Xan pulled Geoff away from his companions. With one hand on his collar, Xan threw him through the pub's side door and shoved him into the hallway.
"You slagging hurensohn. You utter, utter bastard," he shouted, his face inches away from Geoff's.
"What the spit, Xan?" Geoff pushed him away.
Xan pushed him back against the wall, hard. "What the spit -? There was a Deadman in the pub, Geoff. Talking to me. What the fuck did you do?"
"Me? What makes you think I -?"
"This isn't funny, Geoffrey."
"Xan, you're wasting your time, fixing watches for rich toppers and the like. When you can make things like the Viertel - and what about those glass clocks? By rights those things should have shattered. So when someone - not a Taker, mind - but someone asked me if I knew a maker worth his salt, I might've passed your name along. I was doing you a favor, Xan. I was doing us a favor."
"Yeah, well I can do without that kind of favor. Those pocket watches pay the rent. We eat alright. It's not like we could live off of the press. How many pamphlets did you print for free this month, Geoff? And when was the last time you sold a book, eh?"
"Leave off, Xan." Geoff shoved past him into the Dog & Pony, back to the bitters and the sympathetic eyes.
"You'll end up getting us killed, Geoff," Xan said to the wall. He punched it softly before heading down the stair. The whole encounter had left a sour taste in his mouth which put him right off food. Besides, he had a few things he could work on now that Geoff was conveniently distracted by 'The Wonders of the Dog & Pony.' He wouldn't be back home for hours.
It was cold in the basement and Xan was glad for his jacket. He reached into his pockets and retrieved a pair of thick leather gloves before disappearing behind a row of casks. Almost hidden in the corner, the floor changed from dirt to wood. Xan took a lantern from the shelf on his right. Once lit, it offered a dim resistance to the gloom. He held it close to the floor, searching for the iron ring which served as the trapdoor's handle. Wooden steps led down into a seeming nothingness.
He quickly descended the rickety construction, built so steep as to seem almost vertical. When the walls turned to brick, he slowed. On his left, situated between two steps, a door hung in the middle of the brick surface. When he turned the handle, the door swung away from him, exposing faint shapes cluttering the space. Xan stepped inside, moving with certainty about the room, he stopped only to light the candles scattered throughout.
Now cheerfully illuminated, the room proved to be meticulously neat, the crumbling brick lined with shelves stacked hight with books and mechanical baubles. Atop the counters sat instruments made of variously configured lenses, rods, and hinges. Parts of differing sizes had been sorted into tubs which covered an entire will. Jumbles of gears lay spread out amongst the instruments. Xan set the lantern on the central table. He crossed to a metal box which squatted isolated in one corner. Taking a key from the chain under his shirt, Xan undid the padlock securing the box. A vapor of condensation rose as he lifted the lid. From within he took another metal box; this one covered with a thin layer of ice.
Moving quickly now, Xan retrieved his lantern and made his way out of the lab and farther down the wooden stairs. He navigated a seeming maze of arches and doors as sub-basements connected with boiler rooms and sewer tunnels. Some of the places through which he walked had been abandoned to time, or so claimed the cobwebs and dust. Others were obviously visited regularly and well maintained. His own trail, though traceable through the clean swath left by previous visits, was carefully camouflaged in these more inhabited areas.
Xan stopped outside a large metal door. Hung on pegs next to the doorway waited several hats, scarves, and coats. He gingerly set down his parcel. After brushing the dampness away from his jacket and further bundling himself against the chill, he pushed open the door with his shoulder, grabbed his box, and darted through. Back to the metal, he shoved the door closed. His breath came away in clouds, and he was glad for the precautionary layers.
Xan crouched amid one of the rows of gutted carcasses, each hanging from a hook at the end of a long chain, the metal links creaking in the cold. He opened the box; the ice cracked as he threw back the lid. Inside, five smaller boxes nestled against still more ice. He removed them one by one, arranging them in a line on the abattoir's concrete floor.
From inside of each he lifted interlocking mechanics made completely of ice. He tested the workings of each piece before deftly assembling them. If any part had melted only a little, the works would now fuse together in the cooler temperature and this attempt would have been worthless. The last section contained a single band of rubber interwound with the ice works and an indentation which served as a keyhole. Xan took the chain from around his neck again, inserted the key into the hole, and turned. And turned. And turned. And turned until the band was stretched tight; then he set it loose. The works scuttled across the floor. Its thin, insectile arms waved half a meter above its body, knocking into the surrounding butchered animals on their hooks with such force that the ice splintered. Bodies swung into each other, creating a cacophony of screeching chain and the collision of cold, soft flesh.
As the inner workings melted under the continual strain of heat and friction, the works lurched and tottered about the floor. It bumped into a nearby stack of wooden boxes, which tore off a limb, snapping it at the joint. The mechanical, hobbled by its lopsided state, slipped on the already melting shards of its components, skidded across the slickness, and careened again into the crates, the impact driving it backwards into a dead pig. The animal spun and arced in a slow circle upon contact, crashing into the flailing ice works as it reached the completion of its rotation. For several minutes, the works teetered at impact upon impact of crates and carcasses, becoming less stable and more frantic with every tick of its gearteeth.
It tripped over its own wavering mobility components, rolling end over end, coming to rest on what Xan thought of as its back. the crustacean-like legs scuttled impotently, finding no purchase on the air above it. The fury of its death throws slackened as tension in the rubber slowly expended through the chaotic movements. Then it was still.
The meat still swung noisily in the memory of its agitation. Despite the temperature of the vast space, the ice continued to melt, pooling about itself. Xan repacked his containers and left whistling, his creation slowing melting on the floor.
6.
5.
Under bridges, in sub-basements, behind concealed doors in back alleys, inside abandoned water towers, and in the tunnels which connected disparate railway systems - the ones that 'Habitants, while acknowledging their obvious existence, had barely glimpsed from their comfortable compartments aboard the trains and certainly had never ventured into - these places, and others like them, made up the network of seemingly unconnected rooms of which the Tunnel Faire consisted. Here a boy sold watches lifted from dead men. Here a girl sold her virginity for the price of her keep. Here illegal books were bartered for with small treasures deemed unique and beyond common value. Here drugs were traded as frequently as diseases, usually among the same persons. And here the giant amidst businessmen, the being whose single vision had built Azerna into it's current shape, whose personal wealth was staggering, and whose morality was firmly questionable, met with the shadows of men.
Rothechild sat at a circular table situated in the exact center of a storm cellar connected with a grocery. Piled in the corners, mushrooms and potatoes threatened to roll underfoot of those gathered. The singular lantern provided little enough light to see by.
"We have a problem, gentlemen. Our operative was not properly greeted. He made contact with young Mister Murdock, but in doing so has attracted the attentions of less reputable members of society as well as his confederates. He has, in short, been robbed. Now that sensitive information, for which I have invested large sums of money, is in circulation. This is not acceptable, gentlemen. I imagine it will surface at the Faire within a few day's time. I expect the documents to be back in the hands of our operative by the end of the week, and any subsequent copies to be destroyed. Then, and only then gentlemen, may we turn our attentions to the parties who have failed us. Is that understood?"
There was a muttered agreement from around the table.
"We will be the first to possess a working prototype, gentlemen. That is all."
And one by one they left the cellar, cramped with mouldering vegetables, to disappear into the Faire, leaving Rothechild alone with his single lantern and the dark.
"Do you really think you can contain this sort of technology?" asked a voice from the general direction of the potatoes.
"Of course not," Rothechild replied. "But the child is not to be harmed. When the time comes, I want her brought to me intact. Go back to the Tiere whore and attempt to salvage the situation. This should reassure her."
The small case hit the table with an audible clunk. Rothechild made his way steadily up the dirt packed stairs, taking the lantern with him.
4.
Great-Auntie Mildred was dead, Roger Avery knew. That was why they were here - in the Taker's parlour. He shifted uncomfortably in his new black jacket, pulling at the sleeves. His sister laid a hand on his and discretely returned it to his side. Caroline was supposed to be minding him while Mother and Father made arrangements with the Takers concerning Great-Auntie Mildred's body, and she took the charge seriously. She was forever bidding him be quiet and still.
The Taker was an austere man with a thin, sallow face and an imposing nose. He wore his hair short and his collar low to display the registry tattoo behind his left ear, a crest the size of a sterling done in faded red and purple, and resting atop it, the skull which signified his position. Roger stared. His own ink - the barest outline of a sea bird in flight was impressive only in its delicate clarity.
Then Mister Richards began showing Mother and Father coffins. Roger could no longer see the man's registry and so fell into contemplation about something else entirely. The gaslight candelabras reflected in the shine of his shoes, He turned his head to watch the glimmer shift over the convex curve of his toe. Caroline pinched him. Roger sighed. He'd thought the parlour would've been full of dead bodies and cupboards crammed with deadly poisons. Not to mention the weaponry, which should have, in Roger's opinion, decorated the walls. Instead it was all thick curtains and wood and brass. Thin, sallow windows let in almost no light, so the candelabras had to be lit mid-afternoon. There was not a cupboard or weapon to be seen, and all the coffins were empty. Roger was in actuality rather glad that there weren't dead people everywhere, but he would never say so.
He fidgeted a trifle spitefully. Caroline shushed him primly again, then returned to her pose. She sat with her hands in her lap and her ankles crossed; her eyes gazed daintily at the floor. She looked the picture of a respectful and respectable griever in her black crepe. Roger had seen her practicing the image in her mirror at home.
He twitched his shoulders in an attempt to settle his coat. It only earned him a reproving glance and still the thing would not lie tolerably against his body. It was his first mourning suit and had been made only just too big. Roger wondered if any of his other relatives were expected to die in the near future. Great-Auntie Mildred had been a distant relation, for whose death custom required the family to mourn one month. Roger thought wearing uncomfortable clothing a poor way to honor his great-aunt's memory.
Caroline glanced up to meet his eye; in her look was a warning, but it also held a degree of commiseration. Despite the act she put on, Caroline dreaded the visit to the Taker's parlour as much as he, although for very different reasons. Caroline disliked death. It was the smell.
Great-Auntie Mildred's house had smelled of menthol, ointments, and cloying rot. Caroline, who had with her mother spent many hours in her great-aunt's sickroom, had found it suffocating. But worse was the way the scents had changed after Great-Auntie Mildred's passing. Caroline had expected them to linger and compound in a sickeningly sweet manifestation of loss, but instead they had dissipated all too quickly. Only the faintest subtle miasma remained in her great-aunt's room. It seemed to Caroline that the house, having been in Mildred's care for longer than even Mother and Father could remember, was all too eager to shed the remnants of its possessor. And now they were here to choose a box into which they could place her great-aunts body so as to continue the process of forgetting her. Caroline found it cruel.
The same odor of absence permeated the Taker's parlour As if everything within was tainted with talcum and faint mildew. It clung to her clothes and hair so that Caroline felt death stifled every inhalation and would not let her ignore this small tragedy. She longed to wash it off of her person.
Mother was crying into her lace handkerchief; she had been particularly attached to Great-Auntie Mildred. Father put his arm around her shoulders. Roger tugged at his coat sleeves. Caroline took him onto her lap and rested her chin on his head. "Not much longer now," she whispered. "Please behave, Roger."
Mister Richards made an obsequious gesture of comfort to Mrs. Avery. She stifled her tears, spoke gently to her husband, then collected the children, leaving everything in Mr. Avery's capable hands. They took an omnibus to Felicity-on-Claret and then walked the cobble streets which narrowed and grew quieter as they neared their destination. Copperplate House stood at the end of a cul-de-sac snug between its neighbors. The stone wall surrounding it had weathered with the years and no longer posed as a true barrier between one garden and the next. The wrought iron gate, however, appeared to be a recent addition, turning smoothly on its hinges as the family walked through. The latch clicked softly behind them. The house itself was tall and narrow, a three story brick construction with copper colored shutters on the windows. The front door featured a leaded glass design. The front garden bespoke elegance with minimal care. Flowers lined the walk; a singular pear tree had grown up next to wall. It was unremarkably middle class.
Upon arriving, Roger went to the nursery, Caroline to her bath, and Mrs. Avery to the basement to see about the tea. Cook was, as ever, in the kitchen stolidly awaiting instructions. Mrs. Avery mentally devised an adequate menu. And checking Cook's boiler to ensure that she'd enough fuel for the meal, Mrs. Avery pressed the buttons for watercress sandwiches, tea cakes, and Ishtan Jubilants, which Roger adored, but she put the kettle on herself because, despite Cook's abilities, Mrs. Avery did not trust her to make a drinkable pot of tea. Oh her husband could declaim the merits of metallic servants, but she was never completely comfortable around all the buttons and spindly arms which jerked and twitched under unseen pressures. She missed Clara, the human who had been both cook and housekeeper for her family from the time Mrs. Avery was a small girl.
Mr. Avery was enamored with works, useful considering his line of business; she still found it disconcerting. She supposed it was a matter of that to which one had become accustomed. Her husband understood the quiet sophistication of a works for every task, but she preferred flesh domestics. Aside from the mark of status they conferred, one could row with the live ones most satisfactorily when one felt the need. The machines either worked or didn't with no regard for one's feelings. However, much as Mr. Avery would have liked to cater to his wife's preferences, they simply couldn't afford to house, feed, clothe, and pay the help.
Mrs. Avery had made what her peers acknowledged to be a bad marriage, or certainly a poor one. She had been an In-Law by birth. Her mother sat on the boards of various charitable committees until health began to fail; her father still sits on the Upper collegiate of the Institute. Her elder brothers were first an extravagant wastrel, second a professor of letters, and the third was studying to take robes. Mr. Avery'd had money, but not enough to make him readily desirable. Her circle assumed that she'd married for love and she said nothing to dissuade them, for she did love her husband. But she considered her marriage to him an investment.
The kettle whistled, interrupting her idle musings. Mrs. Avery made tea. She sent it upstairs in the dumbwaiter and took it into the parlor. A few minutes later, a bell rang to signify that the remainder of tea was waiting for her already in the dumbwaiter. Cook was efficient, she had to admit. After everything was arranged to her liking, Mrs. Avery went upstairs to fetch the children. Caroline was still in the bath.
When they were all assembled in the parlor, all clothed in their somber black, Mrs. Avery poured them cups and passed around plates for her children to serve themselves. Roger took mostly Jubilants. Mrs. Avery placed a single sandwich on his plate but hadn't the heart to scold him. It was a quiet tea. She didn't expect their father back for hours yet. The calls of condolence would not begin for another week. Roger ate as though he could not escape fast enough. Caroline barely touched her food.
"Mother, do you think that-"
"May I please be excused, Mother?" Roger interrupted.
"Now, Roger," said Mrs. Avery.
"Please, Mother," Roger said, anxiety spilling form his eyes.
"If you must," she said and let him go. Roger almost ran into the back garden. Chance's, the puppy's, bark greeted him in a joyful concussion of noise.
"Mother," Caroline began again, "do you think that Great-Aunt Mildred approved of me?"
"Oh, darling, of course she did. Why would you ask such a thing?"
"She was just so, well, peculiar. I couldn't tell. Sometimes it seemed so. But then she would-"
"She was very ill, Caroline. Now I want you to say no more about it."
Caroline touched her neck where the silver chain rubbed raw against her bare skin and decided not to tell her mother about the promise she'd made her great-aunt. Mrs. Avery and her daughter finished their meal in silence. From out in the garden, Roger and Chase could be heard playing games that little boys and pups imagine in the autumn dusk.
3.
Corva had conveniently forgotten to mention the Taker's mark in the ink of Kitty's contact. The girl was flighty enough - asking rubbishy questions, insisting on her own choice of work. The other Tiere were much more pliant, more easily manageable. Kitty had been trouble since birth. Corva didn't know why she hadn't left her on a church doorstep or abandoned her to the streets as an infant. Only Kitty'd had such a sweet smile. Smart too, even as a kid. Good with her hands. She made a spitting good buzzard too. Brought in a fair bit of capital most days. Kept out of sight of trouble. Oh yes, Kitty was worth something. If only she weren't so damned willful.
Corva hadn't mentioned his hair color either; called it dark, not red. She was taking a risk with this job. If all went well, an increase in employment by this party was almost a guarantee. If Kitty mucked it up, they'd all be dead. The last think Corva needed was a panic. Best if she kept the details to herself. She paced the half a block across the street from the alley where she'd told Kitty to bring him.
"Excuse me."
Corva turned, surveyed her interloper with a professional glance. A boy and his mate. Both barely out of puberty. Round-cheeked, thin-lipped: eager and unsure. Still polite. Too young to have grown into their cruelty. He wouldn't last a quarter of an hour. She had time if only she could convince him that he didn't need a bed.
She smiled; Corva had a fair smile, she knew. She still had most of her teeth and all of the ones in the front. "Yes?"
"How much?" he asked in a nervous hush, afraid perhaps that he'd judged her wrong.
"That depends on what you want," she said, her voice modulating to simultaneously tease and reassure.
"For this then," he said, growing bolder. He pulled several notes from his pocket. It wasn't much, but still more than Corva had expected.
"For that, I'll let your little friend watch." She said, "Come with me." Corva led the two boys into the alley beyond, in which she planned to later find Kitty and the Taker. After pocketing the notes, she knelt in front of her current employer. She pulled him out of his trousers, her warm breath stiffening his growing erection.
She'd been right. He spent himself not long after she'd taken him in her mouth. His eyes shone brightly with excitement and pride. His friend watched with mixed fascination as he re-buttoned his slacks and she spit his seed out onto a rag. She turned to the watcher, "What about you, young man?"
He looked a bit sick. "N-no. No thank you," he said backing away. "I-I haven't any money."
"Well then, be off with you," she said, patting her customer's shoulder and giving him a slight shove toward the street.
I have got to get out of this line of work, Corva thought. Sucking off schoolboys at a fierth a head was hardly a profitable afternoon. If only Kitty would show up with the Deadman. The meeting wasn't strictly part of the agreement, but Corva always liked to know where the money came from, especially when coin was promised. Even with half of the agreed upon amount, Corva could keep the Tiere in lodgings for at least a year, by her reckoning. She could get off the streets, set up a house with velvet curtains and a piano in the sitting room. She would be a Dame, not just a trixter with her tits beginning to drop.
Kitty was late, the little slag. If she fouled this up, she was dead. You didn't cross the Takers, not if you wanted to wake up breathing. Corva strode the length of the alley, automatically skirting, where possible, the rubbish fouling the ground. She didn't notice them at first. They were only shadows and filth huddling the brickwork. But then a pile of rags whimpered, and she stared until she could differentiate the grey of unwashed skin from the grey of unwashed cloth.
"My, my. What have we here?" Corva spoke as if gentling a feral creature. Two large brown eyes met hers, "It's Jimmy and Dodger and the rest, Miss. They're dead. 'E killed 'em."
"Who did?" she asked, not doubting the validity of his statement. The other limp bundles of human clearly lacked the faintest remnants of life. In the case of one, there was little enough of him to approximate any details. She held out her hand to the the little boy. He took it, cradling his other arm to his stomach. His shoulder looked wrong.
"It was the Deadman. See, Ed said that 'e was just a right topper what got all lost in the back ways. 'Fool enough for 'im,' Dodger said. An' we thought maybe 'e'd 'ave a bit of paper on 'im, Miss - or a coin or two. "E looked the sort. So we jumped 'im, Miss -" here he paused in his narrative to see if an apologetic look would stir her to pity. Rightly assessing that it wouldn't, he continued, "Only, well, he weren't surprised. Knocked Dodger clean cold before 'e could blink. Bashed 'is 'ead in wif a bit o' brick. There was brains everywhere, Miss. All grey jelly like. It was when 'e picked up Li'l Jim that 'e saw 'is ink clear. Shouted to us that 'e was a Deadman and to scatter, but we couldn't, Miss. 'E was too fast an' -"
Corva stopped him short, "This Deadman, what did he look like? Was there a girl with him?"
The little boy shrugged, wincing as he did so. "'E looked like a nice suit, Miss. An' I ain't seen no girl. Why, Miss?"
"Here now, did you happen to notice the color of his pocket-rag?" asked Corva.
"You mean this, Miss?" He let go of her hand to pull a blue cambric square from the inside of his shirt. "I snatched it orf 'im. Then 'e frew me inna wall. An' I 'eard this pop. An' now my shoulder's gone all funny."
Corva gently took the fabric from him, already dirtied by his grubby hands. She brushed at a smudgy fingerprint. It was soiled through, but would come clean with a good wash. She neatly folded the fine fabric into a smaller square and, after pressing it briefly to her breast, slipped it into her bodice.
"'Ey, Miss, that's mine," the boy protested.
"Hush, Ducky."
"You know that's funny, Miss. You calling me Ducky an' all. Because ducks 'ave bills, don't they? An' my name's Bill."
She tousled Bill's hair and took his good hand in hers. "Let's get that shoulder of yours seen to, Ducks."
Together, they left the alley, Corva leading him through a network of back ways to a Tunnel prof, who knew her. Bill, or Ducks - for she only used the one to refer to him, had unknowingly just joined the Tiere; Corva didn't think he'd mind.
2.
The teeth were bent. Again. Xan sighed and plucked the offending gear out with tweezers. He had to wrestle it off of its axle. The works were a mess. Insufferable, pompous Rothers. Thought they could make clockworks more flash if they built the parts out of rare metals. What the sods didn't seem to grasps was that gold, silver, copper, the current choice favorites, were all soft metals, liable to bend under the slightest pressure, especially when the moving parts were as thin and small as clockwork necessitated. Zinc, nickel, and alloys like brass were just as attractive in Xan's opinion and more elegant as they were appropriate to the task at hand, creating sturdy works which required little to maintenance.
"Oi, Gearhead."
Xan carefully laid the offending cog on his felt work top before looking up. His roommate's face, grossly magnified, obscured his field of vision. He had forgotten to remove his multi-lense-magnifying spectacles. Something green was stuck between Geoffrey's teeth, Xan couldn't help but notice. He winced. Geoff didn't eat vegetables.
Xan quickly slid the specially crafted glass circles into their storage position on the frame and swung the locking mechanism into place. He pushed the specs up onto his forehead.
"What Geoff?"
"Come down to the pub with me."
"I'm working, in case you hadn't noticed."
"Well, stop working and come down for a drink."
"You go on, Geoff. I'll meet you once I've put this back together." Xan gestured to the pocketwatch, which lay in pieces spread out atop the felt. Geoff snorted his skepticism, but left Xan to his goggles and gears.
Xan took the little gold cog and put it into one of the many pigeon-hole drawers in his desk, from which several objects - all similarly colored and similarly deformed - glinted. Then he reached into another drawer and withdrew a seemingly identical cog, without the damage to the teeth. It, however, had been molded from an alloy comprised mainly of zinc and aluminum and was only coated in gold. Still it would fool the owner and be less likely to malfunction. Xan slid the gear down the bare axle shaft and pressed it neatly into position. After winding the watch to ensure that all cogs, springs, and sprockets were ticking away properly, he refitted the backing and gave it a bit of a polish. He put the watch in a waiting velvet lined case, in which his business card was already slotted into place.
Sure that Geoff had already consumed half a cask of bitters, Xan grabbed his coat and headed out, stopping only to remove his glasses upon noticing them in the mirror that hung by the door. He walked downstairs and, after turning left in the hallway, into the Dog & Pony. Geoff was still at the bar, but he had already attracted the attentions of several girls.
I bet he pays them, Xan thought. He caught Geoff's eye, gave him a perfunctory nod, and slid onto an empty barstool a few feet away.
The Dog & Pony, aside from being conveniently located beneath the flat, boasted several attractions. Geoff could, and often did, recite the litany of 'The Wonders of the Dog & Pony,' which consisted mostly of young women of questionable moral integrity and good beer. Also, it was in a comfortable sort of state. A mixture of overstuffed armchairs and sturdy wooden barstools cluttered the narrow front of the establishment. The wider rear, past the bar, held clusters of tables set about with chairs generally oriented toward the small stage - barely more than a four by six wooden platform raised a few inches above the floor. Tucked away in a corner was the contraption that kept the back filled most evenings.
The structure was as tall as a man and encased completely in glass so that all of the workings were visible. A complex system of weights, springs, levers, and sprockets sat in silent anticipation until approached by a person with a viertel note in hand. Several pull stops stuck out through a uniform matrix of bore-hole in the front glass pane, each labeled with a symbol. A corresponding list was hung on the wall next to the machine.
When one of the knobs was pulled a small octagonal tray slid out at approximately waist height. The viertel was then placed inside and the tray fed back into the glass wall. After a short delay, the works whirred to life, initiating a complicated series of actions which eventually rolled a record onto the victrola, which sat in pride of place at the heart of the machine. A crank unfolded from a side of the box. Once wound and returned to its original position flush with the glass, the music began to play. Amplified by several internal horns, the sound filled the Dog & Pony with surprisingly little distortion. And if that were not wonderment enough, the crank also activated a magic lantern show. Several variations had been contrived, and while there were not as many as records in the Viertel, as the boys in the pub had taken to calling it. Still it certainly provided enough variety to entertain.
Xan had built the device in an effort to compensate for his and Geoff's - mostly Geoff's - outstanding debts. The cost of construction had been considerable, they had owed far more. Xan had scavenged parts from his considerable collection as well as works in such disrepair that they were thought beyond salvageable by their owners. For the glass - a major expense apart from being the only actually purchased component, he had bartered his services to a window maker for six months.
In that half a year, he had repaired more works than he'd thought a glazer could possibly maintain. He'd even spent some of that time constructing pendulum-driven wall clocks made entirely of glass. Not very practical, but practicality seem to be inversely equated to cost these days. And they were certainly attractive, before the constant motion of the gears ground the teeth to powder.
Still.
Not only had what he and Geoff owed been forgiven, but the two of them now had an open line of credit at the kitchen and the taps, which was supplemented by a share of the proceeds from the device. Free food and drink was another allurement that saw them at the Dog & Pony almost every night.
From over his shoulder the familiar pop of the Viertel signaled another profitable exchange. "My Darling Billie" this time, it was. Always a favorite. One of the better lantern shows he'd designed too.
What people don't realize, Xan thought, is that the most impressive mechanics at work weren't the record fetching systems or the shadow play devices, but the workings which received, recognized, and stored payment. Now that was a good piece of machinery.
It had yet to be fooled by any form of counterfeiting, and Xan was quite proud of it.
People started applauding the end of the Viertel's routine. Xan smiled to himself and caught the barman's eye. Time to make good use of that arrangement.
"A pint please, Charlie."
"And I'll have one of the same," said a voice from behind him. Xan turned on his stool. A gentleman, too fine to patronize the likes of the Dog & Pony stood at his right shoulder. The stranger wouldn't have looked out of place at a private club, but here he was the subject of great curiosity. Sixty eyes banked unabashed stares off of every reflective surface.
That topper had better watch his wallet, Xan thought, as the man took the seat next to Xan's with a false calm that belied his interest. Xan took a pull from his beer and waited. The gentleman fiddled with the brim of his hat, which he'd placed on the bar top in front of him.
"Ah, thank you," he said as Charlie set down his glass. Xan still said nothing. The man had a sip of his pint, then cleared his throat, "Um. Am I correct in thinking that you are Alexander Murdock?"
Xan was momentarily startled. No one had used his registered name since University days.
"I am, sir."
"And you claim to have designed that enterprising device?" the man gestured to the Viertel box. Xan grimaced. He said through gritted teeth, "I did design it, sir. And built it."
"Ah. Yes. No offense meant."
There was momentary silence as each man drank his beer. Xan hoped that the conversation would prove itself finished, but the topper opened his mouth again.
"My name is Mr. Swift," he said it as though he hoped Xan would recognize it as a name of some importance. Xan made a noncommittal noise.
"I have a job that might interest you."
"Oh?"
"Yes. Look, would it be alright if we discussed this somewhere a little more private?"
"What sort of job?" Xan asked.
"A really big one."
"How much?"
"Sir, I'd really prefer-"
"How much?"
"I am not at liberty to say, but I can assure that it would be a substantial amount."
"Of?"
"Coin, sir. A substantial amount of coin."
"I'm afraid I'm not interested."
"Oh, come now, sir. Surely-"
"Swift was it? Unless your pocket-watch is in disrepair, I think you have the wrong man."
"At least take my card. In case you change your mind." Swift reached for his wallet in the inside breast pocket of his coat, but it wasn't there. He patted his other pockets in a vain attempt to assure himself of its presence on his person. A foolish self-deception as he wasn't so imbecilic as to have forgotten which had held his purse. Swift cast a quick glance around the bar, running his fingers distractedly through his hair. Xan who had been watching his misfortune with undisguised amusement, started as he caught a momentary glimpse of Swift's registry ink. No, he thought, that man couldn't be -
"That wretched girl," Swift murmured.
"What?" asked Xan.
"I seem to have temporarily misplaced my wallet. I don't suppose you'd be so kind as to..." Swift ended his sentence with an embarrassed half-shrug. Xan sighed and caught Charlie's eye. "Put it on my tab."
"My thanks," said Swift, taking his hat in his hands and making his way toward the door. Under the soft glow of the recently turned up gaslight, his dark hair shone red. At the threshold he turned, donned his hat, and winked at Xan. Then he was gone.
Xan drained his pint in a single swallow. He nodded at Charlie. "Same again."
When the drink arrived, Xan leaned over the bar and hissed, "Spawnspit, Charlie. You've had a Taker in your bar."
Unperturbed, Charlie said, "What do you suppose he wanted with you?"
1.
A billow and hiss of steam obscured her silhouette. With an escaped screech the wheels locked, the engine decelerated in lawful accordance with Nutreonic physics. The 4:54 had arrived.
Kitty concealed herself in one of the many niches necessitated by the vaulted buttresses and soaring arches of Kilford Station's gothic architecture. This particular alcove provided her a direct view of the entire platform and, as it was near the only exit, the opportunity to appraise every 'Habitant on the train. Other equidistantly spaced recesses had similar vantages, but she had decided long ago that this was the best of all the hidey-holes and had claimed it as her own. It had cost her quite a few bruises - not even being a Tiere from birth granted her undisputed Station real estate. She'd earned the right to ghost, not only here, but at every platform in Kilford as well as several haunts along the Claret and in the outer Dormitories. But she liked the Station best.
Of course today's ghosting hadn't been of her own choosing, the black under her eye reminded her of that. She fingered the tender swelling gently. Corva had been in a right temper this morning. When Kitty asked why she wasn't buzzing the mark, but meeting up with him, Corva had gone righteous and landed a sweet blow. Making contact on a circling was absolutely against protocol, so Kitty knew that this job was out of the ordinary. She still didn't know why she was playing welcoming committee for some topper; the pain had been answer enough.
The 'Habitants strolled easily through the maze of doorways and vendors followed by their works, each contemplating his own unfettered journey to the polis. That was another reason Kitty preferred Station jobs - the works. Most often they were porters with flat back and varied numbers of legs. The best quality were self-winders, but she could still spot a few coke run works trundling along, belching black smoke at their masters' ankles. Steam works were strictly disallowed in highly populated public areas, with the obvious exception of trains and other large public service machines, due to the possibility of scalding - or worse a boiler explosion.
A body could tell a lot about a 'Habitant by their works, or Kitty certainly could. Take that topper in the fancy cloth, for one. An inexperienced buzzard might think him an In-Law due to the shine, especially if they didn't notice that his porter was an old coke-works. Real In-Laws employed flesh-works - a throwback mark of status, being able to afford people rather than the more efficient, less costly, mechanical servants. This man was only a walker, and so worth a circling - less risk than an In-Law and more likely to be pocketing a fair amount.
He was a tempting mark, but Kitty couldn't afford to be distracted from her main objective. Not if she wanted to eat this week. Corva had already informed her of the penance she would serve for failure. She'd flung it in Kitty's face as casually as her fist moments before. She'd been treated worse when Corva was a furor, but not much.
Kitty passed the time by singling out other potentials. Rother. Rother. Professor. Topper. 'Habitant, but still a possible. Walker. The crowd on the platform was thinning and Kitty began to worry that she'd missed him, or that, worse, he'd missed the train and wasted her afternoon.
Corva had said that he'd be tall, clean-shaven, dressed in grey with a blue pocket handkerchief. Typical 'Habitant dress but off season colors to minimize any sort of mishap. She also described his ink, but Kitty would have to get close to see that provided she could see it at all. It could be hidden by the man's hair or under a scarf or high collar. Kitty wanted to be certain it was him before she ever got near enough to spot the mark.
But the few grey suits didn't sport blue handkerchiefs. In fact, there was only one topper left who was showing blue. An In-Law if Kitty'd ever seen one. His clothing was well-cut and well-worn. The fabric must have been very fine, for despite its obvious usage it did not look shabby, merely comfortable. Also no works attended him. He carried no bags, despite arriving on the train from Seawall, which was so removed from the teeming polis that Kitty, who knew the streets of Azerna better than most and had, in her estimation, walked the entire city in a day, could not fathom a place where roads were still packed dirt instead of cobblestone and salt in the air corroded works in a manner of weeks if they weren't given almost constant proper attention. In her mind, it was as foreign as the purported lands across the water.
The man's dark hair, worn slightly long as was the current style, curled from under the brim of his soft black hat. He had most discernibly not shaved that morning. The pocket kerchief matched the exact blue of his eyes, which explained his unfashionable choice. He was tall, but her couldn't be the topper Kitty was waiting for - he didn't sound at all as Corva described - but he could serve as the source of her next meal. No reason the afternoon should be a complete waste.
Not every buzzard would dare attempt to cozen an In-Law, a usually high risk, low yield endeavor, but Kitty needed the lift. If she hid the money at one of her private haunts before joining up with the rest of the Tiere, Corva would never know. Then she could bribe a few of the fare for a clandestine meal or two, as well as their guaranteed silence. The price would be steep, but a full belly and peace from Corva would be well worth the risk. And Kitty knew she was good for it.
She slid out from the cover of her shadows and strolled aimlessly in the direction of her mark, never close enough to make anyone take notice of her. The remaining travelers skirted the dirty girl clothed in tatters as if she were not there, or rather as if she were another of the vermin who lived in the Station's secret places. Kitty kept her eyes to the ground and walked softly onward in her bare feet. She'd have to ask Corva for shoes before the cold came, but she daren't after this fiasco. Shoes would have to wait until she could redeem herself.
He was yards away now, oblivious to her presence and ambling toward the exit at an easy pace. Time to start her circle. Kitty drifted into his path, intent on the refuse bin, which happened to be between her and the topper. He was closing surprisingly quickly, only feet away and passing her supposed target. Then they were level. At the crucial moment, Kitty stumbled.
Now it would go one of two ways, she thought. It always did. Either he would prove himself a proper sort and help her to her feet, or he would force her to relegate him to the abject status of an unwilling ladder. He opted for the third course of action: a surprisingly agile side step and a sharp kick to the ribs. Kitty inhaled at the unexpected contact. "Sodding hurensohn," she muttered. He brushed past her, but started at her daring vulgarity. The momentary proximity was more than adequate. He didn't even feel her hands at his inside coat pocket. Then his leather wallet was secreted in one of the many concealed hollows in her skirt. In a fluid continuation of the movement, Kitty rubbed her ribs. That would bruise, no lasting damage seemed to have been inflicted.
"Spawndspit," she swore.
The few remaining travelers accelerated toward the doorway studiously avoiding her general direction . The gentleman had been of course in the right. The girl was only a scabie - a vile, filthy wretch who polluted the very streets of their beloved Azerna. Even their works clunked past her with dumb disapproval. Kitty let the platform clear. Blending invisibly with the throng of bodies coming and going outside the exit, she let the masses move her closer to her favorite haunt. She had been a child when she first watched the workman climb one of the ladders to nowhere and disappear.
Slipping behind a particular column, Kitty was faced with iron rungs protruding from the marble climbing steadily toward the high cavernous ceiling. Without hesitation she nimbly scaled the rusting rundles. Once at the top, the cornice provided several hand and foot crevices. Taking hold of a particularly ornate flower, she tumbled herself over the molding in a most ungainly manner. The plaster had started to wear from frequent usage. Kitty brushed at the chalky powder clinging to her dress. Then she settled into the nook where wall curved to ceiling. Time to examine her takings. She thumbed leisurely through the contents, pocketing the notes without pausing to examine their worth. Coin would've been better, but one couldn't have everything. He had looked an In-Law after all.
Her fingertips snagged on uneven corner of the leather. Perturbed, she examined the wallet more closely; the hide was soft, unscarred, and well-tanned. Again she found the offending raised corner and pulled. The back of the wallet hinged open in her hand. Letter-sized papers fell into her lap. She unfolded the top one and examined it, but could not make any sense of the funny little lines neatly covering the entirety of the page. She quickly scanned the rest of the document, hoping for some pictorials that would explain the necessity for all of those words. Nothing. She leafed through the the other pieces of parchment. A calling card, lined with a black edge and bearing a single symbol, slipped away from the rest.
"Oh, fuck."
Even a child of three would have recognized the skull embossed with anatomical precision on the card stock. She had buzzed a Deadman.