THE ALCHEMY OF STONE
Ekaterina Sedia


Chapter 1
We scale the rough bricks of the building's
facade. Their crumbling edges soften under our claw-like fingers;
they jut out of the flat, adenoid face of the wall to provide easy
footholds. We could've used fire escapes, we could've climbed up, up,
past the indifferent faces of the walls, their windows cataracted
with shutters; we could've bounded up in the joyful cacophony of
corrugated metal and barely audible whispers of the falling rust
shaken loose by our ascent. We could've flown.
But instead we hug the wall, press our cheeks
against the warm bricks; the filigree of age and weather covering
their surface imprints on our skin, steely-gray like the thunderous
skies above us. We rest, clinging to the wall, our fingertips nestled
in snug depressions in the brick, like they were made especially for
that, clinging. We are almost all the way to the steep roof red with
shingles shaped like fish scales.
We look into the lone window lit with a warm
glow, the only one with open shutters and smells of sage, lamb, and
chlorine wafting outside. We look at the long bench decorated with
alembics and retorts and colored powders and bunches of dried herbs
and bowls of watery sheep's eyes from the butcher's shop down the
alleyway. We look at the girl.
Her porcelain face has cracked—a recent
fall, an accident?—and we worry as we count the cracks
cobwebbing her cheek and her forehead, radiating from the
point of impact like sunrays. Yes, we remember the sun. Her blue
eyes, facets of expensive glass colored with copper salts, look into
the darkness, and we do not know if she can see us at all.
But she smiles and waves at us, and the bronzed
wheel-bearings of her joints squeak their mechanical greeting. She
pushes the lock of dark, dark hair (she doesn't know, but it used to
belong to a dead boy) behind her delicate ear, a perfect and pink
seashell. Her deft hands, designed for grinding and mixing and
measuring, smooth the front of her fashionably wide skirt, and she
motions to us. "Come in," she says.
We creep inside through the window, grudgingly,
gingerly, we creep (we could've flown). We grow aware of our
not-belonging, of the grayness of our skin, of our stench—we
smell like pigeon-shit, and we wonder if she notices; we fill her
entire room with our rough awkward sour bodies. "We seek your
help," we say.
Her cracked porcelain face remains as
expressionless as ours. "I am honored," she says. Her blue
eyes bulge a little from their sockets, taking us in. Her frame
clicks as she leans forward, curious about us. Her dress is low-cut,
and we see that there is a small transparent window in her chest,
where a clockwork heart is ticking along steadily, and we cannot help
but feel resentful of the sound and—by extension—of her,
the sound of time falling away grain by grain, the time that dulls
our senses and hardens our skins, the time that is in too short
supply. "I will do everything I can," she says, and our
resentment falls away too, giving way to gratitude—falls like
dead skin. We bow and leap out of the window, one by one by one, and
we fly, hopeful for the first time in centuries.


Loharri's room smelled of incense and smoke, the
air thick like taffy. Mattie tasted it on her lips, and squinted
through the thick haze concealing its denizen.
"Mattie," Loharri said from the chaise
by the fireplace where he sprawled in his habitual languor, a
half-empty glass on the floor. A fat black cat sniffed at its
contents prissily, found them not to her liking, but knocked the
glass over nonetheless, adding the smell of flat beer to the already
overwhelming concoction that was barely air. "So glad to see
you."
"You should open the window," she said.
"You don't need air," Loharri said,
petulant. He was in one of his moods again.
"But you do," she pointed out. "You
are one fart away from death by suffocation. Fresh air won't kill
you."
"It might," he said, still sulking.
"Only one way to find out." She glided
past him, the whirring of her gears muffled by the room—it was
so full of draperies and old rugs rolled up in the corners, so
cluttered with bits of machinery and empty dishes. Mattie reached up
and swung open the shutters, admitting a wave of air sweet with lilac
blooms and rich river mud and roasted nuts from the market square
down the street. "Alive still?"
"Just barely." Loharri sat up and
stretched, his long spine crackling like flywheels. He then yawned,
his mouth gaping dark in his pale face. "What brings you here,
my dear love?"
She extended her hand, the slender copper springs
of her fingers grasping a phial of blue glass. "One of your
admirers sent for me—she said you were ailing. I made you a
potion."
Loharri uncorked the phial and sniffed at the
contents with suspicion. "A woman? Which one?" he asked.
"Because if it was a jilted lover, I am not drinking this."
"Amelia," Mattie said. "I do not
suppose she wishes you dead."
"Not yet," Loharri said darkly, and
drank. "What does it do?"
"Not yet," Mattie agreed. "It's
just a tonic. It'll dispel your ennui, although I imagine a fresh
breeze might do just as well."
Loharri made a face; he was not a handsome man to
begin with, and a grimace of disgust did not improve his appearance.
Mattie smiled. "If an angel passes over you,
your face will be stuck like that."
Loharri scoffed. "Dear love, if only it could
make matters worse. But speaking of faces ... yours has been
bothering me lately. What did you do to it?"
Mattie touched the cracks, feeling their familiar
swelling on the smooth porcelain surface. "Accident," she
said.
Loharri arched his left eyebrow—the right
one was paralyzed by the scar and the knotted mottled tissue that
ruined half of his face; it was a miracle his eye had been spared.
Mattie heard that some women found scars attractive in a romantic
sort of way, but she was pretty certain that Loharri's were quite a
long way past romantic and into disfiguring. "Another accident,"
he said. "You are a very clumsy automaton, do you know that?"
"I am not clumsy," Mattie said. "Not
with my hands."
He scowled at the phial in his hand. "I guess
not, although my taste buds beg to differ. Still, I made you a little
something."
"A new face," Mattie guessed.
Loharri smiled lopsidedly and stood, and stretched
his long, lanky frame again. He searched through the cluttered room
until he came upon a workbench that somehow got hidden and lost under
the pile of springs, coils, wood shavings, and half-finished suits of
armor that appeared decorative rather than functional in their
coppery, glistening glory. There were cogs and parts of engines and
things that seemed neither animate nor entirely dead, and for a short
while Mattie worried that the chaotic pile would consume Loharri;
however, he soon emerged with a triumphant cry, a round white object
in his hand.
It looked like a mask and Mattie averted her
eyes—she did not like looking at her faces like that, as they
hovered, blind and disembodied. She closed her eyes and extended her
neck toward Loharri in a habitual gesture. His strong, practiced
fingers brushed the hair from her forehead, lingering just a second
too long, and felt around her jaw line, looking for the tiny cogs and
pistons that attached her face to the rest of her head. She felt her
face pop off, and the brief moment when she felt exposed, naked,
seemed to last an eternity. She whirred her relief when she felt the
touch of the new concave surface as it enveloped her, hid her from
the world.
Loharri affixed the new face in place, and she
opened her eyes. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the new sockets.
"How does it fit?" Loharri asked.
"Well enough," she said. "Let me
see how I look." She extended one of the flexible joints that
held her eyes and tilted it, to see the white porcelain mask. Loharri
had not painted this one—he remembered her complaints about the
previous face, that it was too bright, too garish (this is why she
broke it in the first place), and he left this one plain, suffused
with the natural bluish tint that reminded her of the pale skies over
the city during July and its heat spells. Only the lips, lined with
pitted smell and taste sensors, were tinted pale red, same as the
rooftops in the merchants' district.
"It is nice," Mattie said. "Thank
you."
Loharri nodded. "Don't mention it. No matter
how emancipated, you're still mine." His voice lost its usual
acidity as he studied her new face with a serious expression. There
were things Mattie and Loharri didn't talk about—one of them
was Mattie's features, which remained constant from one mask to the
next, no matter how much he experimented with colors and other
elaborations. "Looks good," he finally concluded. "Now,
tell me the real reason for your visit—surely, you don't rush
over every time someone tells you I might be ill."
"The gargoyles," Mattie said. "They
want to hire me, and I want your permission to make them my priority,
at the expense of your project."
Loharri nodded. "It's a good one," he
said. "I guess our gray overlords have grown tired of being
turned into stone?"
"Yes," Mattie answered. "They feel
that their life spans are too short and their fate is too cruel; I
cannot say that I disagree. Only ... I really do not know where to
start. I thought of vitality potions and the mixes to soften the
leather, of the elixirs to loosen the calcified joints . . . only
they all seem lacking."
Loharri smiled and drummed his fingers on his
knee. "I see your problem, and yes, you can work on it to your
little clockwork heart's content."
"Thank you," Mattie said. If she had
been able to smile, she would have. "I brought you what I have
so far—a list of chemicals that change color when exposed to
light."
Loharri took the proffered piece of paper with two
long fingers, and opened it absentmindedly. "I know little of
alchemy," he said. "I'm not friends with any of your
colleagues, but I suppose I could find a replacement for you
nonetheless, although I doubt there's anyone who knows more on the
matter than you do. Meanwhile, I do have one bit of advice regarding
the gargoyles."
Mattie tilted her head to the shoulder, expectant.
She had learned expressive poses, and knew that they amused her
creator; she wondered if she was supposed to feel shame at being
manipulative.
As expected, he snickered. "Aren't you just
the sweetest machine in the city? And oh, you listen so well. Heed my
words then: I remember a woman who worked on the gargoyle problem
some years back. Beresta was her name, a foreigner; Beresta from the
eastern district. But she died—a sad, sad thing."
"Oh," Mattie said, disappointed. "Did
she leave any papers behind?"
Loharri shook his head. "No papers. But,
lucky for you, she was a restless spirit, a sneaky little ghost who
hid in the rafters of her old home. And you know what they do with
naughty ghosts."
Mattie inclined her head in agreement. "They
call for the Soul-Smoker."
"Indeed. And if there's anyone who still
knows Beresta's secrets, it's him. You're not afraid of the
Soul-Smokers, are you?"
"Of course not," Mattie said mildly. "I
have no soul; to fear him would be a mere superstition." She
stood and smoothed her skirts, feeling the stiff whalebone stays that
held her skirts full and round under the thin fabric. "Thank
you, Loharri. You've been kind."
"Thank you for the tonic," he said. "But
please, do visit me occasionally, even if there's nothing you want. I
am a sentimental man."
"I shall," Mattie answered, and took her
leave. As she walked out of the door, it occurred to her that if she
wanted to be kind to Loharri she could offer him things she knew he
wanted but would never ask for—she could invite him to touch
her hair, or let him listen to the ticking of her heart. To sit with
him in the darkness, in the dead hours between night and morning when
the demons tormented him more than usual, and then perhaps he would
talk of things they did not talk about otherwise—perhaps then
he would tell her why he had made her and why he grew so despondent
when she wanted to live on her own and to study, to become something
other than a part of him. The problem was, those were the things she
preferred not to know.

Mattie took a long way home, weaving through the
market among the many stalls selling food and fabric and spices; she
lingered by a booth that sold imported herbs and chemicals, and
picked up a bunch of dried salamanders and a bottle of copper salts.
She then continued east to the river, and she stood a while on the
embankment watching the steamboats huff across, carrying marble for
the new construction on the northern bank. There were talks of the
new parliament building, and Mattie supposed that it signaled an even
bigger change than gossip at Loharri's parties suggested. Ever since
the mechanics won a majority, the renovations in the city acquired a
feverish pace, and the streets themselves seemed to shift daily,
accommodating new roads and more and more factories that belched
smoke and steam and manufactured new and frightening machines.
Still, Mattie tried not to think of politics too
much. She thought about gargoyles and of Loharri's words. He called
them their overlords, even though the city owed its existence to the
gargoyles, and they had been nothing but benefactors to the people.
Did he know something she didn't? And if he were so disdainful of
gargoyles, why did he offer to help?
Mattie walked leisurely along the river. It was a
nice day, and many people strolled along the embankment, enjoying the
first spring warmth and the sweet, dank smell of the river. She
received a few curious looks, but overall people paid her no mind.
She passed a paper factory that squatted over the river like an ugly
toad, disgorging a stream of white foam into the water; a strong
smell of bleach surrounded it like a cloud.
From the factory she turned into the twisty
streets of the eastern district, where narrow three-storied buildings
clung close together like swallows' nests on the face of a cliff. The
sea of red tiled roofs flowed and ebbed as far as the eye could see,
and Mattie smiled—she liked her neighborhood the way it was,
full of people and small shops occupying the lower stories, without
any factories and with the streets too narrow for any mechanized
conveyances. She turned into her street and headed home, the ticking
of her heart keeping pace with her thoughts filled with gargoyles and
Loharri's strange relationship to them.
Mattie's room and laboratory were located above an
apothecary's, which she occasionally supplied with elixirs and
ointments. Less mainstream remedies remained in her laboratory, and
those who sought them knew to visit her rooms upstairs; they usually
used the back entrance and the rickety stairs that led past the
apothecary.
When Mattie got home to her garret, she found a
visitor waiting on the steps. She had met this woman before at one of
Loharri's gatherings—her name was Iolanda; she stood out from
the crowd, Mattie remembered—she moved energetically and
laughed loudly, and looked Mattie straight in the eye when they were
introduced. And now Iolanda's gaze did not waver. "May I come
in?" she said as soon as she saw Mattie, and smiled.
"Of course," Mattie said and unlocked
the door. The corridor was narrow and led directly into her room,
which contained a roll-top desk and her few books; Mattie led her
visitor through and into the laboratory, where there was space to sit
and talk.
"Would you like a drink?" Mattie asked.
"I have a lovely jasmine-flavored liqueur."
Iolanda nodded. "I would love that. How
considerate of you to keep refreshments."
Mattie poured her a drink. "Of course,"
she said. "How kind of you to notice."
Iolanda took the proffered glass from Mattie's
copper fingers, studying them as she did so, and took a long swallow.
"Indeed, it is divine," she said. "Now, if you don't
mind, I would like to dispense with the pleasantries and state my
business."
Mattie inclined her head and sat on a stool by her
workbench, offering the other one to Iolanda with a gesture.
"You are not wealthy," Iolanda said. Not
a question but a statement.
"Not really," Mattie agreed. "But I
do not need much."
"Mmmm," Iolanda said. "One might
suspect that a well-off alchemist is a successful alchemist—you
do need to buy your ingredients, and some are more expensive than
others."
"That is true," Mattie said. "Now,
how does this relate to your business?"
"I can make you rich," Iolanda said. "I
have need of an alchemist, of one who is discreet and skillful. But
before I explain my needs, let me ask you this: do you consider
yourself a woman?"
"Of course," Mattie said, taken aback
and puzzled. "What else would I consider myself?"
"Perhaps I did not phrase it well,"
Iolanda said, and tossed back the remainder of her drink with an
unexpectedly habitual and abrupt gesture. "What I meant was, why
do you consider yourself a woman? Because you were created as one?"
"Yes," Mattie replied, although she grew
increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation. "And because
of the clothes I wear."
"So if you changed your clothes ..."
"But I can't," Mattie said. "The
shape of them is built into me—I know that you have to wear
corsets and hoops and stays to give your clothes a proper shape. But
I was created with all of those already in place, they are as much as
part of me as my eyes. So I ask you: what else would you consider
me?"
"I sought not to offend," Iolanda said.
"I do confess to my prejudice: I will not do business nor would
I employ a person or an automaton of a gender different from mine,
and I simply had to know if your gender was coincidental."
"I understand," Mattie said. "And I
assure you that my femaleness is as ingrained as your own."
Iolanda sighed. Mattie supposed that Iolanda was
beautiful, with her shining dark curls cascading onto her full
shoulders and chest, and heavy, languid eyelids half-concealing her
dark eyes. "Fair enough. And Loharri... can you keep secrets
from him?"
"I can and I do," Mattie said.
"In this case, I will appreciate it if you
keep our business private," Iolanda said.
"I will, once you tell me what it is,"
Mattie replied. She shot an involuntary look toward her bench, where
the ingredients waited for her to grind and mix and vaporize them,
where the aludel yawned empty as if hungry; she grew restless sitting
for too long, empty-handed and motionless.
Iolanda raised her eyebrows, as if unsure whether
she understood Mattie. She seemed one of those people who rarely
encountered anything but abject agreement, and she was not used to
being hurried. "Well, I want you to be available for the times I
have a need of you, and to fulfill my orders on a short notice.
Potions, perfumes, tonics . . . that sort of thing. I will pay you a
retainer, so you will be receiving money even when I do not have a
need of you."
"I have other clients and projects,"
Mattie said.
Iolanda waved her hand dismissively. "It
doesn't matter. As long as I can find you when I need you."
"It sounds reasonable," Mattie agreed.
"I will endeavor to fulfill simple orders within a day, and
complex ones— from two days to a week. You won't have them done
faster anywhere."
"It is acceptable," Iolanda said. "And
for your first order, I need you to create me a fragrance that would
cause regret."
"Come back tomorrow," Mattie said. "Or
leave me your address, I'll have a courier bring it over."
"No need," Iolanda said. "I will
send someone to pick it up. And here's your first week's pay."
She rose from her stool and placed a small pouch of stones on the
bench. "And if anyone asks, we are casual acquaintances, nothing
more."
Iolanda left, and Mattie felt too preoccupied to
even look at the stones that were her payment. She almost regretted
agreeing to Iolanda's requests—while they seemed
straightforward and it was not that uncommon for courtiers to employ
alchemists or any other artisans on a contract basis, something about
Iolanda seemed off. Most puzzling, if she wanted to keep a secret
from Loharri, she could do better than hire the automaton made by his
hands. Mattie was not so vain as to presuppose that her reputation
outweighed common good sense.
But there was work to do, and perfume certainly
seemed less daunting than granting gargoyles a lifespan extension,
and she mixed ambergris and sage, blended myrrh and the bark of grave
cypress, and sublimated dry camphor. The smell she obtained was
pleasing and sad, and yet she was not certain that this was enough to
evoke regret—something seemed missing. She closed her eyes and
smelled-tasted the mixture with her sensors, trying hard to remember
the last time she felt regret.


Chapter 2
Mice fled from a tall house perched over the
Grackle Pond, and Mattie nodded to herself. The Soul-Smoker could not
be far now, and Mattie quickened her step, her fine wooden heels
clacking on the cobbles of the pavement and then the embankment, as
the stream of mice fleeing in the opposite direction parted around
her feet. The house stood wrapped in mourning wreaths, dark cypress
branches wound in liquid smoke, with windows dark and shuttered. The
exodus of mice was almost over, and the family, clad in their
mourning whites, huddled on the porch fearful to go back inside until
the reluctant soul was evicted.
Mattie wondered about the souls left behind like
this, those little bodiless entities made of glassy, transparent fog
that liked curling up inside the secret places of houses—behind
wainscots, between the wooden planks of paneling, in mouse holes, in
cupboards. She wondered why they and not the others lingered where
they did not belong, where even mice fled from their watery, weak
touch. What did they want? She supposed the Soul-Smoker would know.
She curtsied to the family—two young girls
and a small boy, clustered around a withered old woman, their
grandmother by all appearances. "I'm sorry for your loss,"
she said.
They nodded to her, respectful through their
grief. Emancipated automata were not numerous, and even the wealthy
(and Mattie assumed the wealth of the family based on the size of
their abode and its desirable location next to water) treated them
with reverence for their presumed merit. "We put the opium out,"
they said. "The Soul-Smoker should be by soon."
"I'll wait with you by your leave,"
Mattie said. "I have business with him."
They said nothing, but Mattie deduced from their
lowered eyelids—shot through with delicate veins branching like
naked winter trees—that they were not comfortable discussing
the matter. She moved away from the porch and stood, erect and still,
by an old tree burdened with ivy and long garlands of lichen. She
waited for the Soul-Smoker in suitable silence and calm.
She caught sight of him as soon as he turned onto
the embankment, making his slow way along the edge of the black pond.
The man was small and thin, black-and-white in his black suit and a
shock of white hair. His cane drummed a steady rhythm along the
cobbles, and his blind eyes, white in his white face, stared upward
into the darkening sky. Those who were taking the evening air by the
pond scattered at his approach, getting out of his way with almost
unseemly haste, risking stepping into the spring mud and staining
their ornate shoes and brocade gowns rather than meeting the gaze of
his eyes, empty like clouds.
When he approached the house, the family stepped
off the porch and retreated into the depths of the garden, leaving
the door open for him. His cane tapped on the steps and flicked from
side to side, like a tongue of a venomous snake. He was about to put
his foot onto the first step, but then he turned to Mattie,
undoubtedly alerted to her presence by the loud ticking of her heart.
"Kind sir," Mattie said politely. "A
word at your pleasure."
"Call me Ilmarekh," he said in a soft,
almost feminine voice that lilted with some slight unidentifiable
accent. "It's been a while since anyone wanted a word with me."
"I am Mattie," she said, and softly
touched her hand to the blind man's.
He started at her touch. "Dear girl, are you
an automaton?"
"Yes, sir," Mattie said. "I am an
alchemist, and I'm in need of your help. Do you mind if I watch you
while you do your work?"
"Not at all," he said. "Come
inside."
The hallway was subsumed by the twilight, long
fingers of shadows stretching from the hollow of the cupped ceiling,
reaching all the way down the walls, and only retreating by the
western windows, which admitted the last of the sunlight. Ilmarekh
sniffed the air, and Mattie tasted it too; both followed the sweet
cloying perfume of opium to the kitchen.
The soul of the deceased had already found
it—there was a faint shimmer in the bowl of brown powder left
on the kitchen table, and a strange watery halo surrounded it, as,
Mattie imagined, through a veil of tears.
The blind man carefully patted the pockets of his
severe jacket and extracted a long-stemmed pipe with a small shallow
bowl cut from ancient knotted wood, silvery with age. Without any
ceremony, he stuffed the bowl of his pipe with the opium and lit it
with a thick sulfurous match. Sweet smoke filled the kitchen, and the
liquid shadow danced in the rising puffs and writhed under the
ceiling, becoming smoke, becoming shadow and disappearing, sucked
through Ilmarekh's narrow, lipless mouth. His chest rose and fell in
breaths that seemed too great for his narrow frame, and every last
wisp of smoke was sucked into his chest and consumed.
When there was no opium left, Ilmarekh sighed and
collapsed on the stool by the kitchen table. Bronzed pans reflected
his white face and hair, and he seemed a ghost himself. The opium
washed away the last color from his lips, and his white eyes were
half-hidden under heavy eyelids.
"Are you all right?" Mattie asked. "I
have tonics with me, if you're feeling weak."
He sat up, as if remembering her presence. "I
am fine, I assure you," he said. "A new soul takes a while
to settle."
"How many do you contain?" Mattie asked.
"Hundreds," he answered, without any
pride or remorse. "I imagine you came to ask me about one of
them?"
"Yes," Mattie said. "There was a
woman, some years back, an alchemist. . . she used to live by the
river, in the eastern district. Her name was Beresta."
The blind man remained silent, chewing the air as
if tasting something in it. "Yes," he said after a while.
"I know her."

Ilmarekh said that he wished the world were
simpler; he had been blind since birth, and he tried to imagine
seeing, from the vague and distant memories of the souls that lived
inside him. His favorite things to imagine were reflections and
shadows, and reflections of shadows running along a long, unending
pane of glass. This is what he imagined the souls he consumed were
like, and he fancied himself a mere reflecting surface—and
instead of wandering alone through the world that was not kind to
shadows, they found solace in seeing their reflection in Ilmarekh's
soul, and the reflection gave them substance and contentment.
Among the hundreds of reflections he knew by feel
and by their thoughts and memories twining with his own, he could
locate Beresta with ease. He told Mattie that she was a shy, retiring
soul that would rather remain unnoticed than communicate with him.
"But I can coax her," he said.
Mattie tried to imagine what it was like, having
someone else's soul sloshing inside one, silvery and elusive like a
small fast fish that one could cradle in an open palm full of water
but could never grasp without inflicting injury and distress. This is
probably what it would be like to have any soul, she thought.
"She says she knows you," Ilmarekh said
after a protracted silence. "Rather, she knows the man who made
you."
"He sent me," Mattie said. Sitting in
someone else's kitchen like that, not letting the worry about the
owners intrude upon her communion with this small, strange man felt
almost criminal and yet giddy. The slanted red rays of the setting
sun set the pans afire and spilled thick amber puddles across the
floor. The air smelled of cedar and amber.
"She says she knows your teacher,"
Ilmarekh said. "She says she'll tell you what you want to know
if you tell her why you became an alchemist and why you chose the
teacher you had."

Both questions had the same answer. Mattie
remembered when she had been a simple automaton with sturdy metal
hands designed for gripping broom handles and handling saucepans; she
was intelligent enough for conversation, for Loharri did not like
being bored. She used to bustle through the house crammed full of
spare mechanical parts and sweep the workshop floors, raising angry
clouds of dust full of tiny stings of metal particles, she cooked
meals heavy with red, steaming meat designed to enliven her master's
pale complexion and melancholy disposition. She waged protracted wars
with small mice who were reluctant to leave the house and insisted on
partaking of the food she brought from the market. Sometimes she went
out with Loharri when he needed to run errands and wanted company or
someone to carry things for him. She asked for nothing else and had
not even heard about emancipation, even though an occasional twinge
of dissatisfaction came unbidden every now and again.
This changed one day in June when Loharri,
contrary to his complaints about the sweltering heat and repeated
reassurances that he would not leave the house until the weather
changed to something halfway sane, called her to go out with him. He
gave her a machine to carry—a simple device, consisting of a
bronze receptacle for water and a narrow nozzle; Mattie knew enough
about Loharri's contrivances to guess that when the water boiled, the
steam would be forced through the nozzle onto the blades of a fan
above it, spinning them and the platform mounted over it. There were
deep depressions in the platform, currently empty, and Mattie guessed
that they were meant for something—probably small things that
needed spinning.
She puzzled over the machine as they walked,
turning it this way and that, and never noticed that they were
walking all the way to the eastern district, a place populated by
those who were not as wealthy as her master but not entirely poor.
Apartments clustered on top of each other, wisely avoiding contact
with expensive land underneath, and the air smelled of bleach and
smoked fish, of old flowers and laundry drying in the sun.
They headed to one of the tenement buildings, no
different from the others under their roofs of overlapping red tiles.
They walked up the rickety stairs; Loharri's face was pale, and he
sweated more than usual in his dark clothes; still no complaint
escaped his tightly closed bloodless lips.
Mattie followed him, counting the creaking steps,
and wondering about the reason for such uncharacteristic
silence—usually, her creator was eager to offer his views on
the weather, people populating any given area, and the latest
election, whether she listened or not. That went doubly for any
bodily discomfort he was experiencing, and his lack of complaining
seemed downright ominous by the time they reached their destination—a
narrow garret at the very top of the building, where all the heat of
the day and every drop of fish smell had curled up comfortably and
refused to leave.
Loharri knocked on the door upholstered with
narrow strips of pounded bark, and listened to the slow steps inside.
Mattie listened too, her head cocked to her shoulder, the thing in
her hands whirring softly in the leisurely tepid breeze.
A wild-eyed human servant, a small wiry girl with
pimples and chipped teeth, opened the door, peering cautiously. She
smiled at Loharri and opened the door wider, bidding him to come in.
"Wait in the living room," she said. "Mistress Ogdela
will be with you shortly."
"Living room" was too grand a name for
the narrow part of the hallway separated from the rest of the tiny
apartment by a folding partition decorated with butterflies. A long
and lumpy settee covered by a checkered white and yellow throw left
only a narrow passage leading to the rest of the apartment; a candy
dish with several dusty marzipans rested on the stained table by the
settee. Loharri sat and drummed his fingers on the surface of the
table, unconsciously following the pattern of circular stains left by
glasses of assorted sizes. His gaze would not meet Mattie's, and his
mouth twisted especially tortuously.
Mattie remained standing, the machine in her hands
held primly in front of her chest. Beneath the lifeless demeanor of
an automaton she assumed every time Loharri had company—by
appearing inanimate she remained inconspicuous, and people talked
like they would if she weren't there—she wondered what it was
about him today, why he was so different. The answer came to her when
light, sprightly footfalls came from beyond the partition, and
Loharri's gaze flickered toward it, his light eyes suddenly stormy
and troubled—it was fear, Mattie realized. She had never seen
Loharri afraid, and her mechanical heart beat faster, eager to see
the creature that had such power over Mattie's creator.
The partition folded to one side, admitting a
small, silver-haired woman with a face carved into narrow slices by
myriad parallel wrinkles; her eyes, dark and bright, looked at Mattie
with curiosity. "Ah," she said. "You made me my
machine, and I thank you. Now, what can I do for you?"
Loharri stood, stooping. "I need your
alchemy, but I would prefer to talk in private, most venerable
Mistress Ogdela."
The woman raised her eyebrows, temporarily
smoothing a few of the wrinkles. "Secrets from your own
automaton!" she said. "How very quaint. Come along then,
young man, and we will talk."
The two of them departed, leaving Mattie to watch
the painted yellow and blue butterflies that flitted across the
lacquered wood. She listened to the low buzzing of voices behind the
partition, and rolled the word on her tongue: alchemy. A word
powerful enough to make Loharri quiet and pensive. She did not know
why it was so appealing to her; all she knew was that she wanted to
learn Ogdela's trade.
When Loharri returned, a flask of clear
liquid—paler than water!—clutched in his hands, Mattie
had made up her mind.
"Most venerable Mistress Ogdela," she
addressed the old woman. "With my master's permission, I would
ask to be your apprentice." It was a shrewd choice, to ask in
Loharri's presence—he would not deny her without a good reason
while others were watching, and he would not betray his fear
outwardly.
He shot Mattie a searing gaze. "I do not see
why not," he said after a short pause. "As long is it
doesn't interfere with your other duties."
"I've never taught an automaton," Ogdela
said to Loharri. "Is she up to the task?"
Loharri sighed and handed Mattie the flask.
"Sadly, yes," he said.
Mattie remained with Ogdela until the old woman
decided that she was fit to go and open her own shop. Mattie had
found a place just like Ogdela's—"To be more like her,"
she explained to Ilmarekh.
Ilmarekh listened to her story, his face drained
of color, calm and placid like the surface of the Grackle Pond
outside. The opium smoke had dissipated, and Mattie imagined that the
consumed soul was done with flailing inside its flesh jail and had
started to settle in its new place.
"So there it is," Mattie said. "I
studied with Ogdela . . . I wanted to be an alchemist because of the
power they hold over others. I hadn't realized then that not everyone
is afraid of them, but I never regretted it, so it doesn't matter."
"The ghost . . . Beresta, she says she also
studied with Ogdela. She will answer your questions." Ilmarekh
stammered and stopped. Large drops of sweat swelled on his forehead,
and he swallowed a few times.
Mattie guessed that the opium was getting the best
of him; as the darkness descended outside, she remembered the family,
still waiting by the porch, too fearful to enter their own house.
"Perhaps I should take you home," she said. "You look
like you need to rest."
Ilmarekh sat upright, the empty bowl at his elbow
clanging with the sudden movement. "You'd do that?"
"Of course," Mattie said. "Why
wouldn't I?" She regretted saying it as soon as the words
touched the darkened air. Of course she knew why no one ever went to
the Soul-Smoker's house, and Ilmarekh knew that she knew. To him, her
feigned ignorance could only be interpreted as condescension, a
feeble attempt to pretend that she did not know his disadvantage, the
way people saw him. "I'd like to take you anyway," she
said.
He nodded, slowly, and rose, leaning on his cane
heavily. She hooked her arm under his, and he jolted at her touch—any
touch, she guessed, would be a novelty to him. "Can you see in
the dark?" he asked.
"Yes," she said.
He seemed relieved at not having to worry about
finding his way and being able to use his cane for support only. His
weight, small as it was, pressed on Mattie's arm, and she wondered at
the birdlike thinness of his bones, at the feverish warm coating of
flesh that knotted over them.


We watch from the secret places of the city—the
rooftops and rain-gutters, the awnings of bakeries and the
scaffoldings rising around new buildings—as the girl and the
man walk through the dark streets. She doesn't bother finding the lit
streets and cuts along pitch-black alleys and around dark ponds that
reflect no stars; it is cloudy tonight. It is too dark to fear thugs
or thieves, but we keep watch nonetheless.
We watch as she almost carries the frail man
who seems unsure on his feet all the way through the narrowing
streets, through labyrinths of dirt paths of the shantytowns fringing
the city, to the gate, to the wall. There, we do not follow, but we
keep watch—we watch over her as the two of them exit the gate
on the distal side and walk up the hill. The rain starts, slicking
the path, and her mechanical parts creak louder as water gets trapped
in her joints and delicate wheel-bearings. They are just a blur now,
a double shape through the gray curtain of the rain and the night.
The ground is still warm from the sun, and silvery mist rises and
snakes along the path, clinging low over the wet grass.
There is a house on the top of the hill—no
man's land, no-place, too steep for agriculture and too rocky for
pasture, out-of-the-way and inconvenient for city dwellers and
farmers both. This hill, the Ram's Skull, the bald forehead of the
once-mountain worn to a nub by time (slipping, slipping, faster and
faster) is nothing but bedrock and loose stones. The house on the top
sits lopsided already, its northern corner sinking with the decay of
the slope under its supports.
The mechanical girl and the Soul-Smoker enter
the house—we hear the long squeal of a door as it opens and a
slam as it closes behind them. We do not know what is happening
inside, but we can guess—there is light in the fireplace and
the gurgling of a kettle, and low, guilty voices. And we think of the
souls and we count them—we had known every ghost in the city,
and we can recall their names. We marvel at the cruelty of their fate
without having the capacity to truly comprehend it—no more than
to merely recognize it as grotesque. But, like the mechanical girl,
we have no souls, and we are not afraid of the Soul-Smoker, we have
no reason to worry that the souls inside him will somehow lure ours
away and we will fall dead on the spot, abandoned by our animating
essence. We think about the nature of souls and listen to the small
domestic noises reaching us from the little house on top of the hill.
We sit all along the wall like giant gray
pigeons, our hands clenched under our sharp chins, our wings folded
primly, our eyes narrowed, and our ears pricked up. If someone were
to wander by at this wet, ungodly hour, they would believe us turned
into stone, inanimate like the wall we grip with our clawed toes. Or
they would wonder what the gargoyles are doing out of their caves and
hiding places, why are we out and about. But there is nobody here to
pry or to wonder, and we watch and we listen and we wait, and we do
not know what they are talking about.


Chapter 3
The next morning, Mattie remembered that she still
had to finish Iolanda's perfume. Fortunately, the night spent talking
to the Soul-Smoker taught her more about regret than, she suspected,
the entire city could. She found dried wormwood in her extensive
apothecary, and prepared to sublimate its essential oil—she lit
the burner and cleaned the aludel, and assembled it so that the
smaller vessel sitting on top of the larger one was tilted at enough
of an angle for the condensing vapor to slide down the concave walls
into the waiting receptacle. As the wormwood heated, she crushed the
brittle spiny leaves of rosemary, downy-gray, and mixed them with
extractants and solvents to pry away its properties of memory.
One did not regret what one did not remember;
Ilmarekh, who remembered every moment, every twinge of hundreds of
former inhabitants of the city, told her that. The opium made him
talkative last night, and the souls in his possession crowded and
pressed, trying so desperately to look out of his blind eyes,
struggling so valiantly to move his reluctant, cottony tongue. He
spoke in a hundred voices; only one of them was Beresta, but Mattie
felt that it would be impolite to ignore the rest of them, and she
listened to their laments and reminiscences, to their complaints
about children who grew up and never visited, about the sorrow of
dark alleys and the cold, wet slither of a robber's knife.
Mattie listened, waiting for the small voice of
the alchemist woman who could tell her about the gargoyles. But it
was so crowded that she only had a chance to utter the name of her
son—Sebastian, and the street he lived on. She didn't say
anything else, but it was enough for now. Mattie thought that she
would visit Ilmarekh again, perhaps visit him often. He knew so much,
and yet no one dared to ask him questions for fear of losing their
own souls. He was all Mattie's, and she was not a woman to miss her
chances.
The warm smell of wormwood filled her laboratory,
and she collected the few transparent, pale yellow drops that waited
for her in the aludel. She blended them with rosemary and with the
sage-and-myrrh concoction she had prepared last night. The musk of
ambergris enveloped the rest of the ingredients in its sensual
embrace, forcing them all together, the bark of the cypress and the
sharp, bitter camphor softened by the gentle herbal scents.
Satisfied with her work, Mattie nodded to herself
and let the mixture settle and blend. She was about to go out for a
walk, and maybe pick up a few chemicals she had fancied for a while
but had no means to buy until now, when a sharp rapping on the door
announced a visitor.
She opened the door to see Loharri—dressed
in a formal frock coat, he seemed especially thin and sharp-edged.
"Busy?" he said.
"No." She stood in the doorway
preventing him from entering. The smell of Iolanda's perfume
saturated the air, and she could not risk him recognizing it later
and guessing at Mattie's connection to Iolanda. "Going out?"
"Just an informal gathering," he said,
although his clothes clearly begged to differ. "Lunch with some
friends and colleagues. Would you like to come?"

"Of course," Mattie said. He rarely
asked for favors nowadays, and she saw no reason to deny him.
Besides, gatherings such as this always offered opportunities for
eavesdropping. After her emancipation, she at first resented
Loharri's friends who treated her as before—that is, as his
automaton, a part of him that deserved neither recognition nor
acknowledgment as an independent entity. Later, she saw the advantage
of being invisible—she walked into a room where mechanics
talked about their secret business and they never missed a beat,
never remembering or caring enough to notice that she was an
alchemist and therefore a political enemy. She just didn't know why
Loharri kept giving her such opportunities.
"Hurry up then," he said. "You
might even learn something about your new friends."
"Wait outside," Mattie said. "I
need to change."
As she did—striped stockings, white and
black, and a black dress with open neckline fringed with foamy white
lace—Mattie puzzled over Loharri's words. Why were the
Mechanics suddenly interested in gargoyles? They affected the
politics of the city very little—figureheads, outwardly
respected but inconsequential. They remained outside of the daily
life of the city, subject more to lore and superstitions than laws
and elections. Their patronage of the Duke's family and his court was
symbolic—just like their predecessors who had undergone the
inevitable transformation and now decorated the palace . . . they
were even less important than the court, which persisted only, as
Loharri often said, due to inertia and habit. Only the elected
parties could pass laws, only they could command new construction and
regulate commerce. But the Duke remained in his palace, useless and,
as Mattie imagined, lonely.
Mattie descended the stairs and nodded at Loharri.
He grimaced, pale and uncomfortable in his stern clothes. "Ready
to go?"
She threaded her arm under his, and felt his tense
sinews relax under the copper springs of her fingers. She hated
admitting it to herself, but she stayed close to him because of the
influence she had—she had the power to make him less concerned
and more at ease, to make him smile even though it pained his broken
face. She wondered at herself, at whether she would ever be able to
forgive him for being her creator, for having such absolute control
over her internal workings. For his love.
They headed uphill, toward the palace and the
heavy gray architecture of the old buildings. Mattie suspected that
the stone of which large rough blocks of the palace were hewn was the
same as the stone gargoyles became, and wondered if there was a
promising venue of investigation there; she made a mental note to
take a mineral sample once they got to the old city.
"It's too hot to walk," Loharri said,
even though the sun, still low over the rooftops, barely kissed the
pavement and the air still retained the pleasant coolness of the
night. His gaze cast about for a cab or a sedan.
"It's fine," Mattie said. "I enjoy
walking, and you could use a constitutional. You spend too much time
indoors."
Loharri scoffed. "I should've made you
without a voice-box. Being lectured by my own automaton—why,
that's an indignity no man should be forced to tolerate."
Mattie was used to his querulous tone, and simply
changed the subject. "Did you know that Beresta had a son?"
"I heard," he replied, smiling. "I
see you spoke to the Soul-Smoker."
Mattie inclined her head with a slow, ratcheted
creaking of the neck joints. "I have. You should meet him."
"No thanks," Loharri said. "I
prefer to keep a hold of my soul, thank you." He almost stumbled
as a large puddle suddenly opened before them on the pavement, but
circumvented it.
Mattie, whose legs were agile but not nearly as
long as Loharri's, stepped into it, wetting the hem of her dress and
soaking her slippers—she wore them for the occasion's sake,
even though she had no need of footwear.
Loharri grabbed her elbow, pulling her out of the
mess. "Look at that," he said. "I swear, the condition
of these streets is just shameful."
"Why don't you do something about it?"
Mattie shook out her skirt, spilling the murky drops onto the
pavement. "You're in charge of the city—you and your
friends, I mean."
"Priorities, dear." Loharri still held
on to her elbow and dragged her along. The fresh air apparently
energized him, since he was now moving in long, confident strides.
"And besides, this is the Duke's territory, and he wants to keep
it ancient and quaint. And it is only right to abide by his wishes—as
long as they don't interfere with our plans."
Mattie was getting a distinct feeling that
Loharri's willingness to discuss political and urban matters with her
had a hidden purpose—perhaps he wanted her to talk . . . but to
whom? Mattie was not a full member of the Alchemists' party, and as
such she saw little interest in politics—why worry about
something she would never have an impact on? She shook her head.
Loharri was rubbing off on her, scheming and trying to guess people's
motives and question everything—that was him, not her. Mattie
only wanted to do her craft, and worry little about civic planning.
"What are the main priorities then?" she
asked.
"Governance." He gave her a long look.
"So, what did you hear about Beresta's son?"
"Nothing." Mattie shook her arm free and
threaded it under his, as was proper. "Just that she had one.
Why, is he famous?"
"Not in a way you'd want to be," Loharri
said. "So, nothing about his current whereabouts?"
Mattie moved her head side to side, in a slow
gesture of negation. "I just told you. I only learned that she
had a son ... she was not communicative."
"Hm," Loharri said. "I suppose
you'll try and look for him then? To see if he knows of his mother's
work?"
"Maybe," Mattie said. "Why?"
"Just curious. He's been missing for some
time now. You'll tell me if you find him, won't you." Loharri
did not wait for her answer—he turned under an arch of
crumbling stone encrusted with pallid circles of lichenous growth,
into a shaded courtyard. The wall of the building, gray like the rest
of the district, was half-hidden under the living green carpet of
toad flax, which already sent forth its tiny white flowers. Mattie
recognized the building because of it—this seemed a side
entrance into a little-used wing of the ossuary adjacent to the
Parliament building. This wing contained no bones yet, and its echoey
empty halls were occasionally used for parties and
large-but-clandestine gatherings.
Loharri knocked on the small door half-hidden
under the curtain of vegetation, and they were admitted inside. Lamps
on the walls created warm semicircles of yellow light, and they
overlapped, creating a scalloped edge on the walls and the floor made
of large oblong slabs, destined to one day become the coffin lids of
the notable citizens. The floor resounded hollow under the feet,
always reminding of its ultimate purpose.
The mechanics were apparently throwing a party,
but surreptitious business was the usual side effect of such events.
These men, fastidious and solemn, did not seem to be able to remain
in the same room with another human being without trying to figure
out exactly how the fellow could be useful, harmful, or neither. They
paid Mattie little mind, and no wonder—regular humans were mere
clockworks to them, to be examined and figured out and, if necessary,
taken apart; the automatons passed beneath notice.
Several serious fellows greeted Loharri with nods
and reserved smiles—Mattie suspected that he was too lively for
them, too moody, too unpredictable. His position of influence was
assured by his proficiency and his many inventions—the most
recent one already belched fire in every foundry, increasing their
efficiency by some subtle but important percentage—but his
demeanor and his disordered personal life earned him a few
disapproving looks.
Loharri acted as if he didn't notice—he
shook hands and chatted, and even came to say hello to several women
sitting around the long tables, away from the men. They came as a
decoration, and no one else seemed to pay much attention to them.
Mattie wondered if she should join them and keep away from trouble,
but her feet already led her after Loharri, the role of an obedient
automaton as familiar to her as the sight of her own face.
She caught snatches of conversations—some
talked about the Alchemists rallying for the next election; there
were rumors that they were holding their most potent medicines in
reserve, to be unveiled before the election, to wow and stun the
populace. Imagine that, curing typhoid! Would there be anything but
gratitude? Others mentioned that the Alchemists had been getting cozy
with a few of the Duke's courtiers, seeking influence by the route of
tradition rather than popularity.
And yet others talked about the gargoyles. Mattie
stopped shadowing Loharri for a moment and listened, not moving,
looking fixedly at her creator's back. The speaker—a small,
rotund man of middle age whom she had met many times but whose name
she could not remember, talked to Bergen—a man who looked as
though pickled by many years that passed over his balding head. His
dark clothes hung loosely on his desiccated body, and yet his mind
was sharp; he was perhaps the only one in this gathering whom Loharri
would call a friend.
"Think about it," said the rotund man,
his face filling with alarming red color. "Without the
gargoyles, what will the Duke be?"
"The Duke," Bergen replied. "Sure,
the gargoyles and their sanctions might seem irrelevant, and perhaps
they are. But without the third leg, this government will not be
stable—we do need the court, you know. Otherwise, it'll be
nothing but our squabbling with the alchemists."
"And that would be a bad thing?"
"Of course," Bergen said. "I for
one do not think a civil war is such a good idea, and without the
Duke we might have just that. Not that we don't have enough trouble
already."
"But the gargoyles ..."
"Are our history. This city is proud of its
gargoyles, and there isn't much you can do about it," Bergen
concluded and turned away from his interlocutor. "Spiritual
guidance, be it superstition or tradition, is not always a bad thing.
Some people need an external compass." His watery old eyes
stopped on Mattie, and he smiled.
"Good afternoon, Messer Bergen," Mattie
said in her flattest voice.
"Hello, Mattie," he said. "Your
master around?"
She pointed wordlessly at Loharri, still leaning
on the table by a cluster of brightly dressed women.
Bergen chuckled. "I don't understand what
women see in him."
"He talks to them?" Mattie suggested.
"In any case, I need to talk to him,"
Bergen said, and walked up to Loharri, favoring his right foot.
Goiter, Mattie remembered. The old man had goiter.
She moved behind Loharri, to stand still and
listen. Loharri shot her a quick glance and a smile, and she
momentarily felt grateful for that acknowledgement. Even though he
had made her, with his own hands, put her together out of joints and
slender metal bones, even though he knew more of her internal
workings than anyone, he still managed to really see her as a whole.
Her attention was diverted by several automatons
filing into the hall, their metal feet reverberating on the hollow
floor of the sepulcher. They carried bottled wine and honeyed water,
trays with fruit and bread and sweets, stacks of dishes and utensils.
They moved in unison, their movements measured and devoid of any
indication of free will. She had seen such servant automatons before,
the mindless drudges that allowed for the leisure of the city's
inhabitants. And every time she saw them she felt deep unease, a
pervading sense of wrong—how could they make them like that?
she thought. If they were to have a mind, they would've been
miserable with their lives of servitude—Mattie remembered the
dark sense of injustice when she was little but a maid—but at
the same time they would have the choice of misery. Making them
without minds removed a potential conflict, and Mattie thought of the
slaughterhouses in the outskirts, the dank places that smelled of
rust and iron and rot. She ventured there to buy offal that was used
in some of her ointments, but sometimes she watched the animals. It
was like that, she thought, remembering the panic in sheep's eyes; it
was as if they managed to create a sheep that didn't mind being
slaughtered after it was led into a dark steel barrel of a room where
steaming blood stood knee-deep.
Loharri touched her hand. "What are you
thinking about?" He traced the direction of her gaze and spoke
softly, solicitously.
Mattie looked away. "Thank you for not making
me like them." And added, before he had a chance to respond,
"You should eat something. You look pale."
"I always look pale," he said but didn't
smile as he normally would. "It really bothers you, doesn't it?"
She nodded. "They never had a chance. You
removed the possibility of them even questioning if it was wrong."
He frowned a bit. "We'll talk about it later,
if you don't mind."
She didn't; the mechanics continued to mingle,
most of them carrying plates now, and to speak in their sedate
voices. Mattie followed Loharri, listening for any mention of the
gargoyles, but everyone seemed rather preoccupied with solving the
transportation problem. Mattie listened just enough to conclude that
the alleged problem was not a problem at all, but rather the way
things had always been—the mechanics never tired of improving
upon what was not broken. They felt that produce was slow to arrive
from the farms, and that during the harvest the roads could barely
sustain the crawling traffic of produce carts and the six-legged
lizards that dragged them at a leisurely pace. It interfered with the
deliveries from the mines, and during harvest the production of the
factories often dropped. The mechanics, of course, thought that it
called for automation of the lizards, the carts, or both. Mattie
wondered if they would ever think of automation of the peasants.
"We would also need a bigger road,"
Bergen suggested.
"Or merely a better one," Loharri said.
Mattie grew bored of the conversation centering on
roads and whether it was worthwhile designing a road that would move
and carry stationary produce to the city, and wandered through the
crowd, whirring and clicking, listening. She stopped by a small
cluster of mechanics who spoke in low voices, often glancing over
their hunched shoulders with a palpable air of secrecy. Mattie
stopped a few steps away, far enough not to arouse suspicion but
close enough to catch their whispers with her exceptional hearing.
"I know that they are up to something,"
said the rotund man that she recognized from earlier, and glanced
around furtively. "Mark my words—exiles never go away
peacefully; they always want to get back in. Always."
"Suppose you're right," said a young
man, whose pimples and straight back testified that he was fresh out
of the Lyceum. "What can we do about it?"
"Build fortifications," the rotund man
said.
The rest of the group snickered.
"Isn't it a bit premature?" said one of
them. "If you are concerned, perhaps some careful reconnaissance
..."
"Enough of this nonsense," interrupted
the man who appeared to be the oldest and crankiest in the group.
"Wait for the problem to arise, then seek solutions."
Mattie thought that the mechanics were generally
inclined to solve non-existent problems; she took a step away from
the group when her leg shook and she felt faint. Her movements
faltered, and she felt a fine tremor spreading through her arms and
legs, while her head felt suddenly foreign and unwieldy. She stumbled
and would have fallen, if the edge of the table had not presented
itself to her dimming vision; Mattie grabbed onto it, her fine
fingertips splintering under her weight.
She saw Loharri making his way toward her, worry
on his face, and his fingers already unbuttoning the tall collar of
his jacket. Before her eyes closed, Mattie saw him pulling out a thin
chain and a blinding flash of light reflected from a polished metal
surface. The flash grew larger and obscured the room and the dismayed
faces of the mechanics, annoyed at such brazen automaton
malfunctioning, and Mattie could only feel her creator's
hands—loving, repellent—tugging the dress on her chest
down, exposing her shame for all to see. And then she stopped feeling
altogether.


Mattie came to—at first, she didn't realize
that she was in the same room, lying on the same floor. Most of the
lamps had been extinguished, and the people were gone. Only Loharri
perched on the edge of the table, motionless and dark like a gargoyle
in the gathering dusk.
She pushed herself up, and her hands clanged
against the hollow floors, making them sing with resonance. Her
fingers found the smooth window in her chest and traced its familiar
oval shape. It was closed again now, secure and snug, but her heart
whirred strongly behind it, all wound up and ready for another few
months of labor. "I'm sorry," she said.
"It's not your fault." He didn't move,
and she could not quite decide whether he looked tired or irritated.
"Not the best timing, but these things do happen."
She stood, testing her limbs. He didn't seem mad
at her for the embarrassment she caused him. She should be grateful
for that, she thought, but instead she felt hurt. Violated. He
exposed her heart for all to see, he wound her up with the key around
his neck right in front of his friends. "I want to go home,"
she said.
He hopped off the table, and the floor echoed
again. "As you wish. I'll walk you."
"No need," she said.
"I'd rather keep an eye on you," he
said. "To make sure you're all right. I just wish you'd tell me
when you need winding."
"I don't know when I do," Mattie said.
"I just wish you had given me the key."
Loharri led her outside, into the uncertain,
still-tremulous light of the streetlamps that were just starting to
go on. "If I give you the key," he said, taking her hand
into his, "you'll have no reason to spend time with me."
They had had this conversation often enough, and
it always went in circles like that. Mattie reassured him that she
would come and see him, but he shook his head and insisted until
Mattie agreed that he was right. She wouldn't—oh, for a while
she would feel dutiful and visit, and then the obligation would
become a meaningless chore as the reasons behind it faded and
resentment overcame loyalty. She looked away.
"Why do you hate me?" Loharri asked.
"I don't." Mattie faltered, unsure at
the sudden change of tone and subject. She didn't, not really. He was
just trying to confuse her, to take care of the uncertain, vulnerable
state when her mechanisms settled after the recent disruption. "I
honestly don't. I just... I just wish you'd given me the key."
He patted her arm. "All in good time,"
he said.


Chapter 4
Iolanda sniffed at the vial—Mattie had found
the most expensive crystal, and the slanted sunrays lit the facets
with red, yellow, and blue sparks—and smiled. "Not bad,"
she said. "A little bitter for my taste, but I suppose it suits.
I'm pleased I have put my faith in you."

"Did I pass?" Mattie asked.
Iolanda's eyebrows plucked to perfect black
crescents arched in pretended surprise. "Pass what?"
"It was a test, wasn't it?" Mattie said.
"You wanted to see if I could follow your orders."
"I assumed you could do that," Iolanda
said, and helped herself to a seat. "But yes, I wanted to make
sure that you are good with deadlines and feelings—I know
little of automatons, and I wondered if emotions are something you
understand..."
"Why wouldn't I?" Mattie immediately
worried that her words came out too defensive.
Iolanda shrugged, too languid to disguise her
indifference. "You are made mostly of metal."
"I won't argue with the obvious," Mattie
said. "But what does it have to do with feelings?"
"You have a smart mouth," Iolanda said,
and smiled with faint approval. "I think I will work well with
you. Now, I will depart, unless..."
Mattie waited politely for the rest of the
sentence, but since it was not forthcoming, she saw it fit to ask,
"Unless what?"
Iolanda rolled her eyes. "As I suspected, you
do miss some subtleties. I was just trying to give you an opening to
ask for favors."
"Thank you," Mattie said. She considered
feverishly whether to ask about Sebastian—Loharri seemed so
reluctant to speak of him and his disappearance that she felt she had
no other recourse. Yet, she feared that she was becoming a part of
something she didn't understand.
"Well?" Iolanda stood and tapped her
foot on the leg of Mattie's laboratory bench. "I haven't all
day."
"I wanted to find relatives of a ... a
friend. Not really a friend—a deceased colleague. Beresta."
"Never heard of her," Iolanda said.
"What are her relatives' names?"
"There's only one I know of," Mattie
said. "His name's Sebastian; he's a mechanic, I think ... from
the Eastern district."
Iolanda's smooth forehead acquired a thin
horizontal wrinkle, which smoothed out as soon as she started to
speak. "You ask for interesting favors, Mattie. Surely, you
understand that associating with people like Sebastian is not good
for you?"
Great, Mattie thought. A second undesirable in as
many days. "No," she said. "I just need to talk to him
about his mother's papers—I'm interested in her work, not him."
"I believe you," Iolanda said. "But
that is of no consequence. Sebastian is not welcome in the city
anymore—I imagine he lives outside the walls, perhaps on a farm
somewhere."
"Or he could've moved on to another city."
"I doubt it. He still keeps in touch with
some people here, and there's a rumor that he and his associates are
not far away."
"What did he do?" Mattie asked. "And
what does he want here?"
"He was a mechanic," Iolanda said. "The
Mechanics cast him out. You better ask them."
Mattie bent her neck, indicating that she
understood. "I will," she said. "Thank you for your
help."
"Don't mention it." Iolanda straightened
her skirt and smoothed the front of her blouse. "I've trusted
you by hiring you—it is only right for me to be straight with
you. Of course, I do expect the same back."
Mattie bowed, and waited for Iolanda, the crystal
vial clutched in her smooth hands, to leave. Iolanda seemed so
alien—Mattie had not considered it before, but Iolanda and her
abundance of flesh made Mattie conscious of her own small,
long-limbed body of metal and wood, jointed and angular. The only
person she was close to before was Ogdela, old and dry like a
matchstick. Then there was Loharri, but he was always there and
hardly counted. But even he was long and thin, almost
insectile—especially when he worked with his slow, deliberate
movements that reminded Mattie of the praying mantises that populated
the wild rose bushes that had been taking over the back yard of
Loharri's house.
Mattie could not decide if she liked Iolanda—she
liked her words and her apparent candor. But her fleshiness made her
uneasy, and Mattie felt shallow because of that. And yet, the feeling
persisted.
To take her mind off Iolanda, Mattie decided to go
shopping. The money Iolanda gave her was certainly welcome, and
Mattie decided to stop by a bookshop near the paper factory. It
carried some books she had lusted after for as long as she had been
on her own, after she had ended her apprenticeship with Ogdela—small,
trim books with thick paper and ragged pages, books bound in cloth
and leather, books with faded drawings painted with a thin brush
dipped in ox blood.
Ogdela had given her a crude book printed on
pounded birch bark and containing a number of simple recipes and a
list of common ingredients. It was Mattie's treasure, even though she
knew every word by heart—it was proof that she was a real
alchemist; then there were others, acquired through varied means—some
as payment, others bought with money she should've spent on other
things. But she longed for the expensive books. She justified it to
herself by her need to learn more arcane things—after all, to
deal with the gargoyles she needed more complex potions and mixtures,
new and exotic ingredients. But in her ticking heart, she knew that
she just wanted the books as objects, as small solid leather-bound
weights of palpable luxury.
She walked to the store; it was midday, and the
streets swarmed with oxen, lizards, and mechanized buggies carrying
people and goods to the afternoon markets; a few pedestrians weaved
in and out of the traffic, but they grew rarer as she approached the
paper factory—the sun had heated up the noxious fumes emanating
from it, making the air yellow and thick.
Mattie tasted bleach and sulfur on her lips, until
she passed beyond the factory, away from the river, and entered a
labyrinth of narrow streets occupied by tenements and small shops
selling wares both expensive and mysterious; a faint smell of
polished wood and ancient fabrics hung over the area. She could see
the palatial spires of the Duke's district far in the distance,
piercing the low long clouds.
As she approached the bookshop, she felt a distant
rumble underground, as if a thunderclap had struck deep within the
earth under her feet. The air reverberated, and the windows of the
shop—wide panes of glass—gave back a high-pitched, almost
inaudible cry. Mattie paused, her hand on the handle. Its tremor,
just on the edge of detection, transmitted to her fingers, making
them itch. She opened the door.
"What was that?" she asked the shop
owner, an old woman bent at the waist at precisely a ninety-degree
angle.
She looked up at Mattie and smiled. "What was
what, sweetness?"
"That... noise," she answered.
"I didn't hear anything," the woman
said. "Want me to show you some books?"
"Do you have any books on gargoyles?"
The woman laughed. "Do I ever! Come with me,
sweetness." She led Mattie to the back of the shop, where the
shelves were covered with a thin layer of dust and books towered in
haphazard piles, in almost unbearable opulence and bounty. The shop
owner grabbed onto one of the shelves and miraculously straightened
her back, as her hands moved up from one shelf to the next,
ratcheting her to verticality. She pulled a few heavy books, thick
and square, from the top shelf. "Here's something to start you
with."


We do not live in the books written about us—we
crawl on the walls and we hide, but not within these pages. We do not
even believe in these books.
Not that they are untrue, but these accounts
lack the immediacy necessary for understanding, and we want to tell
the girl to turn away, away—these books will lead her down
twisty roads, long, confused byways, away from us. We want to tap on
the window, but she is bent over the pages, lost in them. Already
lost to us, and we consider weeping.
And then another explosion rocks the air, and
we look away from the window, startled, and at first we don't see, we
don't understand—but there is an empty space in the clouds, a
space where the tall spire used to signal our home.


Mattie stroked the page of the book in delight,
quite refusing to believe that the picture in front of her was a
thing of artifice—it had the appearance and the texture of
something completely natural, springing spontaneously from the paper
thanks to some obscure magic. The gargoyle in the picture squatted,
its wings folded, its fists supporting its sharp chin, its face
serene. It was just like Mattie remembered the gargoyles from the
night they visited her—so gray and alien and sleek in their
winged beauty, their flesh hard and cold like stone.
She read the words below the picture and soon she
was enthralled in the history of them—of how they sprang from
the ground, uncounted eons ago, of how they talked to the stone and
grew it—at first, shapeless cliffs shot through with caves and
encrusted with swallows' nests; then, as their skill and numbers
increased, they shaped the living stone whose destiny they
shared—shaped it with their mere will!—into tall
structures, decorated with serpentine spirals and breathtakingly
sweeping walls, into delicate lattices and sturdy edifices.
The gargoyles needed no buildings, but when people
came, the gargoyles built them—the Ducal palace was the first
to rise from the wreckage of their former creations. They built for
the joy of building while remaining elusive, hidden. And as people
began to build their own houses and stores and factories, there were
more places to hide. At night, the gargoyles went to the oldest of
the buildings, to the palace, and they rested on its roofs and
spires, haunch-to-haunch and shoulder-to-shoulder with their
predecessors who had become one with the stone they had shaped. And
they watched over the city as one would after a child.
Mattie closed the book and flipped through
another—this one had no pictures and the words were crowded
densely together, so that she had to extend her eyes a little to
focus better. This book was full of dates and histories, and as far
as Mattie could determine from her cursory skim, it was dedicated to
proving that the gargoyles did not only grow stone but also had a
power of controlling human souls, their thoughts and desires. The
author argued in greatly heated and long sentences that the dynasty
of the Dukes—the descendants of the first people to populate
the gargoyles' creations—were complicit in the gargoyles'
conspiracy, and that the source of their influence was not just
social inertia but the hidden support of the gray creatures.
Mattie decided to get the second book as a gift to
Loharri— even though he hadn't given her the key, he was kind
to her. And, most importantly, it looked like something he would
enjoy, and Mattie believed that everyone should get what they wanted,
just for the sake of it.
She flipped the page to read more, and then she
felt another concussion of the air and the faint trembling, tingling
shudder of the windowpanes. This time it was stronger, and the floor
under her feet groaned, and the boards buckled, as if trying to shake
her off. The bookshelves tilted and creaked, and before she could
step away they assaulted her with heavy tomes, their rustling pages
fanned as if in anger, and their leather bindings scraping her face.
She shielded it with her hands—she liked this face well enough
to protect it, and the porcelain was fragile. A book hit her hand,
and something cracked, shifted, and hung limp—Mattie had to
look to confirm that two fingers on her right hand were nearly broken
off, two slender metal coils that remained connected to her with just
slivers of metal.
The shaking and rumbling stopped, and Mattie
looked around at the toppled bookshelves and strewn books, and at the
owner who had fallen back into her gallows shape and now stood
open-mouthed, surveying the destruction.
"I'm sorry," Mattie said.
"What for?" said the owner. "You
didn't do this . . . did you?"
"No, no." Mattie shook her head for
emphasis. "How could I? I just wanted these books."
"Then take them and maybe come back some
other time," the old woman said with a pained smile. "I'll
have quite a bit of work to do here."
Mattie paid and headed outside but stopped in the
doorway. "You have someone to help you clean up, correct?"
"Yes, yes." The woman waved her hand
helplessly. "The neighborhood kids, they always come to help.
Just go now, please."
Mattie left, her two books under her arm, her left
hand cradling the injured right. There were people outside—
everyone had rushed from their rumbling and shaking homes and shops,
and talked excitedly. They all pointed in the same direction—west.
Mattie looked too, but at first she could not discern what it was
they were pointing at. She had to adjust her eyes again, and finally
she discerned that blending with the low clouds a great puff of smoke
and dust marred the sky, and that the spire of the palace had
entirely gone from view.
"What happened?" she asked a young girl,
a factory worker, to judge from her pale face and hair and chapped
hands.
The girl squinted at the sky, her large, flat
fingers tugging at the sleeve of her dark frock. "The palace's
gone, I reckon," she said in a slow, thoughtful drawl. "Maybe
an earthquake or maybe war."
"Don't be daft," a tall stern man said
to the girl, never acknowledging Mattie with even a glance. He wore a
thick leather apron, and Mattie guessed him to be a shopkeeper.
"There's no war."
"The gargoyles are taking back what's
theirs," said an old woman, and wrung a wet shirt she held in
her hands in apparent despair, or just out of habit—she must've
been doing laundry when the quaking started. "Mark my word:
they're pulling the stones back under the ground, where they all
belong."
They stared into the sky, reluctant to move, as if
any movement would upset the balance of their souls and bring the
reality and its consequences crashing around them, like an avalanche
of heavy books. Mattie was the first to break the spell.
She needed to learn what happened, and she had to
talk to Loharri. A sickly tingling in her stomach, where all the
sophisticated clockworks and mechanisms of her inner workings
nestled, told her that her distress was greater than she had
initially estimated. The gargoyles, she thought; the gargoyles. Had
they been at the palace? Were any of them hurt?
She had almost reached home when with a wave of
guilt she realized that she hadn't even considered the lives of
people inside. The Duke and the courtiers had been away—it was
the planting season, and they visited the farms to bless the fields.
But the servants inside . . . Mattie was not sure if the palace
employed any human servants except the housekeepers and the
overseers; they would be dead, she thought. But her heart ached more
when she thought of the mindless automatons buried in the rubble,
their lifeless eyes and broken limbs now just so much refuse, just
guts and metal left in the wake of human need for something . . . she
did not know what. Like the sheep who never had the chance to feel
any pain or to consider their imminent doom.


On her way, Mattie picked up some gossip. She
stopped by the public telegraph, a small structure painted yellow,
where an ink pen on a long flexible handle endlessly recorded
whatever news the operators fed it. She had no hope of reaching it to
read herself—the telegraph booth thronged with people eager for
the news, who shoved her aside like she was just an obstacle. Most
ignored her questions, but from the snippets of their excited chatter
to each other she learned the events, if not the precise details or
reasons.
As she walked to Loharri's house, the information
kept replaying in her mind. The ducal palace had collapsed; there was
talk of an attack from the outside, but the structure imploded and
crumbled inwards, and the consensus among the Mechanics was that
explosives had been placed inside of the palace. The first explosion
destroyed the outside walls and wings, and the second destroyed the
palace itself.
Loharri was home. Like most mechanics, he had his
own sources of information.
"What do you make of that?" Loharri said
when Mattie, trembling with shock and unarticulated animal hurt,
showed up on his doorstep.
"I don't know," she groaned. "I
have to sit down."
Loharri wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and
she was grateful for support and the gentle warmth of his breath. He
almost dragged her to his living room that had grown even more
cluttered since she last visited, and sat her on the chaise that wore
a slight but unmistakable imprint of Loharri's angular form.
He examined her damaged hand, tisking to himself,
and brought out the soldering iron. "I'll disconnect your
sensors while I work," he said. "You'll lose all sensation
in this arm—don't be alarmed."
"Thank you," she said. "I bought
you a book."
He glanced at the proffered tome and smiled.
"Thank you, Mattie. You didn't have to."
"I was at the book shop when the explosions
happened," she said. "I don't understand who would do that.
Unless ..." She faltered and bit her tongue, but Loharri was too
engrossed in his own thoughts and speculations.
"There's a pattern," he said. The iron
in his hand hissed and exhaled thin streams of smoke that smelled of
amber. "Today was the day when most of the court were visiting
the countryside. Everyone knows that, so whoever staged it wanted no
casualties."
"Or was looking for easy access without fear
of being caught or interrogated."
Loharri nodded. "Good point, darling. That
would indicate an outsider; I was thinking more of an inside job, but
you just may be right. Also, note how the explosives were rigged."
"It collapsed on itself," Mattie said.
"They didn't want to destroy other buildings."
"Yes, but those explosives... the whole city
shook. I wonder who could make something like that."
Mattie did not have to answer—they both knew
that the Alchemists were the ones with the capacity for making such
things; Loharri was still sore since the time when the Mechanics had
to go to the Alchemists with their heads uncovered and bowed to ask
for their help in blasting a passageway through the mountains.
"Of course, the gargoyles can also command
stone," Loharri said. He flipped through the book Mattie brought
him. "Look, it says here that they rebuilt the palace after the
earthquake five hundred years ago. They could collapse it if they
wanted to."
He put the iron away and reconnected the sensors
in Mattie's shoulder. She wiggled her fingers tentatively. There was
some stiffness, but little pain. She hoped it would go away with some
practice.
She cocked her head. "Why would the gargoyles
do that? They've been

Loharri gave her a long look. "Have been
brushing up on our history, have we? Be careful there, dear
love—history leads to politics more often than you could
imagine."
"I'm not interested in that," Mattie
said. "Unless more buildings were to blow up."
Loharri paced the room, his long legs loping like
a camel's. "I wonder if there will be. By the way, earlier . . .
you said something, like you had some suspicions?"
"It's probably nothing," she said. "But
at your gathering last night, I heard some mechanics talking about
getting rid of the Duke."
"They always blab about that," Loharri
scoffed. "It's just talk, understand."
"As far as you know." Mattie could not
resist this barb.
Loharri bit. "Are you implying that my
brethren might have secrets from me?"
Mattie shrugged. "Talk to Bergen if you're in
doubt."
Loharri laughed—the same soft, almost
soundless laugh she learned preceded his more extreme temper
tantrums. "And yet you dare to fool yourself that politics is of
no interest to you."
Mattie rose from her seat. "Your well-being
is of interest to me. Talk to your friends. I'll talk to mine. Come
by when you feel like you can talk without being angry."
Loharri seemed taken aback. "As you say,
Mattie. Somehow, I missed the shift here—you talk to me like
you are my master."
Mattie shrugged and craned her neck in pretend
pensiveness. "Or perhaps you just think that someone who doesn't
want to be your slave is aiming to be your master."
She didn't turn when she headed for the door, but
all the way she felt Loharri's burning gaze on the back of her neck.


Chapter 5
The society of the Alchemists never held regular
meetings. The news spread through the grapevine, and occasionally,
when circumstances called for their special attention, they made use
of the public telegraph. That afternoon Mattie decided to stop by the
telegraph to see if a meeting was called—after all, the
collapse of the ducal palace seemed reason enough to have one.
Besides, Mattie thought, the other alchemists could not have missed
the implications of large quantities of explosives that were
apparently responsible for the disaster. It was only a matter of time
before the Duke and his courtiers returned from their trip and
started questioning the alchemists. There was also a concern about
the gargoyles—always elusive, they never got involved in human
disputes, but no one had ever destroyed their creations before; at
least, according to Mattie's book.
In the carefully worded telegram marked
"alchemists only" and protected by encoding, Bokker, the
elected chairman of the Alchemists' Society, expressed his concern
that the gargoyles might direct their displeasure at the Society's
members, and invited the meeting in his shed—it was a rather
spare construction, holding decades' worth of obsolete equipment, but
large enough to fit all of the alchemists who would be concerned
enough to attend the meeting. Mattie guessed that a hundred or so of
them would show up—the same hundred that always stuck their
noses into politics. This time, Mattie decided that she would attend
as well.
After reading the missive, Mattie tucked her
Alchemist Scrying Ring into her pocket, and her neck clicked
pensively. She worried that the event would affect her relationship
with the strange creatures she had grown quite fascinated with. She
thought that she would not forgive her society if it indeed were
their doing. Fuming and taken with dark thoughts, she headed for the
meeting.
The Alchemists were not the majority party, and as
such the society did not have the use of the palatial grounds. Mattie
regretted it—she would've liked to see the devastation close
up, but it was cordoned off by the courtiers and their enforcers.
She ventured as close to the palace as she could
on her way, and was sternly stopped and turned around by a menacing,
faceless figure in ornate armor, mounted on top of a mechanical
buggy. Mattie could've sworn that with every day these ugly
conveyances—clanking metal wheels wrapped in wooden frames,
hissing and spitting steam engines perched on the bronze hulls,
perilously close to their armored passengers— grew more
numerous.
"Restricted area," the man in armor
said. "Only mechanics and construction automatons are allowed
through."
"Were there many casualties?" Mattie
asked.
He shook his metal-encased head, and for a brief
moment Mattie imagined him as another automaton, intelligent like
her, and felt kinship.
"Be careful with that engine," Mattie
said before turning around. "It looks hot... and dangerous."
"Mind your own business, clunker," the
metal rider replied.
Mattie hurried away, her heart ticking louder and
faster than her steps with suppressed fury. No one had ever dared to
call her a clunker to her face, and the slur caught her off
guard—like a sudden failure of her sensors, when everything
tingled and then went numb. She almost fled the district, hurrying
away from the glimpses of splintered stone and fine chalky dust over
everything.
Mattie realized that she was running late. On her
detour she wandered far away from the eastern district and the
Grackle Pond, and she had to hurry through the streets, tracing a
wide arc around the pond and emerging not too far away from the house
on the embankment where she first met the Soul-Smoker. A concern
flared, and a memory that really, she had to visit him and to see if
Beresta would talk to her again. And Iolanda had said that Sebastian
would likely be outside of the city... perhaps Ilmarekh would know
something or had heard something from his house on top of the hill.
She passed the house of the recent death, where
the funeral wreaths had already wilted and the liquid smoke had
dissipated, and entered the wide streets favored by wealthy
alchemists. Mattie eyed the houses, assessing the rent—this
would be a nice place to live, she thought, both for the view and for
the convenience. Loharri would be much closer, and the shops that
sold especially exotic plants and animal parts would be nearby. And
it would give her more time to work, which would certainly offset the
expense; plus, with Iolanda's financial backing . . . she stopped
herself from thinking in such a manner, since her alliance with
Iolanda was a new affair, and was made all the more uncertain by
recent events. If the court were to be forced to move out of the
city, she realized, Iolanda and her revenue would be gone. She wasn't
sure whether she should be proud of her far-sighted self-interest, or
embarrassed at being so mercenary. Iolanda was right—she still
had trouble knowing what the right emotion for a given circumstance
was; she only hoped that people occasionally had the same problem,
and Iolanda would thus be unable to catch her in a lie.
When she arrived at the appointed place, she found
twice as many people as she had expected—the shed could not
hold them all, and the meeting was moved to the hothouse, which took
up most of the sizeable yard of Bokker's place. Bokker himself—a
middle-aged man with white hair and no discernible neck—directed
the late arrivals under the vast glass canopy. Mattie thought that it
was a miracle that it still stood after the previous day's explosion.
Bokker nodded at Mattie curtly; even this small
gesture turned his face crimson. "Haven't seen you in a while,"
he said.
"This seemed important," she said.
Bokker sighed. "You know, Mattie, everyone
today said this. It makes me wonder, it truly does—is a
disaster the only thing that can bring us together? Are we that
selfish, that embroiled in our own lives? Is there a point to even
having this society anymore?"
"Of course there is," Mattie said, and
dared to touch his purple sleeve with her fingertips, as reassuringly
as she could. "We don't have to see each other all the time to
work together, do we?"
He sighed but looked somewhat consoled. "I
suppose so, dear girl, I suppose so. We're lucky—two of our
Parliament representatives came today. They'll tell us the latest
rumors at the court and in the government."
Mattie headed inside. The hothouse was not exactly
suited for gatherings—it was a huge indoor garden, with potted
and hanging plants covering benches, walls, and ceiling. Most of the
plants she couldn't even recognize—rare, exotic blooms nodded
at her regally, iridescent blues and reds, and the air was thick with
their cloying fragrance. She distinguished the smells of roses and
orchid blossoms, of warm melting resin and sweet nectar.
The alchemists gathered between the benches, most
of them sniffing and looking at the plants with appreciation.
Bokker's collection was legendary among them, and it was the result
and the perpetuator of his wealth. Bokker did not look down on
selling his surplus, and the alchemists were always willing to buy
the plants from him. Bokker had a reputation for not being petty:
lenient with his bills and generous with his measuring scales.
Mattie followed the row of potted plants, all of
them in jubilant bloom—reds and yellows, whites and blues—and
the scents of musky lilies and earthy irises snaked into the sensors
on her lips, filling them to saturation. Still, she discerned the
smells of lush greenery and rotting peaches, the sweet decay of leaf
mulch lining the flower pots, the dark, foreboding scent of rare
orchids that twined their thick white roots around the branches of
the small trees cultivated for the purpose of being the orchids'
perch and sustenance.
She brushed her fingertips across a particularly
lush, velvet petal, bright crimson streaked with gold, and it
showered her fingers with bright yellow pollen. Her fingers smelled
of saffron.
It struck her how large the hothouse pavilion
was—two hundred alchemists milled about without jostling
against each other or banging elbows, and some managed to carry on
private conversations in soft blurred voices; despite her superior
hearing, Mattie could not make out the words, but the overall tone
seemed rather dark.
The gathering had filled an open area at the back
of the rectangular pavilion, and stragglers had to strain to hear
from the aisles between the benches. Bokker pushed past Mattie and
took his place in the opening, among the garden hoses, buckets, and
piles of peat moss. "Dear alchemists," he started from his
inauspicious perch. "I need not explain why we are gathered
here. I need not tell you that things that turn bad have a tendency
to become worse. I do need to prepare you for the blame that will be
thrown at us by the Mechanics, and I need you to restrain yourself
from blaming them back."
"He has to be kidding," the woman
standing behind Mattie whispered. Mattie had not met her before, but
her Scrying Ring hung conspicuously around her neck on a thin leather
thong. The woman spoke with a slight accent, and her dark skin
betrayed her foreign origin; no other society in the city would have
tolerated her. "He expects us just to. sit back and take it?"
Judging from the growing murmur around them, many alchemists shared
her position.
Bokker turned almost purple and raised his hands,
waiting for silence. "I do not ask for your acquiescence in the
face of accusations," he said. "I ask for your tolerance
and forgiveness. Do not lash back at those who accuse you, do not
give them an excuse to rally the people and give power to the
Mechanics. Realize that without ducal trust and support for our
society, the Mechanics will rule the city."
"They already do," someone in the front
shouted.
"Tides turn," Bokker answered
mysteriously.
The woman behind Mattie tugged at her dress.
"Excuse me," she said. "Why do the alchemists need
ducal support? I'm new here, still learning ..."
"The Dukes had always insisted that both
alchemists and mechanics are represented in the government,"
Mattie said. "They represent two aspects of creation—command
of the spiritual and the magical, and mastery of the physical.
Together, we have the same aspects as the gargoyles who could shape
the physical with their minds."
The woman nodded. "I'm Niobe," she said
to Mattie. "And I thank you for your kind explanation. No one
has been so nice to me here."
Mattie noticed the tension in the woman's
shoulders, how she carried herself—as if not quite sure what to
expect. "It's all right," Mattie said. "I'm a machine.
No one explains anything to me either."
"We will remain calm and we will be
vigilant," Bokker said. "And I propose we start with
finding out whether anyone had received any orders for explosives
lately."
"Just from the goddamned Mechanics,"
said an elderly woman to Mattie's left. "You know that. You'd
think they eat that stuff."
"That's a start," Bokker said. "Anyone
else?"
A few more alchemists said that they had filled
orders for the mechanics—their usual demolition, everyone
assumed.
Niobe cleared her throat. "How do you know
that the people who ask for explosives are really mechanics?"
She raised her voice enough for everyone to hear.
"We have a system of identification,"
Bokker explained. "The Mechanics issue medallions to their
members—unless one had graduated from the Lyceum and was
initiated, they cannot get one of those."
"Could they be faked or stolen?" Niobe
asked.
"I don't see why not," Mattie said
loudly. "It is possible."
Niobe smiled gratefully, and Mattie's heart
throbbed in sorrow. Niobe seemed so ready for anger and scorn, so
surprised at any sign of kindness . . . Mattie had to remind herself
that she really had quite enough problems of her own. Right now, she
realized that the entire gathering was staring at her and Niobe.
Bokker clapped his hands. "Everyone who
received an order, see me immediately. We will put together the list
of names and verify with the Mechanics that these people are members
in good standing and their requests were legitimate. We will also
need to find out if any medallions had been lost or stolen."
"Like they will tell us if they lost
anything," someone said—Mattie could not see who for all
the greenery. "That'll put the blame on them."
"Any thoughts?" Bokker asked.
Mattie raised her hand tentatively. "I could
find out," she said.
Bokker beamed at her. "Fabulous," he
said. "Just don't do anything foolish ... or suspicious."

"I won't."
The meeting was dismissed soon after, and Bokker
and a few others stayed behind to work on the list. Niobe and Mattie
left Bokker's house together.
"Where are you from?" Mattie asked.
Niobe kept walking in step with her, and Mattie was starting to feel
awkward about the silence.
Niobe gestured vaguely east, indicating the wide
world outside of the city walls. "Big city," she said.
"Beyond the sea.”
"Oh," Mattie said. "You were not
happy there?"
Niobe sighed. "Happy enough," she said.
"Only... how can you sleep when the night is so dark it
suffocates, how can you smell the incense in the air and wonder if
there are different places, places your heart yearns to see? Didn't
you ever wake up in the middle of the night and wonder if there are
places where the alchemists use metals and not plants? Fire and not
oil? How can you stay in one place and not want to leave?"
"I don't sleep," Mattie said. "And
I don't wonder about other places."
Niobe rounded her eyes at Mattie in mock horror,
and laughed. "Maybe you didn't have to. You live in the City of
Gargoyles, and maybe in the heart of wonder there is no more wonder
left. But I ... I so wanted to come here. I've been in this city a
month now, and I've yet to see a single gargoyle." She pouted in
disappointment.
They came to the Grackle Pond, and Mattie gestured
to one of the wrought iron benches decorating the embankment. It was
shaded by a slender cascade of willow branches, furry with pale young
leaves, and Mattie judged that here they could sit in peace, enjoying
the view and attracting little attention. "Let's rest a bit,"
she said, even though she was not tired, and drank in the thick smell
of green stagnant water and silt. She trusted Niobe—she seemed
so much like Mattie, and even though she was large and broad of
shoulder, her flesh looked hard, as if carved of wood, so unlike
Iolanda's.
Niobe plopped down on the bench and stretched her
legs, sighing comfortably. "Come on," she said to Mattie.
"Tell me about the gargoyles. You've seen them, haven't you?"
"Yes," Mattie said. She was unsure of
how much she should divulge. "Only once. They hide during the
day, and you can see them at night, if you want to, from a distance.
Or you could at one time, anyway. They slept on the roof of the
Duke's palace."
"Yes, I saw that," Niobe said. "But.
.. none of them move, and you can't tell which ones are real."
"All of them are," Mattie said. "Most
are stone, some few are still moving ... but they all turn to stone
eventually."
"We will all become one with what we were
born from," Niobe said,
Mattie stared.
"Just a saying we have," said Niobe, and
laughed and pointed at a flock of ducks and ducklings that paddled to
the shore, their black, beady eyes somehow managing an expectant
expression. "Oh, they are cute."
"Yes," Mattie said, without looking.
"What did you mean, becoming one with what we were born from?"
Niobe shrugged. "People came from the earth
and return to it once they die, and become dirt. The gargoyles are
born from stone. So they become it." She laughed again. "Or
something like that."
"What about the automatons?" Mattie
asked.
Niobe stared at the ducks that shyly wobbled ever
closer. "I don't know. We don't have anything ... anyone like
you back home."
Mattie nodded. She didn't have to ask, really—she
came from Loharri's laboratory, born of metal and coils and spare
parts and boredom; this is where she would find herself in the end,
likely enough.
Mattie was fascinated with the change in
Niobe—once they left the presence of the alchemists, Niobe
seemed a whole new woman, laughing and moving freely. This is how
Mattie felt away from judging eyes; the problem was, it only happened
when she was alone, or with the gargoyles. Or Ilmarekh.
Her thoughts turned to the Soul-Smoker and the
secrets of the souls that inhabited his weak, ravaged body. She felt
selfish that she hadn't thought of him in so long. Him or Beresta. Or
her work. She groaned a little.
"Don't be so glum," Niobe said, and
immediately clamped her hand over-her mouth. "I'm sorry. I know
the palace was important to you and your people."
Mattie nodded. "And the gargoyles. I wonder
if they will raise the palace again or if there are too few of them
left. Where will they go if they can't rebuild? Where will the Duke
and his court go?"
"I'm sure it'll work out." Niobe patted
Mattie's shoulder, and the clinking of her rings sounded muffled by
the cloth covering Mattie's metal flesh. "I'm sorry to see you
sad, and yet I'm happy that this misfortune allowed me to meet you. I
haven't made a friend here yet."
"It can be difficult here," Mattie said.
"Alchemists are not too bad—they won't be rude to you; at
least, not to your face. But the mechanics ... they're a conceited
lot, and if you aren't one of them they'll spit on you. The man who
made me isn't like that, but he too has his faults."
"I often wonder what it would be like to know
your creator," Niobe said.
Mattie inclined her head. "It is
aggravating," she said. "And humbling at times. Loharri...
he can be difficult. Possessive."
Niobe laughed. "Of course he is. You're ..."
She paused, as if looking for the right word. "You're precious,
Mattie. There's no one in the world like you. If I had made you, I
wouldn't let you out of the house."
"I suppose I should be flattered,"
Mattie said and stood. "It is nice to meet, you, really, but I
should be going."
"Oh no." Niobe grabbed Mattie's hand and
peered into her blue porcelain face. "I've offended you."
"It doesn't matter," Mattie said. "It
will pass."
Niobe stood too. "Listen. Come visit me the
next holiday, all right? I live by the market, the one on the other
side of Merchant Square. There's a jewelry shop downstairs."
"I know the place," she said. "It's
owned by other . . . easterners? Like you?"
Niobe smiled. "That's right. Will you come?"
As much as Mattie resented being treated like a
thing that could be kept indoors at one's whim, she thought that
Niobe deserved another chance. After all, where else would she find
someone as alone and mistrusted as herself? "Yes," she
said. "I will visit you. Maybe you can tell me about the alchemy
you practice."
Niobe's face brightened with a smile. "Yes!
And promise you'll do the same for me. The alchemists here seem
awfully protective of their secrets."
"They don't like outsiders."
Niobe raised her eyebrows. "Really? 1 haven't
noticed."
Mattie shrugged. "They did let you in, like
they let me in. Believe me, this is the best either of us will be
treated."
"Unless we change that," Niobe said.
"I'll see you the next holiday."
Mattie headed down the embankment, unsure whether
to go home or to visit Ilmarekh. She decided on the latter; it wasn't
just Beresta's secrets or her elusive son, but Mattie worried about
Ilmarekh, of how he withstood the assault of the ghosts inside him.
She headed west, for the city gates.


We mourn today as we will have mourned
tomorrow, and we hide in the rain gutters and the attics, we smell
dust and people's cooking. At night, we huddle on the roofs, the
shingles rough under our feet, our folded wings chafing against the
bricks of the chimneys. Sometimes, the wind blows and brings with it
the sound of quiet laughter and the smell of lilacs, the humid breath
of the water lilies in the Grackle Pond and the stench of bleach from
the factory.
We are sad that we cannot smell cool stone, the
dark moss pockmarking its surface, the rain and snow whipping its
inert bulk and slowly, imperceptibly eroding it. And as we think of
stone, we think of the things we haven't thought about in ages—of
how stone heaved and buckled and split, releasing us into the world;
of how it followed us, like the night ocean follows the moon, how it
bounded toward our hands, like a loyal dog to the beckoning of its
master. When we were many, we could breathe a barest whisper, and it
heard and obeyed, it listened. And now our voices are few and weak,
and we cannot rebuild what has been ruined.


Chapter 6
Mattie found Ilmarekh in his house on top of Ram's
Head Hill, and immediately saw that he was unwell. She cursed herself
for not thinking to bring a tonic or a strengthening elixir.
"What's wrong?" she asked Ilmarekh who
sat, wrapped in a blanket, by the roaring fire despite a warm, balmy
day outside.
He shivered in response. His teeth clattered so
loudly that no words could come out.
Mattie moved closer, stepping carefully around
dirty dishes on the floor and an occasional bowl of ash. She touched
his forehead, and her sensitive fingers registered no fever, just a
film of clammy sweat covering his brow.
It didn't take Mattie long to recognize the
symptoms of opium withdrawal—the alternating sweats and chills,
the body aches, nausea, uncontrollable sneezing and watering eyes—she
catalogued them in her mind and hurried back to her shop.
There was little to be done about that but wait it
out, but Mattie looked to diminishing the pain before cures. She
thought of buying more opium but instead decided to use what few
dried poppy flowers she had left—they would be enough to ease
Ilmarekh's suffering and let him sleep.
She ran up the stairs, the light metal of her
lower legs swinging over two steps at a time, and started her
brewing. To opium, she added lemongrass against nausea, chamomile for
a general calming, and vanilla to relax his knotted shoulders and let
him sleep.
She flew through her shop, mixing and grinding,
measuring and distilling, filtering and decanting. A plain bottle
would suffice, she said to herself. What does he care? She
rummaged through the jars and bottles and decanters crowding the
shelf over the bench, and picked up an old apothecary vial shrouded
with dust and cobwebs. She wiped the grime away and discovered on its
side an image of a gargoyle in low relief on a flat medallion
filigreed with gold.
When she was still living with Loharri, he
sometimes took her eyes away as a punishment for disobedience, and
she had to feel her way around for as much as a week. She still
remembered her delight when her fingers stumbled upon a familiar
shape and recognized it—a full, round surprise that made her
heart bubble with joy. She remembered finding the vial with the
gargoyle in it and secreting it in the folds of her dress, so she
could trace the gargoyle wings in her room, in secret, and thus defy
her blindness.
She cleaned the vial and poured her mixture into
it. Surely the man who was blind for all his life was not immune to
the joy of tactile recognition, she thought, and hurried back to the
gates, the vial wrapped in the tight coils of her fingers. The elixir
would make him better; she chased away the selfish thoughts of the
questions she would ask him once he was coherent again. She needed to
fix him, and did not dare to think beyond that.
Back in his shack, Ilmarekh had moved away from
the fire; it still smoldered, ashes wet from a carelessly dumped
bucket of water. He was now curled up on the bed, little more than a
mere straw-filled mattress.
Mattie shook her head and poked at the wet ashes
with the tip of her foot. "What are you going to do if you want
fire later?"
He shrugged, sullen at the nagging note that crept
into her voice.
"I brought you something," Mattie said,
softer now. "Please drink it."
"Does it have opium in it?" Ilmarekh
said.
"Very little—just to make you feel
better. Why?"
He either shivered or shrugged, she wasn't sure.
"When I don't smoke and my head is clear, the souls stop
talking. I want them to stop talking."
"Just drink this," Mattie said, "and
sleep—I promise they won't bother you."
"You won't . . . you won't do anything to
hurt me, will you?
From previous experience, Mattie knew that people
didn't trust her just because she mentioned her good will or kind
nature. Nowadays, she relied entirely on mercenary arguments. "Why
would I do that? I still have questions to ask you."
Her words seemed to reassure him, and he propped
himself up on one elbow, pulling a ragged woolen blanket around him.
He grasped the bottle and drank, his long white fingers twitching on
the glass, pulsating with every gulp as if they were the tentacles of
an octopus testing the strength of its suckers. He was almost
finished when his fingertips brushed across the glass medallion with
the emblazoned gargoyle, and his blind white eyes widened in
surprise.
Mattie was relieved to see a ghost of a smile
touch his lips.
"Mattie," he said. "This is a truly
lovely engraving. Thank you." He fell back on his mattress,
still clasping the vial, and was asleep before he remembered to stop
smiling.
Mattie guarded his sleep, which gave her plenty of
time to look around. She knew the Soul-Smoker was poor, she just
hadn't realized how much so. The house—the hut, if one wanted
to be honest—lacked even the most basic necessities. There was
no running water, and the fireplace seemed to be the only way to cook
meals and heat water for a bath. There was just one room, one corner
of it sagging perilously and threatening to bring down the entire
house. The wooden floors, drafty and not covered by anything but
sparse trickles of sawdust, were worn to a soft shine by the feet of
many generations of Soul-Smokers; their daily paths were clearly
visible—one led from the fireplace to the table, rickety on its
thin, deformed legs; another shot from the table to the bed and the
deep ceramic tub in the corner next to it; the third led from the bed
to the fireplace. A simple triangle enclosing a life of privation.
Mattie did not have to ask to learn Ilmarekh's
story—the Soul-Smokers were always the same, recruited from
those who had no other choice. Usually orphans, usually crippled,
those who had nowhere else to go and no one to turn for help to;
those who had no chance surviving on their own, without the Stone
Monks' dubious charity.
The orphanage run by the Stone Monks was the
northernmost building in the city, its wall just a hair's breadth
from the city wall by the northern gates. Mattie remembered coming
there with Loharri—he seemed fond of coming there, with no
other apparent purpose but to stand in front of the solid front wall,
his hands in his pockets and his disfigured face twisted in an even
more unpleasant grimace than usual. Mattie would stand next to him
and occasionally ask questions to stave off boredom.
"Why did they put it all the way here?"
she asked him once. "Their temple and the gargoyle feeders are
all by the palace."
"Noise," Loharri said in a strained
voice. "There'd be too much noise. They don't want anyone
hearing."
Mattie cocked her head to listen then, but could
not catch any sounds coming through the thick blind walls, just one
door and no windows. The stone was too thick, too solid—the
building looked like the ones in the ducal district, but the thin
lines between blocks of masonry told her that it was man-made. "Why
aren't there any windows?" she asked then.
Loharri turned around sharply and headed away. As
she hurried to catch up, her skirts flapping in the rising wind, she
caught the sharp sound of grinding teeth. "The windows give one
hope, Mattie," he said. "This is not what this place is
for."
Now, she tried to guess what sorts of horrors
happened inside, and just could not think of anything that would push
Ilmarekh and his predecessors to choose living in a tiny hut with
hundreds of ghosts haunting his every moment, never leaving him
alone; he only had time to be alone in his skin during opium
withdrawal. She realized that her own experiences had been rather
benign and limited in scope, yet it made her fear more. If they could
do this to a man, what about a girl automaton whose position in the
society was tenuous at best?
She rose from her seat on the floor with a jerking
movement, eager to do anything so as not to think the awful thoughts
that threatened to overwhelm her. She regretted spending the money on
books; she needed to hoard it, to save it, because there could be a
day when she would need to bribe people to save her life ...
Mattie collected every dirty, crusted plate strewn
on the floor and on the table, and dumped them all into the tub.
Irritated, she ran outside into the nascent rain, and found a small,
primitive well behind the house, halfway down the slope. She filled
the bucket she found by the well with water and she brought it back,
dumped it into the tub, and went back for more. She used to be a
house automaton, after all, and she scrubbed the dishes and rinsed
them in cold water, she swept the floors with a fury of a tornado,
she whirled like a broken mechanized dancer. The familiarity of the
movement comforted her momentarily, but soon was supplanted by other
memories.
She remembered Loharri's house, as a house servant
sees it—straight planes of the desks and benches and shelves
that gathered dust, her habitual irritation at the piled up parts and
flywheels and counterweight mechanisms that cluttered everywhere, and
Loharri's insistence that she mustn't touch them and yet keep the
place clean; the desolate expanses of wooden floors that needed to be
waxed. Like him or not, but he did let her go—partially, at
least.
She fetched another bucket of water and scrubbed
the floors with unnecessary force and vigor, her metal bones creaking
with the effort. The more she tried to understand what moved those
around her, the more she failed—especially with Loharri. She
remembered the women who came and went like the seasons; she
remembered his long spells of ennui and seclusion, and then visits to
the temple and the orphanage, the night stalking of the sleeping
gargoyles, immobile and light like birds. And how he always brought
her with him.
She soothed him; oh, how she soothed him. She
remembered the cool lips on her porcelain cheek, the slight trembling
of hands as they touched the metal and the whalebone inlays of her
chest, the breath fogging the window behind which her heart whirred
and ticked. The almost hungry caress of the fingertips as they traced
the outline of the keyhole on her chest, and made her heart tick
faster. The taste of human skin on her lip sensors, salty and
precipitous, and the feeling in her abdomen that some great
misfortune was about to befall her mixed with light-headed giddiness.
The smell of leather and tobacco trapped in her hair afterwards.
And then he recovered and worked in his shop, and
she cleaned, and the procession of dark-lidded women with heavy thick
hair and small, secretive smiles resumed. Women like Iolanda who
asked Mattie worrying questions. Mattie was a woman because of the
corset stays and whalebone, because of the heave of her metal chest,
because of the bone hoops fastened to her hips that held her skirts
wide—but also because Loharri told her she was one. She thought
then that he loved her; and yet, as soon as she was emancipated she
forbade him to touch her.
She dried the dishes and stacked them neatly in
the rack by the fireplace. She scrubbed the fireplace free of wet ash
and brought in a fresh armload of logs, stacked outside under a
sailcloth canopy protecting them from the rain.
Ilmarekh stirred in his sleep and sighed. Mattie
settled on the floor by the fireplace and waited for him to wake up.
She tried to keep her thoughts on a single track, from Sebastian to
gargoyles, from the Alchemists to the Mechanics. The machinery in her
head made small insect clicks, a familiar and comforting sound, and
if she listened closely, she could hear the whisper of the undulating
membrane, which, as Loharri had told her, imprinted her thoughts in
her memory.
Ilmarekh sat up and smelled the air, his narrow
nostrils flaring. "Who's here?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
"It's Mattie. I didn't want to leave you
alone."
He wrapped himself in the blanket but did not
shiver. "Thank you," he said. "You did not have to do
that. And thank you for your medicine—it is wonderful."
"Are the souls bothering you now?" she
asked.
He cocked his head, listening. "I hear naught
but whispers," he said. "Thank you. I can rarely afford
such a break."
"Why not?"
He grimaced. "It is painful. Besides, the
souls need a link to the world. If I sever this link and refuse to
open my mind to them with opium, they will go insane. And insane
souls are not a pretty sight."
Mattie thought a bit. "How long do they stay
with you?"
"Until I die," he said. "Every
blessed one of them. When I die, my original soul leads them to their
rest, and we all are free." He smiled a little. "My
predecessor died old, very old, but the one before him was quite
young. They say, he went mad from being unable to contain the
multitudes. They killed him then; I only hope that I manage longer
than he."
"I'm sorry." Mattie couldn't think of
anything else to say.
He reached out and she moved closer, to let his
spatulate fingers touch hers. "Don't be. You've been kind to me.
Kinder than anyone else. I'd like to help you."
"Just ask Beresta of the whereabouts of her
son," she said. "I mean, when they .. . the souls are
talking to you again."
"I know where he is," Ilmarekh said.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, but I didn't think it was
my place."
Mattie squeezed his hand. "Where is he?"
"Where you wouldn't look for an exile,"
he answered with a smile. "In the heart of the city. I saw him
at the temple— Beresta recognized him. She didn't tell me but I
felt it."
Mattie shook her head. "The Temple? But . . .
why didn't anyone recognize him?"
"Because people don't pay attention to those
who are covered with mud and carry buckets with gravel for the
gargoyles' feeders," Ilmarekh said, and sneezed forcefully.
"Thank you," Mattie said and stood. "I
have cleaned the house, and now you can just rest. If you wish, I can
bring you food from the market tomorrow morning."
He shook his head. "No, dear girl. Leave me
be—food does not agree with me in this state. But rest assured,
I welcome your visits."
"There has to be something else I could do,"
Mattie said.
He shook his head, mournful. "There's nothing
to be done. Just go, leave me to my silence."
Mattie walked out of the door, feeling no joy that
the object of her search was so near. She tried to imagine what it
was like for the Soul-Smoker, to be finally free of the torments of
the multitude of whispering residual lives and yet to be too ill to
enjoy the silence. If his one true happiness was just to lie on a
ratty, straw-filled mattress, his eyes open, drinking in the silence
like a desert wanderer drinks in water, what was it to her?
And yet, she couldn't shake her anger as she
walked downhill. Not at Ilmarekh but at those who chose that life for
him —just like the anger she felt when the soldier on the metal
mount called her a clunker. There were these people—she wasn't
sure exactly who they were—who kept telling them what they
could and could not be. And Mattie was quite certain that she did not
request her emancipation just so she could obey others besides
Loharri. She prayed for Iolanda's protection and help, yet she hoped
that there would never be a day she would need either.


In the night, Mattie's heels clacked ever so
loudly on the gray stone by the ducal palace. The enforcers were gone
for the night, and only chains stretched between the black and
glistening lampposts; their light was weak that night, as if its
energy was sapped by the recent disaster. And not even the gargoyles
stirred in the darkness. She was alone, as alone as Ilmarekh
currently was in his skull. She shrugged off fear the best she could.
She crossed a wide swath of cobbled pavement—it
used to surround the palace, but now that it was gone, it looked like
empty no man's land, strewn with rubble, seeded with a thick smell of
sulfur and charcoal. She circumvented the rubble heap—so much
stone!—as quickly as she could, afraid to look closer out of
the superstitious fear that there was someone watching, and he would
see and catch her the moment she locked eyes with him.
The building of the temple loomed behind the
former palace; it was a dark place, rarely visited by anyone but the
Stone Monks. And, apparently the gargoyles—they studded the
cupped roof of the temple, immobile and asleep; Mattie wondered if
they mourned their stone friends who perished in the explosion, if
the gargoyles ever mourned anyone. Mattie stopped and watched for any
sign of movement on the roof, but the gargoyles appeared soundly
asleep. No monks ventured outside in this dead hour, and she was now
far enough from the palace to smell freshness in the air, the wet
dust and stone—a reminder of the recent rain.
She passed the temple and approached the low wall
that stood there as a reminder rather than a true obstacle—one
could clear it in a single long leap if one were so inclined, and
Mattie was. She picked up her skirts with one hand, placed the other
on the mossy furry top of the wall, and vaulted over it, the springs
of her muscles coiling and propelling her with ease. She now stood in
a small courtyard that contained nothing but large stone urns
half-filled with gravel, and a single tree, long dead but still
reaching for the moon with the broken black fingers of its branches.
Mattie found the urn in which the level was the
lowest, and crouched low next to it. The feeders were refilled at
night and she waited, waited for the footsteps and clanging of the
bucket filled with shattered stone, the gargoyles' favorite food.
She did not have to wait long. Before the dawn
arrived, the low gate connecting the courtyard to the temple swung
open, and a tall figure appeared, a bucket in each hand. Mattie felt
disappointed—it had to be an automaton, to carry such a weight,
and she was about to leave her hiding place and depart, when the
figure started to whistle. The mindless automatons did not whistle,
and Mattie's heart ticked faster.
The man with the buckets walked toward her hiding
place, and as he got closer Mattie realized that his skin was the
same color as Niobe's, and she remembered that Loharri referred to
Beresta, his mother, as an easterner. She wondered how he managed to
remain hidden.
The man rested one bucket on the cobbles of the
courtyard with a dull thump, and picked up the other with both hands.
Mattie was close enough to see the ropy muscles on his arms tense
under the ragged, unbleached linen of the shirt as he dumped the
contents of the bucket into the feeder. The gravel rattled against
the stone wall of the urn, and Mattie pressed her cheek to the rough
surface, listening to the stone tumbling inside.
The man heaved up the other bucket and emptied it
into the urn. He picked up both buckets and made a move as if to
leave, but then he spun back around and looked straight at Mattie.
"Are you gonna stay in there all night, or are you gonna say
hello?"
She stood, trembling and feeling stupid. She just
assumed that as a human he couldn't see in the dark. "How did
you know I was here?"
"You're ticking, girl," he said and
cocked his head to his shoulder. "You might want to have that
checked out."
"No I don't," Mattie said. "It's my
heart, and there's nothing wrong with that."
"I was joking." His teeth glinted
briefly in the dark. "You're an automaton, aren't you? Haven't
seen one that clever before."
"Not clever enough to remember that my
heartbeat makes a sound," she said, and extended her hand. "I'm
Mattie. And you're Sebastian."
He touched her hand carefully. "My name is
Zeneis. I don't know who Sebastian is."
"I looked for you on bequest of your dead
mother," she said, looking him straight in the eyes, so lost and
dilated by darkness. "I spoke to the Soul-Smoker, and Beresta
told me to seek you out."
He hesitated just enough to convince Mattie that
he was indeed Beresta's son. "I don't—"
"Hush," she interrupted, in her best
imitation of Loharri's imperious tone. "Don't lie when there's
no need. I have no interest in anything but your mother's work. I'm
an alchemist, and I want to know what she was doing for gargoyles. Of
course, if you decide to not help me ... "
He sighed. "Dear Mattie, don't threaten those
who are stronger than you. I'll wring your little metal neck faster
than you can say 'Aqua Regis'. You were stupid to come here all by
yourself, weren't you?"
She backed away from him. He did look strong, but
Mattie suspected that she was just as powerful. The trouble was, she
did not know how to fight.
He stepped closer, and the empty buckets clattered
to the ground. "I'm sorry. I hate to hurt you, even though
you're just a mechanical thing. But I don't trust those who threaten
my safety and know my whereabouts."
"I wasn't threatening," Mattie said and
took another step back. "I was trying to help you."
Sebastian smirked. "Help, eh? I've heard that
one before. But every time someone in this city offers me help, I get
worried. And remember, you came to ask me for help, not the other way
around." He sprang forward, his arms reaching out with the speed
and strength of pistons, and grabbed Mattie's arm.
She wrenched it free, and heard the thin bones of
her forearm grind together. Shooting pain came a moment later. She
swung a fist, aiming at his jaw, but he ducked, and she just caught
the edge of his ear.
He hissed in pain. "You're really going to
get it now," he said.
Mattie raised her hands to protect her face, and
waited for the blow.


We shouldn't intervene, even if there is a girl
with the dead boy's hair, and she is cringing in anticipation of a
blow; we cannot bear the thought of her face shattered, the
underlying gears exposed for all to see. We cannot bear having to ask
another for help. And the man, we know him, as he is now and how he
used to be—and we remember that he knows about us. Still, we
shouldn't intervene.
We flap our wings, and they both freeze as they
are; she is covering her face, one blue eye looking between thin
fingers hopefully in our direction, and he—imposing—with
his shoulder thrown back, his elbow ready to release the tension of
wound muscles, the fist heavy and bony and dead, as we feel his
resolve draining away.
And then we arrive—we glide like leaves,
like gray ugly stone leaves, we descend in a graceful arc, we float.
We surround them, insinuate ourselves between them, gently pull them
away from each other. We smooth her hair and chase the fear from
every facet of her eyes, we tenderly take his hand—like a lover
would, perhaps—and unclench his fingers, rest his arm by his
side. We erase the frown from his high forehead, we smooth her dress.
We position them with caring hands, with solicitous wings, to face
one another.
"Now talk," we say, and we wait for
one of them to utter the first word.


Chapter 7
Everyone had a story; Mattie had learned that a
long time ago when Loharri explained such intricacies to her. She
remembered it well—a sunny afternoon when wide slats of
sunlight painted the dark wooden floors and striped the furniture,
giving it a semblance of trembling and very quiet life. "Sit
down," Loharri said.
She obeyed, sinking into the pillowed couch of his
living room. There would be a lesson, she thought. She wasn't yet
sure how she felt about them.
"Do you know where you came from, Mattie?"
He did not sit down but paced across the living room floor, his
stockinged feet making no sound. It irritated her, his silence of
movement—hers were not like that.
"Yes," she answered. She was already
learning to mimic some body language, and folded her hands over her
breast and inclined her head, like a child reciting poetry by rote.
"You made me just last week."
"Two weeks," he corrected. "A week
has passed; time does not stand still."
"So next week it will have been three weeks?"
she asked.
He nodded. "As time goes by, things happen to
you. You learn new things. You make yourself a story—your
story. Everybody has one."
"Do I have one?" Mattie asked. She was
not sure why but she wanted so desperately to have it.
He sighed and raked his fingers through his dark
hair that was long enough to touch his collar. "Not yet, Mattie.
But you will."
"Next week?"
He breathed a laugh. "We'll see. It takes a
bit of time, usually."
"What is your story?" she asked him
then.
"It's not important," he said, and paced
again. "Let's concentrate on making you one."
Mattie's story started in the mechanic's workshop
and continued among the shining pots in the kitchen, among the floor
wax and wide windows that gathered soot like it was precious, and
culminated in a small alchemical laboratory of her own.
And as it turned out, this is where Sebastian's
story started. He looked around Mattie's alchemical bench and smiled
at the sheep's eyes and bunches of dried salamanders like they were
old friends. "It's just like my mom's place," he said. "She
lived not too far from here."
"Eastern district," Mattie said. She
still worried a bit about his presence among so many breakable and
valuable chemicals and glassware—he seemed so awkwardly large
in the narrow, cramped space that every time he moved his arms, she
reached out involuntarily, ready to catch alembics and aludels he was
sure to knock down.
He nodded and finally stepped away from the bench
to sit down in the kitchen. "I grew up watching her work ... I
probably still remember some of the salves she used to make for
ailing neighbors."
She hurried after him, secretly relieved and
already regretting letting him into her home—it was not safe,
with Iolanda and Loharri liable to drop by. Why did he agree to come?
"So, you wanted to know about my mother's
work," he said.
"Yes," she answered. "Did she find
out how to stop the gargoyles from turning into stone?"
"They still do, don't they? No, she didn't
find the cure. She kept saying that it's the stone that held them
hostage, that they were one flesh. And only if she could break the
bond with the stone ..." He cut off abruptly and gave her a sly
smile. "This all sounds like nonsense to you, doesn't it?"
"No," Mattie said. "Not at all. It
makes perfect sense."
"This is why I became a mechanic,"
Sebastian said, and stopped smiling. "The alchemists ... you
just babble nonsense and pretend that it means something."
"It does," Mattie said. "How did
they let you into the Lyceum? You .. . you're not like them."
"My mother pulled some favors," he
answered, frowning. When he got angry, he seemed to get bigger, and
the stool under him looked ready to give up and crumble, abandoning
its duty. "But of course, once they let me in, they watched me
like a thief in a jewelry store. I could do no right. No matter what
I proposed, they refused it, and then acted like one of them came up
with that idea. And it's just relentless." He slapped his knee.
"Every day, every day!" His impassioned speech brought
color to his cheeks, and despite her preoccupation, Mattie noticed
how attractive he looked.
"You are very beautiful," she said.
He looked at her—she couldn't quite
comprehend his expression, but it reminded her of the time she first
asked Loharri for her key. "Not an hour ago, I almost hit you,"
he said, quietly and slowly. "If it hadn't been for the
gargoyles, I would've killed you; you'd be just a pile of springs and
gears. Why do you talk like that?"
Mattie realized that she had said something wrong.
"You didn't kill me, though," she said. "You're not my
enemy."
He shook his head. "How did you come to be an
alchemist, anyway? And how come the gargoyles chose you?"
"That's what I wanted to be," Mattie
said. "You became a mechanic because you were raised by an
alchemist; I became an alchemist because a mechanic made me."
He smiled at that, showing small, uneven teeth.
"Fair enough. What about the gargoyles? They seem protective of
you."
Mattie nodded. "Yes. But I don't know why
they chose me after your mother. Because we are both women? Because
we are resented for what we are?"
"You got that right," he muttered. "She
told me that the alchemists were better with the foreigners than the
mechanics, but not by much. They just take the trouble to hide it a
little."
"That's something, isn't it? I feel grateful
to even be emancipated, let alone accepted into the society."
Sebastian studied her for a while, as if
considering how she fit into his view of the world. "Emancipated,
eh? And how did you manage that?"
"I just asked my master to be an alchemist,"
she said. "As I got better, he decided that making me clean his
house was a waste, and he made me new hands and built another
automaton for housework."
"It must be nice to have someone do for you
the work you loathe," he said. There was a hint of disapproval
in his voice.
"It was a mindless automaton," Mattie
said. "Whatever the case may be, when I asked to be emancipated,
my master agreed and signed the papers. I only see him when I want
to."
"Congratulations," Sebastian said. "Who
is your master?"

"Loharri," she said. "Do you know
him?"

"A little," Sebastian said. "He's
not quite as awful as the rest of them."
"He can be pretty awful," Mattie said.
"He was the one who told me that you were exiled... but he
didn't tell me why, and neither did you."
Sebastian laughed. "I only just met you,"
he said. "Suffice it to say, I've done nothing wrong."
Mattie did not think it sufficed at all, but just
nodded her agreement. "Why are you still in the city then?"
He stood. "I still have business here,"
he said. "Do me a favor, don't tell anyone you saw me."
Mattie shook her head. "I won't. Before you
go, promise you'll tell me if you remember anything else about the
gargoyles and your mother's work."
"Will do." He stepped to the door but
paused on the threshold. "Come and think of it, I remember
something else. The gargoyles have no souls."
"Everyone knows that," Mattie said,
disappointed.
"That's what she said," Sebastian
answered with a careless shrug of his large shoulders, and left. His
heavy footsteps rattled down the stairs.
Mattie started on her daily work, potions and
salves the apothecary downstairs bought from her as often as she
offered them, her movements smooth and habitual, honed by long
repetitious hours in the same cramped space. A small window over the
workbench offered a small but welcome glimpse of the early morning
sky, pinking around the edges, the clouds gilded by the
still-invisible sun. Mattie worried if Sebastian would make his way
to the temple undetected and scolded herself—of course he
would; he survived here just fine, without her knowing or worrying
about him.
There was a cadence to the movements of her hands,
a rhythm to the small shuffling steps she took as she moved back and
forth along the bench, mixing herbs and powders, cutting the sheep's
eyes open and squeezing the clouded jelly smelling of mutton into the
bowl. Mattie tasted the air—still good, but she would need to
stop by the butcher's soon. She let her thoughts drift, and they
tumbled in her head lazily, in beat with the whirring of her insides.
Memories wafted in and out of her mind, and she watched them like a
detached observer.
When she was first made, she did not feel pain.
She fell and broke her face, and Loharri made sure that she knew
hurt. "It's for your own protection," he said. "Pain
is good—it warns you that you are about to hurt yourself."
A week later, she passed out on the floor. He took
out her key and wound her, and she flinched away. Then, he made her
feel pleasure. Being wound had been the only pleasure she knew.
Until now, she thought, until she became an
alchemist. Her hands flew, and her mind drifted, and her heart beat
in a steady happy rhythm.


Mattie left the house and headed down the street
toward the river; she meant to go to the butcher's eventually, but
for now she decided to take a walk along the embankment, away from
the paper factory toward the western district, where the trees
smelled sweet and cast cool shadows, where large, soft leaves
absorbed the noise of the traffic.
She walked through the shaded alleys, enjoying the
peace and the silence that did not belong to her. She stared at the
whitewashed fronts of the houses, at the groomed trees in front of
them. That was the only thing she missed about living with
Loharri—the quiet and self-satisfied demeanor of this
neighborhood. She felt exiled for no reason.
As she entered the streets that led to the market,
the noise grew—there was a clip-clopping of oxen hooves,
scraping of lizard claws, soft hissing of the buggies, and a clang of
metal from some indeterminate source.
"Out of the way!" She heard a voice from
behind, and bolted to the curb. She turned, to see a mechanized
contraption she hadn't seen before—it belched fire and twin
streams of steam as it crawled down the street. The contraption had
several pairs of stubby piston legs that gripped the cobbles of the
street; its jointed back bearing several chairs (empty for now) moved
in a sinusoid curve as the thing slithered down the street. A lone
mechanic presided over the front end of the contraption; he sat on a
small shelf jutting out of the monster's flat metal face, and moved
two long jointed levers.
"What is it?" Mattie shouted over the
roar and hiss of the mechanical beast as it passed her.
"It's a caterpillar," the mechanic
shouted back. "It can carry ten people at once."
"What if they are going to different places?"
Mattie asked.
The mechanic did not grace her with an answer—the
mechanics often ignored stupid questions, especially if they came
from automatons and easterners—and steered the metal
caterpillar down the street. Mattie had a feeling that soon enough
more of them would crawl through the narrow streets, displacing
pedestrians and buggies and spooking the lizards.
She realized that her feet, of their own volition,
were taking her to Loharri's house. It was only natural, she
supposed—she passed this market so many times, up the slight
incline of the ancient hill eroded almost to nothing, to the white
house almost hidden by overgrown rose bushes. Loharri paid little
mind to the plants now that Mattie, who had planted them, wasn't
there to take care of the succulent green growth that seemed to
become more audacious with every passing year. Ten years since she
first planted the roses, and now they were taking over, erecting
themselves into a formidable hedge. The first pale and red blooms
studded the thorny branches, a decoy of beauty hiding their murderous
intentions. Mattie imagined that one day the plants would take over
the house and bury Loharri within . . . she could almost live with
this thought, if it weren't for the key he wore around his neck.
Mattie circled the house to check on the plants in
the back yard, and she had to fight her way through the roses that
crowded the path leading to the back door and grabbed at her skirts
with their thorns. She tried the back door—unlocked as usual,
and she pushed it open.
Despite the brilliant light outside, the kitchen
remained subsumed by velvety dusk. This home had a special quality of
light and air about it; it softened and gilded everything inside, and
it was kind. Mattie's eyes needed a second to adjust to it, and the
familiar objects came into focus—the generous hearth, the
glinting of kettles and pans suspended over the table in the middle,
the reassuring solidity and slight woody smell of the cutting boards,
the automaton in the corner .. .
The presumed automaton turned to face Mattie and
she belatedly realized that it was a woman—scandalously
under-dressed at that, lacking her corset and bustle and even a
skirt, wearing only a white shift flimsy enough to reveal the curvy,
fleshy body underneath.
Mattie looked away quickly. "I'm sorry,"
she said.
"Don't be," said the familiar voice. "I
was just getting a drink of water. How've you been?"
Mattie dared to look up into the woman's face.
"Iolanda."
Iolanda shrugged and the thin strap of her shift
slid off, revealing a round and freckled shoulder. "You seem
surprised."
"I didn't think . . . you liked him,"
Mattie said.

Iolanda moved closer, silent on her bare feet. "I
don't," she whispered. "And yet, here I am. And here you
are."

Mattie reached for the door. "I'll come back
later."
"It's all right," Iolanda said, and
grabbed Mattie's wrist. "Don't be so uptight." She dragged
Mattie along, yelling, "Loharri! Look what I found!"
He was in his workshop, thankfully dressed. "You
don't have to scream your head off," he said. "Don't they
teach you any manners at the palace?"
"There is no palace," Iolanda said
cheerfully. "The Duke is moving."
"Where?" Loharri and Mattie said in one
voice.
"To his summer mansion, by the sea." She
gestured vaguely east, and laughed.
Mattie thought that she had never yet seen Iolanda
like that—so energetic, so giddy, crackling with some hidden
excitement. And the fact that she was here and undressed ... she
decided to ponder the implications later, when she wasn't so
distracted.
Loharri apparently thought the same. "What
are you so happy about?" he murmured, and pretended to study a
copper spring with greater attention than it warranted. "Eager
to bathe in the sea?"
Iolanda giggled with a girlishness Mattie had not
suspected in her. "I'm not going," she said. "I'm
staying here. A whole bunch of us are."
"By 'us' you of course mean 'courtiers',"
Loharri said, dropping the spring on the workbench and picking up a
half-assembled clockwork heart—another automaton, Mattie
guessed.
"Yes!" Iolanda clapped her hands. "You
should hear the marvelous rumors ..."
"I hear them all day long, and there's
nothing marvelous about them," Loharri said. "If they call
one more emergency session, I'm going to leave this wretched city and
go to the sea with the Duke."
"You won't," Iolanda said. "You
love this place as much as I do, and you are dying to find out what's
going on."
Loharri shook his head. "Children," he
said. "You are all dumb, spoiled children who don't recognize
danger because you have no concept of what it is. People died in that
palace, you know."
Iolanda pouted. "Don't be a spoilsport. There
weren't that many—maids and cooks, and that's it."
"And of course they don't matter,"
Loharri said, frowning.
"I never said that. It's just that there
weren't many people hurt. Just automatons." She huffed and spun
around, and danced out of the workshop.
Loharri smiled at Mattie. "Speaking of
automatons. What can I do for you?"
You can give me my key, she wanted to say.
Instead she asked, "Have you seen those mechanical
caterpillars?"
"Oh yes," he said. "Adorable,
aren't they? And with their legs they don't damage the streets as
much as buggies, or even lizard's claws. And they can run faster than
either of those. It'll cost a bit to build a few more and establish
regular routes, but in the long run they'll pay for themselves in
repair costs."
"I don't like them," Mattie said.
Loharri shrugged. "It's just too bad then.
You came all the way to voice your grievance with the mechanics' way
of running the city? Did your society send you?"
"No," Mattie said. "But we are
doing our own investigation. Can you help me?" She folded her
hands pleadingly.
Loharri sighed. "Why do you always have to
ask for things?"
"Because I cannot get them myself," she
said with a coquettish tilt of her head. "Will you help me?"
"Depends on what you need," he said.
Mattie thought a bit. She did not want to tell him
too much, yet she saw no other way of obtaining the information she
wanted but direct request. Breaking into the office where the
mechanics kept their records seemed risky, and Bokker told her not to
do anything dangerous. "Can I trust you with a secret?" she
asked, although she knew the answer.
He seemed startled. "Yes," he said. "Of
course. Have I ever betrayed your confidence?"
"No."
"What do you need then?"
"Just some of the mechanics' records. Nothing
big, just if you issued any replacement medallions at any point—we
think that someone could've ordered explosives by pretending to be a
mechanic."
"I can do that," Loharri said. "This
is not a bad idea, actually."
"You wish you had thought of that?"
Mattie said.
"We have an even better idea," he said.
"I can't wait until the alchemists learn of it—they'll
pitch a fit. I would bet money that they'll try to block us from
getting to the city funds, but the Duke's not here to lend them his
support, so I believe there is nothing they can do." He laughed
softly.
Mattie knew him well enough to realize that only
an invention he had an immediate interest in would please him so.
"What is it?" she asked.
"A machine," he said. "An
automaton, but without a body, just pure mind, like yours—only
bigger. It's like a hundred of your brains stuck together, made for
analysis. We tell it what happened, and it figures out who had the
most to gain and therefore who is responsible, and what we should do
next. Amazing, no?"
"Wouldn't its answer change depending on what
you told it?" Mattie asked.
Loharri stopped smiling and squinted at her in
suspicion. "Of course it would. So we'll just tell it
everything."
"You don't know everything," Mattie
said. "No one does."
Loharri frowned now. "Seriously, Mattie. We
certainly know enough about this city and what's happening here to
give it enough information to figure things out. And imagine, a
rational machine that can figure out the future! We won't need the
Stone Monks' cryptic advice anymore . . . not that I ever thought it
was useful, but maybe with this machine others will realize how
ridiculous they are."
"Maybe," Mattie said. "I just doubt
it would be much more reliable."
"I doubt you know what you're talking about,"
Loharri said. His scar paled, and the skin around it turned a shade
short of purple, indicating an alarming redistribution of blood.
"Come by the Parliament building tomorrow morning, I'll have the
list of missing medallions for you. But now, I'm busy."
"Thank you," Mattie said.
Iolanda waited for her in the kitchen, by the
door. "I'll come by later," she whispered, her lips urgent
and warm by Mattie's ear. "I'll have a big order for you."
Mattie walked all the way to the slaughterhouse on
the southern edge of the city. Troubled thoughts churned in her mind,
like they had been doing lately. She considered Iolan-da's semi-naked
presence in Loharri's house and her giddy excitement about the
demolition; she thought of Sebastian and his words about the
gargoyles, but even more so she tried to find a benign reason for
him, a mechanic who had more than a passing familiarity with alchemy,
to be in such close proximity to the palace. No matter how she turned
it in her head, she failed, and she could not help but feel
suspicious.
She passed a factory belching fire and steam,
obscuring the sky. It was a bad area, surrounded by the slums where
small workshops threw together crude automatons destined for the
mines and factories. She had heard rumors that people worked in the
mines too—they were more flexible, and could reach the more
distant passages. Their fingers were also quick and precise, and if
there was an avalanche or a collapsed mine, they were cheaper to
replace than the automatons.
There were several caterpillars running at full
speed toward and away from the factory, carrying metal from the mines
just south of the wall, in the hills. The dull glint of copper and
iron grew brighter in the light cast by the factory flames, and
Mattie smelled sulfur and hot metal on the wind. She hurried past—she
did not like the factory, and after it the sight of the
slaughterhouse seemed a relief.
The butchers knew her by sight, as they did most
alchemists—they waved her past the killing floor to the large
wooden barrels filled with offal. She nodded to a few colleagues who
were already picking through the barrels, their noses pinched shut
with wooden clips. Mattie did not find the smell unpleasant, and
moved leisurely. She grabbed a sheet of wax paper from the stack by
the barrels, and walked along the row of barrels, looking for eyes.
She noticed a tall woman bent over a barrel, her
skin a familiar dark hue. "Niobe," she called.
The woman looked up and smiled. "Mattie,"
she said. "I didn't know you people used animal parts."
"I didn't know you did."
Niobe held up a glass jar, half filled with
sloshing of dark and thick blood. "We don't. But I've learned
some blood alchemy in my travels." She handed the jar to Mattie.
"What does it do?" Mattie asked.
Niobe smiled still. "Come on. Get your
eyeballs, and I'll show you."


Chapter 8
The streets in the city run like veins in a
leaf, like paths in our very own labyrinth. We keep our hand on the
wall at all times as we follow, unseen, gray on gray stone. We
flatten ourselves against the stones, and we crawl in small and swift
movements, like monstrous geckos. We follow the two women—one
mechanical, the other alien to us, foreign—a child of shifting
sand dunes and red earth, not of stone. Both smell of blood and
hidden excitement, both carry jars filled with dark and viscous
redness; it sloshes as they walk, laps at the walls of the jar with
quiet hissing, and it reminds us of the ocean we've never seen but
often imagined.
We think it amusing that lately we cannot love
our children—children of stone, children that came from those
who first settled in our creation; they do not seem to love us
either. They have destroyed what we have built, and they think of us
no longer. Our feeders are not refilled today, and we go hungry. It
seems fitting somehow.
We remember another woman born of red earth on
the other side of the sea. We remember her thin arms, fingers like
bird claws. Her face covered in a cobweb of wrinkles, her dark-hooded
fatigued eyes. Her soft, accented voice, always warmed by the elusive
promise of salvation.
"Why did you turn to me?" she asked
us, at a time when her hands were too tired to move and her heart was
ready to give out. Why me, a plaintive cry of every lone soul
in this city, alone as the day they were horn.
We cannot explain this feeling, this stirring,
wistful like the smell of linden blooms in the blue moonlit night. We
only feel, we feel the absence of love from the stone, from the city,
we feel uprooted from our soil. And we seek salvation from all the
unloved children of the world.


On the way, Niobe relented under Mattie's pitiful
stare (she extended her eyestalks for that very purpose), and
confided that blood alchemy had many uses—love spells and
divinations, as well as darker purposes. She told Mattie that in her
homeland the blood homunculi were used to temporarily trap restless
spirits, forcing them to divulge their secrets and use their
incorporeal nature to peek into the time yet unwashed over the world
but accessible to spirits, unmoored as they were from their physical
confines.
"How far into the future can they see?"
Mattie asked, fascinated.
Niobe smiled. "It's unpredictable. Sometimes
they confuse future and past, or even present—it is all the
same to them. Know where we could catch a few spirits?"
"Yes," Mattie said. "The
Soul-Smoker has them all. But I doubt he'd give any of them up."
"Soul-Smoker?" Niobe asked, frowning.
"What's that?"
Mattie explained what Soul-Smokers did for a
living, and told Niobe about Ilmarekh and his sad state.
"Isn't anyone happy in this place?"
Niobe said.
Mattie considered her answer. "Some are. All
are, at one time or another. I'll bet even Ilmarekh is happy
occasionally."
"That's not what I meant," Niobe said
but did not elaborate further. Instead, she quickened her step and
sang a tune Mattie was not familiar with, swinging the blood-filled
jar in rhythm with her song.
Mattie hurried after, intensely curious about the
blood alchemy now. "I wonder if Ilmarekh would agree to let us
trap a soul or two before he gets to them. Or maybe he'd think it's
cruel."
Niobe laughed. "Patience, Mattie. Let me show
you some simple stuff today. Besides, if I go to see the Soul-Smoker
with you, won't he steal my soul too?"
"He doesn't steal them." Mattie felt
protective of Ilmarekh. "It's just your soul might decide to
join the rest; believe me, he doesn't need another voice whispering
to him."
"He must be crazier than a fighting fish,"
Niobe said. "You have strange friends."
"Only strange people want to be friends with
a machine," Mattie said.
Niobe laughed. "I suppose so."
Mattie caught up to Niobe, and looked around. They
were in the part of the district she rarely visited, and she realized
that there were many dark faces among the passersby. It made sense to
her, she supposed, that foreigners settled close to each other—people
seemed to like company of their own kind.
Niobe seemed to know many people—she
constantly smiled and waved, and people smiled and waved back. The
smells that wafted from the doors and windows, open on account of
warm weather, set Mattie's sensors afire with their strangeness—she
recognized sandalwood and incense of some sort, fermenting bread,
fresh berries, and unfamiliar cooking.
"There seem to be a lot more of your people
here since I last visited," Mattie said.
Niobe shrugged. "People move, they bring
their families. They help each other too—when I first came, I
had nothing with me but my bag and an address. And these people were
strangers to me back home, but here they treated me like family, took
me in, helped me find a place. Without them, I would never have
figured out how to join the society and apply for an alchemist's
license. We have to stick together—I bet you stick together
with your own kind too."
Mattie shook her head. The vision of the automata
at the mechanics' gathering moving along the walls in a blind,
shambling procession, deaf and dumb and as unaware of the world as
the tables around them, flashed in her mind. She wanted nothing to do
with them.
"Why not?" Niobe persisted,
simultaneously making a pretend scary face at a gaggle of small
barelegged children that ran through the streets with an air of great
joyful purpose.
"I'm not like them," Mattie said, "Well,
most of them. There are a few intelligent automatons around; a few of
them are even emancipated. But you know, nobody likes making them.
And they ... we don't even like ourselves."
"I'm surprised to hear that." Niobe
turned into a street too narrow for proper traffic, animated by just
a few pedestrians. There was a low buzz in the air, a suppressed
droning of a multitude of voices at a distance, and Mattie guessed
that they were getting closer to the market. "I would think that
intelligent automatons would be valuable."
"They are expensive," Mattie said, "but
not valuable at all. We make poor servants—one advantage
automatons have is that they don't talk back or complain. Very few
tasks need an actively engaged mind."
"And the mechanics and the alchemists have it
covered," Niobe said. "I understand."
The market had become larger too, and Mattie
regretted not visiting it more often. There were quite a few booths
that sold herbs and minerals and bits of rare wildlife. She couldn't
help but stop every few steps, craning her neck at a lovely display
of boars' hooves or bottles with golden oil of uncertain origin.
Niobe followed her, asking occasional questions
about the use of plants. She seemed curiously ignorant of their
properties, and Mattie quite enjoyed explaining that two piles of
small dried blue flowers were, in fact, quite different—one was
lavender, the other veronica, and each had its own properties.
Niobe sniffed at the flowers and laughed, and told
Mattie that where she came from, all plants were subdivided into
blood plants and water plants, plants with yellow sap, and plants
that cured nausea. She scoffed at dried salamanders and insisted that
only live ones were suitable for harnessing elemental powers, she
lingered over large shapeless chunks of rock, her long fingers
tracing the silvery veins of precious metals and her soft voice
reciting their affinities to sulfur or volcanic fire. Mattie could
not remember the last time she had been able to lose herself in
conversation so completely.
She lost track of time as well, and the sun was
starting to tilt west when they finally emerged from the battleground
of the markets, both loaded with precious ingredients and professing
mutual surprise at how little they managed to spend in the face of
overwhelming temptation.
They entered one of the side streets, and Mattie
recognized the jewelry store—the only one in the city that
carried lapis lazuli, mother-of-pearl, and large chunks of amber.
Mattie used to come there with Loharri—he picked through the
precious stones for his projects, while she browsed through the piles
of amber, looking for pieces with entrapped insects or bubbles of air
from long ago.
As if answering her thoughts, Loharri emerged from
the doorway of the jewelry shop. His sharp eyes slid over Mattie to
her companion and lingered a bit, before meeting Mattie's gaze.
"Slumming?" he said. "Don't worry, I am too. Who's
your friend?"
"I'm Niobe," Niobe said. "Forgive
me for not shaking your hand." She shrugged apologetically at
her many parcels.
"Forgiven," Loharri said. "What's
in the jar?"
"Sheep's blood," Niobe said. "What's
your name?"
Loharri frowned a bit. "Loharri's my name. I
am a member of the order of Mechanics. Surely you've heard of us?"
Niobe nodded. If she felt out of place or
intimidated, she didn't show it, and Mattie marveled at the
difference in her demeanor compared to the latest alchemists'
meeting. "I've heard of you. You're the ones who build all those
factories that make it impossible to take a stroll by the river."
Mattie cringed—Loharri didn't like being
challenged, or addressed in such a familiar manner.
Loharri produced the coldest smile in his
repertoire. "Everything has its price. Yet, we managed to do
some good—I'm the maker of your friend," he said, pointing
at Mattie. "I'm sure she mentioned me."
"In passing," Mattie said. She found it
easier being rude to him while Niobe was nearby. "Niobe's an
alchemist, too."
"I noticed." Loharri gave a cursory nod
of his head. "You will excuse me, but I have a business meeting
to attend. I'll see you tomorrow, Mattie."
Niobe turned and watched him disappear behind the
corner. She then smiled at Mattie. "Quite a character."
"Yes," Mattie said, undecided on whether
she should feel proud of Loharri or embarrassed by him.
"What happened to his face?"
"I don't know," Mattie said. "He
rarely tells me anything about himself."
Niobe sighed and started up the stairs. "They
never do," she remarked in a low voice, apparently addressing
herself more than Mattie.
Niobe's craft proved to be as difficult as it was
fascinating. In her cramped laboratory, smaller than Mattie's and
twice as cluttered, Mattie learned to burn blood and refine it
through a long, sinuous alembic; Niobe showed her how to mix the
blood essence—black powder that smelled of burned horn and
rust, and crumbled in Mattie's fingers—with the viscous resin
of rare trees, how to shape the resulting sticky mass into tiny
figure and imbue the lifeless homunculus with powers curative or
destructive—it didn't seem to matter to the homunculus, who
absorbed poison or antidote with equal ease.
Niobe spoke at length about the properties of
blood—its affinity with metals and earth, its ability to
transform any element to its most basic and potent character. Its
love of human flesh, the command it held over human mind, the raw
power of both healing and ruin.
"Would your potions work on automatons?"
Mattie asked.
Niobe shrugged. "I never tried it, but I
think so. You are made of metal..."
"And bone," Mattie interjected.
"Whalebone."
"And human hair," Niobe said, looking
over Mattie's short dark locks that barely reached her shoulders.
"That's unusual."
"Yes," Mattie agreed. "I don't know
of any other automatons who are made this way—I don't even know
why Loharri made me like this."
"Do you know where he got the hair?"
Mattie shook her head.
Niobe smiled, stretched, and stepped away from the
bench. She had to light the lamp as the darkness gathered outside,
and the high, tense voices of the children fell silent and were soon
displaced by those of adults, coming from the people carrying
leisurely conversations, sitting on their porches or standing by
their windows, chatting with the neighbors across the street—a
street so narrow that people on opposite sides could almost touch
hands if they wished to do so.
Mattie stood by the window, listening to the night
voices— more resonant, it seemed, than during the day, and
kinder, more sedate, lulled by the evening meal and impending sleep.
Many spoke in a language Mattie did not understand, but the sound
soothed her all the same.
The house across the street from Niobe's workshop
had its windows open, and the second floor apartment had a window
box, brimming with blooming lavender and small irises, blue like the
night, bright white arrows on their lower lips shining in the
darkness. Mattie smelled the sweet and bitter aroma of the flowers.
Niobe stood by her side. "This is my favorite
time of day," she said. "I feel that I will grow to love
this city."
"I like it too," Mattie said. "I
feel... invisible and yet a part of it."
"Invisible is good," Niobe said.
"Loharri doesn't understand that,"
Mattie said. "He always wanted to show me off, even when I
thought I'd rather die than go out."
"Of course he doesn't understand." Now
that they were alone Niobe did not bother to hide her contempt. "Even
that scar of his . . . How do you expect him to know shame if he
never had to hide in his life?"
Mattie shrugged, the metal bones in her shoulders
grating together with a long dry whisper. "Maybe he has. I know
so little about him. He has many lovers, and other mechanics hate
him—that's it, really."
Niobe laughed. "Who would've thought?"
"But it's true," Mattie said. "Why,
just today..." She broke off, suddenly remembering Iolanda's
whispered promise.
"What?" Niobe prompted.
Mattie shook her head. "Nothing. I just
remembered something. I have to go."
"It's getting late anyway." Niobe
yawned. "Stop by soon, all right? I like working with you."
"I will," Mattie promised. "Thank
you for teaching me—I'll teach you next time."
She clattered down the stairs and into the
sweet-smelling night streets. The eastern district was vast, and she
had a long way home before her. She decided to run.
She picked up her skirts, her bag of offal and the
jar of blood tucked under her arm, and she ran like the wind. Loharri
discouraged her from running—her joints were delicate, and he
did not want them to wear out too soon. Mattie decided that one time
would not hurt her; besides, she enjoyed running.
Her feet struck the cobbles with an alarmingly
loud noise, but Mattie did not care. The cool breeze washed over her
porcelain face, and thick locks of her hair streamed behind her, like
the wings of a night bird. Her skirts, awkward and bulky, hitched by
her knees, rustled as she ran. She needed no air, and she felt no
fatigue, but the rhythmic motion helped her think.
She felt closer to Niobe than anyone else. She
loved Ogdela, but the old woman had never forgotten about the gulf
between her and Mattie. Niobe was less polite than Ogdela, and
occasionally her comments made Mattie self-conscious; yet, there was
less of a chasm between them. Mattie resolved to teach Niobe her
favorite formulae, even the ones she discovered herself and guarded
as jealously as any other alchemist would.
She slowed only once she saw her house and the
apothecary sign in its downstairs windows. She straightened her
skirts and walked up with calm steps, expecting to find an angry note
from Iolanda or a bored messenger.
Instead, she discovered Iolanda her own self. The
joviality of the morning had disappeared, and she frowned at Mattie
and rose from the steps where she sat like a commoner. "Where
have you been?"
Mattie held up her parcel and the jar of blood.
Iolanda's nose wrinkled. "That's disgusting.
And it smells like a dead sheep."
"Would you like to come in?" Mattie
asked, and led the way up the stairs.
Once inside, Iolanda marched straight to the
kitchen. "Can I trouble you for some liquor?" she asked, a
shade more politely than before.
Mattie poured her a glass of currant brandy she
kept for especially distraught visitors.
Iolanda tossed it back with one swift motion and
grimaced. "Thank you," she said. "I've been getting
quite a chill."
"My apologies," Mattie said mildly. "You
didn't give me an exact time, and I had errands to run."
"I understand," Iolanda said. "In
any case, I have a request for you. Just give me a second to collect
my thoughts."
Mattie poured her another glass and waited,
patient, as the fireflies outside lit up, one by one, yellow in the
blue and thick darkness. Mattie wondered where they came from.


Mattie's memories had shapes—some were
oblong and soft, like the end of a thick blanket tucked under a
sleeping man's cheek; others had sharp edges, and one had to think
about them carefully in order not to get hurt. Still others took on
the shapes of cones and cubes, of metal joints and peacock feathers,
and her mind felt cluttered and grew more so by the day, as she
accumulated more awkward shapes, just like Loharri collecting more
and more garbage in his workshop.
To remember things, she had to let them come to
her, as the sounds and the sights around prompted and jostled some of
the shapes loose; otherwise, she had to pick among the clutter,
despairing of ever finding the pertinent piece of her past in the
chaos.
Seeing Iolanda sitting in her kitchen,
absentmindedly rolling the empty glass—back and forth, back and
forth— between her soft palms reminded Mattie of another night
in this kitchen, a year or two ago.
Loharri had showed up unexpectedly then; it was
raining, and his black wool suit was soaked through, and the overcoat
hung in heavy folds impregnated with water, like the broken wings of
a gargoyle. Water pooled in the brim of his hat as in a rain gutter.
"Do you have anything to drink?" he asked.
Mattie always kept a bottle for her clients—most
of them needed it before they could speak freely of their troubles
and ailments, of their need to make the garden grow or to fix the
crooked spine of a spiteful child, of their misery. Back then,
business was better than today—people would still rather buy a
potion to make a servant sleep less and work harder in preference to
buying an automaton, they still trusted alchemists more than
mechanics. She had many clients, and bought a bottle of fruit brandy
a week.
Loharri sat down heavily, not bothering to remove
his rain-soaked overcoat; she had to free his listless arms from the
sleeves and carefully lift the hat off his head, trying not to spill
more water than was unavoidable. She hung the overcoat on the back of
a chair by the burning stove and poured him a glass.
Loharri drank and then he talked. Mattie had not
seen him like this before, even though she was familiar with his mood
swings and proclivity to ennui. The words poured out of his mouth in
a constant stream, and Mattie understood little of it. He spoke of
people she had never met, of places she had never visited.
"Why are they afraid of us?" he said,
plaintively. "We are just trying to help; we're making things
better. Without us, they wouldn't even have running water, and yet...
"
His voice trailed off, and Mattie considered if it
would be impolite to ask who 'they' were; she guessed that 'we'
referred to the Mechanics.
"You are my only hope, Mattie," he
muttered, alcohol blurring his voice. "You are the only
worthwhile thing I've ever done."
"I'm not a thing," Mattie said.
"It's not the point," he answered. "The
point is that I have nothing besides you."
She comforted him the only way she knew how—she
let him stroke her hair with his trembling fingers, the bone-white
cuff of his shirt brushing against her cheek. She tolerated his
searching, restless hands, let them entangle in her locks; she let
him pull her close and touch her face with his lips.
He let her go. "I'm so sorry," he
whispered, and poured himself another drink.
Then he talked again, about the oppressive walls
and the dark skies that thundered and spewed lightning, of the stone
closing in, of the strange malaise of the mind that made one
reluctant to think, to break away from the tyranny of the gargoyles'
city. No matter how the Mechanics modified and rebuilt it, the
ancient unease remained, threatening to wake up at any moment and to
engulf them all, pull them back into the stone the city was born
from; then he talked about the new road the Mechanics were blasting
through the hills, the road that would reach the sea and bring in
prosperity and reason.
"Shh," Mattie said and stroked his
shoulder. "Have another drink."
He obeyed, then fell silent and brooded awhile,
and Mattie kept stroking his shoulder, unsure whether she was still
responsible for giving him comfort, or if she were free enough to
tell him harshly to go home.
She could never quite bring herself to hate
him—she teetered on the brink often, never crossing over. She
had learned resentment and annoyance while being with him, and cold
gloating joy; but there was also contentment and sympathy, and pity
and gratitude.
"This city watches you, always," he
murmured. He pulled Mattie closer, his arms wrapping about her waist
and his face buried in her skirts. Mattie thought then that it was
rather sad that he sought comfort by embracing a machine—the
construct that was not built to give it. But she tried, and the
trying threatened to rend her heart in half.


This memory was so vivid that she could not help
but clasp her hands together.
Iolanda looked up from her glass, and smiled
sheepishly. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was lost in
thought there."
"Me too," Mattie said.
"What were you thinking about?" Iolanda
asked. "Loharri," Mattie answered. "He seems so
vulnerable sometimes."
Iolanda raised her eyebrows and took another sip
from her glass. "Really? I did not see it in him."
"Maybe not." Mattie sat on the stool by
the kitchen table—she was not tired, but she knew people
appreciated being on the same eye level as their interlocutors. "What
were you thinking about?"
"My order for you," she said. "It's
not easy for me to ask it .. . but can you make something that would
compel a person to listen to me?"
"To listen or to obey?" Mattie asked.
Iolanda shrugged. "Either would be fine. I
need someone's attention to persuade them, but if you can help that
persuasion I will not say no."
Mattie watched the fireflies flickering outside.
She knew about compulsion; she understood coercion—like only an
automaton with the key in somebody else's hands could understand.
True enough, Loharri was good—he never threatened her with the
key, but the very fact that he could if his heart turned that way was
enough.
And yet, if she was coerced, was it wrong of her
to do it to others? "Who is it for?" Mattie asked.
"Your master," Iolanda answered, not
looking away. "I promise I won't harm him."
"No," Mattie said slowly. "It's all
right. I don't really mind if you do."
Iolanda arched an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
Fireflies crowded by the window; the lone lamp in
her kitchen must've looked like one of their brethren to them,
trapped inside an incomprehensible, impenetrable barrier, alone like
an air bubble trapped in amber. The poor sods strained to get
through, not realizing that any semblance of kinship or recognition
was just an illusion, and there was nothing hidden from sight; there
was nothing but the surface, and the surface lied.
"Yes," Mattie said. "Do as you
will. You want him to love you? To tell you secrets?" She tapped
her metal fingers on the jar lid, sending waves through the red
sticky liquid inside. "I'm learning some new tricks, and I will
bind him to you by blood, I will twist him to your liking."
"Something tells me you would want more than
money for this service," Iolanda said. Her high cheekbones
flushed with color, alcohol or excitement, joy or fear, and who could
tell them apart anyway. "What do you want?"
"My key," Mattie answered. "All I
ever wanted was my key and he has it. You can't steal it, it is bound
to him. But he can give it to you, and he won't give it to me."
Iolanda touched Mattie's hand. "You poor
thing," she whispered. "I had no idea."
"Do you understand then?"
Iolanda nodded. "Show me a woman who
wouldn't. I promise I'll try to get you your key back."
"Don't promise," Mattie said. "Just
try. As for the rest, it is not my concern."
Iolanda rose from her seat. "Bind him well,"
she said. "And I will see you soon."


Chapter 9
Mattie went to the eastern gates to see the Duke
and his court depart from the city. Despite the public telegraphs
reassuring the populace that the measure was temporary, an uneasy air
hung over the mostly silent crowd, occasionally punctuated by the
crying of infants, which did little to lighten the mood.
"I can't believe this is happening,"
said a woman in a dress grown murky-gray from too many washes.
The man standing next to her nodded, but his eyes
kept glancing away from her at Mattie. "Oh, it's happening all
right." He spat on the ground, undeterred by the dense crowd.
"His father must be trying to crawl out of his grave by now. The
Stone Monks should be denouncing his treason from every roof, and
it's about time they did something useful. Disgrace, that's what it
is."
The first buggies carrying the courtiers and the
servants, flanked by shambling columns of automatons, passed the
crowd. There were a few boos and a few restrained curses, but most of
the people remained silent. Apparently, Mattie was not the only one
who took the Duke's leave at its symbolic value.
She looked over the crowd, moving her eyes
separately to focus on different parts of the gathering; she saw a
few familiar alchemists, but did not feel compelled to greet any of
them. She looked for Iolanda or Niobe, and hoped not to see Loharri.
Whatever happened between them, she did not feel eager to face the
man she had betrayed. She did not go to the mechanics' lodge the day
before; she did not retrieve the information about the missing
medallions. I'll do it tomorrow, she thought, or the day
after, or perhaps the day after that. Whenever she could bear the
look of his slanted heavy hazel eyes that always seemed to see right
to her heart and always forgiving her—even when she had done
nothing that needed to be forgiven. Now at least he would have a
reason.
The crowd shifted, breathing, sniffling, like a
large animal. A small girl held high above the crowd on her mother's
shoulder sang in a small shy voice, and people whispered. Mattie's
sensitive ears picked up bits of conversation nearby and farther
away. The Duke's leave did not sit well with anyone.
"The gargoyles didn't leave," a male
voice behind Mattie said. "The Stone Monks are still with us.
Why is he so special that his hide needs to be saved before the
city?"
"What's he gonna do?" someone else
asked.
"Nothing, like he done nothing for years. The
Parliament will decide, and the Parliament will run things like they
always have. Nothing's gonna change."
"He was only here to sit pretty in the
palace," the man who spoke first said. "If he ain't gonna
do that, why does he think he can tax us?"
The murmur hushed when the sound of screeching
metal and heavy pounding reached down the street. Mattie stretched
her eyes as far as they would go, and she glimpsed the rest of the
procession, up the hill—the giant lizards resplendent in their
brown and gold scales, their claws tipped with mercury and silver,
dragged open carriages behind them. As they pulled closer, Mattie saw
a number of well-dressed people swathed in yards of silk and brocade
stiff with gems and rich thread as they smiled and waved at the crowd
from the carriage. The Duke himself, a middle-aged clean-shaven man
with kind and tired eyes, held hands with his wife; their daughters,
all pretty and haughty in their youth, looked straight ahead of them,
pointedly ignoring the rabble catcalling to them. A few more men and
women crowded together; normally, the Duke's favor conferred certain
advantages to them, but now they looked fearful, realizing that the
favor of a powerful man often had a downside.
The enforcers in full armor drove in small
buggies, surrounding the carriages with a protective shield; but
those who had foresightedly brought vegetables in regrettable
condition were not deterred from throwing them. The enforcers made a
move toward the crowd, and the vegetables ceased.
Mattie looked up the street, at the approaching
caravan of mechanical caterpillars that hissed with steam and carried
the courtiers, dressed somewhat less extravagantly than the ducal
family and their favorites. They were less protected by the
enforcers, and whatever produce remained in the hands of the
displeased populace was thrown at them with guilty alacrity and a few
constrained verbal outbursts.
Mattie was ready to turn away as the first
carriages of the procession approached the eastern gates, leaving the
city with a leaden finality, telegraph's reassurances
notwithstanding.
It was almost as though a part of the city was
detaching itself, leaving the place incomplete somehow, although not
necessarily worse. There was a sense of freedom in having a piece
missing, in having a void that could be filled with something new.
A man jostled past her; he was garbed in the habit
of the Stone Monks, but did not move with the usual humility of the
clergy—be strode through the crowd, parting it with his heavy
shoulder. Mattie stepped aside, giving way, and so did a few of her
neighbors.
The man walked past, and only then Mattie noticed
that his right hand was deep in the pocket of his robe. Just as she
thought that he was about to hurl a spoiled apple or a turnip at the
courtiers and judged such behavior inappropriate for a monk, the man
pushed into the street, steps away from the ducal carriage.
The object he extracted from his robe was neither
a fruit nor a vegetable, but a large clear bottle filled with thick
transparent fluid.
The enforcers turned the buggies toward him,
screaming warnings. Some of them drew muskets and leveled them at the
man, still imploring him to step back.
The man swung and threw the bottle at the carriage
and ducked into the crowd just as the first shots rang out. And then
all was chaos—Mattie was pushed and almost knocked off her feet
as the people around her screamed and ran, as several people from the
first row of the crowd fell under the musket shots. Mattie could not
look away.
The bottle burst loudly with a flare of hungry
fire that engulfed the side of the ducal carriage. The lizards
thrashed, trying to escape the inferno, and got tangled in their
tack. Their tails whipped madly, knocking over the carriage. The
lizards of the carriages that followed reared up and turned away,
some dragging the carriages into the crowd, others upsetting theirs.
The fire spread, engulfing two other carriages.
Their passengers wrestled from under the wreckage, even as their
clothes and their hair caught fire.
The crowd pushed Mattie away from the sight of the
explosion, and she only saw snatches of the raging fire, of a
bleeding woman, her face smashed on the cobbles into a smoldering
ruin. A giant lizard, its scales glistening red, lay on its side, its
broken leg a mess of red twitching meat and fragments of sharp, pink
bone. It shrieked in a strange voice, like a child crying. Mattie had
never heard the lizards utter anything but an occasional hiss before.
Mattie strained to see over the jostling bobbing
heads of the fleeing crowd. She saw the slow mindless automatons snap
to action—they did as they were told, and they started to clean
up. They moved among the wreckage, picking up the bloody fragments of
the bodies torn by the initial explosion. There was nowhere to put
them, so they stacked them all in the middle of the street—bloodied
limbs, charred corpses, lizard bones, the shattered wood of the
carriages and torn pieces of tack. No one paid any mind to them—the
street cleared, and before Mattie was swept along with the panicked
crowd, she saw the gruesome pile built by the automatons growing
higher, as they labored, slow and creaky and not at all perturbed. As
far as Mattie was concerned, they were the most horrible thing she
had ever seen.


Mattie was shaken enough by the day's events to go
see Loharri. On her way, she stopped by the telegraph, which was
thronged as she expected. There were fewer casualties reported than
she expected; two of the Duke's daughters were dead. The Duke
himself, along with his wife and the surviving daughter, were badly
burned. The Stone Monks were caring for them, with their vast
pharmacopoeia and the favor of the gargoyles. People whispered that
this momentous event had even brought the gargoyles out of hiding,
and that they watched over the injured, perched on the temple's roof.
Loharri was not home, and she headed for the ducal
district, expecting to find him in the Mechanics' chambers of the
Parliament. She realized the folly of her intentions as soon as she
approached the Parliament, abuzz in movement, swarming with
automatons and people, alchemists and mechanics both. A mechanical
caterpillar stripped of its seats stood in the street, chuffing idle
steam. Eight lizards harnessed double-file waited patiently in front
of a low sled. Mattie guessed that the mechanics were evacuating
valuables from the Parliament, afraid of another attack, and that
Loharri would likely find no time for her.
She passed the open doors of the ossuary, and
couldn't resist peeking inside. The sealed sepulchers embedded in the
floor offered no sight of interest, but the piles of bones stacked
along the walls, the skulls in neat piles in the corners, never
failed to fascinate Mattie. Loharri had told her that the bones were
those of previous dukes and their wives, their courtiers and
favorites, their children and servants. The skulls shone softly when
the sunrays from the open doors, filled with dense clouds of motes,
struck their suture-seamed yellow surfaces, the domes of the
foreheads high and round, the eye sockets mysteriously dark, dripping
with untold sadness and wisdom.
"In much wisdom there's much sorrow,"
Loharri used to say. Mattie thought that she agreed as she watched
the skulls, their sockets seemingly following her every move from
their corners. They smelled of old parchment and dry earth crumbling
into dust.
Listen. A faint whisper caught her
attention, and at first she thought that it was just the wind trapped
inside, rattling the old bones.
Listen, again.
She stepped inside, looking through the dusk
filled with remains. There were just bones, but then she caught a
glimpse of movement out of the corner of an eye. And then—like
in an optical trick the traveling performers entertained their
customers with, where one was supposed to look at the jumble of
leaves to spot a deer, a lizard, and a giant bird, and once one saw
them they would not go away—she saw the folded wings and the
gray skin blending with stone, she saw the heavy horned heads and
slit eyes, the folded hands, the bent knees. And the mouths opening
like fissures in the age-old stone to whisper to her urgent words.
Listen, they spoke in one voice, the voice
of the stone the city was carved from. We will tell you a story.
There is a notion of time as an enemy, but we
couldn't tell you how fast it was passing until we heard the human
heartbeats, counting the seconds as they fell into the eternity. So
many million heartbeats ago, when you were not yet here and the
eastern woman, the stranger, the daughter of red earth was young,
there were two boys.
Three boys, maybe. We can't remember, and we
sometimes confuse death and sleep, sleep and oblivion. But in any
case, there they were—feral children living off scraps and
rotten fruit left in the market square after the market was over.
They had forgotten how to speak and only snarled at pigeons and stray
dogs if they went after the scraps the boys had their eyes on, and
they spat and hissed at the passing of the Stone Monks, who were the
greatest fear of all children, parented or not.
We weep often, for the Monks carry our name and
everything that they do is attributed to us. But what can we do? We
are weak and dying, and they fill our feeders, so we keep our
thoughts to ourselves; we shove the gravel into our mouths hastily,
rent with guilt, and we do not speak.
But the boys, the boys... one is raven-haired,
narrow-eyed, and so beautiful, dirt and grime and lice
notwithstanding; another is white-haired like an old man, and he
moves on all fours, feeling his way like a crab. Yet another is quiet
and small, and he cries often. He has no words, and his anguish wails
and sobs through the night alleys, and we watch over them, like we
watch over everyone who is marked for destruction by the grindstones
of the world. There is nothing we can do but watch over them.


Mattie startled at the slamming of the door behind
her, and the gargoyles fell silent, blending back into the
surrounding walls. "Anyone in here?"
"Just me," Mattie answered. "Sorry,
Master Bergen."
The old mechanic shuffled closer, his limp more
prominent now, accompanied by the tapping of a cane. "Mattie?
What are you doing here?"
"The door was open," she said. "I
was looking for Loharri."
"Of course you were." His voice was
paternal, soothing, and the look of his rheumy eyes kind. "We're
a tad busy here, but he's around. I'll help you look if you want."
Mattie followed him to the exit. "What's
happening?"
"You've heard about the Duke, of course."
"Of course," Mattie echoed. She decided
not to tell him that she was there—she was indisposed to answer
questions, to relive the fear and the disgust she felt watching other
automatons, purposefully excluded from the context, gathering limbs.
"Terrible, isn't it?"
"Yes," Bergen said without much
conviction. "Terrible. Only now, who's next?"
"You're not leaving the city, are you?"
"Dear girl, no, pox on your tongue." He
gave a feeble laugh. "What, leave and let the alchemical
vultures pick apart everything we've built here?"
"They're not vultures," Mattie said,
narrowly avoiding using 'we'.
Bergen shook his head. "Perhaps I'm being too
cautious in my old age. But we are just moving the archives and
machinery, in case they decide to bomb the Parliament. One must be
careful—dark times, dark times."
They walked to the Parliament building, Mattie
tactfully restraining her step so as not to overtake Bergen. He kept
talking about the intrigues and the damn alchemists, of how things
weren't what they used to be—Mattie saw no virtue in arguing
with the latter point.
Inside the Parliament building, the chaos was even
more overwhelming than outside. Mattie bumped into people who ran
without heed, and narrowly avoided an automaton that shuffled by with
a stack of papers high enough to completely conceal its torso and
face. She looked around but saw no alchemists. She cursed her
cowardice—if she got the list of the missing medallions in
time, maybe her society would not need to be afraid to set foot in
Parliament.
"He'd be in the archives," Bergen said.
"I must be getting on now, but you should find him—check
all the way up the stairs, on the fourth floor."
Mattie squeezed through the crowd, going against
the stream of people and automatons. The stone steps under her feet
were worn concave, and her feet nestled securely in the depressions
made by many generations of human feet, giving her comfort and a
fleeting sense of belonging to the great tradition. Even though she
could neither vote nor be elected, she felt a part of it.
The crowd thinned after she passed the second
floor where the offices and the chambers were, and almost disappeared
by the fourth. When she set foot into the echoing silent crypt of the
archives, it felt like she was the only person there—no, the
only person left on earth, so desolate it was.
She found Loharri at the small desk tucked away in
the back, where he sorted through stacks of hand-written and printed
documents and scrolls. "Loharri," she called.
He jerked his head up, as if coming from deep
sleep. "What's the matter, love?"
"I know it's a bad time," she said. "But
the medallions."
He nodded. "Here you are. I copied it for you
last night and set it aside. Glad you came."
She took the proffered scroll with only a dozen or
so names on it. "Thank you," she whispered, guilt washing
over her anew. "I can't believe you remembered."
He smiled lopsidedly. "Have I ever forgotten
you? Have I ever broken a promise?"
"No," she said. "But with
everything that's happening ... I thought you'd have better things to
do."
"But you still came," he said with a
shrug and pushed away the stack of papers in front of him. "See?
Great events might shake our foundations, but we still remember our
little inconsequential promises. And I bet you money that everyone
still carries on as normal—people eat, children wail, couples
fight and fuck. These things are the true edifice of the city, not
dukes or buildings, not even the gargoyles. How's your work going, by
the way? Found Sebastian yet?"
"It's difficult," Mattie answered. "I'm
in a new territory—our formulae are all for people's needs, not
the gargoyles'. Imagine if you had to design a musket for creatures
with eight arms and no legs."
He laughed. "They wouldn't run, and could
reload much faster. But I get your point, dear girl. Stone isn't
flesh."
"Or metal," Mattie said. "I don't
even know how to begin thinking about it; I mean, I do, but I have no
idea what makes sense and what doesn't."
He nodded. "I'll let you know if anything
occurs to me. Anything else you need?"
She thought of the gargoyles' story and mentally
cursed Bergen for interrupting. "Just a question," she
said. "Do you know the Soul-Smoker?"
His smile remained but changed, as if his mirth
had drained away and only its ghost remained behind. "No,"
he said. "Can't say that I know the gentleman. I've seen him, of
course."
"Have you ever known him? When you were
children?"
He shrugged. "Maybe. This city is not that
big, and you know how children are, always running in packs. Why? Did
he say anything?"
"No. Just wondering," Mattie said. "He
seems very lonely and very sick."
"Comes with the job." Loharri cleared
his throat. "Now if you don't mind..."
"Of course. You have work to do. I will see
you soon," Mattie said.
As she turned to leave the archives, she heard a
weak voice calling Loharri's name from downstairs. She cocked her
head, listening. "Can you hear that? Someone's calling you."
"They can come here," he answered. His
former good spirits were gone, replaced by bile. "What am I, an
errand boy?"
"I think it's Bergen," Mattie replied.
"It's hard for him walk up the stairs."
Loharri heaved a sigh and cursed under his breath,
but stood and followed Mattie down the stairs. They met Bergen
halfway between the second and the third floors.
"Loharri," the old man wheezed. "Come
quick. The enforcers arrested the man who threw the bomb at the
Duke."


Mattie thanked her stars and her lucky stones that
Bergen was too perturbed to pay attention as she followed him and
Loharri to the jail adjacent to the Parliament building. The old man
worked his cane as if it were a hoe, reaching with it in front of him
until the metal-clad tip caught between the cobbles and pulling
himself along, his limp pronounced but apparently disregarded. Even
Loharri's long loping strides were barely enough to keep up with the
old man, and Mattie trotted behind, hitching up her skirts slightly
higher than was proper, but forgivable under the circumstances.
The enforcers crowded the courtyard of the jail,
their buggies clanging against each other and chuffing, the hiss of
steam sounding almost identical to Bergen's wheezing breath—a
pleasing symmetry, Mattie thought, since Bergen was the inventor of
these buggies, and it seemed only right that they replicated their
creator's habits in such harmony.
The enforcers, armored and menacing, looked at
Bergen and Loharri with suspicious eyes through the narrow slits of
their bronze helms, but let them through; Loharri grabbed Mattie's
elbow and dragged her along, without giving the guards a chance to
ask her any questions or consider her admittance.
"Thank you," Mattie whispered, his
kindness a stab.
"If anyone ever hassles you," he
whispered back, "just tell them you're mine. Damn your pride and
just say it, all right?"
"All right."
"Promise?"
"Promise." Her heart felt ready to give,
to pop the rivets that held it together and explode in an unseemly
shower of metal and springs and wheels toothed like dogs.
They entered the low arch, decorated like
everything around this building with carvings of gargoyles—a
show of gratitude from the city, from back in the day when the
gargoyles were strong enough to grow a jail at the city's request.
They had grown it large and sturdy, with a
monolithic door that required twenty men to move it aside. There were
no windows or water pipes or air ducts, and the jail, one with the
stone that birthed it, was cold in winter and hot in summer, and not
many lasted long enough to experience both extremes—one or the
other killed them before that. But that was for the prisoners
condemned for serious crimes; those who were found guilty of lesser
offenses were transferred to the southern copper mines, or to the
northern fields, where they died slower and side-by-side with people
who had done nothing wrong apart from being born to an unpleasant lot
in life.
They found the prisoner just inside the jail. He
was dressed in the habit of a Stone Monk, torn at the shoulder,
exposing a large gash crusted over with blood. The skin of his
shoulder, smooth and brown, was stained with blood and bruised, and
his thick lips opened and closed in quick, gulping breaths.
Mattie noticed his hands shackled together by an
elaborate brass device consisting of several metal semicircles
nestled inside one another, latching onto the wrists of the man in an
overlapping lattice. She also saw the depression in his side, where
the robe flapped, seemingly not touching the body.
"His ribs are broken," she whispered to
Loharri.
He nodded and narrowed his eyes at her, as if to
warn her to stay silent.
Two mechanics and an alchemist surrounded the man;
they were inflicting no violence on him, but their taut faces told
Mattie that they wanted to.
Bergen caught his breath, and addressed the
prisoner. "Were you working alone or did you have accomplices?"
The man just stared, his eyes startled and wide,
his mouth still straining after each shallow breath.
"The bastard can't even speak properly,"
one of the mechanics said.
"Or he doesn't speak our language."
Bergen cleared his throat and moved closer to the prisoner. He spoke
slowly and loudly, as one did with children or feeble-minded. "Alone?
Were you alone?"
The prisoner gasped. "I did nothing," he
whispered.
Mattie tugged Loharri's sleeve. He frowned and
shook her hand off. "What?" he whispered with a fierce
expression on his twisted face.
"That's not the right man," Mattie
whispered. She hadn't realized how silent the room was, until her
whisper resonated, and made everyone turn toward her. "It's not
the right man," Mattie said, louder, addressing Bergen and
everyone else. "I was there, I saw. The one who attacked the
procession was much bigger. And he wasn't an easterner, he was local.
I saw his hand—it was pink, like yours." She pointed at
Bergen's hand gripping the pommel of his cane.
Tense silence filled the room, palpable, broken
only by the ticking of Mattie's heart and the ragged breath of the
prisoner who watched Mattie with almost religious hope on his face,
mixed with open-mouthed wonder.
"Nonsense," Bergen said, and turned
away.
The rest of the mechanics coughed into their hands
and shuffled their feet, covering up their visible relief.
"Loharri," one of the mechanics said.
"Perhaps you should take your automaton outside—she seems
prone to hysterics. I guess all women are like that, mechanical or
flesh."
Loharri did not say a word and gave Mattie a
gentle shove. "Run along, now," he said softly. "I
will see you soon."
Mattie turned to the door, the gaze of the
prisoner imploring her not to leave him. She gave a small shake of
her head and walked out, the panicked eyes of the man, their whites
prominent and blinding like those of the sheep in the slaughterhouse,
burned into her memory.


Chapter 10
We follow the girl as she walks through noisy
streets, crawling with the vile mechanical contrivances that did not
come from the stone. The girl walks as if blind, stumbling over the
cobbles, and we hear her heart whir and whine deep inside her,
creaking with tears she will never weep. We are glad that she is gone
from the place of sorrow, where so many of our children have perished
and so many others have behaved badly.
Content that she is on her way home, we turn
and leap from roof to roof, our toes grasping shingles like steps;
our wings balance us, keep us steady. We follow the inverse labyrinth
of the buildings, the negative reflection of the streets between
them, to a different location.
We see a small, white-haired man who used to
move like a crab when he was little, but who has now learned to walk
upright, with dignity and grace. He has words now, and we are proud
of him, as proud as we are of any we like to follow. He moves toward
the place the girl has just left, the pulsing streets converging on
the ugly stone heart of the city, and we almost wish we hadn't built
it.
Everyone flees at his approach; the soulless
creatures like ourselves are the only ones who are immune to his
repulsive charms. We remember the time he swallowed his first soul,
as we remember all the countless others, gone up in smoke and inhaled
by his wide loving mouth. He is nothing but loving.
The courtyard of the jail is filled with
people, but they too flee as he gets closer; they go into the jail
building and wait inside. The only man left in the courtyard is the
stranger—red earth, salty sea, hands bound, feet shackled, and
nowhere to run.
The white-haired man, the smoker of souls,
stands before him, quietly, mildly. "Are you ready?" he
asks, his eyes of milk staring over the stranger's head into the
infinity of the jail walls.
The stranger shakes his head side to side, the
frantic motion of a terrified child.
"Shh," the blind man says, "shhh."
He takes the face of the prisoner into his hands, and the stranger
goes limp and docile.
The blind man's hands are soft and gentle, and
he touches his lips to the stranger's.
The stranger tries to keep his mouth closed,
but it is of no use. His soul sensing the companionship of many
others, presses on his lips from the inside, and he finally gives
with a loud exhalation. His lips brush against the blind man's and
open, and the two men stand for a while, eye-to-eye, mouth-to-mouth,
and we listen to the hissing of the escaping soul, we watch the
stranger's eyes go white and empty like the clouds, and we hear the
clink of his shackles as he collapses on the pavement, formless and
soft like water.
A mindless automaton enters the courtyard and
approaches the blind man who is motionless, his narrow chest expanded
as if by an impossibly big breath.
"You have done your duty," the
automaton says in a grating voice, uncolored by either emotion or
understanding. "Write your report by tomorrow morning; someone
will be by to pick it up.
We regret that he has to do it, we regret that
among the souls that could not find rest there are others, to whom
rest was denied in favor of extracting confessions. We know that our
children are mendicant—they speak of never killing anyone, but
they let buildings and the smoker of souls take the lives of those
they cannot be bothered to kill themselves.
We did not want it to be like this, but what
can we do? We are naught but a shadow of a distant memory, whispering
in the rain gutters, clambering along the rooftops; we are nothing
but decorations on the building, amusing in our grotesque bodies and
webbed wings. We have heard of other cities where the buildings are
decorated with statues of angels with golden wings, but we doubt that
these angels were ever alive or even real. Most beautiful things are
not.
We regret not having finished the story we
started to tell to the girl—our understanding of time is vague,
but we have a nagging feeling that it would've been useful to her. We
resolve to tell her soon, and try harder this time, perhaps hold onto
her skirts and plead with our eyes. Listen, we should say, listen.
We turn our attention back to the man and the
automaton in the jail courtyard. The automaton gives its orders once
again. The white-haired man nods and heads back home, the memories
and the terror of the newly inhaled soul sloshing inside him heavily,
like water in a bucket.


As the days wore on, Mattie noticed the troubling
changes in the air—even though she rarely left the workshop
these days, preoccupied with her work. She tried to get to the
meaning of Sebastian's words, of understanding the very soul of
stone. For that purpose, the burners belched blue flames, and the
alembics filled with ground stone were heated to a red glow.
She studied the transformation of stone. It turned
the flames yellow and blue and sometimes green, it could be dissolved
in Aqua Regis, and with enough heat, parts of it sublimated, leaving
behind a hard and latticed carcass.
The stone was complex, as Mattie realized,
consisting of many minerals so blended together that one could have
no hope of separating them for individual study, and had to deduce
the composition of it from its behavior during many transformations
she subjected it to.
Mattie also taught Niobe—not about the blood
alchemy but of the elements and their manifestations. She described
the salamanders that lived in and commanded fire as golden lizards,
and Undinae—as small girl automatons fashioned with webbed fins
instead of arms and legs. Niobe laughed at her claims that she was
able to see the salamanders, and Mattie did not really mind. She
offered small sacrifices to the salamanders by burning some fragrant
herbs along with stone, asking them to help her solve the riddle of
the gargoyles.
But the stone alchemy was not the only thing that
occupied her days and nights—having no need for sleep, Mattie
felt superior sometimes at being able to accomplish twice as much in
a day as any other alchemist. She worked on the stone during the day,
when the light was bright enough to see the spectral colors and
emanations; during the night, she practiced blood alchemy.
A deal was a deal, and she learned the new craft
with dark satisfaction. She made a small homunculus from rendered
sheep blood, with the heart woven from Iolanda's and Loharri's hair.
The homunculus was still, waiting to be awakened in order to ensnare
Loharri's soul. The process took her longer than she wanted, but her
learning was hindered by her inability to ask Niobe pertinent
questions—she was ashamed to ask about compulsion and denial of
will, and she feared that if Niobe found out about such practices,
she would think poorly of Mattie. So Mattie saved the darkness for
the night; night was for wounding.
During the day she helped Niobe decipher the
recipes from her little birch bark book, and explained to her the
properties of herbs and metals and sheep's eyes. She showed her how
to mix salves that reduced fever and unclouded the troubled mind. Day
was for healing.
As the days passed, Mattie noticed a growing
unease in Niobe. Mattie's guilty conscience bounded to her mind's
surface, sending jolts to her heart and making it creak and moan
faster and faster, its ticking loud and quick like the song of some
demented cricket.
"What's wrong?" Mattie asked her
finally, as the two of them stood at Mattie's laboratory bench,
grinding herbs and extracting essential oils, each lost in her own
private musings. "Are you mad at me?"
Niobe looked up from her fragrant aludel. "What?
Of course not, Mattie. You're the only friend I have—why would
I be mad at you?"
Mattie shrugged, her pestle grinding against the
porcelain interior of the mortar. "You seem upset lately."
"It's because I am, but it has nothing to do
with you." Niobe sighed and stirred the ground herbs,
encouraging the oils to express. "You stay home, and you don't
see. But if you came by my neighborhood, you'd know."
"What's happening there?" Mattie tried
not to feel too guilty about not visiting—among her crimes,
this one seemed the most trivial.
"The enforcers swarm like black flies."
Niobe crossed her arms over her chest as if she grew suddenly cold,
and paced alongside the bench. "They think that it is us, the
foreigners who blew up your palace and your Duke."
"Why do they think that?" Mattie
interrupted. "I saw the man they arrested, and it was the wrong
man ... I tried to tell them but they wouldn't listen."
"Of course they wouldn't," Niobe said.
"They decided to blame those they don't like. They took the
jewelers, and they took the bookbinders. They question everyone, men
and women, and they threaten to call the Soul-Smoker every time
something speaks against them. Half of the easterners left the city
to go back home."
"The Soul-Smoker is a nice man," Mattie
said.
Niobe laughed. "I suppose he is, right up to
the moment when he sucks your soul out of you."
"He has no choice," Mattie whispered.
"And I have no soul."
Niobe shrugged. "We all have our burdens."
"You can stay with me," Mattie said.
"Unless you want to go back home?"
Niobe shook her head. "I thought about it,
but I won't go back—at least, not now. I won't give them the
satisfaction."
"Then stay here," Mattie said. "It's
safe here, and I can protect you from the mechanics."
Niobe smiled a little. "You? Protect me? They
won't listen to you."
"But they'll listen to Loharri," Mattie
said. "And I have money for bribes, lots of money."
Niobe nodded slowly. "I suppose you don't
have to spend it on food."
"No." Mattie folded her hands, pleading.
"Stay with me, I promise I'll buy you food."
Niobe laughed and hugged Mattie, her soft breasts
giving under Mattie's hard metal chest, pressing against the keyhole
of Mattie's heart. Mattie hugged back, guilty and grateful. "Thank
you, Mattie," Niobe said. "I would love to stay for a
bit—it's always safer for two than one."
Mattie thought that she could tell Niobe
anything—well, almost anything. She was reluctant to confess
her misuse of blood alchemy, and instead decided to confide her next
most bothersome secret. "Niobe," she whispered even though
there was no one there to overhear her. "I know a man with a
skin like yours ... he is in hiding, but I worry that now they will
pay closer attention to him and find him out. What do you think I
should do?"
"It depends," Niobe said. "What did
he do to have to go into hiding?"
"He told me that it wasn't his fault. I do
know that sometimes what people tell you is not the truth; I just
don't know whether to believe it to begin with."
Niobe shook her head. "Mattie, bless your
clockwork heart. You don't decide to believe—you either do or
you don't."
"I wouldn't presume as much as not to believe
someone just because people lie sometimes."
"In this case, you should probably let him
know that he is in danger. Only can you do that without endangering
yourself? If someone sees you talking to a suspect—and believe
me, he is a suspect—your master's influence won't save your
little metal parts."
Mattie thought a little. "Yes," she
finally said. "I think I can; we just need to wait until
darkness."
"Great." Niobe smiled. "Where do
you want me to sleep?"


Mattie knew how to make beds, but she wasn't in
possession of one. She decided to create a nice soft bed for Niobe in
the warmest place, by the kitchen hearth—the nights were still
occasionally nippy. Besides, it would be as far away from the bench
as the apartment allowed, and Mattie did not want Niobe disturbed by
Mattie's nocturnal work.
She found a couple of quilts given to her by
grateful but poor customers, and collected most of her dresses into a
heap.
Once she covered them with the quilts, the bed
acquired quite satisfactory appearance—not of poverty but of
whimsy. Mattie liked that, and so did Niobe.
The sun was still high enough in the sky, and they
walked to the market to buy some provisions for Niobe. As they
browsed, Mattie noticed a few suspicious stares in Niobe's direction,
and a few merchants refused to trade with them outright.
Niobe just shrugged, even though Mattie guessed
that the deepening of the color on Niobe's cheeks meant that she was
more perturbed than she showed.
Nonetheless, Mattie led her to the booth that sold
a good variety of herbs, and tried to distract Niobe by explaining
how one decided on the plant's usefulness. "You see," she
pointed at the dried plant with purple flowers, "its leaves are
heart-shaped, which means it is suited for heart trouble."
"Are you referring to the actual heart, or
love problems?"
"The latter," Mattie said. "See?
Its shape is not of a real heart but of its symbol."
"Symbol of a symbol," Niobe muttered. "I
see. What about this one?"
She pointed at the glass jar filled with fresh
flowers, plump and red, their three petals dripping with nectar.
"That's for the liver," Mattie said. "See the three
lobes?"
"And this one?" Niobe picked up a dried
stem clustered with strange fruit—brown and transversed with
fissures. "Brain problems?"
Mattie nodded. "That is its signature, yes.
Every plant has one. The plants with red sap are used to purify
blood, the ones with yellow sap—clear out urinary infections,
and so on. See, it's easy. It's getting to the potent chemicals
inside them that is hard."
"I see," Niobe agreed. "Every plant
has medicine, as long as you can figure out how to get to it."
"That's the tricky part," Mattie agreed.
"This is why it is essential to keep a journal and record every
transformation, so if you find something you can recreate it and
share it with the rest of the society."
"If I want to."
"If you want to."
"Are you going to buy anything?" the
woman who owned the booth asked. There was no open hostility in her
voice, and her face expressed carefully cultivated indifference.
"Just a bunch of maiden's hair and two of
bladderwort," Mattie said. She paid for her purchases. "Thank
you, Marta."
Marta muttered an acknowledgment under her breath,
and Mattie and Niobe traded looks.
"Let's go home," Niobe said as soon as
she picked up a loaf of bread and some olives. "I'm getting
tired of all the hostility."
Mattie nodded that she agreed. She hadn't realized
how rigidly she had held her back, how taut the springs of her
muscles were. Just being outside was tiring to her; she could not
imagine how Niobe was able to hold up, with her weak flesh body. And
she had been enduring it far longer than Mattie.
Mattie took Niobe's hand in a gesture of support.
"Don't," Niobe whispered. "You
don't want to associate with me like this. It's dangerous." But
she didn't take her hand away.
"I don't care," Mattie whispered and
twined her fingers with Niobe's, metal against flesh, springs against
bone.


The night falls, and we hear the girl calling
us, and we leap over the chasms that open below our feet at the
precipitous drop-offs of the roofs. We hurry, and we rehearse our
story in our minds, and yet there's hope swelling up in our hearts,
subterranean. A secret hope that the girl will throw the window open,
her blue porcelain face as expressionless as ours, and tell us that
we don't have to fear time any more. We suppress the hope, and we
mutter out loud, no no, it's not going to happen. She just
wants to hear our story, and we will tell it to her. Listen.
We run up the fire escapes and slither across
the walls, we leap, we run, we crawl and finally we reach the high
window, warm yellow light spilling from it swarming with fluttering
of white moths; fireflies flicker on and off above the roof. A
nightingale is starting his song in the trees nearby, and we pause
for just a moment to listen to the sweet trilling.
Listen, we whisper to the girl framed in the
window. Her skirt floats wide, her waist cinched by the belt
glistening with bronze rivets. It's so small, we could circle it with
one hand, and we wonder if there's anything in her middle besides a
metal joint that holds her lower and upper body together. She seems
so fragile.
There's another shadow in the room, and we
smell ripe grapes and generous red earth. The second woman gasps at
the sight of us but remains quiet otherwise.
"Listen," the girl says before we can
utter a word. "The man who fills your feeders is in danger."
"He is gone," we whisper back. "He
left the day you met him, and the monks are neglecting our feeders."
We feel pathetic, complaining like this, and we bite off the rest of
our words.
"Where did he go?" the girl asks,
panicked.
"He is hiding," we say. "He's
hiding in the rafters of warehouses, in the roofs and in the gutters.
The city is his cradle."
"The next time you see him, tell him to be
careful. Tell him to come and see me when it is dark."
We eye the other woman, and we don't want to
talk in the presence of strangers—we feel shy and recede away
from the window.
"What about the story you started to tell
me?" she asks. We take a deep breath and move closer again.
"There were three boys."
The three boys who did not expect their lives
to change, until the monks took them. We could not see them in the
orphanage, for it has no windows, and only if we pressed our ears
against the cold stone—dead now, cut up by human hands,
dismembered and dumb—could we hear the ghosts of their voices.
We saw them when the monks took them out for
walks in the courtyard, at night, when there was no one around to see
their gaunt faces and their fingers raw from hard work, the skin of
their hands stripped away, oozing a clear liquid we have no name for.
We saw the alchemists and the mechanics coming
to the night courtyard, illuminated only by the blue and distant
moon, and pick among the children, selecting the agile and the
clever. The rest, the ones who stayed behind, were trained for other
jobs. All cursed us, because we only watched—but what else
could we do?
We saw some of the smaller children—the
boy who cried often among them—stuffed into small cages that
would restrict their growth, keeping their bodies small and squat,
bowing their legs; their arms seemed simian and long in contrast,
thin enough to fit between the bars of their cages and grow free.
Those children were destined for the mine-shafts, for picking out
precious stones from rubble with their thin, flexible fingers.
Of course, not all could bear such treatment,
and many died. The boy who cried often wilted in his cage, and every
night as they wheeled him out he seemed smaller and paler, shrinking
away from the bars, not growing into them. He curled up on the floor
and cried, and called for help in his animal tongue. The blind boy
sat next to him, whispering unarticulated comfort.
The beautiful boy with long hazel eyes was
quick to learn the language, and both the alchemists and the
mechanics who came to trade eyed him with interest. The monks asked a
high price, and they came back to haggle. Once, a mechanic remarked
that the boy was too beautiful to be smart; the next night he came
out to the yard with his face bandaged.
The small boy who cried often died the day
before they took the no-longer-beautiful boy away. The blind boy held
his hand as the small boy drew his last breath; the blind boy sensed
the presence of the disembodied soul, watery and shapeless, and he
cradled it to his heart until the dead boy's soul nestled into his,
like a child's face into a pillow, like stone into our hands.
The monks let the no-longer-beautiful boy cut
off the dead boy's hair, and when he left, his hand held firmly by a
stern mechanic with a slight limp, long tangled locks slithered under
his threadbare shirt.


The gargoyles' story stuck with Mattie, and she
kept turning it over in her mind, over and over. The fact that
Ilmarekh was an orphan did not particularly surprise her, but the
fact that he had chosen this profession, that for him it was an act
of kindness and not desperation, touched her in a way she couldn't
fully explain even to Niobe.
She was also puzzled by the role Loharri played in
it; especially the part about the dead boy's hair—she did not
think of him as a sentimental man. Even on his frequent visits to the
orphanage he seemed angry and bitter rather than pensive or
distraught. She resolved to ask him at the first opportunity, but for
now, there were plenty of other things to worry about, and they won
over other concerns due to their urgency.
She went to the public telegraph to check on the
news and to see if Bokker had replied to her missive sent a week ago,
containing the list of the missing mechanic medallions. To her shock,
she found only warnings to stay at home, and reports of unrest.
It seemed that the Mechanics increased the pace of
building and introduction of caterpillars; their request for
additional buggies for the enforcers and their work on the machine
that Loharri had been so enthused about taxed the coal and metal
mines to capacity. The Parliament, led by Bergen and his mechanics,
drafted many peasants for mine work—it was fraught with danger
and required more thinking capacity and mobility than most automatons
could provide. Instead, the automatons were sent to the fields to
replace the peasants whose labor was repetitive and simple, and where
they were not likely to need to be replaced.
Mattie shared the news with Niobe over
breakfast—that is, Niobe was eating breakfast, and Mattie was
sitting at the table in solidarity.
Niobe shook her head. "They will rebel,
especially with the Duke so gravely ill."
"How do you know?" Mattie asked.
Niobe shrugged. "There's only so far you can
shove a person until they shove back. I've seen it happen before."
"What will happen?" Mattie whispered.
"Riots, probably. If the mechanics are smart,
they'll send enforcers right away to quell them before they even
start. Give people money, double the miners' wages. If not ... if the
miners rebel and quit, the city will grind to a halt without coal."
Mattie was about to answer when someone knocked on
the door. Only Loharri knocked with such arrogant insistence, and
Mattie went to open. To her surprise, it was Sebastian.
"The gargoyles told me you were looking for
me," he said.


Chapter 11
Mattie clicked along with a greater sense of
determination than ever. Iolanda's request receded on her mental
landscape, its bothersome shape pushed deep and wedged between other
concerns she did not want to think about just yet; it fit right next
to her uneasy curiosity about Loharri and the dead boy's hair, two
thoughts caught together like the teeth of two interlocking spur
gears.
Instead, she worried about the gargoyles and
Sebastian, who had become, unofficially, her ward along with Niobe.
There was no reason for Mattie to protect Sebastian and to tell him
that the mechanics were interested in his whereabouts and that the
enforcers were eager to arrest any easterner and hand him over to the
Soul-Smoker. But still she felt compelled—for the vague but
persistent feeling of kinship she felt for his mother. When Beresta
had broken through the chorus of voices shouting through Ilmarekh's
mouth, it was only to say, "Find my son. He lives in the eastern
district." At the time, Mattie assumed that Beresta's tortured
whisper was for Mattie's benefit, to help her sort out the gargoyles'
business; now she was not so sure. She felt as if Beresta had
entrusted her son to Mattie's care from beyond the grave, and she
couldn't very well ignore the request.
But her place was getting crowded. Between Niobe
and her bed by the fireplace and Sebastian's large frame curled up in
the corner of the laboratory, by the waste drain, there was barely
enough place for Mattie to stay upright, let alone pace, and she
spent her days working at the bench, pulverizing and sublimating
stone, and running outside to buy food for her visitors. Something
had to change soon; and she needed advice.
She avoided Iolanda for now, and Loharri was the
last person she wanted to alert to the nature of her hesitation and
Sebastian's presence. When she closed her eyes—rather,
retracted them into her head to give them a rest from constant
stimulation—the visions of hair plagued her. She saw the dead
boy's hair, curled up like a sleeping snake against the naked smooth
skin of Loharri's stomach, and Loharri's and Iolanda's strands,
twined together in a deadly betrayal masquerading as love. Mattie
shivered.
She put her shoes on and headed for the door.
Sebastian woke up. "Where are you going?"
he said in a voice rough with sleep.
"Out," Mattie said.
Sebastian sat up, his face gathered in a
suspicious frown. Mattie had learned most of his expressions, and
this one was as familiar as his smile. The blueprints of his face
wedged deep into her memory, like the alchemical recipes she never
forgot because she mustn't. "Out where?"
"To talk to your mother," Mattie said,
softly. "Keep quiet— you'll wake up Niobe."
"Can I come too?"
"You know you can't. But I will give her your
regards. Any questions I should ask her?"
Sebastian shook his head, his face relaxing,
pensive. "That wouldn't be right. The dead are dead. Aren't
they?"
"Not until the Soul-Smoker is dead."
Mattie headed for the door.
The night city embraced and buoyed her, the air
sweet and blue and dense like water sloshing in the Grackle Pond,
mysterious and forbidden. The streets seemed different, the buildings
twisting and leaning dangerously into the streets, their shuttered
windows distorted in an inaudible moan. A few times Mattie worried
that she had lost her way somehow—even the familiar landmarks
acquired a menacing air. It was a while before Mattie noticed that
the streetlamps had remained unlit—no doubt, the mechanics had
braced for the shortage of coal.
It was windy outside the gates—the open
blasted earth afforded no cover for the lashings of the gale, and
Mattie had to wrap her skirts around her legs as tightly as she
could, afraid that they would catch the wind like sails and carry her
away, into the dark sky salted with the rough crystals of the stars.
Loharri had told her that there was no air between the stars and this
is why people couldn't live there, but Mattie did not need to
breathe, and she imagined herself floating in the black void, only
her puzzled memories for company.
She hurried up the hill, toward the shining beacon
of the lit window and the sweet smell of opium smoke the wind brought
to her.
Ilmarekh was not surprised at her visit—as
soon as she knocked on the door, he called out, "Come in,
Mattie."
She entered. "How did you know it was me?"

"Who else would visit me in the middle of the
night?" he answered.
"The enforcers."
He pointed to the previously vacant corner of the
room, where a small portable telegraph gleamed with its brass knobs
and copper rods. "They need me so often, they installed the
machine. I hear it go off, I just head for the jail." He heaved
a sigh. "I don't like this, Mattie—every time I tell them
the soul was hiding no secrets, they just laugh and tell me that
they'll keep looking."
"I'm so sorry," Mattie said. She meant
the souls of the innocents and Ilmarekh himself. "Can't you
refuse?"
"They will kill them anyway," he
answered. "Or the jail will. This way, they're safe with me. And
they never lack for company. I listen to the stories they tell,
Mattie—what stories! I didn't know how different the world was,
and how beautiful—they show me cities of white stone and golden
roofs, they show me gardens so fragrant, my head swims. And the sea,
Mattie, the sea! Have you ever seen it?"
"No," she answered. "I want to."
"You should. You'd think it's just like the
Grackle Pond but bigger, but it's nothing like that at all. It has
waves—so big!—they rise like solid walls of green glass,
heavy with threat and exhilaration. It changes color—from blue
to green to black—in seconds, and it is the most beautiful
thing one can imagine, especially when the waves are breaking on the
shore, topped with white foam." Ilmarekh clasped his birdlike
hands to his chest, overcome with feeling.
Mattie looked away. "I'm glad you're getting
something out of it."
Ilmarekh's smile faded. "I'm not the only
one."
Mattie felt immediately sorry—she thought
that for a soul sentenced to death even a temporary home shared with
hundreds of other inhabitants, even a small delay was of benefit.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean it like that."
Ilmarekh shrugged, and sat down on his mattress.
"Of course you did. I don't suppose I blame you."
There was no point in blaming him for carrying out
the decisions others had made, and Mattie sat next to him. "Can
I talk to Beresta?"
"She hasn't been talking at all lately,"
Ilmarekh said. "It happens sometimes—the souls who have
heard too much cocoon themselves off, build a wall around themselves,
and I cannot reach them."
"Can she hear us?"
"I think so," Ilmarekh said.
"Beresta," Mattie called. "Your son
is safe. He sends his regards."
They both waited for her answer, and finally
Ilmarekh's cheeks and eyes bulged as if he were about to vomit.
Instead, a quiet whisper came. "Tell him that I miss him,"
Beresta said. "Did you find the cure for the gargoyles?"
"Not yet," Mattie said. "Sebastian
told me to break the bond with stone, and I've been trying to—"
"Does he eat well?" Beresta interrupted,
a bit louder this time. "Does he look well?"
"Yes, very much so," Mattie replied,
suppressing a wistful sigh. "He is a strong man now." She
decided not to mention the details of Sebastian's exile and the
hiding.
"It makes me so happy," Beresta
whispered. "Now, about the bond . . . you cannot break a thing
free of its foundation—it withers like an uprooted plant or
floats away, like a boat off its moorings. Before you break them away
from stone, find something you can bind them to, something that is
alive."
"Thank you," Mattie said.
Beresta fell silent, and Ilmarekh sighed. "I
guess she's still around then. Did you come to talk to her, or do you
have other souls you wanted to talk to?"
The dead boy, Mattie wanted to answer but bit her
lip. Not yet, she told herself. She had more pressing concerns than
to decipher Loharri's hidden history. "I have some
people—easterners—hiding from the enforcers," she
said. "In my apartment."
"What have they done?" Ilmarekh asked.
"Nothing, just like the ones you have
engulfed."
Ilmarekh's pale cheeks pinkened, with shame or
anger Mattie was not sure. "I see your point. What do you want
from me?"
"I can't risk them being discovered. Can you
tell me where they can hide without being found?"
"Here," Ilmarekh said. "Although
being in my vicinity would rather defeat your purpose." His face
distorted, and his lips quivered, as if holding back a moan. And then
the spirits talked.
"Take them to the farms," one advised.
"There's nothing but automatons there since they herded us all
into the mines, haunted, cursed."
"Take them to the eastern district, where
they can blend in," another shouted.
"No, what are you, stupid? The enforcers
practically live there, dragging out every soul and exiling all they
can."
"Leave the cursed city, go back home,"
yet another voice shouted. Ilmarekh's lips contorted as hundreds of
spirits fought over control, and his small body shook in great
spasms. "Underground!" "No, the farms!"
Just as the assault of the opinionated spirits
started to subside, another voice, smooth as silk, persuasive, spoke.
"There're other people like them," it said. "Like you.
There's a resistance, a rebellion growing. It started off with just a
few, but now..."
"How do you know it?" Mattie asked,
suspicious. "And if you know it, wouldn't the enforcers know it
too?"
"No," Ilmarekh said in his normal voice.
"I don't tell them what I know. I'm an executioner, not a snitch
... unless it is a confession of a real crime."
"So you know about the resistance?"
Mattie asked, still skeptical.
Ilmarekh nodded. "Do you have friends in high
places?"


Mattie returned home in the morning, when the
gargoyles on the temple roof were outlined against the pink sky with
streaks of golden clouds. On the way, she considered whether she
trusted Iolanda enough to ask such questions, and every time she
thought about it she recalled her obvious joy at the Duke's leaving,
and her desire to stay behind to see what marvelous changes would
take place.
Then again, her joy was too obvious. If she were
indeed involved with anything illegal, wouldn't she hide it better?
Mattie felt the beveled gears in her head speed up and heat with
friction as they manufactured one febrile thought after the next.
Loharri, she thought. Maybe she should talk to him.
She chased the thought away, and momentarily
worried that he had built it into her, this need to run to him for
help or advice every time she needed it. Would he be this
calculating? Sadly, she thought, he could be. This is
exactly the sort of thing he would've done—but did it
invalidate his willingness to help?
She reached her building fevered and distraught.
Mattie stumbled up the stairs, her head on fire. There was a smell of
burning hair, and as she touched her face she discovered that below
the cool surface of the porcelain, the metal sizzled, and that the
roots of her hair smoldered.
Sebastian was up. He took one look at Mattie and
forcibly sat her by the bench. He grabbed a piece of cloth she used
to dry her glassware with, wet it in the sink, and wrapped Mattie's
head in it. Steam rose from her brow, and she felt her eyes retract
deep into her head against her will. Her thoughts bubbled to the
surface, the steam escaped with a slow hiss through her eye sockets,
and her heart fluttered in an irregular beat.
It's the spirits, she thought. It's
Loharri and Iolanda and Sebastian and the gargoyles and too many
things to care about, and too many dangers to avoid. That's what
broke her.
Blind now, she heard Niobe's worried voice.
"What's wrong with her?"
"I don't know," Sebastian answered.
"She's overheating."

"Can you fix her?"
Mattie felt Sebastian's rough fingers search under
her jaw line and on the sides. "Don't," she wanted to say,
but her voice box must've gone out too. Sebastian popped off her
face, exposing her, helpless and naked, to the world.
"Oh," Niobe whispered. "She is ...
so intricate."
Sebastian sighed. "Yes, she is. The man who
built her . . . I don't even know what to call this. I've never seen
anything like it before."
"So you can't fix her," Niobe said.
Sebastian's fingers probed something sensitive
inside. "I could try ... I don't know what else to do."
"Call Loharri," Niobe said. "There's
nothing else you can do."
Mattie wanted to call out that no, it wasn't a
good idea. Through a great effort, she managed to loll her head to
her shoulder, and more steam escaped through some malfunctioning
gasket.
"I'm calling Loharri," Niobe said. "You
better find a place to hide."
"You can't go out," Sebastian answered.
"It's not safe."
"I'll find someone to take the message."
Mattie's ears rang with persistent piping, but
even through the ruckus she could hear the window being opened, and
Niobe's strong voice calling over the rooftops and the city below,
"Hey, gargoyles! Your friend is in danger."
Then the ringing grew louder and ceased suddenly,
and all sensation left Mattie's limp frame.


We hear the call, and we run, all the while
wondering whether we should be more dignified than to run errands.
But the girl is ill—we saw her, her face torn off and the rest
of her so broken we would've wept if we could. So we do the next best
thing, and we rush. People in the streets crane their necks to see us
bounding across the rooftops, in the clear light of the day, with no
time to hide, and they point and shout. We think dimly that they must
think that it was the recent events at the palace and the eastern
gates that disturbed us so greatly.
The house where the girl was made, where she
used to live is almost invisible for the solid wall of weeds and rose
bushes— there's a narrow path leading through the vegetation to
the door. The house stands apart from the rest, and we have no choice
but to descend and run across the ground, like fast gray dogs,
running on all fours through the fragrant hedge. It lashes out at us,
and the branches whip and slide off our hard gray skin, and we wonder
if it is growing harder, if small fissures are starting to appear,
and if last night another one of us has gone, to leave us fewer and
weaker. We knock on the door politely.
A woman answers the door, a woman in loose gown
sliding off her round shoulders, a woman with tangled hair and sleepy
eyes, which she rubs with her fist like a child. She rubs them again,
as if expecting us to disappear back into her dreams, but we remain,
stubborn.
"Can I help you?" she says
cautiously, after we start wondering if we should speak first.
"We need to speak to the mechanic who
lives here."

"What is that about?" Her eyes are
awake now, curious.

We hesitate. "It's about his mechanical
girl," we say.

She gasps. "Mattie? Is she all right?"


"She's broken," we say. "We need
to talk to the master of the house."
She moves aside and beckons us in, but we
remain outside, where we would not be easily trapped.
She disappears inside the house, and we wait,
hidden among the bushes from the curious eyes of any passersby.
And then he comes out with a small bag of
tools, and we recognize him, even though he has grown tall and thin
and hunched, his eyes still long and narrow, his face no longer
beautiful. He is pulling his jacket on as he walks out on the porch
where we are waiting. "Where is she?" he asks.
"In her apartment, high above the streets,
her face is off and she is broken."
"What happened?" he says, but already
we bound away, our message delivered.


Mattie woke up to the familiar touch. She extended
her eyes carefully, fearful that she still wouldn't be able to see.
Loharri's stern face swam into her field of vision. She looked past
him to Niobe standing by the window, her forehead lined with worry,
her arms crossed over her chest.

"What did you do?" Loharri asked.
Mattie sat up from the floor and touched her face
to make sure it was back in place. Sebastian had seen her naked, she
remembered. She did not find the thought altogether repellent; she
liked the way his calloused fingers fit under her jaw, how swift and
unapologetic he was ...

"Mattie!"
She startled at Loharri's insistent voice.
"Nothing," she said. "I've done nothing wrong."
Loharri shook his head. "Mattie. You don't
even know why you got ill, do you?"
She shook her head. "I was working too hard."
His face remained composed, but she recognized the
slight slow movement of his jaw, as if he were trying not to grit his
teeth. "You were ill," he said, "because you went
against your desire to see me. I told you that you always must do so.
Didn't I?"
She nodded. "I didn't know."
"Wait a moment," Niobe said and stepped
forward. "You booby-trapped the poor girl's head and didn't even
tell her? Just to make sure she didn't get away from you?"
"Don't talk to me like that," Loharri
said without even looking in Niobe's direction. "You're
forgetting your place— what, the alchemists let you join and
you think you are their equal?"
Niobe shrank away as if from a slap, but her eyes
blazed.
"Don't be like this," Mattie pleaded and
folded her still trembling hands over her heart. She remembered
Loharri's temper—he often spoke harshly, but it passed.
"I'm sorry," Loharri said to Niobe. "I
do appreciate your calling me and being here for Mattie—but
please do not meddle in things that don't concern you."
Niobe didn't answer, and Loharri turned his
attention back to Mattie. "Now, what did you want to talk to me
about?"
"About the bombing," Mattie answered. "I
told you last time that you got the wrong man, and yet you killed
him."
"How do you know that?"
"The gargoyles. And you keep taking people
and banishing them from the city, and—"
"Enough," Loharri interrupted and rubbed
his face. "I don't like it either, Mattie, but that's politics
for you. People are restless, and they need someone to blame."
"This is it?" Niobe said. "That's
your entire excuse?"
"It's not an excuse," Loharri said.
"Things started to change when you people showed up."
"Your people show up in our cities,"
Niobe parried. "We don't make a fuss about it."
"You would if your own people were losing
jobs to the foreigners."
"Your people are losing jobs to your
machines," Niobe said. "You put mechanizing everything and
making it efficient above your people's happiness, and you wonder why
they aren't happy?"
Loharri stood and turned to Niobe. "Don't try
to come between me and my automaton," he said. "Seriously.
I have no interest in finding scapegoats, and I'm not going to tell
anyone about your presence here; you don't need to worry about that.
But if I have to remove Mattie from your company, I will. She does
not need your influence." He grabbed his bag of tools and was
out of the door before Mattie had a chance to say thank you or
goodbye.
Niobe waited for his steps to fall silent in the
stairwell, stretched and laughed. "What an unpleasant man,"
she said.
"He really isn't," Mattie said. "He
has his problems, but he's better than most. You just need to get to
know him a little."
"I have no desire to." Niobe gave Mattie
a quick hug and a pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry, we all have
friends everyone else hates. Just don't let him hurt you."
"I have other plans." Mattie reached for
the shelf over her bench, and picked up a jar sealed with a glass
stopper, the figure of the blood homunculus visible inside.


Niobe's help proved to be invaluable—she was
better versed in the darker uses of blood alchemy than Mattie
expected, and she managed to get the homunculus moving about and
chanting strange words. It wobbled and bubbled along the bench, back
and forth, unable or unwilling to get down, and hissed and sputtered.
Its heart, woven from two-colored strands, pulsed with grim life.
"How is it supposed to work?" Mattie
asked.
"This creature, while alive, holds two wills
together as one. Whichever one of them feeds it can command it, and
the other person obeys."
"What does it eat?" Mattie asked.
"Blood. Isn't it obvious?"
"I'll tell Iolanda to get sheep's blood
then."
Niobe shook her head. "If she wants to
command the other, she'll have to feed it her own blood. Don't worry,
it doesn't eat much—just a pin prick will sate it for a week.
The longer you feed it, the stronger it gets, but it only commands
for a short time."
Mattie watched the creature, fearful of it and yet
fascinated. Just like Mattie, it was made, not born; and yet Mattie
felt no kinship to it, the slimy, organic thing, not with her
pristine metal and bone and shiny, hard surfaces. Not vulnerable to
the creature, yet unable to command it, for she had no blood to feed
it.
It occurred to her that her only kinship was with
gargoyles and their affinity for stone and hard skin, with their
tormented not-quite life. She felt sad when she realized that freeing
them from fate would mean breaking the bond she felt with them, yet,
to refuse it would be unkind.
"What are you thinking about?" Niobe
asked.
"Sebastian. You think he's safe?"
"I think so. He said he'll return tonight to
check on you, to make sure you're all right."
Mattie flustered. "Do you think he really
cares about me?
"Of course he does. He ... " Niobe
paused and grabbed Mattie's arm, and spun her around to face the
light from the window so that Niobe could take a better look at her
eyes.
Mattie could not avert them, so she retracted them
instead. "What?"
"Oh, dear whales in the sea," Niobe
whispered. "You are in love with him, aren't you?"
"I don't know," Mattie said. "Should
I be?"
"I haven't realized that you could... Oh,
dear me. What am I saying? Of course you can. You are. This is why
this bastard booby-trapped you, this is why he was so cross. He knows
you love someone else, Mattie. What will happen to you?"
Mattie weighed her words. "I don't know. I
haven't accumulated enough history to know things like that. I will
ask Iolanda to protect me." She pointed at the homunculus. "I'll
ask her to make sure that he gives me my key back."


Chapter 12
Iolanda did not take long to show up. She burst
through the doors in a whirlwind of wild hair and flared skirts.
"Mattie! Are you all right?"
Mattie nodded. "I'm fine."
"What happened?"
"Loharri," Mattie said. She explained
the device planted in her head, and her desperate need to get her key
back. She needed Loharri out of her head and her heart, she said.
Iolanda smiled at that. "Indeed," she
said. "I know exactly what you mean." She pushed past
Mattie to the laboratory, and took a step back once she saw Niobe.
"Who is she?"
"Niobe," Mattie said. "My friend.
She was helping me with your request."
"Ah." Iolanda walked through the
laboratory to her habitual seat in the kitchen, and laughed at the
sight of the pile of Mattie's dresses covered with a blanket. "How
cozy! You're sleeping here?"
"Yes," Niobe said, showing neither
embarrassment nor anger. "Mattie has no need for beds, so I have
to make do."
"A fellow alchemist then," Iolanda said.
"Thank you for helping with Mattie—I'll pay you too."
"There's no need—"
"Of course there is." Iolanda sat and
played with a long strand of her curly hair. "There's always a
need for money."
"Iolanda only employs women," Mattie
said to Niobe.
"How do they let you get away with it?"
Niobe asked, visibly warming up to Iolanda.
"They don't notice," Iolanda answered,
and both of them laughed.
Mattie did not quite understand what was so funny
about hiding oneself, about being allowed to do what one pleased
while no one was looking. They, the women, were like the gargoyles,
Mattie thought. Respected in words, but hidden from view of those who
ran the city and managing to live in the darkness, in the secret
interstices of life.
"All right then," Iolanda said and
helped herself to the decanter with pear liquor. "Let's see what
you've cooked up for me."
Mattie took the blood homunculus out of its jar.
"Ew," Iolanda said. "What is it?"
The homunculus seemed to recognize Iolanda with
the hair coiled in its chest, and it toddled up to her and grabbed at
her skirts with its stumpy fingerless hands, leaving dirty traces on
the fine silk.
"We better put it in the jar." Niobe
scooped the weakly resisting creature into its glass jail and stopped
the jar before it could crawl out. She handed the jar to Iolanda.
"There."
Iolanda studied the creature through the glass,
her full lips twisting in disgust.
Niobe explained how to feed the homunculus, and
Iolanda looked even more doubtful.
She turned the jar this way and that, but no
matter how she tried to turn the blind embryonic visage away from
her, the homunculus always managed to turn to face her. "I don't
even know if it's worth it," Iolanda said. "Don't get me
wrong, I appreciate your fine work. It's just—"
"That's fine," Niobe said cheerfully.
"I'm sure Loharri would pay double for it—his hair is in
too, so he can command it as well as you."
Iolanda frowned, then unexpectedly laughed. "All
right," she said. "You made your sale, clever girl. Say,
would you like a nicer bed than what you have right now?"
"And what would that entail?" Niobe
asked, still smiling.
"Come stay with me. No one would hassle you
there."
"What will I do?"
Iolanda shrugged. "Minor remedies. And
keeping me company. Most of my servants are automatons, not nearly as
clever as Mattie, and they are dreadful conversationalists. In fact,
they do not speak at all, they only listen and do as they are told."
"That may be," Niobe said. "But
what do you really need?"
Iolanda shook her head in mock exasperation. "I
want you to keep an eye on this thing you just so cruelly entrusted
me with. I don't want to see it or hear it. It looks like it might
bite."
"It has no teeth," Mattie offered.
Iolanda continued as if she didn't even hear
Mattie's interjection. "I won't treat you as a servant. I know
how stuck-up you alchemists are. Just take care of it for me, all
right? And I promise I'll protect you from the enforcers."
"You're too kind," Niobe said.
"All right then! Get your things."
Iolanda thrust the jar with the homunculus in Niobe's hands, all too
eager to get rid of it. "Come on, come on!"
As Niobe hurried to pack up her clothes and her
alchemical ingredients, Mattie stood by her bench, unable to quite
articulate her hurt. She did not fault Niobe for choosing a better
arrangement and greater protection than Mattie could offer. She
didn't even mind that it meant that she chose Iolanda over Mattie.
But she was injured to the core that these two had such an easy time
liking each other and trusting each other, despite the gulf that was
supposed to exist between them. That the flesh women had some secret
bond that Mattie did not share, that by implication she was excluded
from their thoughts like she was excluded from their conversation.
She was just a machine, a clunker one only acknowledged when
convenient. For a moment, she regretted betraying Loharri to them—at
least, he never made her feel like she did not belong.
With Niobe gone, Mattie distracted herself with
her work on stone. She had mixed blood residue with stone dust and
given the homunculus a small shaving off her finger for a heart. The
animating essence of the blood stirred the slow, lumbering stone, and
the homunculus awakened. Mattie had just started to make an emulsion
of various minerals and gemstones to feed the homunculus and prod it
to talking and divulging its secrets, betraying the bondage it had
over the gargoyles. She felt so close now. Then came a knock on the
door.
As Mattie walked to open it—just three
steps—many thoughts darted through her mind like startled
pigeons. It was Niobe, she thought, who had come back to apologize
and stay with Mattie despite the inconvenience, because they were
friends; it was Iolanda, holding the slender shaft of Mattie's key in
her soft, manicured hands; or it was Loharri who came to take her
home forever, because she could not be trusted out of his sight, not
even with the traitorous gears ticking in her head, monitoring her
heart for any sign of doubt in him.
She opened the door. It was Sebastian—the
only possibility she had not considered because she was afraid,
Niobe's insinuations still buzzing subsonically deep in her mind.
You're in love, you're in love, Niobe's voice teased, and
he does not love you back because you are beneath noticing, you're
nothing but a mindless automaton that can be shoved aside as soon as
it starts getting in the way of what a person wants. You are nothing.
Sebastian grabbed her hands and smiled. "Mattie?
You're all right!"
She nodded and took her hands away, demurring.
"Loharri fixed me."
His face grew somber. "I'm sorry I couldn't."
"It's all right," Mattie said. "No
one expected you to."
"No." He frowned and sat by the table,
in the chair recently vacated by Iolanda. "It's my fault. I
haven't been practicing my work in years—do you know how much
you forget this way? Can you imagine not practicing at all? I
couldn't rejoin the society now if they asked me."
Mattie looked at him askance. He seemed so
alien—always coming and going at odd hours, seemingly
untouchable by either the enforcers or mechanics. He was like a
gargoyle, hidden, having the gift of making himself invisible—a
natural gift, Mattie thought. "Your name was on the list,"
she said.
"What list?" He seemed momentarily
disoriented by the change of topic but smiled. "What are you
talking about, Mattie?"
"Your mechanic medallion was reported
missing," Mattie said. "I saw the list."
"So? I'm sure there were plenty of others."
"Yes." Mattie paused. "Don't you
want to know why we had the list?"
He forced a smile. "Why, Mattie?"
"Because only the mechanics can legally order
explosives from the alchemists," she said. "We suspect that
maybe there was a stolen medallion involved."
Sebastian shrugged. "I wouldn't know anything
about it, Mattie. Ask the gargoyles—they saw me every day; they
know I wasn't involved in anything, no matter who the mechanics want
to blame."
"The gargoyles complain that their feeders
are empty."
"I'm sure the monks will find someone,"
Sebastian said, his face coloring with a dark blush. "If they
haven't already."
"Maybe." Mattie studied him—she
did not suspect him, not really. But there were questions that gnawed
at the edges of her thoughts, leaving a latticed pattern of doubt and
confusion. And she could not forget that he was a mechanic who knew
something of alchemy—and who could say how much he picked up
from his mother? Maybe the mechanics kept perfecting their art,
making more and more complex things every day, but explosives had
been made the same way for centuries. The alchemists enjoyed
tradition and camaraderie more than efficiency; Niobe was right about
that.
"So what, you gonna start suspecting me now?"
Sebastian said. His years spent at playing simpleton with a bucketful
of gravel had left their mark in his speech—she noticed it more
when he got defensive, retreating into a pretense of
simple-mindedness when questioned or confronted.
Mattie shook her head. "I would never suspect
you, Sebastian."
He smiled, still uncertainly. "And why is
that?"
She saw no point in pretending—her mask was
a part of her, her real face, her clean boyish features. "Niobe
thinks I love you," she said.
Sebastian stopped smiling and looked away. She
made him awkward, Mattie realized—everyone felt awkward when
they had to say no to someone who'd been kind to them. And
occasionally, just out of gratitude, they said yes. "I'm
flattered," he said. "But even people could be mistaken
about such things—why, you barely know me."
"Barely."
He coughed and got off the chair with an air of
determination. There was nowhere to go so he just paced the length of
the kitchen—three steps to the door, three back. "Have you
seen the new contraption the mechanics are building?" he asked
after a bit of frantic pacing.
"No," Mattie said.
"They're building it by the pond, not too far
from the park. You really should see it—it is fascinating. They
call it the Calculator."
"Oh," Mattie said. "Loharri
mentioned it before—it's the machine that is supposed to figure
out the answers and find those responsible for the bombings, and help
us figure out how to run and defend this city."
"Yes," Sebastian said. "My, you
know a lot of things before they become public knowledge, don't you?"
Mattie nodded. "Loharri doesn't keep secrets
from me. And the mechanics always talk freely when I'm about—I
don't think they take me seriously at all."
"It's their loss," Sebastian said.
"Trust me on this. Will you go see it?"
"Why do you want me to?"
"I thought you would like to meet another
very smart machine," he said.
Mattie shook her head. "It is not smart. It
just analyzes— anyone could do that."
"Why don't they?"
"Because they don't know all of the
parameters," Mattie said. "And the same is true for this
machine—it doesn't know everything, and it is unable to decide
what's important."
She went to see the Calculator anyway. She saw it
from afar—its smokestack rose over the trees of the park, gray
and white, occasionally colored with the yellows of sulfurous fumes.
The machine itself disappointed her—Mattie never dared to think
it in such words but she expected an intelligent automaton that
looked like her. Instead, it was a gigantic contraption, clanging
with metal pistons and spewing steam from multiple pipes and openings
covered with grating. It was like an angry house that was hissing and
spitting at Mattie, and she did not know why it was so upset.
There were several engineers tinkering with one of
the many square modules at the Calculator's side. Loharri was among
them, and Mattie's instinct was to turn away and run home before he
noticed her. She turned and hurried toward the safety of the street,
where she would be hidden from his eyes by the buildings and the
brightly colored but still-subdued crowd. The absence of dark faces
was noticeable to Mattie, and she moved uneasily through the crowd,
so homogeneous that Mattie stood out like a red roof in the
gargoyles' district.
"Mattie!"
She turned with ready moan of exasperation, to see
Loharri running after her.
"Wait!" He slowed to a somewhat more
dignified walk and weaved through the crowd, long and sinuous like an
eel. "You don't have to run every time you see me and make me
chase you through the streets. It doesn't look proper."
Mattie shrugged. "I wasn't running. I just
didn't like your Calculator."
He grinned, briefly flashing his very white teeth.
"Please don't tell me you're jealous."
"Of course I'm not." Mattie shifted on
her feet, uncomfortable, all the while studying his face for any
subtle change induced by Niobe's alchemy. "I just think it is
loud and dirty."
He laughed, and bowed with an exaggerated
flourish. "You, of course, are much prettier."
Mattie huffed. "Has it occurred to you that
being pretty might not be the height of my ambition?"
"Yes." He smiled still. "It worries
me quite a bit, actually. You were made to be pleasing to the eye and
interesting to converse with, not to run off and take up a trade
which frankly isn't that different from the nonsense the Stone Monks
ply."
"Why do you hate them so much?"
He shrugged. "They are not rational, my dear
girl." That was his standard explanation for any dislike of
others he had ever exhibited. "So all right, the gargoyles grew
the city. It was awfully nice of them, but I don't see why we're
supposed to worship them."
"Not worship," Mattie said. "Feed
them and help them when they need it. And maybe listen to what they
have to say.
"Sure. This is why we have the monks in the
first place, for feeding and helping. And now, apparently, you've
joined the ranks of the helpers and listeners. Why would they need
the rest of us?"
Neither of them mentioned the trade in children,
the horrible deformed creatures, colloquially known as spiders for
their short, round bodies and long, thin limbs, the pitiful terrors
that emerged from the mine shafts every night. Honestly, Mattie was
glad she did not have to see them—the stories were enough.
Mattie watched the traffic, now mostly
caterpillars and just a few lizards, flow by with its usual hissing
and groaning and metal clanking against stone. This is what this city
is about, she thought. The metal against stone, the constant
struggle, and the mechanics against the alchemists. Only now there
was no doubt as to who had won—the mechanics had the upper
hand; it was their city now.
"What are you thinking about?" Loharri
asked.
"Nothing," Mattie said. "Everything.
The Soul-Smoker, for once—did you know that he had been in the
orphanage?"
"Yes." Loharri scowled. "I have to
go back—the Calculator is malfunctioning."
"What's the problem?" Mattie asked.
Loharri shrugged. "We ask it how to increase
the coal supply, and it tells us to send everyone in the city to dig
for it."
Mattie laughed. "It's not just ugly, it's
also dumb."
"You may be right. But we know what the
problem is, we can fix it now." Loharri turned away.
Mattie waved after his long, narrow back, clad in
black wool despite the warmth and the sun. "That's what you
always say," she whispered when she was certain that he could
not hear her.
With Mattie, it was like this—her first
weeks of life were spent on the bench in mostly- or half-assembled
state. She retained snatches of those memories, even though they
scared her with the sight of her own disembodied legs standing on the
floor all by themselves, and several porcelain faces staring at her
with empty sockets while she cried out, naked and alone. Loharri
called it 'growing pains', and she agreed at least with the second
part. He kept finding new problems and new solutions that in turn
caused more problems, until Mattie was quite sure that she would
never walk, would never be made whole. And then, as if by a miracle,
she worked, complete and functional. In his weaker moments, Loharri
called it a celestial intervention. Whatever the cause was, here she
was now, Loharri's voice still ringing in her ears. I now know
what the problem is; I can fix it.


She returned home to find Sebastian preoccupied
with one of her books—the one about gargoyle history. She
watched his profile for a while, his crinkled forehead, his lowered
thoughtful eyes. Perhaps Iolanda was correct—perhaps Mattie was
in love. Or perhaps it was just desperation to break free of
Loharri's hold.
Sebastian looked up over his shoulder and smiled.
"Mattie," he said. "I've been thinking about what I
said earlier. I didn't mean to dismiss you; I didn't mean to imply
that ..." His large palm stroked his short hair absent-mindedly.
"How do I put this?"
"You can't love a machine," she said. "I
understand."
He shook his head. "That's not what I meant.
I just don't know .. . how."
His skin, soft and smooth, beckoned her hand, and
she touched his cheek, and felt the pulsing of blood under her
fingers and saw the blooming of a dark blush a moment later.
"What are you doing?" Sebastian asked,
but did not move away.
She remembered the words, even though she had
never uttered them before. "Making love," she whispered.
Sebastian remained seated, his black eye looking
at her askance, as if unsure what to do.
Mattie was rather at a loss for ideas herself, and
she bent down and wrapped her arms around him; her fingers touched on
his chest, her cheek pressed against the back of his neck.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her in front of him.
"Let's take a look at you," he murmured. "You know, I
have no idea what you look like under this dress."
Her fingers picked up the fabric of her skirt,
lifting it demurely just above her ankles.
He studied the double bones, shining and slender,
meeting at the metal joint that held the front and the back parts of
her foot together—metal toes and wooden heel. He reached under
her skirt, his warm fingers stroking past the roundness of her knee
joint, brushing against the polished inner surface of her thigh, long
and curved, and came to rest against the smooth metal plate between
her legs.
"Not like this," Mattie whispered, and
touched his hand to her chest, pressing his palm against the tiny
glass window.
He finally understood and pulled her into his lap.
He yanked at the fabric concealing her breast, and his mouth found
the keyhole as if by instinct. She froze—a troubling mix of
fear and lightheaded pleasure—as his tongue circled the
circumference of the keyhole. He forced the tip in, once, twice, and
she felt the vibrant life flood her. He wasn't winding her, but her
whole body responded, rocking in rhythm with her heartbeat, she
squirmed in his lap and his kisses and caressing fingers grew
hungrier, more urgent. He pulled her dress off her shoulders, touched
her inlays like piano keys, tangled his fingers in her hair. His
mouth pressed against her lips and then her breasts, and then her
lips again.


Mattie fled to the Soul-Smoker—it seemed
like he and his many ghosts were the only ones she could still talk
to. Confusion overwhelmed Mattie as she ran through the streets, so
alive and yet so different from what she remembered. In search of any
distraction to prevent her mind from latching onto the single
thought—I have let him touch me. I made him touch
me—she stopped by the public telegraph. The small foyer
that hosted the apparatus and the long yards of tape it spewed
incessantly, recording the news, passing messages, mounded in front
of it, like some grotesque tapeworm tangled beyond any hope. The
clerks let it be, sitting in their little niche, protected from the
ravages of the public by thick bars.
"Anything for the alchemists?" Mattie
asked.
The clerk, a young redheaded man named Janus,
yawned. "Not since three days ago."
Mattie felt a guilty pang from not having checked
in so long. "May I see it?"
The clerk dug through the large metal case divided
into hundreds of private enclosures, where the important messages
went to sit for a week before being disposed off.
"It's very quiet today. You were mobbed last
week."
The clerk, his shoulders and bony elbows moving
energetically as if he were kneading dough, laughed. "Yeah, and
two days ago everyone just decided, screw this. There's so much bad
news you can absorb before wanting to close your eyes and curl up in
a corner, yes?"
"What happened two days ago?" Mattie
asked the young man's back.
"The Duke died," he said. "His wife
and daughter recovered enough to join the rest of the court."
"Thank you." Mattie's mind tried to
figure out what it meant for the city, and as chaotic as her thoughts
were, she felt that the changes she considered were already in
motion, the great blocks of stone that tumbled slowly into place,
locking things in like the slab of the jail door slamming into its
doorway, sealing off all sunlight and hope.
"Here's your message," the red-haired
clerk said. "It's encoded."
Mattie took the ring out of her pocket and quickly
read the message. She had to read it several times, since her eyes
slid off the words, refusing to absorb their meaning.
The message was from Bokker, who had looked
through the alchemical records. One of the names in the missing
mechanics' medallions showed up—Sebastian's. The medallion was
presented by a man who had ordered some quantity of explosives.
Moreover, Bokker advised that the man who had used the medallion was
tall but wore a hood obscuring his face; but by the color of his
hands the alchemist thought that the man was an easterner—Bokker
was especially insistent on mentioning this detail, as well as the
fact that there were very few easterners admitted to the Lyceum, let
alone to the society itself.
Mattie left the telegraph building, feeling a
freezing cold starting at her heart and spreading outwards, freezing
every emotion out of her. She tried to think of it logically—
perhaps Sebastian's medallion was listed because it was lost or
stolen from him, perhaps someone else was using it. And yet, she knew
that the medallion was on the list because he failed to return it
after he was banished. Maybe he lost it afterwards, maybe he didn't
have anything to do with it. And yet, it fitted with his
disappearances and his closeness to the palace, it fitted the overall
pattern and his insistence that he could not leave the city. No
matter how Mattie tried, there was no way of fitting it any other way
without invoking a complex conspiracy—and as she knew, those
were almost never true.
She hoped that Ilmarekh would offer her some
advice, but she knew that she was beyond advice, beyond being able to
cheer up at mere words. She needed to do something.
Having made a decision, she turned around and
marched away from the gates. She passed by the factories, under the
low-hanging clouds of smoke and soot, through the incessant banging
and clashing of the machinery; she walked past the hovels and the
hollow-eyed old people who passed the last of their days looking for
sun in the endless haze, and hacking up gray pieces of their lungs.
"Friends in high places," Ilmarekh had
told her the last time. Iolanda. Mattie was willing to overlook the
friend-theft at the moment, and instead decided to ask Iolanda for
one of her many promised favors. She needed to know what was the
right thing to do, and how the two of them fitted inside the machine
of the city, more metal than stone now.


Chapter 13
Mattie headed north, for the wealthy district
surrounding the former palace, where the houses were few and
spacious, enveloped by delicately maintained gardens and tall hedges
that tastefully contributed to the landscape yet managed to keep the
owners' private affairs in and the interlopers out. Her footfalls
resonated in the wide, quiet streets lined with old shade trees that
softened all other noises into a rich, velvety background that made
her aware of her own noisy workings.
The wealthy district lay a good way away from the
gates, nestled in the very heart of the stone city, embraced by the
semicircle of the palace district in the south and the park on the
north. There were a few ponds here the names of which Mattie did not
know, but even they seemed different from the Grackle Pond—the
water here was pure like crystal, with the barest hints of blue
shadows playing within; the schools of red and orange fish—some
solid, some patterned—played in the emerald green tangles of
the lake grass, their quick shadows streaking across the white, sandy
bottom.
Mattie had been here only once before, and she
looked for Iolanda's house. She did not know how she would recognize
it, only that she would—every house here was elaborate, and
Mattie thought she would spot Iolanda's taste with ease.
She spent a long time wandering between the
houses, studying the ornate ironwork on the gates, looking for any
sign of Iolanda's presence. Most of the residences stood empty since
their inhabitants had left the city, but a few harbored signs of
life—soft music and laughter wafted through the air, along with
a light clinking of dishes and glasses. But the gates were locked,
and no matter how hard she looked, she saw no sign of Iolanda.
She was ready to give up, and turned back, now
lost in the maze of the wide, quiet streets. She felt even more alien
in this eerie, luxurious place, and she hurried along, suddenly
afraid. And then she saw people in the streets.
They did not belong here either. Dressed in cheap,
rough clothes covered with coal dust, their faces gaunt and peppered
with coal particles absorbed into their skin so that no soap could
get them out. They moved in a silent, tight formation, their eyes
unnaturally light in their darkened faces. Several of them carried
torches, and they cast a troubled orange light over the trees and the
streets.
Mattie got out of the way, flattening against an
iron fence. The bars felt reassuring against the metal of her back as
she watched the silent and somber procession pass by. The tide of
miners did not stem—they filled the street, and Mattie tasted
coal and hot metal in the air.
There were others too—not as stained as the
rest, but just as gaunt and silent. For a moment, Mattie thought that
these people were ghosts vomited up by the Soul-Smoker and given
flesh through some perversion of nature, through the foul magic of
smoke and clanging metal that filled the city, rendering flesh more
and more obsolete each day, and this unwanted flesh now walked the
streets, lost.
At first, they didn't even look at Mattie, intent
and determined. But as more and more men walked by, she noticed that
a few glanced in her direction; when the end of the column was moving
past her, they stared.
"Hey," one of them called, breaking the
silence. "Shouldn't we do something about the clunker here?"
She was too scared to take offense as several men
left their place in the column, creating a little eddy of people, and
walked up to her.
"I've done nothing to you," Mattie said.
"It talks," one of them said, perplexed.
"When did you learn to talk?"
"I always could," Mattie said. "I'm
not like the other machines. I'm emancipated."
The man studied her, his narrow face unshaven and
impenetrable. "We heard about the intelligent machine," he
said, finally.
"The one who tells the government what to do
with us," one of his fellows added. "Is it you? Is it you
who took away our land and stuffed us into mines?"
"Their kind took our fields, too,"
another one said.
Mattie shook her head and folded her hands. "No,"
she said. "It's not me, I swear. I'm just an alchemist, I make
ointments. You want the Calculator by the Grackle Pond."
"We'll get to it in due time," the first
man said. "Now the question is, what to do with you?"
Mattie sensed restrained violence in the tense set
of his shoulders, in the subtle tightening of his fists, knobby and
disproportionately large on his thin forearms.
A shout from somewhere at the head of the
procession tore at the silence, and there was a sound of smashed
glass and whooping. More shouting, more noises, and a thin wisp of
dirty smoke curled into the sky like a curlicue. Mattie's
interlocutors were compelled to look away, stretching their necks to
see better.
Mattie bolted. The man closest to her gave a
surprised gasp as she pushed him away, and reflexively his fist
caught her on the cheek; she felt cracks opening in her face,
blooming into stars, but already she ran, the wind hissing in the
fissures of her porcelain mask.
The crowd had grown sparser and she had no trouble
weaving her way between them. She was faster than any of them, and
they seemed too preoccupied to pay her much mind. Her feet pounded
the pavement, but instead of resonating loudly like before, her
footfalls were nearly inaudible in the cacophony of destruction that
erupted all around and behind her.
She heard a woman scream, and thought that the
rioters had breached the gates somewhere and were destroying the
houses. There was a smashing of glass, and a smell of burning wood
and something else—hair? horn?—chased after her. Mattie
tried not to think about Iolanda and Niobe, and yet she felt guilty
that she was unable to find them— although what good would it
have done? She felt a chip of porcelain detach from her cheek and
heard it clink on the pavement.
Mattie slowed her steps only when she was certain
that the rioters had passed by; even then, she walked quickly,
clinging close to the walls of the buildings. There was no one in the
streets, and only occasionally she saw a worried face peer through
the shutters—a sign that the rioters had passed this way. As
she approached the palace district (she still thought of it this way,
even though there was no palace anymore), she saw several of the
enforcers' buggies, heading in the direction she came from. They
swarmed by the Parliament, organizing, and she breathed a little
easier. The riot would be over soon, and she only hoped that it would
be stopped before Iolanda and Niobe were hurt. She felt guilty for
her earlier resentment of them, as if her thoughts had brought them
into danger.
They did not let her into the Parliament building,
and she headed for Loharri's house—it was closer than hers, and
she was not ready to face Sebastian just yet. Sebastian. She thought
about telling Loharri where he was, about the missing medallion and
explosives. Surely, it would be a reason enough? And yet, her entire
being cried out against it. It didn't matter if he was the one who
blew up the palace; it didn't matter if he was involved in the riots
somehow. She just couldn't betray him. She had had enough of that for
now. Instead, she wondered if perhaps Iolanda was visiting Loharri,
and was thus spared the grisly fate Mattie tried really hard not to
imagine.


The door was locked, but Mattie decided to wait.
With the shrubbery so bold and unrestrained, she could sit on the
front stoop, hidden by the glistening green wall studded with creamy
and red roses, drinking in their sweet fragrance. She watched the sky
turn deeper blue, and gingerly touched her face, exploring the new
cracks. She extended her eyes to take a closer look, and her heart
fell—there were so many, with whole chunks of porcelain
missing, exposing the shining gears underneath. The corner of her
lips was cracked horribly, and she thought that it almost mimicked
Loharri's injury—now she too had half a face maimed. The
difference was that he could replace hers.
Loharri came home when the shadows from the hedge
grew long enough to touch the walls of the house, to lap at the
foundation and to reach up to the windows, gradually consuming the
wall from the ground up. The rose bushes looked black in the dimming
light, and the night flowers' fragrance scented the breeze—Mattie
smelled jasmine and gardenias, magnolias and lilacs in the thick
night air, and almost missed the sound of familiar light footsteps on
the path.
Loharri smiled at Mattie but his eyes remained
tired. His clothes were rumpled as if he had slept in them, and the
white collar and cuffs of his shirt bore long streaks of oil. His
hands were stained, black semicircles of grime nestled under the
fingernails of his usually clean hands. "Are you all right?"
he asked. "Come on in; I'll get the fire going."
Loharri still signified home for Mattie, no matter
how much she resented this fact. "You look tired," she
said. "Did you see the riots?"
He smirked. "Yes, I did. They burned down a
few houses and made a racket before the Parliament. But right now, I
just want a bath, a sandwich and a nice drink. Come on in."
"I don't want to disturb you," Mattie
said. Her words sounded perfunctory even to her; they both knew that
Mattie's presence would neither tax nor disturb him.
She followed Loharri inside, and it felt as though
they had just returned from one of their excursions—it felt
like coming home after a long absence. The smells she hadn't noticed
when she used to live here were obvious now—metal and oil, the
weak scent of roses wafting through the open windows from the
outside, an unfinished glass of tea left in the kitchen—and
endearing in their familiarity.
"Go take your bath," she told Loharri.
"I'll make you your tea and sandwich."
"I have an automaton for that."
She tilted her head. "I don't mind."
"Suit yourself." His footfalls retreated
into the interior of the house, and she listened to the weak sounds
as she rummaged through the ice chest looking for cheeses and cold
meat. She heard the running water, the rustling of clothes shed to
the floor, a splash and a tired sigh.
She thought that Loharri seemed unusually subdued,
considering the events of the past weeks, and especially today.
Perhaps the telegraph clerk was right; perhaps there came a time when
the most reasonable response was to sigh and ignore everything,
because the heart could not absorb all the misery of the world
without breaking. Perhaps they should just stay in the kitchen, the
kettle bubbling merrily on the woodstove, the flames of the fireplace
casting a bright glow on the dark walls, and talk nonsense, and watch
the elaborate dance of the fireflies outside.
Loharri was apparently of the same mind—when
he came into the kitchen, his hair dripping water onto the collar of
his clean shirt, he held up his hand. "I really don't want to
talk about it."
"Neither do I," Mattie said. "I'm
just worried about Iolanda—have you seen her today?"
He shook his head and gave her a sharp look.
"Since when are the two of you best pals? She worries about you,
you worry about her..."
"She bought some ointment for me,"
Mattie said, settling for a half-truth rather than an outright lie or
a confession. "She seems nice. And you like her, don't you?"
He settled at the table and drank his tea. "It's
complicated, Mattie."
She tilted her head. "Everything is
complicated with you."
"It's a character flaw." He smiled, then
squinted up at her. "Don't worry, she'll be fine. But what
happened to your face? Did you fall again?"
"Yes," Mattie said. "No. I was
watching the smoke over the city, and walked into a lamppost."
It was just ridiculous enough for him to believe it.
He smiled. "Oh, Mattie. I don't have anything
new for you, but maybe one of the prototypes will work for now."
"Prototypes?"
"You don't think I'd settle for a design
without trying others, do you? Come on, I'll show you."

"Eat," she said. "I'm not going
anywhere."

"Afraid of being home all by yourself?"
"No." Afraid of being home with
someone else, she thought, but never said it out loud. "Eat
your sandwich."
He obeyed, still smiling. "You don't hate me
as much as you make out, do you, Mattie?"
"Don't talk with your mouth full," she
said. "And I never said I hated you."
"You make a fairly good impression. No words
needed, dear girl, and you know full well that I'm not entirely dim.
Surely, you expected me to pick up on some of your mannerisms."
"I just don't want you touching me," she
said. "And I want my key."
"I left it to you in my will," he said.
"You won't kill me though, will you?"
"I'll consider it," she said.
He didn't think her dangerous—if he did, he
wouldn't joke about it and pretend that her anger was indeed a
concern to him. He occasionally enjoyed making a show out of
capitulating to her, but only because they both knew he held more
power. Not any more, Mattie thought. I hope that Iolanda is
all right. She didn't mind feeling selfish just this once—of
course, her concern for Iolanda was more about Iolanda and Niobe than
it was about the blood homunculus; but she couldn't deny that the
small bubbling creature figured in her thoughts prominently.
"This is nice," he said. He finished his
meal and sat back in his chair, stretching his long legs with a
drawn-out sigh. "Just like the old times."
Mattie inclined her head. "There was
something you wanted to show me?"
He led her to his workshop, which seemed to grow
more cluttered by the day. Under the piles of scrap metal and gear
trains, racks and pinions, he found a large crate,
uncharacteristically well-kept and neatly covered with straw. In it,
there were several faces, and Mattie was surprised to discover that
they were all different from the one she had worn until then. There
were faces with thin noses and upturned noses, plump and narrow lips,
high and low foreheads, and a wide variety of cheekbones. "This
one sort of looks like you," Loharri said and picked up a mask
that indeed bore some resemblance to the face Mattie had grown
accustomed to and recognized as her own—a face with rounded
childish cheeks and wide eyes, with a small mouth smiling at some
untold secret.
"I like this one better." The face
Mattie picked was unpainted and plain, with features that suggested
neither youth nor wisdom of experience. It was a very average face,
and Mattie suspected that Loharri considered it a failure and only
kept it because he could rarely bear to throw anything away, on the
off chance that he might decide that he needed it after all.
Loharri grimaced. "I'm usually not the man to
criticize my own work, but I regret to say that you lack artistic
taste, Mattie."

"Can I have it?"
He shrugged. "Why not? It's only temporary."
He helped her to put it on, and gave her a long appraising look. "Not
terrible. But tell me something, my sweet machine, tell me—last
time I visited, your face was already off. How'd you managed that?"
"I don't remember," Mattie lied. "I
don't remember much of that day—only that Niobe was there to
help me."
"And she's not a mechanic."
"Not that I know of," Mattie answered
cautiously. "Does one need to be a mechanic to take my face
off?"
"It certainly helps." Loharri watched
her still, with a calm curiosity in his eyes that Mattie found
unsettling. "If there was a mechanic who had stopped by, you
would tell me, wouldn't you?"
"Of course." She made her voice as
steady as she could manage. "Why wouldn't I?"
"This is exactly what I'm trying to figure
out," Loharri said, smiling.


We feel a strange sense of kinship to the
people who are burning the city down—not to their actions, but
they have come from the stone, like us—the ground opened and
disgorged them, a whole throng, torches and gaunt faces, as if they
were born from the rock and appeared on the surface by magic, already
sullen and dissatisfied with the world as it was.
And then we see the deformed spiderlike men
crawling out, their long weak arms grabbing onto the rocks as they
struggle to exit narrow passages where diamonds and emeralds and
rubies hide, where only small bodies and long fingers can reach; they
haul themselves out, with little help from their deformed spindly
legs, weak from constant crouching. Their red-rimmed eyes blink even
though the sun is setting and the shadows are long and velvet-soft.
We wonder if these children of stone are to succeed us and if they
are the reason for our decline, if the stone has planned it like
this, all these centuries ago—that we are to return where we
came from and others would come in our stead.
But they look weak, and we know that they have
been shaped by human hands—the hands that stuffed them into
cages where their bodies could not grow; we know that they find it
difficult to breathe and can easily suffocate in their sleep—every
night is a gamble for them. Like it is for us, we suppose.
We follow them as they crawl, and more emerge
from the earth, so pale, so blind, so helpless on the surface. They
come in the wake of the first riots, and they watch the orange light
tinting the horizon, streaked with black smoke. It's not like they
remember it from last night, but last night was different, too—they
did not enter the city but instead crawled to their hovels outside
the city wall, to sleep and dream of death. Tonight, they pass
through the gates, and we follow them, curious now.
They notice us—we do not know how, but
they do, and their red eyes linger as we cling to the city wall, to
the buildings.
"Don't be afraid," they croak and coo
and call us in strangled voices. In their hands they have gems—blue
and green and red, the stone that gave birth to them still clinging
to their rough uneven edges. They offer the gemstones to us, and we
cannot resist—we have been hungry for so long. We descend to
the ground, to their level, and we eat the stones out of their hands.
Their slender fingers touch our faces in wonder and apprehension,
they slide off the abrupt precipices of our cheekbones and noses. The
stones taste of cool subterranean depths, and we suddenly miss home.
"Come with us," they call and coo.
"Come with us, help us like you haven't helped us before."
"But what can we do?" we say, the
shards of emeralds and rubies grating on our worn teeth. "We can
only watch."
"Come with us," they say and beckon.
"There's stone down in these tunnels, and great twisting
passages; there are crystals growing from the low roofs, and there's
fluorescent moss covering the walls."
"We can't," we say, and we move away,
the crumbs of gemstones dropping from our lips.
We climb the walls again, and we follow them
around the city on their slow, exploratory crawl. They pay us no
attention, pretending that they have forgotten about us. But we know
better. They are afraid of us, afraid that we will protect our city,
and they want to lure us to the tunnels, where we will be out of the
way, in the soft cradling embrace of our home. But we cannot go. The
city is our responsibility—even though we can only watch.
They crawl toward the fires, drawn to them like
all creatures living in the dark. There are men with torches
everywhere, and they are not burning but fleeing now—we hear
the distant clanging of the buggies and the shouts of their
passengers, and musket shots ringing through the streets.
The windows are shuttered, and even the
shopkeepers do not leave the safety when they hear the sounds of
broken glass. The smells of smoke and jasmine make the air sing, make
the darkness so much deeper, so much bluer. The buildings to our east
are hidden by the darkness, but the ones to our west are outlined in
black against the orange sky which grows brighter, then dims,
pulsing, like a living heart.
We find that we are drawn to flames too, and we
follow the crawling procession toward it. We taste soot in the air,
and we almost weep when we see the scorched gardens, the blackened
limbs of the dead trees still exhaling the heat of the recent fire,
and we watch an occasional spark crackling and running along the
fissures of the burned wood.
The broken windows gape, and there's no
laughter or music; the shots and shouts are far away now, and silence
hangs over the formerly beautiful place like a shroud. We wonder
where all the people who used to live here went, and then we turn
away because we cannot come up with an answer.
But the crawling, seething mass of people below
is not deterred—we watch them crawling over the hot cinders and
rubble, we hear their soft, strained voices calling to each other.
And then they turn back.
They crawl through the silent streets,
circumventing the sounds of fighting, distant now, they crawl to the
gates as the city around them remains mute but awake—there's
tension in the air, the tension that usually disappears when people
sleep, but tonight, they are all watching through the shutters, their
eyes glinting occasionally through the narrow slots. They watch and
they pray, and just like us, they do not know what to do—they
remain inside because once they venture out, they would be compelled
to do something. Instead, they choose the dubious safety of the night
vigil—even children are not crying—and they watch like we
do, somber and quiet, as the gem miners explore the city they had
left as children in small cages, as they talk to each other in tones
of hushed wonder.
And we think the same thing the people in the
locked houses think—or at least, we like to think that they do
think about that, we like to think that as they look at the human
spiders and their quick but uncertain crawl, they silently whisper to
themselves, what have we done?


Chapter 14
Mattie waited for Loharri to wake up, and idly
picked through the icebox. He appeared to have gone to the market the
day before, and she inhaled the smells of foods she could not
consume—figs and pomegranates, fresh berries and coconut milk.
She was satisfied with the smell alone.
She thought that the figs—dark-red, almost
purple-looked like tiny hearts, and the juice of the pomegranates was
the color of human blood. She had no instruments, but in the kitchen
she mashed the fig pulp awkwardly with her fingers, whispering the
secret words she had learned from Ogdela—the words, Ogdela
insisted, that could heal the heart of the world if only said right
and with enough conviction. She poured the pomegranate juice over the
red pulp when Loharri, still half-asleep, stumbled into the kitchen.
"Something smells good," he said, his
voice still hoarse from sleep.
Mattie nodded. She liked the smell of people right
after they slept—it was a warm, musky smell that made her feel
at home and at peace. "How much damage did they do?"
Loharri shrugged and scooped a blob of fig and
pomegranate mix with his fingers. "Mmmm," he said.
"Delicious. As for the damage, I truly do not know. I don't want
to know, frankly. I don't think the city treasury has enough money
for a decent rebuilding effort."
"You're thinking of rebuilding?" Mattie
watched him eat. Not the heart of the world, but if she could fix his
heart it would be enough. "How do you know they won't come
back?"
He stopped eating. "You think they will."
"I think they might. The enforcers kicked
them out of the city this time, but..."
"I see your point." Loharri finished his
meal, stretched, and paced. "What is it they want?"
Mattie told him about the men who attacked her
yesterday. "They don't like being replaced in the fields by
machines. They don't like being forced into the mines. I can't say I
blame them."
"We all have a role to play. Otherwise,
society couldn't function."
"I never hear it from people with miserable
roles," Mattie said.
"Not everyone can be a mechanic. Or an
alchemist for that matter, or a courtier."
"They don't want that," Mattie answered.
"They just want to be peasants again. Just that."
Loharri sighed. "I better go and check on the
Calculator. It was pretty well guarded, but still..."
Mattie shook her head. It surprised her how little
affected by the riots Loharri appeared—he seemed to see them as
a minor inconvenience; he was not able to grasp that the order of the
world—or at least the city—had changed fundamentally To
him, the mechanics were still in charge and business continued as
usual, and the riots were nothing but a minor wrinkle in the fabric
of life, easily shrugged off, smoothed out, and forgotten.
"I don't think you understand," she
said. "They will return, in greater numbers. They will take the
city over."
Loharri laughed. "You're over-dramatizing,
Mattie. Your imagination is running away with you."
"Look through the window," she said.
"Then tell me that everything is unchanged."
He obeyed, nonchalant. He stared out of the
window, over the rose bushes and into the streets clogged with
traffic— caterpillars, lizards, men and women and children, in
vehicles and on foot, most of them carrying or carting hastily
assembled parcels of their belongings. Despite the commotion, the
people remained curiously quiet—even children didn't cry but
remained serious and subdued. The caterpillars ground, metal on
metal, and the lizards gave an occasional troubled bark—the
only sounds in the street.
"Everyone has lost their minds," Loharri
observed. "They are dimmer than cattle."
"They are not stupid. They are afraid. Maybe
you should be, too."
He stared into the street, his hand resting on the
window trim. Mattie wished she could see his face when he said, "Do
you suggest I run, too?"
"No," Mattie said. "But you might
want to start taking this seriously. Maybe stop scapegoating people
and look for real culprits. Or listen to their demands and reach an
agreement. Or maybe just find out what happened to the courtiers."
"Who cares about them?"

"I do. Iolanda was there too."
He shook his head without turning. "She
wasn't. I went there yesterday, but her automatons told me that she
had left. I assumed she moved to the seaside with the rest of them,
grew bored ... but maybe she knew it was coming."
"What about Niobe?"
"That alchemist friend of yours?" He
turned around, grinning. "What, did she ditch you for Iolanda?"

Mattie nodded.
"Hm," he said. "Apparently, there
is an entire female conspiracy behind my back. What was it exactly
you were doing for Io? And what does that girl have to do with it?"
"Iolanda bought perfume from both of us,"
Mattie said.
He made a face. "Dear girl, you can't
possibly believe I'm dense enough to believe this foolishness?"
"But it is true," Mattie insisted.
"I'm sure. You're a bad liar, Mattie, and you
know as well as I do that even if she did indeed buy some fragrant
nonsense from you, it doesn't form the basis of your association.
Although I do appreciate your effort at at least partial veracity."
He laughed. "But you're not going to tell me, are you?"
Mattie shook her head. He couldn't really punish
her, she thought; the days when he had enough power over her to take
away her eyes so that she stumbled through the house blindly were
gone now. Still, she worried that he would find another way to punish
her disobedience.
Instead, he said, "Let me get dressed, and
I'll go see what is going on at the Parliament. You're welcome to
come along, of course—especially if you have any idea as to who
the real culprit is."
"I don't," Mattie said.
"No matter. Your leader Bokker just might."
Mattie waited for him to get ready, listening for
the soft stockinged footsteps and the rustling of clothes. Of course
Bokker knew about Sebastian—of course he would tell the
mechanics, to drive suspicion from the alchemists if nothing else.
And they will look for him; she only hoped they wouldn't search her
house—even if he wasn't there.
She felt a forceful pang of guilt when she thought
about the last time she saw Sebastian. She had gained enough distance
from the event to think about it now, but the shame and turmoil
remained strong. She told herself that she had done nothing wrong,
that this was what people were supposed to do when in love—and
yet, he was the only one besides Loharri who had touched her secret
place. She imagined what it would be like to give him her key, to let
him wind her—and instead, she recoiled at the thought. If she
were to get her key back, she thought, no one but her would ever
touch it. She would wind herself well in advance so that she would
never need to rely on another to keep herself alive.


They had to push through the crowd all the way to
the ducal district, where the temple and the Parliament still stood
but felt separate from the teeming life around them, like relics of a
bygone era. They did not belong, Mattie thought, just like the
gargoyles on the roof did not belong to the world around them. For
the first time, she doubted her assignment— perhaps, she
thought, she shouldn't interfere with the natural order of things,
perhaps it would be better to let the gargoyles pass into the realm
of legends entirely Perhaps they were turning to stone simply because
there was no place for them.
Yet, it wasn't true, Mattie told herself. There
would always be nooks and fissures where ancient things born of stone
could survive. There was no reason to let them go simply because the
world was changing; ushering in the new did not have to mean
discarding the old. Did it?
"What are you thinking about?" Loharri
said. They were approaching the Parliament, deserted in contrast to
the rest of the city save for a few enforcers guarding it—it
seemed that everyone was eager to get away, and Mattie doubted that
the Parliament building would be open.
To her surprise, once they stepped inside they
were ushered along by several enforcers. "Emergency meeting,"
they informed Loharri. "Would you like to leave your automaton
here?"
"No, I want her along," Loharri said.
They didn't argue—apparently, they had more
important things to worry about, and Mattie followed Loharri to the
second floor, into a darkened and plush room dominated by a large oak
table. Almost the entire parliament and a few other mechanics and
alchemists sat around it. Loharri took a seat, and Mattie remained
standing behind his chair, close to the wall, in the shadows where
she betrayed her presence with only occasional glinting of metal and
quiet ticking.
She listened to the men talk, and the same sense
of disbelief and dread as she felt in Loharri's kitchen descended
upon her—they talked as if the destruction outside was a
temporary event, a tornado, disruptive but fleeting. They talked
about containment and rebuilding, they talked about reforms as if the
city itself hadn't turned on them; Bokker babbled about the missing
medallions and the necessity to find Sebastian—or whoever he
could've given his medallion to. The mechanics confirmed that his
medallion was never surrendered upon his expulsion, and that they
knew he was up to no good.
At this point, Loharri turned to look at her.
Mattie remained motionless, her new face as mercifully blank as her
old one. "What?" she whispered. "Do you need
something?"
He shook his head and turned back.
Mattie listened to Bokker and Bergen argue about
the measures that had to be taken—how they would look for
Sebastian, and what they would have to do to stem the riots. "Cut
the head off and the body will die," Bokker said, and the rest
nodded sagely.
Mattie wanted to scream at them that it wasn't
that simple—it wasn't just Sebastian, there were others.
Thousands of miners and peasants, the workers in the automaton
factories and those who cleaned the garbage off the streets—
they probably didn't even know about Sebastian, and they wouldn't
miss him.
She left the meeting quietly, her steps muted by
the thick carpet, her skirts whispering against the wall as she
exited.
She pushed through the crowd, heading for the
gates—she wanted to make sure that Ilmarekh wasn't harmed by
the violence, defenseless as he was alone in his this house, blind
and weak.
The gates were guarded now—the enforcers
swarmed like flies, their caterpillars staining the air with acrid
black smoke. Those leaving the city were not detained, and she slid
past the enforcers and their eyes hidden under the faceplates of
their helms.
She ran up the hill and knocked on the
Soul-Smoker's door. He was there, thankfully whole and in high
spirits. He sat by the fireplace where the last flames still guttered
and smoldered, his pipe in his pale hand. He smiled when he heard her
wooden footfalls, and waved his pipe festively.
"I'm glad that you are all right," he
said.
"I'm glad they didn't harm you," she
replied.
He smiled a bit, his thin fingers fiddling with
the buttons on his waistcoat. "Why would they? I am
sympathetic."
"It doesn't matter," Mattie replied. "It
doesn't matter to them."
She had realized something last night, and the
terror of the understanding weighed heavily on her mind. It didn't
matter what one thought or did—once perceived as an enemy by a
malignant, blind force, one would be treated as such. Those who
prided themselves in their intelligence and ability to rule and those
who rebelled against them were just like the mindless automatons
collecting the dead bodies and limbs amidst the carnage, like the
enforcers that moved through the eastern district arresting whoever
they saw fit and handing them over to the Soul-Smoker. There was no
difference whatsoever; Mattie had been mistaken to think that there
was, that they would listen to her.
"I don't think you know what you are talking
about," Ilmarekh answered with a slight frown. "I can be
useful to them—I am useful to anyone. You're just afraid of
change."
"Of course I am!" Mattie stomped her
foot, and the entire house shook. "Everyone should be afraid of
change—people die in such times."
"It has to get worse before it gets better."
"Maybe." Mattie paced across the narrow
room. At least he recognized that the change was happening, unlike
the old men at the Parliament. "I saw the mechanics and the
alchemists today . . . they are talking about repressing the riots.
Defusing the situation, as they call it. The miners will get better
wages—they will promise them, at least. I don't think they have
enough money to do that, but they'll promise, and they think it'll be
enough. Do you think it'll be enough?"
"I'm afraid it just might be," Ilmarekh
answered with a sigh. "They are just people, Mattie. They don't
want to burn buildings and kill people. Even when it is called for."
Mattie was not assured of the alleged docility of
the men who almost killed her yesterday, but she did not argue. "Just
be careful," she said.
Ilmarekh nodded and slouched by the fireplace,
groping for a cinder that could be coaxed into lighting his pipe.
Mattie found one for him and held it close to the pipe as he puffed
on the stem, his brow wrinkled. The opium, resinous and moist, caught
fire reluctantly, and Mattie smelled the sweet, cloying smoke. The
spirits stirred as soon as the twin serpentine wisps of smoke curled
from Ilmarekh's flared nostrils—the souls pried his mouth open
and babbled, their voices mingling into an indistinct cacophony of
word fragments and pained exclamations.
Mattie waited for them to calm down and sort out
the speaking order among themselves; they always seemed so talkative
when Mattie was around, and she thought that they probably disliked
talking to each other—if they even could talk to each other—and
resented Ilmarekh . . . they didn't need words to haunt his every
waking moment.
"Do they leave you alone when you sleep?"
Mattie asked.
Ilmarekh shook his head, struggling for control
over his mouth and voice. "I haven't had a dream of my own in
ages."
"You deserve it," one of the ghosts
shouted.
"Leave him be," another interrupted.
"He's not his own man."
His voice garbled again under the assault of many
souls pressing from behind, filling his mouth, his eyes with their
ethereal shapes. They cried and pleaded in turns, one after the
other—the unfairness of it all, the unfinished business. Each
seemed to have something to say to Mattie, because she was the only
one who could listen to them, without any fear of her soul being
sucked out of her.
But perhaps not—she thought of the
gargoyles, and almost cried out once she realized that the gargoyles
would be capable of listening to the wrath and pleading of the
spirits without any risk. Would the soul of a dead person sever their
bond with the stone? Mattie did not know, but she thought that this
was an avenue worth investigating. She filed it away, for the next
time she would speak to them. Now, she needed to listen.
"What do you know about Sebastian?" she
asked. "What do you know about the explosives?"
Ilmarekh and his ghosts grew curiously silent
then.
"I promise I won't tell anyone," Mattie
said. "I need to know... for myself."
"They won't tell you," Ilmarekh said.
"You've found him, haven't you?"
"Yes," Mattie said. "But I want to
know what does he have to do with all of this. I want to help him,
but I need to know."
"Why?" Ilmarekh's voice changed to a
higher pitch, and Mattie guessed that it was Beresta, worried about
the fate of her offspring.
"Because his mechanic's medallion was used to
buy explosives," Mattie said. "The mechanics and the
alchemists both know about it, they know he is in the city. He was
only banished before, but now all the enforcers will be looking for
him. I want to help, but I need to know what sort of risk I am
taking."
Another soul pushed Beresta aside—Mattie
thought she could've imagined it, but she got a distinct impression
of two transparent shapeless ghosts engaging in a bit of tug of
war—and spoke, with a strong eastern accent. "I know the
man," the soul said. "I've done nothing wrong, but I was
killed because I was a foreigner. You don't treat us well, this city
doesn't. You don't treat anyone well, not even your own. Many are
unhappy—is it a surprise that they are coming together to stop
your injustice?"
"So the easterners were involved?"
Mattie said.
Ilmarekh shrugged. "Some were, some weren't.
I wasn't and now I regret it. I blamed those who brought it on us,
but now I realize that it wasn't those who plotted, it wasn't those
who rebelled who were at fault."
Ilmarekh sighed and spoke in his own voice. "I
asked you about your friends in high places. Did you talk to them?"
Mattie shook her head, ashamed. "I never had
a chance. I... " She didn't say it out loud, but she had been
too preoccupied with plotting Loharri's downfall to talk to Iolanda
when she could. And now, how would she find Iolanda and Niobe?
"I can help you," another ghost spoke.
"I can tell you about a place they gather—but you'll go at
your own risk. If they don't trust you, you are dead."
Mattie inclined her head, agreeing. "Just
tell me when and where."
"Not far," the ghost said. "No one
comes to this blasted hill, and if you go down the northern slope at
midnight, you'll see the entrance to an abandoned mine. It's closed
during the day, but the spiders open it at night. Can you see in the
dark?"
"Yes."
"It won't help you," the ghost said.
"It's dark there, so dark, not even a torch will help you."


Mattie waited for nightfall, listening to the
rising wind outside. The Soul-Smoker's pipe had been extinguished,
and the spirits, exhausted, quieted down and only occasionally
whispered dark warnings and petty complaints. Ilmarekh appeared to
have fallen asleep in front of the cold fireplace, and Mattie found
the sudden movements of his lips and fierce, abruptly whispered words
disconcerting, and looked at the window, waiting for the moon to rise
and the constellations to arrange themselves in the proper order for
the middle of the night.
Beresta, the shy ghost, used the lull to surprise
Mattie. "My son is a good boy," she whispered, as if not to
wake the others. "A good man. He wouldn't do anything to hurt
others."
He almost killed me when I first met him,
Mattie thought. She didn't utter those words out loud—she
was well familiar with the usual arguments people gave her. You do
not count, you are a machine. You are made of metal, you have no
soul. As if any of it mattered.
Beresta understood her silence. "You
disagree."
"I don't think he is bad," Mattie said.
"I think I might even love him."
"But you ..." Beresta choked down the
reflexive protest.

"I was made to feel pain."
The ghost recoiled, her translucent form shrinking
close to Ilmarekh's lips, coating them like water. "What sort of
a man would build a machine who feels pain?"
Mattie saw no need to answer—they both knew
it. It took a specific brand of cruelty, cruelty masquerading as
concern. It will help you learn better. This way you won't damage
yourself. It's for your own good.
And yet, Mattie could not quite bring herself to
blame him—she knew how he had learned these words. "I can
also feel pleasure," Mattie said.
"That seems even more cruel," Beresta
whispered.
"And why is that?"
"You know," the ghost said. "Machines
break. Always, all of them, no matter what the mechanics say."
"People die," Mattie countered. And
added, "Even the ghosts."
"And yet you work on reversing death."
"Don't we all?" The words came out of
her mouth of their own volition, but she immediately felt the truth
of them deep in her metal bones. What else did they all do if not try
to stave off disappearance? Alchemists cured the sick and made
concoctions to brighten existence; the mechanics built, pouring their
cold passion into things more durable than their own flesh; even the
gargoyles grew stone to leave a trace in the world—something
besides their lithified bodies.
"These are idle thoughts," Beresta said.
"You better get going, or you'll daydream until morning."
Mattie looked at the sky, at the constellation of
the Lizard almost aligned with the Carriage, and hurried out of the
door without saying goodbye. She walked down the slope, the wind
shoving her in the back and buffeting her skirts as if they a sail.
It was dark, and she had to extend the stalks of her eyes and force
the diaphragms open, to let in whatever little light scattered over
the battered slopes of the Ram's Head.
She saw the opening of the shaft—black on
black, its square outline only hinted at—at the same time as
she heard human voices. She stood still, listening, her heartbeat
almost inaudible under the shifting of gravel under the clumsy
footfalls and the lowered voices. Two men rounded the hill and came
into her view, black and orange in the flames of their torches
flailing in the wind. She wondered at first why they hadn't brought
lamps, but guessed that they were either poor or didn't want to
attract attention of their households.
There was nowhere to hide, and she stood
motionless, even after the light of the torches snatched her out of
the darkness and she had no doubt that the men could see her. Both
were dressed in rough, unbleached linen shirts and no overcoats
despite the chill in the air. They had dark faces, colored not by
nature but by years in the shaft.
"Where are you going?" one of them
asked. They did not look friendly.
"I'm looking for Sebastian," she said.
"I'm a friend of his."
"Who's Sebastian?" the first man asked,
and his companion whispered in his ear. "Oh," the first man
said. "Did he tell you to come here then?"
"Yes," Mattie said. "At least he
didn't say not to." She hoped that an imperfect excuse would
have the appearance of the truth.
"All right," the second man said. "Come
along then. But if you're a spy..."
"Look at her," the first one
interrupted. "If they sent a spy, wouldn't they choose someone
less obvious?"
Mattie followed them down into the shaft, down the
rough wooden ladder into a tunnel where the air grew suddenly warm
and still, as if it had been breathed in and out of human lungs over
and over again, until it was drained of life and succor. She tried to
think of something to say to these men, so aloof and alien, so
different from anyone she ever knew, but the usual chitchat about the
weather seemed frivolous, and questions about their
occupation—extraneous.
After they traveled a short while down the tunnel,
the flames of the torches smoldered as if suffocated by lack of
sustenance in the air, but the men did not seem perturbed. They came
upon a large niche carved into the stone wall, behind the wooden
supports and scaffolds that kept the tunnel from collapsing, and her
guides reached into the niche, the sounds of shifting stone and
gravel disturbed by their hands muffled. The man nearest Mattie
pulled out a strange contraption—a short belt of cured leather
with its ends stitched together, and a small round apparatus mounted
on the belt; Mattie recognized it for a miniature bronze lamp
ensconced in porcelain. His companion helped him light the lamp from
the torch, and it blazed with a bright white light. He affixed the
belt to his head, and the lamplight cut a swath of light through the
dank blackness of the tunnel.
"I was wondering how you worked there, in the
darkness," Mattie said and retracted her eyes back into her
face, narrowing the aperture of the diaphragms. "It's a clever
contraption."
"If you were wondering so much why didn't you
find out?" the man with the lamp on his head said as they
continued along the tunnel.
Mattie faltered for words.
"I guess you weren't really wondering then,"
the man continued. There was no anger in his voice, just the habitual
bitterness of an unhappy person. "You just thought of it now,
making conversation."
"Yes," Mattie admitted. "I don't
know anyone like you."
"Anyone who works for a living, you mean,"
the second man said and spat.
"I work," Mattie said. "I'm an
alchemist."
"You're in the elite then." The man
chuckled, making the beam of light jump up and down. "It's all
right though. There are quite a few of you helping us. I won't say no
to a helping hand, although it beats me what your types see in it."
Mattie was starting to wonder about the same
question— even if a few alchemists or mechanics or courtiers
weren't happy with the way things were, they had so little in common
with these crude men that she doubted that any alliance was
meaningful. "Are there any other mines like these?" she
asked instead.
The men laughed. "Sure," the second one
said. "The ground here, it's riddled with mines like a
honeycomb. You in the city, you think you walk on solid ground, and
you don't know what's beneath you."
"They extend under the city?"
The men nodded. "No exits there, so as not to
bother the pretty ladies and the merchants, but there are mines
there."
"I meant other mines where people meet,"
she said.
"Sure," the first man said. "There
are meeting places aplenty, only I'm not telling you where."
"I wasn't asking."
"Good, 'cause I'm not telling."
They fell silent, but now there were other people
and other light beams—they came from behind and from the side
tunnels, and soon Mattie found herself walking in a small crowd. She
looked over the faces, hoping to glimpse someone familiar, but they
were all the same, the same men who attacked her the day before. But
now they seemed different, as if the laws of the surface failed to
apply to them and Mattie here.
She whirred and clunked along, feeling trapped and
out of place. What if they decided to turn on her? What if Sebastian
denied ever knowing her? Who would miss her, who would even know she
was gone? She did not like to think of the answer.


Chapter 15
We cannot help but think of the shafts now,
winding deep in the stone below, looping through and running up and
down; we cannot help but think of all the people underneath. They
seem to like it lately, and we watch the furtive figures down below,
certain that they are invisible in the darkness, dash through the
streets snaking beneath us. The city smells of smoke and trouble, and
we think that this smell is more appropriate for fall than spring,
this tang of burning leaves and bitterness. It reminds us of the
underground, of its suffocating air and the bite of brimstone and
magma, boiling not too far underneath.
We did not understand why they had to change
the city we've built, just like we do not understand now why they
must destroy it—befuddled and distraught, we huddle closer
together on the roofs, wing brushing against wing, our mouths mute,
heavy with unborn words, the taste of gemstones still fresh in their
crevices.
We do not like the metal girl going
underground; we fear that the stone that gave us birth will lead her
away from us, just like the books, just like the books. We feel
selfish and undeserving as we consider our impending death and her
reluctance to help us, her preoccupation with other concerns. But we
suppose she cannot help herself, and we just try to maintain our
faith, and we hold onto each other, as if a touch of hands will
prevent our rough flesh from becoming stone, as if we won't have to
wake up with our arms wrapped around yet another one of our number
cold and unresponsive and dead.


The meeting place felt as if it were in the very
bowels of the earth—hot and stuffy, filled with the smell of
pipe tobacco and opium, its cloying sweetness reminding Mattie of
Ilmarekh. She expected something reminiscent of the meetings the
mechanics and the alchemists held—if not actual long tables
with interminable rows of chairs surrounding them in concentric
circles, like waves after a stone tossed into the Grackle Pond.
Instead it felt like the telegraph or the offices
of the Parliament—people came and went, and the telegraph
chittered; she wondered at first where the telegraph apparatus came
from, but then remembered that the one in Ilmarekh's hovel seemed to
be missing when she last visited. The widening of the tunnel lit by
the hanging lanterns felt almost mundane, despite the blackness of
two tunnels—two circles of nothingness—framing it. There
were chairs and tables, a peeling chaise, a jumble of furniture and
papers and pillows; it felt like a trash heap, and Mattie thought
that most things here must've been salvaged from the trash.
People came in, and others left, and all this
activity seemed directed at something by the back wall of the cave,
next to the hungry, gaping mouth of the tunnel. Mattie approached
meekly, apologetic in advance.
There were several chairs pushed against the stone
wall and the lattice of scaffolding hugging it, and a few makeshift
desks constructed out of roughly hewn boards and wicker shipping
crates such as one usually found broken and empty behind the
marketplace, after the market was over. They smelled weakly of
peaches and scorched wood. People crowded around the tables, speaking
in low voices; the new arrivals came up to say hello, and some of
them were given parcels and papers.
Two men appeared from the tunnel, dragging a large
wicker crate between them, and without even looking, Mattie guessed
what was in it. They stacked the crate against the wall, and turned
around to go back into the tunnel when one of them noticed Mattie. He
squinted at her. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for Sebastian," she said.
"He's coming," the man said, and
disappeared back into the tunnel.
Mattie looked around, by habit searching for
familiar faces, but could not find any. She passed the time studying
the crowd; to her surprise, a few of those present did not look like
either miners or peasants—their fine clothes and clean hands,
their affectations clearly indicated a higher station in life than of
the rest of those present. They segregated in their own little group
and talked in hushed voices, occasionally stealing glances at the
people around them. Mattie noticed that they were all quite young and
well-groomed—adult children who hadn't come into their
inheritance yet, Mattie guessed. Social butterflies with too much
free time on their hands. She should've guessed that they would be
involved in something like this.
They looked like people Mattie was used to, and
she took a step closer to them.
"Hey," said a young man with hair so
light that he had an appearance of missing eyebrows. "I know
you; you're that automaton who used to come to Bergen's parties a
lot."
"Mattie," she said. "My name is
Mattie."
The man smiled. "That's right. I'm Aerin.
Nice to meet you; I've seen you many times, but I don't think we've
been properly introduced."
"Charmed," Mattie said, and shook the
proffered hand. She felt suddenly at home, and she thought it odd
that those who despised her and never saw her as anything deserving
of consideration made her feel most at ease. "I'm surprised to
see you here."
The man shrugged, laughed, and gestured at his
friends. "We all are here because we were concerned about the
plight of the common man."
"Was it you who blew up the palace?"
Mattie said.
"You're quite blunt," a woman standing
to Mattie's right said. She had heavily lined eyes and an overall air
of languor Loharri would've found appealing.
"Of course she is," one of the courtiers
murmured. "She's an instrument."
A few of the others snickered.
"That's not what I meant, Cedrik," the
woman said, without even looking at Mattie's detractor. She smiled at
Mattie. "Don't pay attention to him, dear. He's daft. Now, to
answer your question—yes, our group was a part of it. Actually,
the initial explosion was meant to show people that we are on their
side—after this, they had to believe that we have categorically
cut ourselves off from the city's government and its aims. We have
disowned our parents and the advantages our birthright has conferred
upon us."
Mattie thought that apparently the disowned
advantages did not include clothes, but nodded politely. "It is
very noble of you." Her mind boiled with questions, and finally
she chose the most pressing one. "Is Iolanda all right?"
"Why?" the woman said. "Do you know
her?"
Mattie nodded. "Is she all right? I was so
worried when they... when the houses were burned."
"She's fine," the woman answered. "Never
better. She and that new servant of hers were not there—they
are safe and well."
"Niobe is not a servant," Mattie said.
"She is my friend. Where are they? Here?"
"No," the man named Cedrik said. "We
have many safe houses ... but of course you will forgive me for not
divulging their location."
"Of course." Mattie glanced toward the
mouth of the tunnel, anxious to see Sebastian. "And this place
here?"
"One of many," he answered. "It's
just one cell, but there are plenty of others. It's a good place to
meet and distribute supplies and catch up on the news for those who
can't show their faces in the city proper."
Mattie wondered if Ilmarekh had given them his
telegraph apparatus voluntarily—but of course he had to. Mattie
kept forgetting that his frail appearance concealed a remarkable
weapon—people were afraid of him, in danger from his mere
proximity. Of course he had to leave it outside, to be found or
collected, the ghosts calling to those they had left behind.
She remembered something Ilmarekh told her on
their first meeting. The spirits, he said, the souls. They
are not angry at the living, they just want to help. Helping others
is the only way we can prove we still matter. She looked at the
apparatus with new respect—it wasn't just a cast-off; it was an
expression of support from those who were dead.
Mattie heard a familiar voice at the mouth of the
tunnel, and focused her eyes to look at the face behind the blinding
light beam. Her heart faltered and ticked louder as she recalled
these eyes half-closed in ecstasy, this smiling mouth pressed against
her chest... she suppressed the rising wave of shame and stepped
forward to greet him.
His smile faded and his eyes widened for just a
moment, but Mattie noticed. "Mattie," he said. "How
did you find me?"
She shrugged. "It wasn't difficult. I need to
know something."
"Ask then," he said, with just a hint of
irritation giving an edge to his voice. "I've a few things I
need to do."
"Was it you?" she said. "Was it you
who bought the explosives?"
He shook his head. "No. I did let them use my
medallion, so there you have it. Anything else you want to know?"
Do you love me? she wanted to ask, but
there were people and their faces, their eyes watching her askance,
as if too embarrassed to admit that they were indeed looking.
Instead, she looked at her hands when she said, "The mechanics
and the alchemists know it was your medallion. They will be looking
for you—and this time really looking for you. You can't go into
the city anymore."
"They were bound to find out sooner or
later," he said with a shrug of his large shoulders. "But
thank you for telling me. I'll be careful." He shifted from one
foot to another and raked his hand through his hair. "Perhaps
you should get going—there's much to do, and for you there's no
point in getting involved and endangering yourself like that."
Mattie realized that he was embarrassed of her—not
just of what they had done earlier, but of her mere presence here. He
did not want his friends to know that he was friendly with a machine.
"When will I see you again?" she said. She did not know why
it was important to her to make him admit that he knew her, that he
was her friend.
"I don't know, Mattie," he answered.
"But you're welcome here any time—please come and visit."
There was nothing left for Mattie to do but to say
her goodbyes and head out. The way back through the tunnel, alone and
in the dark so thick that even her eyes barely penetrated it, seemed
longer than before, when there were people surrounding her. She
wished she could've waited for someone else to leave, just so she
wouldn't have to travel alone, but Sebastian seemed eager to see her
go.
She imagined things hiding in the darkness,
terrible things that could rend her to pieces, limb by limb, gear by
toothed gear, nothing left of her but a pile of spare parts, just
like the one that occupied most of Loharri's workshop. Her thoughts
turned to him—was he mad at her that she had left so abruptly
earlier? Would he be happy to see her back unharmed?
The walls, gray stone behind the scaffolding,
reminded her of the color of the gargoyles—it was sleek and
cold like their skins, and Mattie couldn't help but think that this
was the stone they came from, the solid mass of rock that gave them
birth. It was not so solid anymore, shot through with shafts and
tunnels and mines. Maybe this is why the gargoyles are losing their
strength, their power, Mattie thought. People are destroying the
stone the city is built on, and what could one expect but a collapse?
She felt the floor by the walls blindly, until she found a few stone
slivers, and put them in her pocket. She would work and find out how
this stone was different from any other, and why it held the
gargoyles in such thrall. Work offered the comfort of familiarity and
preoccupation with matters she could control, and which did not hurt
so much.


In her laboratory, Mattie crushed the gray stones
almost vengefully, and listened to the smallest crystals sigh and
squeal under the slow twists of her pestle. She poured solvents over
the crumbs and set them ablaze, carefully noting the blue and green
color of the flames and the tiny salamanders that frolicked inside,
playful and mischievous like puppies.
Mattie watched them for a while. She remembered
Ogdela giving her a funny look when she had first seen the
salamanders. "What are you staring at?" Ogdela had asked
her then.
"Salamanders," Mattie answered. "The
fire denizens."
Ogdela snorted. "Silly girl, you can't see
them, so there's no point in looking for them."
"But I do see them," Mattie said.
"Look!"
Ogdela shook her head. "Your eyes are better
than mine then. Better than anyone's."
When Mattie questioned Loharri about her eyes, he
grinned with the undamaged half of his face, and said something about
polarized light and varying light sensitivity. Mattie did not
understand the exact meaning, but figured that it meant that her eyes
were special—something she suspected ever since he took them
away from her. He did it again on a few occasions—sometimes as
a punishment, sometimes for mere tinkering and improving.
"They are good enough," Mattie had
begged on many occasions when he wanted to work on her eyes just once
more. "Please, don't do this again."
"They could be better," he always
answered. "You could see things no one else could see."
"I already can," she told him. "And
I don't like it when you take my eyes—I can see nothing at all
then."
The flames went out and the salamanders
disappeared, and Mattie shifted idly through the charred remnants of
the rock, its essence burned away in the blue and green flames,
leaving behind only the most simple and most basic constituents.
She dribbled some sheep's blood over them, added
the herbs and the elements, and a small crystal of her eye to animate
it, to make it listen to her. The homunculus took form, and Mattie
put it in the same jar as the previous one, made from regular stone
before Sebastian's appearance interrupted her work.
The homunculi bubbled and seemed to size each
other up, and Mattie quickly poured the mineral essence into the jar
to feed them, and tightened the lid. She watched as the two creatures
lapped up her offering and then locked arms. They struggled and
wrestled with each other, and for a while it looked like neither was
gaining the upper hand, until Mattie realized that their hands and
arms had fused together.
Their shoulders touched and stuck, then their
stomachs. Mattie thought that soon she would be in possession of a
much larger homunculus, when the one made with gargoyle stone opened
its mouth with slow hissing and bubbling of drying blood, and
engulfed the head of its adversary. The other homunculus, headless
now, thrashed, and Mattie wondered if it was capable of feeling pain.
The homunculus made of gargoyle stone devoured its
fallen opponent, wrapping itself around the lifeless body and
engulfing it, bit by bit.
"Hm," Mattie said. "I wonder what
that means."
The homunculus burbled and tittered, and banged
its shapeless fists on the glass surrounding it. Pink bubbles formed
on its lipless mouth as the homunculus closed and opened it, as if
trying to speak. Mattie hesitated—she wanted to hear what the
thing had to say, but she felt disturbed by its behavior; Niobe
hasn't warned her about the possibility of homuncular cannibalism.
She also didn't tell Mattie that these things could talk, or at least
attempt to; or maybe Niobe did not know. Mattie felt an electric
tingling in her fingers such as she usually experienced when
something special happened.
She turned away from the jar and paced along the
bench, her heart ticking like a cricket on July night. She was not
prepared to have created something so unexpected—and, she
guessed, horrible. For a moment she fought the temptation to just
destroy the creature, fling it with its tightly locked jar into the
fireplace and flee from the apartment; toss it onto the streets below
and let the lizards' claws and the segmented legs of the mechanical
caterpillars tear it to pieces and smear it into a long bloody streak
on the cobbled pavement; destroy it forever so it never got a chance
to whisper its terrible secrets to her with its mutable, liquid
mouth.
She stared out of the window, distraught, until
she realized that the streets below were unnaturally silent. She hung
out of the window, to see as far as she could, but there seemed to be
no signs of disturbance. She was about to pull the shutters closed
when she heard a distant but unmistakable crackling of musket shots—a
fast rattle at first, getting more disorganized and scattered soon
after.
Mattie wanted to worry, to run to the Parliament
to see if everything was all right, to check on the unfinished
Calculator to make sure it still stood. She could picture it in her
mind, towering and clanging and belching, like a miniature foundry
surrounded by a phalanx of grim and determined mechanics . . .
Loharri would be there for sure, she thought, ready to defend the
Calculator.
The sound of breaking glass startled her from her
reverie, and Mattie whipped around, the joints of her waist whining
with the sudden movement, the springs of her back taut and stretched
to their limit.
The jar lay shattered on the floor—the
homunculus inside must've wrestled it to the edge of the bench and
flung it over, and now it gathered itself into a human form again,
moving toward Mattie on its soft, boneless legs. It hissed and
burbled, and Mattie stepped back, only to feel the hard ledge of the
windowsill behind her back.
The homunculus, almost knee-high, reached for her,
and its small, fingerless hands left dark smears on her skirt. Its
hissing and bubbling grew louder, and it tugged in her skirt,
demanding.
Mattie kneeled next to the creature, repulsed and
intrigued. Its disgusting mouth formed another pink bubble, and it
hissed—boiling of blood, susurrus of waves reaching the sandy
shore—strange words. Mattie bent lower.
"Lissssen," the homunculus whispered,
its lips next to her ear.


The children of stone clamber to the surface in
broad daylight, and we watch them with a measure of surprise. The
spiders and the miners, the ones who smell of soft earth and grain
(and we think, they shouldn't even he here, underground)— they
all are there, afraid yet exhilarated. They carry weapons—
heavy axes and hoes, mostly, but there are a few muskets, the silver
filigree on their stocks glittering.
We want to ask them to be gentle, but the very
thought is ridiculous; their eyes, squinted in the sun glare, dream
only of burning, we can see it plainly. They do not want to be
underground, and we cannot blame them.
They emerge like cicadas, in great numbers and
all over. We know the tunnels and the shafts under the city where
they and others like them had burrowed for centuries—like
cicadas— until one day they realized that instead of digging
sideways they should go up, up, toward the sun, where they can become
what they always dreamed of. We did the same before them—at
least, we assume we did; we cannot remember our lives before the
stone shuddered and vomited us into the pool of sunlight, harsh and
beautiful, where only the basalt under our feet felt familiar.
The children of the city—our children—run
at the sight of them, except the ones encased in metal, glittering
like large iridescent beetles. They advance, on foot and on their
small mechanized monstrosities that carry them around on their backs,
metal heaped upon metal, and we wonder if there is any flesh in them
at all.
One of the miners fires the first shot, and the
metal man jerks backwards, an almost comical fountain of blood
springs forth from where the metal of his head doesn't quite meet the
metal of his chest, and we guess that the flesh underneath was not
just our imagination.
The metal men fire into the crowd, and many
fall. And then other people come—they come from behind the
houses, from the alleys, many on lizard back and dressed in expensive
clothes; there are also the children of red earth, dark-skinned,
traders and artisans that tried to make their homes here, and we
cannot watch anymore.
We flee from the carnage, aware of disregarding
our duty of eternal watching, but our eyes refuse to look and close
or turn away, and our legs carry us against our will across the
roofs. In other streets, other places we see the same scene—we
see blood and gutted lizards, the metal monsters devoid of their
riders bumping mindlessly into the walls of the buildings, the
sizzling metal buckles, the coal spills, the houses catch fire. We do
not recognize the city anymore and flee to our only hope, to the girl
who can help us.
We look through her window, suddenly worried
that she might be dead and dismembered somewhere, the ticking of her
heart silenced, the window in her chest broken. But she is alive and
at home, and we sigh with relief, and wonder why is she kneeling next
to the creature who smells of blood and stone, the creature who is
whispering into the pink perfect shell of her ear. She is so absorbed
in its words that she does not hear the door opening behind her, and
we do not think of warning her.


Chapter 16
Mattie startled when someone tapped her on the
shoulder, and jumped to her feet, her fists balling.
Loharri smiled. "Easy there," she said.
His eyes watched the homunculus with keen interest. "What is
this, Mattie? Did you make that?"
"Yes," she said.
"What does it do?"
"I'm trying to make it obey me," Mattie
said. "I made it from the stone of the gargoyles, and now I want
to compel it to release them ... but I want to find something else to
attach them to, first."
"Fascinating," Loharri said, and looked
away from the homunculus. His long eyes seemed cold now, and Mattie
felt another wave of creeping terror. Had he guessed that she made
one for Iolanda? Did he suspect that Mattie had the power to bind
him? She thought back to the very first time she had met Ogdela, and
saw Loharri afraid; how she envied that power then! And yet now she
wished he didn't know what she was capable of, that he wouldn't look
at her like that—as if sizing up the enemy. "You're not
safe here," he said. "They've taken the northern district,
everything there. The enforcers are holding them off, but they are
advancing on the east. Best you come with me. Bring that thing
along."
"But..."
"I'm not asking," he said. "I'm
telling you. You are coming with me. Bring it with you."
Numb, Mattie obeyed. It was just like before, and
no matter what had happened to her since, no matter how powerful or
emancipated, she still did as she was told—because she could
not do otherwise, because he was the one that made her. Just like the
gargoyles obeyed the stone—or was it the other way around? she
could not remember—she obeyed Loharri, and mutely gathered the
homunculus into the cradling hammock of her skirt. It wobbled and
hissed and stained the dark brown fabric a darker red; Mattie did not
complain and followed Loharri out of the house, past the boarded-up
entrance of the apothecary downstairs.
He did not say a word, and Mattie felt a dark
foreboding. The city matched her mood—the traffic was sparse,
and there seemed to be fewer people in the streets. She heard
occasional musket shots coming from the east and smelled the smoke
and gunpowder in the air. But that did not preoccupy Mattie—at
least, not as much as Loharri did. His brisk, angry steps, his
tight-lipped demeanor of disappointment all indicated the inevitable
punishment. He can't take my eyes away, Mattie thought. He
can't do this. And yet, when she asked herself who would prevent
him, there was no answer. The enforcers were too busy fighting, and
even if they weren't, would they ever interfere with a high-station
mechanic taking apart his creation?
She wished she could cry. Her freedom was just an
illusion—she was emancipated because Loharri let her, and
therefore she had no power at all. Everything she had was either
given or allowed by him. Mattie wondered if it were possible to hate
anyone more than she hated Loharri that moment, to be more afraid.
And where was Iolanda? Probably busy with other
things, probably safe away and underground, with Niobe at her side,
both of them real women who shared a bond Mattie neither understood
nor could ever hope to partake in. Iolanda would defend her, of
course—if she were here to defend, and if it didn't interfere
with her plans. Protecting Mattie, helping her get her key back was
not a high priority, and she bided her time before she would attempt
to control Loharri—bided it until it was needed. It was not
about love, Mattie realized; it was about gaining access to the
mechanics' secrets. When her co-conspirators would take the city,
then she would use her influence to build an alliance with the
mechanics, to tame them.
"Bokker is a good alchemist," Loharri
said without looking at her.
Eager to maintain whatever illusion of amicability
she could get from him, Mattie nodded. "He is. Why, were you
working with him on the city defenses?"
"No," Loharri said. "He finished
the project I needed finished—the one you were working on
before you started with the gargoyles. Remember? You asked my
permission to take a break, but I didn't expect you to abandon it
completely."
"I'm sorry," Mattie said. Despite her
better judgment, a feeling of relief filled her—if it was just
about that silly project, then he would forgive her soon enough. How
important was it, now? Just a game, a curiosity. "I remember—you
wanted a chemical that would capture images for you. Too cheap to pay
the painters."
He smiled at that. "Indeed. But Bokker, he
did well— thanks to your list. And I worked out how to record
not just pictures but also sounds; I can watch people as they move,
as they talk, without ever being there. Very entertaining."
"I thought you were preoccupied with the
Calculator."
"So I was; but you've had your distractions
too, haven't you?
Mattie nodded and hung her head pensively. "I'm
sorry"

"We do what we must," he said with a
shrug.

They remained silent until they reached the
western district and his house. He stopped in front of it, patting
his pockets for his keys. He unlocked the door and Mattie followed
him meekly inside.
"I have a new face for you," Loharri
said, and locked the door behind him. "Come to the workshop, and
I'll fit it on."

"I like this one," Mattie said.
"I don't." He took Mattie's elbow and
dragged her to the workshop. The homunculus, sleeping peacefully
until then in the folds of her skirt, woke up and hissed.
"And shut that thing up," Loharri said,
and shrugged off his overcoat, letting it drop to the floor. "I'm
really not in the mood for this, Mattie. Tell it that if it doesn't
become quiet, I'll smear it on the walls."
The homunculus apparently did not need
intermediaries, and fell silent at once.
"Put it down and sit," Loharri said as
soon as they entered the dark cluttered space of the workshop.
Mattie obeyed, and the homunculus stood on its
liquid legs but did not leave Mattie's side, holding onto her skirts
as if afraid to let go. Loharri did not look overly bothered by its
presence—he merely made a peevish face and made a show of
circumventing the creature in a wide arc. He dug around in the pile
of junk.
Mattie watched him extract another face—an
exact replica of her previous one—and wanted to be able to cry.
No other response seemed fitting as she realized that she was about
to be forced back into the mold she was working so hard to escape.
"You are not going to take my eyes, are you?"
"Of course not." He dug under her jaw
and popped off her face. Instead of putting the new one immediately
on, he tinkered with something in Mattie's head. She heard the faint
click of a tumbler, and lost sensation in her limbs.

She tried to move, but her arms hung by her sides,
limp, and her legs, heavy now, straightened against her will in front
of her. "What did you do?" she whispered.
"It's only a temporary disabling switch,"
he said. "You won't feel any pain—in fact, you shouldn't
feel anything at all. And you won't be tempted to run."
He dug again, and Mattie cringed as she felt the
contents of her head, the delicate gears, beveled and plain, grate
against each other as Loharri's fingers moved around. "Don't let
it bother you," he said, and turned her chair to face the wall—a
plain white wall with nothing interesting painted on it. He shifted
more tumblers, and Mattie's eyes emitted two light beams that met on
the wall, creating two partially overlapping spotlights. She whined
in fear.
"It's all right," he said. "It's
nifty, really—Bokker's chemical captures images onto a rotating
copper roll, and the same roll records the sound. And everything you
see is written on it—it's like your memory, but now I can see
it, too."
"How long has it been there?" Mattie
whispered.
"Since you were last . . . broken," he
answered. "I'm not a fool, Mattie, and I notice things. I notice
it when you lie, when Iolanda lies—she thinks she is so clever
not to hide her feelings but make them sound like jokes. But now we
will see what really happened."
The light coming from her eyes blinded Mattie, but
still she could see through the haze the vague shapes moving, the
cobbles of the city streets jumping up and down in rhythm with her
steps. Iolanda's frizzed hair, her pitying look as she leaned closer,
her face taking up most of Mattie's vision. Niobe standing by the
window, watching them, her arms crossed.
Sebastian's face appeared, by turns kind and
mocking— Mattie was surprised to see it so clearly now. His
face leaning closer, his lips smiling . . . Then the image became
dark, and Mattie recalled with embarrassment that her eyes were
retracted then, blind, the rest of her oblivious to everything but
the pleasure of Sebastian's hands on her chest.
Loharri made a small sound, of surprise or
annoyance, Mattie could not tell. He touched something in Mattie's
head, and the image blurred. Loharri swore through his teeth but fell
silent when the pale face of the Soul-Smoker took up the entire wall
and the shouts and whispers of the dead poured from his lips. And
then there was darkness of the tunnels, the faces of the courtiers .
.. Mattie's voice asking about Iolanda.
"Interesting," Loharri said. His face
remained composed, but she could see the vein swelling on his mangled
cheek. "I knew you were hiding something, but this, Mattie, this
... I have to go now and talk to Bergen. You stay here and we will
talk when I get back."
He picked up his overcoat and put it on, his
movements slow and measured. Mattie wanted to plead with him, to
remind him that he loved her. But the ice in his eyes told her that
he was beyond pleading and entreaties, that she was beyond
forgiveness—perhaps, even beyond the consideration that one
gives to the most insignificant creatures. She could even hope to
live through this, because now she was even beyond vengeful
dismantling.
He turned to leave, but stopped abruptly. "Oh,
I almost forgot: I'll need these to show to my peers." His
fingers, cold and accurate, prized her left eye out of her head, then
her right. She cried out, but her only answer was the sound of the
slamming door, the turn of a key, and a quick rattle of footfalls on
the steps outside.


Mattie did not know how much time had passed. She
had counted her heartbeats at first, but given up after two thousand.
She wished she could see the sun, and if she tried hard enough she
could imagine how it would look out of Loharri's workshop
window—large and molten, with a tang of copper, enclosed in the
delicate cage of black rose branches, still like cast iron.
It was always so peaceful here, so quiet—Loharri
had often said that he enjoyed the stillness of the air, the absence
of sound, which made it easy to imagine that this house was the only
place that existed, surrounded by an infinite bubble of luminous and
empty space. And now Mattie realized that even if she screamed for
help, her cries would be muffled by the dense hedge, and in any case,
people were used to screams by now and hid and ran rather than rushed
to help.
Something touched her lips—a wet, cold, and
unpleasant touch tasting of blood and sulfur—and Mattie
started. The familiar hissing reassured her; the homunculus clambered
up her senseless form and now whispered in her ear, its voice
indistinct and blurred by the gargling quality of its speech. "I
can help," it said. "Help?"
"Do you know which switch he has turned?"
Mattie asked, her disgust for the creature tempered somewhat by hope.
"Yessss," it hissed. "I see
everything."
"Can you turn it?"
The slurping sounds indicated the homunculus's
progress; there was a shifting of metal, and a sudden jolt shot
through her arms and legs. She doubled over in pain, sending the
homunculus splashing to the floor. "Are you all right?" she
asked. "I'm sorry."
"Yessss," it said and burbled. "Would
you like me to find you new eyes?"
"Yes please," Mattie said. "You are
a clever little fellow."
"Of course," it answered. "I am
earth. I am stone."
The homunculus slurped across the workshop floor,
and even though Mattie could not see it she imagined the black blood
trail it was leaving on its wake. She heard the sounds of rummaging,
slow and laborious, and she thought that it took such a little thing
an enormous effort to shift the pile of parts and rejected machines;
the limitations of its size posed an almost comical contradiction to
its grandiose claims, but Mattie was disinclined to find humor in
anything just now. It was earth, or at the very least its essence.
She wondered if the gnomi, the earth elementals, looked just like the
homunculus; she wondered if it was somehow one of them, a creature
that could move through solid stone with the same ease as she moved
through the air. She discarded the thought as unlikely, and carefully
stretched her arms and legs, awakening to life with tingling and
electric jolts.
She felt around with her fingers; the layout of
the workshop was familiar to her and after a few minutes
investigating her immediate surroundings, she remembered how she used
to navigate these rooms by touch. Often even touch was
superfluous—after a day of darkness she developed new senses,
which allowed her to feel when the walls were too close, and to
circumvent the obstacles.
Mattie felt her way to the pile of parts and
rooted through it, the shape of her eyes familiar to her—long
cool cylinders with latches in the end that locked into her eye
stalks. Her fingers felt gears, faces, metal plates, bits of armor,
coils, valves, engine parts, and flywheels. She recognized them all
and was momentarily delighted before discarding yet another
disappointment.
The homunculus labored by her side, its quiet
boiling and hissing always present. She imagined the mess they were
making—strewn-about parts, some smeared with pungent sheep's
blood, and she felt a small pang of dark satisfaction.
Let him clean up after her, for once. When he gets
back, she would be gone, hidden, on her way to find Iolanda and to
beg her to speed up Loharri's binding. And to warn Sebastian, of
course.
"Is this it?" the homunculus whispered
and put something in her hands. She was used enough to him to not
recoil at the touch of his hands, wet like a kiss.
She wrapped her fingers around a small heavy
cylinder. "Yes, this is it. Thank you. Is there another one?"
"No," the homunculus answered.
Mattie fitted the cylinder into its socket. It was
an old eye, discarded years ago, and Mattie tried to accept the
dullness of her vision, the gray shroud of dust that seemed to cling
to everything. "No matter," she said. "One is fine for
now, but we better get moving."
She gathered the creature into her skirt and
smoothed the white petticoat underneath—she wanted to look at
least somewhat presentable, not as a crazed one-eyed automaton
smeared in sheep's blood with her skirts bundled about her waist,
exposing her long, metal legs.
"Go easssst," the homunculus said, and
nestled deeper into the hammock of Mattie's skirt. "He won't
look for you there."
"No," Mattie said. "North. We have
to see the Soul-Smoker and warn Sebastian."
The homunculus gave no other advice and asked no
more questions, and seemed to have fallen asleep, lulled by the sound
of her steps.


We walk in small numbers; we can count
ourselves now with what fingers a creature has on two hands and two
feet. We don't bother, unwilling (afraid) to dwell on our
diminishment. Instead, we watch the city crumble. There is fighting,
and it feels like it has been going on forever—or at least long
enough for us to forget what the city used to look like, before the
smoke and fire, before the growing ruins and gutted buildings, before
the Grackle Pond was cluttered with scorched, mutilated metal and
bits of steam engines and the gears of an automaton brain large
enough to make decisions but too small to predict their consequences.
We forget so quickly now, our memory so dependent on our numbers; the
more of us do the remembering the better the memories are.
The lizards do not drag carts behind them
anymore; a few of them have broken loose and stomp the streets in
blind panic. Automatons are few and far in between, most of them
smashed to pieces or sent away to the farms. The paper factory, as
well as all other ones, has stopped, soon after the caravans of coal
stopped coming through the city gates. The air has a different
quality to it—woodsmoke and clay and stone instead of metal and
burning coal; we are trying to decide whether it is an improvement.
We watch the enforcers, their buggies
abandoned, their armor nowhere to be seen (too heavy to walk in) head
toward the city gates. They cannot possibly hope to retake the farms
or the mines; they lead a prisoner among them, and we realize that
they want the Soul-Smoker—one always brings a decoy, a
sacrifice on such outings. Or perhaps they want to bargain with the
rebels and the man walking with his head low, his clothes soaked with
the rain, is their bargaining chip. We cannot be sure, but we worry
about the blind boy, all alone in his cabin.
The telegraphs all over the city chatter and
thrash and spew forth endless ribbons of paper covered in messages no
one reads—no one has to anymore. Soon they will run out of
paper, and we imagine them straining and chittering, and punching the
empty air with their beaks that will have run out of ink too. We
wonder how long the water will keep flowing.
The markets are quiet now, and there is little
left to buy besides last year's corn and turnips. We see hollow-eyed
women cowering—how fast they learned to move in quick dashes
between the buildings!—and keeping close to the corners and
houses. The merchants leave the centers of the markets free too,
their stands leaning sparsely against the protective walls.
The children are gone, as if they had all
disappeared overnight—we know it is not true, we know that some
are locked inside and others were taken by their parents out of the
city; yet others were sent away to relatives in other cities, where
they could be children and carefree, while the adults wait out the
awfulness that befell them. But it feels to us that they ran away,
abandoning the city that disappointed them, and we try and imagine
what it would be like, to run away forever, turning our ridged,
winged backs on this city. We imagine the sounds of the sea and the
smell of red, kind earth, the smells of different spices and the
taste of unfamiliar rocks, made of limestone born by the sea and not
the cruel hot compressions of the earth underneath. We contemplate
joining the circus, like we imagine everyone does—idly, not
seriously, but wistfully. There is such temptation, such forbidden
joy in abandonment.
And then the rain starts falling, black rain
tainted with soot; it weeps from the ledges and mourns in the
gutters, it roars as it runs through the streets, like organ pipes,
like a song. We look into each other's faces and wipe away the black
rain that weeps from our hardened eyes, leaving black tracks down our
cheeks. And we are suddenly not sure whether it is the sky or us who
is crying.
We look around us, and we mourn ourselves, we
mourn the fact that even after the city and we are gone, the rock
will remain. We mourn the ruined city, the unfinished construction,
the demolished palace, the gutted houses. Even if it is right for it
to be ruined, we can still feel sadness at its passing, can't we?
Can't we? And the rainfalls.
We watch a lone figure stagger through the
streets, holding a parcel to its chest. We recognize our metal girl,
our friend, and we creep closer. She does not look good with her one
eye and her blood homunculus, which she cradles to her chest,
protecting it from rain. The homunculus wails as if water hurts it.
The girl lurches onward, determined and half-blind, but heading
steadily north. We imagine her walking like that, broken but
unbreakable, forever, the homunculus at her chest crying in its
gurgling incessant whine.
We eye it with suspicion—we are not of
blood and bone, we are not of plant magic, and yet we feel a strange
kinship to the pathetic creature, so soft it is almost liquid. And
yet somehow it smells of stone, of the gray-limned stone that bore
us—when we close our eyes, we see its layers and hair-thin
ridges, the minuscule inclusions of black granite and crystal-bright
quartz. Somehow, the creature is related to us, and we don't know if
it is good or bad, but we try to like it, as one would an obnoxious
relative.
And the girl herself is not well—we can
see it in her staggering, lurching step, in the dull green (where is
the iridescent blue of a dragonfly's wings?) glow of her single eye
that reflects only the rain back at us.
She sees us only when we descend into the
street and stand like a wall in front of her, a wall of sour gray
bodies streaked with black.
"I know how to help you," she
whispers. "Shhh," we answer. "It can wait." (It
cannot.) "Let us take care of you first. Where are you going?"
"The Soul-Smoker," she answers. We tell her about the
soldiers.
Her fingers tighten on the soaked fabric of her
skirt, and she cradles the bundle with the homunculus—a
monstrous child— closer to her metal bosom. "We have to
hurry then. Do you know a quick way there?"
We nod, and we pick her and her bundle up, we
gather her into a protective embrace and cradle her close. She falls
silent, so tired now.
And then we fly.


Chapter 17
Mattie was tired for the first time in her life.
She was not built to feel fatigue, to experience exhaustion—the
whalebone and metal and the springs that held them together were
tireless, for as long as she was wound up properly. But now, lying in
the supporting net of the intertwined gargoyle arms, she felt her
sole eye retracting into her head, and her mind screaming for
permission to just rest, to shut down and not have to whir along
anymore. Her heart beat with an irregular tick-tock, and after every
click, Mattie feared that the next one would not come.
Loharri's digging around in her head, wrenching
out the hidden device and her eyes, damaged something—something
important, she feared. Even after the homunculus threw the switch,
her extremities felt wrong and awkward, as if wrapped in wool. Her
thoughts turned around and around, sluggish and blind, running like
trapped animals in the same compulsive circle.
She was broken, she thought; and the time had come
when Loharri would not fix her, no matter how she pleaded and folded
her hands, how she tilted her head to look up at him shyly. He was
the one who broke her, with intentional carelessness. Iolanda, she
thought. Iolanda would make him do what she wants—she would
make him fix Mattie and give her the key, she would make him be nice
to her and forgive her betrayal. It mattered that he would.
But before she could tell Iolanda all that, she
needed to make sure that the Soul-Smoker was all right. Why it felt
so important, she wasn't sure. Perhaps because he housed the spirit
of Beresta, Sebastian's mother, or perhaps because she felt
responsible because it was her—no matter how inadvertently—who
gave away the treasonous spirits that he housed, told the mechanics
that the telegraph they gave him was used to intercept their
messages, that he kept secrets from them.
The enforcers would do away with him—from a
distance, so as not to endanger their own spirits, using the decoy
they brought with them—and they would continue on, to the mouth
of the shaft by the slope of the Ram's Head, down into the passage
that burrowed under the city . . . Mattie did not want to continue
this thought, for the truth was too bitter for even her diminished
capacity "It's all my fault," she whispered, like a spell,
without letting the meaning of the words reach her mind.
The gargoyles heard, and their arms swayed,
calming, lulling. "Shhh," they whispered as if to a child.
"Shhh."
Mattie did not dare to look down, at the streets
below, and watched the low tendrils of the clouds streaking across
the sky. It was so gray now, yet clear—the transparent bluish
gray of a dove's underside, the blue shine of well-polished metal.
She had never seen a sky like this, unobscured by smoke and everyday
city emanations.
"It is always like this," the gargoyles
whispered, barely audible above the whistling of the wind. "Up
here, it is always clear and beautiful. This is why we rarely fly
anymore."
It made sense to Mattie—sometimes, one was
better off not seeing, not knowing. The wind tore at her hair, the
hair that used to belong to someone else, and her eye watched the
clear skies above.


The gargoyles had landed downslope, and Mattie
felt wobbly on her feet. She held the homunculus tighter as it grew
agitated and babbled and gurgled, and pointed toward the
Soul-Smoker's shack; Mattie doubted they would be able to approach it
undetected. Even the elusive gargoyles were exposed on this slope,
out of their element and somehow smaller.
The enforcers surrounded Ilmarekh's shack, their
decoy still between them. His crestfallen look indicated that he was
well aware of his impending fate, and did not relish it. The
enforcers looked strangely vulnerable relieved of the bulk of their
armor, and Mattie found it hard to believe that she used to feel
kinship with them at the sight of their metal carapaces.
The homunculus in her arms struggled and heaved,
straining against the confines of her binding skirt. She unwrapped
the terrible bloody bundle. "What?" she whispered.
"Let me go," it said. "I can help
you, help you."
Mattie considered. The homunculus was perhaps
small enough to sneak by the enforcers undetected, if only it would
cease its burbling. "What will you do?" she asked it.
"What I was made to do," the homunculus
answered, and struggled free of her arms.
The gargoyles huddled close to the ground, their
wings fanned low, and they seemed like stones on the hillside. Mattie
crouched close to them, watching the homunculus' progress up the
hill.
The enforcers shouted, and one of them discharged
his musket. The wind carried away their words, but Mattie surmised
that they were calling for Ilmarekh to step outside. Then they left
the prisoner by the door and retreated a few steps away, their
muskets trained on the door.
"We must help him," Mattie told to the
gargoyles. "You can do something—they won't shoot at you.
Save him like you saved me."
"What can we do?" the gargoyles
whispered mournfully, but straightened and fanned their wings.
"Stop!" Mattie shouted at the enforcers.
A few of them turned and lowered their weapons in
awe as they saw the flock of gargoyles bounding up the hill, a
mechanical girl stumbling at their heels. They never saw the
homunculus.
The door swung open, and Ilmarekh, dressed as if
he were going out, stood on the threshold, his cane tapping a slow
rhythm. He was dressed in his usual black coat with a very white
shirt underneath, his face and hands only a shade darker than his
white hair.
Mattie's legs buckled under her, as if the joints
went loose, and she hobbled after the gargoyles, aware of the growing
distance between them and her, unable to look away from Ilmarekh—a
black-and-white drawing framed by the doorway, with just a splash of
color as the homunculus clambered up the step and to his feet.
"Stay away!" one of the enforcers
shouted at the approaching gargoyles. "This does not concern
you!"
The gargoyles hesitated, falling easily into the
habit of meekness. The enforcers lifted their muskets, mistaking, as
people usually did, mild spirit for surrender. The prisoner, the
dark-skinned and forgotten man, gasped and heaved, and Mattie
realized that his soul was straining to join its brethren. With her
inferior new eye, she could not see the shape of the soul, and she
regretted it—she wanted to see it detach from the man's lips,
transparent yet iridescent like a soap bubble, and bound toward
Ilmarekh, joyfully shedding its fears as its former owner buckled and
fell to his knees and then to his stomach and lay still.
The enforcers could wait no longer, and they
turned the muskets away from the gargoyles. There was no time for the
gargoyles to do anything, as several shots rang out. Ilmarekh, still
reeling from the absorption of a new soul, sputtered forth a mouthful
of blood. It spilled over Mattie's homunculus, and the homunculus
absorbed the new offering of blood eagerly, greedily, and only then
did the enforcers notice it.
Mattie watched too—the souls, the wisps of
smoke, poured out of Ilmarekh's prostrate body sprawled in the
rapidly spreading puddle of blood. Judging by their gasps and
muttered curses, the enforcers could see them too. The tendrils of
souls reached out, and everyone, including Mattie, took an
involuntary step back, away from the hissing and writhing wisps. Only
the homunculus stood its ground.
The souls found it and reached into it; for a
moment, the homunculus looked like a skinned sheep carcass—red,
shot through with white strands of marbling; it bubbled and hissed,
boiling, yet remaining standing. The air erupted through its sides
and face, sending forth small clouds of red mist. Gradually, the
violent eruptions subsided, and the homunculus stopped seething and
bubbling—it seemed bigger now, as big as a three-year-old
child, and more solid, as if the souls had given it a semblance of
flesh and independent life.
Mattie watched the unfolding of the strange event,
forgetting about her pain and fatigue, unable to look away.
Understanding took a while to take hold, but when it did, it bloomed
forth with radiant certainty, and Mattie laughed—a sudden,
too-screeching sound that broke the enforcers out of their reverie.
They all spoke at once, asking each other
questions and pointing at the homunculus—the silent, calm
center of the violent events. They discussed destroying it and
wondered where it came from; they asked each other what had just
happened, unable to comprehend the transition.
It is stone, Mattie wanted to say. The homunculus
is the essence of the stone, now infused with the spirits of the
dead. Now, every stone in the city, every old building was alive with
countless spirits, all whispering their tedious and mournful tales.
And now, it was time to fulfill her promise to the
gargoyles. She turned toward them. "Now," she said. "Now
it is yours. The essence of the stone and the spirits of the dead are
alive within this creature, and it will break the bond that ties you
to your fate. Take it, and accept the spirits of the dead people, and
carry them with you. The stone cannot touch you now."
The enforcers must have realized that they were
witnesses to a momentous event. They lowered their weapons and let
the gargoyles pass between them, they let the gargoyles pick up the
homunculus, which stained their hands and visibly diminished with
every touch. The gargoyles passed it from one to the next, and as the
homunculus grew smaller and their hands stained a deeper red, a
change came over them.
Their hides changed their color from gray to the
faintest blue, like clay on the riverbanks, and a slight color
infused their faces with a glow the likes of which Mattie had never
seen. Their features softened, and they no longer seemed carved of
stone, but mere creatures of flesh. Flesh that did not last, but
Mattie decided not to think about it now. They asked her for freedom,
not immortality, and this is what she gave them.
She wished she could talk to Beresta just one more
time, a quiet shy ghost of the woman who was the first alchemist to
walk down this road. Mattie imagined that Beresta would be proud that
her work was concluded, would be happy with Mattie's achievement. She
wished Ilmarekh had not needed to die to release the souls he had
consumed; she wondered what he would be like if he were not so
haunted. She missed the friend she did not even know—the friend
she could've had.


We lack the words to describe what is happening
to us. We know that we are supposed to do something, to help the girl
who has helped us, but we feel dazed, awash in the new experience of
being separate from the stone. We feel floating, uprooted, like the
clouds. Weightless. The city looms behind us, and for the first time
we feel separate from it; we float, disembodied, while it remains
substantial and stationary and alien.
We look around us with new eyes—like the
girl who is now sitting on the ground for some reason; we do not
think we have ever seen her sitting down. The enforcers do not know
what to do with us, and we feel sorry for them because we understand
what it was like, to shed one's hard protective carapace and to stand
on the hillside, exposed, with two dead men lying on the ground, mere
objects, just like the city and the hill. We smell the salty marine
smell of blood on our hands and in the air, we inhale with full chest
absorbing the stench of burning—the Soul-Smoker's shack is
starting to smoke; did he leave aflame inside unattended? But it is
salt we smell most of all, and it stirs memories within us, memories
we have no right to possess.
We remember the voyage across the sea, smooth
as glass, the ship becalmed for days on this green surface; we
remember it wrinkling like silk under the first breath of wind; we
remember the waves and the terrible precipitous valleys that open
between them; we remember the sensation of our stomach leaping to our
throat as the ship poses on the crest of a wave, hesitant, and then
plummets downwards, accompanied by cries of terror and exhilaration.
We remember the cities we have never visited,
the lives we have not lived—children and grandchildren, and the
inevitable aging of the parents; we remember smells of cardamom and
moist tropical heat; we remember the soft, red earth which gave so
generously when it was not compelled to do so, and was so barren when
farmed. We remember the dances in the city squares—open squares
fringed with low buildings, which were much more about air than they
were about stone; we remember the bright paints children use to
decorate themselves and to throw at each other, laughing.
And then our vision doubles as we see our city
but through the eyes of the outsiders—the imposing edifice,
carved of stone; we see ourselves as others used to see us—perched
on the steepled roofs, our wings a sharp silhouette against the
fading sky. We see the gray severity and the stern beauty, which does
not invite appreciation but rather demands it. We grow dizzy, and we
shake our heads, bedazzled and entranced.
And then the other voices awaken inside us, the
souls of the people who were ripped away from the dead man who is
cooling on the ground before us. We hear a multitude of voices
whispering to us, insistent. "Listen," they say. "Just
listen."


Mattie forced herself to stand on her wobbling
legs. The right knee joint kept alternately locking up and buckling
under her, but she paid it no mind.
She felt no satisfaction from her accomplishment
but rather an emptiness she did not know how to fill—there was
nothing left to do. The thoughts shifted sluggishly in her mind, as
the gears turned and clicked with unusual hesitation. There was
Sebastian and Iolanda and Niobe, none of whom wanted her. There was
Loharri, who did not want her anymore either. Then there was the
key—her key, the key that would spark her back to life. When
she would be her own mistress, she would find a mechanic to fix
whatever was wrong with her. And yet none of this seemed important
next to the gargoyles, transformed by her alchemy.
They nudged her, gentle, still in awe of their new
hands. "Shouldn't we go after them?"
She looked after the pointing fingers, flushed
gloriously golden, a real life pulsing within them. "Go after
who?"
"Them."
Then she forced her eye to move from the gargoyles
to the object of their attention—the enforcers trudging
dutifully toward the mouth of the mine. There were enough of them to
open the hidden entrance, Mattie thought. There were too many of them
to follow. "No," she said. "They have muskets. They
will kill us—even you. You are not what you used to be,
remember that. You are mortal now. You can be killed."
The gargoyle faces turned fearful, and she hurried
to reassure them. "They won't do anything unless you provoke
them. And following them now would be provoking. Come on, you must
know of other ways to get underground."
The gargoyles nodded, all together, like they
always did. "There is a secret place inside the city, near the
district that burned first."
"Can you take me there?"
They did not answer but swept her up again,
holding her securely aloft, and flew.
The time of inactivity let Mattie think in ways
she wasn't able to while walking—she could force her thoughts
into an organized pattern, to stack them against each other, to
decide on priorities. Ilmarekh was dead, and she was done looking
after the others. She needed her key so that she could take care of
herself, not needing anyone's condescending help or grudging
friendship. And to get her key, she needed Iolanda.
But not just as a friend; Mattie could call on a
promised favor. And after that, the sting of their indifference would
be tempered by Mattie's knowledge that she did not need them. Perhaps
then Sebastian would love her back.
The gargoyles landed just inside the northern
gates. Mattie's legs still felt wobbly, but she steadied herself, and
bent them a few times, making sure that sensation and flexibility
were still present. "Where to?" Mattie asked. The ruins of
the orphanage towered above her.
The gargoyles pointed at what appeared as a small
hollow in the ground—overgrown with sun-scorched grass, and
quite unremarkable in itself. When she looked closer, she discovered
an uneven patch of ground, with only a thin gap outlining its
irregular shape.
The gargoyles gathered around it and fitted their
fingers into the gap. They lifted the thin slab of stone, with grass
still clinging to it, and Mattie felt the wet, dark exhale of the
shaft mouth, with its familiar scent of stale air and deep
underground wet and warm stone.
"Will you come?" she asked the
gargoyles.
They shook their heads in unison. "We must go
now, but we will see you again."
Mattie descended underground, not looking back.
There was no point in watching the luminous, winged figures soar over
the still-beautiful city when one was about to descend into a dark
place.


Her new eye could not see in the darkness, and she
kept one hand on the wall of the tunnel, feeling her way with one
foot. Her progress was slow and laborious, and Mattie worried that
she had taken a wrong turn somewhere and was now heading down an
abandoned dead end, where she would never be discovered, and would be
unable to find her way back. She took mental notes of the bumps on
the wall, of any distinguishing features she felt on the ground—an
abandoned axe handle, a bundle of rags.
When Mattie saw a weak glint on the walls of the
tunnel, she did not dare to believe that she was nearing the end of
her journey. It could be the faulty eye or some underground
fluorescent life; it could be anything. She did not let the hope take
hold until the glint became a steady glimmer, an inviting white dot
of light with thin rays radiating from it, and the stale, warm breath
of the tunnel brought with it smells of burning lamp oil and sounds
of human voices.
She emerged into the light and space with the
walls receding at a distance, so suddenly large and free, and she
cried out in relief and anguish. Her eye took a long time adjusting
to light in the cave, and people around her appeared as blurs. They
asked her questions, but their words all buzzed together, like the
sound of flies that now swarmed in the streets, and instead she
spoke. She told them about the enforcers who went down the other
tunnel. She told them that the mechanics knew.
She felt arms wrapping around her, and for a
moment she thought that they belonged to the gargoyles, that somehow
the transformed creatures had found her in the darkest underground.
She squinted and recognized Niobe's face close to her, with Iolanda
just behind. Both women looked changed— their features had
grown gaunter, sharper, and their eyes seemed more knowing than
before.
"Loharri," Mattie said to Iolanda. "He
knows about the tunnels, and he knows about you and the other
courtiers. Don't let him get to you, don't let him take your spell
away."
Iolanda shook her head. "Don't worry about
that now, Mattie. What happened to you?"
Mattie's legs wobbled.
"We need a mechanic here," Niobe shouted
into the interior of the cave. "This woman is ill."
It was nice to be attended to, Mattie thought.
Niobe and Iolanda made a fuss, insisting that she sit down by the
wall, on a stack of empty crates. Everything in the cave seemed
scavenged from the surface, and the smell of mold and rotten fruit
clung to the crates as Mattie sank into them.
"What happened to you?" Niobe asked. And
added, in a small whisper, "I'm sorry."
Mattie told her—she told her about how
worried she was, wandering through the burning district; she told her
about the assault and Loharri's betrayal, about the death of the
Soul-Smoker and the gargoyles' transformation.
"That was very clever of you," Niobe
interrupted her story. "I'm glad that you've succeeded."
"Thank you for your aid," Mattie said.
"The things you taught me were beneficial."
Niobe nodded. "I have to say the same to you.
I've been caring for the wounded, and I couldn't have done it without
the knowledge of plants. Thank you for teaching me."
"I hope we will be able to teach each other
again soon,"
Mattie said. She felt vulnerable now, and clung to
the warmth in Niobe's voice despite her earlier resolutions. "It
is so much nicer than ... this." Her arm traced an arc in the
air.
Niobe smiled at her vague gesture. "Indeed,"
she said. "I think everyone is eager for the fighting to end.
But I suppose it will be different."
"They will always need alchemists,"
Mattie said. "As long as people get hurt they'll need us."
Iolanda listened to their conversation with the
impatient expression which she seemed to acquire whenever she was not
talking. "This is all well and good," she said. "But I
can't believe what this bastard had done to you."
Mattie nodded and cringed at the clicking sound in
her neck and the difficulty of such a simple movement. "I'm sure
he feels the same way about me. I've betrayed him."
Iolanda shrugged. "You had a better reason."
Mattie did not feel certain that reasons mattered
more than deeds themselves, but felt too exhausted to argue. After
her initial burst of verbosity she seemed to have run out of words,
and so she listened mutely as Niobe and Iolanda called for a mechanic
again and busied themselves with rearranging the crates. Mattie's
heart groaned in laborious beats that seemed to fall farther and
farther away from each other. And what did it matter? she thought. If
her heart stopped, no one but Loharri would be able to revive her.
And maybe as time went on he would forgive her. She could last like
this, immobile, awaiting the gentle scraping of the key as it entered
the keyhole, a slow turn and a click that would bring her back.
Perhaps it would be better to wait until she was forgiven and things
had sorted themselves out, so she could awake to a semblance of
normalcy. It would be nice just to sleep the chaos away, and wake up
in the world where Loharri did not hate her. Even in her pitiful
state Mattie realized that it was not likely.
"Iolanda," she said. "Please use
the homunculus soon."
"It's not my decision ..." Iolanda
started.
Mattie held up her hand. "I know. You want to
wait until you have control of the city. But I cannot wait that long.
Get my key for me, please. Even if my heart stops. You can wind me
again. Just get my key, I beg of you."
Iolanda nodded. "I will, I promise. Don't
worry about a thing." She looked over her shoulder and threw her
hands into the air. "Finally!" she said. "About time a
mechanic showed up.
As Mattie had hoped, it was Sebastian. He nudged
Mattie to her feet. "Come on," he said gently. "Come
to my workshop, and we will get you fixed up."
"My key," Mattie whispered.
"Shhh," Sebastian said. "Don't
worry about a thing—we'll get you back on your feet yet."
Mattie nodded and tried not to worry as she
followed him through a wide, short corridor to another cave that
smelled of metal, machine oil, and explosives.


Chapter 18
We look at everything with our new eyes, eyes
attuned to noticing flesh before stone. No longer are we paying
attention to the buildings, but rather to the buzzing of the slow,
overfed flies that seem to be everywhere. They smell our sweat and
land on our lips and eyes, their buzzing loud and somehow unclean. We
wince and wave them off our faces, but we still feel the greasy touch
of their tiny claws.
And the smell. . . the mindless automatons are
clearing the streets, but too few of them had survived the riots.
Even those that did are in a poor shape—they stumble about, and
some of their limbs are missing. And they collect the bodies of the
dead miners the enforcers do not bother to pick up anymore. They
still carry off their own after skirmishes, but we see the fatigue in
their eyes, and we guess that soon they will abandon their bodies
too.
There is a smell of rotting garbage everywhere,
and it takes us a while to realize that it is coming from the dead
bodies, stripped of their poor clothing and crude weapons by the
scavengers. We recognize the scavengers too, hiding in the
shadows—the light-eyed feral children let loose after the Stone
Monks left the city.
We suddenly feel fearful and apprehensive,
naked in our perishable flesh, and for just a moment we wish we could
go back to being stone—crumbling in death rather than rotting,
trapped inside an immobile prison of stone rather than reduced to
immaterial souls like those that now rattled within our skulls. The
moment passes. There is no point in regretting irreversible
decisions—one has to live with them, and we try.
We move toward the building of the
Parliament—the windows are yellow with light, even though it is
morning, and we know that they have been in there all night, too
preoccupied to remember to conserve oil, which is going to run out
soon, just like everything else in the city.
We climb up the walls and crouch on the
windowsills. They don't see us, too preoccupied with peering inward
and at each other. They seem worn now, ragged—their eyes are
red and swollen, and their soft cheeks are peppered with steel-gray
and dark stubble. And as we cling to the narrow windowsills, we feel
the taut muscles in our legs cramping, we feel our fingers relax
their grip on the window frames, fatigued, and suddenly we
understand—in our bones!—how tired these people are, how
vulnerable and hurt. Just like the ones fighting in the streets
below, just like the ones waiting in the tunnels, just like the
merchants in the market square and their skittish customers.
An explosion rocks the air, and a blast of warm
and almost solid wind knocks us off our perch. We recover mid-air and
spread our wings to buffet the fall, to let us land softly, with
dignity and grace.
We look around, to locate the source of the
explosion, but we cannot see if any buildings are missing: we would
need to be higher, away from the ground. We hear a soft tinkling, and
we look up, to see the shards of glass raining down from the
destroyed windows of the Parliament, falling like jagged ice
crystals; it is a miracle that we are not harmed.
We climb up the wall, pressing closely against
it, so that the men who are now looking out of the windows—the
unshaven and red-eyed alchemists and mechanics—can't see us,
but they are not even looking in our direction. They are pointing
west, to the districts where the destruction has been the greatest.
We run through the layout of the city in our
minds—there are houses there mostly, and the barracks of the
enforcers not far from the western gate; there are telegraphs and the
markets, there are factories. All of them seem like equally likely
targets, and none of them matter.


It was the second time that Mattie found herself
naked in Sebastian's presence, and from his pretend lightheadedness
and joking manner she surmised that he was thinking about it too. She
wanted to ask him now, why did he go along with it? Why did he make
love to her—was it a fetish of a mechanic enamored with
intricate devices and easily prompted to express his affection the
moment a device resembled a girl, or was it something else? She did
not know how to ask, and her sluggish mind refused to do any more
work than was strictly necessary—another self-preservation mode
Loharri built into her, undoubtedly passing along the ridiculous
desire to live despite one's inevitable mortality.
Sebastian checked her joints, oiling and adjusting
fiddly little parts in her knees. It hurt only a little.
"Pity," Sebastian said. "I wish you
didn't feel it, like other automatons." He still regretted their
encounter, he still wished she hadn't shown up to remind him.
"There's a module in my head that disconnects
the sensation," Mattie said. "Only I don't really know
where it is exactly. And I didn't like the last time it was used—I
think this is why I'm so poorly now."
"I won't touch it," Sebastian promised.
"But I'll have to check inside your head, to make sure there's
nothing broken there."
"Last time you said you didn't know how I
worked," Mattie said.
"I don't. But I can still see if the gears
are misaligned or if the connectors are missing or detached. Now that
I've seen how it's supposed to look."
"I think I will need winding soon,"
Mattie whispered, her voice giving out and then coming back again. "I
need my key—make sure Iolanda gets it for me."
"I will," Sebastian said. His voice
sounded so earnest that Mattie believed him. "I promise you I
will." He thought a bit, his hand clasping his chin
absentmindedly. "Maybe I could take a cast of the keyhole and
machine you a new one. I have the equipment here."
Of course, Mattie thought. They machined
keys—Iolanda and the rest had access to every important keyhole
in the city. That was why they could place the explosives wherever
they wanted. In her muddled state, the walls of the cave—dimly
lit, just bare hints of solid matter under the gauze of
shadows-reminded her of the dark paneling of Loharri's workshop. It
smelled the same, and was just as cluttered, and Sebastian became
Loharri in her mind and then himself again. Perhaps that was why the
thought of a second key in another mechanic's hands scared her.
"No," she whispered. "Just let
Iolanda or Niobe get my only key—I do not want more than one, I
do not want anyone but me to have it. And I don't want anyone but
them touching it."
Sebastian smiled. "Not even me?"
"Especially not you," Mattie said. "No
offense meant."
"None taken," he replied. "Maybe
just a temporary one? I'll give it to you right away."
The vexing survival module let itself be known
again. "Yes," Mattie whispered, and the shadows grew darker
around her. "Just a temporary one then."
"I will need to take a print," Sebastian
said.
Mattie nodded her consent and watched him take the
glass bubble off the lamp, and heat a metal tin over the flames. When
it started crackling and smelling of hot metal, he dropped a lump of
wax into the tin, letting it soften but not melt. He tossed the tin
down and blew on his fingers. The lump of wax had grown transparent
around the edges, and Sebastian rolled in his hands, letting it cool
a bit, stretching it between his fingers.
When the warm, fragrant wax touched her skin,
Mattie gasped. This touch felt so alive, so gentle. The pliable wax
pushed into the opening of the keyhole, and Mattie tensed, waiting
for the turn of a key. None came, of course—it was silly to
expect one, and yet she was so attuned to being wound that she could
not completely extinguish her anticipation and excitement.
"Stay still," Sebastian whispered. He
pressed on the wax lump with his hand, and Mattie looked away. Not
because she felt awkward (although she did), but because he was so
mechanic-like now—his lips pursed in concentration, his eyes
narrowed, he thought only about the task at hand, forgetting
everything about Mattie. It struck her, in the slow, grating way her
thoughts had acquired, how much like Loharri he was. She found it
neither comforting nor disturbing, just odd.
Sebastian extracted the wax and squinted at it.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered.
"What?"
Sebastian shook his head. "Look."
The wax looked like a simple narrow cylinder,
devoid of any marks. "It doesn't look like my key," Mattie
said.
"Of course it doesn't. It's protected,
see—the outer opening is more narrow than the internal
mechanism."
"I think he told me once that it's a complex
key."
"That's an understatement," Sebastian
agreed. "It opens up once it's inside and fits into the grooves.
But I can't make a print of it."
Mattie lowered her eyes. "He didn't want me
to be able to get a copy. Even if I had thought of it earlier, I
couldn't have done it."
Sebastian stared. "You never thought of it
before?"
Mattie shook her head, and the joints in her neck
whined. "I always thought of it as the only key. If there were
more, it would be . . . disconcerting." She thought a while,
straining after some thought that kept flickering at the edges of her
mind. Finally, she remembered. "Did Iolanda tell you about the
thing in my head?" she murmured.
"No," he said. "What thing in your
head?"
She told him about Loharri and about her unwilling
betrayal.
He listened, his hands clasped behind his back,
his face carefully composed. But she could tell that he was upset:
from the tendons in his neck, from the way they stood out under his
skin. "You sure he took it out?" he said.
Mattie nodded.
"No matter," Sebastian said, and reached
for her face. "I'm going to take a look inside anyway. Let's see
what's in there, hm?"
Mattie did not protest—it was just another
punishment, she thought, her punishment for having done something
wrong. She submitted to Sebastian's hands taking off her face and
popping out her eye, to his strong fingers digging with such cool
nonchalance in her head. She felt him flipping switches and adjusting
gears, and sometimes she blacked out, just for a moment, but she
always came to. He found the switch that rendered her immobile. "I'm
sorry," he said. "I have to turn you off for a little
while. I promise you will feel better."


When Mattie came to, the quality of light in the
cave remained the same—why would it change, after all,
underground so deep that time did not dare to penetrate it. But it
felt like time had passed—the oil in the lamps seemed lower,
and Sebastian looked older, a dark shadow of stubble appearing on his
face.
Mattie was relieved to have woken up, and to be
able to see. She felt better too—-her neck turned without
grinding, and her thoughts flowed quicker and smoother, without the
annoying snags of forgotten words or memories. He had managed to fix
her, at least partially. "Thank you," Mattie said. "I
feel much better."
He nodded. "Don't mention it."
Mattie hesitated. "What do I do now?"
He shrugged. "Whatever you want. I don't
advise going to the surface, though—there's still fighting
there." He raked his hands through his hair. "I don't know
what they are hoping for—we are right under them! And still
they build fortifications. They have a machine that detects
vibrations now, so every one of the last raids to the surface was
anticipated. Explosives seem to be the way to go, but ..." He
stopped talking abruptly, and waved his hand in the air. "Go,
Mattie. Find your friends. I have things to do."
Her heart still whined occasionally, and the beats
remained irregular. But there was no point in sulking or wishing that
he didn't treat her as an inconvenience. Mattie found one of the
lamps that people underground wore on their heads, and she went
exploring. The underground tunnels branched and multiplied and
widened into caves, the intricate network rife with startling
surprises—Mattie wandered through the labyrinth, occasionally
finding hidden caches of explosives or food or clothes or equipment;
sometimes she found secret groups of people; a few of them were
spiders, and they watched Mattie silently out of their dark, sunken
eyes. In the dusk, their eyes glistened deep within their sockets
like the gems which the spiders often carried in their long hands—as
reminders, Mattie guessed, or mementos. Or perhaps they were just
entranced with their soft glow. The spiders rarely talked—Mattie
supposed it was difficult for them, with their wheezing, whistling
breaths. They made Mattie feel uneasy.
When she passed people in the tunnels, she tried
not to look at the crates they carried, and she did not ask what part
of the city they were going to. She did not ask about what happened
to the enforcers who had gone underground before her eyes, and
whether they found anything but the abandoned tunnels.
Other times, she helped Niobe to care for the
wounded— there were few of them, and the two alchemists had no
trouble mixing enough potions and unguents. They talked only of
alchemy—Mattie shared her little secrets and contrivances about
the use of aloe leaves or chamomile flowers; she taught Niobe to make
a strong, tart-smelling brew of green blackberry branches and to
apply it to the bandages for stopping bleeding. She talked about her
concoctions with a sense of urgency; she never said it out loud, but
with a fear that her heart might give out at any moment, she wanted
to pass on as much of her knowledge as she could. Niobe did not talk
about it either, but she remained alert and attentive.
Mattie grew anxious—there was no sign of
changes, and she worried that her body, although ably patched up by
Sebastian, would run out before she could see the homunculus work its
dark bloody alchemy on Loharri. She needed her key, and she began to
feel its absence as a dull ache in her chest.


Mattie did not know whether it was morning or
night. She left Niobe to care for the sick and went to wander through
the tunnels, but her heart was not in it. Instead, she went to
Sebastian's workshop. He was gone, but she found the smell of metal
and oil reassuring in its familiarity. She sat on a crate and waited
for the time when she would be able to go to the surface and see the
gargoyles again.
There was a rustling of cloth, and Iolanda entered
the workshop. Mattie smiled, and Iolanda sat next to her and rubbed
her shoulder gently. She seemed so subdued now, her countenance sad,
her flesh not galling anymore but merely soft and tired. Mattie
wondered where her glee went, her bouncing joyfulness; she wondered
if Iolanda had grown disappointed.
Iolanda smiled and sighed, and pulled Mattie's
head into her lap. Mattie resisted at first, but Iolanda took a brush
with short dense bristles and a long handle out of her sleeve. "Let
me brush your hair," she said. "You will feel better."
Mattie carefully rested her head on the soft flesh
of Iolanda's thigh and closed her eye. The brush whispered through
the strands of Mattie's hair—not really hers; she thought of
the dead boy the gargoyles had told her about. She thought about
Loharri, and what possessed him to save these locks for such a long
time, what made him painstakingly attach them to Mattie's metal
scalp. The same thing, she supposed, that compelled the Soul-Smoker
to engulf the dead boy's soul—compassion and desire to
remember. Could they really be so similar?
Soon, the repetitive strokes of the brush lulled
her and she stopped wondering. Instead, she imagined the things she
would say to Loharri if she saw him again—when she saw him
again, she corrected herself. If nothing else, she had to see him
subjected to another's will—maybe then he would finally
understand what it was like, and would stop being angry with her.
"By all rights he should be down here, with
us," Iolanda said.
"You mean Loharri?"
Iolanda put the brush away and stroked Mattie's
hair. "Yes. He has as many reasons to hate this city as any of
us."
"I don't hate it," Mattie said. "I'm
here by accident."
Iolanda did not seem to hear her. "I just
don't understand him. He told me he had been in the orphanage; he
should be happy to see it blown up. But instead, he goes and converts
the caterpillars into barricades and mounts weapons on them."
"Is this why we're still here?" Mattie
asked. "There's still fighting?"
"There's fighting," Iolanda answered.
"And he, of all people, is acting like resisting the natural
course of progress is the right thing to do. What do you make of
that, Mattie?"
Disappointment stirred weakly—every time she
thought Iolanda was growing interested in her, it was just a pretext
for asking Mattie questions of interest to Iolanda. She just
shrugged, her metal shoulder butting against Iolanda's thigh. But in
her mind, she thought that Loharri's behavior was only reasonable.
She knew how hard it was to achieve something, to reach a position of
some influence; to give it all away would be unbearable. And unlike
her, Loharri could not possibly hope to retain his power—the
mechanics were the enemy, and he was too prominent to escape notice.
He was not defending the city, he was defending himself. She felt
close to him now that she knew what the desire to survive just a
little bit longer made one do. After all, she had agreed to a
duplicate key, and she was disappointed that she could not have it.
Iolanda's fingers played with Mattie's hair
absentmindedly. "I wonder sometimes, Mattie," she said. "I
wonder at the things we do—I wonder at myself. Have you ever
done things that you didn't expect to? Things that just... happened?"
"Yes," Mattie said. "Lately, I've
been feeling that I've been doing nothing but."
Iolanda laughed.
Mattie sat upright. "Don't forget about my
key," she pleaded.
"I won't. I know it's important to you."
Mattie grasped her hand. "It's not just
important. It is everything to me, and I hate leaving it in someone
else's hands, even yours. Please try and understand."
Iolanda shook her head. "I understand. I
think maybe this is what we have in common, the desire to take one's
life into one's own hands, even if it doesn't work out and one is
worse off in the end."
Mattie nodded in agreement. She would be better
off if she stayed with Loharri and never angered him.
Iolanda rose from her seat, smoothing her skirts.
"In any case," she said, "I cannot wait to see the
sun. I hope we will get to the surface soon."
Mattie agreed that it would be not a moment too
soon.


And soon it was time to go. Iolanda was both
excited and fearful, and Niobe only frowned, her lips pressed
together in an expression of determination.
"We're going to the surface," Iolanda
informed Mattie.
She did not need to bother—Mattie already
had guessed it from the feverish movement that started in the morning
and the endless chain of the miners and the spiders dragging out the
crates with explosives and the few muskets that they possessed along
with boxes of bullets. She was not sure whether the resistance of the
city had been subdued, or if the miners were getting ready for their
last assault.
"Did you see it yet?" Iolanda asked.
"See what?"
"If you need to ask then you haven't,"
Niobe said, smiling. "Come on, I'll show you. Sebastian is
getting it ready."
Mattie followed Niobe through the tunnels,
marveling at the ease with which Niobe navigated the maze. The beam
of her lantern snatched the sparkling veins of ore on the rough
surface of the walls from the darkness.
Mattie had never been this far in the tunnels—it
felt different. The air grew cold and sharp, and condensation
trickled down the walls. The supporting scaffolding was scarce, and
Mattie guessed that these were little-used tunnels.
"Can you smell the river?" Niobe asked.
"Yes," Mattie answered. "We're
under the city, aren't we?"
"Not far from the paper factory," Niobe
confirmed. "The mines come close to the sewers here—this
is why they were abandoned. They couldn't dig farther without the
risk of damaging the sewers or flooding the mines if they got too
close to the river."
"Can we get to the city from here?"
Niobe shrugged. "It's possible. But first,
look at this."
She led Mattie to a large cavern where water stood
ankle-deep and dripped down along the walls, through tiny channels
shaped over many years. There were human voices there too, and
clanging of metal, and the acrid smell of smoke. As they moved
carefully, their feet uncertain on the silty slippery floor,
something big started to take shape in the darkness, and Mattie
gasped the moment she discerned the true dimensions of the
contraption.
It was as tall as two men, broad and squat,
furnished with a multitude of jointed legs, like a giant crab. The
rivets of the creature's carapace were mismatched, some dull and
gray, others shining copper. In the center of the machine there was a
small tower, and through its glass Mattie saw a man within. The
contraption groaned and shuddered, and the gears ground heavily
within it.
"What is it?" Mattie said.
"A weapon," Niobe answered. "Sebastian
built it—others helped, of course. I suspect that this is why
miners tolerated our presence. They don't like the mechanics or the
machines, but if any can be used to their advantage ..."
Mattie circumvented the machine and found herself
staring down the barrel of a short and broad cannon. She had no doubt
that the contraption would be a fitting match for the mechanics'
barricades on the surface as well as the enforcers' muskets.
"Impressed?" Niobe asked.
Mattie nodded wordlessly. She was impressed
although perhaps not in the way her friend meant. Along with her fear
at the machine's formidable proportions and its obvious destructive
capabilities, Mattie felt relief—there was a finality about the
thing, sitting so calmly and yet boiling and shuddering with the
hidden workings of its mechanism. It would be capable of ending the
fighting, and it would be capable of overcoming the city's
resistance. Mattie was ashamed to realize that she did not truly care
who won—all she wanted was for this to end, so she could go
home and resume the making of her unguents, not before getting her
key of course, but otherwise she wanted things to go back to the way
they were. And it didn't really matter who was governing the city—as
long as they kept building such machines, people would bleed, and
there would be work for an alchemist. Mattie proudly thought that she
was a good one—after all, she was the one to free the gargoyles
from their bondage, the only one to accomplish such a difficult task
among those who had tried. And that had to count for something.


Chapter 19
The surface world assaulted Mattie with bright
light and acrid smoke. She emerged from the newly blasted exit,
climbing awkwardly up a ladder improvised from bits of scaffolding,
following Niobe, Iolanda close behind. Mattie hoped that by now the
fighting would be over, and she would have to witness just the
consequences but not the actual bloodshed. She was surrounded by
people—mostly the courtiers, but Niobe and a few miners
remained nearby, reassuring.
"The city is ours now," one of the
miners said.
"Not quite," the light-haired courtier
answered. "We still need the fighting to cease and power to be
transferred in an orderly fashion. We need the mechanics to formally
surrender. Otherwise, the resistance will fester."
They walked through the streets, silent and empty
at the moment. There were no dead bodies and no lizards, but a low
cloud of ash hung over the city, and the air smelled of gunpowder. A
thin layer of dust seemed to have settled over everything—the
cobbled pavements, the awnings of the still-standing buildings, the
twisted remains of the abandoned caterpillars stacked in the streets.
The rumor was, the fighting was continuing by the
western district still, where the enforcers and the mechanics
occupied a defensive position between the Grackle Pond and the paper
mill, barricaded by caterpillars and what remained of the Calculator.
Mattie could appreciate the defensive quality of so much metal, and
she was apprehensive when they turned west.
Iolanda carried the jar with the homunculus—she
fed it well, and the creature swelled with blood, barely fitting into
its jar. Iolanda frowned, worried. "I wonder if my influence
will last enough time to have him do what he must."
"Let you into the Parliament, you mean,"
Mattie said. "You could've used explosives."
Iolanda shook her head. "Too many valuable
documents in there," she said. "Besides, if we want people
to turn to our side, we will have to take the seat of legitimate
power, not destroy it."
Mattie suspected that Iolanda was not exactly
lying, but simply not telling the whole truth. The rebels wanted the
support of the ruling party, however fleeting and limited.
Legitimizing one in the eyes of the populace was a familiar
concern—the mechanics always talked about it at their meetings,
as did the alchemists, but usually such talks happened before the
election. Mattie was surprised to learn that a violent overthrow was
not free of such considerations either.
They did not dare to approach the Grackle Pond,
where musket shots resonated among the gutted buildings, abandoned by
their wealthy owners. Mattie thought that everyone who was able to
had moved on by now, and only the poor and the stubborn remained
behind. This is why it was so quiet— what few people still
remained in the city were not venturing into the streets without
acute necessity. The winners would have an empty, mutilated city to
govern, and Mattie could not imagine why anyone would want that.
They stopped in the street not far from the pond,
and Iolanda crouched down and shook the homunculus out of its
vitreous prison. It landed on a pavement with a wet thwack, and stood
on its soft boneless legs and burbled. "Go," Iolanda
commanded. "Go and bring him to me."
The homunculus departed toward the sound of the
shots and the hulking gray structure standing in the distance, on the
far shore of the pond, the outlines of which Mattie could not quite
make out due to dust and smoke in the air. She only tasted warm metal
and tired flesh, gunpowder and crumbling stone. "What do we do
now?" she asked Iolanda.
"We wait for your master," Iolanda
answered. "Our troops were instructed to let him pass through
unharmed."
The people settled on the steps of the buildings
and on the pavement. As much as Mattie missed the habitual bustle of
the city, she only wished to see Loharri for the last time, to get
her key, and to go home. She pictured in her mind her small apartment
nestled under the roof that got so hot in the summer. She missed the
long bench with all of her painstakingly collected equipment, and she
worried that the sheep's eyes, pickled as they were, would go bad in
the heat. She missed the constant slamming of the door in the
apothecary downstairs, the squeaking of the steps announcing a
client. She missed having no other concerns but missing a deadline on
a potion for an important client, or hunting down an obscure recipe.
There was simplicity in her life as it used to be, and she longed for
its return.


We watch the spiders as they crawl through the
streets, endlessly fascinating and pitiful. We follow them, trying to
reconcile the vision of the children as they used to be with the
deformed creatures down below, sifting through the piles of garbage
and dead bodies. With most of the automatons destroyed, they took on
their jobs—sorting and cleaning, collecting what could be saved
and piling the rest into heaps and burning it. Fires smolder low,
bringing with them a surprising, gentle reminder of autumnal leaves
and bitter fall air.
We fear that they will be forgotten and cast
aside soon— they are not as useful as the able-bodied men with
dark faces and pale eyes who came from the mines, their stained
clothes overlaying bulging shoulders and thick arms. We fear that the
spiders will forever sift through refuse, unable to do much else, and
we resolve to protect them as much as we can.
We follow them through the streets that were
recently abandoned by the fighters, where bodies can still be found,
lying face down or face up; we prefer the former as do the
spiders—they always roll the dead on their stomachs before
going through their pockets and collecting things the dead don't
really need. Then they drag them to the heaps that will become
bonfires soon.
The surface of the Grackle Pond is sleek and
gray, just like the sky above it, just like the fortifications
erected on its distal shore. It is quiet now, and it looks
deserted—-we almost believe the illusion, even though we know
there are people crouching behind the barricades, some looking for
the enemy through slits carved in metal, their hands tight on musket
barrels, while others crawl away for supplies and come back with food
or bullets. We know too that there are men hiding in the buildings,
in every doorway along the street, waiting for an opportunity to take
aim.
We notice a strange creature—similar to
the one that had turned us, and yet different, for it does not smell
of stone— toddle around the pond. We take positions to watch
its progress, and we feel protective of it. We wonder if the
mechanical girl is nearby then, if she's among those hidden, waiting
to storm the barricades. We wonder if the creature is carrying an
important message, and we decide to guard it.
But it is only little, and men at the
barricades do not see or pay attention to it. It climbs and flows
over the barricades, and we follow. Here in the open, it is hard to
hide but we slide through the shadows and the sparse bushes fringing
the pond, we hover hidden by the low veil of smoke. We see behind the
barricades, into a maze of fortifications and crates, people and
automatons. We hover in the ash-filled fog and watch—we are not
afraid that we will be seen; everyone is looking into the streets,
not to the sky.
The homunculus is heading for the man lying on
the ground, sleeping or resting or dead. No, not dead—he raises
his head and he sees the creature. He sits up, slowly, sluggishly,
and we recognize him by his twisted face. He holds his right arm to
his chest with his left hand, and we see the dark right sleeve grown
darker with blood. He looks at the homunculus as if he recognizes it,
and he smiles.
"Come here, little fellow," he says,
and extends his injured arm. "Come here, I'll feed you."
The homunculus totters closer and drinks fat
lazy drops falling from the man's fingertips.
"There you go," the man says, and he
smiles with one side of his mouth. His motions are languid, as if he
had just awakened—even when his eyes flicker upward to meet
ours, he does not look startled or hurried. He doesn't look away from
us, hut speaks to the creature. "You'll be my friend now, yes?"
The thing burbles in the affirmative, and laps
at the pool of blood collected on the ground, and it swells up, up,
like a rising loaf of bread.
The homunculus swells almost to bursting as it
sops up the wounded man's blood—not beautiful anymore, we
whisper to ourselves. Never again, because there is just no going
back with those things.
The wounded man rises to his knees, then to his
feet, pushing himself off the ground with his good arm. The injured
one only gets in the way and bleeds more. The people by the
barricades look up—their faces so similar now, all
hollow-cheeked and half-hidden in the thatches of ungroomed beards.
"Where are you going, Loharri?" one
of them says, an older man with a generous sprinkling of gray in his
beard and long hair. "The alchemists are coming to take care of
the wounded, they will have something to stem the bleeding."
"Look around you," he says. "No
one is coming."
"You're not going to forget your
mechanic's oath, are you?" the older man says.
Loharri shakes his head. "I'm not
forgetting anything. But I will go, and I will talk to them, and if
you want to shoot me in the back then help yourself."
"You have no authority to negotiate,"
the older man says.
Loharri smiles and looks down at the
homunculus, which is pooling around his feet, just a fat blood smear.
"I have as much authority as you do," he says. "That
is, not much. But enough to see what can be saved." He looks at
the pile of metal with sadness in his eyes, the same sadness we feel
when we look down at all the children of our city whom we cannot
help.
And then he walks between the twisted metal
bars as tall as a man, and climbs over the corrugated sheets piled on
top of each other. Once he reaches the top, he stops and thinks,
crouching down for stability, but we can see that it takes him a lot
of effort to remain upright.
He searches through his pockets and extracts a
handkerchief—it used to be white at some point of its
existence, but now it is crusted with blood and dirt. He waves it in
the air; his opponents are invisible, but he and we know that they
have him in the sights of their muskets.
He waves the handkerchief, stiff as a board, in
the air to signal his peaceful intentions, and starts his slow
descent onto the embankment of the pond below.


Mattie watched Iolanda biting her lips and pacing
back and forth. They made a post of sorts in one of the abandoned
houses, and judging by the smell of urine and burned rags, they were
not the first ones to have done so. It had once been a nice
dwelling—the wallpaper, white with delicate blue flowers, spoke
of taste and wealth, and the remnants of the wooden floors, now
wrenched free and dragged away somewhere to build fires, were
well-polished and clean. There was no furniture remaining, and the
small party camped out on the floors, apparently just happy to be
anywhere but an underground mineshaft. There were maybe twenty people
here, mostly courtiers and a few miners armed with axes and a couple
of muskets. The crates with explosives were stacked in the kitchen,
well out of sight. The men with weapons guarded the entrance, even
though no danger was apparent. Mattie felt quite sure that the men at
the barricade by the pond were not going to launch an offensive raid.
She listened to the distant sounds of carnage
wrought by Sebastian's war machine, and wondered if the Parliament
building survived. Everyone talked excitedly about how all but a few
pockets of resistance had been extinguished, and that soon they could
start rebuilding. They talked about returning the land to the
peasants, and improving conditions in the mines. She overheard a few
of Iolanda's friends arguing in fierce whispers whether the miners
and the peasants would be fit to govern, and whether they should
establish a temporary council consisting of the courtiers who had
abandoned their position, and what to do about the enforcers—after
all, they've been just following orders, and once the power changes
hands, they would have no qualms about serving the new government,
would they? And a new Soul-Smoker would have to be appointed—too
bad the monks had left, but surely they could find one. Maybe among
the spiders who really couldn't hope for anything better.
For some reason, the conversation made Mattie feel
sad—she thought that things always happened around her, but
without letting her touch them directly. Life flowed around her, like
a stream flows around a solitary rock, which, no matter how much it
wanted to, was unable to see anything upstream or downstream from it.
Mattie shook her head. After all, she wouldn't
want it any other way—she was happy to retire into a quiet
corner, where she did not have to look at Sebastian's machine
attacking the barricades, crushing metal and flesh with its massive
legs and shooting fire from its cannon.
One of the sentries posted by the door came
inside. "He's coming," he whispered to Iolanda, and Mattie
felt a small flutter in her chest at the thought of facing Loharri
again. "He's wounded," the sentry continued. "You
better come outside, it is safe on this side of the pond."
Iolanda nodded and headed for the door; Niobe and
Mattie followed, neither willing to miss Loharri's surrender. Mattie
was anxious now that her goal was so close. She could imagine the
weight of the key in her hand, she could almost feel it sliding in
and clicking into place, tugging at the spring of her heart, making
it well again.
She saw Loharri right away, and the way he walked,
stiffly and yet unsteadily, reminded her of the first time she met
the Soul-Smoker. She whipped around, to look at the front of the
house, and the trampled flowerbeds. There was no doubt—it was
the same house where she watched Ilmarekh consume a restless spirit,
the same porch from which she first saw him approach. She had a
vertiginous feeling of time spinning her around and throwing her into
the point where it all began; and yet, Ilmarekh was dead and the
gargoyles were flesh. Loharri stumbled along, his feet slurping in
the dripping pool of blood that seemed to move along with him—Mattie
guessed it for the homunculus, leading him toward his bondage.
Iolanda walked up to him, and they stopped at the
embankment, just a few steps away from the house. Mattie watched his
face for any sign of recognition, but his gaze slid off her as if she
were a fragment of an empty sky, a stone in an unremarkable wall. He
looked at Iolanda only, his lips pressed together as if he was trying
not to speak.
"Loharri," Iolanda said. "I need
you to do something for me. Talk to Bergen, to the other mechanics.
Tell them that they have nothing to be afraid of; tell them that we
are willing to make truce."
Loharri nodded, slowly, his gaze still lingering
on Iolanda's face, a distracted smile forming on his lips.
Mattie grabbed Niobe's hand. "Something is
not right," she whispered. It was just a vague feeling, an
irrational sense of dread that descended upon her out of nowhere but
refused to leave.
Niobe smiled. "What do you mean, Mattie?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "But
let's go."
Iolanda shot Mattie a reassuring look, and spoke
to Loharri. "Tell them that they will be spared. Convince them
that they need to help us. Do what you must, but ensure the
mechanics' surrender, even if you have to kill Bergen to take his
place. Now, give me Mattie's key, and then go."
His left hand, pale and awkward, reached for the
chain. Mattie felt a wrenching anxiety as he slowly pulled the chain
from under his shirt, a bright sparkling of the key sending a sense
of relief. Her hands reached out without her meaning to do so.
Iolanda reached for the key, just as Loharri lost
his balance and stumbled forward. His lips brushed against Iolanda's
hair, and he had to grab her shoulder to regain his feet. He
straightened, slowly, and pressed the key into Iolanda's waiting
hand.
"Go now," Iolanda said, and wriggled
from under his hand.
Loharri looked at Mattie, just for a moment, but
she felt her unease return as she noticed the slow smile she knew so
well twisting his mouth. "Mattie," he said. "Help me.
I'm weak, and it is difficult to walk. I need you to help me along."
"I'll come too," Niobe said.
Loharri acknowledged her kindness with a nod, and
Niobe grabbed his uninjured arm, letting Mattie prop him on the other
side. Iolanda turned toward the house, and the homunculus finally
detached itself from Loharri and followed Iolanda instead, its
mission completed.
They started down the embankment, toward the
towering remains of several caterpillars and what Mattie presumed
used to be the Calculator. But she could not help stealing glances
over her shoulder. She saw Iolanda, Mattie's key still in her hand,
enter the house, and she regretted not taking it with her. Just a few
yards more, she told herself, and then we can go back, and she would
have her key, never to leave her person.
They were almost halfway to the barricade, when
Mattie heard a commotion behind her. She and Niobe turned
simultaneously, to see a blast of fire shoot through the door; a
pillar of flames engulfed the house instantaneously, before the blast
of solid air knocked Mattie off her feet. She clanked on the pavement
and felt her fingers give under her weight, unable to withstand the
force of the blow. Her face hit the suddenly close stones and
shattered into a thousand pieces; she had been too stunned to cover
it. She struggled to prop herself up, to see behind her a solid
cylinder of fire where the house used to be. She became aware of a
clinking of debris as it rained onto the stones.
"Mattie," Niobe gasped beside her. Her
face was bruised, and a long scratch on her cheekbone swelled with
blood. "Are you all right?"
She nodded. "What happened?"
Niobe's eyes flicked to Loharri. He sprawled on
the pavement, face down, not struggling to get up. Mattie knew that
he was alive when she heard his quiet laughter.
Niobe crawled over to the prostrate mechanic, and
shook his shoulder violently. "What did you do?"
He laughed still, and did not resist Niobe's
shaking, his arm flopping like that of a rag doll in her hands. He
did not have to explain—Mattie replayed in her mind his
stumbling, his lips so close to Iolanda's ear. Dead Iolanda, she
realized. Dead because the man Mattie used to call her master
whispered a word of command in her ear, and she obeyed, commanded by
strands of her hair braided into the homuncular heart.
"How did you know?" Niobe screamed at
Loharri. "How did you turn the homunculus?"
Loharri's uninjured arm fluttered, jerking his
hand up. His fingers were broken like Mattie's, but there was no
mistaking the fact that he pointed at her.
"It was the device in my head," Mattie
whispered. "I'm sorry. I did not know he had seen it."
Niobe let go. "It's not your fault," she
said, not looking at Mattie but at the burning house instead.
Loharri stopped laughing. "Yes it is,"
he said.
Mattie's broken fingers curled into misshapen
fists. "How dare you," she said, momentarily forgetting the
burning building and the people inside it, overcome by rage.
"I'll..." Her voice gave out.
Loharri did not answer; he was not laughing
anymore, but lay quietly in the spreading dark puddle—blood
gushed out of his torn sleeve. It took Mattie a moment to realize
what had happened.
"He's dead," Niobe said. She rose to her
feet and prodded the inert form with the tip of her shoe. "He
bled out."
Mattie grabbed the dead man's shoulders. "Wake
up." She gave him a forceful shake. "Wake up, you bastard!
You have to make me a new key. You have to!"
He remained silent and still, and Mattie's fists
struck the pavement, chipping stone but unable to wake a dead man.
There would be time to grieve later, and Mattie
would mourn Iolanda and others, whose names she could not remember
and felt bad about it. Maybe some day she would be able to mourn
Loharri too—if she survived long enough, that is. But for now
her heartbreak was for herself, keyless and doomed. "My key was
in there," Mattie said. "It was in that house."
Niobe looked at her with irritation. Blood
trickled from her ears, drying on the skin of her neck in a beaded
serpentine trail. "Come on," she said. "Get up."
Mattie did; she was not sure whether it was the
shock from the loss of her key—forever irretrievable—or a
real sensation, but her heartbeat slowed, and the image of the
smoldering, charred walls swam in and out of her field of vision. She
wondered if Loharri had led her away from the house to show kindness
or malice, sparing her the immediate disintegration in favor of a
slow, lingering demise; if his last thought was not to avenge the
destruction of the city but to punish Mattie for disobeying him. It
did not matter now, she told herself. There was no reason for the
dead man to have such a hold on her. She should try and help, she
should live out the time she had left as well as she could. Her legs
wobbled, but she took Niobe by the elbow, steadying her. "It'll
be all right," Mattie whispered, even though she knew that it
wouldn't be.
She looked up, searching for the gargoyles—she
was certain that they were following her, crawling in the rain
gutters along the roofs, hovering in the thick clouds of greasy
smoke. "Funny," she said, addressing the low clouds and
empty air. "Now it is my turn to become immobile, and no one can
stop it."
Great wings dispersed the smoke as several
gargoyles descended into the street around her. "Can we help?"
They spoke in one voice.
"No, but it doesn't matter," Mattie
said. "I'm going home. You're welcome to come along if you
wish."
She gave one last look at the smoldering ruins and
the lone figure of Niobe, to the prostrate form of Loharri, and
walked east. The gargoyles followed her in their usual way, along the
gutters, crawling along the facades—a habit really, since there
were no passersby to see them. They clung to the faces of the walls
with their clawed fingers and toes, their presence a mute
consolation.
The house still stood, although the apothecary in
the first floor was gutted and burned out, all the salves and
bandages long gone, and only a weak smell of aloe still lingered over
the stench of charred wood and paint.
The stairs were missing the lowest step, and
Mattie had to pick up her skirts to swing her foot high. She could
smell her bitter herbs and spoiling sheep's eyes upstairs, a
familiar, embracing aroma that brought to mind her long workbench and
the rustling of pages in her books. She only wanted to touch them
again, but instead of hurrying, she lingered.
Mattie looked over her shoulder, at the winged
shapes splayed in the shadows and crouched in narrow places. She
thought of how still she would soon be, how quiet her heart. The slow
rising of feathered wings outside made up for it—or at least,
it had to.


Epilogue
And so the city stays, changed but eternal.
Everyone has to adjust, to carve a new niche in the mutable
landscape, find a fitting fissure to wedge oneself into. Some of the
former residents have returned, but others never will—not the
deceased Duke, not his family. But there are voices of the dead
whispering to us every day, and we learn to live with the constant
ebb and flow of their memories and regrets.
We hide in the rain gutters and on the
rooftops, we slide through the shadows; we overnight in the abandoned
buildings and the remains of the Calculator. Parts of it still clack
and whir, and exhale the ghostly remnants of pungent steam. It
comforts us; this is also where we keep her.
The mechanical girl is broken, but we put her
together the best we could. Still, she would not wake up and the hole
in her chest gapes at us, pleading and longing. We know what it
wants, and we search for it—we search through the debris and
the refuse of the markets, through the burned-out houses; we dive to
the bottom of the Grackle Pond, our wings silvery with the powder of
air bubbles, and we look in the clouds.
Sometimes the mechanic—a child of red
earth, of the world that is not so distant to us anymore—comes
to the ruins of the Calculator, its metal insides mysterious and
inviting. He sits by the girl for a while and then leaves; we let him
come and go as he pleases, because he seems so different now. Even
his smell has changed—he now smells of dusty paper and ink, and
we suspect that it is the cause of his sadness.
We never tell him about our search, of our
moonlit flights over the rooftops, of our bargaining with the spiders
who spend almost as much time searching for something in the city's
filth as we do. But we do not let him touch her because it is our
duty to fix her, and it is our task to find the key.
Some days we despair and think that it has
melted in the fire, into a shapeless lump fused to the cinderblocks
of the foundation; sometimes we think that it was vaporized by the
first blast of the explosion, like the woman who had been holding it
in her soft hand. But we chase away such thoughts. It's out there
somewhere, and if anyone can find it, it is us—and we will keep
looking as long as we live.



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