CHAPTER 16
THEY STAYED IN THE WONDER-ENGINE’S VALLEY the next day. Slate was in no shape to move. Caliban had lost his voice almost completely, and was speaking in hoarse whispers. The horses were exhausted.
And Learned Edmund? He was in rapture over the wonder-engine anyway. He’d filled a notebook with meticulous sketches and measurements, which had mostly involved a patient Caliban, a snide Brenner, and a very long ball of string.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever described this one,” he told Slate excitedly, waving a book at her. “It’s a completely new wonder-engine!”
“Is that good?” Slate asked, wrapping her fingers around a cup of tea.
“It’s wonderful! There are only about thirty wonder-engines known to exist in the entire world! To find a new one—our names will live forever in history!”
He can actually utter that phrase with a straight face. I have definitely fallen in with the wrong sorts of company.
“Do they all look like people?” she asked.
“Doesn’t look much like my kind of people,” said the gnole, who was laying on his back by the fire.
Slate had been very warm last night, with the gnole sleeping in a ball at her feet like a hairy rug.
She’d offered him his own blanket, and he’d looked hurt.
Apparently gnoles slept in piles. Since both Slate’s feet and her love life were cold, this was fine by her.
“Sorry, Grimehug. Do they all look like human people?”
“No, actually. Some of them do look like humans. Some look like animals, apparently, and some resemble buildings, or are more abstract conglomerations of parts.” He made vague gestures with both hands, defining a shape Slate couldn’t even begin to recognize.
“Any gnoles?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Their loss.” Grimehug closed his eyes again.
“Who made them?”
“No one knows.”
“How old are they?”
“Good question.”
Slate pinched the bridge of her nose and tried once more.
“Do they know what any of them do?”
“A few. One on the coast turns salt water to fresh water. One in Moldoban incinerates everything they put into it—they worshipped it as a god with human sacrifices for many years. Now it’s a waste disposal system.”
Slate chuckled into her tea, though she was pretty sure he wasn’t joking.
“And there’s one that, if you put in gold, turns it into fresh pears. I’m not sure how they figured that out.”
“What a waste,” said Brenner, who was lying stretched flat on one of the wonder-engine’s arms, like a big dark cat. He propped his head on his crossed arms. “Any of them turn fresh pears into gold?”
“Not that I know of. Although this one might, for all we know. We could try it, if we had any fresh pears.” He consulted his notes.
“It seems inert to everything I’ve tried.
It doesn’t respond to being fed rocks, grass, handkerchiefs, tea leaves, horse hair, human hair, gnole fur, copper coins, iron filings, leather, blood, saliva, semen—”
Slate put her hand over her eyes. Well, we can’t question his… ah…passion for science…
“—water, wood, fire, charcoal, potatoes, parchment, ink, fingernail clippings, bread—”
“Okay,” Brenner broke in, “I get the point. You don’t know what to feed it.”
“Do they all work like that?” Slate asked. “You put something in, and something else comes out?”
“Most of them. The incinerator is the only one that they’re not sure about, and it’s arguable that you’re putting something in and getting fire out.
” He shook his head. “The authority on wonder-engines, ironically, is Brother Amadai. If we can find him in Anuket City, he will be excited to hear of this one.”
“Do you think we’ll find him?” asked Brenner.
“There is no value to despair,” said Learned Edmund primly. “We must hope.”
Brenner gave him a look.
The dedicate sighed. “He was known as an eccentric genius. He went to Anuket City after some ancient writings turned up in the markets there. His first few correspondences were full of notes, theories, addendums to papers, that sort of thing—and then they tapered off. For two years, there has been nothing.”
“Took you awhile to send somebody after him,” said Brenner.
Learned Edmund shrugged. “In truth, we thought he was probably busy and had forgotten to write.”
Brenner laughed.
Slate took another drink of tea. It was peppermint, laced with the last of their poppy milk. Her eye was caught by motion, and she gazed down the slope, to where Caliban was slicing at shadows again.
“Your big friend do that a lot?” asked the gnole.
“Do what?”
“Chop up air with that crazy big sword.”
“Temple knights of the Dreaming God are required to practice their swordwork for at least two hours a day when not on specific assignment,” said Learned Edmund idly, turning a page.
“No wonder they’re all so stiff,” said Brenner. He rolled over. “Anyway he’s not required to do that temple knight stuff anymore.”
“I wonder if he knows that,” said Learned Edmund.
“Mmm.” Brenner sat up and slid off the ivory wall, slouching off across the grass. Down the hillside, Caliban finished dismembering a shadow and had dropped to his knees in prayer.
“I hesitated to ask with our friend here,” said Learned Edmund carefully, “but you seem troubled, Mistress Slate.”
Slate glanced up, surprised.
“It is none of my business, of course.” He flicked an imaginary spot of dust off his sleeve. “But I have taken confessions for many of my brothers over the years, and if there is anything you wish to confide…well, I am good at keeping other people’s secrets.”
Slate had a strong urge to yell “Over the years? You’re nineteen!” but didn’t because that would have been unkind. Instead she said “I’m surprised you noticed anything, with the wonder-engine here.”
“Ah. But you have a very methodical mind, Mistress Slate, and when I asked you about taking measurements, you offered no advice, nor did you demand to double check my figures. And Brenner has said several cutting things to you in the last few hours, and you have not replied in kind.” He put his fingers together.
“From this, I deduce that something is preying on your mind. But if it is not something you wish to share, I understand.”
Slate gazed down into her tea. A misogynist practically half my age offering to take my confession. Oh, well, it’s no weirder than anything else…
“I have been, yes.” She set her teacup down. “I suppose…if you’re not afraid that hearing me talk will turn your bowels to water.”
Learned Edmund spread his hands ruefully. “So far it appears to be a very slow process.”
“Mmm.” She laced her hands behind her head and leaned back on the grass. The sky was blue, framed by the yawning ivory mouth of the wonder-engine. Grimehug wiggled around to lay his head across her feet.
“Well…thing is…hmm, where to start.” She frowned up at the clouds. “See, back when I was first sentenced—they got me for treason, by the way—I expected to die. My life was over. It was pretty much just a matter of filling in time before they hung me.
“Then I got this reprieve—except that it wasn’t really a reprieve, I just had to fill in even more time before I died, you know? I still felt like I was walking around dead.”
“That must be hard,” said Learned Edmund gently. He can’t do the voice as well as Caliban, Slate thought wryly, but it still isn’t bad.
“Actually, no.” She ran a hand through her hair, raking out bits of grass.
“It felt almost liberating. If you know you’re going to die, you don’t have to be afraid of anything.
The worst has already happened. What more can they do to you?
So I didn’t have to worry about going to Anuket City, I didn’t have to worry about wandering around with a psychopath and a guilt-wracked paladin and an insufferable priest—”
He made a polite scoffing noise. She flicked a blade of grass at him.
“And then, my horse ran away with me.” Her smile faded. “And I nearly died. And I realized I…really didn’t want to. I’m not done with my life yet.” She frowned up at the sky.
“Living is always hard,” said Learned Edmund.
“Yeah, but most of the living don’t have to go back to Anuket City.”
“Unfinished business there?” the scholar asked.
“Oh, yeah.” Slate pinched the bridge of her nose. “And frankly, Edmund, that scares me half to death.”
“You have done very well, though.” He reached out and patted her on the shoulder, and barely hesitated at all. “Your first act after rediscovering your fear was to charge after friends in danger. That’s not the act of a coward.”
“Oh, well, that.” She flushed. “Didn’t do much, really.”
“Not to hear Caliban tell it.” Learned Edmund considered. “Have you told him of your fears?”
“Caliban?” She sat up, rolling Grimehug off her feet. The gnole squawked. “No, thank you! He already thinks I’m weak, the arrogant sod, hell if I’m rolling over and showing him my throat.”
Learned Edmund’s eyebrows went up. “I…hmm.” He steepled his fingers.
“I doubt he really thinks you’re weak. But—well, I can see him saying something unfortunate, yes.
” The priest sighed. “He is proud. But he carries an enormous load of guilt for his crimes, and pride is part of what motivates him. And he is so afraid of failing again.”
“Hmmph.” Slate folded her arms. “Well. He did apologize. I’ll give him that.”
Learned Edmund eyed the stubborn set of her jaw and sighed again.
“I don’t know. I’m only a scholar, and sometimes not much of one.
I sit under the greatest discovery of my life—” he gestured to the wonder-engine, “—and all I can think is that it would be good to sleep in a real bed again. Perhaps we’re all weak. ”
Slate unbent enough to smile a little. “You’re not the only one, Learned Edmund. I’d give my hope of heaven for a real bed at this point.”
“Well,” he said, sniffing, “hopefully nothing that extreme will be required.”
Slate laughed. And then sat up, suddenly, her laughter cutting off. “Oh! Gods! I forgot—can you imagine? I forgot!”
“Forgot what?” asked Learned Edmund, startled.