Edith tried to picture Senlin blending into such a scene and felt a flutter of amusement.
She was glad to see the awe in the concierge’s eyes when she approached his podium. She was prepared to be intimidating, but it seemed her uniform and engine did enough to soften him before she’d even uttered a word. An impeccably groomed middle-aged man with penciled-in eyebrows and a scant mustache, the concierge introduced himself as Mr. Stull. “What can I do to assist you this afternoon, Madam … Wakeman … Captain?” he said, cycling through the honorifics.
“I’m here to assist in the investigation of one of your guests. He’s a person of interest in a murder inquiry.”
“Yes, I know to whom you are referring. Mr. Pinfield. He has been something of a … trial for myself and my staff.” Stull leaned nearer as he spoke. “We’re actually curious to know where he is ourselves. He’s not been in for several days now, and we’re not sure what’s to be done with his things.”
Edith was not surprised to hear the news, but she had been holding out some hope that perhaps Senlin had only been lying low. “Has his room been disturbed?”
“No, not at all. Not even the maids have been in because when there’s no guest, there’s no mess. The room is paid for through the week. We were going to wait until the weekend to remove and store his things. Assuming, of course, he hasn’t returned in the meantime.”
“I’d like to see his room,” Edith said, and Mr. Stull quickly conceded. He called another porter to watch over his station and led Edith up the broad stairs to the second floor. As they traversed the long corridor to his suite, Stull complimented Edith on her ship, which of course he had not seen for himself yet, but which he had heard was very impressive.
When they arrived at the room and Stull unlocked the door with his master key, Edith thanked him in such a way as to make it clear that she would prefer to go in alone. Ever sensitive to subtle cues, Mr. Stull bowed and left with an offer of further assistance should the Wakeman require it. Before departing, he said, “If you do find Mr. Pinfield, could you please remind him that we still need to settle his room service tab. Most of it is for toast, but even toast adds up.”
She closed the long curtains over the balcony door, remembering the direction from which the Sphinx’s spies had recorded him. She didn’t wish to be watched. Though it was probably unavoidable. Still, the Sphinx should’ve known she would have to look for Senlin herself. She anticipated a scolding for what she was doing, but she didn’t care.
Senlin’s presence lingered in the order of things, in the hung coats, the neat row of shoes beneath, and the squared objects on the bureau. Taking up the ripped sleeve of the first coat, she held it as if it were his hand, then a moment later felt silly and let it drop. She wasn’t here to reminisce.
The coats seemed a sort of chronicle of misfortune: The first was torn, the second spattered in whitewash, and the last pitted with burns. Rummaging through the pockets, she came upon a program for The Mermaid’s Tale. The subtitle described the play as the authorized account of Marya Pell’s origins and the duke’s courtship of her. Edith wondered why Senlin had subjected himself to it. He had to know by now that all the Tower’s plays, authorized or not, were farcical. Morbid curiosity, perhaps. If her life were turned into a play, she supposed she would want to see it, too, if for no other reason than to boo.
In the pocket of the singed coat, she found a folded letter from Duke Wilhelm Pell in which he agreed to meet with Mr. Pinfield to entertain his business proposal. The discovery made Edith reconsider her assumption that Senlin had managed to encounter Marya without involving his rival. No, it seemed Senlin had sought the duke out and had contrived an excuse to get to know that man. Why? It could only have been to see whether the duke was worthy of his wife. Edith wasn’t surprised that Senlin had taken the matter into his own hands. Though it made her reconsider the duke’s involvement in Senlin’s disappearance. If Senlin had weaseled his way into the duke’s company, it was possible that the duke had investigated him in return. She wondered how well Senlin’s forged credentials had held up to scrutiny.
The purple-and-orange grotesque mask on the dresser drew her eye. She snorted when she read the label on the reverse side: MASK OF THE SPHINX. It must’ve been what he’d worn to conceal his reunion with Marya from the Sphinx’s spies. Edith wished she could’ve been there to advise against such an ugly thing. Surely there were more handsome disguises. Smart as he could be at times, Senlin had a talent for undermining his own causes.
Unless that had been his intention.
She didn’t flatter herself by lingering on the question any further.
In a private moment before she’d left the ship that morning, she’d asked Byron what she should search for if she were to go have a peek at Senlin’s room. The stag had told her that she should absolutely not do that, but if she decided to defy the Sphinx and common sense, then she might as well look for a box of cigars. Senlin’s stock of messengers would be hidden there, wrapped in tobacco leaves. “And if you’re so fool as to find them, I don’t think there’s any point to leaving them lying around,” Byron had said.
Spotting the cigar box on a corner of the bureau, she flipped open the lid. Other than a few crumbs of tobacco, it was empty. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but it made her uneasy. Had he removed the messengers, or had someone else?
She spent nearly an hour searching the room. She pried off the vent covers and peered into the ducts. She pulled down the paintings and inspected their papered backs. She stripped off the bedding, shook out the duvet, and all but disassembled the bed frame. She turned out each drawer and carefully checked every underside. The only other discovery was an old book, stowed under a stack of folded vests, entitled: Trilobites and Other Ancient Arthropods. She recognized it from the reports Byron had played for her as the book the murderous hod had dropped. She leafed through it, saw some numbers scribbled in the gutters, a few pretty diagrams of ugly shellfish, and many dense paragraphs that ran on for pages and pages. Nothing remarkable leapt out at her. Still, if Senlin had stowed it out of sight, it deserved a more thorough perusal. She was pleased to find the volume just fit into the outer pocket of her greatcoat.
She was disappointed that her search turned up nothing more. The tidy state of the room suggested to her that Senlin had been taken by surprise, and it had happened elsewhere. But whether the constabulary, the hods, or the duke were behind his disappearance, she was no nearer to knowing.
She returned to the lobby to find Mr. Stull at his station.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” the concierge asked with professional concern.
“Not yet.” Edith laid a ten-mina note on the podium. Mr. Stull’s eyes widened with pleasure at the sight of the bill. “You’re certain no one’s been in his room since his disappearance?”
“Captain, the only thing I can be certain of is what I myself have observed. But there are many hands, many keys, and many crisp mina notes in the Bon Royal.”
She laid down a second note. “If Mr. Pinfield returns, tell him I would like to have a word with him.”
In one of his morning dispatches to the captain of the State of Art, the Sphinx had explained an essential function of the Pelphian ringdom. Pelphia acted as the Tower’s fuse box. The purpose of the fuses, which the locals sometimes called candles because of the pleasing glow they emitted, was to protect the electrical systems that were spread throughout the Tower from surges in the main current. Most basically, the fuses kept the light bulbs from popping every time the lightning ran a little fierce.
But rather than create another unenjoyable labor that would doubtlessly be foisted upon some unfortunate hod, the Sphinx had contrived to make the regular and speedy replacement of fuses a source of merriment for the locals. In his recording to Edith, the Sphinx had described an amusement ride that trundled passengers in a railcar along a decorated track through some pleasing twists and turns, and ultimately to their purpose: a great spire of cra
dled fuses, some of which needed replacement. The other system was a series of booths called Will-o’-the-Wisps, which the Sphinx described as a sort of “cathartic shadow box” that provided a moment’s entertainment after the user reset the tripped breaker.
The Sphinx admitted that the egalitarian nature of the fuses’ maintenance left them vulnerable to mishandling. The Pelphians weren’t even fully aware of the vital service they were providing the Tower. They knew only that they liked the pretty spots of light in the streets and enjoyed the entertainment related to their replacement. Both the local Wakemen and the constabulary had orders to guard the system, and yet the Sphinx was under no illusion that the fuses could be a target for sabotage. Interrupting the work of the fuses would not only disrupt the distribution of energy, it would also intensify the torrent of lightning coursing up the Tower’s spine.
After parading through the city, meeting with the king, and investigating the Bon Royal for signs of Senlin, Edith had all but forgotten about the Sphinx’s surreptitious fuse box. But as she made her way across the blanched plaza, chasing the constellation of a boot and the promise of a quiet drink with Georgine Haste, she was surprised by the sudden unscrewing of a glass manhole cover in the ringdom floor. As the column rose on oiled gears, she observed the plaque above a curved door that read WILL-O’-THE-WISP: GIFT OF THE SPHINX.
The rising pillar quickly drew a crowd. When the mechanism completed its assent and a door in the threaded column cracked open, a man in a tangerine waistcoat attempted to leap in front of Edith and dive into the revealed chamber. Edith caught him by the waistband and hauled him back out again. She turned and shouted at the crowd, “I’m on official business from the Sphinx!” which seemed to quell them a little, enough at least that she had a chance to peer into the gloom. She could make out a round seat and little else. The crowd, sensing her hesitation, seemed ready to surge again, but she didn’t give them a chance to.
The clamshell door closed behind her on its own accord, and she found herself sitting inside a closet that, at first and second blink, appeared as dark as a crypt. But then faint words on the wall before her came into relief. The letters glowed with a ghostly light, which she recognized from the porcelmore forest of the Silk Reef. The message read:
DO NOT FEAR THE SHADOWS CAST BY MY LIGHT.
THOUGH THEY MAY HOLD THE SHAPE OF TRUTH,
THESE VISIONS ARE NOT REAL.
PULL THE LEVER TO CONJURE.
On the wall to her left, the bar of a sturdy pull lever cast the same peculiar light. She pulled it, and the closet began to turn and descend in the same moment an electric bulb switched on behind her. She jumped when she saw the haloed woman sitting before her, then laughed nervously when she realized she was facing a mirror. Though it was a curious looking glass. It seemed deeper than a regular mirror, as if it were a reflection inside a reflection, or still water at the bottom of a well.
Perhaps it was just a trick of the sallow light above her head and the sensation of drilling down into the earth, but as she looked at her image, it seemed to grow uncertain. She tried to focus on her unsleeved engine, hulking at her side. The ugly thing made her look so unbalanced, like a crab with one dominant claw. Her flesh-and-blood hand resting upon her knee looked so small. She noticed it had taken on a curious bronzy cast. In the mirror, the skin of her knuckles looked like the heads of rivets. She raised her living hand and splayed her fingers. Steam rose from between the joints. Then she saw her neck above her shirt collar had turned into an iron spring, like something from the undercarriage of a railcar. She looked into her own eyes and saw a red glimmer flickering behind the black. The ruby light grew brighter as she stared.
She yelped when the booth’s downward spiral came to a stop with a hard jolt. The door opened of its own accord, and brighter light streamed in, erasing the ghastly vision from the mirror. When she regarded her reflection again, the only thing unusual about it was the wild look in her eyes.
Climbing out, she found herself standing in a corridor with rough-cut stone walls and gas lamps bolted to the ceiling. Her knees quaked beneath her. She put a hand out to steady herself. The cold masonry felt reassuring under her fingers.
“Rough trip, Captain?” an age-worn voice said. Edith turned to find a small man in a blue dress coat and a gold kepi standing in the intersection of another passage.
“Just a little dizzy,” she said, straightening. To hide her embarrassment, she busied herself composing the lapels of her coat and shirt.
“Of course,” he said. He pulled up his broad black gun belt. He seemed to have trouble keeping it on his narrow hips. The holster sagged again as soon as he let go. “May I show you the exit?”
“Please,” Edith said.
She followed him through passageways that seemed almost indistinguishable, noting when they passed the threaded doors of other Will-o’-the-Wisp booths. Edith took very little of it in. She was too busy trying to figure out what had brought on the vision and why it had unnerved her so. It’d been a year since the Sphinx had replaced her lost arm with one of his own, and in that time, she’d had troubled thoughts, she had felt ugly and obvious and awkward at times, but she’d not really feared that she was losing herself or turning into some sort of clockwork nightmare. That wasn’t the case now. What had changed?
Her arm, of course. That had changed. When she saw the hand of her former engine lying detached on the Sphinx’s workbench, something had turned inside her like a tumbler in a lock. And then she had seen the dead mechanical marvels in the Sphinx’s attic, and …
“May I just say what an honor it is to meet you,” her elderly guide said.
“I don’t think we’ve actually met, though,” Edith said.
“Well, I certainly know who you are, Captain Winters. And many congratulations on your incredible vessel. Deputy-Wakeman Luis Osmore, at your service.”
“Deputy-Wakeman?”
“Yes, indeed. I’ve been watching over the Circuit for fifty-two years now,” he said proudly.
“That’s quite an achievement.”
“Well, my father was a cobbler, so I think I did well enough. Though I was starting to worry I was serving a dead master. It’s good to know he’s back.” He sounded so cheerful, Edith couldn’t help but smile. The deputy told her to watch her step on the stairs, and as they climbed upward from the maze of hallways, he said, “I hope it’ll make it easier to attract some new recruits. Young men these days don’t want to spend their time serving a myth. They don’t see the point in it.” He opened the door at the top of the stairs for her, and Edith was a little surprised to find herself staring at an earless llama, one of the beasts in the Circuit of Court’s carousel. She realized she was standing in the doorway of the white pyramid.
“What is the point?” Edith asked, sensing that he wished her to.
Deputy-Wakeman Luis Osmore yanked up his belt, and as gravity tugged it right back down, he said, “To finish what was started, of course.”
Chapter Eight
Whenever I stand on a rooftop and look down at the people in the streets, the world makes perfect sense.
—Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie
The Hope and Pride was a modest pub with a boastful view. Below, the streets of Pelphia roared, but from the roofline, the noise dimmed to a murmur.
Edith found Haste already hunched at the counter with an inch of beer left in her glass. The bar was made of long planks that looked to have spent a previous life as the decking of an airship. The boards were mottled with pitch stains and speckled with nail heads, but all was kept clean by a vigilant, ancient bartender. There were only a few empty seats left. Most were filled with porters in unbuttoned coats and cooks with aprons draped on their shoulders. A pair of uniformed maids held their own at the crook of the bar, drinking tawny port and laughing.
Haste greeted Edith enthusiastically. She slapped the stool beside her, and said with a little mischief in her voice, “I wasn’t sure you were going to come. Thought the s
tairs might’ve scared you off.”
To reach the rooftop pub, Edith first had to climb through what appeared to be a workhouse. Drying laundry hung from the handrails, moistening and perfuming the air. Most of the apartment doors stood open, showing rooms full of women mending, washing, and ironing linens. Younger children played on the steps, while older children folded laundry on the landings.
“You thought I’d be too prissy to walk up an old spike?” Edith looked at what Haste had in her glass, supposed it was probably stout, and held up her finger to signal that she would have the same.
“Not at all, not at all. I liked you the moment I saw you,” Haste said with a smile that made the red in her cheeks more pronounced. Edith guessed she wasn’t finishing her first drink. “So come on. Let’s get the how-do-you-dos out of the way. How’s your crew? How’s the Sphinx?”
“My crew’s fine. And the Sphinx is the Sphinx.”
“Appropriately vague! He does not like to tip his hand. A man of mysteries and smoke and mirrors,” Haste said, fluttering her fingers like a stage magician.
“He’s a manipulative ass, who also happens to have saved my life,” Edith said and thanked the bartender for the beer he set in front of her.
“You’re honest when you’re sober. And here I was looking forward to getting you drunk!” Haste held up her glass, and they clanked them together. “Honestly, I hadn’t heard from the Sphinx in so long, I was starting to wonder if I’d imagined him.” She leaned back and stuck out her golden chest. “But then I remember this! What do they call me, Harold?” she called to the bartender. “Tell her what they call me!”
The bartender smiled. “The Gold Watch.”
“The Gold Watch!” Haste raised a declarative finger. “Get it? Because I’m the Sphinx’s watchman and I’m made out of gold.” She let her hand drop and it clanged against the counter. “I never said they were very creative. But it’s probably the best out of the names they’ve floated over the years. They’ve called me the Brass Bushel, the Lady Kettledrums, the Angry Urn.” Edith winced at the list of unflattering names, though they didn’t seem to bother Georgine. “But it’s not such a bad life, all things considered. They tolerate me, even appreciate my help at times. Best of all, they don’t expect me to come to their parties anymore. Ouf! I’ve beaten that out of them, thank god. What we have now is like the later years of a marriage: a cool affection that benefits from separate bedrooms. I certainly don’t want to shake the basket, as the airmen say. Though sometimes I …” She paused to choose her words. “I wonder if I’m still employed, or if I’ve just become a sort of curious remnant of a vanished age. Sometimes I wonder if the Sphinx is even up there anymore.”
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