Chapter 7
Chapter 7
I clench my teeth and hands and pull the pliers as hard as I can. My shoulders are ready to pull from their sockets when the stupid piece of debris finally comes loose, and I go flying toward the stairs, stumbling backward a few steps before falling on my butt. I curse Ruin and the World Serpent both before dropping the pliers and shaking out my fingers.
Grimacing, finding my feet, I glare at Machine Two. Snatch up my pliers and resume work. At least now I can move this beam, which hinges farther up on the machine’s body and is made to move, and then pull up this plate at the base to see what’s underneath. Machine Two bears only a few similarities to Machine One, so the guesswork has started all over again, though I think I’m getting accustomed to the Ancients’ art of wiring.
It takes some effort, and some grease, to loosen the bronze alloy plate and lift it. Machine One had something similar, which was how I learned a piece of it went through the floor of the tower. This one’s at a different angle, and when I move it—
I see the wall. A sigh blows sweaty hair off my forehead. “Whoever built this was drunk as a bard,” I mumble, feeling in my pocket for the screws I’d pulled out. From the outside, it probably looks like the machine is eating me; I’m almost entirely horizontal in it, near the bottom, with a strut poking into my thigh. Screw in hand, I adjust the plate to push it back in, then pause.
And stare at the perfect, hair-thin crack running down the stone wall.
Biting my lip, I pocket the screw and set the plate aside, wriggling in a bit more to get a better look, tracing my finger down that line. It’s not damage in the stonework. It’s too straight and even for that. Noting that the usual pattern of unchippable mortar is gone from this section of the wall, which Machine Two sits tightly against, I follow the crack down, to where it meets another perpendicular to it.
“Is this ...?” I twist, though that strut and the tight confines do not want me to. I follow the seam a little more, until I can’t reach any farther, but I can see it.
It almost looks like ... a door. But if it were, there’d be no way to open it.
“Unless you move.” I grunt in the narrow space, trying to get a better look at the floor. Machine Two doesn’t respond. The beam supporting its base—does it join with the one at the front? If it’s any kind of hinged arm, maybe Machine Two can move away from this wall.
Interesting.I start to crawl my way backward, only for my butt to get caught on that stupid strut. Grumbling, I wriggle left, then right, grabbing a support rod to angle myself free. Glancing up, I see something that both excites and irritates me at the same time.
There’s a power switch. Right in the unreachable middle of the machine, with no apparent means for supplying power around it. Just like in Machine One.
“Drunk. As. A. Bard.” A little more squirming, ignoring the rip I just put in my pants, and I slide free, new grease stains on my shirt and running up my arms. I’ll be spending my time off making soap.
A headache forms behind my eyes. Sitting on the cold stone floor, I rub them. My brain refuses to contemplate another thought.
Blinking my vision clear, I glance at the hole in the ceiling across the room. That leads up to a third machine. And then two stories above that juts that extra mechanism, almost like an enormous peg hammered into the tower’s northeast side, up at the top. As if the Ancients built the tower first and the machines second, without realizing how much capacity they’d need. At least, I assume it’s a machine up there. Only one way to check. Just my luck: first sun pierces through lingering mist.
I hesitate. I’d be going out in the sun, but technically Moseus didn’t say I couldn’t scale the tower in the sun, and I’m not risking it in the mist.
I stand, stretch, and collect the tools. I need to know how I’m going to fix this place up, so investigating the protrusion is nonnegotiable. Or, rather I’m not going to negotiate, so the keepers can’t tell me no.
Best way to climb to the protrusion would be through a window, to save myself some effort, but all the windows are cut the same—too narrow for even my body to fit through. A sigh slides through my nose. At least it’s not too narrow for the ladder. A few heaves and a grunt later, and I shove the ladder through the window, letting it fall two stories below. I retrieve some rope from that closet on the first floor and head out into the brightness of first sun.
Finding some level ground that’s not too sandy, close to the tower’s protrusion but away from peering eyes, I set up the ladder. It’s heavier than it looks. After ensuring it’s secure, I climb up eighteen rungs and pull myself onto a second-story window.
I wedge my foot in, giving myself a moment to piece out the best way to do this. Manage to sidestep over a subtle lip to another window, which I cram my shoulder into for balance while I tie a wrench to the end of my rope. Takes four attempts to swing the thing up and into a third-story window, where the wrench catches. The tower’s tiers get smaller as they go up, so there will be space to stand once I get up there. Purposefully not looking down, I haul myself up, and—
My lips part when I get an elbow up. “Ruin crush me,” I whisper, pushing myself onto the floor. I’d been so intent on fixing Machines One and Two, I hadn’t bothered to investigate the third floor. Through this slotted window, my eyes center on a third machine.
It’s larger than the other two. Or it would be, if it weren’t in pieces.
Because this thing is in pieces.
Desperate for a better look, I slide down the rope to my ladder, and down again to the ground. The ladder bites into my bone when I balance it on my shoulder. Takes a second to get it through the front door, but the open floor plans allow me to make it up the spiral stairs all right. Reset the ladder and climb up.
The wreckage strikes me anew as I step foot into this new chamber, my lungs bellowing from the effort. I walk toward Machine Three cautiously, as though it might come alive and attack. Chunks composed of assemblies, shielding, and gods know what else spill across the floor. The foundation seems to be intact, but struts, coils, springs, shafts, and gears splay ... everywhere. Hanging off cables and axles, forgotten against walls, or just haphazardly piled up. Like someone set off an explosion right at the machine’s heart.
I crouch down on the balls of my feet, taking it all in. At least I don’t have to take it apart to see how it works. But how will I ever know where everything goes?
Like Machine One, it’s predominantly silver. Steel. I think it’s meant to stretch the entire height of the room; I can see pieces attached to the ceiling, like some of it should connect up there. The fallen supports are certainly long enough to reach. It’s like the Ancients got all the parts they needed, hauled them up here, then got into a fight using the mechanics as weapons. After, they sealed up this lone, scattered monolith and followed the Serpent to another world.
Leaning forward, I pick up a small sprocket.
“Don’t—” a voice says.
Starting, I turn around. Heartwood stands on the ladder behind me, his pale features so severe they might have been carved from plaster. I ignore my speeding pulse; I’m surprised I didn’t hear him, what with the shoddy make of that ladder and his weight on it. I stand straight, internally berating myself, and force my shoulders to relax. My heartbeat doesn’t.
Rubbing the sprocket’s teeth between my fingers, I say, “You’re awfully quiet on your feet for someone your size.” I turn the sprocket over. Set it down right where I found it, in the hope that it will give me a clue to where it goes when I get around to assembling this mess. “Don’t what?”
Heartwood’s mouth works. His sharp gaze shifts from me to the machine, and I wonder if my presence somehow rankles him as much as his does me. He doesn’t answer.
Suppressing a sigh, I cross the room and peer out the skinny window. I can see that jutting piece of machinery almost straight above me, sticking out of the tower’s highest tier. “I know I’m supposed to be gone by now, but I’m going to go look at that thing.” I don’t have the mental space to start on this ... mess.
“It would be pointless.” Heartwood steps into the room. He seems ... larger, somehow. I can’t help but frown. I hate feeling small. “Moseus and I have already investigated it. There’s nothing to be done.”
“But I haven’t investigated it.” I move to the next window, grateful to put some distance between us and secure my wrench-grappling-hook. “I want to see for myself.”
“It isn’t safe.”
I shrug. “Life isn’t safe.”
“Nophe—”
I glare at him. He sets his jaw.
“My name is Pell,” I remind him. I skirt around him and climb down the ladder. Wait for him to stop me, but he doesn’t, which is permission enough. Once he’s down on the second floor, I shove the ladder out the window for a second time. When I exit the tower, I do so alone.
After shaking out my hands and any lingering, nonsensical jitters, I repeat the motions from before. Pulling myself up to the wide lip at the base of the third story, I tie my rope around my waist in a way I presume won’t tear me in two should I fall. The tower isn’t unscalable. There are enough projections to use as foot- and handholds, between windows, lips, and weathering. But it’s not a walk in cropland, either.
I pull myself up to the fourth floor. There are masonry surrounds for windows, but flat, opaque surfaces block the openings. I poke at the edges of one first with my fingers, then with a turnscrew, but Moseus was right—there’s no discernible way to enter the top of the tower, even if the windows were large enough to fit a body. Shifting sideways, I aim for a windowsill on the third tier, one story overhead.
My foot slips.
My heart lodges in my throat as I grab the edge of the window, barely keeping myself upright. Maybe wait for the condensation to dry next time, millet brain. Steadying myself, I climb a little higher, reaching the fifth-floor window, finding it closed off like the others. I also reach the base of the protrusion, and I rest easy once I can get a second loop of rope over a piece of it.
I ... think this is a machine. It’s entirely plated on this side, so it’s hard to tell, and where it connects with the tower is mortared and caulked. No seams I can find. With a grunt, I heft myself up and over so I’m sitting on top of the protrusion. I’d say it’s about five meters long and two meters wide—
Wow. The view from up here is ... intense.
I’ve never been this high up before. I can see all of Emgarden, from the farm on one side to Thamton’s home on the other. The rocky sienna juts of the Brume Mountains cup the south and west like a hand, while the amaranthine wall cuts sharply across the east, glinting like an enormous jewel in the sunlight. Rusty, dry earth stretches far to the north, interrupted by jutting natural chimneys, rocky fins, and the occasional shadow marking a dip or drop. Like the wall, it has no end. None that I can see. I have a feeling I could pack up all of Emgarden and still not have enough provisions to travel far enough to find it, if there is one.
Wrenching my attention back to the protrusion, I run my hands over its smooth covering. Plated up here, too. Peek over the side—yep. All plated. And no discernible seams or screws or anything to get the plates off.
I’m loath to let Heartwood be right, so I investigate anyway, carefully running my hands over the plates, looking for any divots, weathering, seams. From the corner of my eye, I spy movement down below. It’s Heartwood. He loiters down there, watching me, a contrast of pale hair and dark leathers. I ignore him and climb farther out onto the protrusion. He follows my movements. What, is he going to catch me if I fall?
I snort at the idea. More likely I’d crush him and kill us both.
Still, twenty minutes later, I concede. If there’s anything inside this thing, I don’t have the tools to get to it. I knock against thick metal, unable to detect any hollow spaces to drill my way in. Not that I have a drill that can pierce through this.
The looming question remains: Why is it even here?
Tired and defeated, I retrace my steps. As I lower myself to the fourth floor, I keep the rope looped on the protrusion and don’t pull it free until both feet are securely on the third floor.
I’m sorry,a voice whispers. I lost my temper.
Spinning around, I’m greeted only by the pieces of Machine Three, though that voice sounded right next to me. Low, quiet, present.
It ... sounded like Heartwood.
But Heartwood isn’t here. No one is here. Dropping the rope, I rub my eyes, then massage my temples. Listen. A soft breeze comes through the window. A desert wren caws in the distance. Footsteps downstairs.
I open my eyes. I need a break.
I haul everything back inside and situate the ladder again.
Moseus approaches. “There’s nothing to be done on that protrusion.” He doesn’t sound angry, just resigned.
“I’m aware.” I stretch my back. “And Machine Three is a mess.”
He nods, also aware. “Are you up to the task?”
“Yes,” I say without thinking, but I am. However frustrating this tower is, it’s given me a purpose I didn’t realize I needed. When I’m pinched sideways inside Ancient technology, that little ache beneath my ribs fades. I feel more ... whole. Of course, I relay none of that to Moseus. In the better light, I confirm that he does seem healthier, though hardly well. I wonder how he and Heartwood could be so physically similar and yet so notably different. Granted, Heartwood’s health also seems to fail him often, yet he recovers quickly, whereas Moseus struggles to keep even a hint of color in his complexion. He’s never complained of the situation, at least not to me.
“Good.” He glances out a window. “Do you intend to leave?”
However much I love this place, I’m exhausted, and my brain feels like porridge. “I’ll try to be discreet.”
Moseus frowns. “That is not part of the deal. You must travel in the mists only.”
“Yeah, I know, but if I’m not around, people will ask questions.” I run a hand through my hair. “I’ll loop around and come from another direction. People are used to me being about.”
Moseus’s frown persists. “Be careful. There is much at stake.”
Grateful I don’t have to sit around for seven hours until the mists settle, I continue, “And you’re sure you can’t punch your way into the rest of the tower? Like you did here?” I point to the hole above my head.
“I have tried.” His voice sweeps like wind. “Many times.”
“Are you ... okay?”
The question startles him. “Okay?” He repeats it like it’s a foreign word.
“You seem ... tired.” It’s the kindest explanation I can give.
Moseus considers. “Such is my disposition. I am well enough.”
“Peacekeeping taking its toll, I suppose.” I wonder what happens at the tower when I’m away. How Moseus and Heartwood interact when there are no eyes to see. But I don’t inquire, only make my exit.
Leaving my tools, I take the stairs down, meeting Heartwood at their base. Ignore the way my stomach tightens. Raising an eyebrow, I say, “I wasn’t going to fall.”
“No”—he looks away—“I don’t suppose you would have.”
He says nothing more, only passes me on the stairs, and I walk home with the unmoving sun in my hair.
My mind and body both need a break from the tower, so for the next two cycles, I stay in Emgarden.
I sleep for half a sun before treating myself to a visit to the alehouse. I catch up with several folk from town, including Maglon. He has always been easy to talk to. It’s not the ale, which is often weak and sour, but his open demeanor and tight-lipped attitude. I could tell that man that I killed Entisa with my bare hands, and he wouldn’t reveal it to a soul. Not that he wouldn’t take retribution out on himself, in one way or another. Maglon is a vault, but he’s just. When Frantess starts bragging about her “win” with my forfeited metal, he tells her to pipe down.
I pick up my grain rations, visit Salki and pull a sliver from Casnia’s finger, then head home. I tuck away my artifacts, including the sundial, and then rest and watch the mist curl outside my window, without pattern or shape. I think I hear that distant tone when the mists arrive, but it might just be my imagination.
When the sun returns, I venture out toward the farms and test new areas for wells, marking two that might be promising. After that, I wander to Arthen’s forge. He’s not in, so I help myself to his drawers and pull out my rover plans, using a charcoal pencil to sketch in extra ideas and a few equations, things I’ve learned from working on the Ancients’ enormous machines.
Arthen says nothing when he arrives, merely looks over my shoulder. Points with a thick pinky finger. “What does this mean?”
“It’s an idea to use the energy of the wheels to keep them spinning,” I say. “So the steam doesn’t run out as quickly.”
“Wheels powering themselves?” He snorts and grabs a bowl of new nails and a file to finish them.
“It could work.”
“I suppose it could. Body should be easy enough, if I have the metal.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
He studies me. Waits until I look up from the plans to speak. “Where’re you getting it, Pell?”
I purposefully don’t look up. “Digs.”
“These digs are suddenly a lot more fruitful.”
I glance through the nearest window, toward the amaranthine wall, though I’d have to climb onto the roof to see it. “I’m trying some new techniques.”
Ugh, surely I could have come up with something better than that.
Arthen must agree, as he tries to pry more information from me. I might be bad at lying, but I can be just as tight-lipped as Maglon.
Or Heartwood.
New emilies have sprouted randomly throughout the road when I leave at late sun, one already crushed by a passing foot. Crouching, I pick a blue bloom at the base. The flowers are large, about the size of a man’s cupped hands, and grow close to the ground. Its faint shimmer dulls as I carry it home, but its color stays true. Inside, I pour a little water from a jar onto a plate and set the emily in it. Something about the action itches the back of my mind, but I can’t sort out why. It’s not the first time I’ve saved one of Tampere’s beauties, but it’s been a while.
The tone of the mist reaches my ear through the window. When I turn and cock my head to listen, my elbow hits my little jar of water and knocks it off the table. Cursing inwardly, I grab the nearest cloth—a shirt I need to launder—and start wiping it up. That was the last of the water I had, and I’m not in the mood to trek out to the nearest well. Though I suppose it’s my fault there isn’t one closer.
As I soak up the water, I notice it dwindling—not into my shirt, but into a crack between the floorboards. Wood and stone, packed tightly against the hard earth beneath, make up my floor. The ground shouldn’t absorb so much so quickly.
Setting the shirt aside, I crouch closer to the gap, which looks just a little wider than it should be. Curious, I knock against the wood, getting a dull thud in return. But when I knock on the panel on the other side of the crack, it sounds—
“Hollow.” I dig my short nails into the side of the floorboard. Try to lift, with no luck. I run my hands over the boards. Ignore the bite of a sliver. Moving the table, I find where a cut has been made across a board, breaking the pattern.
I dig my nails in there, and it lifts. I gape as a panel about six decimeters wide and three decimeters long loosens from the ground, bringing soil and debris with it. Below rests a cool, neat hole with sharp corners, about three decimeters deep.
And within it lies an Ancient artifact I’ve never laid eyes on.