.
“How could hours of nothing happening be so tiring?” Kordas sighed.
Star replied, “With respect, my Lord, a Doll may not be the best to answer that. These ones are usually stored in a closet.”
Kordas and Beltran both laughed. Damn it all, I shouldn’t laugh at that. It’s tragic. But it’s also top-shelf snark, Kordas thought. And Star probably said it that way on purpose. They’re not just poor souls to be rescued, they’re also likable. He checked Star for the sign that they were safe to speak, saw that they were, and rubbed at his eyes. “Beltran, what have you kept yourself busy with?”
“Officially, being a tourist and lounging. Unofficially, watching the timing of things, listening, and judging why this place works at all. I’ve found some disturbing clues that tell me that it might not work at all, before long. The earth-shakes—you don’t seem to notice any but the large ones, probably because you are a lifetime horseman and you’re accustomed to jolts and rolls with every hoofstep. But I—I’ve had trouble sleeping here at all, and I figured out some of why. It isn’t just the strangeness of the surroundings. It’s that this City is always shaking.” He sat down beside Kordas. “This city has cracks in it. Every building and bridge, too. I’ve always had sharp eyes, so they stand out for me. Here.”
Beltran got up and went to the window, and pulled out his side-knife, chisel-pointed like Kordas’s, made for dining not fighting. “Here’s an example.” The trim around the window rocked half a thumb-width when Beltran pried at its edge. “This place is under constant repair,” he continued, “and everything in the Palace has been pointed and patched, and its seams painted. But that can only do so much.”
To illustrate the point, Beltran jammed the knife deeper under the window trim and pried with more force. The entire window trim broke away as one piece, showering plaster and stone dust, and then the window surround simply—fell off, clattering to the floor.
Clover spoke, “This is true. It did not seem important to mention this, amidst your other plans, as they already put you under such stress, my Lord.”
Kordas exhaled gustily. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
Star said, “There are forces affecting the City and Palace that did not feel germaine to your plans, due to the time frame, but we can tell you more if you wish.”
Kordas sat up fully. “Absolutely,” he replied, his eyes sharp with that look his Herald knew well. It was the look of Kordas sensing opportunity. “But let’s have a look inside the Fabrication Annex first.”
* * *
—
It was apparent that the scrying mages had lost even more interest in them, since Kordas easily palmed a pass-token from an unguarded drawer and they were within the Fabrication Annex moments later. To have called it a maze of wooden beams, brass, steel, and crates would be an understatement. Some of the w
ork areas were five stories tall, connected by wooden trestles, and most of the guardrails were broken. There were pockmarks and cracks almost everywhere, and in some places, mending-plates were three or four thick holding braces together. The place was loud, very loud, and Dolls moved in crews without taking any special notice of Kordas, Beltran, and Star. Steam jetted out from hundreds of places, striking condenser awnings that turned the vapor into rain that showered down into troughs with every major hammerfall, between one and four times a second. The whole of the place sounded like a waterfall, with headache-baiting clashes of steel mixed in. Sparks flew from grinders where Dolls skillfully smoothed down stampings pulled from huge dies, and yet, there were areas where the air was not only chilly, there were actually icicles hanging under machinery, all lit by a blue glow.
“This is how pellets are made,” Star narrated. “Thin sheets of seaweed gelatin are fed in here. The dies above drop onto these banks of pistons, driving the tray here downward and compressing air as it goes. The searing grid encapsulates the air with the gelatin, then hardens it into the small spheres you know. It was found that this size alone was the safest and most reliable for pellets. Poomers simply use more of them, rather than using a larger, more unstable size.”
The machine was huge, larger than a warship. They walked down two stories of steps, and they hadn’t yet reached its base. By the look of it, it was one of sixteen in the Annex, each one a barge-length apart. “Finished pellets are ejected by these felt-padded arms as the piston returns to the top, and all the pellets fall safely into these trays on rollers, which then pack into standardized crates.” The machine clanged again and hundreds more pellets dropped into trays. “This is as close as we should get.”
Star pointed to a crew of at least twenty Dolls, hanging from or crawling through the nearest machine, some oiling, some tightening bolts or tapping shims. “If the tolerances shake loose while we are near, an entire tray might detonate.”
“How often does that happen?” Beltran shouted.
“No more than once in—”
A shriek followed by an ear-piercing pneumatic explosion came from somewhere far down the line of machines, simultaneous with a stabbing flash of blue light. A trestled bridge shattered—not merely splintered—as super-chilled air hammered a shockwave upward and disintegrated its center span. Star, Beltran, and Kordas were all thrown backward off of the walkway when the shockwave reached them, which was fortunate for them. Flash-frozen shards of wooden beams and Doll-armatures had ripped through Dolls with impunity and embedded themselves in structures near where they’d just been.
Disoriented and gasping, the two humans tried to find their bearings in the mist, which blew against them with gale force before slowing to a breeze.
Inside the Fabrication Annex, it began snowing.
Kordas and Beltran could barely hear as they struggled for breath in the sudden chill. Star and the others helped them to their feet, while snow drifted around them in flurries. They were all silent while Beltran dazedly dabbed at a nosebleed.
All five of the Dolls looked toward where the explosion had originated. Finally, Star said, “Twelve of us have ceased to be,” and spoke no more for a time.
Beltran leaned on Kordas, who drew the five Dolls in against them. “I am sorry,” Kordas said, pulling them close. “I am so sorry.” Snow whirled around the seven figures and settled upon them, and all seven of them rested hands on each others’ shoulders.
The machinery above continued its pace, except for one, which the Dolls had already begun repairing.
15
A full candlemark after the Annex incident, Kordas still felt shaken. He and Beltran were in a Healer’s infirmary, where they’d been inspected inside and out for wounds. Their eyes were bloodshot and they were both mildly concussed, but Beltran seemed to have the worst of it. The Herald had a plug of soft rag in each nostril, and his hair was still matted from a bloodied abrasion.
Star had shards of wood in the left temple and shoulder, but took no notice of it. I need to remove those as soon as possible. Someone might notice. We’ve been insanely lucky so far that no one gives a shit what I do, but that luck won’t last forever.
Aside from polite respect due to their titles, the Healers showed little concern except that their wounds were tended and that they were not going to complain about the service. There was nothing to sign for, and no reports; apparently, whatever a Duke did was none of their business.
Nothing is anybody’s business. Except when it is. This place is just insane.
Beltran was given several vials and instructions for when to drink them, after his head wound was cleaned up and stitched. He stood up too quickly, wavered, then steadied himself, gingerly walked to a mirror in the infirmary, and rearranged his hair to cover the obvious damage. Kordas sat in one of infirmary’s chairs, elbows on his knees, palms over his eyes.
There’s a lot to think through, but we had another purpose in going to the Annex, and now it feels more urgent than ever.
The Healers left them in the little room they had been taken to when they first arrived, returning to whatever they had been doing when Star brought them here. Nothing, probably. He very much doubted that they saw much work here in the Palace other than patching up dueling wounds.
Maybe they thought we’d been doing some odd variant on dueling that involved blunt instruments.
Come to think of it, that wouldn’t surprise him.
“We’re going back. Now,” he said curtly, and walked to the nearby Gate, only glancing to see if Beltran and Star followed. He had to give credit to Beltran—even after that ordeal, the Herald was game for whatever Valdemar needed from him.
Kordas asked his companions, as the Portal activated beside him, “You steady?”
Beltran nodded, and straightened his tabard. Star answered, “Broken but not beaten, my Lord,” and they stepped through.
Half a candlemark later, with a brief pause to pull those giant splinters out of Star and discard them, all three stood outside a double-sized, heavy door painted in repeating red stripes. It didn’t have handles or locks, but rather, levers connected to heavy bars that crossed the door-width to socket into brass shackles. Unbidden, Star explained, “Former magical laboratory. Industrial production enhancements, which made what was done within especially valuable, since it impacted Imperial power. Thus, protected from explosions within and intrusions without.”
“Huh.” Kordas examined the precautions. “It must have been a time when spies and saboteurs were considered a fact of life. Looks like over time, as incidents grew fewer, the Empire’s leaders decided that defending against espionage so vigorously was an unneeded expense.” He shook his head. The more he saw of the Capital, the more he realized that the people, the organization, were all just like the City itself. Strong and powerful on the surface, but beneath the surface, cracked and shaking apart. “The City came to be considered impervious since the only spies who had ever attempted espionage against the Empire were all caught! There’s a twist of logic for you—‘since we’ve caught fewer and fewer spies, our enemies must have given up on trying,’” Kordas mused out loud. “And nobody could know whether it’s true or not. Still don’t. How do you find a truth out, when it’s about secrets?” He took a firm grip on one of the levers and nodded to the other side, where his companions stood ready. The trio withdrew the bars and dropped them levers-up into their receivers, and stood before the doorway of the Trap.
Star warned, “You may experience a kind of madness in here. Compulsion. It is unlikely to cause you bodily harm.”
“Bring it on,” proclaimed Beltran.
Kordas gave Beltran a sidelong look, wondering if this was bravado, the concussion, or the pain-drugs talking.
Or just maybe it’s Beltran. Kordas often forgot how young the man was.
Or maybe I’m just old.
Star pulled the doors open
and stood aside for them.
They stepped onto an upper deck of a vast cube, filled with huge grids of iron chainlink forming an enclosed central area that hung down to its floor. Immediately, they felt a deadening in the air, as if sound was incapable of traveling far. Kordas looked around with an expression of confusion. As if from horselengths away, he heard Star say, “We are now inside an area impervious to scrying, and transmission of sound is subdued within its effective area, which encompasses the entirety of this chamber.”
Hoists and cranes were fixed to the walls up here, along with a wide array of mage-lights, all tuned to a cool white daylight like a winter day. The walls, despite the cracks and chips missing, were painted in a dull, uniform gray. Over the railings, Kordas saw partitions, cubicles, and the shells of outdated magical apparatuses. He ensured he had a firm grip on the railing and said, “I’m going to examine this area with mage-sight, and it might be a very stupid thing to do. So Star, be ready to catch me if I start to waver. I don’t feel like falling again today.” He squinted his eyes shut hard, which honestly did nothing useful, but it made him feel like he was a real mage with big, big powers. He hoped he looked good doing it.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. The corners of the space definitely had several varieties of shielding, from scrying to sound and—explosion? That made sense. His vision slid around, careful not to let himself get blinded. Some of the lift equipment. Ho, hey, nice, a scaffold elevator. A—what is that? It’s very interesting, the way it feels like it’s drawing me toward it, because it’s so engaging. There’s a curious way it curls inside itself, that I have got to get a closer look at—
“Whoa!” Kordas cried out, throwing himself back. “Whoa! Ho . . . found it. Curiosity trap.”
He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to shake off a physical effect of the Trap. It left dazzling patterns in the eyes for a while. What else had he seen before the Trap hit him? Some small items, some books . . . people. There are people in there. And they’re all near the Trap. And all—around—us—are—He looked around within his memories—an advantage of his memory-enhancement—and played back in his mind what hadn’t yet registered consciously from what he’d seen by mage-sight. He’d seen—
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