Chapter 5
Chapter 5
When I return to the tower, Heartwood’s presence in the dark first chamber startles me, and I nearly drop my things. His presence fills the room, thickening and overheating the air. I shake myself, determined to find my reason, but I notice something off about him. The lack of a scowl, yes—he’s not actively glaring at me. But his face has taken on a gray pallor that camouflages it against the staircase he leans on. His back hunches as though he’s fatigued or sore of stomach; he obviously isn’t well. He barely seems to notice my arrival.
Chewing the inside of my lip, I pick up a lantern and cross over to him, leaving about four paces between us. Wild animals are always the most dangerous when they’re injured. “Are you sick?”
He looks up at me as though it strains him. Still no scowl, just cool indifference. “I’m well enough.”
He drags himself up the stairs to the second floor. The dragging would be easier with handrails, but however long these two strange men have occupied the tower, they must not have seen the need. Then again, what would they build them from? Wood is nearly as scarce as metal.
I wait until he’s at the top, half expecting him to topple back down and wondering if I’d have a chance of catching him. I’m strong, but Heartwood is easily twice my size. Fortunately, he makes it upstairs, and I wonder at his poorly hidden ailment before forcing it from my mind and returning to Machine One.
I pick up where I left off: wires. It’s remarkable how resilient these machines are. I can’t guess their age, but they’re old, and there’s not a speck of rust on them. Even the most delicate parts are usable, if not in pristine condition. I wonder if Arthen could figure out the composition of these alloys. I wonder if Emgarden will progress enough with its metalworks to mine those mountains and create masterpieces such as these.
I work through the wiring from the back end, coming around toward the front of the machine, removing a plate to see what lies beneath—
I loop the chain over the wheel in the back. It isn’t part of this gear system like I thought.
I blink, my hands still on the plate. Again. What was that? A reverie I have no control over? A mental lapse? It’s the third time. Glancing up, I spy the wheel in question, and the chain. Set the plate aside and lift the chain. Scoff. It’s too short to reach—
Wait.
Coming back to the side of the machine, I search through the fixed components until I find a silvery lever about fifteen centimeters long. I grunt as I pull it up, and the wheel, along with the box it’s attached to, shifts forward.
“Ruin me,” I whisper, returning to the front. Sure enough, the chain now reaches. I attach it. It’s a pulley system of some kind.
Staring at the machine, I take a step back, then another. Rub my eyes and look again. I want to talk to someone. To tell Moseus or Salki what just happened, but if I can’t even explain it to myself, how can I possibly explain it to them?
So I do the only thing I can. I work.
I screw the plate back in, covering the delicate pieces behind it. I venture to the back of the machine, cataloging what’s needed there. It seems mostly intact, but I take a few things apart anyway, trying my best to understand how it works. Scrawl notes, take measurements. Grease some axles and test some ceramic inserts, which are essentially for turning or rotating. I might need to replace one of them. I write it down. That’s a Moseus problem. Another hour passes, and I use the stool to crawl up on top of the machine. From here, I can see that annoying power switch. I can also clearly see how the rotary unit works, even if there’s no piping for fluid to access it. But I don’t know what else to call it, so rotary unit it is.
An idea strikes me. I have no clue how this thing is supposed to get power, or how that switch can be for anything but power, but maybe I can rig it to take power. If only to see how it functions. If it functions, I’ll understand it.
I stare at that unit a long time, ignoring a passing quake, turning ideas over in my head. Maybe if Arthen could weld a few things for me ... and I could attach that there, have a bar come up and over ... manpower would be the easiest source, but it couldn’t be a rotational treadmill or any sort of rotary unit moving around the machine; there’s not enough space between the machine and the wall. So something that can wind or pump ...
This feels important.
Wiping greasy hands on the sash securing my shirt, I go to Moseus’s room and knock softly. He doesn’t answer. I rap louder. Receiving no reply, I push open the door.
“Moseus?” This time I brought a lantern with me and hold it high.
An empty room greets me. I start to close the door, but pause, taken aback again by how dark the room is. Why is it so dark?
Letting out a long breath, I leave his chamber and set the lantern at the base of the stairs. Climb up, blinking as my eyes adjust to new light. Mist swirls outside the cramped windows. Everything looks silver, except for Machine Two, which greets me in bronze splendor. I study it for a moment before tearing my gaze away. One thing at a time.
I don’t see either tower keeper. Following the wall, I find a door identical to Moseus’s. I knock firmly. No answer. So I let myself in.
The small room boasts only one slitted window, open to the mist.
This is definitely Heartwood’s room. Its décor is sparse. The skin of a deer—a rare find—covers the center of the cold stone floor. A cairn sits in the back corner with no purpose other than to look pretty, and I can’t help but think how pointless it is to carry stones up those stairs. A small table holds two little cups of succulents. There’s a bundle of parchment on a pallet right under the window. A pack, some folded clothes, a knife with a leather-braided handle.
My hand loosens on the doorknob. Leather-braided handle.
Checking over my shoulder to ensure I’m alone, I slip into the room—closing the door to a crack behind me—and head straight for the knife. It’s probably happenstance. Still, I grab it and pull it from its sheath—
A plain knife. It’s the right length, but it’s just a regular knife.
I turn it over, and my breath catches.
A design of sorghum leaves flows over one side of the blade.
“Where’s my knife, Pelnophe?”
My mouth parts. Realizing where I am, I sheathe the blade, shove it into my pocket, and run for the door, but gentle footsteps outside the room freeze me in place. Cursing, I move behind the door, pressing myself to the wall, and hold my breath. I can’t fit out the window, and there’s nowhere else to hide—
The steps fade down the stairs.
Thanking the gods, I hurry from the room, closing the door behind me. I rush to the window closest to Machine Two and pull out the knife again. I’m not losing my mind. This is Arthen’s knife. He’s been pestering me about it for months. So why on the Serpent’s abandoned world was it in Heartwood’s room?
Speak of Ruin, and he shall appear.
Movement below catches my eye. I squint through the fog—it’s Heartwood, still in his leathers. Leaving the tower. Where is he going? Probably to the latrine. But I bite my lip, trying to quell the uneasiness in my gut as my knuckles whiten around Arthen’s blade.
I drop the knife onto Arthen’s work table.
“Aha!” he shouts over his bowl of porridge. “I knew you had it!”
I hold my hands up in surrender. “You were right. I lost it. I’m sorry. I’ll be more accountable moving forward.”
He snorts, then winces like a kernel of something has lodged in his nasal cavity. He takes a long drink, runs a hand down his beard, and picks up the knife, unsheathing it. “Well, you kept it in excellent repair.”
So it hasn’t been used much. I make a mental note. Swallowing down my defense, I manage, “I always do.”
He snorts again. “Tell that to the last shovel I had to sharpen.” He flips the knife in the air, blade over handle, and catches it easily. Does it a second time, then tips his head to the far wall. “See that knot over there?”
I see a dark knot in an old wooden beam supporting the wall behind the set of drawers. “What of it?”
With a quick flick of Arthen’s wrist, the knife goes flying, embedding itself dead center in the knot. He bows.
I mumble, “Show-off.”
He returns to his work. “Where have you been lately? Not seeing you around much.”
“Tinkering. Sleeping. For once.” I shrug.
“Tinkering with what?”
I pause. That’s right—Arthen thinks I gave him all my research. This is why I’m bad at lying. Fortunately, my brain comes around to an honest solution quickly. “Salki found something in the crops. Don’t tell.”
Arthen rolls his eyes. I wouldn’t say he agrees with my insistence that artifacts should be saved for study, for future machinery, for the long-term benefit of Emgarden, but he’s a decent person who believes in ownership, even if it keeps his forge cold. Arthen won’t rat me out unless things get desperate. Well, more desperate.
He points to the hooks behind me. “See that?”
I turn. A weeding fork and the end of a hoe hang on the wall. My mouth tastes a grin. “Well, look at that.”
“Don’t suppose you have anything else you’re willing to forfeit?”
I think of the incomplete tower machines looming over me. All the things I could build with them in Emgarden if Moseus and Heartwood gave up on the tower. “Soon.”
“And is this related to where you’ve been wandering off to in the mists?”
Something sharp spikes up my torso. Feigning nonchalance, I ask, “Nosy much?”
Arthen smirks. “You know well as I do, there’s not much to occupy a person’s attention around here.”
There are people in the tower. I got into the tower, Arthen. And it’s incredible.“Consider a hike.”
“To where?” he chuckles.
“Mountains. Wall.” Each a journey.
Leaning back in his chair, Arthen says, “Knees aren’t fit for the first, and the latter looks all the same, as far as it goes.”
That’s truth. As far as I’ve ever seen or explored, certainly. The amaranthine wall is smooth as glass and pink as a rose, extending forever north and south. The only variation comes at its uneven top, where it waves shorter and taller at random intervals, like Casnia drew it. I have always wondered why the Ancients built it like that, if they built it at all. Maybe all the Serpent’s worlds have such a wall, denoting the path it took when it left its skin behind.
My gaze falls back to that knife. Crossing to the wall, I wrench it free. It’s a good size, small enough to conceal but large enough to do damage. I barely have the thought before I ask, “Can I borrow this?”
Arthen’s incredulous expression amuses me. “Really, Pell?”
“Can I?”
He frowns. “I suppose. ’Til I need it.”
I sheath the blade and shove it in my pocket. “Thanks.”
Heartwood is hale again, easy as the sun burns mist.
I see him while straddling the crest of Machine One, clambering about with a ratchet and a slot-head turnscrew. He comes down the stairs, I dare say with a spring in his step—an awfully fast recovery for a man too pained to stand straight one cycle ago. I purposefully focus on my work as he reaches the floor, feeling his eyes on me, his presence like the first shovelfuls of earth into a grave, and mine the body beneath. Writhing under my own paranoia. Regardless, he goes to Moseus’s room, speaks with him in low tones with the door nearly shut for about five minutes, then returns to the stairs. The sensation of his watching me burns up my side, so I yank up my ratchet, rest my elbows on my knees, and stare right back at him.
His expression startles me. I’d been prepared for a contest of wills, a battle to see which of us can be more perturbed, but the sadness on his face strikes me so absolutely that I drop my tool, wincing as it clatters between shieldings. Our gazes lock for a moment only; he has no interest in staring me down. A flash of downturned eyes, loose lips, creased forehead, and he’s up the stairs, swift and gone.
I watch those stairs a moment longer, wondering at his ... do I dare call it despair? Almost like Salki’s expression when she first told me of her mother’s passing. My chest twinges, and I barely know the man. What on Tampere could Moseus have told him to hurt him so badly?
Why did it feel like it had something to do with these machines?
Because everything is about the machines,I tell myself as I pick my way down and snatch up my ratchet. Because what else could it possibly be about?
Moseus said that fixing this tower was important. Why? What is his connection to it?
I’m so enraptured by my own thoughts that I don’t watch my step as I climb back up. My foot slips off a coil, and I lose my balance completely. My chin hits a beam as I fall back—
I brace for stone, but it’s flesh that catches me. Flesh and the sound of rustling fabric. Clean scents of water and earth.
An arm rights me. “It won’t help us to break our engineer as well,” Moseus says calmly, but it almost sounds like a joke. He adjusts the wide, dark sleeve of his robe and folds his arms, and I’m struck by the thinness of his wrists, like a man starved. “It’s looking better.”
I clear my throat. Check my pocket for Arthen’s dagger. “Thanks. And yeah, I have some ideas. I need some specific parts, though.” Stepping toward the floor lantern, I pick up one of my slates—I have many now—and show him my design. “I think I can rig up power to this one. See if it’ll move for me.”
The glow of the lantern catches Moseus’s face, and I realize how gaunt it has become. As though his health has been mystically traded to Heartwood, who now functions with renewed energy. Moseus looks like he hasn’t slept for a dozen cycles. I consider offering the services of Amlynn, but he’ll turn them down. Not a hunch, but a fact.
His brow twitches at the design. I debate whether or not to ask after his welfare and ultimately decide against it.
“That ... work for you?” I try.
He nods, slowly. “You’ve worked quicker than I expected.” Then, after mulling a moment, “Is this similar to what you’ve ... ‘tinkered’ with at your home?”
I snort. “Hardly. But I strive to impress.” I try to mask how much the comment bolsters me. I can do this. Take that, Ancients.
“I don’t know how to make this for you,” Moseus continues, handing back the slate. “Heartwood might be able to, out of wood, but the strength—”
“A blacksmith in town can build it for me, if I have the scrap, and if I can convince him it’s more important than spades and rakes.” I’ll tell Arthen it’s for the artifact Salki brought me and promise to return it right after, or distract him with other scrap metal from the tower. “It’s simple enough. He won’t know what it’s for.”
Moseus’s deep-green eyes trail up the length of the machine. Something about his gaze feels deeply personal, almost intimate. Like he’s not looking at my work, but at me. A sudden surge of insecurity flows over me, foreign and uncomfortable, and I find myself crossing my arms, which is awkward with the tablet.
“Have it done as soon as possible.” Moseus’s voice is distant, low, masculine. “I’ll give you the materials you need.”
Two cycles later, I return with my turning rod and affix it to the machine. It takes some ties and ratcheting, since I don’t have equipment to weld like the Ancients did, but I secure it, hoping the angle and leverage will help me turn it and provide power to this mystery. Moseus watches from a couple of paces away. The shades of sickness have darkened on the planes of his face. Is he eating? Heartwood lingers near the stairs, appearing perfectly fed.
Hiding a frown, I focus on the machine. I push the end of the handle, which measures about two-thirds of a meter long. It doesn’t budge. I lean my weight into it, but no luck. Heartwood starts to move forward, maybe to inspect my work or give me a hand, but then I abandon the rod and instead grab my longest wrench, lean into the machine, and nearly flay my arm reaching in to smack that switch in the middle of it. Returning to the rod, I push, push, push ... and that gods-damned rotary unit starts to move. I grin, even as a few gears grind in protest, not quite aligned and certainly not oiled, but the machine moves. Quietly, briefly, I hear a tone, a note garbled amid the creaking and complaining. And then it all stops, the machine stuck on ... I’m not sure.
“Functional enough,” I say aloud, pushing the handle the opposite way and turning everything back to where it started. And that tone ... I definitely did something right, if the metalworks are singing to me. I wonder whether Moseus or Heartwood heard it, but neither comments. “I’m still not sure what it does, but it’s working.”
“Excellent work, Pell.” Moseus steps closer and puts a hand on the network of metal enveloping most of the machine. For the first time, I see him smile, and it lifts his entire countenance, shadows and all. I glance to Heartwood. That vein pops from his forehead again. His expression remains grim, his jaw tight. He tips his head to me. I suppose that’s as much of a compliment as I can expect, from him.
Letting out a long breath, I tell Moseus, “That’s an invitation, you know.”
He pulls back his hand. “Pardon?”
“To disclose what these machines do,” I specify, patting the turning rod. “Because if you want me to fix the others, you’re going to have to tell me.”