Chapter 7

Two hours later, Pella hugged her grandfather goodbye and set off with Casp and Grumb. She kept her eyes cast low, not wanting either of the two men to see her cry again. Casp walked with a swagger that was a little too calculated to be genuine, while Grumb plodded along stolidly.

To all appearances, the three of them, Pella included, looked like Cog’s typical pipe-rats, loaded down with the myriad knickknacks and tools they were known to use in their profession. A discerning eye, deigning to take a second glance, would notice the large engine block strapped to the giant’s back, or the all-terrain tires the smaller pipe-rats rolled before them, but those items wouldn’t have invoked undue curiosity. Most citizens of Cog had some hand-me-down story of a pipe-rat repairing a radiator with a pair of pantyhose and a single twist of wire.

Casp led Pella through the tangled maze of the Gearworks. She moved cautiously, for all about them were turning, clanking gears, their teeth endlessly gnashing with soft ticking noises. Pella had always heard the sounds of the machinery from the streets below, but here amidst the machinery, it was almost deafening.

“Almost there!” Casp bellowed over the chattering gears. He pointed down through a crack in the ragged framework, and Pella glimpse a metal panel covered in gritty fingerprints.

“What is that?” she yelled over the din. The effort hurt her throat. Casp shook his head in non-comprehension, so she leaned closer and yelled it a second time, cupping her hands about her mouth. He smiled, and patted the panel gingerly.

“This is our way into the palace! One of the many ways the Oil-men get in an’ out of the palace an’ directly into their beloved Gearworks, right here.” Pella’s eyes widened and she gestured in disbelief to the panel. Gasp held up a reassuring hand. “We’d hear them comin’ a mile away! And none o’ them are gonna be on the other side anyway, once your gran’daddy gets goin’.” Pella shrugged expansively, and Casp smiled. “Of course we won’t be able to see him. That’s why I have this!” He reached into a dirty pouch pocket and withdrew a pocket watch. He clicked it open and showed its face to Pella.

“We go in at eleven!” he shouted, tapping the number on the dial, and Pella nodded, hefting the heavy pack of parts on her back.

Edgeless checked his pocket watch as he strolled through the vast pedestrian walkway before the palace. Four minutes left. He tried to avoid scanning the Gearworks hovering above. It was unlikely he would be able to find Pella and the gesture could be taken as a sign of nervousness. As it was, the pedestrians about him were already giving him a wide berth. A very small percentage of the city knew of the refiners, and even less knew of the edgeless, so he presumed the respectful distance must be due to the sword sheathed by his side. He wondered if the fact that it wasn’t an actual sword would have made any difference.

Five paces behind him strode Juren, quietly jostling his way through the crowd. Edgeless ducked into a small alcove just in the shadow of the palace entrance, and a moment later Juren joined him. The old man looked flushed as he drew up.

“Three minutes. I don’t think this part of the plan will work.”

“So we’ll fight through if we have to,” said Juren, “but I’m betting it will buy us some time. That Ollrick slug wore the same refiner robes you wear, which means that at least the Oil-men and palace guards recognize the uniform.”

“All right. But the moment they get a close look at my ‘sword,’ they’re going to catch on quick.”

“Right.”

With two minutes to the deadline, Edgeless took Juren by the scruff of his cloak and began marching him up the stairs to the palace. Juren did his best to look downtrodden and furious, squirming at the grip and muttering under his breath. As they passed by the nearest guard, Edgeless gave a authoritative sneer and indicated Juren.

“Got another for the dungeons.”

The guard snapped a salute.

“Acknowledged, sir. Go on in, you know the way.”

Edgeless nodded curtly, and pushed Juren through the huge, steel doors. A moment after they disappeared from view, the junior guard looked at the senior.

“I didn’t recognize that one, sir. Was he a refiner?”

“Kid, the last guard that got in the way of a refiner ended up about a head shorter. You want to go catch that guy to ask him his credentials, you do it far away from me, got it?”

Edgeless pushed Juren down the hallway, drawing sidelong glances of practiced disinterest from the bustling clerks. The few guards they passed saluted, and they made their way to a smaller corridor where the traffic seemed lighter.

“One minute left,” said Edgeless, releasing Juren’s cloak. Juren looked around, musing out loud.

“What’s the quickest way to get the attention of the entire palace?”

“Find a door we’re not supposed to open, and open it,” Edgeless shrugged. He also began looking around, then he pointed back the way they came. “There’s two guards with keys standing in front of that rather well-reinforced door. What say we go make their acquaintance?”

Juren smirked, and headed down toward the guarded door. He moved slow enough for Edgeless to draw near the second guard. The guard before Juren managed a rather professional yawn, shifting his spear from one shoulder to the other as he intoned his carefully worded warning.

“This room is off-limits to the common citizenry. Please step back before—“ He was cut short as Juren belted him across the face. His partner started, and managed to get his spear lowered in Juren’s direction before the pommel of Edgeless’ still-sheathed weapon connected with the back of his skull. The guard Juren struck righted himself with a snarling cross-swing of his spear, but Juren was too close. The old man easily caught the spear mid-swing and wrenched it from the guard’s grip, thrusting the tip downward to pierce the guard’s boot.

“My foot!” he managed to shriek, before Juren’s right hook knocked him cold. Edgeless knelt to retrieve the key in the guard’s belt.

“Not much of a guard.” he mused, searching through the keys, one-by-one. Juren nodded, drawing a pair of daggers from their sheaths and giving them a practice lunge and parry in the air. Satisfied, he relaxed a moment.

“Twenty seconds left. No, he wasn’t. These guards are just to keep the common rabble out. Outside the palace, the queen’s got the Oil-men, and inside, well… what does she have worth guarding but herself?”

“Let’s find out.” Edgeless said, finding the key he sought and setting it into the lock. The mechanism clicked and the door parted slightly. The pair caught sight of a huge antechamber, built from large, arching struts of metal. Within was a assortment of musical instruments, ranging from small violins to enormous, multi-pedaled organs, all arranged in long rows like a private museum. Each instrument sat on a small dais. Edgeless raised his eyebrows, impressed besides himself. “Venute’s a collector.”

“Five seconds. Do it.”

Edgeless darted into the room, heading for the nearest piano. Throwing his weight into the large instrument, he managed to dislodge it noisily from the platform. The platform clicked once as the weight was lifted, and suddenly sirens were blaring shrilly, all around them. Edgeless drew his baton and glanced at Juren, who was idly checking the balance on his dagger. Juren looked up, and nodded.

“Here they come.”

“And, eleven! Here we go!” said Casp, feigning excitement. He pulled the panel open, revealing a continuation of the Gearworks deep into the walls of the palace. With the panel gone, they were greeted by a cacophany of squealing alarms that easily fought the giant gears for audibility. Pella could barely hear Casp as he turned to face her: “Looks like they did it! Let’s go!”

Casp held out a pair of earplugs for Pella, and she put them on. The wild mix of sounds suddenly became blessedly further away. The three of them made their way through the jungle of cogs and cams, Pella watching where Casp and Grumb put their feet and trying to imitate them as closely as possible. Even in the cramped quarters, the two moved easily, finding safe grips and using moving gears for footholds as they traversed the area between the palace floors.

Here and there, Pella could see down through the gears to the floor below. People seemed to be scurrying in a panic, with several palace guards running one way and clerks running the other. Pella hoped Juren and Edgeless were okay.

The first guard had charged up to Edgeless and managed to shout “You’re under—“ before a sweep of Edgeless’ baton took the guard by neck and sent him sprawling. The other two in his squad drew up shorter, and lowered their spears to keep Edgeless at bay. He smirked at the guards flinched back, and Juren lunged in as they stepped, kicking their feet out from under them with a sweep of a leg. The two fell in a tangle, and Juren waved Edgeless over.

“It’s going to get bloody very soon.” Juren said.

“Then lets take this fight to the throne room.”

The horizontal travel through the gears shifted to vertical as Casp found a duct that lead up through the upper stories of the palace walls. As the slowest climber, Pella was lifted by Grumb to lead the way. She couldn’t hear the giant puffing quietly though the earplugs, though the alarms were still a dull buzzing, but she felt safe in the ability of his broad arms to catch her. She climbed as quickly as she could, using what she learned from watching Casp in the past few minutes.

Strewn about the gears were signs of habitation left by those that lived here. Several kegs of beer were shoved into a small alcove behind a large gear, and a set of books were tucked away on a shelf installed over an array of springs. A bedroll lay messily over a vent, leaving just enough clearance for someone to curl up for a nap. It was as though an entire living quarters were scattered in the vertical space pinched between two metal walls. Pella tried not to think about how far she could have gotten in these confined spaces had their Oil-men occupants not been drawn elsewhere.

After climbing about thirty feet, she felt a tug on her ankle, and looked down. Casp was pointing to his ears and nodding. She leaned back against a greasy wall and pulled the plugs out of her ears. The sirens were far below them at this point, and she could hear him well enough over the machinery clicking about them.

“We’re almost at the throne room. Hand that pack to me, ‘cus we’ll need it where we’re going.”

Pella nodded, and passed the pack to Grumb, who passed it further down. Her shoulders suddenly felt a lot lighter, and with only the heavy pipe-rat jacket and helmet and her own belt pouch slowing her down, she thought she could fly up the rest of the climb.

Edgeless and Juren jogged down the main corridor, now abandoned by the gentry and staff. The sirens continued to blare about them as they stepped around another small troop of guards left groaning on the floor.

“Hey, anyone left? Which way’s the throne room?” Edgeless called out, looking down each intersection of hallways as the moved. Juren paused, and pointed.

“That way.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because it’s where the Oil-men are coming from.”

The stomp of their boots was muffled by the alarms, but the dozen Oil-men weren’t interested in sneaking up on the intruders. Each bore a wrench in one hand and a small knife in the other, and they begun to fan out around Juren and Edgeless. One of the closer Oil-men was eyeing Edgeless’ blunt weapon. Smirking, he gave his neighbor a knowing elbow. Edgeless lowered the baton at the smirker, and settled into a low stance.

“You’re first.” he said.

Edgeless leapt, parrying a wrench with a twist of his hilt and sinking the flat edge of his baton into the Oil-man’s shoulder. The man cried out and crumpled, his arm going limp and dropping his weapon. Edgeless struck the baton across the man’s ribs and flung him into the charge of his allies, fouling three of them. Edgeless spun to deflect the next attacks, metal ringing on metal as heavy wrenches bludgeoned his baton. He took a step back, and grinned as one of the attackers suddenly sprouted a dagger in his neck. Juren swept to cover Edgeless’ left, a new knife appearing in a blur in his empty hand. The two fought back to back, Juren parrying the wild swings of wrench and knife, cutting a hand or wrist whenever an Oil-man failed to withdraw his weapon quickly enough. Edgeless wove and feinted with each twist of his weapon, disarming one Oil-man, shattering another’s jaw, becoming a rather untempting target for the ring of attackers.

The Oil-men drew back, half their number on the floor, or cringing uselessly against the walls, cradling shattered hands or bleeding limbs. The remaining six stood in a semi-circle, barring Edgeless and Juren from continuing down the corridor the Oil-men had come from. Edgeless tilted his weapon in that direction, and smiled.

“Would that be the throne room, then?”

The Oil-man grimaced, and in the usual sing-song patter, spat his response.

“You damned, edgeless scum. What are you trying to prove here? Beat up a few Oil-men, for what? You’ll die in a dungeon, if we don’t kill you first.”

“Your reign of terror is over, Oil-man.” Edgeless muttered, then he threw back his head in a barking laugh. Juren turned to him quizzically, and Edgeless grinned. “Rain of terror. Rain? Oh, never mind. I’ll explain it after.” He laughed again, and took a step closer to the half-circle of Oil-men. The Oil-man who had spoken sneered, and drew back his wrench for a counter-attack.

Another step took Edgeless into striking range, and he slashed his baton widely, causing the Oil-man to retreat out of range. He swung again, and the Oil-men to his off-hand leapt towards him, wrenches coming down in broad swings. Edgeless turned, changing his follow-up attack to a two handed parry that caught both wrenches above his head. The force almost staggered him back, but the Oil-men were too committed to the attack to retract. Juren whirled past Edgeless and one Oil-man fell, ragged slashes across his arm and neck. The other tried to lower his wrench in defense, but Edgeless dropped his baton and swung it upward under the man’s weapon, catching him in the jaw with a loud crack. A scatter of teeth hit the floor a moment before the Oil-man did.

Juren’s whirling dance carried him past the falling brutes, and with knives raised he pounced on the third. The Oil-man managed to bring his dagger and wrench to deflect the simultaneous dagger strikes, leaving him rooted and defenseless as Juren’s steel-toed boot found his gut. He bent with a gasp, then fell to the ground with a dagger between his ribs. The remaining three Oil-men drew together, the line abandoned in favor of guarding each other’s flanks.

Edgeless sidestepped smoothly to one side as Juren slid to the other. Wrenches swung widely to keep them at range, the Oil-men frantically looking from one side to the other as they suddenly found themselves caught in the flank. Edgeless grinned toothily, and lunged.

Pella peered through the dusty grate, eyes squinting through the tiny holes. Then she smiled

“That’s the throne room!” she whispered down to Casp.

“Great,” he grunted, finding it hard to breath with Pella’s moccasins planted firmly on his shoulders. “Can you see who’s in there?”

“I just see boots.”

“Also great. Okay, kid, get down. We can’t get any closer to that door you told us ‘bout, so it’s up to you to sneak over to it.”

“But there’s guards all over the place! They didn’t leave the throne room.”

“Pella, those are the royal guard. Their one task is to keep the queen safe. If they’re in there, she’s in there, and she’s not about to go chasing intruders.”

“Okay. So how am I supposed to sneak by?”

Casp grinned, and he patted rumb’s bald pate just below him. He was sitting comfortably on the uncomplaining giant’s shoulders. “Grumb, ol’ boy, pass up that smoker you found.” The giant stirred, and a moment later his massive hand rose up, clutching a small metal box with four wheels on the bottom and a large metal key on top.

“What’s that?”

“A little clockwork I been workin’ on in my spare time. It works be-yoo-tifully in the lab. Now here’s the deal. I’m gonna open that vent and send out the smoker. A bit after that, I’m gonna to tell you to make a run for the door. Go quickly but quietly. None o’ those guards are gonna be looking our way for some time, but you gotta move, okay?”

“Casp, where will you be?”

Casp smiled sheepishly, and adjusted the pack of parts on his back.

“You’re not the only delivery we gotta make, Pella. You ready?”

“Yes. Casp, be careful.”

“Aw, Pella, I’m the one that ought’a be saying that to you.”

Casp smiled sadly, and then fiddled with the smoker a moment. Adjustments complete, he carefully removed the metal grate from its frame and slid it aside. Pella quietly marveled at the man’s stealth as she climbed up into position. Casp gave the smoker’s winding key three deliberate turns, then after a bit of mental math, gave it a quarter turn more. He gingerly sat the device on the floor, and Pella saw a bead of sweat run down his temple. When he released the tiny mechanism, it sped off with startling speed towards what they knew was the front of the throne room.

She saw several of the boots turn slowly, and a few break off to pursue the device. Casp whispered in her ear.

“Now! Go!”

She climbed out the grate, helped by a shove from behind, and the moment her foot touched the ground, a loud cracking sound erupted from behind her, followed by several shouts of guards. Pella began a headlong run to the corner where she remembered the mirrored door was, and saw it was hidden under a row of tapestries. A line of pillars and their shadows obscured her from the chaos of the throne room, and she heard Verute’s shrill commands coming from the other side of the colonnade.

“Now what? Now what is going on? Can anyone tell me why our palace is falling apart around our ears today? You, put out that fire!”

The acrid smell of smoke reached Pella, and she stifled a cough as she ducked under the tapestry. The door slid open easily, but she didn’t see a way to lock it from within. She took a quick look into the throne room through the crack of the door as she closed it, and caught a glimpse of several guards waving their arms frantically, trying to disperse a noxious, green cloud of smoke that continued to roll over every square inch of the throne room. From the floor, more sparks, whistles and buzzers sang out, even as a guard tried to stomp the device into submission.

“Excellent craftsmanship, Casp,” Pella thought to herself with a smile, and closed the door with a click.

The corridor hadn’t changed as she remembered it. The metal walls curved up and away, leading to the massive steel door with the large circular handle. It had been left ajar, and Pella slipped past into the large, rusty chamber with the enormous gears set into the walls. She paused, and looked back at the giant door. There was a latch on this side. Excited, she ran over and examined it. It looked like if she could get it closed, she could lock herself in the tower rather securely.

She sank her weight against the ancient door, but it wouldn’t budge. She couldn’t rock it even an inch on its massive hinges. She was about to give it another try when the sound of voices echoed down the corridor, causing her to freeze in momentary panic.

“—telling you I saw someone run by.” Footsteps fell, and the second voice sounded closer.

“You’d better be right, Franz. Her majesty is upset enough with the intruders and pranksters.”

Recognizing the sing-song voice snapped Pella from her trance. Ollrick was the last person she wanted to meet, ever again. She threw her shoulder against the metal, but it didn’t even wobble. Her feet slid on the floor as she leaned desperately into the door, willing it to move.

“Sir, I – Look! That girl over there!”

She heard a snarl, and saw Ollrick’s broad silhouette charging up the sloping corridor. His sword flashed in the gloom. She screamed in terror, tugging desperately at the door, her hands groping for any sort of handhold as she pushed. One hand found the latch and she yanked it in a panic. The latch fell with a precise click, and the door begun to swing closed with an even, pneumatic hiss. She caught sight of Ollrick’s eyes, blazing in rage, before the door slammed shut, the latch dropping automatically into place. A second later, the steel door shuddered like it was struck by a charging buffalo, followed by an oath barely muffled by the walls.

“Get a grinder team up here. Now! Now! Cut through this door!”

Pella took a step back, then quickly turned to survey the rusty vault. Enormous gears ticked indifferently around her. She remembered Ollrick opening a path through the gears last time by using one of the many pegs on the wall. Her fingers ran over the pitted surface, until she found a peg that was worn clean unlike its rusted neighbors. She pulled at the peg, then drew still as a sudden wave of hopelessness washed over her. Ollrick used some sort of key, a knob, to turn the peg. A metal ring of some sort, with a crossbar.

The despair was suddenly chased away as a second realization struck her, stronger than the first. She delved into her belt pouch, searching wildly, until her hand drew out with the odd, metal talisman Juren had given her the night she left for Cog. It had a small hole in the middle. Biting her lip so hard it hurt, she placed the knob on the peg, where it clicked with a perfect, machined fit. Blinking tears of wonder, she turned the knob, and once again the large gears begun their dreadfully slow re-alignment.

“Oh, come on, come on!” she chanted, dancing from one foot to another. Halfway through the transformation, she jumped at a sudden, careening roar coming from the door. A steely grate of metal cutting through metal, followed by muffled voices.

She glanced back at the gears, slowing but still moving. Adjusting the helmet on her head, she drew a deep breath, and plunged into the machinery, climbing though the turning spokes with a hectic pace. She almost got caught once between two sprockets going different directions, but managed to tumble free into the elevator room. Without hesitation, she leapt onto the platform and hit the center switch. With a hum, underscored by a rumble of thunder, the elevator shuddered, and began the long climb to the Stringworks.

Edgeless and Juren led the squads of Oil-men through a crazy chase throughout the palace, Backtracking, picking some fights, running from other fights, they kept the Oil-men running in routed panic, trying to keep pace. After nearly fifteen minutes of wild chasing, Edgeless finally stepped into the vaulted throne room and heard the slow hiss from Juren behind him.

“It’s exactly the same,” he murmured.

“Security’s been improved a bit, though.”

“Mm, quite. Smells a bit like smoke, too.”

A score of guards stood before the duo. Rows of heavy, plated armor gleamed a lurid green in the gaslights. Behind the phalanx squatted an enormous, bronze throne, in which sat the Queen like a jewel in a crown. She sat rigid and severe, head inclined slightly at the intruders. Her pale fingers were splayed with tension on the tarnished arms of the throne. A spark of lightning illuminated the room with a sudden glare, casting blinding whites and criss-crossing shadows through the arcade of domed skylights. The Queen flinched, then leaned forward slightly.

“Who are you? Show yourself before us!”

Juren snorted audibly, and stepped around Edgeless. Venute’s eyes narrowed, her fingers curling like talons as she leaned forward. She spat. “You.”

“Me,” Juren admitted. He raised his hands, palms out, encompassing the array of troops that stood in a semi-circle around him. “The game is over, your Highness. You have lost, but your people may still triumph. Pella is already in the Stringworks. It’s just a matter of time. Let us through to her, and you and your men may have a part in the future of Cog.”

The Queen laughed, the malice of her gravelly voice echoing against the steel and glass of the chamber.

“You think we don’t know how to follow the girl? By the time you reach the door, our men will already have cut through. Chased her down. Run her out.” Her eyes widened, dark and glaring. With both hands, she made a violent gesture framing the two. “The last thing she will see is your broken bodies.”

At the gesture, the guards at the ends of the crescent began to advance. Spears angled towards Edgeless’ chest as two guards flanked him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three more advance on Juren, coming in from the sides and front. A spear tip prodded his arm, and Ollrick growled, his eyes a white gleam under the shadow of his helm.

“Arms up, trespassers. You are under arrest for treason.”

The corner of Edgeless’ mouth twitched upwards as his hands raised slowly.

“Hey... hey, you edgeless bastard.” Ollrick tapped Edgeless’ side with the flat of his spear tip, his voice dropping to a venomous rasp. Edgeless saw the Queen shift in her throne, discomfort writ plainly on her features. His eyes held hers as Ollrick grunted. “Lookee what I found, hm?” The Refiner held up a small loop of chain, from which was dangling a tiny, silver whistle.

“Returning it, Ollrick? How fortunate. I’d thought I lost it.”

“So you admit it’s yours, then!” Ollrick triumphed. He moved to block Edgeless’ locked gaze with the Queen, forcing him to meet the Refiner’s eyes.

“I wouldn’t blow that if I were you,” said Edgeless, adding a meticulously careless shrug. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. The Refiner’s cracked lips split in a broad grin, and he nudged the soldier next to him.

“Your secret weapon, then?”

“You could say that.”

And what were you going to do, eh? Whistle me to death?” Ollrick barked a short, humorless laugh. Edgeless simply canted his head to one side. One eyebrow raised slightly.

“Yes.”

A pause, the cadre of guards close enough to hear sharing a quick glance amongst themselves, before breaking into a chorus of chuckles. Ollrick was re-examining the whistle, turning it this way and that in careless fingers, before looking back up.

“Think I’ll give it a try, what say you?”

“I wouldn’t.”

The Refiner sneered, and placed the tiny whistle in his lips. He blew, and the nearer guards winced as the shrill note tingled in the cold air. Ollrick pulled the spit-flecked tube from his mouth, the corners of his lips already curling in new triumph, but the smile was cut short by a thunderous roar from high amongst the ceiling’s vaults. An enormous shape careened through one of the glass domes. Within a halo of deadly, glinting shards, the Cavalry barreled into the middle of the cadre of guards. Two guards shrieked as they were crushed under the barrel-like chassis, and a handful more were scattered in a whirl of limbs and metal as it launched forward, its spinning tires finding new traction. Ollrick saw none of this, for the moment he turned at the sound, Edgeless’ elbow drove into the man’s nose, crushing bone and cartilage with a thick crunch.

The two nearer guards had managed to keep some control over themselves at the roar of metal and screams, and had managed to get their swords halfway out of their sheaths before Edgeless struck. His lunge sped between the two, his heavy, curved bar shattering the elbow of one as a sharp kick snapped the other’s knee, tearing muscle and tendon as the leg folded in. The follow-up sidestep ended with the pommel of Edgeless’ weapon crushing the man’s temple, striking true just under the edge of the helmet. Edgeless looked over as the guards slumped, and saw Juren standing exactly as he was before, save the two crimson-edged daggers he now held. Three guards lay still on the ground around him.

A heartbeat passed, then the Queen shrieked.

“Kill them! Kill them! Kill them both, we command you!”

Leaning forward slightly, Edgeless lowered his weapon into a striking position. Beside him, Juren reversed the grips on his blades, angling their stained edges towards the crowd of recovering sentinels. And as a unit, the sentinels, blades drawn and shields locked, took a step back. Edgeless bared his teeth in a feral grin. With a cry, the two men launched themselves into the wall of steel and flesh, which buckled.

Pella stood before the vast arrays of strings. The metal threads gave an odd, cacophonous noise, rippling without fading as it raced around and around the enormous room. As before, a weird sense of familiarity tugged at her. Ducking a leaky steam vent, she drew closer to one bank of the trembling strings, looking up and down the narrow, brass conduits that held then in sets of five and six. Wiping the grimy sweat from her eyes, she leaned in closer, squinting at the nearest set. The strings had an odd look about them, fuzzy and transparent, like wispy threads of cloud. She could see the polished metal of the conduit gleaming through them.

She found herself humming, and stopped with a eerie feeling.

She wiped her face again, drying her palms on the damp cotton hem of her dress. This close, the strings looked ghostly, barely visible in the swirling steam. She looked around at the next bank, and saw an identical set of insubstantial strings, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, hundreds of feet above her head.

Standing back to see the strings as a whole, she almost walked into a sudden burst of scalding steam. Crying out with a painful rasp, she rolled to the side and pressed against a metal strut until the artificial geyser sputtered out. The metal column against her back was uncomfortably hot, and as she stepped away, her eyes followed it up to see a raised walkway. A few moments of searching brought her to a curving staircase against the wall. Mere plates attached to a series of angled steam pipes, Pella hadn’t even noticed it when she first entered the Stringworks. Mindful of the narrow, slick steps, she climbed to the upper levels.

Juren’s blades whirled and slashed as he spun through the guardsmen. Half Venute’s men already lay bloody and scattered about the throne room, but the remaining guards had finally managed to recover into their phalanx and, spears bristling, were making Juren’s every attack a costly one. The point of his dagger found the gap between bracer and shoulder-guard and, with a twist, he drew the guard into his neighbor, fouling their lunge. His blade came away, severing skin, sinew and armor straps before the entangled guards fell to the ground in a clatter of armor. The wounded one screamed.

Juren quickly spun, deflecting a wild poke of a spear with the flat of his blade. Continuing the momentum, he tried to catch a glimpse of the throne but a mass of jostling, helmeted heads swarmed his view. Turning back in a frantic stop-thrust, his off-hand darted out, and one of the heads in his view snapped back, a dagger jutting out from under the visor. The butt of a spear struck his leg and Juren faltered, staggering into the throng of guards to his side. The feint worked, and the blade that had reappeared swiftly in his hand disappeared just as swiftly in the un-armored underarm of the guard who tried to catch him.

A spear tip skittered across the heavy chain under his cloak – a handful of silver rings scattering to the tiled floor – and he turned, throwing the impaled guard into the two behind him. The spearman that had managed to tear his armor was lunging for a second attack. Juren’s bloody blades came up in a cross-block for a thrust that never came. The guard’s eyes suddenly rolled back and, dropping the spear, he fell to his knees. A large, gushing slash ran ear to ear through the back of his helmet. In the gap, Juren saw a blade blood-slicked to the hilt, before the fallen soldier was lost under the stomping boots of his enraged comrades.

Juren grunted for air, then called over the screaming mob.

“You know, they’ll kill you for picking up a blade again.”

Edgeless’ manic laugh echoed throughout the chamber, and a severed arm, still wearing its armor, flew over Juren’s head.

“I’ll be sure to return it to Ollrick when I’m done!”

Pella jumped at the sudden crack of thunder. This high in the tower, the glass was paper thin, and it rattled violently with each thunderclap. Tiny cracks ringed their edges where the bolts held them in place. The clouds massed like clenching fingers around the tower, blurry and lurching through the beaded layers of condensation endlessly reapplied by the numerous, hissing steam vents.

She had found her way to the second platform, then the third. Mere protrusions from the wall, linked by a fine, steel mesh that bent slightly even under Pella’s meager weight. The metal cords dug painfully through her leather moccasins. The sweat poured in torrents down her face under the oppressive heat, and her hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks in matted curls. Up this high, the strange keening of the strings seemed to level out a little, forming an even vibrato around her. Here and there, a string would warble, a shrill, tinny cry that was quickly subsumed into the chaotic droning.

Pella found herself humming again, and forced herself to stop. She hadn’t gotten any more clues from her elevated vantage point, and the rings of platforms around the tower’s wall got smaller and more precarious as she climbed.

Seeing no other option, she climbed, wincing as the heated walls of metal blistered against her hands whenever she needed to balance on the slender stairs.

Edgeless’ teeth were bared in a feral snarl. He heard Juren’s occasional huff of exhaustion in between the frenzied clangs of metal on metal; it was the only indication he had that the old man was still alive. The sword sang in his fingers as, one-handed, he swept it through a charging spear, severing wood, metal, and hands cleanly. The screaming guard fell, leaving the path clear to the curving wall of glass. Edgeless spun, putting his back to the wall and lowering the blade to face the eight guards that remained facing him.

Taking advantage of the lull, they began to fan out, their faces a mingle of white-hot rage and lingering fear. Against this lone opponent, their schooling as soldiers had proved useless, his sword claiming them one whirling slash after another. But now, their quarry stood trapped against the wall. The sword that had harried them was battered and bent, its tip broken off some time ago. The warrior holding it looked about the same. Countless slashes criss-crossed over his arms and legs, and his once fine robes hung in threads. A nasty slash had been scored under one eye so long ago, it had begun to clot.

Edgeless spared a precious second to look past the enclosing circle of guards. The giant, gilded throne loomed empty. A fiddle lay on the floor, still rocking from the impact of being dropped or thrown down. Edgeless spat thickly, then swore. A few of the guards flinched, mailed fingers curling tighter around their spears. A second cluster of guards were swarming behind them, the battle with the old man still raging in their own personal storm.

“Juren!” Edgeless bellowed. The effort cost him. “Venute’s gone!”

From within the mass of guards came a strangled cry, and a body slumped to the ground, the point of a knife barely protruding from the back of his neck.

“Get to Pella!” came the shout.

Edgeless scanned the circle of guards. Spears lowered, they were a mere half-step from striking distance. His sword arm ached, so with a careful flourish, he shifted the worn out blade to his other hand.

“Right,” he muttered.

Pella reached the topmost platform, gasping for breath. The steam rose with her as she climbed, and each lungful of air was a hot weight in her chest. Her lips were cracked and her cotton dress clung to her in damp folds. The strings all came together in a cone several feet above her head. From this tiny platform, she felt she could reach out and touch any of the indistinct strands. They buzzed tauntingly around her, a hidden pattern just beyond the grasp of her exhausted mind.

She put her face in her hands, needing to look away from the odd strings. This close, their translucence gave her a headache in a way she couldn’t explain. Against the pale, pruned skin of her hands, she found herself humming again. She was about to scream in frustration at herself for such ridiculous behavior, when the realization struck her with such force she almost staggered to her knees.

She was, in her raspy breath, singing one of the songs of her tribe, left so long ago. And all around her, the strings were singing it as well. She gaped at the ghostly strands, before shutting her eyes tight, forcing out all sensation other than their endless, cycling hum.

Floating just under the layer of noise, the Stringworks were singing the Song of Morning.

Or most of it. Here and there a note struck sour. A crescendo didn’t quite step sharply enough. A harmonizing chord fell just a half-step flat. Reaching out with splayed hands, fingers twitching in minute gestures, she strained her ears to home in on one of the discordant voices. Holding her breath, she hesitated. It felt like one of the off-key elements was just at the tip of her fingers. Opening her eyes, she saw she’d picked out one string from the bank. It was identical to its neighbors, but now that she could pick out its unique voice, the string stood out to her as though it were a different color.

Carefully, she reached out to touch the string, then drew her hand back with a yelp as it bit her. Her fingertip bore a perfectly clean gash, a deep, painful crescent that already began welling with blood. She clenched the wounded finger in both hands, eyes widening as the touched string wildly changed pitch, growing larger and nearly invisible for a fraction of a second. Its neighbors rippled discordantly, and the entire tower suddenly seemed to crackle with an unseen energy. Outside, the winds tore against rattling glass walls, howling with new frenzy, as a series of lightning bolts struck the metal walls in a rapid-fire release of energy.

Covering her head with both arms, Pella screamed, unable to hear her own voice under the deafening concussions.

The lightning flashed with burning brightness outside the vast windows, and the circle of guards cringed in unison, wincing through the momentary blindness. Before the second bolt had struck, Edgeless had already sprung from the wall, sword whipping in a vast arc. By the third flash, two of the guards were already down, spasming blindly on the floor while clutching the broad, ragged slashes in their necks. The next guard crumpled as the pommel of Edgeless’ sword crunched into his temple, ringing the metal helmet like a bell.

The remaining guards managed to stumble back, the wild sweeps of their sword-points keeping Edgeless at a distance. Keeping his blade leveled at the center guard, Edgeless paced back to the wall. Unsteadily regaining their focus, the guards shuffled back to within striking range of their lone opponent. Outstretched spear-tips trembled, and Edgeless was pleased to note the remaining three no longer looked so confident of their dwindling advantage of numbers.

On the far side of the throne room, Juren was in a desperate duel with the last two guards. He spun and twisted endlessly, knives dancing as he frantically sought to keep the pair from surrounding him. His cloak flew in ragged strips and his arms, scored with countless scratches and gashes from missed parries, spattered blood with each exhausted swing and lunge.

A guard struck unexpectedly, throwing his full, armored weight behind the lunge of the spear. Juren flung an arm up, the chipped dagger edge driving into the wooden haft of the spear and sending it slashing past his face, taking a tiny of chunk of his ear with it. Keeping the spear-tip locked above him, he managed an underarm toss of his other dagger, grunting with the effort. The dagger flew down the length of the spear, and though lacking piercing power, it managed to score a deep groove in the guard’s unarmored neck. The guard stumbled back, dropping the spear and clutching the gushing wound with both hands. His boot heels struck one of his fallen comrades and he fell over the corpse, hitting the metal floor with a crash.

Juren, flipping his last dagger around to an overhand hold, spun to face the last guard. He was about to lunge, taking his chances on the spear point without a second weapon to parry with, when the tinny whine of a grinding wheel reached his ears. It was barely audible under the raging thunder, which had begun to crackle and boom in endless cycles. Daring a quick look to the wall, he saw Edgeless still staring down three guards.

“Fight through!” he bellowed. Edgeless nodded curtly, eyes still trained on the middle guard. “They’re cutting through!”

“And that coward Ollrick went to help them.” Edgeless sneered.

Pella dared a glance upward, from where she crouched on the floor. Her bloody finger throbbed painfully, and her head was beginning to spin under the oppressive heat. The string she had brushed had settled into a new, warbling key. Different than before, but still wrong. She couldn’t tell if the endless crackling of lightning around the tower had gotten worse, or only felt worse.

Summoning up the remains of her determination, Pella reached out with two tremulous fingers, one of which was already bleeding profusely. The string quivered, blurry against the metal conduit, then sang out with a clean, pure note when she caught it with a darting pinch between her fingertips. The string hummed evenly, like an angry hornet in her grasp, but she resisted the panicked instinct to let go of the biting thing. Held taut, it couldn’t snap at her.

Cocking her head, she closed her eyes and listened to the bellowing note, finding its place in the medley of the song whirling about her. She couldn’t pull the string far – its tautness threatened to snap the metallic thread in her hands. Thinking a moment, not daring to wipe the stinging sweat from her eyes, she slid her pinched fingers just slightly down the length of the string, and the key of the note slid with them, dropping down almost half an octave. Ignoring the throbbing pain in her injured finger, she drew her fingers back up again, then down, seeking the note that fit with the melody. When the string found the true note, it was as if the song all about her gained a sudden upwelling of strength, the captured string blending perfectly with the tremolos of its neighbors.

Pella sighed with exhausted relief, and released the string gingerly. Its keening sound fell back into line with the rest of the strings. Searching around, she sought the next off-key note, her ears and eyes working together to guide the spread fingers of her hand. When the flawed string was just under her hovering fingers, she struck again, nipping it out of the air with pinched fingers and setting it right with a slow, cautious slide. She caught the third string a little awkwardly, taking a stinging wound in another finger, but managing to keep her grip as she re-tuned the note.

Stepping back to shake the damp curls of hair from her face, she stood unevenly on the raised platform for a few anxious heartbeats. Her hands tensed before her as she lolled her head to the harmony of the room. Under the echoing chaos of discordant, musical fragments, the song was beginning to take form.

“I think I get it,” she rasped, softly.

Shifting her feet about on the slick, metal floor, she found a spot where she could just barely reach all the trilling wires at the tip of her fingers. She drew a deep breath, trying not to choke on the heavy vapors, and began to hum the song she knew so well. Her throat, still healing, could only form coarse imitations of the notes she sought, but in her mind, the song was as perfectly pitched as the slow rise of the sun. The feelings of exhaustion and injury were a distant blue. Beginning to strum in deliberate, even strokes, Pella took the city of Cog in her hands. And with it, she made music.

Luzzem ducked as the stove set a gout of fire at his head. His hands slapped frantically at his frizzy, smoldering hair.

“Water, get me water!”

“I’m trying!” screamed Rinalle, who had both hands on the sink faucet, desperately trying to wrestle the rattling tap into doing something other than leaking thick smoke.

“Oh dear,” murmured Mrs. Reichardt-Brown, her fingers going to her mouth, “are you sure that’s wise?”

Mercie had the carpet cleaner’s nozzle in a headlock, struggling vainly to keep the scalding hot metal from touching either her or her mistress as the machine bucked and kicked, seams popping as the vats shook under the overloading pressure. Thinking quickly, Reichardt-Brown ran and pulled the machine’s supply line from the wall, and contraption and servant collapsed in a heap on the still-soggy rug.

Just outside the palace, Casp and Grumb huddled under an awning. Pedestrians ducked and scattered as the gaslights erupted in huge gouts of flame, sending a rain of embers into the street. The floor beneath them shook as the sprawling, underground sewage system lurched to a halt, then began churning at triple speed.

“Oh Grumb, you really did it now.” Casp moaned. The giant barely nodded, and Casp turned to look at him. “Is this the end, or the beginning, d’ya think?” The giant blinked slowly, and shrugged. Unseen by the scurrying citizens, the two pipe-rats clung to each other like children.

Throughout the palace, doors slammed and opened in a flurry of pneumatic hissing. The cacophony echoed down the corridors, while furnaces and radiators began to spit torrents of flame and smoke. Guards, clerks, noblemen and other unfortunate staffers fled in wild mobs, dodging machinery that seemed to suddenly take up arms against its masters.

The crashing, clashing noises made it all the way to the throne room, where the gaslights had begun to flicker in crazed bursts, lighting the battlefield with dancing shadows and blinding flashes that rivaled the flitting dashes of lightning. A sconce near one of the guards sparked violently to life. The startled guard stumbled back, turning his spear from Edgeless to the unexpected attack. The central guard barked an order, even as he looked around, eyes rolling in renewed panic.

“Stay on the enemy! Hold ranks!”

“The whole city’s gone mad!”

“Get control of yourself!”

The commanding guard’s eyes flicked away for a fraction of a second, and Edgeless struck. The heavy, blunted sword came down with a slash, taking off the tip of the man’s spear, and leaving the guard armed with only a bristle of splinters.

“I think you’re done, here.” Edgeless said, returning to his guard position.

The three guards shared a look, then turned and fled, picking their way over their fallen comrades. Once they rounded the hallway, Edgeless sagged against the cold window. His heavy robes had absorbed most of the blood, and here and there they were sticking painfully to his wounds. Lightheaded, he set the broken point of the sword on the floor and leaned on the hilt for support.

Across the throne room, Juren was hastily retrieving whatever daggers he could from the mass of bodies. His last opponent had been whittled down, slash by slash, until at last he fell to the floor, face down and unmoving. Looking up, Juren met Edgeless’ gaze.

“Are you all right?”

“I lived, so… yes.”

Juren shook his head.

“You’re in no condition to fight.”

“We’d best hurry.” Edgeless forced himself to walk without the makeshift crutch, dragging the sword in his wake as he stumbled to the archway behind the throne. From beyond, the tinny sounds of a cutting wheel could be heard, metal grating shrilly on metal.

“I said you’re in no condition to fight!”

“So who’s fighting? I’m just going to return Ollrick’s sword to him, as I said I would.”

Juren frowned, skirting the battlefield to catch up to Edgeless as he reached the portal. The doorway led into a corridor that practically sizzled like an oven – the numerous gaslamps along the walls were blasting spires of flame over their heads, and the brass fittings gleamed and danced in the light. At the far end of the sloping corridor were three figures. Two crouched by a large, steel door, helmets pulled low over their goggled eyes as they leaned on enormous cutting tools. The edged discs glowed a garish yellow as they steadily cut through the door’s hinges with an achingly slow pace, kicking up crossing showers of sparks. Standing over the two, shouting commands that were lost in the noise, was Ollrick.

Even over the din of the grinders, Ollrick heard the steps of boots behind him and turned. The smashed mess of his nose had leaked a thick trail of blood into his beard, staining the yellow whiskers red. Sweat stood beaded on his broad, reddened face, and at the sign of Edgeless, his fingers curled into straining claws.

“You’re too late!” The usual sing-song pattern was gone. “You’re both too injured, you’ll never get past me in time! We’re cutting through to the Stringworks and then that brat and the whole city will—whaa!” Ollrick sputtered, his hands reflexively darting to his face as Edgeless flung the battered sword at him. The flat of its blade struck his palms with a meaty slap, but before Ollrick could take it by the grip, Edgeless had followed up with a one-handed lunge of the square, metal baton. The blunt tip caught Ollrick in the stomach and he folded with a grunt, the sword clattering to the floor as he curled into a still ball. Blood spattered from his mouth as he groaned.

The two Oil-men on the grinders looked up, slowly raising their goggles as their grinders spun down. Juren cocked his head at them.

“Who told you to stop cutting?”

Pella was dimly aware of the hum of the elevator rising behind her, but it didn’t matter. The orchestration was almost complete. All around her, wavering strings sang with renewed life, the harmonization of hundreds of notes swirling about her like a whirlwind. Her fingers danced over the threads, refining and finessing the melody with a hundred tiny adjustments. Under her feet, the entire city slowly ground to a trembling halt, every gear suddenly locking together as the last few notes fell into place.

“No, no, no!” Juren beat his fists ineffectively on one of the elevator struts. Edgeless had decided he had had enough standing for one day, and he sat heavily on the center of the stationary platform. The elevator ground to an unexpected halt, all the lights flickering out with a single, shared sputter. Edgeless let out a slow breath, and slowly leaned back until he was prone on the floor. The cool metal felt good against the ache of his limbs. Distantly, a few of his deeper wounds throbbed.

Juren spun to face him. “We were so close!” Edgeless just lay there, unmoving. Then, his brow furrowed as something tingled at the edge of his senses.

“Do you hear that?”

“What?”

“It’s not just me, right?”

“What? What? I don’t hear anything!”

“Exactly.”

Edgeless opened his eyes, staring out in the dark clouds that surrounded the glass-walled tower. They were still, without the faintest gust stirring them. The patter of rain was gone, along with the crackle of lightning. A few rumbles of thunder still echoed, but they sounded distant, and weak. In the darkness of the powerless elevator, the clouds had taken on a soft, suffuse glow from within.

Edgeless and Juren looked at each other, silently, then staggered as the platform suddenly lurched into life again. Lights slowly clicked on around them, hissing softly, as the elevator resumed its journey. After a minute that seemed like an eternity, the platform finally reached the highest story.

Juren ran through the open door, waving the dissipating steam from his face as he called out Pella’s name. Seeing no sign of her, he began to ascend the narrow, curving walkway, taking the jutting steps two at a time. Edgeless struggled to keep up, leaning on the walls for support as he moved. Juren frantically scanned each level, his heart pounding in his chest, as he climbed the tower. Vast strings towered over him, singing the song of his tribe, but he paid them no mind.

Reaching the topmost level, Juren finally caught sight of his granddaughter. Pella was standing before the array of strings. At the sound of Juren’s steps, she turned slowly, regarding him with a pale, bloodless face. Her dress hung in damp folds, sodden with sweat from the steamroom the Stringsworks had been mere minutes ago. Blood dripped from numerous lacerations on her fingers, some of which looked rather deep. She shook her head minutely, managing to focus her fading gaze on Juren. A smile slowly drew across her cracked lips.

“I did it.” she whispered. She’d always remember that first, reeling step she took towards her grandfather. She’d never remember the second step, tumbling limply into his outstretched arms as he caught her and clutched her wilted body to him. And she was one of the only unfortunate few in the city who didn’t see the first clean, pure shaft of sunlight in centuries strike the city of Cog. The glass-walled Stringworks lit with a million dancing motes of light, as Juren wept over his unconscious grandchild.

Epilogue