Quartz, p.21
Quartz, page 21
“I don’t know. I just wanted to… find out more, see for myself. I thought, if I understood it better, I could tell whether the antimachinists were right or wrong. And if they were right, maybe I could catch the Machine out in a lie or something and prove to my father that he’s wrong.”
“Wrong in trusting the Machine instead of people?”
“Yes. He barely listens to Mother anymore, and she used to be the only one who could get him to come out and bathe and eat and sit at the table and make conversation with the rest of us. Now—well, you saw how he was dressed! I don’t believe he’s been barbered for months.”
“Yes, he does have that obsessive tendency,” mused Rafe. “But, Tristan, haven’t you considered that it might the fault of your father, and not the Machine? Haven’t you read your history? Remember Nevin the Never-There? He had the First Minister run the Machine for him. And there were others who ran the Machine and played cards and danced at balls, who had a life outside the Machine Room. Emulate them, not your father. The Machine is a tool, just like any other.”
“I suppose.”
They stopped as a laden trolley clanged across the street. “Just don’t do anything reckless, Tristan. You may be in sympathy with the antimachinists—and you’re right, they do have some points—but they are destroyers, not builders. Do you really want to see your people digging subways and hauling trash by hand?”
Tristan shook his head—in answer to his question, or just twitching off his words, Rafe couldn’t tell. “Here we are.” He stopped in front of a low one-storey building. Most of the factory would be underground, taking advantage of the earth’s heat and access to underground tunnels. The hum of machinery vibrated through the soles of Rafe’s boots. “They don’t like me being late, prince or not.”
“Then we’d better not keep them waiting,” said Rafe, stepping aside for a guard to precede them into the building.
They spent several hours in what turned out to be a cooking pot manufactory, led around by a stocky foreman in a leather apron. Tristan appeared happier and more interested than Rafe had seen him in a long time, asking question after question about casts, alloys, and the inner workings of various machines.
Rafe kept his attention on the prince’s surroundings and thought how easy it would be for some disgruntled antimachinist worker to hit Tristan on the head with a wrench or pour liquid metal on his foot. Who’d come up with the Prince’s schedule in the first place? There was no way to vet all the people who worked at the factory, much less the strangers who passed him on the street.
Rafe dropped Tristan back at the palace gates a bit after Scatter. The prince’s mood had turned gloomy.
“See you at the Brightmoons’ tonight?” Rafe asked Tristan.
“No,” said Tristan. “I’m to dine privately with Father and Mother tonight. Professor Baintree’s got some new machine designs to show Father and he wants me to look at those with him.”
Rafe thought it was just as well, but made vaguely commiserating noises. Tristan disappeared inside the palace complex and Rafe started for his rooms.
An “Information Wanted” poster tacked up to the pole of a nearby gas lamp caught his eye. The woman’s picture was incredibly detailed, the written description precise, and under it were the words, “Wanted for questions regarding attack on royal property on Selene 17th, at the Hour of the Dead.”
It was the female antimachinist leader Tristan and Rafe had seen, but she was aged about twenty years, her hair was a different color and her features subtly different.
Rafe frowned at the discrepancies. Witnesses often forgot or missed details in the confusion. But he distinctly remembered Tristan commenting on the girl’s youth and good looks.
Had the Prince deliberately misled the authorities?
The Brightmoons were new money, nobility whose titles went back only fifty years. Rumor had it that the first Lord Brightmoon had earned his fortune trading in dreamdust and manufacturing drainpipes. The behind-hands scandal mongering did not prevent the aristocracy from flocking into the Brightmoons’ silvery tower of a house on High Street. Rafe had to slip between numerous sedan chairs waiting to disgorge their passengers before he gained the shallow steps under cool silver lights floating from slender posts. Water swept down the stairs on either side. Silver empress lifted bell-shaped blooms to the sky, while weeping maids trailed fronds of delicate white flowers and small grey leaves.
Inside, the silver and grey effect of delicate coolness and an insinuation of secrets gave way to golden glitz, overpowering perfume, and sensual music. The main ballroom was immediately inside the open doors, a new architectural feature. Tonight it was decorated with the patterned silk hangings and sprays of huge colorful feathers that Sable Monarique imported from her homeland and sold to only the most exclusive of boutiques and the richest and best-connected of patrons.
Rafe edged his way around the room. Several debutantes eyed him with speculative interest before one said, over-loud, “He’s only a second son”. An older gentleman with a wooden leg, wig askew, smelling strongly of alcohol, clutched at him for support. Several acquaintances hailed him with invitations to chat or join a game of cards.
Talk of the Ironheart occupation abounded, but Rafe deflected any attempts to draw out his own opinions. The amateur political commentators soon joined the large crowd around Bryerstar. The former ambassador, resplendent in maroon, held forth on Ironheart, which he characterized as a backward uncivilized state who should be grateful for Oakhaven’s magnanimity.
It made Rafe’s blood hot to hear that, but Leo would not be happy if he got into a public quarrel with Bryerstar. Instead, Rafe claimed several dances in the next hour and kept himself busy fetching iced lemonades for the dowagers.
“Oh, Rafe,” one matron tittered, tapping him on the wrist with her folded fan. “We have missed you so. I hear they’ve shackled you to the ministry walls, just shackled. What a waste of your youth!”
“Well, they left the key within reach tonight,” said Rafe. “If I’m lucky, it’ll be a few weeks before anyone decides to tunnel through all the paperwork around my desk to find me.” He bowed and gracefully removed himself from the ladies’ company, feeling angry and sad, then empty, as he did so. Had he really been such a silly fellow, a pretend-cavalier? He felt left out of most conversations; he had not seen the latest plays, or read the latest romances, or heard the latest scandals. His clothes were cut according to last year’s fashions, as he had not had time to visit a tailor. Something else to remedy, though Rafe felt no pleasure at the prospect.
He sought Bryony out—she was playing cards with a red-headed friend and the dashing young Duchess Briarfield. Her position as courtesan had broadened her social horizons more than her unacknowledged birth, to be seen in such exalted company.
“Come dance with me,” said Rafe, abrupt, black-humored, needing desperately the company of someone who knew him as more than an amusing and useful piece of furniture.
Bryony threw down a card with a gesture almost like throwing down a gauntlet. “Royal, rack and ruin. My win, I believe.”
The redhead groaned, the Duchess cried, “Oh, you’ve had Selene’s own luck all night. Do go away and dance with the young man, Bryony, then I may actually have a chance to win!”
Bryony fanned out her gilt-edged cards on the green velvet table and gave her hand to Rafe. He helped her out of the chair and led her on to the floor. They faced each other, her hand on his shoulder, his at her waist.
“What’s bitten you, Rafe?” Bryony took the first steps. Rafe recalled himself and took the lead.
“I think I’ve forgotten how to enjoy myself.” Rafe took Bryony in a slow stately twirl, trying to feel pleasure—any pleasure—at being on the dance floor once again. He remembered the blood and flame, the sweat and scorching of the firedancing. Compared to that, this was slow and tame.
What was he doing at a party while Blackstone burned down rival cities, antimachinists disrupted Oakhaven’s internal affairs, and there was the Tors Lumena still to be found? Isabella, he was sure, was out working. If only he could… what? Join her? And leave his duties here? The thought was uncomfortable, like a trickle of cold water down his back.
“You missed a step,” commented Bryony. Rafe tried to focus on the music, but all he heard was the pounding of drums and felt waves of heat press against his face.
To distract himself, he said, “You look well, Bryony.” Her dress was simple but elegant, the earrings in her lobes and the pendant around her neck understated. Bryony had no share in the legacy of embroidered sleeves and bodices and fancy jewelry amassed by generations of Grenfeld women. Their brother’s wife had received all of that. New dresses tended to be cut in clean straight lines, to avoid waste of fabric.
Bryony nodded. “Yes, I’ve found another employer.” Her dark blue eyes narrowed, gauging his reaction.
“Anyone I know?” Rafe forced his tone to be light.
“He prefers our relationship to be private for the time being. I-I hope to have good news to share with you soon, Rafe.”
Who was this mysterious patron? Was Bryony hopeful that he would marry her?
“Bryony,” he began, awkward, wondering what an affectionate younger brother should say to this.
She flashed him a merry smile. “I know what you’re thinking, Rafe! No my expectations are quite different. In fact—” A loud boom interrupted her. The floor trembled and Bryony stumbled into Rafe. He steadied her as platters clattered to the floor, women screamed, and Lady Brightmoon’s exquisite chandelier rained hot wax and glass teardrops. The lights—gas, not mage-made—flickered.
“Excuse me, Bryony.” Rafe left his sister sitting on a sofa along with many wide-eyed matrons and crossed the room. He threw open the great glass doors and stepped out onto the veranda. The night was dark. All the streetlamps were off.
Behind Rafe, a crowd of nobles spilled out from the house and onto the veranda and balconies above. No one had thought to fetch their overcoats. The ladies were still in their shoulder-baring finery, the men bareheaded and in dancing jackets. As one, they faced the commotion, listening with eerie silence to distant cries of alarm.
Lady Brightmoon fluttered up to him, wringing her gloved hands. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she murmured. “Is it a fire?” Her voice dropped to a whisper on that fearful word.
Footsteps rang on the street. A moment later, a figure rushed up the steps and came to a stop by the simple expedient of falling to his knees. Lady Brightmoon and the others standing with her recoiled from the burnt smell coming off him.
Rafe stepped forward and put a hand on the other’s heaving shoulder. “Quick, man. What’s happened?”
“The antimachinists,” gasped the man. “There were too many… and we too few… pushed us out… took over… they’ve blown up the compressor station!” Gasps followed his pronouncement. The man winced as Rafe unconsciously tightened his fingers. He let go at once.
“Roland must know immediately,” said Rafe. “Lady Brightmoon, can you spare a speedy servant?”
“Y-yes.” Lady Brightmoon straightened.
“Good. Get this man some water. There must be a few ministers about. Let them know.”
“What about you?” gasped Lady Brightmoon.
The screams were louder, and now they could clearly hear panicked voices crying, “Fire! Fire!” A bell clamored—a fire bell. The brigade would not be long.
“I’m going to see what’s going on there,” said Rafe grimly. “You should be prepared to evacuate.”
“Leave my house? But surely…”
“Fire makes no distinction between the noble and common. It would just as easily turn your house to rubble as it would a tailor’s. Someone lend me a scarf?” A silent young lady handed him hers. Rafe dipped it into a nearby fountain and wrung it out. With that, Rafe jogged away, towards the source of terror and confusion.
All the lights were out. Bodies hurtled into him, ricocheted off, stumbled over their own feet and each other. Handcarts trundled, men carried children on their backs, carts and trolleys went whizzing by. It was Ironheart all over again, and once again he was going the wrong way.
But this was Oakhaven, a better-planned, better-equipped city, his own home. The guards would be out in full force, and the fire brigade. The machines would be here soon, crawling up from their subterranean homes, hauling water tanks and bags of sand, some with nozzles that sprayed foam to smother the fire. Rafe tied the scarf around his nose and mouth and plunged towards where the city burned an unhealthy red.
The only part of the station above ground had been a one-storey building, kept padlocked and surrounded by a chain link fence with spikes twisted into the metal to discourage trespassers. The gate was now torn open and hanging loose; the building itself was engulfed in flames. A wide space around it kept the fire from jumping to other buildings for now, but Rafe had no doubt that the fire beneath raged hotter and fiercer, and it would soon move along the power lines, gaining more fury with every furnace and oil and gas reservoir it met along the way, melting steel, weakening the hidden supports that held up the whole city.
Dark figures ran back and forth in futile frenzy, silhouettes outlined in flame. Some heaved bucketfuls of water at the fire. It was like fighting off an army with a pair of sugar tongs.
Rafe grabbed the nearest fellow by the arm. ‘What happened? How did they get in here? What happened to the security?”
“I dunno, sir,” said the man hoarsely. “Our guard showed up at quarter strength; we figured they were up to something big some other part of town. The antimachinists must’ve gotten every one they had to pull this off.”
The Circle Line trap, thought Rafe, heart sinking. The antimachinists must’ve found out about it, and struck where they knew we wouldn’t be watching.
“What about the hoses?” he asked.
“Burned. The shed was the first to go.” Hoses and other fire-fighting equipment were usually stored in a nearby shed for emergencies like this.
Come on, Roland, where are those nozzle-noses? Is the Machine sleeping?
Clang, clang, clang! Shouts of hope, people jumping out of the way. The fire brigade was here, a large box-like vehicle, exhaling steam, driven by a grim-faced man who stood at the wheel and the lever, wrenching, twisting, and turning. Men leapt down before the vehicle even came to a stop.
Hoses snaked through the air, and landed with thumps, one, two, three, four, every one that they had managed to cram onto the fire-cart. One fell at Rafe’s feet. He snatched up an end, dragged it to the nearest hydrant, jammed it onto the pipe inside.
“Ready?” He looked at the two men holding the other end. They gave him a thumbs up. Rafe twisted the lever. Pipes groaned, water grumbled deep underground, Rafe held his breath. If the water pipes had been damaged…
Water shot out of the hose, leaping for the fire. A ragged cheer went up. More gurgling and rumbling, then hissing as all the other hoses were trained on the fire. Soon, a solid curtain of water was falling on the burning building, beating back the flames. Rafe and some of the others grabbed sand bags from the fire-cart, and beat at the tiny sullen fires left behind when their monstrous mother retreated. It felt good to thump the fires out of existence.
The ground trembled. Comforting vibrations hummed in Rafe’s bones, machine chatter filled his ears. The nozzle-noses were here, coming through their underground ways. They would keep the fires below at bay, while sand and sweat and water took care of the ones above.
And if he kept beat-beat-beating, he wouldn’t have to think about the one he suspected had tipped the antimachinists off.
Rafe, covered in soot, his clothes reeking of chemicals and scorched fabric, burst into Tristan’s bedchamber.
“Wha…?” Tristan sat up far too quickly for one who had been supposedly sound asleep. His eyes, wide and fearful, held no trace of slumber.
Rafe crossed the bedchamber in a few quick strides and grabbed Tristan’s shoulders. “Tell me that you are not the one who warned the antimachinists.”
“What?” Tristan’s jaw hung open in shock. “Why would I…? Besides, they do have a point… ow!” Rafe’s fingers bit deeply into his flesh, and Tristan tried uselessly pry them loose. “Let me go, Rafe! At once! Where are my guards?”
Rafe shook him, just hard enough to get Tristan’s attention. “The Shelland compressor station was attacked tonight. Blown up. Three people dead, dozens frightened and displaced. Five houses fire-and-smoke damaged, not to mention how many districts have lost power for who knows how long. No heat, no light, no industry. Selene! They’ll be perishing with the cold.” His gaze bored into Tristan’s frightened blue eyes. “Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“I-I didn’t,” stammered Tristan.
Rafe let him go and stood back. Tristan rubbed his shoulders, face contorted into a grimace of pain.
“Get dressed,” said Rafe. “You’re going out to survey the damage.”
“Did my father…?” began Tristan.
“No. I am saying so. It’s about time you saw the other side of the coin.”
Tristan opened his mouth, glanced at Rafe’s ferocious soot-covered aspect, then thought better of it. “I’ll be right there.” He put his feet on his floor and disappeared behind the dressing screen.
A moment later, his muffled voice said, “Rafe? I’m sorry about this.” He sounded sincere.
Rafe said nothing.
“I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Rafe did not believe him.
Chapter Twenty Two
Oakhaven
IT HAD BEEN ALL too easy to shadow Tristan, so easy that Rafe wondered why none of the youths who comprised the Prince’s Guard had uncovered his activities and put an end to his excursions weeks ago. All the veterans—the former soldiers, the seasoned watchmen—had been pulled out to help elsewhere in the city, leaving the prince in the guardianship of younger sons supposedly eager for glory in the royal family’s service.
