Chapter Two
Several levels below the Trammelbuggy Depot, on the sixth and lowest level of Arcvale’s carefully layered architecture, a man was stripped to the waist and working fiercely to keep a fire hotter than hot.
His hammer rang louder than a peal of St Verillus’s bells, although the saint himself probably would have applauded at the work taking place at the furnace, since sparks and brilliant flashes were commonplace occurrences.
“Hoi,” a voice yelled. “Hoi, Silas...”
His attention caught, the man looked across the furnace to see his best friend draw his hand in front of his throat, the universal sign for ‘stop what you’re doing’. He stopped, and as soon as the ringing in his ears settled a bit, he put down the hammer and walked around the furnace.
“Problems, Hiram?”
“Not really.”
Silas read his friend’s expression. “All right, man. Let’s have it.”
“Look, you’ve already done more than your day’s schedule. Why not shut down now, and we’ll catch ourselves a bit to eat at the Crank and Cask?”
“Hmm.” Silas unfastened the leather apron and hung it on a nail, then started the process of shutting down the furnace. “All right. Give me ten minutes here to finish up.”
“Good lad.” Hiram patted his shoulder. Which, given the size of Hiram’s hands, damn near precipitated Silas into the furnace next to his elbow.
However, such a gesture was commonplace, and Silas had already braced himself for it. He began to turn off several switches, rotate a couple of gear handles, and finally push a button that lowered the lid on the forge.
With a clatter and a slight hiss of steam, the machinery sighed to a halt, and the man in front of the controls nodded in satisfaction.
His hair drifted around his shoulders as he untied the leather strip that kept it out of harm’s way, and he dusted off the worst of the day’s accumulated grime as he walked to the side of the cavern.
The sink at the small utility station was pretty much the only place to wash up.
His shirt had seen better days, but it was comfortable and practical.
He fastened it with care, since there were few shops that carried buttons this far down.
His somewhat grubby appearance wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow at the C several years ago he’d been the stranger, the one the others kept their eyes on.
For some reason, Hiram—the Master of Mechanicals—had taken a liking to him.
Otherwise, Silas often wondered if he would have survived, let alone risen to as high a high position within the Company.
They walked, by habit, to the end of the long wooden bar, sitting on the two chairs that they’d been using for as long as they’d known each other.
The shape of his chair was familiar beneath Silas’ arse, and the feel of the bar beneath his arms a relaxing comfort.
A nod from Tag, the bartender, acknowledged their presence.
Silas held up two fingers, and shortly thereafter a couple of steel tankards appeared in front of them.
“By God, that’s good,” said Hiram, wiping some of the foam from his upper lip. “Been waiting hours for that.”
“Certainly does put a shine on the end of the day, I’ll agree.
” Silas took a drink of the local’s favourite ale, savouring the nutty, full-bodied richness that left a slightly metallic zing on his tongue.
“Hungry?” The tankard went back onto the bar as he studied the grubby list of house specials.
“My treat,” he added. “You got it last time.”
“All right,” sighed Hiram. “But only if you insist.”
Silas’ lips twitched. “Oh, I do. I do indeed.” He was tired, but definitely ready for a meal.
Eating at the C&C wasn’t an exercise in tantalising the taste buds, though, so he kept to his preferred choice—the Banger and Belts.
Sausages were a weakness, he admitted, but held firmly to the belief that the mashed celeriac, onion jam, and brassica slaw, added the nutritional value of vegetables, which offset the juicy, gear-griddle seared rolls of joy and goodness.
Hiram went for his usual, the Boilerplate pie.
A suitable meal for a man Hiram’s size, it took two cooks to relay the huge crusted meat pie, which smelled of beef, turnips, leeks and some spice Silas couldn’t place, to the top of the bar.
There was a ladle of thick and steaming gravy to go with it, along with a wedge of cog-shaped cheddar to fill any empty spaces the pie had left in its wake.
The aromas had Silas’ mouth watering, and the two men tucked into their food, murmuring or grunting now and again in appreciation of the meal.
Finally, Hiram leaned back. “Damn fine pie, Joe,” he said to the bartender.
“Compliments to everyone in the kitchen,” added Silas, as the bartender began to clear the dishes. “That was one hell of a fine meal.”
“Anything else, gentlemen?” he asked. “We got some fresh crank crumble, or you might go for a plate of clockface cookies?”
“Can’t do it,” sighed Hiram. “That pie was just too good.”
“Yeah, he’s got it right.” Silas nodded. “But I’ll wager we could manage another of these to round off the evening.” He gestured to the empty stout glasses.
“Be right back.”
Both men watched in reverent silence as two fresh ales were poured and delivered with flair.
“Right then,” Hiram sighed. “Time to get to it.”
“Sounds serious,” said Silas, taking a sip of ale. “Easiest thing? Just say it right out.”
His friend nodded and took a breath, then glanced around, making sure they were as private as possible. “You know we’re getting near Christmas,” he began.
“I’ve heard rumours.”
Hiram’s face clouded as he leaned forward. “There’s a problem.”
Silas blinked. “A problem?”
“Yeah,” Hiram took a breath. “I just got the message a few hours ago. The steamship that was bringing all our Christmas supplies? It bloody sank.”
“What?” Silas, shocked to his core, stared at his friend. “By St. Virellus. Sank? How?”
Hiram stared back. “It went to the bottom of the ocean, Silas. The way boats usually sink.”
Silas rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. The crew...they make it?”
Nodding, Hiram took a quick swig of his ale. “Yep. Saved ‘em all, thank God. But...the cargo? Everything we’d ordered to replace the old stuff? Down to the floor of the ocean.”
“Devil’s forge, my friend. That’s going to cogger up just about everything. “
“Indeed it will.” He stared at his mug, frowning. “It looks as if we can manage some of the orders by using the supplies we still have.”
“Which ones?”
Hiram reached into his pocket and pulled out a notebook, thumbing through the pages with a frown. “Here. I have a list. We can do the holly garlands for every level if we’re careful, but they may be a bit thinner this year.”
“I remember. The Upperfolks wanted thicker wreaths and garlands last year, didn’t they?” Silas curled his lips in disgust.
“Well, they ain’t going to get ‘em this year.” Hiram went on.
“We can do red berries for the holly, and some of the wreaths, if there’s enough left over from the existing garland supplies.
We’re going to have to rely on another glass company for the lights and the glittery stuff if there’s time though, and pray there’s enough hooks left from last year to hang it all up. ”
“How about the flags? Weren’t they ordering new silks for this year? I thought Billy Geary had readied the printer for the new designs.”
“He has. They’re trying to get some new silks locally. Dunno how well that’s going.”
Silence fell as both men considered the dimensions of the disaster.
“So from what you’re telling me,” said Silas slowly, “it looks like almost everything we usually do for Christmas is going to be cogged up.”
“That’s about the size of it.” He sighed.
“We’ll have to rework the old machines, get them geared up if we can, and start churning out whatever we have supplies for.
And it’ll be a twelve-hour shift thing too, you can count on it.
Otherwise, you’re gonna hear the screams from the upper levels all the way down here. ”
“We can do it,” murmured Silas, then revised himself. “I think we can do it.”
“One other thing,” said Hiram. “One brand new machine was ordered, since the old one fell apart last year. That one isn’t going to get here, and a new one? Six months or more.”
“Ugh. What was it? Can we repair the old one?”
“I dunno, my friend. You tell me,” He took a breath. “It was the Mistletoe machine.”
“Coggleblast,” swore Silas. “That’s a disaster indeed.”
*~~*~~*
Three levels above where Silas was venting his emotions, a Trammelbuggy was arriving at an almost deserted depot.
“Come on, Thim. This is our stop.”
Dorothea gathered her bag and waited for Thim to rev up its gears. Its eyes were wide as she took its claw and led it from the compartment out onto the platform.
No one else had disembarked, so they had the space to themselves.
Thim huddled close.
“I know,” she said. “It is awfully dark and quiet, isn’t it? But don’t worry.” She found a bench and settled herself. “We only have two more levels, Thim, and then we’ll be there. The Undercroft. Isn’t it exciting?”
Squee.
Dorothea grinned at the obvious lack of enthusiasm.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m not. I’m going to find out what it’s like to live a normal life.
Or even a hard life, come to think of it.
” She thought for a moment or two. “I’ve been sheltered, spoiled, spoon-fed the prescribed information considered suitable for a young lady, which is basically nothing at all, except how to catch and care for a husband.
” She glanced at Thim. “You’d think they were wild animals that had to be trapped. ”
Squeeeee.
“Good point. I suppose in many ways they are.”
A rattle and rumble made her sit up, and a faint light showed at the end of the tunnel.
“Here we are, Thim. The last stage of our journey. This will take us all the way there.”
Thim did not look as if it was eagerly awaiting the Trammelbuggy, but did stay close to her side as she stood and picked up her bag.
“Oh, look. There are some more people on this one. Good. Maybe we can talk to someone while we ride.”
Squip.
“Don’t be shy. I’ll be with you all the time. I promise.”
The Trammelbuggy slowed with a rattling sort of squeak, and Dorothea kept hold of Thim’s claw while they waited for the passengers to disembark.
Once the flow was down to a trickle, they stepped inside and took a couple of empty seats. It wasn’t difficult to see that this Trammelbuggy was heading down. The passengers were silent, the seats not terribly comfortable.
Dorothea squared her shoulders. This was what she had wanted—a chance to experience life as a real and free person, not a toy doll obeying every order.
But she did admit to herself that she was glad to be wearing ordinary clothing.
She had a strong suspicion that anything too.
..too fancy, or betraying her top-level status, would not have been very welcome.
She cuddled Thim near her legs, and kept herself to herself. This was the last part of her journey. Two more levels and she would be in The Undercroft.
And there, perhaps, she’d be able to find some temporary lodgings. After that…well, her plans were a little vague, but she had enough confidence in her own mechanical skills to believe she could find work somewhere.
Thim nudged her knees, attracting her attention as the Trammelbuggy slowed once more. The tracks were getting bumpier now, and the ride wasn’t nearly as comfortable as before. But with only two levels to go, she wasn’t about to complain.
Once again, it screeched its way into the Depot, and this time, while few passengers exited, more got on. And one caught Dorothea’s eye.
A little girl, by the looks of her, scared, and possibly alone? She was peering into the car, looking one way and the other. Most of the seats were filling quickly, so Dorothea gave her a little wave and beckoned her over.
“Hello,” she said quietly. “Are you looking for your Mama?”
The girl shivered, and then nodded.
“Here, sit by me. I’m warm.” She glanced down. “This is Thim. My tickerkin, and my friend. Would you like to say hello to it?”
She nodded, still looking quite nervous as Thim moved a little and slowly held out its claw to her.
Cautiously, she touched it. “Hello.”
Squeeeeee.
The little girl’s face creased into a smile, and she looked at Dorothea. “It spoke to me.”
“It did,” she replied. “And since you know its name, perhaps you should tell it yours?”
After a few moments of thought, she nodded and leaned toward the tickerkin. “My name is Genevieve. But...” She hesitated.
“But what, little one?” asked Dorothea.
“But everyone calls me Gen.”
“Then we shall call you Gen, too. And you can call me...Thea.” Reassuringly, Dorothea touched the little girl’s arm, torn between the need to take care of her, and to conceal her own identity. “Now tell me about your Mama and Papa. That way, perhaps we can find them for you.”
“My Mama was supposed to be here,” she whimpered. “But I couldn’t find her, so I got on the train...I thought she might be here already.”
The Trammelbuggy coughed and burped and began to move.
“Mama,” whispered Gen. “She’s not here...I’m...what do I do? I’m afraid...”
“Don’t be, my dear. You’re with me. I’m having an adventure with Thim. So you could join our adventure, and we’ll go about finding your Mama and Papa at the same time.”
Gen bit her lip, tears ready to fall. “I don’t have a Papa. He died. But is it all right if I go with you, Miss Thea? Will you help me find Mama?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re my first new friend, apart from Thim here, and that makes you special.”
“Well, all right then. Maybe Mama will take the next Trammelbuggy and she’ll come and find me.” She relaxed a little.
Dorothea smiled. The little girl was still holding Thim’s claw.