Chapter 5

Pella weaved through the churning crowds, nimbly ducking through the forest of legs as she clutched the bag of fresh clams tautly under one arm. Her feet tapped a hasty rhythm on the slick, stony cobblestones, matching the pulse of the Gearworks above. The tick-tock of gears had become as familiar to her as the beat of her own heart, and the grinding lurch of rusty cogs was sensed a moment before it happened. As the throng around her suddenly canted, feet wide and arms spinning for balance, she darted through the momentary gap. By the time the crowd had righted itself, grumbling through nervous, ceilingward glances, she was already a block away, rounding the corner to the Seashell Bistro.

Pella had lived in Cog for nigh on a week before she fully fell in step with its inscrutable rhythms. In the absence of sun and stars, the citizens found new patterns to live by. Pella ate when she was hungry, slept when she was tired, and would have laughed in disbelief had she learned her reign of the tiny restaurant was coming to the end of its second month.

She had spent two of her pearls buying the store from Luzzem, and it cost a third pearl to get the place cleaned up, refurnished, and set up with all the restaurant tools of the trade. Within the first two weeks, she had made her money back.

Luzzem deserved a great deal of the credit. While Pella had made the restaurant a welcoming place for her loyal regulars, serving the exotic dishes of her tribe, Luzzem was working diligently behind the scenes with a fervor that working for himself had never seemed to kindle. He had taught her how to manage a menu, how to spot thieves and poor tippers in an instant, and how to run a kitchen and larder. He had helped her hire the two waitresses who would serve the meals as fast as she could prepare them. And, he taught her how to quickly and discreetly send the Oil-men on their way with their usual bribes, before their presence sent customers scurrying for quieter diners.

When asked why he didn’t simply settle in and enjoy his retirement, he would assert – a little too loudly – that he merely sought to keep himself out of the warpath of his shrewish wife.

Pella adjusted the bag of clams carefully, making sure the opening was still sealed as the greasy rain spattered around her. As she approached, one of the two waitresses practically dove out the door, scanning frantically up and down the street. The sight made Pella scowl at the inevitable delay. She had wanted to get the bag inside before the leaking salt water got into her woolen coat.

The waitress, wide-eyed, made a bee-line for her.

“What is it now, Rinalle?”

The girl, a full four years Pella’s senior, gulped. She was a tall and gangly creature, with wide pale eyes and lank, mousy hair that did a poor job of framing her face. Iron bangles hung from her gaunt wrists and they jingled as she bobbed on the balls of her feet.

“Them pipe-rats, they’re fighting again!”

Pella sighed as she hefted the sticky bag to Rinalle, and lead her back into the restaurant. The room was as she had left it. A low brazier squatted in each corner, their coals sending a play of orange light and shadow across the room. Even near the rain-slicked door, the air was toasty and fragrant. Dark red curtains hung from the walls, and the floor was a soft carpet of wood shavings and peanut shells. A single large seashell was hung over the doorframe. It had been fished from the bottom of Pella’s badly battered traveling pack, and it bore a small curl of etched writing that most patrons rarely deigned to read.

Like all buildings in Cog, the restaurant had a large opening in the ceiling from which several Gearworks depended. Since the mechanisms were all clustered near the kitchen, Pella had managed to rig up a few old raincoats into a sort of sluice, funneling the oily drizzle into a corner drain. She liked to tell customers that the soft susurrations of the funneled water sounded like the ocean’s roar. Currently, a mismatched pair of hoodlums were standing beneath the drape, having a rather one-sided argument.

Luzzem was tending the stoves behind the counter, and he tipped a spatula in Pella’s direction. The other waitress, a small, raven-haired girl named Zoral, stood near the counter, holding a battered mop in her grubby hands. She looked like she was trying to figure out a way to plausibly ignore the dispute, and showed visible relief as Pella entered.

A few regular customers sat at their usual tables, paying little mind to the arguing pair.

The bulk of the noise was coming from the shorter, scrawnier of the two. A reedy, twitchy man, Pella had always thought of Casp as competent, but temperamental. He freelanced for the poorer families in the block, working to effect Gearworks repairs and other light maintenance for those who liked to keep out of the path of the Oil-men. The tools of his trade, wrenches and saws, mostly, hung in a loose toolbelt slung lopsidedly about his hips. An oversized hardhat sat low on his ears, bobbling dangerously close to toppling off completely as the handy-man punctuated each word of his rant by jabbing a grease-stained finger into his partner’s chest.

That by itself was no mean feat, as the chest in question was almost a full arm’s span above Casp’s behelmed head. A towering, hairy titan with thick, scarred arms, Grumb seemed to be a man made entirely of right angles. When he could be coaxed to move, he did so with a slow, plodding gait. Pella had rarely heard the giant’s voice, and he seemed to know very few words. His broad, enormous face was currently pinched in apoplectic rage, and he seemed to be casting around for one of those precious words now. Probably something strong enough to quell Casp’s ire, yet still suitable for mixed company.

Pella crossed the restaurant, and with Zoral’s mop, managed to up-end the makeshift rain gutter onto the pair.

She stood, scowling, with her fists balled on her hips as the two sputtered to a halt, the anger doused by the sudden frigid downpour. There were a few muted chuckles among the patrons, and some napkins were offered to the pair.

“Why are you bothering our customers, Casp? You’re not bringing trouble in here, are you?”

Eyes darting about, the handyman coughed into a greasy fist.

“It’s Grumb, you see. He’s done it up good this time.”

“Hm? What’s he done now?”

“Slow fella like him, don’t always know where he is, see? He stumbled into a Refiner, he did.”

That prompted a loud cackle from the kitchen, and all three turned to see Luzzem stirring a stewpot with undeserved fury.

“Refiners, really now.” Luzzem spat. “Just another legend among gossipy pipe-rats.”

“They exist, they do! Grumb’s seen’m a bunch, too right. Right?” Casp elbowed Grumb in the breadbasket, the sound not unlike a heavy drum. The giant nodded ponderously.

“What’s a Refiner?” Pella demanded, looking from one man to the next.

“Well, see now,” began Casp, licking his lips with excitement as he warmed up to the topic. “You know how mommies like to keep their brats in line with scary bedtime stories about the Oil-men, right? Right?” Pella had heard no such thing, but she nodded anyway. “Well, that sort of story don’t scare the kids who already have an Oil-man or two in their family. They know them’s a bad sort, but not like a mystery or nothing. So what do those mommies tell those kids to set them straight?”

“Refiners?”

“Too right! Them’s a secret group, you see. Only the Oil-men — and some of us smarter pipe-rats, a’ course — know about them. They’re Oil-men that were too tough for the Oil-men, right? So the Queen’s all up in ‘em, gathering ‘em up and setting them loose to keep them Oil-men in check.”

“Hmph.” Pella fixed the pair with a look of scepticism, and even over the clatter in the kitchen, she heard Luzzem scoff. She cocked her head at Casp, raising an eyebrow. “So what exactly do these Refiners look like?” The pipe-rat threw his arms out, eyes wide. A few patron had to duck under the expansive gesture, and now looked up at him with mild annoyance.

“Huge fellas, they are! They don’t wear the helmets and aprons like the Oil-men, no they don’t. That sort of work is beneath’m, y’see. Not even a wrench. Them types prefer these heavy blue robes, regal and quiet-like. Lots o’ tattoos, nasty spiky ones.... and they only use these swords, see, big’uns the length o’ Grumb’s arm!”

Pella’s eyes slowly opened as Casp sputtered out his frantic description. Mind racing, she posed the first question that came to mind.

“Where were you?”

Casp frowned, but before he could get the next word out, a voice as sharp as a knife cut between them.

“That’s what I’d like to know!”

Casp, Pella, and a handful of flinching diners turned to face the restaurant’s sole entrance. A moment later, Grumb turned his head as well. Framed in the doorway was a scowling, matronly woman. She seemed to tower over the crowd, crackling with barely constrained rage. Her fine clothes were muddy from travel and the clearly noble jut of her chin parted the way as she waded through Pella’s customers. Her large alligator bag swung from her wrist like a flail. Casp’s jaw worked uselessly for a moment and he backed up a step, finding himself trapped up against Grumb’s breadth.

Pella picked up the corners of her stained work apron and curtseyed in the manner she’d seen done by the market girls.

“Evening, Missus Reichardt-Brown.”

The noblewoman turned to Pella with an indulging smile.

“Hullo there, dear.”

The smile hardened as she set her gaze back on poor, cowering Casp, who finally managed a stammer.

“Ev-ev-evening, Missus. We’s just on the way to report to yez.”

Reichardt-Brown snorted.

“No doubt. But clearly not with good news, oh no. Oh no, no, no.”

“Missus, y’see—”

“For if you had good news — and I should hope the exorbitant fee you asked for was to ensure good news — if you had good news, my boudoir would no longer be under four feet of water.”

“Well, Missus—”

“Were you aware: the safety valves in the Upper Stories kick in at approximately four feet of water?

“Well, Missus, I’d heard—”

“Where you aware that, since you accepted my payment, those safety valves decided to try to do the job you failed to do?”

“Now, Missus—“

”So I ask you, Mr. Casp: while my parlor, music room, and servants’ quarters were filling with water — at least no one can accuse me of mis-matched decor! — while my parlor, music room, and servants’ quarters were filling with water, where were you?”

Casp seemed only capable of gaping, like he had forgotten how to breath air. Pella politely cleared her throat, and both Reichardt-Brown and Casp turned to her.

“Missus, I’d like to hear Casp’s story, too. He says he saw a Refiner. Maybe after the dinner crowd has left, he could tell it without too many interruptions?”

The noblewoman’s heavily pancaked eyelids fluttered once, then again, then she turned about and started as though seeing the muted crowd of diner patrons for the first time.

“Oh yes, yes, yes. My sincerest apologies, dear. Your business before my pleasure, or something to that tune. To speak of which: please tell me I haven’t missed your nightly performance!” Pella smiled brightly.

“No, Missus. Please, take a seat. Rinalle will be by soon with your wine, a towel, and the house special.”

“Excellently done, as always.” Reichardt-Brown mused, as she settled her ample frame into a chair. At a loss for a graceful exit, Casp followed suit. Grumb sank into the chair between them, its wooden frame giving a single, stifled creak of complaint. Pella brushed off her apron, and turned to Luzzem who was stirring a potful of clams in the smoky kitchen.

“Anything need doing back there?” she called. The start of the ritual was recognized by the regular patrons of the Seashell Bistro, and the single, held breath of the crowd was finally released. Chairs scraped and cups and plates clinked, and a brief murmur of conversation began, rippled, and died out under a new sense of excited tension.

“Everything’s all taken care of here, Pella.” assured Luzzem, twirling a ladle around a gnarled finger.

Pella smiled, and trotted her way over to the large, battered crate against the wall. It had a large crack that ran down the lid, the result of meeting the head of a rather unfortunate patron some days ago. At the moment, two Simials were using the chest as a dining table. The pair slid their plates aside, and by gingerly taking her arms, lifted Pella atop the makeshift stage with a well-practiced arc. Pella turned to meet the upturned, onlooking faces. Smiles greeted her, and a few glasses were raised.

The last lingering murmurs of conversation died down. Zoral and Rinalle worked like ghosts, passing out fresh clam stew and putting out some of the table candles. A few of the closer diners put out their rolled cigarettes and hookahs carefully. The last time someone allowed smoke to get near Pella while she sang, she had choked on a few of the notes, inspiring the same two Simial patrons to introduce the man’s head to the nearest crate.

Pella drew in a slow breath, filling her lungs with the scented, warm air, and began. Much like her recipes, the patrons of Cog found her songs exotic and sharp, like a new spice for bland meals. Smiles softened and heads lolled to the flowing, descending melody as Pella drew them through her tribe’s dusk song. A perfect match to the slow slide of sunset, it required merely the slightest embellishments to capture an audience that only knew sunsets from paintings and books.

A few minutes, or maybe an hour later, she concluded the tender melody with final meters lingering out into a single, even tone. With her hands folded together, she bowed slightly, and for the second time that evening, the crowd let free the single, shared breath it held. Conversation began, mere murmurs as though the silence at the end was too sacred to profane by mere speech.

With the food eaten, wine drank, and another night shift looming, the crowd of contented diners began shrugging on raincoats and making their way out to the street. The tip jar by the door sang its own chiming melody as handfuls of bright beads struck the sides. One of the Simials gave Pella’s hair a good tousle as he ambled out into the darkness, and with that, the diner was empty, save its small staff, one considerably calmer noblewoman, and two grimy pipe-rats just shy of drunk.

Reichardt-Brown settled back, lighting a slender, clay pipe. She puffed slowly, blowing the smoke to one side as Pella drew up a chair to their table. Luzzem quickly collected Zoral and Rinalle and set them to their closing tasks, keeping his own nose buried in washing the stew pots. Settled in the oversized chair, Pella spoke quietly.

“I’d like to hear about the Refiner you saw.”

Reichardt-Brown, nodded, leaning over the table’s single candle.

“I would like to hear this too. Every detail.”

“Yes’m.” said, Casp. He glanced at Grumb, who nodded slowly. “It’s like this...”

Casp had set off from the Reichardt-Brown estate in the Upper Stories, ducking and weaving through the nest of pipes separating the lower floors from the top stratum of the Gearworks. Grumb was faring slightly worse, as carrying a length of pipe the size of a barrel moderately slowed his pace. Being berated by Casp every step probably wasn’t helping, either.

“C’mon, ya lummox! The royal pain’s under two feet o’ water already... Couple more feet an’ we’ll be too late, then maybe we don’t get paid! Ain’t got no time for your lollygaggin’, daydreamin’, mollycoddlin’, goldbrickin’...”

(“Perhaps you can omit a few details,” offered Reichardt-Brown. Casp shrugged with mild irritation.

“At least he’s honest,” offered Pella.)

The pair descended into the churning cogs of the Gearworks, with Casp keeping two heavily gloved fingers on the main feedline that serviced the Reichardt-Brown estate. By sight, finding broken parts was nearly an impossible task. A gear might be turning along, as smooth as silk, and a mechanic who relied on his eyes would never know it was turning a revolution too fast. Or too slow. With an artisan’s fingers on this wing’s central transmission, Casp could easily pick out the faulty conduit. It was the only one not ticking apace with the rest of the city.

He was about to pull out the conduit to replace it (“Honest I was!”) when the sound of an argument made them slink back. They managed to hide – no mean feat for Grumb – behind a solid wall of drive chains as three Oil-men came stomping around the corner. The Oil-men were having a heated argument, something about how much money they’d collected on the last stop on their route. One of them had just lifted his wrench in anger when something sharp and whisper-quiet darted from the shadows above him. The three paused, and the one who had been about to strike screamed as his wrench, and the hand holding it, tumbled to the floor in a bloody mess.

A man wearing blue robes climbed lazily out of the pipes above them, and he carried a big, curving sword that was already streaked with blood. He never said a word. He just cut those men down with three broad strokes of his sword, and left them in pieces on the floor. He then sat there, waiting, and cleaning his sword, as if expecting more to show up at any moment. It was hours before he left, before Casp and Grumb could finally climb safely from their cramped hiding space. Freaked and afraid of being spotted from the shadows, the two had retreated to the safety of the Bistro.

“Oh, that’s a terrible story.” Reichardt-Brown said, wincing. Pella nodded.

“I’m glad you’re okay, the both of you. But how’d you know that was a refiner?”

“Well,” mused Casp, lifting his helmet to scratch his forehead with a dirty thumbnail, “you know us pipe-rats, always sharing tricks ‘o the trade. We’d heard a few things before, and he matched the description.”

“Blue robes, and a sword?”

“And tattoos. But yeah, not a lot of people carryin’ swords in Cog. Why do you ask, Pella?”

Pella frowned, thinking of the man who risked his life to get her away from the Oil-men. It didn’t really mesh with the story she heard, vague as it was.

“It’s… well… I guess it’s nothing. Thank you, Casp.”

“Yes, indeed,” murmured Reichardt-Brown, pensively. “I believe every word of course, and so you are forgiven, but please, dear Casp, answer me this.”

“Yes, Missus?”

“This ‘refiner’ just wandered away on his own?”

“Well, not exactly, Missus. Y’see, you live in the Gearworks, you get to see the need for certain… tools, beyond the usual you find in your toolbelt.” Casp reached into Grumb’s enormous rucksack, and pulled out a small, wheeled device bearing a clockwork key. He smiled and was about to go into his pitch when the front door of the bistro slammed open with a jarring smash.

The four seated around the table turned to look as an Oil-man, glowering and with wrench drawn, prowled into the restaurant. Three more followed him, wearing similar looks of disgust. Luzzem slowly ducked down behind the counter. Casp had gone rigid, the color draining from his face. Reichardt-Brown noticed his fingers crawling toward the key of the device he held, and she placed a calming hand on his forearm. He blinked, and his fingers slid from the key. Grumb, apparently, was holding as still as possible, trying to disguise himself as a wall.

Pella stood, hands on hips, and frowned at the Oil-men.

“You got your bribe yesterday. Next time I’m asking for a receipt.”

The corner of the Oil-man’s mouth curled up humorlessly.

“Pella?” he inquired flatly.

“Yes?”

“Pella Juren?”

“Yessss?” Pella replied, a little more cautiously, cocking her head. “What’s this about?”

In the strange sing-song that came from living among the gears, the Oil-man recited, as if from rote memory.

“Your presence has been required at the foot of Her Majesty’s throne, and you are to come with us at the soonest possible convenience. Failure to comply will result in fines and punishment,” his voice dropped slightly, and the smirk became slightly more genuine, “at the acting Oil-man’s discretion.”

A chill ran down Pella’s back, and she thought back over the past few weeks, wondering what she could possibly have done to warrant a meeting with the Queen, for good or ill. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grumb’s massive fist closely closing, a shadow darkening his face. She didn’t know if he could take on an Oil-man, let alone a squad of four, so she spoke quickly.

“All right, let’s go. Let me just get my—“

“You aren’t to bring anything.” The Oil-man smoothly cut across her. “Just come with us. The sooner we all go merrily to the palace, the sooner you could be back in your… little diner, here.” The man’s goggles gleamed in the candlelight, and he bared a row of crooked, pearly teeth. Pella sighed, and addressed the counter where she presumed Luzzem was still hiding.

“I’ll be back. Just lock up like normal, okay?”

She walked to the door without looking back, painfully aware of Casp, Grumb, and Reichardt-Brown’s eyes on her. The other Oil-men parted, grinning, letting her step outside. Only the Oil-man who spoke followed her.

“Aren’t they coming?” Pella asked.

“Oh, no, no… they’re here to ensure your safe return.”

Pella thought she knew what he meant, and the cold trickle of fear continued as the Oil-man marched her to the palace grounds, deep in the heart of Cog.

The minor twinges of fear were thoroughly, if only momentarily, dispelled as Pella’s widening eyes adjusted to the glittering splendor before her. A vast chamber of gilded columns and painted windows towered over her head. Mirrored walls multiplied endlessly in the distance, under a ceiling of twinkling crystal chandeliers. Scores of masked dancers cavorted before her, the ladies’ gilded petticoats flaring and snapping with each crazed twirl. The multicolored jewels adorning the men’s jackets caught their golden light, sparkling with every color of the rainbow. Colored scarves twirled in their wakes, a frenzy of limbs and silks parading in endless waves to the shrill refrains of a single, frantic violin.

The Oil-men hesitated a moment, one of them pulling out a stained, spotted handkerchief and wiping his grimy brow a moment. With each holding Pella by a shoulder, began to walk her through the gamboling crowd. Though none of the masks turned to face them, the dancers parted like curtains as the two Oil-men delved into the ballroom. Pella turned her head, staring in open wonderment at each passing dancer. Soundlessly, smoothly, they glided in endless circles around her.

The Oil-men strode an unwavering path through the middle of the ballroom, moving slower than necessary as they sought the source of the tinny, capering music. The dancers fanned out to the sides, and the two enforcers and their tiny captive found themselves before an enormous dais, lined with gold and polished to a mirror sheen. Upon it stood two figures, both dressed in flowing crimson gowns that pooled against the floor.

The one furthest from Pella was the player of the warbling violin. She was a tall, lithe woman, wearing a full-faced mask of silver. The mask was a featureless curve, save two shadowy eyeholes. Her honey-blonde hair was done up in a severe bun, and several silver torcs lined her arms. Beads of sweat stood on the violinist’s taut neck as she sawed the bow with wild abandon, throwing the weight of her elegant arms into each rippling spiccato.

The other gowned figure was a shorter, slightly hunched woman, pale-skinned and gaunt. Her mask, also silver, only covered her eyes and nose – a bloodless mouth and narrow chin protrude from below. Its surface had been molded to give it the appearance of a heavy, ponderous brow. The woman leaned on a twisted mahogany cane. She inclined her head slightly as Pella and the Oil-men approached. It was the only aspect of her that made Pella believe the gnarled figure was actually alive.

Pella watched, enraptured, as the tip of the bow cut dizzying swaths through the air. The dancers kept their distance as they twirled and spun, and Pella felt she was in the eye of one of the great twisters that occasionally came in from the sea, a storm of limbs and gold summoned by the lone violinist. The Oil-men shifted uncomfortably about her, but she paid them no mind. She made to take a step forward, but stopped abruptly as she suddenly found the tip of the mahogany cane pressed to her breastbone. She looked up its gleaming length, and met the blue-grey eyes of the other woman. The woman simply shook her head once, the gesture barely noticeable. Biting her lip, Pella stepped back, and the cane slowly slid back.

The violinist tore frenetically through the last few stanzas of the song, dipping and swaying with each rippling tremolo, her silver mask flashing reflections of the whirling mob. The last note sang, clear and harsh, trembling on the string as the dancers whirled to a halt, facing the center dais in neat columns. The violinist drew her bow back with a flourish and, chest heaving for breath, made the slightest of bows to the dancers. Wordlessly, they turned and parted, filing out between the columns that lined the room. In moments, Pella found herself alone with the two masked women and the two uneasy Oil-men, in a room that suddenly felt far, far too big. Even bigger, now that the two Oil-Men had stepped back, one to either side. In the silence, the distant metronome of the Gearworks below was just audible.

The woman with the cane drew off her mask, revealing a slender face just beginning to show the lines of age. Her short, night-black hair bore a few streaks of iron. Her smile was taut, and didn’t quite reach her eyes, as she looked down at Pella. With grace, she folded the cane up under her arm and bowed, one gloved hand indicating the violinist.

“Her Highness, Her Excellency, Sole Keeper of the Gears and Undisputed Sovereign of the Conclave of Cog, Queen Venute.” She straightened, before bowing again, the outstretched hand coming in to rest just below her neck. In a quieter voice, she continued, “I am the Queen’s Vizier, Madame Croon. And you are Cappellana Juren, grand-daughter of Luthier Juren, and you have come to our fair city of Cog way from the distant western shores, where it does not rain.”

Pella slowly curtseyed, her feet unsteady below her as she discreetly – she hoped – dried her sweaty palms on the hem of her dress.

“Everyone just calls me Pella, ma’am.”

The Vizier offered the same cold smile, and her voice took a silky edge.

“You are only to talk to answer our questions, dear Pella. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you know where your grandfather is?”

“No, ma’am.”

“When did you last see him?”

Pella had to break her gaze with the Vizier, eyes darting to the side. She thought of her grandfather often, and the memories of their sudden parting no longer had the power to bring her to tears. For a moment, she considered telling the Vizier that Juren was dead. A sudden coldness welled up in the pit of her stomach, for she abruptly realized it might be true. He might have been killed moments after she fled that battle with Edgeless. She pushed the gruesome image away.

“Five or six weeks ago, I think. Ma’am,” she hastily added. The Vizier slowly cocked her head to one side.

“Where was this?”

“On the plains, ma’am. Right on the edge of the storm clouds.”

“At any time, did Luthier Juren give you something to bring to Cog?”

The question startled her, and she recalled the little travel bag she still had. It was hung on a peg in the restaurant’s spare room, the one she used as a bedroom. The last time she opened the bag was to take out the little engraved shell that she hung over the front door. What else was in there?

“He gave me a small knife, ma’am. Flint. And a shell necklace, and some money.”

“Nothing else?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Nothing special to remember your tribe by? A horn, perhaps… or a small flute?”

“No, ma’am.”

Pella sensed that the questions were supposed to lead her, but she couldn’t imagine to what. The Vizier traced one finger slowly under a thin, lower lip, a perfectly manicured eyebrow slowly arching.

“Pella, do you know what treason is?”

“Come now, that is no question to ask of a child.”

The admonishment came from behind the Vizier, a strong voice barely muffled by a featureless mask. Madame Croon and Pella turned to the Queen, who had already set down her priceless violin. With both hands, Venute delicately slipped off the mask. Pella found herself looking up into a rosy, heart-shaped face that beamed down at her. Two dark, twinkling eyes regarded her warmly.

“Don’t mind our Vizier. She is always concerned with treason-this and sedition-that and treachery-of-the-other. So tiresome!” Venute laughed. With a swish of her gown, she glided down from the dais and stood before Pella. Madame Croon slid into position behind Venute like a scowling shadow. “Pella, my dear girl. We hope you can help us.”

“I’ll try, ma’am.”

Venute gave the barest of glances to the two Oil-men, then turned and began walking down the length of the enormous dance hall. Madame Croon gathered up the violin, carefully cradling it in one arm as she trotted after the Queen, her cane skipping against the floor. One of the Oil-men went to put a huge gloved hand on Pella’s shoulder, but it was unnecessary – she was already chasing after the Queen, moccasined feet slipping soundlessly on the polished dance floor.

The Queen reached the far end of the chamber and stood before one of the many mirrored walls. As Madame Croon and Pella drew closer, a seam opened and the wall slid aside, leading into a dark corridor that canted up and out of sight. The familiar click-clack of machinery echoed out through the open portal as Venute swept through. Pella hesitated, but the Vizier took her hand and drew her in. She blinked against the darkness as they climbed the sloping corridor.

Fifty paces took them to an enormous steel door, bearing years of scratches and grooves and topped by a single massive dial. It was left just ajar enough to allow them entrance, single-file, into a room tinged with a greenish glow.

When she could see in the bare, flickering gaslights, she found herself in a large, rusty chamber, and facing a small army. Two dozen Oil-men stood in neat rows, their greasy leather aprons looking even patchier in the shadows. Goggles and wrenches gleamed. Standing before them, with a puffed chest and neatly ironed robes, stood a man Pella felt she should recognize. His broad, straw-colored beard framed an eager smile as he bowed low to Venute. As he stood, his piercing grey eyes fell on Pella.

Feeling suddenly vulnerable, she looked away to examine the chamber. It was taller than she first noticed, the ceiling disappearing in the darkness above. Thick cables hung in slack loops from some anchor high above. Enormous gears, rusted and grinding, lay in deep recesses in the mottled iron walls. She expected it would take the entire team assembled before her to lift even one of these master gears from its socket. The inner spokes of the ears formed a churning web of steel around the great, ancient room. Somewhere nearby, a steam pipe was leaking, and the soft hiss underscored the ticking heartbeat of the city of Cog.

Some vague formalities fulfilled, the Queen stepped back from the bearded man, who turned his hungry gaze on Pella. She cringed slightly, and the man barked a laugh. Venute glowered slightly, and the man turned the laugh into a cough. Clearing his throat, he bowed again to the Queen.

“Pardon, Highness. Are we ready?”

“Yes, Ollrick. Proceed.”

Ollrick turned, fishing about his loose robes with one hand. His other hand, Pella now saw, was resting on the pommel of a long, curving sword. From an inside pocket, he withdrew a round metal knob, with which he made a rather ostentatious show of polishing on the front of his robe. After examining it for far too long, Ollrick strode to one of the curving, iron walls that made up the chamber. With a single finger, he traced a waist-height a series of threaded pegs that jutted from the metal, between two of the large gears. Pella watched him count out some predetermined number of pegs and, finding the one he sought, attached the round knob to it with a loud click, then gave the device a twist.

For the first few heartbeats, nothing happened. Pella looked about the room, and saw a few of the Oil-men shifting nervously in their ranks. Madame Croon looked even more pale than before. Looking the other way, Pella was surprised to see Venute at her side, smiling down benignly, seemingly oblivious to the tension all around her. She gestured with an elegant tilt to her head, and Pella followed the indication towards one of the large banks of gears set in the wall. She wasn’t sure what she was being shown, so she silently watched the gears dance on their axles. As she was about to admit she had no idea what was going on, her ears picked up the slightest of changes in the room about her.

The ticking from the large bank of gears had fallen out of sync with the rest of the room. Like an exhaled breath, the pause between each tick was growing longer. Some steam flared from an unseen jet above, and with a minor shudder, the enormous gears in that portion of wall began to slow, as well. All were silent and watching as, finally, the set of gears stopped with a metallic screech, the spokes of cog lining up perfectly with the neighbor on its axle to form a triangular corridor through the building-sized block of machinery.

Wearing a look of triumph that didn’t look completely genuine, Ollrick finally turned and bowed to Venute. Replacing the knob in his robes, his voice crackled with excitement.

“Shall I lead on, Your Highness?”

“At once, Ollrick.”

Ollrick turned on a heel, and barked a sing-song command to the Oil-men.

“You six, after me. You six there, follow the Queen. The rest, wait here until we are out. No-one follows us.”

Satisfied, Ollrick immediately ducked through the corridor, his boots beating a heavy staccato on the slick metal. Going two-by-two, the six Oil-men he had indicated followed after, hands hovering over wrenches and goggled heads turning this way and that, until they disappeared from view in the darkness. Pella strained to see how far the tunnel went, the beat of her heart drowning out the clockwork patter around them.

“In we go,” crowed Verute, her hand pressing to the small of Pella’s back and giving her a gentle shove towards the tunnel. Pella’s feet felt like lead as she and the Queen entered the tunnel. Verute had to duck slightly under the join of the sprocket’s spokes, but they were able to walk into the darkness side-by-side. Close behind, Pella heard the muffled panting of Madame Croon trying to keep pace.

“Where are we going?” Pella finally managed to ask.

“Up.” said Verute, simply.

“Aren’t we already above the Gearworks?”

Verute’s tinkling laugh echoed throughout the jungle of gears.

“My dear girl, the Gearworks are only the distant echoes of the true machines of Cog.”

“Is that where we’re going, ma’am?”

“Oh yes. Upwards to the true seat of power in the Conclave.”

“Ma’am, if the Gearworks are... are echoes... what are they the echoes of?”

Verute threw a sidelong glance down at Pella as they strode the corridor. Her dark eyes danced.

“Strings.” she said.

Pella pondered that answer, but, sensing the Queen had decided to end the conversation, said nothing.

The corridor opened up into a faintly glowing room. This chamber also stretched upwards, further than Pella could see, but unlike the previous chamber, the walls appeared to be made of glass. Enormous, rounded panels enclosed a space about fifty paces across, and beyond the thick glass, the ever-present stormclouds of Cog roiled and blew. A constant torrent of rain splattered grimy and grey against the enormous panes, but the sound was completely muted. Only the soft ticking of the gears behind them accompanied the click of their boots. A bolt of lightening briefly illuminated the room, casting sharp black shadows against the wall, causing one of the Oil-men to drop his wrench in a loud clatter on the floor. Ollrick winced, and glared at the man as he shamefacedly retrieved the tool.

Ollrick, still grimacing, turned his attentions back to the tiny panel on the wall. In the dim light, he was examining a roll of switches. From what Pella could see from under his elbow, each switch appeared to be labeled with an old piece of tape that, at some point ages ago, held writing. With sudden decisiveness, his hand darted out and flipped one of the switches. There was a low hum, and all around them, flickering gaslights built into the iron struts flickered to life.

“Well, that’s a start,” he muttered. His gloved finger traced the line of switches, before pausing under one that looked identical to its brethren. He drew a slow breath, then turned to look at Verute, his finger still hovering. “You should probably brace yourself, your Highness.”

“We appreciate the concern, Ollrick. We have been here before, and to those that haven’t,” her gentle gaze fell momentarily on Pella, before flicking to the Oil-men who still lingered by the entrance, “well, it is not something to be overly worried about. Activate the switch.”

“Your Highness—“

”Ollrick, activate the switch.” The command was no louder than before, yet some edge in her tone made Ollrick flinch back. He pursed his lips, causing his beard to bristle, then gingerly flipped the switch. A loud clank from below the floor startled everyone a step back, save for the Queen and Ollrick. Some large device whirred into life, pinging metallically throughout the platform. With the slow, grinding sound of rusted metal, the entire floor lifted up an inch, causing Pella to stagger. A hand reached out and steadied her shoulder, and once again Pella found herself face-to-face with Verute. Who winked.

Another hidden bit of machinery clanked and, with surprising grace, the platform began rising upward with steady speed. The glass walls slid soundlessly past them as the elevator rose up through the clouds. The tiny sparks of gaslights in the chamber’s metal ribs climbed with them, and through her amazement, Pella was able to see the taut expressions on everyone’s faces. Ollrick was looking sickly but pleased, stroking his beard and watching the clouds whip past. Madame Crone looked dazed, and clutched her cane helplessly with one hand and the Queen’s violin and bow in the other. The Oil-men had backed away from the glass walls. Some were doing their best to look bored, as though this were an everyday part of their job. A few of the less self-aware had lifted their goggles and now stared, mouth agape and eyes rolling, at technology way beyond their means. Only Verute seemed unchanged, still wearing the same gentle, benign smile and looking as though she couldn’t care less where she was. As for Pella, she felt like she left her stomach about ten stories below them.

Endless clouds slipped by, marked only by the occasional gust or flash of lightning, as the climb entered its second minute. Soundlessly, the platform slowed and a massive, arched door slid down to greet them. With a pneumatic hiss, the door opened before them, and a wall of billowing steam tumbled out around their legs. A few of the Oil-men stumbled back. Pella flinched as a heavy, gloved hand settled on her shoulder. She looked up to see Ollrick standing next to her, looking grim. Verute gestured expansively, and the crowd began filing through the door, two by two.

Ollrick’s hand was tensed on her shoulder, poised as if to grab her at the slightest hesitation, so Pella moved with the Oil-men. The Queen walked by her side, her lovely gown swishing with each step, even as patches of condensation began to form in the heavy steam. The air in the room was thick and hard to breathe, each lungful of steam burned vaguely in her chest as the sweat began to run in rivulets down her neck. All around her, machinery hummed and pinged, setting off little geysers of steam and the occasional grind of ancient gears.

Eyes stinging, Pella looked up to take in the entirety of the room. Glass-walled, the storm outside rumbled and churned, reflecting the glittering red light from numerous gas lamps set into the arching support beams. The beams spanned upward, each a single massive piece of some odd, polished metal, all connecting in a parabolic dome several hundred feet above their heads. All around the room were arrays of wires, or taut strings perhaps, that stood ghostly in the churning steam. An odd sense of familiarity nagged at Pella as the machinery gave off a weird, keening sound that seemed to chase itself around the room in endless echoes.

Verute lead them up the spiraling platforms, until the floor was lost in the swirling jets of steam. She had been watching Pella’s face, and seeing the slow flicker of recognition, she smiled.

“You know this place.” It was not a question.

“No, ma’am. I just... I thought I... something.” She trailed off, looking about in unease.

“Pella, did you know your grandfather once worked for the palace?”

Pella tensed at the sudden relevation, and looked up, blinking in surprise.

“No, ma’am.”

“Oh yes. He might have become one of our finest engineers, or so my father’s diaries tell me. He was once here, in the Stringworks, when he was only a few years older than you.”

“Bastard definitely taught me a few things,” muttered Ollrick, not nearly quietly enough. Verute looked up at him – her face momentarily hidden from Pella’s view – and he stepped back instinctively, grimacing a quick apology. When the queen turned back, she was still softly smiling.

“He was only here a moment, and yet, he immediately knew how to control the Stringworks. And so, I ask you, Pella, granddaughter of Juren: What do you see?”

Pella scanned the rows of machinery set about the room, following each sharp seam and line of bolts that held the ticking machinery together. There were only a few gears, here and there, and not a single lever or button that she could see. To her, the machines seemed purposeless. Once again, the persistent feeling struck her that something in this room was actually familiar to her, but as she looked to the ceiling, the sensation slipped away. The steam was making her long for the slightly chilly air of the Lower Steps and the rest of her unfinished dinner.

“Machines, ma’am.” Pella said, softly. Verute’s head angled sharply, and she looked down at Pella with dark, regal eyes. The smile seemed a little strained.

“Yessss, obviously they are machines, child. What can you tell me about them?” she prompted.

“They... they’re shiny? I’m sorry, ma’am, I barely understand how clockworks, er, work.”

“Did your grandfather have a musical instrument when he left your tribelands?” The strange question threw Pella for a moment, and she mouthed noiselessly before responding.

“No, ma’am.”

“No drums, or a horn, or perhaps a violin like mine?”

“No, ma’am.” Pella caught a few of the Oil-men shifting uncomfortably nearby. Sweat was pouring down their grimy faces. Madame Croon looked like a wrung out rag, all the color gone, and she barely held onto the queen’s violin with both hands.

“No, ma’am.”

The queen straightened, and beckoned for Ollrick to step closer. He looked openly miserable at this point, weighted down by the layers of steam, his face flushing a bright red behind the tangle of his blond beard.

“Bring out the whistle, Ollrick. Quickly, quickly...” Verute scowled as he fumbled in his robes, eventually withdrawing a thin, silver whistle that Pella immediately recognized.

“That’s Edgeless’ whistle! Where’d you find it?”

“An edgeless? Which edgeless? What was his name?” Ollrick snarled in sudden fury.

“Ollrick!” the queen glowered in rage. Ollrick clenched his jaw, his eyelid twitching slightly as he regained control. He held up the whistle a few inches from Pella’s face. It gleamed in the gas lights.

“This isn’t your grandfather’s?”

“No, sir.”

“It didn’t come from your tribe?”

“No, sir.”

He shoved the whistle back into his robes with a violent gesture and turned to the queen, who regarded him coolly.

“Maybe the rest of the Oil-men found something, your Highness.”

“Perhaps. In any case, I think we are done here.”

“Your orders, your Highness?”

Verute sighed, the gentle smile returning as she and Ollrick regarded Pella.

“Keep her in the dungeon. That ought to bring out Luthier, if he is once more skulking about Cog.”

Heavy hands settled on Pella’s shoulders and she was forcibly turned back towards the platform. Instinctively, she tried yanking her arm out from under the weight. Steely fingers closed painfully around her upper arm, and she felt the broad nudge of a wrench against her back.

“Allrighty now miss, don’t cause a fuss and there won’t be no fuss, right?” came the sing-song mutter from one of the Oil-men. The other chuckled under his breath. The rest of the Oil-men, surrounding the Queen and Ollrick, were quickly swallowed up by the steam as they escorted her down the broad, curving ramp that lead back to the strange elevator. Verute’s voice echoed dully against the metallic ticking of the machines.

“Bring me the report from the Oil-men searching her little restaurant as soon as they return.”

Tick-tock-tick.

“Also check the buildings next door, they may have stashed something with their neighbors.”

Tick-tock-tick.

“Double the patrols through the Gearworks. If Luthier Juren has returned to Cog, he will probably use them as a refuge.”

Tick-tock-tick.

“Yes, Ollrick, don’t stammer like that, you may hunt down this edgeless, just do try to keep him alive for questioning—“

Tick-tock-CLANK.

The Oil-men barely staggered at the mis-timed rattle of the vast machinery, but the stagger was enough for Pella to twist out from under their hands and bolt to the edge of the ramp. The Oil-men turned to chase her, but she had already grabbed the railing and begun to slip over the edge of the ramp. A wrench clanged into the platform, missing her hand by a mere inch. She cried out at let go, dropping a full armspan to sprawl on the broad top of one of the many ticking machines. The metal was scalding against her back, and she rolled off with a whimper, the cotton weave of her dress blackened from the grime and heat. She dropped again, landing in a crouch on the floor, while all about her the frantic rattle of boots echoed from the underside of the ramp.

“Why di’n’t you hold onto her?”

“Why di’n’t you!?”

The first Oil-man swore, and Pella saw his shadow pass by through the crack of two machines. She quickly darted the other way, trying to gain some distance. From far above, muted by the hiss of steam, came an indistinct call, followed by a sharply barked order. She turned, and rolled under another machine, a giant vat covered in gauges, just in time to slip the patrol of the second Oil-man. When she heard his footfalls turn the corner, she crawled back out and began a flat-out run towards the elevator.

She saw the silhouette of the Oil-man looming through the curtains of steam a moment before he lunged at her, and just managed to duck the wide swing of his arms as he went for a desperate tackle. She turned, barely keeping her footing on the slick metal, and edged between two machines where she hoped he couldn’t reach.

The claw of a wrench appeared in the gap and with a savage twist, forced the steel plating wider. A gloved hand snaked between the plates, and made a blind lunge for her. Pella shrieked and stumbled back deeper into the machinery. Her elbow nudged some protruding element and the machine lurched noisily, several scalding geysers of steam shooting in all directions. A jet caught her in the face as she writhed, and she coughed violently, gasping for air as her cheeks blistered and her throat began to burn. The probing arm leapt back, followed by a wounded cry.

“Ahh, you brat, that hurt!”

Pella doubled over, her hands clearing the scalding water from her face as she desperately rasped for air. The hand reappeared, clutching a brutal looking wrench. The wrench rattled chaotically against the walls, scoring the metal as it lunged closer and closer to her.

“You’ll pay for that, they’ll never find you where we’ll- urk!” The Oil-man’s threat was cut short by a loud, meaty thud, accompanied by the shrill twang of a broken violin string. Eyes streaming, unable to control the burning coughing, Pella peered out from the machinery. Madame Croon, still coated in a fine sheen of sweat, stood over the sprawled form of the Oil-man. The queen’s violin hung from her gnarled hand, the delicate neck snapped in two. Croon met Pella’s gaze, seemingly unable to decide on what to say. After a moment, she spoke.

“Fortunately for us, it is hot in here, for otherwise he may not have taken his helmet off.” She pursed her lips. “A lesson harshly learned. Let’s get you out of here before it gets hotter.” She held out a pale, trembling hand and Pella lunged for it. Within moments, they had her dislodged from the machine. Indicating a direction, Croon quickly led Pella away.

“Why–“ Pella croaked, but she couldn’t force out any more words. Her throat felt shredded from the blast of steam, and her face felt raw. “Why–“

”All Verute wants is to know how to control the Stringworks.” The Vizier pursed her lips, pausing at an intersection to make sure all was clear. “It can be a very potent weapon.”

“How–“

”The weather problems we’ve had are only the tip. The Stringworks control every part of Cog, and someone who knows how to use them can make any demands they want. It’s true, the weather problems are because the Stringworks need to be... recalibrated. But knowing how to do so is the most dangerous knowledge someone could have.”

They had reached the elevator, and the Vizier hustled Pella into the middle of the platform. Scanning the rolling banks of steam and seeing no-one else, she hit the button on the wall. The platform began to hum as the gas lights sparked back to life. Madame Croon looked down at Pella, a sad smile creasing her wrinkled face.

“I will never see Cog fall under the rule of a tyrant.”

The platform began to sink, and Pella staggered to keep her footing. She looked up at Madame Croon, eyes wide, desperately trying to ask the question her voice couldn’t form. The Vizier was already sliding out of view as the elevator descended.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t go back to your restaurant. Just run and hide. Go home.”

With a gust of blessedly frigid air, the elevator picked up speed, the wind whipping the sweat from Pella’s back. The Vizier was gone, and Pella was trapped on the platform until it completed its journey. She sat on the elevator, blankly watching the stormclouds darken around her, feeling too wrung out to cry.

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