David drake hammers sl.., p.7
Mechanical Mistletoe, page 7
“That’s the one.”
“It dominates the entire city,” she said, shaking her head. “And to think it all started here...oh, look, beneath the crest it says The Mistletoe Engine.” She carefully touched the crest. “This is a piece of history, as well as a blueprint. And it makes it all the more important that we repair that machine.”
Straightening, she squared her shoulders. “Lead me to it, Silas. I want to touch history, as well as see if it can be brought back to life.”
“This way.” He led her toward a passage that took them away from the central Forge. She walked beside him, and he could almost see her quivering with excitement. He wondered if she’d realised that her words about the clock had provided one more confirmation of where she was from. The Renslows would know about the Arcvale wonder and the obelisk.
Not many folks on the sixth level even knew it was there.
Chapter Eight
This, decided Dorothea, was her idea of Heaven.
Not the polite hush of drawing rooms and galleries, where admiration was measured in murmurs and everything dangerous had been varnished into obedience—but this. Heat that kissed her cheeks the moment she stepped in. Light that lived low to the ground in molten pools and flaring mouths of flame. And above it all, the immense, relentless music of industry.
Gears the size of carriage wheels engaged tooth for tooth with a patient clack—clack—clack, a steady rhythm that seemed to travel through the iron gratings and into her bones. Pistons answered in deep chuffs and hollow whoomps, like some enormous creature breathing in the dark. Steam hissed in sharp, sudden bursts, and cooling metal pinged in bright little notes—tiny bells scattered through the thunder.
Beside her, Silas moved as if he belonged to it, turning his head at a change in pitch, angling his steps as a chain rattled overhead and went taut with a metallic snap. “Mind the vent,” he said, and tugged her gently to the side an instant before a white plume sighed out across the walkway, warm and damp against her sleeve.
Dorothea laughed under her breath—half disbelief, half delight—because for once the world was not asking her to be smaller. It was asking her to pay attention.
And it was perfect in every way.
This moment, this experience, all the sights and sounds, would be engraved in her brain and on her heart forever.
“Thank you,” she leaned into Silas.
“For what?” He glanced at her, curiosity in his eyes.
“For giving me all this...” She spread her hands wide. “For giving me my dreams.”
“Hmm.” He grinned. “Not the sort of thanks I expected to hear from a woman—in the Forge—but I’ll take it. And I’ll add that it’s my pleasure.”
Completely missing his allusion, she grabbed his arm. “What’s that?” She pointed at something that looked like a clock might have married a steamroller and given birth to a mysterious and movable object that was topped by a huge set of wrought iron hour hands.
Obligingly, Silas explained, pointed out various other mechanicals, led her around an assortment of massive and thundering pistons that made her ears ring, and finally drew her onto a small terrace that led up from the main floor and into a smaller section of the Forge.
And there, in the corner, looking quite grubby and forlorn, sat what was obviously the Mistletoe machine.
“Oh dear,” murmured Dorothea. “This has taken quite a beating, hasn’t it?”
“Indeed, yes.” Silas walked up to it, grabbed a nearby rag, and worked off some of the oily dust mixture that dulled the finish. “It functioned so well for so long, I don’t think anyone was expecting it to fail. So when it did at the end of last year’s production run? It came as a shock.”
“I can’t begin to imagine,” she said, shaking her head.
“To be honest? When I took over as Forge-Marshal this year, I was faced with more than a few wide-ranging problems, and so this fellow fell to the bottom of the list. We did order a replacement back at the beginning of the Autumn, knowing it would be a close thing. What we didn’t know, of course, was that the damn ship it was on would sink.”
Dorothea closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh no.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” He sighed, almost groaning. “And here we have our original model, covered with dust, no longer working, and the deadline for Mistletoe looming large.”
“A problem indeed,” she murmured, circling the machine. “You have the manufacturing supplies to feed it, I assume?”
“Yes. We have enough on hand to cover this year at least.”
“And it continued to work until the end of last season?”
“Yes again. I wasn’t on the floor when it stopped, but I heard there was a rather sad cry, a whimper, and then...silence. Nothing anyone did after that could restart it. The crew were clock-sick about it, but then we realised it had been a part of the Forge for so many years that nobody could recall how to service it, let alone open it up and look at the mechanicals inside.”
“No blueprints? Schematics?”
“None.”
“Taken for granted all these years,” Dorothea pursed her lips as she stared at it. “How sad, and yet how proud it must have been to do its job for so long.”
Silas blinked. “Well, um, yes. I suppose so. If machines feel pride, of course.”
She dismissed his comment with a brief flick of her hand. “You, of all people, should understand machines, Silas. Don’t you talk to them as you’re working on them? Touch them carefully, oil them, grease them, polish their housings? Isn’t that caring for them?”
“Yes...”
“Well then. What makes you think they don’t enjoy your attentions?” She turned to him. “Look at our tickerkins. They’re machines. But...they have personalities. Take Nelson.” She grinned. “There’s a classic example.”
Silas grinned back. “Point taken.”
“Anyway,” Dorothea set down her bag. “It’s time this fellow received some attention. And I think a good cleaning is the best place to start. If you’d hand me those cloths...”
“You’re going to...” He frowned. “Wait...”
“For what? Time is passing.” She nodded out at the Forge. “You can hear it, Silas, with every mechanical tick and tock. So give me the cloths and then go away and do Forge-Marshal things. I’ll be more than fine here—as happy as a boiler at full steam.”
Ignoring him, she began to clean off the top of the Mistletoe machine, revealing some of the brilliant red paint that originally must have made it shine as bright as the fire in the Forge.
“I’ll come back in a bit, shall I?” Silas sounded uncertain.
“That would be lovely.”
“Well...if you’ll be all right.” He hesitated. “I’ll be off then.”
Bent over the machine, she rolled her eyes. “Yes, Silas. Go away.”
He went, but his sigh was loud enough to be heard, and made her chuckle as she unfastened her first cam-latch.
*~~*~~*
While Dorothea began her investigations with excited enthusiasm, Lyra Sinclair was trying to accustom herself to having nothing to do but spend time with Gen.
Her daughter was, of course, ecstatic with her Mama, Nelson, Thim, and just about everything she saw and touched. She had told her mother in great detail how Miss Thea had found her and helped her, and how Thim had become her friend right away. And this recital was repeated more than once.
Lyra didn’t mind. It was one of the first times in recent memory that she and her child could relax in warm and safe surroundings. While Gen simply enjoyed herself, Lyra discovered the profound comfort of being safe.
“I would be happy to prepare a larger breakfast for you, Mrs Sinclair. It seems like you and Gen have barely touched your food.”
Nelson’s voice was calm and almost gentle, and Lyra found herself responding, forgetting she was speaking to a tickerkin.
“Thank you, Nelson. But this was a lovely breakfast and indeed far more than either of us is used to. And having a cup of tea with it? Well, we’re closing in on the height of luxury.” She glanced across the room. “As you can see, Gen is happy as a spark in a tinderbox, and fortunately Thim seems to have endless patience with her.”
“Indeed,” agreed Nelson. “And might I add that it is a lovely thing to see? Tickerkins are not always greeted with smiles and delight. Thim is the perfect example of how badly we can be treated, and yet it’s also revealing how resilient we can be in the right circumstances.”
“The same might be said of people too,” she mused, watching her daughter and completely missing the lights that flickered behind Nelson’s eyes.
“I’m sure you’re right,” he answered.
“Well, that tea was delicious, I have to admit. It’s been a while since I’ve tasted the genuine article.” She rose from the table and began to gather the dishes.
“Er...Mrs Sinclair,” Nelson cleared his throat. “That is my job.”
“Not today, it’s not,” she laughed. “Today, as my way of thanking you for your care, Nelson, today I shall be clearing the table and doing the dishes.”
“But...”
“Please? Allow me the chance to repay the hospitality you’re offering us?”
“Well then,” his circuits whirred. “That will be acceptable. Thank you. I will show you to the kitchen.”
Following him slowly along the passageway, pushing the tea trolley, Lyra couldn’t help but marvel at the house, if you could call it that. There were some open doors, showing either bedrooms or what looked like an office of sorts, and one larger room with a round table in it and books all over the walls.
She couldn’t help it, she had to pause. “Oh my. Nelson. This is a library?”
He stopped and turned. “It is indeed. And one that is sadly in need of organisation.” He relieved her of the trolley and passed her the cane she’d hooked over one edge. She barely noticed as her gaze remained glued to the sight of so many bookshelves in one place.
“Why don’t you go in?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t...” she began.
“Of course you can. Mr Silas would be very happy to know his books were being appreciated.” Nelson paused, a slight whirr emanating from his ears. “In fact, Ma’am, if you truly wish to be of help, you might sort out some of the volumes. Everything used to be arranged in a much more orderly fashion, but Mr Silas tends to be slightly lackadaisical about it. Once he’s found what he’s looking for, he doesn’t always return the books to their rightful place.” He sighed. “I keep meaning to go in and tidy...”
“Oh, Nelson,” she interrupted. “Do you think...I mean, would you let me do that?”
“Indeed yes. It would be of great assistance to both Mr Silas and me.”
Gulping down a tiny squeal of delight, Lyra nodded. “I would be so honoured to spend some time in there and be useful as well.” She took a breath, happier than she’d been in years. “Could Gen and Thim come and join me? It looks as if there’s sufficient room...”
“There is,” answered Nelson calmly. “If you would go on in, I shall fetch Miss Gen and her tickerkin. And I’ll light the fire too, so you should be quite comfortable.”
Standing just inside, Lyra’s eyes widened as she grasped the true size of the library. It was as if every dream she’d ever had was within reach. So many books, wonderful books...
Her fingers itched to get started, and she leaned her cane against the wall in one corner.
She barely noticed Nelson as he cheerfully trundled away, nor would she have recognised the glow of delight coming from his ears if she’d seen it. After all, he’d been postponing that particular chore for quite some time, so it was a genuine pleasure for him to pass it along. He was now officially as happy as a cog in clean grease.
Chapter Nine
While Mrs Lyra Sinclair was having the time of her life working in Silas Gray’s library, Lady Dorothea Renslow was beyond ecstatic and up to her armpits in grease, fasteners, knurled screws, toggle latches and hinged panels.
The Mistletoe machine was slowly giving up its secrets to her nimble fingers and enquiring explorations.
“All right now,” she murmured, as if it could hear her. “Let’s see what you’re hiding underneath all this grubby grime.”
She slipped her fingers beneath the edge of the main access panel and found the cam latches, brass probably, slightly warm, their surfaces polished smooth by years of impatient hands. It took a little practised twist, but they finally released with a satisfying little clack, one after another, until the entire housing gave what seemed like a reluctant sigh and loosened.
And the game was on.
At least three hours later, she straightened and stretched her spine. But what progress she’d made! The machine was slowly giving up its secrets under her firm but gentle touch, and every time something pinged free, Thea’s excitement level rose.
So engaged was she that everything else in the Forge vanished. Consequently, she damn near shot straight up in the air when a hand tapped her between her shoulder blades.
“Coggleblast it,” she swore, tearing herself away from the machine and spinning around. “I almost had it.”
Silas grinned at her. “Did you? What was it you almost had?”
She narrowed her eyes and shook a spanner at him. “You don’t believe me, do you. Well, let me show you this...” She pointed at the pile of what looked like debris on the cart next to her.
“All right. Some bits I recognise, but others...like this,” he picked up a very strange-looking spring, “I’d be hard pressed to know how to use it.”
“It’s a secondary governor spring. Essential for the start cycle.”
“Good grief. Is it really?” He stared at it.
“Yes, it is. Really. And it’s lost its tension over the decades. Which is one of the reasons it failed.”
Silas shot her a quick look and opened his mouth, but she held up her hand to silence him before he started. “I don’t know, to answer your question. It certainly contributed to the problems this poor machine has, but it’s not the only one and no, it won’t work yet.”
“Yet? You really believe you can repair it enough to get it going in time for the Christmas orders?”
“Come back in a few hours, and I may have an answer for you.”
“Thea,” he said firmly. “You do not have to do this. It’s a filthy job, as you can see. And the innards are as old as...well, I don’t know what. How can you possibly expect to...”
She eased back from the machine and wiped her hands on an already oily cloth. Then she stared at him.
“Silas. Please—and I’m saying this from the heart—please do not underestimate me. Ever. I try not to make promises I can’t keep, and I never exaggerate. I’ve spent most of my life being talked down to, or dismissed as being a mere female. And I don’t mind saying that it’s a coggleblasted pain in the...” She shrugged. “Well, you know.”
“I didn’t mean...”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” she said, waving away his words. “And I do understand your position. This machine could make or break Christmas everywhere, from the Forge to the Obelisk high above Arcvale. I am not unaware of its importance.” She sighed. “I am also aware that you don’t know me from a chuffing piston, and asking for your trust is asking you to take a leap of faith over an abyss that could sink this entire place.”
Silas blinked. “Um, well that’s putting it bluntly indeed.”
“Am I incorrect in my assumptions?”
He sighed. “No.”
She waved her hand over the assorted bits and pieces. “I am getting to know this machine, Silas. Each part I remove and clean, and straighten or tighten, or...whatever...each part is a little piece of the whole, and the more little pieces I have, the easier it will be to reassemble.” She stood firmly in front of him and extended her forefinger, using it to punctuate her words. “In, poke, proper, poke, working, poke, order.”
“Ow.” He rubbed his chest. “Keep that up, and you’ll be putting me back together as well.” His lips curled into a sensual smile that stirred things inside her. “I hope you would pay as much attention to that project as you are to this one.”
Secretly charmed, she simply wrinkled her nose. “I would give it some consideration.”
“Hmm.” He leaned over and looked inside the guts of the machine that Thea’s explorations had revealed. “You know, I can see some familiar bits in there as well.” He stood on tiptoe and delved deeply into the greasy murk. “This looks like an old ping-gear. We stopped using those ten or fifteen years ago, at least.”
“It is,” she nodded. “I was just about to get it out. If it can be cleaned...”
“It can be reused,” he finished, grabbing a wrench. “Let me help...”
“I...” Thea was ready to send him off with a flea in his ear, but then she saw the expression on his face as he leaned further into the machine and worked his tool up against the housing.
He loved this every bit as much as she did.
It was evident from the intense focus, the slight sounds he made as he struggled to get the wrench locked on, and the final little yip of joy when he pulled away with the offending bit of machinery in his hand.
“Got the little coggleblaster.” He grinned happily at her, completely oblivious to the smudges he’d just put on his shirt and cheek.
“That is a huge help, thank you, Silas.” She took the gear and placed it carefully in one of the several boxes lined up neatly beside the machine.
“We might have something close to replace it,” he offered.
Quiet for a moment, Thea considered his suggestion, then shook her head. “I suppose we could, but honestly? This fellow is so old that I would worry the tolerances were wrong. It takes only one worn gear tooth...”
He sighed. “I know. And much as it pains me to say it, you’re right and it’s worth it, even though it means more work.” Turning toward her, he paused for a moment. “Look, Thea. I am going to do something I hardly ever do. I’m going to take a massive gamble.”
“On what?”
