《Sam and the Dead》 A Harvest of Souls 1

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The city, the mushroom fields, the decrepit factories latched onto the boundary walls like steel tumours ¨C the pyromancers burned them all. Thirty miles they must have walked, from one end of the Floor to the other. The pyros each carried fuel harnesses that weighed sixty pounds empty; Sam carried only the crest of the House of Dawn. The golden sunrise glittered on her coat, her gloves, her plague mask, asserting that she, as a necromantic apprentice, was superior to them. She tried to wipe her sweat-fogged lenses and tripped. The pyros let her. The canal overflowed with blue-fire. The advance team had set up an ejector across the viaduct. They waited until all have crossed, then waited some more as Sam stumbled over the abutment, heat-dazed and barely conscious. She managed to crawl behind cover, gasping. The pyros waited, and waited. She waved. Blue-fire poured out in a viscous torrent, so hot the windblast set her sleeves on fire. The viaduct softened, collapsed, and disintegrated into viscous rubble. Sam scratched out its designation on her clipboard, the last on her list. The pyros were already packed up and waiting. ¡°Well done, everyone,¡± she said. No one looked at her. The Hill of Nine loomed, five miles away. Sam shuffled toward it in a daze, her eyes trained on the summit, where a yellow light endlessly blinked. Yellow meant the purging was over. For the next phase, she only needed to sit and watch. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. A farmhouse appeared over the ridge. Twenty pyros in white robes patrolled its perimeter. An apprentice in a bright-orange suit stood at the door, his gaze fixed on the three faces in the second-floor window: a woman with two young girls. It was too late to look away. The apprentice was waving at her; ignoring his request would precipitate a formal complaint against her conduct. The apprentice had the posture of a corpse. His trousers were tattered, as if chewed through. His hair hung limp with a coat of ash. He shook Sam¡¯s hand with the strength of a windblown leaf. ¡°Help me,¡± he muttered. ¡°I was on the palisade. Had a long day.¡± Pyros watched the house from every approach. The woman was yelling, but the wind would not let her speak. ¡°Maestro Finley said no witnesses,¡± the apprentice added, mostly to himself. ¡°You don¡¯t need me,¡± said Sam. ¡°Where are you from? Please, you do it. I need a break.¡± ¡°I was also on the palisade.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care.¡± His orders arrived by courtesy of an ambler. It sprinted into the courtyard, faster than any runner. Its neck was broken; its head dangled and bounced with every step. The left half of its face was putrefied; chunks of rotten flesh had fallen away, revealing a mess of tendon and bone. Jittering in its eye sockets were two pieces of quartz, one twice the size of the other. There was a cut on its hip. Purple infusion gushed out in spurts, drenching its orange overalls. Dehydrated intestines slapped at its calves. The ambler held out a red slip. The apprentice ignored it, mouthing words in silence. The woman and her children disappeared into the house. A pyro took the slip, gave it a long look, then gestured their colleagues. Two of them still had fuel. They stepped up, fuses lit. Waiting. Sam looked away, and looked away, and looked away. After an eternity, the apprentice spoke. ¡°Burn them.¡± A Harvest of Souls 2

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Golden fireblooms lined the path to the summit. Every hundred feet there hung an orange banner covered in bold, white text. TWELVE MILLION AMBLERS LEASED, one screamed. The rising gale pinned Sam against the cliff. The refrigeration bays were full of pyros who had finished their shifts sooner. A flag featuring a cartoon skeleton filling up its canteen billowed atop a concrete pagoda. Under the eaves were a hundred pyros, sleeping, lounging, cleaning their harnesses. Her team stayed behind. Sam pushed on, stumbling over the flowers. It was not a long fall, only three hundred feet or so. The world below has turned into a sea of fire. Beneath the shadow of the Pillar, only a dozen concrete husks remained of a Floor that had once housed a hundred thousand people. Two senior pyros waited at the summit with name tags. They wore pristine white robes and flame-patterned leather mask with perhaps one speck of dust between them. ¡°House of Dawn,¡± one said. ¡°One apprentice.¡± ¡°Leave us,¡± said the other. He waited until his colleague was out of earshot. ¡°My name is Jack. Second Progenitor of the Guild of Combustion, Senior Coordinator of Field Operations, and Head Liaison with the House of Solutions.¡± ¡°Sam,¡± said Sam. ¡°You¡¯re cute,¡± he said. ¡°House of Dawn? I thought Maestro Cowen had his giant.¡± This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Her name is Lucia.¡± The pyro played with Sam¡¯s tag. ¡°Necromancy is an admirable career. In a few years you might be giving me orders,¡± he laughed. ¡°You have a boyfriend?¡± Hysterical screaming did not seem an appropriate response, so Sam said nothing. ¡°Is this your first Ritual of Mass Resurrection? It is magical. All that Green, coming out of their fingertips.¡± ¡°No,¡± said Sam. The pyro¡¯s pupils shrunk as if struck by light, the whites turning so bloodshot they almost bled. ¡°No what?¡± ¡°Not my first.¡± The pyro grabbed her hand, and Sam had to lean close. ¡°Because I like you, Sam of the House of Dawn, I will give you the best advice of your life: a man ¨C or indeed a woman ¨C can learn to enjoy anything, given the appropriate incentives. The next time I speak to you, I want you to express that enjoyment to me with a big smile and an abundance of delightful conversation.¡± He pinned the name tag onto Sam¡¯s collar. ¡°What say you we get better acquainted?¡± ¡°I¡¯m late.¡± He pulled at Sam¡¯s collar until it was crooked. ¡°If I find out¡­ah.¡± Sam looked up and saw Lucia at the summit, her trenchcoat billowing in the heat, the long ends of her blindfold fluttering like wings. At eight feet tall, there was no mistaking her for anyone else. Sam left the pyro behind and strolled the final stretch. She rubbed her hands until the skin was raw. Lucia pulled her onto the landing, lifting Sam as if she were a child. The summit was ablaze with noise. Two hundred guild alchemists schmoozed under a row of silken marquees, drinking cold cider, feeding from a triple-tiered buffet. The pyromancers wore red-on-white, the preservers silver-grey, among two dozen branding schemes Sam could not name. The Necromantic Houses had their own marquee. Nine out of ten wore the eye-watering orange of the House of Solutions. Only one other wore gold-on-black: Maestro James Cowen lodged on the far side of the clearing, standing out like a blot of ink. A Harvest of Souls 3

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A velvet rope hung across the entry with the sign NO AMBLERS BEYOND THIS POINT. A Finley ambler stood on the other side with a handbasin and a stack of towels. Its face, infused with preservatives, shone like polished marble. Sam dipped her hands in the basin and laughed as ash turned to mud. ¡°Nice weather today,¡± she said to Lucia. Lucia said nothing. She loosened the filter on her mask as she passed the buffet, hoping to smell at least a tinge of the pulled pork. Nothing. Having spent far too long in the company of volatile reagents in James¡¯ lab, and despite all her precautions, her nose could no longer distinguish formaldehyde from water. It was an uncommon defect even for those in the alchemical guilds. She had been bitter about it, once, when she had fewer things to be bitter about. The partygoers recoiled at first, for the apprentice stank of ash and sulphur; but her colours made them smile, but by then Sam had already passed, and they were saved from having to maintain the effort. James sat with his feet dangling over the cliff and the tail of his coat pooling in a puddle. Although he was no older than thirty, the Maestro¡¯s hair was dense with grey, his eyes ringed with circles so dark they looked like bruises. ¡°How were the pyros? Fun?¡± ¡°No,¡± said Sam. The silver crescent of the palisades shone on the horizon. The Maestro waved at it. ¡°Do you prefer the mines?¡± Sam closed her eyes and saw the children in their patchy uniforms, skipping down the decline. She saw the girl with azure eyes looking up at her. Are you a Maestro? the girl had asked. ¡°No.¡± She held out her clipboard. ¡°I have the numbers. Ten thousand adults. I have noted their age and desirability.¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Desirability. The Handbook uses that word to denote physical attractiveness.¡± ¡°The Handbook.¡± The Maestro flipped through the list. Cursed with photographic memory, he needed only a single glance to memorize them all, then he tore the pages into little squares and slipped them over the edge. ¡°If they ask, you lost it in the riots.¡± ¡°Yes, Maestro.¡± A single red flair rose from the palisades. High though it flew, it reached not even one tenth the height of the Dome Luminous. ¡°Delays.¡± James gazed at the red dot as it fizzled out in the darkness. ¡°Do you know why everyone wants to go to the Floor of Twenty?¡± ¡°To see the sky,¡± said Sam. ¡°Why? What¡¯s so good about sky?¡± Sam shrugged. A migraine was growing behind her right eye, radiating needles of pain into her cheeks. The Maestro shrugged back. ¡°You would have lived your whole life on a Floor like this one, had I not found you. Your corpse would have made me thirty thousand seeds a year. Instead, you may become a necromancer ¨C the foundation of our society ¨C and live a life others envy. The recipient of such good fortune should be more inclined to gratitude.¡± ¡°I am,¡± disputed Sam. ¡°They are.¡± He nodded at the Finleys. Everyone in that entourage wore identical, orange-trimmed suit jackets with pins in the shape of the cartoon skeleton, seen here sitting on its pelvic bone and reading a book. Maestro Jack Finley, a man wider than he was tall, lounged on a divan the size of a double bed. Wherever he looked, his entourage looked; not a word he could utter without enduring protracted adulation. As he held out his hand, no less than five cups of wine were offered to him, but he was simply pointing at the fading flair. A hundred voices groaned simultaneously, perhaps to say that they, too, were disappointed. ¡°Do you want wine?¡± Sam asked. James laughed. ¡°You will eviscerate the buffet and never come back.¡± ¡°I will come back,¡± said Sam. The Maestro¡¯s eyes were grey-on-grey and shine-less, like those of a blind man. Specks of Green glittered in the featureless expanse of his iris, so small a blink could unmake them. Sam could never quite meet his gaze; though his voice has always been pleasant, his eyes only ever resembled the abyss. ¡°Do you want to quit?¡± he asked. The question caught her off-guard. She opened her mouth and closed it without uttering a word. Her hesitation was answer enough. ¡°You think about that,¡± said James. A Harvest of Souls 4

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Perfected over thousands of field trials, Kohn''s Miasma ended life but preserved the integrity of the lumbar plexus. Predictive modelling had shown that the critical saturation of the Miasma in the primary shelter of the Floor of Nine would take less than two hours. The Maestros had given it four. At the passing of the fifth, an ambler crested the summit. Its orange overall was drench in blood and dirt. A broken steel pike had skewered it from left shoulder to lower back. It stopped at the rope and let out a blood-curdling howl. No living creature could produce such a sound, so guttural it could only be made by the shredding of its vocal cords. A stream of purple infusion poured from its mouth. The party turned quiet. Jack Finley stepped into the clearing. There was not a speck of orange on his body, only furs and silk and leather. The Finley sigil rippled on his ermine cape: a grinning cartoon skeleton with a pickaxe slung over one shoulder. The slogan beneath it read: WE WORK TO THE BONE. He raised a hand as if clicking his fingers; the ambler collapsed like a puppet with strings cut. ¡°The harvest is ready,¡± he declared, voice booming. ¡°I now ask my colleagues to join me in the Ritual of Mass Resurrection. Maestros, if you please.¡± Six came to stand beside him. ¡°May I present: my dearest cousins, Maestros Edwin Finley, Edmond Finley, Edward Finley. My associates, Maestro James Cowen, Maestro Mina Enri, and Moeffe Bant, proxy of Maestro Catherine Pierre, our family¡¯s oldest and dearest friend.¡± A smattering of applause. Finley regarded them with polite distain. ¡°I would like to thank the Palace Above for this fantastic opportunity. Without their support, these harvests would simply be impossible. This is the biggest joint venture in the history of the Pile, and I am proud ¨C more than proud! ¨C of all your dedication and hard work. Thirty years I have worked in this business, and never have I been more moved, more struck, by the certainty that a future more prosperous than ever is within my grasp. All that remains is to reach out and take it! Long live the Pile, long live Her Royal Highness, and long live the Houses of the Dead!¡± Frenzied applause rose and fell, punctuated by drunken cheers. An alchemist became so overwhelmed with emotion that he collapsed, knocking over a table along with a dozen flights of wine. ¡°One more thing,¡± Finley continued. ¡°The Maestros are reminded to respect their quotas. Penalty will apply for excess claim, and offenders will be punished accordingly ¨C please, Maestro Enri.¡± ¡°I would never,¡± Enri muttered. ¡°This is final warning. Now ¨C let us begin!¡± The Maestros raised their hands, and the Green rose from their fingertips. A hundred thousand strands of ethereal silk canopied the sky in an emerald cocoon that spread in an instant to all corners of the Floor, pulsing as if it breathed. The artificial stars of the Dome Luminous dimmed before the light of the Green, and the fields began to shimmer. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. James gave his apprentice a look. Go, he mouthed. Sam pushed through the crowed. All around her the alchemists were exclaiming their awe. ¡°This is true magic!¡± ¡°The Green! The lifeforce of all living things! See how the Maestros move them!¡± She reached the rope. The ambler-in-a-tux stood motionless, the handbasin broken on the ground. It toppled when Sam shoved it out of her way. Lucia sat cross-legged by the cliff. The seizure had already begun. Her fingers spasmed. The force of it grew with every pulse of the Green, rising to her wrist, elbow, shoulder. Sam sat down beside her. The Green quickened, pulsing faster, faster, until the Floor spun from day to night in the span of a breath. Lucia shook. Her biceps tensed, dragging her hands across her chest. Her fingers tore into her coat, her dark nails digging into the chainmail underlay. The weave broke within seconds, scattering bits of steel. Physically restraining Lucia was impossible ¨C at the last calibration test, her grip had exerted four hundred pounds per square inch ¨C but Sam had to do something. It was her job. The thought made her laugh. ¡°One day, Lucia,¡± she said brightly. ¡°One day I¡¯ll have my own House, raise my own amblers, and make more money than I could ever spend.¡± She closed her eyes and saw them all ¨C every man, woman, and child on the Floor of Nine, of Eight, of Seven, of Six, shuffling into the primary shelter. She saw herself, standing on the palisade, clipboard in hand, counting heads, scribbling with the red-ink pen as if she were an ambler with no will of her own. ¡°Or I could quit,¡± she said, and grabbed Lucia¡¯s wrists. Lucia jerked. Sam flew. The ground disappeared, and for a dizzying moment she was floating above a sea of fire, the heat buffeting her wings ¨C but they were only arms, and she began to fall. Lucia grabbed her hand and squeezed. A bony crunch. Pain. Sam laughed, madly. If she had known that she would die falling off a cliff, she would have quit last week. Or maybe not. She could decide one way or the other, and now it was too late. Lucia froze at the sound of her voice. She eased Sam onto the ground, clutching and unclutching her hand as if the action puzzled her. Bewildered, Sam adjusted her sleeves. She could taste blood in her mouth. Her hand was a furnace. No one was looking their way. The alchemists had their faces angled up and focused on the lightshow; paying attention to the apprentice would mean having to deal with whatever was going on, and no one wanted the task. Lucia¡¯s seizure was gone. She was looking at her. Well, not looking, since her eyes were under a blindfold. It was doubly strange, then, that she was looking. A coldness touched her broken fingers. Lucia had reached out and gently taken hold of her hand, navigating with meticulous care as if she knew where they hurt. The Green coalesced above the palisades. The ethereal strands began to fall all at once ¨C a curtain of light, drawn to the earth by some subterranean force. The Dome Luminous rippled and brightened, the stars trailing the flow like so many raindrops. The alchemists made awestruck oohs and ahhs. Even Sam was distracted, her pain briefly forgotten. ¡°Ss¡­¡± The noise was less than a whisper. The wind, maybe. It has been a long day ¨C ¡°Ss¡­¡± Same turned toward Lucia. The idea was unthinkable. Lucia possessed neither cognitive ability nor faculties of speech. She was an ambler ¨C a reanimated corpse tethered to Maestro James Cowen, incapable of speech, thought, or any action beyond the explicit coding of her routines. As the Green fell, Lucia¡¯s face was cast between light and shadow. Her mouth was open, revealing two flawless rows of teeth. Sam glimpsed a dark, purple tongue. It was moving. Lucia was trying to speak. A Harvest of Souls 5

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A hundred thousand corpses walked out of the mines. Pyromancers inspected the dead, setting fire to the old, the deformed, the crippled. Bursts of blue-fire charred their bodies, and the wind broke them to ash. The alk wore the white-and-navy of the Orthopaedic Guild. His mask was polished steel, painted with slashes of yellow. ¡°I don¡¯t usually work on the living,¡± he complained as he was sealing the cast. ¡°You will receive a bill.¡± ¡°The Maestro is insured,¡± said Sam. The party has ended. The alchemists ¨C half of them drunk, the other half halfway sober ¨C descended the Hill with their guilds. They pointed, meek with awe, at the tide of bodies trudging across the fields. Lucia cleaved a path through them. James followed with hands in pockets, jittery as if he was about to fall. ¡°Say it again,¡± he demanded. ¡°Lucia tried to speak,¡± Sam said. The Maestro waved his hands. A smear of Green followed the trail of his fingers, fading as quickly as it came. ¡°I see no record of it,¡± he said. ¡°You sure?¡± ¡°No. I was¡­in pain.¡± He sighed. "You must learn to monitor and evaluate at a professional level. If it happens again while you are clear minded, you will let me know.¡± ¡°Yes Maestro.¡± ¡°Where are we going, by the way?¡± The lift cluster stood a mile east of the city. The Pillar of the Pile, a cluster of basalt columns five miles in diameter, housed a hundred and twenty-seven cargo and passenger lifts. The largest lift boasted a maximum capacity of eight thousand tonnes, but not nearly enough space to fit a hundred thousand corpses. Logistics from the House of Solutions had given a tentative estimate of eighteen hours for the distribution of the harvest to their respective guilds, where preservative treatment and baseline encoding shall transform walking corpses into productive members of society. This timeline had turned out to be ludicrously optimistic. Simply directing the cadaver to their designated assembly points had taken half the night. They were yet to be tagged and sorted, let alone mustered into the correct lifts. Returning from the primary shelter was Finley¡¯s army: two thousand armour-clad amblers armed with halberds and muskets and flamethrowers. Many had suffered grievous damage. People, as a rule, did not like being herded into an abandoned mine by spear-wielding undead. Fortunately, the ventilators were already running by then, and the violence was short-lived. The machinery now lay disassembled atop a train of wagons, the miles-long ducting folded around empty canisters of Miasma. Heat-treated pikes from the palisade were rolled up in giant bundles and bound with chains. Sam had one of the earlier shifts. By the time riots supposedly broke out, she was already with the pyros, setting the city on fire. It was not her fault. The children skipping down the decline, she saw them now, in the rear. It was not her fault. They had vacant faces and glazed eyes. They stumbled with no sense of balance, only forward, forward. It was not her fault. The girl had tugged at her sleeve. Are you a Maestro? she had asked. She had azure eyes. Azure eyes, she saw them now. Glazed and blind, stumbling ¨C Sam threw up. She had to yank off her mask in a hurry. The apprentices jumped back and laughed. One wolf whistled. Luckily, the Maestros were some distance away, having a meeting. They did not see her. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. The alks nearby gave her sympathetic looks, which made it worse. An old woman in silver-and-grey pulled her aside and gave her water. Sam nodded her gratitude but dared not speak. The woman¡¯s face was unnaturally polished. Her voice sounded like flint on sandpaper. ¡°First time?¡± Sam shook her head. ¡°No? Maybe this job isn¡¯t for you then. Got to learn to enjoy yourself.¡± ¡°How?¡± ¡°Think about that villa on the Floor of Twenty, or going to Madam Tian¡¯s and buying everything on the shelf.¡± The woman wiggled her fingers, showing off five gaudy rings. ¡°I make sure to look at these every day. They are mine. I earned them. One day you will earn yours, and you will love them. Keep that in mind. It¡¯ll get you through the hard days.¡± A bright voice called out nearby. ¡°All rows in position! All rows stand by!¡± ¡°I have to find my row,¡± said Sam. ¡°You¡¯re with Cowen, aren¡¯t you?¡± The woman looked her up and down. ¡°I have eight thousand of his. Come with me.¡± For a time, the tagging was performed by amblers with custom routines. They were phased out when the harvests became so large, and the per-batch anomalies so numerous, that the cost of coding the dead exceeded that of simply hiring more alchemists. The smooth-faced woman had three assistants: one to push the portable furnace, two to brand the flesh with hot irons. Once tagged, cadavers legally became property ¨C theft, damage, and unlawful use would then be prosecuted by the enforcers of the law: The Maestros. Sam followed along idly, doodling nonsense in her ledger. The corpses were arrayed in a perfect grid. They were silent except for the gurgling of their loosened bowels. The normal ones moved not at all; the anomalies could not stop moving. Two rows down, a woman was swaying on the spot. Beside it, another woman was gurgling up a bloody slurry that could have been its guts or its lunch. In the distance, a young man with blood-matted hair twirled endlessly, arms flying like a ballerina. Standing just beyond its reach, James could be seen arguing with a pair of pyros. ¡°¡­it was fine an hour ago, the logs are showing...¡± ¡°¡­first-passes are your responsibility¡­¡± Distracted, Sam did not see the seven-foot corpse falling behind her. The undoubtedly premium-grade cadaver drove her to the ground before she could react. Her face hit the mud. The beak of her plague mask crumpled, and suddenly she could not breathe. The initial shock turned to numbness. Maybe she will rest here awhile, not breathing, and give the world a chance to disappear. Maestros might one day gossip about her ¨C do you remember that time an apprentice got crushed to death by a corpse? A steel-capped boot came into view. The weight on her back vanished, and Sam was dragged up by the back of her collar. She pried off her mask and gasped for air. Lucia¡¯s face was inches from her own. She felt unreasonably embarrassed. ¡°That¡¯s a big one,¡± one of the assistants remarked. Sam picked up her clipboard and frowned at the smeared pages. The corpse looked puny next to Lucia. It fell over when Lucia set it down, knocking down three others. The dead made no attempt to seek balance or dodge. ¡°Maestro Cowen!¡± The old woman called out. ¡°Some assistance, please.¡± In a sudden burst of agility, the corpse sprung to its feet. Its head began ticking left with bizarre speed, as if trying to snap its own neck. It pulled up its fallen brethren with three dramatic lunges and patted them on the shoulder, then it clicked its ankles together and gave the alchemist an impeccable salute. James Cowen came to her side. ¡°Preserver. Trouble?¡± he asked pleasantly. ¡°Have them burn this one.¡± James clicked his fingers. The corpse, vacant-faced and oozing blood from its broken lip, broke into a merry jig. Twice it slipped on the mud but somehow managed to continue. ¡°Seems fine to me,¡± said James, as the cadaver ended the routine with a backflip. ¡°Will take some work, certainly, but it has potential.¡± The preserver scoffed. ¡°Potential. Do you plan on micromanaging every problematic individual for the rest of your life?¡± ¡°You jest. It will perform adequately with the proper routines.¡± ¡°When you say adequate, I hear suboptimal.¡± ¡®Semantics.¡± ¡°Why are the weird ones always yours?¡± The preserver eyed the spinning cadaver with unreserved disdain. ¡°They told me you were good.¡± ¡°Past my prime,¡± suggested James. ¡°Please understand that my guild will not be allocating extra hours to your batch. We are an equal-opportunity organization.¡± ¡°I am aware.¡± It was decided then that the tall cadaver will continue to treatment, while the spinning one will be disposed. The pyros lit their fuses. A burst of blue-fire reduced the anomalies to ash. Sam scratched out their tags in the ledger, and it was as if they have never existed. A Harvest of Souls 6

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The Dome Luminous brightened into dawn. The last of the merchandize disappeared into the lifts, taken to alchemical guilds scattered over a dozen Floors. The alchemists went next, huddled together in their exhaustion. Everything they did here, the dead could have done, yet still they came, and partied, and lingered long after their tasks had ended. The turnaround from cadaver to ambler was around three weeks, during which a complex, cross-guild workflow preserved the internal organs; reinforced the bones, the skin, the ligaments; replaced blood with proprietary infusion; and linked the encoded tapeboxes to the seventh thoracic cord. Each Guild conducted their work differently. Each jealously hoarded their techniques. During this time, the Maestros usually went on vacation. Jack Finley shook a round of hands as he was leaving. His cousins ¨C the three Eds, James called them ¨C were occupied with bookkeeping, what with eighty thousand new amblers to manage, but such trivial work was beyond Jack¡¯s concerns. ¡°Good work, well done, yes, see you after the break, thank you all for coming,¡± he repeated, all gravitas gone. Only Maestros and apprentices were left. No more grandstanding. ¡°Cowen.¡± ¡°Jack.¡± The pyros had established a perimeter around the premiere lounge, but the fire had taken half the building anyway. James sat on a bench at the edge of the destruction, wine glass in hand. He raised it in salute as the VIP lift departed with the Finleys inside. The glass was empty. He beckoned at Sam. ¡°That the last of them?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Come, meet my co-conspirators.¡± Maestro Mina En appeared to be knitting a sock. Senior Associate Moeffe Bant had buried his face in a book titled REVOLUTIONARY ECONOMICS. Neither seemed particularly keen on networking. They looked like they have been waiting for a lift their entire lives. ¡°Send her along, will you?¡± En said without looking up. ¡°My apprentice has my full confidence.¡± ¡°Not mine.¡± Sensing the moment, Sam offered her a not-very-secret flask of gin. En partook with vigour, her sock forgotten. Bant looked up with disapproval. ¡°I thought we were to have a serious discussion,¡± he said, his voice like chiselled bricks. ¡°We are worms,¡¯ En declared. ¡°Worms with agency,¡± said James. ¡°Finley pinpointed my attempt in a day, and I have no idea how. That man has two million tethers. He can¡¯t possibly be that sensitive to all of them.¡± ¡°Four million,¡± Bant corrected. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. ¡°And now we know what not to do,¡± James shrugged. ¡°What about the Madam?¡± Bant closed his book. ¡°My employer speaks highly of you, Maestro Cowen.¡± ¡°Only behind my back.¡± ¡°She is following the consolidation procedures as you have advised. It is not going smoothly. I must ask ¨C how did you create Lucia?¡± ¡°Must you ask?¡± ¡°I have a right to know.¡± ¡°The Madam knows Lucia better than I.¡± Blades slipped into James¡¯s voice. Sam shivered. ¡°If she has not told you, then you have no right.¡± Bant flushed red. He clicked his fingers. Two amblers stepped out from the eaves. The emerald-on-gold jackets of the House of Verdancy could barely contain their augmented muscle mass. En frowned. ¡°You are embarrassing yourself.¡± ¡°My apologies, James Cowen, but I need to understand why the Madam trusts you so implicitly.¡± ¡°Graduates,¡± James scoffed. Lucia stepped into the lounge with a marble pillar. She set it down before the lifts, and the ground shook. ¡°Souvenir?¡± En queried. ¡°You don¡¯t strike me as poor, James.¡± ¡°Can always be richer.¡± Stone-faced, Bant pointed. The two amblers charged at Lucia, bounding twenty feet in a single leap. James yawned. A blur of cloak and sleeves. Lucia has them by their heads. She clapped. Skulls burst. The amblers swung their fists like nothing happened. Lucia tossed one and kneed the other in the abdomen. With an awful tearing sound, the ambler split in two along its spine. The other flew a hundred feet into the far wall, knocking down what remained of the ticket booths. The ceiling caved in, burying it completely. After that, the young necromancer became a lot more amicable, even taking a swig from Sam¡¯s flask. ¡°The Palace Above keeps approving these harvests. Why?¡± ¡°Stop it. Never consider the bigger picture,¡± En said, knitting furiously. ¡°A young professional such as yourself should focus on becoming a Maestro and getting your own contract.¡± ¡°That¡¯s good advice,¡± said James. ¡°Only players get to complain about the rules of the game.¡± Bant looked angry. ¡°The auditions are full of Finleys. Soon they will have enough necromancers in-House to forgo contractors altogether, and we will be relegated to the old ways, haggling with the grieving for their departed ¨C¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be such a spout!¡± En threw down her stitching in a huff. ¡°Ours was a noble profession! My grandmother, may she rest in peace, had her own little shop on the Floor of Ten, and every morning I went out to pick up the broadsheets there would be letters thanking the Lords Above for her work in the community! They loved her! They loved! The only Maestro on the whole Floor!¡± Under their collective astonishment, En emptied the flask in one gulp. Bant ignored her. ¡°You may be in a position of advantage for now, James Cowen, but look at us. We¡¯re chums. We break our backs for a pittance when Jack Finley can snap a finger on Twenty and make every man his slave. Does that seem fair to you?¡± James shooks his head. There were dark circles under his eyes, his skin more sunken and flaky-looking than the day before. ¡°I remember talking like you. No wonder I had no friends.¡± ¡°You think you are playing the long game, but you are just a sycophant. No wonder Jack Finley allows you ten percent. He owns you.¡± ¡°I assure you ¨C I have noble and righteous intentions. I just act like an ass.¡± ¡°Children, please,¡± En sighed. ¡°We are all going to the plenum, yes?¡± ¡°Part of my contract,¡± said James. ¡°The Madam will attend in person,¡¯ said Bant. There was silence. A pleasant ding announced the arrival of a passenger lift ¨C no VIP suite, this one, but still full of leather divans. James spoke slowly. ¡°Is she well?¡± ¡°Truthfully ¨C no.¡± Bant sighed. ¡°She is pushing a hundred and thirty. Her mind is sharp, but¡­¡± ¡°She told me, years ago, that the next time I see her, she would set me free.¡± ¡°What does that mean?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± He looked up. ¡°Sam, do you know?¡± Startled by the sound of her own name, Sam struggled to form a coherent sentence. ¡°She would¡­let you quit, I guess.¡± They stared at her. Even Lucia leaned in. En barked a sound that was half amusement, half hysteria. The Maestro seemed disappointed. ¡°If only I could.¡± The House Of Dawn 1

1

The House of Dawn operated from a four-storey townhouse on the Floor of Seventeen, two rows down from a Madam Tian¡¯s. It has no redeeming features but for a doorplate of solid copper. T¡¯Lia stared at it. Every time she came, she made sure to remind herself that one day, she could buy one just like it: her very own gaudy sign, her own workshop, on this glitzy Floor where every minute detail was a competition for affluence. His house may not show it, but Cowen was rich. The man was rumoured to own a hundred thousand amblers all by himself. Three the three-armed ambler hauled up her fourth suitcase. Two years ago, one large satchel had sufficed for the abomination¡¯s maintenance; now she emptied the workshop every other month. With fresh cadaver so readily available, only weirdos like Cowen cared to fix the old toys ¨C supposedly, he was part of the team that harvested the Floor of Nine. Supposedly. T¡¯Lia would not know. Unlicensed and blacklisted, no respectable guild would ever invite her to a harvest. ~ Sam boiled up the kettle and found in the kitchen cupboard a jar of pickles and a box of Airship Tea. She debated whether T¡¯Lia would enjoy brine-flavoured water, but in the end, she sided with her conscience. ¡°Oh, darling, real tea? I don¡¯t deserve this,¡± T¡¯Lia murmured, inhaling the fragrance of two-hundred-seeds-per-gram. ¡°Would you like a pickle?¡± ¡°How about a kiss?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Then hand over the pickle, darling.¡± James looked ill. Two weeks out from the harvest and his wasting-away has only gotten worse. His cheeks were sunken and dull, his skin grey and dead-looking. The Green glittered in his eyes like two emerald chits. He nodded when Sam slipped three endorph pills into his cup; it was late, they had worked all day, but T¡¯Lia¡¯s appointments were always kept. Pleasantries were exchanged. Congratulations were said. Complaints were made and heard regarding the possibility of invites to future harvests; they were promptly dismissed and laughed away. ¡°My rates have doubled.¡± T¡¯Lia said. ¡°I know you get off on haggling, Cowen, so let¡¯s go. You say, ¡®your compensation reflects your performance¡¯, I say, ¡®I dance, but not for free.¡¯ You throw a fit, tell me times are hard, I say I get it, but it¡¯s not my problem. And after the foreplay, you will pay me double. Shall we?¡± ¡°That third arm works perfectly.¡± James said, looking at Three the three-armed ambler. ¡°One cannot simply graft an extra limb and expect it to work. Full functionally stems from augmentation beyond one¡¯s natural recourse ¨C that is to say, one¡¯s Green must be made to deviate from the human template.¡± Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. T¡¯Lia laughed. ¡°¡®The human template.¡¯ That¡¯s a good one.¡± ¡°Three is special. You won¡¯t find another like it, and I recall raising it for free.¡± ¡°What¡¯s so special about it? Tell me.¡± ¡°I literally just told you, woman.¡± ¡°And I don¡¯t care.¡± Sam slipped out quietly, shutting the door behind her. The foyer greeted her with its frigid stainless-steel panels and electric tube lights. Both were unthinkable luxuries in the poorer districts, but Sam thought a fireplace would have been nice. Maybe a pot plant or two. Her desk was slanted to one side, facing the entrance. It, like everything else, was stainless-steel. She had an overflowing file cabinet with which to manage James Cowen¡¯s life, and a fountain pen to write down visitors¡¯ names in a copper-threaded logbook. T¡¯Lia¡¯s name glittered alone under the date. Sam sank into her chair. She had no duties except a hundred varieties of administration, evaluation, cost estimation, earnings projection, preparations for the lab, the storerooms, and dinner¡­but those can wait until tomorrow, or the day after that, whichever came later. Her right eye throbbed, the beginning of a migraine. Three letters sat under the mail slot. Her broken hand was itchy, the cast heavy. One more month, and she will run out of excuses for putting off chores. Letters were not chores, however. The first was addressed to Samantha T., House of Dawn. She put it aside. She was still on the clock. The second was for Ma. James C., House of Dawn. For His Eyes Only. It contained a velvety invitation from one Jackson B. Finley IV to attend the 250th stakeholder plenum at the House of Solutions on the Floor of Twenty. Enclosed was a five-day itinerary and a metal pin featuring a grinning cartoon skeleton holding an upward-trending graph. The third contained an invoice from Charlie¡¯s foundry amounting to three hundred thousand seeds, which seemed a ridiculous sum for what the invoice described as ¡®One Large Box¡¯. There was a knock. She glanced at the clock. 10pm. Strictly speaking, the House of Dawn did not have opening hours, but it seemed rude to sit here and pretend to be deaf. It was fully dark outside save for a lone streetlamp. A woman no older than Sam stood on the front steps. ¡°Hi,¡± she said tentatively. ¡°Is this a¡­a Necromantic House?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± said Sam. ¡°I need a Ritual.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t do individual Rituals, sorry. The House of Juniper is down the road.¡± ¡°Their sign says ¡®on vacation¡¯. Please. It¡¯s urgent.¡± Normally, Sam would shut the door and put on earmuffs, but the woman had almond eyes and lashes that curled up at the ends. ¡°I will ask the Maestro.¡± James was unusually enthusiastic about the prospect. He threw on a cloak before Sam could finish explaining herself. ¡°Don¡¯t run on me Cowen,¡± grumbled T¡¯Lia. ¡°I¡¯ll be right back,¡± he said cheerfully. ¡°Give you a chance to reconsider.¡± ¡°Send your apprentice.¡± ¡°She can¡¯t necromancy before passing the audition.¡± ¡°So, what is she, a¡­a theorist?¡± ¡°That¡¯s a nice way to put it.¡± James considered a pair of gloves, then left them on the vanity. ¡°You get started on Lucia. Lab¡¯s open.¡± ¡°If I don¡¯t get my money ¨C¡± ¡°Don¡¯t threaten me. Lucia can hear you.¡± T¡¯Lia closed her mouth with an audible smack. The night was chilly. The woman gave the Maestro curious looks as she shook his hand. ¡°I know you,¡± she said. ¡°You are the one with the giant.¡± ¡°Callout fee¡¯s two thousand seeds,¡± James said. ¡°One Ritual is three thousand. You are not looking for a preservative conversion?¡± ¡°No,¡± the woman sniffed. ¡°I need a moment with my grandfather. He passed away before he could finalize his will.¡± ¡°Ah. How long has it been?¡± ¡°Ninety minutes.¡± ¡°What say you, apprentice?¡± ¡°¡®Cognitive remnants may persist up to three hours after what is commonly known as death,¡¯¡± Sam recited. ¡°¡®If the cadaver is raised during this time, it may manifest a non-zero fraction of the faculties of speech and memory.¡±¡¯ ¡°There you have it,¡± nodded James. ¡°Where are we going, by the way?¡± The House Of Dawn 2

2

The twenty-page contract contained only two pieces of useful information: that one must pay before service, and that there were no refunds. The woman handed over five thousand seeds without batting an eye. ¡°This way,¡± she said. ¡°Mind remove your shoes.¡± The bedroom was opulent and crowded. A hundred men in suits schemed in hushed voices. ¡°That¡¯s James Cowen,¡± a voice declared. The woman held her chin very high. ¡°Yes, I have brought Maestro James Cowen of the House of Dawn. Are you happy now, uncle?¡± A man with a scar across his lip gave Sam a passing glance, then reached out to shake the Maestro¡¯s hand. ¡°Pleasure,¡± said James, not offering. ¡°We are short on time. I will begin now.¡± The Maestro clicked his fingers. The bed rustled. An old man with fairy-floss hair and dangling jowls tossed the sheets aside as if getting up for his nightly bladder relief. It beckoned at the granddaughter. Come. ¡°The dead do not breathe. You will need to get close,¡± said James. The room surged. The men jostled for a position near the bed, the granddaughter sandwiched between them. The dead man opened its mouth. From where she stood, Sam could hear nothing. ¡°Imbeciles,¡± muttered James. A roar went up. The uncle stormed out of the room with what looked like a third of the family. Two men in the pinstripe suits of the Lower Courts huddled in a corner with stacks of vellum, red pens scratching away. The granddaughter remained by the bedside, grinning and holding the corpse¡¯s hand. She whispered a question into its ear, but the corpse did not react. Its vacant expression slackened further. She tried again to no avail. She frowned. ¡°It¡¯s done,¡± James called out. ¡°The remnants have dissipated.¡± ¡°What does that mean?¡± she asked. James nodded at his apprentice. ¡°The cadaver has exhausted its faculties,¡± said Sam. ¡°It will continue to react to external stimuli such as sound, light, and pressure until its sensory organs are deteriorated, but it can no longer speak, distinguish speech, or act in any way that resembles sentience. Legally speaking, it is now considered property.¡± One of the suits nodded. ¡°We have acquired everything we need to proceed, Miss Worsley. The estate is yours.¡± ¡°Everything we need?¡± The woman¡¯s face changed from triumph to anger, and then to grief. ¡°Could he not hear me?¡± ¡°No,¡± said Sam. ¡°But you have bound his soul.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not how necromancy works,¡± said James. His words were mocking but his voice was low. ¡°No such thing as a soul.¡± This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. The woman eased her grandfather¡¯s corpse onto the bed. It neither resisted nor complied. ¡°My last words were to ask for his money,¡± she said. ¡°What would he think of me?¡± ¡°The dead do not judge.¡± ¡°But I do. Release him, Maestro. Let him rest in peace.¡± James clicked his fingers. His eyes sparkled with Green, and Lucia shook her head as if bothered by a fly. The corpse closed its eyes, and it seemed as if the old man had just fallen asleep. Holding his hands, his granddaughter began to cry. The courtyard was thick with cigarette smoke. The men stared daggers into the Maestro¡¯s back. They will do nothing. Maestros were untouchable. A young man with a shock of purple hair pushed past them. ¡°Maestro Cowen ¨C I am with the Guild of Dyes ¨C a stylist, for clothing and fashion, and interior design, and ¨C¡± James ignored him. ¡°Leave your card with me, if you like,¡± said Sam. The young man handed over a purple-tinged business card. ¡°Please take advantage of our services. Free of charge for you, Miss.¡± The streets were quiet but not empty. The ambler lanes were overflowing. Hundreds trudged along the yellow lines, carrying crates and barrels and bundles and sacks many times their size. On a Floor as high as Seventeen, deliveries were only allowed during the night. ¡°That was a bad idea,¡± said James, sounding cold and tired. ¡°Never ask me again.¡± ¡°Yes, Maestro,¡± said Sam. ¡°Two centuries ago, this sort of job would have been our main source of income.¡± ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound very profitable.¡± James laughed. ¡°We necromancers were once considered practitioners of the occult, agents of evil sent by the Lords Below to corrupt humanity. You know what changed their minds?¡± ¡°Free labour.¡± ¡°That¡¯s right. We made the dead plough fields and pull wagons ¨C for a pittance, at first, to appease the landlords and the industrialists who prosecuted us. Jackson Finley the First recruited the alchemists, one Guild at a time, to develop preservatives. Within a generation, we bankrupted them all. No one could compete with a workforce that did not eat, sleep, or ask for money. Who owns the land now, the factories, the farms?¡± ¡°The Maestros.¡± ¡°Do you know why the Lower Courts legally recognize the words of a corpse? How can they be sure I¡¯m not the one controlling its vocal cords? The Ventriloquist, Maestro Meknes Ifran, was famous for holding executions then using the dead as stage actors. Why do they trust me to not do the same?¡± Sam shrugged. It seemed natural that they would. ¡°To you, it must seem natural that they would. Tell me, how does raising the dead qualify one to write the law? Operate the industrial complex? Why do they trust me with such responsibility when I spend my days clicking fingers?¡± ¡°Because you are rich.¡± The Maestro¡¯s laugh turned into a coughing fit. ¡°That¡¯s funny. Wrong, though.¡± T¡¯Lia was waiting for them in the foyer. Her rubber gloves were drenched in infusion, her face shield scorched from acidic splatter. ¡°You need to come with me,¡± she said. James nodded without a word. They disappeared into the basement laboratory, leaving Sam to deposit the seeds and write up the transmittance. The clock struck midnight as she was putting away the files. Finally, her shift was ended. Sam¡¯s room was on the third floor, directly below the Maestro¡¯s. She has a bed, a corner desk, a hardback chair, and her own bathroom. She has a view of the street below through a narrow window. Everything an apprentice needs, in one place. She opened her letter in bed, not expecting anything. The Maestro had a habit of signing up for services using her name. All sorts of questionable propositions she has received. This one would be no different ¨C Dear Samantha: I regret to inform you that your father has passed. Services will be held on the second of September in Hall #3 at the Guild of Combustion, Floor of Twelve, from 10 to 11am. You may bring up to two guests. Sincerely, Your Aunt. The House Of Dawn 3

3

Sam wore her black suit, the only one she owned. For the band of mourning, she used one of Lucia¡¯s blindfolds, midnight-black and glittering with tiny diamonds. She did not know what else to bring, so she brought her clipboard and a leather satchel full of form contracts and blank invoices. The Maestro had said that he would clear his schedule, but he said that about a lot of things, including lunch runs to Ingel¡¯s Patisseries. It was a surprise, then, that he showed up at the lift lobby wearing his best cloak, a high-collared midnight shroud reserved for special occasions. He was also grinning like a little boy. ¡°You didn¡¯t think I would miss a funeral, did you? I didn¡¯t even know they still had those. Oh, this is going to be fun.¡± Lucia wore a larger version of the same cloak, black-on-black with high stiff collars and sweeping tails. Her blindfold was silver with threaded bronze. The waiting apprentices and knaves treated her like a natural obstacle. They took a direct line from Seventeen to Twelve with no stops in between. The two Floors had a combined population of twenty million, more than all the others combined. Where Seventeen was orderly and gentrified, Twelve was a zoo. Its transport hub extended far beyond the lift cluster into a conglomeration of shops, stalls, low brick houses, concrete towers, and open canals choked with trash. Hawkers plied the crowded street, shouting in a hundred dialects. Ambler couriers spilled out of their lanes and people spilled into it, the living jostling with the dead for space along every road, before every stall, around every corner. Plastered on every building, every viaduct, across every span of available airspace, orange banners exalted a single headline in bold, white letters: ECONOMIC MIRACLE: FLOOR OF TWELVE CHEERS FOR FINLEY On every newsstand, on the front page of every broadsheet, smiled the face of Jack Finley. He was shaking hands with the mayor. He was on the factory floor, directing production. He was in the mushroom fields, directing fungi. There was nowhere to look without coming upon his face performing some economic miracle. The cathedral of the Guild of Combustion gleamed two miles east from the Pillar, a gothic monstrosity shaped like a frozen flame. Between them was the main thoroughfare, crowded by what looked like a million people. For every person there were five amblers. A skinny one trudged along with ten-foot steel rods bundled over each shoulder; it took up the width of the lane whenever it turned, forcing others to duck. The dead were much nimbler at avoiding obstacles than the living. A woman lay sprawled in the gutter. People and amblers pathed around her. A curbside stall was roasting mushrooms on an open grill. The cook wore a blacksmith¡¯s apron and nothing else. He brandished a knife at the ragged children gathered around his fire, to minimal effect. A steam engine inched through the crowd, impotently blowing its whistle. Four attendants jogged alongside, each flaunting an iron-headed whip that they liberally employed to clear a path. The children scattered. An ambler with a flatpan atop its head was struck across the back. It reacted much too nimbly, and the flatpan fell, spilling a river of soybeans onto the pavement. A man gave a shout, and five hundred people rushed to the scene, racing to their knees to snatch up soybeans by the handful. The amblers suddenly found themselves navigating through a pandemonium. The one with the steel rods tripped and fell. Banging metal turned into screams. Brawls ensued. A stall of dried mushrooms toppled over. The hawker, screaming, pulled out a rusty machete and rained blows upon the human mass stealing away her livelihood. Blood and skin flew. An ambler happened to get in the way, and the blade ripped open its gut. Purple infusion spilled out, and the crowd cried out in anger, for the mushrooms were now drenched in poison. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The steam engine blew its whistle; the attendants looked at each other and shrugged. A bell rang in the distance. Every ambler on the street froze in their paths. A troop of Finley amblers, armed and armoured, pushed through the crowd. At their head was a single fusilier with a musket. His left hand was bloody from the activation of the Command Rings. He pointed this way and that, and the amblers went, breaking up fights and clearing blockages. The steam engine whistled at him. The fusilier fumed, took one glance into the tinted window, then backed off in a hurry. The clean-up quickened perceptibly. A huge ambler in a dark cloak was pushing through perimeter. Frowning, the fusilier shook the triangular handbell on his belt. It produced a massive noise disproportional to its size. The ambler did not stop. Cursing under his breath, the fusilier beat back the scurrying crowd only to encounter James Cowen picking his nose. ¡°Apologies, Maestro.¡± He quickly took in the sunrise crest, the cloak, and the glint of Green in the man¡¯s eyes. ¡°The situation is under control.¡± The steam engine inched closer. An attendant looked at Sam, raised his whip, then thought better of it. The tinted window opened by a sliver. ¡°Cowen!¡± ¡°Ingel.¡± ¡°What are you doing, walking in the street?¡± The cabin door opened, revealing a very large man with very little hair. The attendants immediately took up positions adjacent, whips at the ready. ¡°Come. Give you a ride.¡± Maestro Ingel¡¯s cabin was packed high with pastries, sausages, cheeses, cakes, and shelves of wine. The Maestro himself comfortably took up two seats. James was given a pink-coloured divan, and Sam a cushion in the corner. Lucia followed alongside the engine, too tall to fit inside anyway. ¡°A funeral!¡± Ingel laughed. ¡°That¡¯s a good one. Ohh, I¡¯d love to see it, but I¡¯m surveying my stores.¡± He knocked on the driver¡¯s window. ¡°Stop by the church. Pyros,¡± he shook his head. ¡°Got their fingers in everything. They sell bonds now, apparently.¡± ¡°Any news?¡± ¡°Of what? I¡¯m not in your loop, Cowen. Ran the harvest without me.¡± ¡°Unfortunate.¡± ¡°Always a next time.¡± ¡°Is there?¡± Ingel gave Sam a look, then shoved two bratwursts into his mouth. ¡°My apprentice has my full confidence,¡± said James. ¡°Finley got the pre-approvals,¡± Ingel said. Sam could feel the change in James¡¯s posture. It was as if every nerve in his body just lit up. ¡°They will harvest this Floor. Eight million people.¡± ¡°Impossible.¡± ¡°The board will vote on it. You, me, Mina, Catherine ¨C the four of us need to push for two million, or it¡¯s over.¡± ¡°You have assets here?¡± ¡°I own every ounce of flour on this Floor. He expects me to pull out by the end of the year.¡± ¡°Will you?¡± ¡°If I ¨C we ¨C get our two million.¡± ¡°If not?¡± ¡°Then we¡¯ll have a problem. Ah, here we are.¡± The steam engine came upon an Ingel¡¯s Bakery. Rows of stone-baked loaves shone golden behind a curved glass window. A pair of amblers guarded the bakery¡¯s entrance; one held a nailed cudgel, the other a seven-foot long bident. From a third-floor window peeked the barrel of a musket; a sniper¡¯s nest of sorts, Sam supposed, in case bread thieves ranged from afar. Customers were sparse, though many lingered at the display. Thirty feet from the shopfront was a makeshift camp. Dozens of ramshackle huts leaned against each other for support. An old woman was cooking a single skewer of mushrooms on the firepit. She melded into the dust as the steam engine approached. Though the street was crowded, the camp seemed empty. ¡°They come out at night,¡± Ingel said. ¡°Lay siege to my shop.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not here for a tour,¡± said James. ¡°We always sell out by three o¡¯clock. These people have money. They are just financially conservative.¡± Ingel examined the camp with clinical interest. ¡°You think it¡¯ll burn?¡± ¡°Ingel.¡± ¡°Squeamish, are you?¡± ¡°We¡¯re running late.¡± ¡°Uh-huh.¡± Ingel tapped the driver¡¯s window, and the steam engine picked up speed. The attendants began to jog along. ¡°Be sure to relay my concerns to our friends. Two million. Any less than that, we might as well start wearing orange.¡± The House Of Dawn 4

4

The pyromancers¡¯ guild hall has dozens of function rooms for hire. Ever since their acquisition of religious license, they have called their guild a ¡®church¡¯, and their day-trade a ¡®service.¡¯ Their continuing tax exemption was dependent on their subservience to the Maestros: whatever the Houses required, the pyros provided; whatever opinions the Maestros wanted spread, the pyros preached them zealously. Over the years, the Guild of Combustion has diversified into bonds and insurance; marriages and funerals were among the least profitable of their ventures now. Hall #3 was small and low-ceilinged and packed with cold steel pews. The stage was cramped, the lectern behind which the twenty-seeds-an-hour pyro gave the rites was dirty, and the casket had the markings of a House that went bankrupt a few years ago. James had bought cupboards with identical markings from a flea market. There were maybe thirty attendees, waiting for the droning pyro to shut up so they could go home. Sam recognized none of them save for her aunt: a hawk of a woman with a beak-like nose and a nose-like chin. She wore the band of mourning around her neck like a scarf, as if its prominence signalled empathy. She looked around at the sound of footsteps. Her eyes went wide. ¡°Samantha! Who invited you?¡± she demanded, her voice easily eclipsing the pyro¡¯s. ¡°You did.¡± ¡°I certainly did not!¡± James stepped into the hall. He gawked at the mourners like they were curios on display. Lucia followed behind him, the billowing of her cloak putting out a row of candles. Sam could not help but smile. ¡°This is Maestro James Cowen of the House of Dawn.¡± The room turned quiet. The pyro on stage had his mouth wide open. The mourners stared; a man dropped his cup to the floor and spilt cheap wine all over the grimy mosaic. ¡°My condolences!¡± James declared brightly. ¡°One-one moment!¡± The pyro disappeared into a side door. James frowned. ¡°Where is he going? Is it over? We just got here. Aren¡¯t we supposed to pay respects? What is this?¡± The casket was open. A man Sam barely recognized rested within. His eyes were closed, his hands folded across his chest, cupping the photograph of a woman that was not Sam''s mother. A pile of random objects lay at his feet. A deflated ball. A sculptor¡¯s chisel. A bundle of burgundy linen. A pile of condolence cards, slightly damp. Sam examined her father¡¯s face. Rigor mortis had distorted the man¡¯s cheeks into a grotesque smile. Preservative treatment had failed to retain his eyebrows; yellow mould had sprouted between the follicles like tiny mushrooms. His skin was a half-bloated purple, with ill-concealed cuts indicating the draining of fluids, likely to keep the corpse somewhat presentable. Even without a sense of smell, Sam knew the stink would be terrible. Her aunt would not approach the stage at all. The Maestro stood beside her, taking in a million details Sam knew she had missed. ¡°Tell me,¡± he said. ¡°Liver failure,¡± said Sam, ¡°then cardiac arrest. Twenty days ago. Preservation was abandoned halfway into the priming stage.¡± ¡°Fifteen days,¡± said James. ¡°Note the pattern of discolouration. Decomposition was accelerated by infusion leakage into the subdermal layer. Treatment was not abandoned but botched. Liver was undrained. Infusion had pooled there. Not a natural failure.¡± ¡°Sorry, Maestro.¡± ¡°No, you did well. There was a deliberate attempt to mislead.¡± He struggled as if prying the words from some inner sanctum. ¡°I am sorry for your loss.¡± Sam started. ¡°Do you think¡­¡± She was finding it difficult to speak. ¡°Cognitive remnants¡­¡± ¡°No,¡± said James. Her aunt called out from the pews. ¡°Maestro Cowen, might I¡­might I ask a favour?¡± Her voice wobbled. ¡°Money is¡­rather tight right now, and I was wondering if¡­if¡­my brother he¡­he consented to being raised, you see, before he passed. We were planning on a cremation but¡­we didn¡¯t know how we could¡­¡± ¡°The Maestro does not conduct individual Rituals,¡± said Sam, surprised at the rage rising in her throat, threatening to turn every syllable into a shout. ¡°Samantha, dear, how lovely it is to see you, could you perhaps ¨C¡± James laid a hand on the lectern and looked down at the hawk woman with cheerful disdain. ¡°Callout fee¡¯s two thousand. Three thousand for a single Ritual.¡± She blanched. ¡°I thought there was a commission for-for presenting the Maestro with a body.¡± Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! ¡°Only if I want it. I don¡¯t know what you thought we necromancers do, ma¡¯am, but it is not charity.¡± ¡°Samantha, please ¨C¡± ¡°No,¡± said Sam. ¡°Go fuck yourself.¡± Footsteps echoed backstage. A pyro in a flame-patterned mask peeked into the hall. His eyes widened at the sight of Lucia sitting in the back row. He came up and stuck out his hand. ¡°Maestro Cowen,¡± he said. ¡°Jack,¡± the Maestro responded curtly, not offering. ¡°My apprentice.¡± The pyro looked over to Sam, his eyes swirling. ¡°We¡¯ve met. What can I do for you?¡± ¡°Nothing. We¡¯re leaving, aren¡¯t we?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± said Sam. She followed in the Maestro¡¯s footsteps, not giving her aunt another glance. The dead man whom she did not know had left a vile taste in her mouth. This hall, this cathedral, this Floor ¨C she did not want to see them ever again. Jack the pyro followed them out, trailing at a respectful distance. He held a black bundle under one arm. ¡°Will you be attending Finley¡¯s plenum, Maestro Cowen?¡± ¡°Get to the point.¡± ¡°The First Progenitor, she¡­told me to give you this.¡± The bundle was bound in thin metal wires and an oiled canvas. James tore at it, to no effect. ¡°She says you¡¯ll know what to¡­what to¡­oh.¡± James had given the bundle to Lucia, who with one flick of the finger tore through the cover. Inside was a fist-sized metal box with a compressor nozzle on one end and a red slider on the other. ¡°I assume this starts a fire,¡± said James. ¡°Ah, the prototype flamespitter.¡± The pyro put on a good show of acting surprised. ¡°How¡­wonderful.¡± ¡°I went to see a doctor yesterday.¡± ¡°Oh¡­oh?¡± Lucia, without warning, grabbed the pyro by his collar and lifted him off the ground. The pyro gurgled, flailing. ¡°He told me I was dying,¡± said James. ¡°What¡¯s new, right? Who isn¡¯t? But I got stuff to do, places to be. I took time off today to come here, and for what? A farce. A farce, wasn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± said Sam. ¡°I ¨C¡± the pyro sputtered. ¡°I don¡¯t follow.¡± ¡°Of course you don¡¯t. You are just an errand boy, a leech, doing what you are told with no clue why you are doing it. You don¡¯t care about plans or goals or schemes. They are just tasks to you, like camping, or burning houses. Except you are trying to play coy with me. That¡¯s a bit much, don¡¯t you think? You, a leech, a tool, trying to fuck with me?¡± Lucia let go, and the pyro fell in a heap. ¡°Go get your boss.¡± ¡°She-she¡¯s busy.¡± ¡°He still doesn¡¯t get it. Explain it to him, apprentice.¡± ¡°Go to the First Progenitor and tell her that Maestro Cowen awaits an explanation for this gift,¡± said Sam. ¡°She can then tell you ¨C to tell us ¨C whether she is still busy.¡± Jack the pyro scampered off in a hurry. James took a seat in the atrium and leaned against the ancient mosaic of Stars Beyond Twilight, breathing hard. The place seemed empty. Their altercation might have had something to do with it. On the Altar of Combustion, the likeness of the Prime Progenitor gazed down at them with disapproval, the eternal flame sputtering in her outstretched hand. ¡°A bit much, maybe?¡± James rubbed his eyes. ¡°That was amazing,¡± said Sam. ¡°You want to be like me? Fly off the edge at a moment¡¯s notice? Treat the Second Progenitor like the ass that he is?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Didn¡¯t you say you wanted to quit?¡± ¡°I¡­¡± Sam started. ¡°How did you know?¡± ¡°We spoke about it, remember?¡± ¡°Oh¡­¡± She had blocked the Floor of Nine from her memory, it would seem: the children skipping down the decline, singing, holding hands; the mother, pointing at the gleaming pikes and trying to smile; the little hand, tugging at Sam¡¯s sleeve. Are you a Maestro? the girl had asked. ¡°This is different.¡± The Maestro laughed, then began to cough. Sam had stuffed a flask of suppressants into his coat pocket before they came out. He fished it out with a look of mild surprise and took a swig. ¡°You don¡¯t get to enjoy the perks without putting in the work,¡± he said, ¡°or we¡¯d be a society of assholes. What a terrible world that would be.¡± ¡°You saw a doctor.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll live until your audition.¡± ¡°I wasn¡¯t thinking that.¡± ¡°You should have.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not¡­I¡¯m not.¡± ¡°You should have. Apprentices are expendable. I can go outside and wave my arms and get a hundred more. What sets you apart? What special skills do you possess? It doesn¡¯t take a genius to raise the dead, so why you? Because you remembered my meds?¡± ¡°Sorry, Maestro.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t apologize. Show me your hunger. All this ¨C¡± he waved his hands at the opulence. ¡°¨C is worthless if you don¡¯t enjoy it. So, impress me with your greed and your depravity. Am I making myself clear? ¡°Not really¡­¡± James sighed. ¡°You have a way to go yet.¡± The woman who came to them did not look like a pyro: her stilettos and low-cut suit belonged to boardrooms on the Floor of Twenty. In this faux-grand hall of marble and mosaics and big statues, she seemed unreal. The Stars Beyond Twilight reverberated with the sound of her clicking heels, almost subservient. The Maestro stood. Sam fought the urge to hide behind Lucia. The woman¡¯s face was beyond beauty, beyond human. Not a hair was out of place, not a single blemish on her skin. Her eyes shimmered, their myriad hues indescribable, as if some cosmic being was peering through her pupils. ¡°Hi,¡± she said, her voice like rain upon water. ¡°Please follow me.¡± The woman led them through a hidden alcove, where a winding staircase led up into the primary spire. James sighed but did not protest. He hung on to Lucia¡¯s shoulder as she half-carried him up the steps. Sam followed at a safe distance. ¡°Your neural dystrophy has progressed, James Cowen,¡± said the woman. ¡°You won¡¯t be getting anything done at this rate.¡± ¡°Miss Yin is a representative of the Palace Above,¡± said James, loudly. ¡°I had a crush on her when I was younger. Then I got older, and she didn¡¯t. Alas, it wasn¡¯t meant to be.¡± ¡°How was the funeral?¡± she asked. ¡°It was you,¡± said Sam. ¡°You sent the invitation.¡± ¡°Now why would she do that?¡± chided James. ¡°If Miss Yin wanted me here, at this time, she could have just asked.¡± She gave Sam a wink. ¡°Men and their pride. Cute, aren¡¯t they?¡± Jack the pyro paced atop the staircase, in front of a double set of mahogany doors. He grabbed Sam¡¯s arm. ¡°Don¡¯t go in there,¡± he whispered. ¡°You don¡¯t want to know.¡± ¡°Let me do my job,¡± said Sam, yanking her arm away. ¡°Admit no one,¡± the woman said. ¡°If they ask, tell them ¨C¡± The pyro cringed. ¡°¨C that she¡¯s busy, I know, I got it.¡± ¡°Good boy.¡± The office of the First Progenitor resembled a library built by one who despised reading. There were bookshelves on three walls and a floor-to-ceiling window on the other overlooking the heart of the Floor of Twelve. At its centre sat a monster of a desk, big enough to seat twenty. Two copper ingots acted as paperweights, and the inkwell was a half loaf of stone-baked bread ¨C it looked beyond stale, the ink soaking through and oozing onto the floor. In her throne, wrapped under a clear tarp, the corpse of the First Progenitor stared at her guests with disinterest. The House Of Dawn 5

5

James clicked his fingers. The corpse bolted upright, its head lolling to the left. Yellow fluid trickled out of her ears, her nose. Her eyeballs seemed half-melted, oozing out of their sockets. ¡°The primary tether is taken,¡± said James. ¡°What do you mean?¡± the woman asked innocently. ¡°This cadaver was discarded by its previous reanimator.¡± Sam said. ¡°This increases the difficulty of subsequent reanimations.¡± ¡°Intriguing, isn¡¯t it?¡± the woman beamed. ¡°No one else knows she is dead.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t come up here to play your games,¡± James snapped. ¡°I¡¯m leaving.¡± ¡°She left you a proprietary device in her will. Why did she do that?¡± James left the room before she could get in another word, Lucia on his tail. Sam, caught off-guard, hurried after them, but the Maestro had slammed shut the door, and mahogany was heavy. ¡°Samantha, come here a moment,¡± said the woman. The sound of her own name terrified her. ¡°I¡­no¡­sorry.¡± ¡°I oversee the auditions. Every apprentice who wants a career must do as I say.¡± Sam wanted to scream. All she had planned to do was show up for five minutes at a stranger¡¯s funeral. ¡°What do you want from me?¡± ¡°Men are na?ve. They think they know everything there is to know, but when they glean the abyss they cover their eyes and run back to their mansions, and they bury themselves in money until they are blind or dead. The most heinous of crimes they will commit, and they are guilty always, because guilt is good ¨C it gives meaning to their pointless lives. How about you, Samantha? Are you blind, or dead?¡± The half-congealed eyes of the First Progenitor quivered in their delirium. The Green effervesced from the corpse¡¯s fingers. There was ink under its fingernails. Its thumb was twitching, still pulling the strings of a hundred thousand pyromancers. What was its job, exactly? Jack Finley would send a letter, detailing which Floors to burn and when, specifying that pyromancers must be led by necromantic apprentices ¨C who knew nothing about alchemy or combustion, who on a good day could barely walk ten miles ¨C and all it had to do was obey. It did not need to be alive. ¡°Was she happy?¡± Sam asked. The woman gave her a look. ¡°What a strange question.¡± Sam waved at the mahogany shelves, the big window, the view. ¡°I just thought she might have preferred¡­ I don¡¯t know. Something else. I have a window just like this one, in my room. Smaller, dirtier, but I sit at it and look down at the people below, and it¡¯s never a happy thing, but I still do it, because what else is there? There¡¯s just you, and the window, and the people telling you what to do.¡± The woman¡¯s face showed nothing, but Sam could tell she was annoyed. ¡°You seem confused, Samantha,¡± she said. ¡°I am not your friend.¡± The doors opened. Lucia barged in with Jack the pyro under one arm. Jack was sweating. His abyssal eyes were bloodshot, mad. He smiled at Sam. The flamespitter was slotted into a harness on his arm. ¡°The Maestro knows best,¡± he said, and notched the slider all the way down. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. A stream of blue-fire poured over the mahogany desk with such force, it went flying even as it turned to ash. The throne and the First Progenitor slammed into the window, and with a crack like thunder broke through in a ball of fire. The spire shook. The massive bookshelves jittered and fell. The hefty tomes had blank covers and blank pages. Props. The windblast made her deaf. Sam could see every single strand of the woman¡¯s hair. Black they were, and frozen in place. The shockwave had sent her tumbling, but her hair remained impeccable, and when she stood up, she was giggling. Everything in a two-degree arc was obliterated. The desk, the body, the chair, the window ¨C all turned to ash and ejected onto the streets below. Jack casually restored the slider and shook the canister like a can of beans. ¡°Still got some left,¡± he said. The fire seemed to have revitalized him. ¡°Here,¡± he handed Sam the flamespitter. ¡°The Maestro would ¨C¡± Lucia dropped him onto the floor. Sam managed to snatch up her satchel before Lucia grabbed her by the collar and kicked down both doors on her way out. The woman called out, ¡°See you soon, Samantha! Nice to meet you!¡± but Lucia was already in descent, leaping twenty steps at a time. Sam laughed all the way down. James was waiting for them in the atrium, surrounded by a gaggle of pyros. He pointed at the staircase. ¡°Go, quickly. The Second Progenitor needs your help.¡± They dispersed at his gesture, half of them not even pretending to go where he intended. Lucia propped Sam onto a bench and patted the creases out of her coat. ¡°Here, have a bagel,¡± said the Maestro. ¡°Sorry for leaving so suddenly. I had to pretend to be offended,¡± he said. ¡°There was a quill under her chair,¡± Sam said between bites. ¡°Ink under her nails. The bread inkwell thing is Ingel¡¯s idea. You are supposed to replace the bread every day, to show how rich you are.¡± ¡°And how old is the bread, pastry expert?¡± ¡°A week.¡± ¡°I thought I taught you how to examine corpses.¡± The gates of the cathedral swung open. A dozen fusiliers, marching in single column, made a beeline for the hidden staircase. Pyromancers of all ranks swarmed around them, shouting and jostling and arguing. They avoided paying James any attention. ¡°They¡¯ll think you killed their boss,¡± said Sam. James laughed. ¡°My acquaintances all seem to think that I am brewing some scheme to upset the establishment. Do I give that impression?¡± Sam watched the fusiliers disappear into the alcove. The pyros stayed behind to gossip. The atrium was full of them. Voices reverberated under the disapproving gaze of the Prime Progenitor, loud and indecipherable. ¡°A little bit,¡± she said. ¡°The agent from the Palace Above. How did you like her?¡± ¡°She said she is in charge of the audition.¡± ¡°She is in charge of nothing, and cares for even less.¡± A pyro tried to approach them, a sheepish look on his face. James stopped him with a glance. ¡°She plays detective because this world is a game to her and she is bored.¡± ¡°She knew you¡¯d come.¡± ¡°She knew I would entertain her. Did you know there are sixteen Second Progenitors? It¡¯s an executive candidacy. The most suitable is chosen by ballot to succeed the First. Jack was never winning that vote.¡± ¡°No,¡± agreed Sam. ¡°But now he might. Look.¡± A large procession of pyros ¨C thirty, forty men in white robes and flame-patterned masks ¨C approached the Maestro from every direction. They walked slowly, afraid of stepping in front of each other. Still, they came all the same. An old man with a doughnut bald patch cleared his throat and extended his hand. ¡°Maestro Cowen.¡± ¡°Pleasure,¡± said James, not offering. ¡°Stars Beyond Twilight. Do you like it?¡± ¡°The what? Oh, the mosaic? Yeah, sure. I love art. I¡¯m a patron of the arts. It¡¯s beautiful. Was thinking of getting one for my lab. Show off to my clients.¡± The pyros laughed nervously. The old man wrung his hands. ¡°Maestro Cowen, I¡¯m afraid we¡­we might have to ask you to¡­remain with us for a while.¡± ¡°The Progenitor named Jack can tell you what happened.¡± ¡°Yes, he¡­he is quite adamant that your ambler here ¨C¡± the pyro glanced at Lucia with plain terror. ¡°¨C was the instigator.¡± ¡°I am quite busy, you understand. I have a large batch coming in tomorrow on the Floor of Three. Need to be there.¡± ¡°Yes, yes of course¡­but I¡¯m afraid¡­¡± ¡°You don¡¯t imagine you could keep me here.¡± Lucia stepped forward a single step, and the pyros retreated three. ¡°No no, we¡¯d never dare ¨C¡± James laughed. His voice boomed across the atrium. The eternal flame sputtered. ¡°I¡¯m kidding. I will stay until this matter is resolved. You have rooms?¡± Palpable relief washed over every pyro¡¯s face. ¡°Certainly. Rooms. The best. This way, if you would allow me. And your apprentice ¨C¡± ¡°Stays with me.¡± The House Of Dawn 6

6

Their opulent cell had four bedrooms and a panoramic view of the canal behind the cathedral, though there was little to see with the Dome Luminous hidden by the smog and the canal choked with trash. Men on canoes plied the water, picking out scraps with long metal poles. Whenever two canoes met, they would link up to exchange their haul. One was often full of metal, the other what looked like green vomit. ¡°Ever tried canal moss?¡± James asked groggily. He had taken a long nap. ¡°Bloats up in the stomach. Makes you feel full. Tastes like portobello if you cook it right.¡± ¡°How do you cook moss?¡± ¡°On a grill.¡± James gave her a weird look, as if the answer was obvious. ¡°You said you grew up poor.¡± ¡°Not that poor.¡± ¡°Mm. When I was a kid, I sat in my father¡¯s boat. Picked out the edibles. Not here. This one used to be clean. On the east side, near the boundary wall, where the gunk came out of the mines. The moss was thickest there.¡± ¡°Didn¡¯t it make you sick?¡± ¡°Of course. The inside of my mouth would be covered in boils, and I shat blood once a week, on the Thursday. That¡¯s when they let tailings into the water. But mushrooms were expensive, so. Cost me my intestinal linings, and they don¡¯t grow back.¡± ¡°So how did you¡­¡± ¡°Each boat had a turf. Venture outside, and you were eaten. My father got away with it until he didn¡¯t. They cooked him in a mirror vat, the thing alks use to preserve cadaver. Supposedly it imparted a strong flavour. They offered me a spoonful. Eat, they said, and I shall be anointed a member of their¡­I don¡¯t know, gang, cabal, and they will leave me alone.¡± ¡°Lords Above.¡± ¡°What would you have done, if you were me?¡± The idea made Sam sick, but not as sick as she thought it would. ¡°Do what I¡¯m told. Stay alive.¡± ¡°Yes. I did what I was told, and stayed alive. I drank the soup of my father¡¯s bones and told them it was the best thing I¡¯ve ever had. The boatmen clapped me on the back. They said, you are one of us now. Your father¡¯s turf, it¡¯s yours. I remembered being happy about it. Sick, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°No more than¡­¡± ¡°No more than what we are now,¡± the Maestro said. ¡°That night I added some gunk to the vat. Alchemical residue from the Guild of Preservation, Branch Seven. Then I went to sleep. When I woke up, all the soup was gone, and the boatmen were dead. You know what I thought then?¡± ¡°Why no one thought of doing this earlier,¡± said Sam immediately. ¡°Exactly. Even in the canals, eating moss and men, there was a line in the sand, and no one dared to cross it. They kept each other down with a¡­twisted code of honour. Slaves, shackling slaves. It was the only thing they could count on: comradery among cannibals. They could never imagine one born within their ecosystem might want to destroy it. That would be like¡­destroying the world.¡± ¡°That was how you¡­¡± ¡°Well, the story drags on after that, as they all do. How about you?¡± ¡°I grew up on a farm,¡± said Sam. ¡°And look at you now. Your father would be proud of you. Same as mine.¡± You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. ¡°What¡¯s it like, being born a Finley?¡± ¡°Asking me? Really?¡± ¡°You know everything, Maestro.¡± James laughed. ¡°Imagine being born with all the money in the world, but to use it, you must jump hoops in a circus. There is a queue. Every person you are acquainted with is in that queue. Jump, the circus master tells you, and you jump, again and again and again, waiting, not for an end to hoops, but for everyone else to quit. Thing is, you consider everyone not in the queue to be inferior, so you can¡¯t quit, no one quits, and you and everyone else keeps jumping forever, because jumping hoops was never a viable pathway to running the circus.¡± ¡°I think I get it.¡± ¡°You can quit today and become a Finley apprentice tomorrow. They will hire you just to spite me.¡± When Sam took a long pause, the Maestro laughed. ¡°Seriously considering it. I like that.¡± ¡°Will I get a raise?¡± ¡°Funniest joke I¡¯ve ever heard.¡± ¡°Then why would anyone want to work for him?¡± James ran a hand through his hair. He seemed embarrassed. ¡°That means more to me than you could know.¡± There was a knock. Lucia opened the door. Jack the pyro had a band of mourning around his arm. He pulled up a chair next to the window. His face was carefully devoid of expression. Jack Finley followed him in. He scanned the room, taking in the teak furniture, the view of the canal, the view of James slouching on the bed, hair messy from sleep. He clapped Lucia on the lower back ¨C the highest point he could reach. ¡°Good, good,¡± he declared. Even in private his voice boomed. ¡°Cowen, what are you doing?¡± ¡°Napping,¡± said James. ¡°Why, you want to spend all night in this hole? Let¡¯s go.¡± James pulled on his cloak and followed Finley out into the hallway. Sam grabbed her satchel and made to follow, but Jack the pyro stepped in her way, grinning. ¡°What is this?¡± James asked. ¡°We have agreed to prosecute the apprentice,¡± said Finley, impatient. ¡°The pyros will keep her in custody, and she¡¯ll go to trial.¡± ¡°Lucia,¡± Sam called out. Lucia did not respond. ¡°Out of the question.¡± ¡°Cowen ¨C it¡¯s an apprentice. You¡¯ll find thirty applicants in a day.¡± The two Maestros stared at each other. Jack the pyro leaned down until his lips brushed against Sam¡¯s ear. ¡°You¡¯re mine,¡± he whispered. ¡°You¡¯re a tool,¡± said Sam, fighting with all her willpower to stay still, to not shrink away. ¡°Learn to enjoy yourself, Samantha.¡± The pyro leered at Lucia. ¡°The giant isn¡¯t coming to save you.¡± ¡°When I become Maestro, I will take your corpse to the mines, and you will dig for me. Forever.¡± The pyro¡¯s eyes swirled, black on black. ¡°Hateful. I like that.¡± ¡°Cowen,¡± Finley barked. ¡°I don¡¯t have all day.¡± James crossed his arms and showed no sign of moving. ¡°You owe me,¡± he said. ¡°Looks to me like I just saved you a week of paperwork.¡± ¡°Do I look like I need help?¡± ¡°They say you killed their Progenitor.¡± ¡°So?¡± ¡°There are laws, Cowen.¡± James laughed at that. A moment later, Jack did too. ¡°How many do you have on Twelve?¡± ¡°I have Lucia.¡± ¡°And you were going to do what, kill everything in front of you, then go home and nap?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Jack Finley gave Lucia a glance. His eyes, Sam saw, were a deep emerald with a thin rim of white. This man pulled the strings of millions of amblers across all twenty Floors, ran the largest and most influential House in the Pile, and with a snap of his fingers could turn whole Floors into amblers ¨C this man was hesitating in front of James Cowen. ¡°You are breaking face with me over an apprentice,¡¯ said Finley, spitting out every word. ¡°You want to reconsider.¡± James leaned in. ¡°The Palace had you by your balls.¡± Finley laughed, jowls quivering. ¡°They don¡¯t care what we do.¡± ¡°She took me to the office on a whim. Who else would she have told? Ingel? Catherine? You think this idiot ¨C¡± James jerked a thumb at Jack the pyro. The pyro started. ¡°¨C can keep his mouth shut?¡± Finley glared at the pyro. ¡°What are you saying?¡± ¡°You owe me. How did you get pre-approvals when the pyros are headquartered here? Were they going to burn down their own church?¡± Finley was quiet for a long while. When he spoke again, his voice was warm and jovial. ¡°Shame, what happened with the First Progenitor. She told me she was experimenting but¡­¡± he shook his head. ¡°A tragic accident. If only there were witnesses, then they could tell us what had precipitated such a dramatic end to such a¡­fruitful life, fully lived. Shame.¡± ¡°Shame,¡± said James. ¡°Laws would need to be changed in this regard. If only we could extend the definition of cognitive residue, we might have discovered what happened.¡± ¡°Would be convenient, yes.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll raise it at the plenum. You will vote on the side of justice, won¡¯t you, Cowen?¡± ¡°Of course.¡± ¡°Good ¨C so why are we still here?¡± Jack Finley walked away. Sam stepped around the astonished pyro and picked up her satchel. She thought of saying something to him, a last biting remark, a smart retort, but that would be effort wasted on a worm. Intermission Not Julian ¡¤ A Memory In Three Parts [extended] The Means of Production 1

1

The cast came off. Sam would never play the piano or wear press-on nails again, and she celebrated the occasion by splurging on a pair of gloves from Madam Tian¡¯s. Burgundy they were, made from a synthetic that was supposedly water- and stain-resistant and worth a month¡¯s salary. A week after their return from the Floor of Twelve, a letter arrived from the Guild of Preservation, Branch Six, informing Maestro James Cowen that his batch was ready. Through a network of intermediaries and labour agencies, Sam had already secured ten thousand vacancies on the Floor of Three, one of the more established factory Floors. James, as a rule, did not care where his amblers were placed. He was also very busy. With what, Sam did not know. She was told to oversee their deployment by herself. The Maestro¡¯s prep talk had included: don¡¯t talk too much; never stay silent; observe and record everything; don¡¯t record anything; network with the preservers, the overseers, the apprentices; but not too much or they would ask favours of you, though exceptions were expected. Armed with confusion and willpower, Sam took the mass transit lift to the Floor of Three. Angular sheet-steel roofs, interspersed with a thousand smokestacks, stretched uninterrupted from the Pillar to the smog-shrouded boundary walls. Factories proliferated in every direction ¨C a hundred square miles of mills, refineries, smelters, manufactories, warehouses. The transport hub was a barren cathedral of concrete. A huge map spanned the western wall, highlighting four thousand and sixteen factories and thirty-six bulk delivery cargo bays. James¡¯s batch was to arrive in bay #35, in thirty minutes. Sam had panicked as she jogged along the labyrinthine laneways, thinking what a terrible first impression she must be making, to arrive late for her first solo inspection. She found bay #35 empty, the lifts dead and silent, the lights half-dimmed. She sat down on a bench, catching her breath, trying to tie up her confounded hair. Hydraulic hammers echoed in the distance, rhythmizing with the hiss of molten metal and the teeth-grinding lullaby of ore crushers. In the bay, there was complete silence. Sam could hear her own heartbeat. ¡°It¡¯s cold,¡± she said to the void. The lift arrived twenty-five minutes past the appointed time. Two columns of amblers goosestepped into the bay, arms swinging in unison, steel toes drumming on the floor, the yellow sun of the House of Dawn flashing on their stiff grey overalls. Their vacant faces shone as if transmogrified into marble. Sam readied her ledger. The information was garbage ¨C James had tossed her notes over the cliff ¨C but it would have looked even worse if she showed up with nothing. This way, she at least had something to hold. She put on her plague mask and gloves, her layers of confidence. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. Two preservers approached on a palanquin. Sam recognized the wrinkleless woman from the Floor of Nine; the other wore a ghoul mask with red lips and filed teeth. ¡°Where is Maestro Cowen?¡± the woman demanded. ¡°It¡¯s just me today,¡± said Sam. ¡°Huh. You must be awfully capable. Where is your palanquin? Were you going to walk fifty miles?¡± She sighed like a grandmother. ¡°Come up then. We¡¯ll take care of you. What¡¯s your name?¡± ¡°Sam,¡± said Sam. ¡°You may call me Grace. This is Luic. He does not speak.¡± The palanquin was piled high with cushions. Eight amblers carried it on long steel poles. They bore no distinguishing branding, perhaps to avoid conflicts of interest. Paperwork was exchanged. The preservers signed theirs with such vigorous nonchalance, Sam had to point out that the inspection was supposed to take place beforehand. Grace shrugged; Luic flashed a topaz-inset Command Ring, and the palanquin ran a little faster. There were nine thousand seven hundred and sixteen amblers. Treatment losses were higher than the industry average; with James, they always were. Sam tried her best to fill out the ledger without looking at their faces. Making up ten entries was easy; nine thousand, not so much. ¡°You don¡¯t need to do that, you know,¡± said Grace, watching her struggle. ¡°It¡¯s just a formality.¡± ¡°How do you keep track?¡± ¡°We don¡¯t. Grade Bs are all the same. Functionally identical, Luic would tell you.¡± Luic nodded sagely. ¡°But ¨C¡± ¡°Prep and code ¨C that is our motto. In fact, we don¡¯t even code. We subcontract to¡­what was his name? Anyway, this diligence of yours is off-putting. Relax and have a drink.¡± ¡°Does anyone keep track?¡± ¡°Auditors.¡± The preserver sniffed. ¡°You don¡¯t see many of them around, do you?¡± Luic shook his head. ¡°If it works, don¡¯t mess with it. You and I, our jobs end here ¨C¡± she tapped her signature. ¡°¨C and the rest¡­well, I can¡¯t say I care. Drink.¡± Sam took a swig from Grace¡¯s canteen. Hot coffee ¨C a rare treat. ¡°This¡­this is my first time,¡± she admitted. ¡°Thought so. This part of the transaction is all very¡­what¡¯s the word, Luic?¡± Luic bobbed his head. ¡°Pedantic. Politicky. Pretentious. Mostly handshakes and dealmakes, isn¡¯t it? Did you bring the Command Rings?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°How many?¡± ¡°Eleven.¡± ¡°Awfully conservative, Maestro Cowen.¡± The preserver sniffed, and Luic nodded. ¡°What does this factory make?¡± ¡°Uh, nuts and bolts and washers.¡± The preserver balked. ¡°Lords Above ¨C one would think his is a House from the pits! You¡¯d not get seven thousand for a lease like that! With my work too! I am not cheap, you know. There are Guilds out there that charges half as much ¨C but don¡¯t tell him that. Nuts and bolts! And washers!¡± Luic shook his head in absolute shock. ¡°I paid for the full routine tapes too. These!¡± She waved a hand over her amblers. ¡°They can make pistons! Lamps! Surgeon¡¯s scalpels!¡± ¡°The Maestro approved of the factory,¡± said Sam. ¡°Do you like my work?¡± ¡°Uh. Yes. It¡¯s¡­good.¡± ¡°It¡¯s good because there is pride in it. The pride of my guild and my person. We do not cut corners like¡­like certain subsidiaries. I supervised every step of production, inspected all the vats myself. You¡¯ll not find any blemishes, any fluids in their knees! I work to a high standard because I take pride in my personal enterprise. Your Maestro, if you don¡¯t mind me saying ¨C¡± the preserver leaned in, ¡°¨C spends too much time on that giant of his. He has no pride in his work. No pride at all. It¡¯s like he despises us ¨C but don¡¯t tell him that.¡± The Means of Production 2

2

The overseer of factory #3990 looked like a man passed out in an alleyway. ¡°Eleven Rings?!¡± he harangued. ¡°Eleven?! We do three shifts here, little lady. Eight hours. Not like the four-twos. They do twelve. We are gonna need more Rings.¡± ¡°It¡¯s enough,¡± said Sam. ¡°The handbook says ¨C¡± ¡°Ahh, the handbook. Says one-per-two-thousand for washers, don¡¯t it? Come.¡± Sam followed him onto a web of catwalks. Twenty feet below was the factory floor, stretching to the horizon in every direction, littered with tens of thousands of workstations and miles of conveyor belts. Nine out of ten workers ¨C that was to say, amblers ¨C wore Finley orange. The rest wore a motley of grey and blue and green and whatever else. ¡°You ever use a Command Ring?¡± he asked. ¡°No.¡± ¡°No?! Lords Below, apprentices these days! All you do is boss good working men around!¡± The overseer held out his right hand. Gaudy orange, emerald, obsidian, quartz, tourmaline, and a sickly yellow hunk ¨C seven Command Rings clattered on his stubby fingers. He took one of Sam¡¯s rings and gave it a thorough licking until saliva dripped from the topaz inset. Sam grimaced. ¡°You are not supposed to ¨C¡± ¡°It works, don¡¯t it. Blood, saliva¡­ejaculate. All the same. Long as you get it on.¡± He winked. The ring slid snugly onto his index finger. ¡°Now, the Maestro just need to say go. Leave the micromanaging to me and my boys. Tapeboxes take care of the technical. I take care of the uh¡­unforeseen circumstances, see. If there¡¯s a fire, a riot ¨C¡± he laughed at that. ¡°I can wave my hand and think a thought, and they¡¯ll do it. Not exactly precise, but that¡¯s not my problem. If one gets stuck, my boys down there will give them a whip to move them along.¡± ¡°Sounds easy.¡± ¡°It usually is, but¡­¡± he pointed to the right, where a cluster of workstations sat empty. They were piled high with intricate tools and metal parts that resembled neither nuts nor bolts nor washers. ¡°We are not exactly a uh¡­above-board establishment, see. Got twenty thousand tables making¡­well, stuff. So I¡¯m gonna need more Rings to, you know, get around the fact that there is a lot going on.¡± This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. This man saw no problem disclosing his secret enterprise. He simply scratched his beard and waited for Sam to acquiesce to his little dilemma without protest. Sam was almost too shocked to be angry, but shock wore out quickly. Anger lingered. ¡°I was told this was a reputable outlet.¡± ¡°Better than most, worse than some.¡± The man shrugged. ¡°Makes my job easier if, you know, I got more room to manoeuvre.¡± Sam looked back into the overseer¡¯s office. Grace and Luic sat around the conference table, drinking coffee and reading broadsheets. Contractually, they were only allowed to leave once the handover was complete; realistically, Sam was not the Maestro ¨C she cannot compel anyone to do anything with just disdainful looks. ¡°What are you making there?¡± she asked. ¡°Looks complicated.¡± The overseer chuckled and patted her on the head. ¡°Alright, little lady. I¡¯ll make do, just for you, eh? Don¡¯t usually got Maestro Cowen looking out for us. We usually don¡¯t get the uh¡­named clients. Agents did us a big good, sending you over, didn¡¯t they? House of Dawn, big business. Don¡¯t worry about the Rings. I¡¯ll take care of it.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± she said, taking off her plague mask and putting on her smile. ¡°It¡¯s my first time down here by myself. I don¡¯t know how it all works.¡± The overseer visibly relaxed. ¡°Oh, you are doing great, doing great. Not an easy job, working for Maestros. I couldn¡¯t. I¡¯d be jumping out of my pants, I tell you. Don¡¯t worry. We are friends now. I got you covered. No paperwork needed. I can guarantee you no problems. Your Maestro gets his money, we get on living life. That¡¯s how it all works around here.¡± ¡°I get really stressed out about these things,¡± said Sam. ¡°I don¡¯t want to get in trouble.¡± ¡°No trouble, no trouble at all,¡± the big man smiled amicably. ¡°No but¡­but I have tell the Maestro about the empty workstation, or I will get in trouble. He keeps a record,¡± Sam tapped her bullshit-filled ledger. ¡°He¡¯s really organized about this sort of thing. Remembers everything too. He¡¯ll ask me about why production is not up to¡­up to¡­¡± She faltered as a storm brewed on the overseer¡¯s face. ¡°How much you want?¡± he boomed. ¡°What?¡± He pulled out a chequebook and scribbled TWO THOUSAND in bold letters. He slapped it onto Sam¡¯s ledger. ¡°We done?¡± Sam strapped on her mask before shock could register on her face. She has no idea what just happened, but two thousand seeds were four months of salary, and apparently it was hers, just like that. ¡°We are done,¡± she said. The Means of Production 3

3

The deployment ¨C or whatever pageantry that passed for it ¨C concluded in half an hour. Sam had declared in three separate documents that the amblers were of satisfactory quality, and then watched them shuffle to their workstations under the guidance of eleven supervisors. The perennial banging of machinery gave her a migraine. The preservers lingered in the overseer¡¯s office, reading broadsheets. They were polite when Sam took her leave, but not polite enough to let her borrow the palanquin. The overseer offered her a perch on the work bus that the supervisors rode it to and from their shifts. A row of rusty benches sat at the conjunction of four factories. A schedule declared that the next bus would embark in two and a half hours. The ¡°busses¡± sat under a sheetsteel hut. Their pullers ¨C four amblers per open-air cabin ¨C stood inanimate, chained to their harnesses. They wore emerald-on-gold jogging shorts, exposing piston-like calves knotted with steel fibre. Sam sat on a bench and stared at the ceiling. Supervisors patrolled the catwalks, pointing this way and that. They stood out with their iron-tipped whips and yellow-lined jackets ¨C standardized stimuli for micromanagement. One day, when she had her own amblers, she would send them here, and ask her own apprentice to check them once in a while, to make sure things are running smoothly. She would check the cashflow from a caf¨¦ on the Floor of Twenty, maybe twice a week. What a life that would be. A steam engine stopped across the road. Two apprentices stepped out, each carrying identical briefcases embroidered with cartoon skeletons (seen here wearing spectacles and reading books). Their plague masks glittered with orange dust, freshly sprayed; their coats were black wool, orange trimmed. The engine groaned. The fattest man Sam has ever seen landed on the road. He had a mop of yellow hair and eyes hidden behind blackout goggles. His oversized coat was thick with copper embroidery, his boots jingling with silver chains. He wobbled as his feet struck on the ground, and the apprentices caught him by the folds of his arms. A skeleton of a man followed him. His cheekbones were sunken, his eyes two gaping pits, his trenchcoat hugging his frame like a corset. Sam met his eyes ¨C two emotionless pits. He called out to the apprentices. One went to him. A silent argument ensued. The apprentice slumped his shoulders. Sam suddenly wished that she had walked. The apprentice remained behind while his colleagues disappeared into the same factory Sam had just left. He sat down on the other end of her bench. Sam recognized him. Burn them, he had said. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. They sat in silence for a while. The steam engine hiccupped as its boiler cooled. In a world of abundant labour, engines were a bizarre amalgam of innovation and antiquity ¨C amblers could pull carriages faster and cheaper, so what were they good for? ¡°Robert told me to kill you,¡± said the apprentice. Sam digested that for a while. ¡°Who¡¯s Robert?¡± ¡°Robert Finley, my sponsor. I told him you are from the House of Dawn. We¡¯ve met before.¡± ¡°I remember.¡± ¡°He told me to sit with you instead, to make sure you don¡¯t go anywhere, and to use my charms.¡± ¡°Charms? Like what?¡± ¡°My charms. Like my easy-going personality.¡± ¡°Was that a joke?¡± ¡°No. Sort of. I don¡¯t know. Sorry about the other day. I was in a bad place. Was on the palisade.¡± ¡°You told me.¡± ¡°They rushed at us empty-handed. We were to talk them out of it. Talk. We were turning them into merchandize.¡± ¡°Did you?¡± ¡°I broke my arm. One of them bit me. The amblers beat him and I got caught in it. Only found out after we got back from¡­¡± ¡°Sorry. I broke my hand too.¡± ¡°You weren¡¯t there. They kept coming at the barricade. They all had holes on them, when we raised them. I saw the biting guy, later, going to Branch Three. He¡¯d lost his teeth. Bit something else. Teeth are important for aesthetics. Prop up your cheeks. Makes a nice face. Higher value.¡± ¡°How high?¡± ¡°Twenty percent. That all you care about? How much money you are going to make?¡¯ ¡°Gets me through the day.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°What are you doing here?¡± ¡°I was supposed to ask you that. You don¡¯t usually come here.¡± ¡°How do you know where I usually go?¡± ¡°Because I¡¯m here every week.¡± ¡°Every week? Why?¡± ¡°I ¨C just doing my job. Living my life.¡± ¡°Are you?¡± ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know, just asking.¡± ¡°I do what I¡¯m told to do, then I go home and have a shower, then I crash and wake up and do it all over again, eight to nine.¡± ¡°Ten to twelve.¡± ¡°You got weekends?¡± ¡°Sometimes. Maestro Cowen is very busy.¡± ¡°They are all very busy. All of them, always working, I don¡¯t know on what. And we are just sitting here.¡± ¡°Doing our jobs.¡± ¡°You would call this busy then?¡± ¡°Yep.¡± They shared a quiet laugh. ¡°You should¡­probably start walking,¡± said the apprentice. ¡°Robert might change his mind.¡± ¡°It¡¯s forty miles to the Pillar.¡± The apprentice fished around in his pockets and came up with a Command Ring. It was thin, flimsy, and inset with a tourmaline chit. He held it out. ¡°I can¡¯t take company property,¡± said Sam. ¡°It¡¯s mine. My family¡¯s. My¡­birth family¡¯s. It¡¯s on this Floor somewhere ¨C the three-sevens, I think. It¡¯s not great, but it can carry you and run.¡± ¡°Am I running for my life?¡± ¡°I¡­I don¡¯t know. I don¡¯t think so. They wouldn¡¯t want to upset Maestro Cowen.¡± ¡°Then thank you for your offer, but I¡¯ll be fine.¡± Sam looked at him. The apprentice had rust-red hair and a square face. There was a faint scar around his neck. ¡°Sorry about¡­not helping you.¡± ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have asked. It was my sector.¡± ¡°Next time I¡¯ll¡­I¡¯ll¡­¡± ¡°You probably won¡¯t.¡± They laughed again, quietly. He did not ask for her name. Sam did not ask for his. It seemed easier this way. Impersonal. The Means of Production 4

4

The bells rang and the ¡®busses¡¯ came to life. Supervisors filed out of in twos and threes. They packed the cabins and side-eyed Sam as she squished in with them. The apprentice waved at her as they pulled away. Sam waved back, keenly aware that the man next to her was staring at the back of her head. ¡°You don¡¯t work here,¡± he declared. ¡°She¡¯s an apprentice, Bob,¡± said his friend. ¡°Of necromancy.¡± ¡°She ain¡¯t orange.¡± ¡°Not all of them are orange, Bob.¡± ¡°First I heard of it,¡± Bob declared. ¡°Women shouldn¡¯t be here.¡± ¡°She don¡¯t work here Bob.¡± ¡°Then why¡¯s she here?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know, Bob, why don¡¯t you ask her?¡± Bob seemed stumped by that proposal. Sam shrugged at him. Another man spoke up. ¡°She¡¯s here to kill us all, mark me.¡± ¡°Not your conspiracies please, no one cares.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± said Bob, though he sounded like he cared a little bit. ¡°They send an apprentice, then they send the alchemists, then they send in armies with¡­with guns. Then the necromancers come and kill us all and use us for digging.¡± ¡°That sounds made up ,¡± a voice said. ¡°I know for a fact,¡± the speaker insisted. ¡°Put my wage on it.¡± That caused an uproar. ¡°She¡¯s looking at us,¡± one declared. ¡°Calm down, you dumb fuck,¡± declared another. ¡°That¡¯s a plague mask. You know they use it for plagues. That¡¯s a disease.¡± Bob was squirming. ¡°You diseased?¡± he asked. ¡°No,¡± said Sam. ¡°Then why is she wearing that mask?¡± ¡°She must be diseased!¡± Sam took it off and put on her smile. The cabin quieted down. ¡°You got a boyfriend?¡± inquired Bob. ¡°Yes,¡± lied Sam. ¡°Of course she does, Bob, look at her!¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. Women lie all the time.¡± ¡°Now why would she do that?¡± Bob huffed. ¡°Because you make three grand a year, Bob, and you stink.¡± Sam laughed. It made her cheeks hurt. ¡°I can¡¯t smell,¡± she said. ¡°My nose doesn¡¯t work.¡± The men murmured. ¡°I don¡¯t get it,¡± one declared. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°She can¡¯t smell, Jarryd, her nose doesn¡¯t work.¡± ¡°Yeah I know what she said but it don¡¯t make sense that she said it.¡± ¡°I think it lacks context.¡± ¡°The fuck context you looking for?¡± The cabins pulled around a corner. Four steam engines were pulled across the road, surrounded by amblers. The pullers attempted to stop. Their ankles dug into the dirt, and the cabins bucked as if kicked in the rear, the chassis screeching as it spun out. As the world turned upside down, Sam glimpsed an old man in an orange tux, holding out his arms. The cabin crumpled, punctured in the dead centre as if by a drill. Its front axle broke into a dozen spinning pieces. The railing snapped under Sam¡¯s hand, and a hand yanked her away from the crush of steel. Men rained all around her, yelling. The old man extricated his arms from the carnage, brushing off his tattered sleeves. Only then did Sam realize it was an ambler. Hidden under stiff collars, its face was pale and tinged with purple; its eyes, glittering behind horn-rimmed spectacles, were two faceted spheres of glass. There were steel anchors growing out of its heels. The hand on her arm shook, gently. Sam looked up and saw an identical copy of the tuxedoed ambler ¨C same glasses, same eyes ¨C looking down at her. Looking, as if its eyes were real. It pulled her toward an engine, stepping over groaning supervisors like pavement. Robert Finley was waiting. He beckoned at her. Come. Orange-clad amblers materialized from every direction. They pulled the living from the wreck and set them in a row by the curb, ignoring their cries. They picked up the pullers ¨C still tangled in their harnesses, their legs still peddling ¨C and piled them up in a heap of flesh and rope. Robert Finley pulled out a card. ¡°Pleasure,¡± he said without a hint of it. ¡°You are?¡± ¡°Sam,¡± said Sam, trembling. ¡°I will speak with you.¡± He waved. The engines turned around into a slow-moving convoy. The two tuxedoed amblers grabbed onto external handholds, tails flapping. Flanked by hissing steam and a platoon of the dead, they walked. Robert Finley folded his hands behind his back. ¡°What is your current salary?¡± he asked. ¡°I¡­¡± She almost answered. ¡°Why?¡± Robert gave her a scathing look, as if she were a stain on his cuffs. ¡°You will conduct yourself in a professional manner.¡± Sam looked down at her hands. The plague mask dangled around her wrist, its beak crumpled from the crash. She wished desperately to wear it. ¡°I apologize, Maestro,¡± she said. ¡°I am no Maestro.¡± ¡°I apologize ¨C¡± ¡°When do you expect to audition?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t...¡± Sam swallowed, forcing down the heart leaping to her throat. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I have not been given a timeline.¡± ¡°That was not my question.¡± ¡°I¡­I feel I am ready. Any time. I have studied ¨C¡± ¡°You have been independently assessed on the Thirteen Fundamentals?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°You have field experience implementing the Handbook?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°You have completed Level Three Anatomy, Chemistry, Accounting, and Project Management qualifications?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Is there any additional information you would like to provide in support of your application?¡± ¡°My¡­?¡± Sam swallowed again. ¡°I¡¯m not sure what I¡¯m applying for, sir.¡± Robert held out a velvet envelope. It was hastily sealed with uncoloured wax, but the imprint of the cartoon skeleton ¨C seen here giving a thumbs-up ¨C was unmistakable. ¡°You will attend an interview at the House of Solutions on the twenty-second of September. You will be assessed by a panel of three, consisting of myself, Jack Finley, and Jack Finley. You will make yourself available.¡± ¡°I¡­I¡­¡± She struggled to verbalize her confusion. ¡°Twenty-second. That¡¯s during the plenum.¡± ¡°And?¡± ¡°I thought¡­¡± ¡°You will make yourself available.¡± Robert spoke like he hated each word as much as he seemed to hate her. ¡°You have been given an opportunity. You will make the most of it, I am sure.¡± Robert told me to kill you, the apprentice had said. ¡°What happens, sir, if¡­if I happen to be¡­not looking for a job?¡± ¡°I assumed you¡¯d like to live.¡± Sam wanted to cry. Her voice trembled despite every effort. ¡°May I ask what I have done wrong?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°May I¡­speak to someone about it? Offer my apology?¡± ¡°No. The decision is made.¡± ¡°I¡­I would like to apologize anyway, sir. If I had known what it is, I would not have done it.¡± Robert seemed amused. ¡°Apology accepted. You have made a mistake early in your career. It is not too late to begin again.¡± He clicked his fingers. A steam engine pulled up and opened its doors. ¡°May I get a lift to the hub, sir?¡± Sam asked. ¡°I would be grateful.¡± One foot on the steps, Robert beckoned her to follow. How dare you ask a favour of me, his eyes said. Sam shrugged as she climbed into the cabin. It was still better than walking. The Means of Production 5

5

Whenever eight-hour and twelve-hour shifts coincided, tens of thousands of workers flocked to the lifts all at once, transforming the sterile silence of the transport hub into a thirty-minute pandemonium. Amblers kept to their yellow lines, towing wagons and trolleys and hundred-foot containers, and the living stampeded through them, lost or late or both. Supervisors shouted at each other. Men in suits scurried between men in orange overalls as if ashamed of themselves. The convoy bullied their way into the atrium, blowing their whistles, and the living gave way. Down here, everyone was paid for by the Houses of the Dead; they knew the engines like amblers knew whips. They stopped before a massive sign declaring NO ENGINES ¨C PENALTIES APPLY. Sam stepped out into the crossfire of a hundred curious glances. Her coat of gold-and-black was an inkdot in a sea of orange. The laneway to the mass transit lobby was an artery of bobbing heads, with hundreds clogging up before the labour office and the auction stage. The engines began to pull away. Perched on his precarious platform, the auctioneer looked miffed. He tapped his gavel as the whistles drowned out his voice. ¡°Twenty-two seventy-five an hour!¡± he boomed. ¡°Do I see a twenty-two ten, twenty-two ten, twen-yes, twenty-two ten to the bloke in grey, no no that one, the other one, yes twenty-two ten, do I see a twenty-one fifty, twenty-one fifty¡­¡± A man in muddy overall pushed his way up. ¡°Twenty!¡± he shouted. ¡°Twenty!¡± ¡°Twenty we have a twenty, twenty seeds an hour ladies and gents, twenty seeds an hour for the go-getter in brown, yes he wants to work ladies and gents, at twenty an hour, twenty an hour for a shift in two-five-o-six, Twenty an hour, we have twenty an hour, do we have nineteen-fifty, nineteen-fifty, going once ¨C¡± The engines took a shortcut through the crowd. Dozens dove out of the way and onto the stage. The auctioneer banged his gavel and swigged from an orange flask. A man yanked it out of his hands and drank it all. Sam squeezed her way closer to the ambler lanes. Cargo became luggage under a certain size, and so hundreds of amblers still used the passenger lifts. Two wore the bright-pink overalls of the House of Porphyry, carrying semiprecious gemstones in what looked like trays of glass. Each had a pair of white-robed pyros as escorts, the living hired to guard the dead. ¡°Move along, please,¡± one said. The queue before mass transit lift #3 was two hundred long but seemed like two thousand. A mess of stalls selling grilled mushrooms had materialized and taken up a third of the lobby. There was no telling where the queue began and ended, so she found a spot against the wall and watched the food. The portebellos were thick and drenched in sauce. They must smell nice. The coming of the lift brought shoving, yelling, and arms flying. Shoving against bodies on all sides, Sam cut to the front just in time to watch the doors shut. The mechanical counter reset to five minutes. She was wedged in on the left by a huddle of supervisors and on the right by a loaded grill. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. She was happily chewing on a skewer when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She spun around, sauce everywhere. Moeffe Bant glared at her. ¡°Oh. Hi,¡± she said, still chewing. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± ¡°Maestro business.¡± ¡°Like what?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not at liberty to ¨C¡± ¡°You with the Finleys?¡± ¡°No but ¨C¡± something about Bant¡¯s expression made her cold. ¡°No.¡± Bant bulled into the crowd and was gone. Sam ate the rest in two bites. Portobellos were only good when hot. The lift came and the queue surged forward, pushing Sam at their crest. She kept a hand over the cheque stashed deep in her pocket. The cabin shook as she stepped over the threshold. It has never done that before. The man beside her stuck out his arms and struck her in the face. Something heavy struck the lobby behind them. A clattering wave rippled through the sheetsteel roof. Plaster and dust fell onto two thousand swivelling heads. It was suddenly quiet. Yelling, in the distance. Another crash, louder, metal on metal. The lift doors began to close but fifty pairs of hands shoved it open. Someone cracked a whip, and Sam felt splatters on her cheek. Blood. The man in front pinned her between a metal crate and three more bodies. Arms were everywhere, pushing, groping. The crush of people sent dozens underfoot. Sam felt herself sinking and clawed desperately at the nearest arm. More yelling. The lift shook again. The far wall disintegrated. The carcass of a steam engine tumbled into the lobby in a rain of steel and glass cushioned by a dozen bodies. Hundreds of rolls of black tape, slick with oil, flew from the smashed cabin and caught fire. A giant stepped over the wreckage. Where Lucia was willowy and thin, this thing was muscle stacked on muscle, naked except for a loincloth. Steel fibre bulged like veins under its purplish skin. Its head ¨C comically small ¨C looked like a pebble sunken between sledgehammers. A harness, like a pyromancer¡¯s kit, rose from its back with a steam whistle up top like a little flag. A guttural hiss came from deep within its chest, a cacophony of leaky valves and metallic banging. Two orange shapes converged on the scene, running atop the crowd. Every leap covered thirty feet and would have broken the neck of whomever bore the force of their calves. The giant tore a door from the wreckage and threw it at them. It went wide and ploughed through a dozen bodies. The three collided and the giant fell out of sight. Sam could hear tearing and banging like hydraulic hammers. Someone close by was hysterically reciting the Book of Combustion; another was screaming that his arm was broken, will somebody help. She wrapped her elbows around a steel bar and clung to it, only then realizing it was the girder of the ambler section, a block of cage-like compartments where amblers were coded to stand. The bars were locked but they were just wide enough¡­ She squeezed into a slot where two amblers stood with bundles of silk. There was no space for a third, but the silk was soft and Sam sank into it as the crowd surged. The amblers were perfect barriers, neither giving way nor backing off. To them Sam might as well be another bundle. The shriek of a steam whistle cut through the noise, followed by the crescendo of a boiler exceeding its pressure cap. Two orange shapes darted into the lift, crawling on all fours atop a hundred heads. They have lost their horn-rimmed glasses. One had a massive gash across its torso, but the infusion stagnated at the wound, viscous and squirming and refusing to spill. They began plucking hands from doors like weed from a field. Yelling. Screaming. Bits of nail, tossed into the air like confetti. The lift began to shut. A whip lashed out, lassoing one around the neck. The ambler went rigid from spine to heel as steel anchors shot out from its elbow, shoulder, chest, ankle, latching indiscriminately onto floors, walls, flesh. Then it yanked. A man in orange fell out of the crowd. The whip loosened. The gap was ten inches wide when the lobby exploded. The Means of Production 6 6 Paramedics came on at the Floor of Twelve. They cleared the bodies away and gave the apprentice inside the ambler cage weird looks. Alks in a dozen colours waited by the corpse wagon with reams of contracts. By the time the last of the intestines were washed off the floor, most of the bodies were gone, carted off to a guild somewhere. The lift then chimed cheerfully and moved on to the upper Floors. Sam let herself into the House at half past midnight. A pile of letters sat on the floor. She tried to avoid them and somehow ended up falling face-first onto the carpet. Her mask, a mangled mess now, rolled into the corner, and she let it, like she was letting herself. Her head was pounding. The migraine stabbed hot irons into her right eye, the spot where it always began and never quite ended. She was sobbing into the floor, Sam realized. Her face was hot, rigid; it felt like her ears were ringing but they weren¡¯t. All sorts of goop were pouring out of her nose, her mouth. Her arms shook, her hands grabbing at the threadbare carpet, pulling at handholds that do not and never have existed, and there was nothing to hang on to anyway ¨C she was alone. Every horror, every cruel game she had witnessed and played today were hers to internalize. There was no one to turn to. Her father was dead. She had no father to begin with. She could hear noises in the lounge. James was orating again. Guests past midnight. They needed tea, probably. Her shift was over now. She could go to bed, and lie still and listen to the wind, or she could sit at her window and look down at the amblers below, the silent drones, carrying meaningless objects from one place to another, following the yellow lines until they were worn out and replaced and wore out again. The dusty carpet made her cough. Angry, she breathed in, hard, and almost choked. Still, she smelled nothing. She remembered those mushrooms on the grill, how she had to buy one, had to, even though they were twelve seeds each, because the hot sauce looked like blood, and the smoke and the heat made her eyes water but she smelled nothing so she had to taste it, and it was chewy and overcooked but the sauce stung her tongue and that was good. At least she could taste¡­ ¡­something good. She found the cheque in her pocket. Two thousand seeds for doing nothing. She laughed, and coughed, and sobbed. She half-imagined Lucia standing over her, picking her up by the collar, holding her hand, but that was fantasy. Lucia only moved when the Maestro told her to move, and James was busy with his unsolicited lecture. Slowly, steadily, the tears dried out, and the goop in her mouth settled down. Sam stood up and patted the dust from her coat. Her hair was a mess but that was alright. She had lost her ledger somewhere but that was alright too. It was only a prop. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! She dumped the letters onto her desk, flipping through them. A red sticker informed her that the delivery from Foundry #17 will arrive tomorrow morning. She stuck it on her board, underneath the tally table, then checked her face in the vanity. A tired girl, older than she expected, smiled back at her. The bags under her eyes looked more permanent than usual, but there were no tears. Her eyes were barely red. She knocked, and Lucia opened the door. James was juggling four spools of black tape as he paced the room. He looked up. ¡°Look who¡¯s back, I heard there was ¨C were you crying?¡± ¡°No,¡± said Sam. He frowned, there and gone. ¡°We have a guest.¡± The woman on the couch looked at least a hundred years old. Her hair was fine white silk, her face a mask of wrinkles, her back bent to a hook. She had a cup of tea in one hand and a steel cane in the other. She looked in Sam¡¯s direction with rheumy eyes, and Sam saw Green, everywhere and all at once, bleeding from the air around her, dripping from her gold-threaded sleeves., effervescing out of her shrunken nostrils like whiskers. Her voice was a whisper. ¡°Pretty,¡± she said. ¡°Maestro Catherine Pierre of the House of Verdancy,¡± said James. ¡°My teacher, once upon a time, before I became a delinquent and succeeded on my own.¡± ¡°Sit,¡± the woman said. Sam sat down and felt tension draining from her body. She closed her eyes for a moment, just a moment, a blink really, and when she opened them again the old woman was gone. James was reading broadsheets on the opposite couch, sipping coffee. ¡°Good morning,¡± he said. The golden light of the Dome Luminous poured through the window, colouring twirls of dust. The clock said six-thirty, which could not be right. ¡°Charlie¡¯s Box is on its way,¡± the Maestro continued, almost smiling. ¡°You¡¯ll take care of it?¡± ¡°Y-yes, Maestro¡­was there a¡­¡± ¡°Catherine said you were a hard worker. Worst compliment one can offer someone, I think ¨C usually means they think you are stupid ¨C but coming from Catherine, she doesn¡¯t waste words on those she thinks little of. You made a great first impression.¡± ¡°Oh. But¡­I was sleeping.¡± James tossed the broadsheets onto the floor. TERRORISTS ATTACK FINLEY PROPERTY, the headline screamed. ¡°I want the earnings projection updated by the end of the day. Shouldn¡¯t take you too long.¡± He waved. Lucia sat down next to Sam, her cloak making a whoosh. ¡°Lucia will stay with you for two hours. Get the measurements right.¡± ¡°The what?¡± ¡°Charlie¡¯s Box.¡± James put on his cloak and a pair of pristine white gloves. ¡°After you¡¯re done, follow Lucia. We will go meet a uh¡­friend.¡± ¡°Yes Maestro.¡± Green glittered in his eyes. ¡°We will debrief at his house, I think. It¡¯ll be fun.¡± ¡°Yes Maestro.¡± ¡°How much did he give you?¡± ¡°The who?¡± James rolled his eyes. ¡°The overseer.¡± He laughed when Sam began fumbling around in her pockets. ¡°Honest to a fault, aren¡¯t you? How much?¡± ¡°Two thousand.¡± ¡°Aren¡¯t you lucky, apprentice, to be working for one such as I? Enri gets two-fifty. Don¡¯t know why she told me, I think she was trying to brag. Keep it. Buy something nice for yourself.¡± ¡°Maestro.¡± James looked around, one hand on the door, one eyebrow raised. Lucia turned her head. The room suddenly seemed very small. ¡°No, I¡­thank you,¡± said Sam. ¡°Thank me?¡± James laughed. ¡°What part of your job could possibly engender gratitude? Save your formalism for when we are in public. You aren¡¯t working for Jack.¡± ¡°Yes Maestro.¡± The Love of Cruelty 1

1

The few remaining blacksmiths in the Pile have pivoted to serve the wealthy. Charlie wore her apron and mittens everywhere she went ¨C gear that have never seen a day in the forge but seemed to get clients excited. By word of mouth, her business has flourished: a woman blacksmith, seven-foot-tall, strong as an ambler yet good with her hands, wears her apron everywhere. The ensemble was highly marketable. For a while she had put on a gruff voice, like she grew up chain-smoking inside a chimney, but for her to sound like a blacksmith was pushing realism too far, and clients had found it ¡°alienating¡±. She struck a balance by dressing up like a parody of herself and speaking like an heiress who happened to enjoy steelwork as a hobby. Hating herself was difficult when her charade could sell a hairpin for three hundred seeds. There were those who were immune to this tactic, however. James Cowen was one. His annoying apprentice was another. The girl seemed to despise her as if she were some beggar grovelling for money, which Charlie supposed she was. ~ The box was shaped like a coffin, eight feet tall, wider where the elbows would rest. Inside was a complex system of harnesses, shock absorbers, cushions, as if its occupant would want for comfort. Charlie had brought a crate of accessories: removable compartments that turned the box into a suitcase, infusion pumps that turned it into an immersion vat, and straps ¨C long ones threaded with steel fibre. ¡°Tensile strength of a hair, that,¡± said Charlie, as if that explained everything. ¡°Where¡¯s my money?¡± Sam unlocked the outgoing drawer. The seeds had been delivered a week ago, half in-hand, half on cheque. It made a hefty pile on her desk. ¡°What happened to your accent?¡± she asked. ¡°You want it back?¡± ¡°No.¡± Charlie poured the seeds into a portable sorter. They fell into a rack of transparent tubes, filling them one at time and making a pleasant clinking sound. ¡°Still single?¡± ¡°Yep.¡± ¡°You know my cousin ¨C¡± ¡°No, thank you.¡± ¡°What¡¯s up with you?¡± Sam opened her mouth with every intention of ¡°heh, you are funny¡±, but a strange keening came out instead. Inexplicably, she was on the verge of tears. ¡°I¡­I think I¡¯m going crazy.¡± The seeds were still ticking, three tubes filled, twelve more to go. Staring made it tick even slower. ¡°Uh huh,¡± said Charlie. ¡°It¡¯s like I¡¯m¡­I¡­¡± ¡°Uh huh.¡± ¡°I was on the palisade,¡± Sam began, and could not stop. The girl had watched her ¨C what colour were her eyes? She had forgotten. But there was a girl, yes, and she was skipping down the decline, holding her mother¡¯s hand, and she had asked a question. Something about being a Maestro. Did the girl want to be one, or was she asking? Sam had forgotten. But there was a question, yes, and it made her want to throw up, and she did throw up, later, and the woman with no wrinkles had shown her a handful of jewellery. ¡°¡­she told me to think about that house on Twenty, she said¡­¡± Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. The pyro¡¯s face was inches away. She was sure his breathe had stank, but she could not smell it, and he had said something about smiling, and smile she did, at the party, the alks smiling at her and she smiled back. Lucia, breaking her fingers, then she had spoken and it was only a dream. ¡°¡­she broke my fingers. She didn¡¯t mean it¡­¡± ¡°Uh huh.¡± ¡°¡­then they were all dead. I saw the girl behind the¡­which one was it I can¡¯t remember, but I saw them, there was one that was spinning like¡­like¡­¡± ¡°Uh huh. Sam?¡± ¡°¡­then they torched him, but I didn¡¯t even know him. I went because I had to go, but they didn¡¯t even want me there, and then there was this woman¡­¡± ¡°Sam.¡± Charlie was smiling, but not really. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m trying, really I am, but I don¡¯t give a shit. I came to deliver your box and get my money.¡± The clinking stopped. Fifteen columns of seeds, ten thousand each, sat quietly in their tubes. ¡°Don¡¯t talk to me about¡­I¡¯m not here for your problems. If it bothers you that much, go find a¡­I don¡¯t know, pay someone to listen to you, that¡¯s a thing. Lords Above, all I said was what¡¯s up and you started going off.¡± She passed the cheque under a glowstick. The logo of the Palace Above glittered silver and purple. ¡°Ooh, you know everyone else use Finley cheques now. What¡¯s up with that?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± said Sam. ¡°Here ¨C¡± Charlie plopped a heavy binder onto the desk. ¡°¨C is the manual. And these ¨C¡± a ring of keys clinked onto Sam¡¯s board. ¡°¨C are for your Maestro. Look here.¡± A panel opened on the inside of the box, revealing a severed hand suspended in purple infusion. It was attached to a lever. ¡°Tether to it, and the lock will open just for him.¡± Sam closed her eyes, just for a moment, and waited for the bundle of whatever-it-was in her throat to settle down. When she spoke, she sounded calm. ¡°Individual limbs are not ¨C¡± ¡°Yeah I know, I read the Fundamentals,¡± Charlie rolled her eyes. ¡°The foundry maintains the body in a safe deposit. No one¡¯s touching it, no oxidation, good for fifty years.¡± ¡°You read the Fundamentals?¡± ¡°Sure I did, wanted to be a necromancer.¡± ¡°Why didn¡¯t you?¡± ¡°I tried. Can¡¯t do it though. All that Green whiffing off corpses? I saw it, but I can¡¯t make them move, so I¡­gave up.¡± She shrugged. ¡°Out of practice now. Can¡¯t see the Green anymore. Got to retrain my mind.¡± ¡°You need to pass the audition to raise the dead.¡± ¡°The what?¡± ¡°The audition.¡± ¡°The¡­the what?¡± ¡°To become a practicing necromancer, you have to audition at the Palace Above.¡± A change came over Charlie. Her arms tensed. Her eyes spat fire. ¡°Are you saying it¡¯s like a¡­a license? You get a license to raise the dead?!¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know what it is,¡± said Sam, ¡°but no one is born with it.¡± ¡°So, right now, you can¡¯t do shit, is that what you are saying?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°And anyone, a-ny-one, can do this audition thing and raise the dead.¡± ¡°If you pass.¡± ¡®But then I can be a Maestro!¡¯ Charlie slapped her bag of money like this was their fault. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you tell me?¡± ¡°Why would I ¨C¡± ¡°Then I can just go, right?¡± ¡°To the audition? No. You need to be sponsored by a Maestro.¡± ¡°But that¡¯s easy!¡± she grabbed Sam by the shoulders. Her fingers were sweaty and trembling. ¡°Sam, Samantha, you must introduce me. You know so many of them! Aren¡¯t they always hiring?¡± ¡°Yes but ¨C¡± ¡°Lords Below, I never knew! I thought you had to be born with the¡­the talent, the quirk, or something. If it¡¯s just like¡­like getting a license¨C oh if only I just¡­asked!¡± She grabbed her shoulders and shook them. ¡°Sam. Sam. We¡¯re friends. Get me into a House, on Floor Fifteen even, I don¡¯t care. I can work hard, study, do whatever they ask me to do, I¡¯ll do it. I know you know people. Introduce me!¡± ¡°I¡­¡± Her enthusiasm seemed wrong, somehow. ¡°It¡¯s¡­¡± ¡°Come on, you have no excuse! We are friends!¡± ¡°Do you know what they do?¡± ¡°They kill people, right? They kill entire Floors of people and turn them into amblers and rent them out.¡± ¡°¡­how did you¡­?¡± ¡°Everyone knows.¡± Charlie rolled her eyes. ¡°It¡¯s part of the business, Sam. Lords Below, how did you get hired and I didn¡¯t?¡± Sam laughed. Charlie was looking at her weird, as if she had lost her mind, but Sam was sure that madness had a sense of humour, and though she was laughing, none of this was funny. ¡°I¡­alright. I¡¯ll ask Maestro Enri if she wants an apprentice.¡± ¡°Why not Cowen?¡± ¡°He doesn¡¯t¡­he only takes one.¡± ¡°Oh¡­I see how it is.¡± Charlie was smirking. Sam wanted to slap it off her face, but she could barely reach her with the desk between them. This was turning into a very long day. Again. The Love of Cruelty 2

2

James was amused. ¡°How did she know?¡± ¡°She said everyone knows,¡± said Sam. The little garden had a clutch of bamboos, a pond, a tiny stone bridge, and two cold benches. James took one. Sam and Lucia took the other. ¡°Two hundred alks.¡± James yawned. ¡°Remember the Floor of Six? How many were there?¡± Sam shuddered. ¡°I don¡¯t¡­I don¡¯t.¡± ¡°Seven. And we did just fine. Pie¡¯s getting big. Seven¡¯s too few now, but two hundred? It was going to get out sooner or later, but that¡¯s not my problem since I¡¯m just a contractor. You want to talk about yesterday?¡± Sam talked about yesterday ¨C briefly, detachedly, as if it was some other girl that went down to the Floor of Three and saw a hundred people blown to pieces by a steam-giant. James did not react. In fact, his lack of reaction was almost annoying. ¡°Glasses,¡± he mused, ¡°over eyes of glass. I wonder¡­¡± The Maestro mumbled to himself as they walked. Sam wanted to curl up and sleep. She did not know where they were headed, nor did she ask ¨Csomewhere on the same Floor, away from the Pillar, but still close to the centre where the streets were kept clean. Manors grew larger until each was a sprawling compound. Patrols of fusiliers nodded at James as they passed. They all seemed to know him. They were walking down a garden grown wild. Nothing of beauty grew in the native soil of the Floors: twisted vines, weeds, sickening little bundles of what had once been grass a hundred generations ago. They flourished like carnivores, deformed and hungry, eating into brick and stone. An effort had been made to keep the path clear, but only just. The mansion was gargantuan and dishevelled, half-ruined except for the thousands of electric cables running through the walls, the roof, the windows, the holes in the wall. The double doors were solid bronze, studded with what looked like rusted nails. A ceramic nameplate suggested that this was the residence and offices of Joran Guiyu, Encoder and Consultant. James raised his hand then thought better of it. Lucia knocked. A woman in lacy underwear opened the door. Her skin was perfect like porcelain, her hips glistening like marble. A veil covered her eyes but her lips were bare and red like fresh roses. She stepped aside to let in her guests, her movement fluid, her hips swaying as if every minute motion was a practiced pose, and that was also its flaw ¨C no living thing would sensually open a door then close it by thrusting their hips. This was an ambler ¨C flawless like a doll, but dead. ¡°I made that,¡± commented James. ¡°How much would you ¨C¡± ¡°Three million, plus five hundred thousand a year for upkeep. The ¨C¡± James mimed the swaying hips. ¡°¨C Joran did that.¡± A voice yelled from upstairs. ¡°Cowen! You can¡¯t just override my Ring, it¡¯s against your Terms of Service.¡± The first floor was one massive workshop. Black paint covered every window. Every light bulb, every candlestick, was caged inside some dark mesh that shifted their hue to a bloody red. Every conceivable surface was covered in black tape. Thousands of spinning copper cylinders sat on shelves, tables, chairs, the floor. Tape gushed through them in a never-ending conveyance, scratching and buzzing like insects. A lumbering pile of a man sat in the middle of the mise en place, crouched behind a desk stacked high with even more tape. He wore blackout goggles despite the gloom, and the folds of his arm gushed out like jelly. ¡°Don¡¯t¡­you¡¯re stepping on Lionel¡¯s upgrade,¡± he wheezed. ¡°What are you doing here? We¡¯re not due for another ¨C what day is it?¡± ¡°Keeping busy?¡± asked James. ¡°Get out of her way!¡± he yelled. The sexy ambler-thing squeezed past Sam, shoving its breasts in her face. ¡°Joy, take them downstairs,¡± he said, flashing a topaz Command Ring on his little finger. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°No,¡± said James. The ambler stuttered and did not move. ¡°Cowen! Stop it! You are breaking my immersion!¡± ¡°What were you doing with Robert Finley?¡± One by one, the cylinders stopped. The creepy rustling receded until there was only silence¡­and Joran¡¯s hyperventilation. ¡°What did you say?¡± ¡°I have no right to ask, I know, and it¡¯s none of my business, and really I shouldn¡¯t put my nose into yours, that¡¯s rude, obviously, but curiosity overwhelms me and I have to ask.¡± ¡°It¡¯s none of your business.¡± The Maestro turned to Sam. ¡°Joran and I went to school together. He was the son of a uh¡­what do you call it?¡± ¡°Lingerie.¡± ¡°Lingerie conglomerate, and I was just some kid, but we have always respected each other. Me for his uh¡­rigid mind, and he for my¡­what do you like me for?¡± ¡°Get out of my house.¡± ¡°We help each other ¨C that is our thing. You wouldn¡¯t believe it, but I was once a child.¡± James raised his hand, and the Green effervesced from his fingertips. The ambler went to him and, to Sam¡¯s astonishment, began to pirouette like a ballerina. ¡°He helped me when no one else would, for no reason other than I was an acquaintance, not even a friend, and he asked for nothing in return. Of course, he¡¯s asking now but¡­I am rich now, so it¡¯s fine, and it is not a matter of money. Never is. I owe him my life ¨C so to speak, and for that I tolerate many, many of his quirks.¡± The encoder took off his goggles, and Sam started. The man¡¯s eyes glittered in the dark, not of the Green but as if a reflective metal had been planted in his retina. They were fixated on the ambler, now seemingly floating in the air with one leg raised over its head. ¡°That,¡± he said, almost salivating. ¡°I need an imprint of that.¡± ¡°You can have it for free.¡± The encoder did not blink. ¡°They wanted the Perfect Vessel. I told them it¡¯s impossible, but they kept pushing.¡± He jerked a thumb at Lucia. ¡°I told them yours was an exceptional case but they wouldn¡¯t listen, so now I¡¯m running prototypes.¡± ¡°For what?¡± ¡°I just told you, the Perfect Vessel.¡± Joran looked at Sam as if only now realizing she was there. ¡°You. I saw you on¡­ahhhh¡­¡± ¡°A happy coincidence,¡± said James. ¡°There is no such thing, Cowen.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not the planning-ahead kind of necromancer.¡± ¡°You should be. They are coming for you.¡± ¡°Me? I can do whatever I please, but you? One word from Jack and you will never leave this room. One from me and your toy breaks your neck. This is what happens when you play both sides.¡± ¡°Play? Play?!¡± The hyperventilation was gone. So was the slightly panicked what¡¯s-going-on demeanour. The encoder Joran Guiyu squinted at James as if he were a stain. ¡°I just want to live, Cowen! I code! I¡¯m good at it! And if that gets me caught up in your little game of whose-turn-is-it-to-fuck-shit-up then that¡¯s the cost of doing business, I¡¯ve made my peace with that ¨C but I¡¯m not a player. It is you, the both of you, that keep pulling me in! You owe me,¡± he jabbed at Lucia. ¡°The state she was in, no one else could have fixed her.¡± ¡°You remind me often.¡± ¡°So don¡¯t you come to my house and make threats like I¡¯m some idiot. Every day a guy shows up and tells me if I don¡¯t do what they say they¡¯ll break my thumbs, they¡¯ll flay me a live, etcetera, and then they give me wagonloads of money to do five minutes of work. Am I ¨C what am I missing here? Why can¡¯t you all just ask nicely? It¡¯s just business, Cowen. It¡¯s only personal to you.¡± James stopped. Even in the dim light Sam could tell he was grinning. ¡°Wow,¡± he said. ¡°You alright?¡± ¡°My blood pressure,¡± Joran grumbled, ¡°but I¡¯m not the one who needs to relax.¡± ¡°Joran has a way with words,¡± James shrugged. ¡°He¡¯s too smart for politics but he can beat us all if he tried.¡± ¡°Who are you talking to?¡± the encoder turned on Sam and looked at her like she was a rock that had gained sentience. ¡°Does he keep you so he can talk to himself?¡± ¡°I think so,¡± said Sam. ¡°You necromancers are all fucked up in the head,¡± Joran declared. He fiddled with a panel of switches on his desk and the copper cylinders around the room began to turn. ¡°Are we done? Are you going to leave me alone?¡± ¡°The Perfect Vessel ¨C¡± ¡°Still working on it. Not gonna stop. They want it finished by the plenum.¡± ¡°Is that possible?¡± ¡°No, and it never will be,¡± the encoder cleared his throat and suddenly he was hyperventilating again. ¡°One master wants this and another wants that. That¡¯s how nothing gets done.¡± ¡°The Finleys are arguing,¡± stated James. He blinked. ¡°The old man is awake.¡± ¡°No one¡¯s smart when it¡¯s life and death. Look how much you are paying me.¡± Joran slipped on his goggles. ¡°Get out of my house. Wait, before that, give me the imprint.¡± ¡°For what?¡± ¡°For the fucking pep talk.¡± James laughed. He picked out a roll of tape and ran his hand along its length. The Green trickled from his fingertips, but instead of fading away it began seeping into the surface like water into a sponge. The cylinders spun to a higher pitch. The walls resonated in harmony. ¡°A thing followed me here,¡± James said softly, casually. ¡°Looked like a butler. Glasses.¡± ¡°Prototypes, as I said,¡± said Joran, softly, casually. ¡°They are amalgams, like Lucia.¡± ¡°Nothing is like Lucia.¡± ¡°Not yet, but I¡¯m working on it.¡± ¡°If you somehow finish this thing, this Perfect Vessel, does it¡­¡± ¡°You can¡¯t bring the dead back to life, Cowen. I¡¯ve said it since the beginning: give up and enjoy your life.¡± The Love of Cruelty 3

3

The Dome Luminous brightened into noon. Heat rose from the pavement in palpable waves. The clientele in this part of the city preferred palanquins or litters or rickshaws at the least. James, however, out of sheer stubbornness, preferred walking. His face was pale and flush all at once. Sweat drenched his hair and ran down his chin. Lucia half-carried him on one arm, but that was all the assistance he allowed himself. He pointed to a shop on the corner. AUTHENTIC BEEF! The sign declared. ¡°Table twelve,¡± he muttered. The blast of refrigerated air invigorated him; the sight of Maestro Ingel devouring a stack of ribs straightened his back and put a grin on his face. He strutted to the table with all the bravado of a man freshly woken up from a twelve-hour nap. Ingel looked up. ¡°Were you followed?¡± ¡°The butler.¡± ¡°So it¡¯s true.¡± He clicked his fingers and four servers appeared at his elbow. ¡°Sirloin, medium-rare. And more wine.¡± He waved them away before they could utter a word. ¡°It¡¯s annoying how they try to speak. The hospitality sector is difficult to penetrate. Too much uh¡­¡± ¡°Health and safety?¡± ¡°Nothing more hygienic than tier-four preservatives, Cowen. I just enjoy watching them grovel for tips. Where¡¯s the giant?¡± James sat. ¡°Counter-butlering.¡± ¡°Not going to be an incident, is it? Yesterday was ugly.¡± Ingel eyed Sam as if she were a cut of beef. ¡°You take her everywhere.¡± ¡°Where are yours?¡± ¡°Procurement. Studies. Charts. My apprentices have a hundred things to do before they get to stand there looking stupid.¡± ¡°She spares me from explaining basic things to stupid people. Try it. Might elevate your brand.¡± ¡°What if she¡¯s bought?¡± ¡°Then I¡¯m a sucker and you are too.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t get it. You talk like you don¡¯t give a shit and yet here we are.¡± ¡°What, having lunch?¡± ¡°And you think you are clever but ¨C¡± Ingel tossed a bone onto the floor. ¡°- you are an idiot.¡± ¡°I¡¯d rather be known for my compassion and my sense of justice.¡± Ingel laughed, spitting marrow juice everywhere. ¡°And? Is that bullshit getting me my two million units?¡± ¡°Want a guarantee?¡± ¡°I want certainty.¡± The sirloin arrived on a platter bigger than Sam¡¯s desk. Ingel jabbed his knife at it. ¡°Know how much this costs?¡± ¡°Should I?¡± ¡°No, but you paid more for it than you are paying her.¡± Ingel jabbed his knife at Sam. ¡°Jack Finley can put down a slab of mutton and it¡¯ll be more than you¡¯ve paid her this year.¡± ¡°But he won¡¯t.¡± Ingel downed his wine in one gulp. ¡°They¡¯ve poached four of my apprentices. Offered them a whiff of meat and they went over without a ¡®thank you for having me¡¯. Hurts a man¡¯s feelings. Makes him rethink the meaning of friendship.¡± Sam was suddenly sweating. ¡°Your problem,¡± said James. There was fury in Ingel¡¯s eyes, charm and marrow on his lips. ¡°You think she¡¯s got your back? What can you give her that they can¡¯t? The moment any of these graduates see an opening they are going to leave you shitting your pants wondering where all your friends are. Loyalty is a bygone concept. We¡¯re too rich for it.¡± James frowned, there and gone. ¡°Your problem.¡± ¡°You going to eat that?¡± James shook his head, and Ingel yanked the sirloin onto his plate. ¡°You¡¯ll remember what I said when she runs off for an extra ten-percent ¨C and it will bother you. Everything bothers you.¡± He tore into the steak like a man starved. ¡°You don¡¯t have time to pretend, Cowen. How long do you have left?¡± ¡°Am I dying?¡± ¡°Are you not?¡± ¡°Not soon enough.¡± Ingel laughed. ¡°Businessmen like me, one can tell at a glance what my priorities are, but you ¨C you are playing a game. We all want entertainment, fair enough, but you don¡¯t got time to fuck around, do you? So what do you want?¡± Stolen novel; please report. ¡°To die in peace, in my mansion, surrounded by those who love me,¡± said James, sipping the wine like it hurt him. ¡°You?¡± ¡°Some men want to live forever,¡± said Ingel, ¡°and some men envy that.¡± ¡°One fantasy at a time, Maestro Ingel.¡± ¡°I like my pleasures.¡± Ingel chewed. ¡°Food. Women. Money. You get me more, you are my friend. You dangle me on a rope, make excuses, deprive me, waste my time, and I will ruin you. It is that simple.¡± ¡°Your point?¡± ¡°Give me two million units from Twelve, and you and Catherine can scheme all you want, play your games, I don¡¯t give a shit, but your priority has to be ¨C¡± The door banged open. Lucia entered with a fleshy bundle, dripping infusion all over the floor. Her flawless complexion was marred by an angry welt across the cheek, her coat torn in a hundred places, the chainmail underlay half-shredded. She dumped the bundle before the Maestros¡¯ table and set a pair of purple-stained spectacles next to James¡¯s wine glass. Ingel leaned over, smacking his lips over a particularly tough morsel. ¡°Is that the thing?¡± he asked, chewing. ¡°Where are the legs?¡± The tux clinging to the ambler¡¯s body had been shredded down to strips. Its face had been pummelled into pulp, but its eyes of faceted glass were still intact and hanging out by their fleshy tendons. Infusion leaked from the stubs of its limbs, far slower than usual. James crossed his arms. His grin was mocking, his eyes dead and terrible. ¡°What do you think is happening here?¡± ¡°I thought nothing in Jack¡¯s portfolio could touch your¡­¡± ¡°Lucia.¡± ¡°Lucia. Yet here we are.¡± The thing on the floor flopped like a fish and lunged at James¡¯s ankle. Its ruined jaw almost made contact before Lucia put down her foot and crushed its skull with a brittle clink. Ingel devoured the last of the sirloin and clicked his fingers. Four servers appeared at his elbow, their expressions painfully pleasant. ¡°Soup,¡± Ingel said. ¡°Make it thick. Cowen?¡± ¡°No, thank you,¡± said James. His coat was splattered with bits of putrefied brain but he did not seem to care. He nodded at Sam. Sam opened her satchel and wrote TEN THOUSAND on a pre-signed cheque marked with the sigil of the Palace Above. The servers took it and within two minutes returned with a basin of soup loaded with mutton, then they flipped the sign to CLOSED and retreated to the kitchen, probably forever. ¡°You like this place?¡± asked Ingel. ¡°Never been here before,¡± said James. ¡°The menu¡¯s not for me.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t leave that thing here. They¡¯ll know who did it.¡± ¡°They already do.¡± James tapped his fingers on the table, once, twice, three times. ¡°It is like you said. I don¡¯t have time to fuck around. This coming plenum is our final chance, and it is too late to form a unified opposition.¡± Ingel listened and said nothing, his soup untouched. ¡°Frankly, I don¡¯t care. Jack and I collaborate on a broad range of mutual interests.¡± James tapped his fingers, once, twice. ¡°Our partnership has been convenient, but the way things are going, they won¡¯t need me for much longer, or anyone else. Monopoly in our lifetimes ¨C you love to see it.¡± Lucia bowed. James reached out and examined the red welt on her face. ¡°Those who protest authority usually have nothing better to do, or are dying, and think some sort of cosmic righteousness will, I don¡¯t know, give their lives meaning. Funny, isn¡¯t it? A necromancer, concerned about the living? That is the wrong priority.¡± ¡°My two million,¡± growled Ingel. ¡°You will get it. You don¡¯t care how.¡± Ingel nodded, satisfied. He kicked at the cadaver on the floor. ¡°You can deal with these things?¡± ¡°Lucia can.¡± Ingel shook his head, apparently unimpressed. ¡°It took damage.¡± ¡°She was autonomous. If I ¨C ¡± James¡¯ face drained of colour. He flipped through his pockets in a hurry. ¡°Inside, left pocket,¡± said Sam. ¡°Excuse me.¡± The Maestro stumbled to his feet, box of pills in hand. Lucia carried him into the restroom. Ingel slurped his soup with the gusto of the emaciated. ¡°You. Sit.¡± There was no one else in the restaurant. Sam sat, carefully avoiding the pool of congealing infusion. She was exhausted even though arguably she has done nothing. Up close, Maestro Ingel looked older than she had expected. There were liver spots on his cheeks, his forehead, dampened by powder but now visible from his profuse sweating. ¡°So,¡± he began, ¡°how does he do it?¡± Sam smiled and waited for him to elaborate. Ingel chuckled. ¡°Here¡¯s what I¡¯ll do.¡± An ingot of copper appeared on the table. It was the length of a hand and unmarked. ¡°This is yours if you tell me who coded the giant.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not at liberty to say, Maestro.¡± ¡°You can have ten more if you share some insights into its autoroutine package.¡± ¡°I cannot.¡± ¡°You are familiar with tier-five autoroutines, are you not? It¡¯s part of your core training. If it¡¯s a matter of price ¨C name it.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t.¡± ¡°What is it that you want, apprentice? A house on Twenty, isn¡¯t it? You can live in luxury or sell it and be set for life. I am offering you that house without the burden of eight million lives on your conscience, and all I ask is that you tell me what you know about that ambler ¨C how he made it, who helped him, what he¡¯s doing with it. A very good deal, I think.¡± ¡°I¡­¡± Sam closed her eyes for a moment. The man who had once been her father stared at her indignantly. His eyes were azure. No, that was the little girl¡¯s. Her father¡¯s had been¡­she has forgotten. She has never tried to remember. ¡°Only what I know?¡± Ingel nodded, his silence overbearing. ¡°He¡­¡± Each word weighed a ton. Her lips were parched. ¡°It¡¯s not a¡­¡± What was it like, on the Floor of Six? An old woman, laughing in her face. She had cried on the way there and on the way back. The lift was full of blood. An intestinal defect. Half the cadavers had shat out their guts. The smell, she could still remember. She remembered wishing to never smell anything again. That one came true. She did not know much, but she knew Joran Guiyu, and she knew what T¡¯Lia did in the lab. Talk, and never again would she need to burn a city, blockade a shelter, raise the dead for money. It sounded like a dream. It was a dream. When she lied to a little girl with azure eyes, told her to go down to the shelter, that it will keep her safe ¨C she will dream of it, every night, on Floor Twenty or Twelve. Something about guilt giving life meaning. ¡°Maestros own everything,¡± she heard herself say from across the room, ¡°and if I¡¯m not a necromancer, then it won¡¯t be my house, even when I own it. I¡¯m sorry.¡± Her decision was made, and the silence remained. Ingel put down his spoon and burped. ¡°I see why he keeps you ¨C you are not delusional.¡± The ingot disappeared as if it was never there. The servers cleared the table and presented the Maestro with a mushroom-shaped souffle drizzled in caramel. Ingel pushed it toward Sam and stood up with some effort. Sam, surprised, scrambled to match. ¡°Tell your Maestro we see eye to eye,¡± Ingel said. ¡°I wish him well, I do. But business must go on. You have received an offer from Robert Finley, have you not?¡± Sam started. ¡°I¡­I¡¯m not¡­¡± The Maestro laughed, his eyes sad. ¡°Cowen, you son of a bitch.¡± With that, Ingel swaddled over the twitching former butler and stepped out. The huff of a steam engine faded into silence, and Sam was left alone with the distant and indecipherable rumblings of James¡¯s bowels. The Love Of Cruelty 4

4

James was ill. It was the stink of roasted meat, he surmised. Sam called the doctor and spent the afternoon updating earnings projections. It took an hour, like the Maestro had said, but she spent an extra two napping at her desk. The box in the corner stared at her. She wondered what it would be like to sleep in it. The leather cushioning seemed softer than clouds. More letters arrived in the afternoon. One velvety package contained detailed instructions on the dying of hair and three tubes of questionable goo. Sam left that outside James¡¯s office. There was a stack of job applications, thicker than usual; she took one out at random and left the others in the bottom drawer, where about five hundred had piled up. The Maestro re-emerged at dusk, face ashen, eyes bloodshot. Sam made porridge thickened with ginger and beetroot, and he gulped down three bowls. They sat in the lounge room for a while going over the numbers. James had memorized five years¡¯ worth of projected cashflows. He was mildly surprised when Sam¡¯s figures returned higher. ¡°We¡¯re rich,¡± he declared. ¡°You are rich,¡± Sam corrected. ¡°There were thirty-two applications today.¡± James glanced at the one Sam had picked out, then folded it into a crane. Paper made from fungal fibre could not suffer being tortured, and the crane disintegrated within seconds. ¡°So, ask,¡± he said, ¡°you have questions on your face.¡± ¡°What did she say?¡± ¡°That I have five years ¨C she didn¡¯t know why. Still gave me pills,¡± he rolled his eyes. ¡°I really want to ask ¨C¡± ¡°There will be a vote at the plenum,¡± he began tearing up Sam¡¯s notes into little squares and piling them up by size. ¡°Thirty candidates for audition. You have already been pre-selected. Pending no surprises, you will be going to the Place Above in December.¡± Sam began to say that this was not what she was going to ask, but it would not be, strictly speaking, true. ¡°I wish I could give you more detail but I don¡¯t remember a thing.¡± James flicked the little tower of paper and it toppled over in a flurry. ¡°I went into a room and came out with the Green. I think there was a¡­a city. Like a mirage. And lots of people walking around in... strange clothes, I think.¡± He shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s like trying to remember a dream. Irrelevant and futile.¡± ¡°Will I pass?¡± James looked at her. The Green glittered in the grey like a thousand tiny stars. It was as if the man was going blind and some otherworldly creature has commandeered his sight. ¡°I don¡¯t really care, to tell you the truth.¡± He clicked his fingers, and Lucia stepped up and offered her arm. He frowned at the mark on her face. ¡°Let¡¯s talk in the lab.¡± The basement laboratory resembled the workplace of a demented dentist. Thousand of reagents stacked the shelves, the drawers, the countertop, overspilling onto boxes, the floor, the foot of the stairs. Cylinders of formaldehyde, each as tall as Sam, crowded one corner. Surgical tools ¨C sawed scissors and stitching needles the thickness of a hair, boxes of autoroutines, rolls of injector tubes ¨C sat in another. The infusion pump was half-filled, the purple liquid inside kept at a constant boil and attached to the operating chair by capillary tubes. Human remains dangled from the ceiling. Ligaments, muscle groups, organs ¨C perfectly preserved ¨C were suspended in separated layers that when folded together would form an abomination. A row of plague masks hung at the entrance with faded warning signs regaling the rules of safety. The filters inside those beaks have not been replaced for months. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Lucia sat down in the chair and strapped down her own legs. James pulled over a stool and an armful of folding struts dangling with tools and lights. His plague mask was silver and gold, the beak artfully folded in a spiral to avoid prodding his one and only patient. Sam stood close by, ready with cleaning alcohol and a yellowish preservative paste that the alks charged three thousand seeds per box. The red mark on Lucia¡¯s face glared in the ascetic light. ¡°Your assessment?¡± the Maestro asked. ¡°Cosmetic damage. Subdermal effusion. Evacuate fluid to catalyse auto-heal,¡± said Sam. ¡°Trivial.¡± James held out a scalpel and found his hand shaking uncontrollably. ¡°Maybe I should ¨C¡± ¡°No,¡± he snapped, then shut his eyes for a moment. ¡°Yes, it¡¯s trivial.¡± Lucia turned toward her as she sat down. Her blindfolds today were yellow and teal, thin and almost translucent. Sam could see her eyes moving underneath. It was as if ¨C ¡°She¡¯s watching me,¡± said Sam. ¡°Yeah, because I¡¯m watching you,¡± said James. ¡°Be careful.¡± Lucia did not react as the diamond blade bit into her cheek. Her skin parted like real flesh, but there was no blood, only a trickle of purple. Exposed, the bruise had the hue of an oil puddle. Under the Maestro¡¯s much-too-watchful eye, Sam gently scraped away the coagulated infusion and applied the balm in its place. As soon as the pressure was alleviated she could see the veins underneath plump up, sucking in the residual fluid through some capillary action that she only faintly comprehended. Lucia was a marvel, she knew that much. Anything softer than a diamond blade and the skin would not break. Any damage less than direct trauma shattering her reinforced skeleton, her auto-heal could mend. These bruises were accidents, flaws in an otherwise flawless specimen. Made her seem human, in a way. The incision required no stitching, only a brief pinch with T¡¯Lia¡¯s catalyst applied along the cut. A rosy hue remained on the spot, almost lifelike. Sam dabbed it with a proprietary sealant from the Guild of Preservation. Lucia¡¯s face twitched, her lips folding into a lopsided smile. ¡°Good. Well done,¡± said James. ¡°On the Floor of Nine, I ¨C¡± ¡°I remember. You told me she spoke.¡± ¡°I still don¡¯t think it¡¯s ¨C¡± ¡°Observe how Lucia mimics inflections in my emotional state,¡± he said, and Lucia nodded. ¡°The tether between us is so strong that there is considerable subliminal bleeding of my consciousness into her autoroutines. As a result, no behaviour of hers is truly autonomous.¡± James began undoing a strap while Lucia undid another. ¡°Once I too thought there could be some miracle, the preservation of cognitive remnants beyond Rathnayake¡¯s Limit, but I ran tests, and I was seeing things that were not there, like I was tricking myself.¡± Sam knew he wanted to say more. The first time James told the story, she had listened out of obligation; now, it felt almost like a ritual, to listen to the same thing, over and over, to no end. ¡°I thought I would at peace, that I would let her go,¡± said James, holding Lucia¡¯s hand. Lucia held his. ¡°But the Limit is asymptotic. If I counteract the cognizance decline by amplifying the Green, she will always remember me. It was going to work. One hundred and thirty million secondary tethers I would need to gather in my lifetime to maintain baseline. By year seven, I would need two million lives. And here we are.¡± ¡°There are not ¨C¡± ¡°- not enough people in the whole Pile. It was impossible from the start.¡± His voice trembled. ¡°When I found out I was going to die, I was happy. The rest of my life can be spent maintaining her memory of me, and we shall leave together.¡± ¡°Maestro ¨C¡± ¡°You¡¯ve heard it all before, haven¡¯t you? I must have monologued a hundred times by now. I delayed the tether by one minute thirteen seconds because I was in a meeting, blah blah, I missed the density threshold. She is hollow, blah blah, because I was talking money with clowns on high tables.¡± The Maestro shook, but Lucia¡¯s grip was steady and immovable. ¡°The usual.¡± ¡°I wasn¡¯t ¨C¡± ¡°Lords Above, those steamed turnips,¡± he laughed, and wept. ¡°She kept making them. They were terrible, like hot slime. She was a terrible cook. Eating with her was horrible. We just sat down and argued. Imagine, two necromancers, washing the dishes. What was the point of amblers then? But no, we had to be domestic, because that¡¯s what we were. Domestic. How horrible. I hate it. I can¡¯t stand bickering over the price of butter. That¡¯s not what my life was supposed to be. She made it so¡­mundane. Like we could just die of old age together, having achieved nothing, and it would be the best thing ever. How horrible.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± said Sam. ¡°Horrible.¡± The Maestro waved dismissively. ¡°Leave me be.¡± Sam closed the door behind her. The Maestro remained in the lab for the night; she knew because she heard him through the door, at two, at four, at five, speaking in a voice so gentle it belonged as if to a stranger. The Love of Cruelty 5

5

The House of Dawn¡¯s monthly profit exceeded eight figures on the third of July. James celebrated by purchasing eighty-eight properties across the Floor of Seventeen. For two months, Sam¡¯s desk became a cesspool of real estate agents, bankers, financiers, guilds looking for vacancies, alks looking for rooms, and all manner of tagalongs who had declared themselves allies of the House of Dawn overnight. Maestro Enri sent an entourage of carpenters and architects, promising to renovate every house for a moderate commission; T¡¯Lia tried to investigate the safe with a crowbar; Charlie presented a bouquet and a revised technical manual featuring two dozen corrected grammatical errors and clever edits to inject humour. Sam thanked her, and procured prostrations of future discounts. All eighty-eight deeds remained on Sam¡¯s files for all of ten minutes, long enough for James to sign them, then they were carted off to a secure deposit. Sam has never seen the places they bought. Neither has James. Sam managed to retain two thousand seeds for herself through a variety of rounding errors. They were now stashed under her bed, inside a box marked SUNDRIES. She was under no illusion; James noticed these things. He just did not care. As the goldrush dwindled, the House of Dawn returned to a semblance of normalcy. It was the last week of her life that Sam could remember being bored: waking at seven, breakfast, prepping the office, the lounge, at her desk by ten to nine, scheduling work, expenses, correspondences, running a hundred odd errands ¨C the mundanity of routine, pursued with a bored zealousness, felt almost comfortable. ~ There was a scar across Bant¡¯s neck, as if someone had tried to cut off his head. He sat in the lounge, ranted about the economy, and left a cheap-looking card that spelt CONGRATS in colourful fungi. James took it into his office and re-emerged wearing a coat with chainmail inlays and gloves threaded with silver. He presented Sam with a Command Ring with a topaz inset larger than her thumb. ¡°What are we doing?¡± Sam asked. ¡°Wear it.¡± Charlie¡¯s box opened with a soft hiss. The Maestro had chewed through the technical manual in about twenty minutes and then left it as a paperweight for his transmittances. ¡°Flaunt it.¡± ¡°Where are we going?¡± ¡°Follow Lucia.¡± James pulled himself into the box and struck something near his elbow. The box sealed itself. His voice, channelled through elaborate pipework, was nearly drowned out by the ventilators. ¡°This is¡­snug. If I uh¡­asphyxiate, just bury me in it.¡± Lucia strapped the box onto her back as if it weighed nothing, then turned toward Sam, waiting. Sam shrugged and put on her walking shoes. ~ Electricity was once produced by steam engines the size of houses ¨C outlawed now, of course, and unnecessary when amblers could spin turbines cheaper than steam. ¡°This is our last commercial power station,¡± said Bant, indicating the subterranean cavern full of gigantic copper disks. Thousands of amblers kept them spinning with a network of turnstiles, pedals, and gears. ¡°The House of Solutions decommissioned the rest.¡± ¡°Did you kill anyone the other day?¡± asked Sam. Bant frowned at her. ¡°Where is your Maestro?¡± Sam patted the box. Bant frowned at it. ¡°What, is he dead?¡± ¡°You got to speak up,¡± said James, his voice muffled and metallic. Bant frowned until his brows conjoined. ¡°What is this?¡± He jumped as the box hissed open and James fell out like a corpse. ¡°Why are you in a coffin? Is this a joke?¡± ¡°It works!¡± said James. ¡°Less talking, more going where we are going please. It stinks in here.¡± A defunct power junction on the far side of the cavern opened at the press of a lever. Cables thick as limbs ran along the tunnel walls, converging in a cavernous room deep in the bowels of Seventeen. Hundreds of oversized incubation vats rose from the floor like pillars of basalt. An alchemist in unmarked overalls gave Bant a clipboard riddled with numbers. Bant dismissed him with a look. In the centre of the room, where all the cables converged, sat a four-poster bed and a headboard thick with nodes and dials and blinking lights. Around it gathered a small crowd decked out in emerald-and-gold. Maestro Enri stood out in her purple mantle, clutching a half-knit sweater like a shield. ¡°Come closer,¡± she said. ¡°She wants to look at you.¡± Maestro Catherine Pierre stirred from her nook among the pillows. Tubes and needles dotted her left arm. A ledger in Braille was cradled in her right. She tapped her nail against the binding. It made a bright ding, louder than any bell. A blue light began to blink on the headboard. Her voice was softer than a whisper and perfectly clear. ¡°You may begin.¡± You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Bant cleared his throat. ¡°There is no easy way to say this. The Madam has made the difficult decision to terminate her own life.¡± The crowd muttered. ¡°For one hundred and seventy years she has watched over the House of Verdancy. It is her child, and we are her family, but two centuries is too long a lifespan for one whose loved ones are gone.¡± Bant looked each of them in the eye. ¡°She has given us one final task. The Madam cares not for legacy, but the redemption of our souls.¡± ¡°No such thing as souls,¡± muttered James, too quiet for anyone but Sam to hear. ¡°There remains none in our House who can maintain our current portfolio. It is shameful to admit, but my colleagues and I could manage but a combined one hundred thousand tethers. The Madam has made the difficult decision to transfer the remaining four hundred thousand to Maestro James Cowen of the House of Dawn ¨C¡± the crowd muttered louder. ¡°¨C on one condition. His portfolio shall join with ours on the Second of September. While the plenum of the Houses is underway, we, the combined portfolios of the House of Verdancy, the House of Juniper, and the House of Dawn, will sabotage and destroy all Finley assets from Floors Three through Nine.¡± The silence was absolute. James¡¯s expression was unreadable. Enri drank from a hip flask. ¡°You will appreciate the logistics involved in this undertaking,¡± Bant seemed calmer than he has ever been. ¡°I will brief each of you in private, but know that this is the Madam¡¯s final wish. We, her family, will see it through. I have sent instructions to your stations. Return to work and begin preparations immediately.¡± The employees of the House of Verdancy lined up before the Madam¡¯s bed, taking turns clasping her hand and speaking soft words. A few had even begun to cry. They filed out in twos and threes, holding each other. Bant stuck out his hand, and James shook it. Enri patted the young necromancer on the shoulder. ¡°Good. Well done,¡± she said. ¡°Where is the restroom?¡± A woman in emerald-and-green took Enri¡¯s arm and led her away. The room emptied, but James remained. As the last footsteps faded in the distance, red lights began to blink atop the incubator vats. The closest opened its shutters and spilled out a gush of infusion. James frowned at the eight-foot giant stepping over the congealing puddle. ¡°No one¡¯s buying that,¡± he said. ¡°I thought I was pretty convincing.¡± returned Bant. ¡°No one plans an insurrection two days in advance. They are not idiots.¡± ¡°Mmm. Disagree,¡± said Bant. ¡°A formality, for old times.¡± Bant hurried to the Madam¡¯s side, checking the headboard. ¡°Volatile emisisons are off. I¡¯ll have the room sanitized right away,¡± he gathered up a stack of papers and made to leave. ¡°Stay put, Cowen. She wants to talk to you.¡± ¡°Yeah, I figured.¡± Bant squinted at Sam. Sam shook her head. With a shrug, he rushed off and closed the tunnel behind him. The Madam beckoned. ¡°Lucia,¡± she called. Lucia went to her and held her hand. The headboard bleeped out an alarm and was quickly silenced. ¡°She misses you,¡± said James. ¡°She misses nothing. She is dead.¡± ¡°I am trying, Catherine.¡± ¡°In vain.¡± ¡°Some encouragement would be nice.¡± ¡°Forgive yourself, as I have forgiven you.¡± The ledger fell to the floor, spilling its pages. No one cared. ¡°No, you haven¡¯t,¡± said James. A cool breeze swept by Sam¡¯s feet. Motes of dust coalesced into little piles by the corners of the bed, and the lights burned a little brighter. The giant rummaged around an alcove and returned with scrubbers and a bucket, then began cleaning its former residence with surprising diligence. ¡°How many?¡± asked James. ¡°Enough.¡± ¡°How do they stand against the Finley prototypes? The butlers?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care.¡± ¡°You will need Lucia¡¯s help.¡± Lucia bent down so the Madam may lay a shrunken finger against her face. ¡°No. Keep her safe.¡± ¡°I am not asking,¡± said James. ¡°You want to kill yourself, that¡¯s your prerogative, but you don¡¯t tell me what to do anymore, Catherine.¡± ¡°If only I could.¡± ¡°And what you would say? Give up?¡± ¡°Forgive yourself.¡± ¡°And how would I do that?¡± James laughed. ¡°I make eleven million a month, the richest man on Seventeen, thank you very much. I shit blood every morning ¨C hard to enjoy that, but I get by, modern medicine has a hundred varieties of painkillers. I try my best, every day, to take pleasure in my work. On some days, it is hard. On others, easy, because I get to sit across thirty Maestros from thirty little Houses and tell them exactly how to stay out of my way.¡± ¡°I am not telling you to enjoy yourself.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t get it.¡± ¡°Yes, you do.¡± The Madam rolled her eyes as far as she could. ¡°Do not make me speak, it is exhausting.¡± ¡°No one makes these ¨C¡± James pointed at the vats, ¡°- out of forgiveness. Now tell me what you are planning so I can help you.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because I feel sorry for you. Because I got nothing better to do.¡± The Madam grinned. It was a gruesome sight. ¡°What irredeemable attitude.¡± ¡°Ever regret taking me in?¡± ¡°Every day.¡± ¡°You could have just...not.¡± ¡°It is worse to be alone.¡± ¡°Should have left me. I would¡¯ve ended up on Fifteen, with the House of Stupendous Poverty, and you would have someone else watching you die instead of a man who doesn¡¯t shut up,¡± he glanced at Sam, ¡°and an apprentice who never speaks.¡± ¡°I would have Lucia.¡± James swallowed. ¡°She is still here, I know it. I feel it.¡± ¡°Do you really?¡± ¡°What do you want me to say? That I should die now, for my life is without purpose?¡± The Madam sat up. Green overflowed from the milky white of her cataracts, pouring from the ends of her snow-white lashes. ¡°Let it go.¡± ¡°I am a better necromancer than you will ever be,¡± said James. ¡°What is the purpose of my genius, if not for this?¡± The vats around the room spun all at once, hissing on their gimbals. A carpet of steam blanketed the floor as hundreds of muscle-bound giants emerged from their incubators. The floor trembled as they marched into formation, each picking up scrubbers and buckets along the way. Then they began to clean. The pools of congealed infusion were mopped up, the walls passed over with cloth and sponge. James wrinkled his nose at what Sam guessed was bleach. ¡°Are you making a point or is this just for fun?¡± The Madam gave him a withering look, her rheumy eyes suddenly brimming with Green. ¡°Are you done?¡± James laughed. ¡°For now.¡± ¡°Then listen.¡± The Love of Cruelty 6

1

She slept in a field of wind-blown grass; she laid among the slow-living as the sun spun into night, and day, and night again, waking only to appreciate the flowing stars. A dream, or two, or twelve ¨C she indulged, fearful of waking to a world unchanged. The wind soothed her burning eyes, and she saw the silhouette of the stranger, waiting in the Pillar¡¯s shadow, tall and beautiful and dead. Look at me, she said. I am sorry. ~ Red carpet rolled out from the VIP lift. An honour guard of fusiliers stiffened into salute as Edward Finley sauntered out, munching on a slice of cake. James shook his hand vigorously, cream and all, and gave his elbow a smack. The two men beamed at each other like the best of friends. ¡°Ed, how are you?¡± ¡°Cowen, faring well?¡± They stood shoulder to shoulder and smiled at the gathered press. Phosphorous lights blinked in their rigid faces. No one asked questions. The few that raised their hands were quickly pulled away. ¡°My colleague, Maestro Mina Enri of the House of Juniper,¡± said James. ¡°Maestro Enri, faring well?¡± ¡°Edward, good to see you.¡± They shook hands. Sam could see Enri¡¯s hand rummaging inside her pocket, rubbing off the crumbs. ¡°An old friend from my school days, encoder first-class, Joran Guiyu.¡± The big man swaddled forth, sweat running rivulets around his blackout goggles. ¡°Joran, faring well?¡± ¡°Ed.¡± Sam set down her bags just in time. ¡°My apprentice.¡± Edward Finley grinned at her breasts. Sam gave a deep bow and resisted the urge to pull tighter her coat. She hid behind the press as the three VIPs from the Floor of Seventeen posed together for one more round of smiling and nodding, then the fusiliers snapped to attention, Edward beckoned, and they started for the lift. ¡°Come on, Lucia,¡± said Sam. Lucia slung the box across her back and parted the crowd with the billowing of her cloak. The chainmail inlay jingled as her armoured boots fell on the carpet like muted thunder. Her blindfold was midnight black and threaded with hair-thin copper wires coalesced into the rays of a rising sun. Her brittle white hair was tamed under silver clips and cascaded to her shoulders. Her lips glistened like roses in the morning, more vibrant than living flesh. Sam could hardly look at her. The VIP lift contained five divans each the size of a small room. Hundreds of unfathomable delicacies waited upon a gargantuan buffet. A grand piano played itself by the far wall, its open top exposing thousands of spinning cylinders. An archway of flowering vines led to a resplendent garden full of miniature trees and steaming pools. Twenty butlers in orange tux stood inanimate, five in each corner. The doors slid shut. The counter showed one hour and forty-five minutes to the Floor of Twenty. The signal light blinked a single time, and the floor began to vibrate almost imperceptibly. Sam felt dizzy. The VIP lift imparted a sense of unsteady motion, as if tunnelling through a storm. Edward dropped himself onto a divan and dove into a half-finished cheesecake. ¡°Relax,¡± he said flatly. ¡°Going to be a long week.¡± James sat. Sam manoeuvred herself to the buffet and began stuffing her face with salami and mutton stew. ¡°You take out the red carpet for everyone?¡± she heard James ask. ¡°Jack¡¯s idea,¡± said Edward. ¡°What isn¡¯t?¡± ¡°What?¡± Enri came up looking sheepish. Sam poured her a glass of gin. The Maestro smiled at her. ¡°I heard you bought half the houses on your Floor,¡± said Edward. ¡°Just diversifying my portfolio.¡± ¡°Doing well then?¡± ¡°Thanks to Jack and his generosity.¡± Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡°Yeah?¡± ¡°None of us would be where we are without his support. Joran?¡± The encoder grunted. ¡°There¡¯ll be changes coming,¡± said Edward Finley. ¡°Like what?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll find out.¡± ¡°From you?¡± ¡°What?¡± Sam spotted a tray of pickled pineapples and began stuffing them into her pockets. Then she spotted the macadamia-stuffed dates and lamented the fact that she only had two pockets and not twelve. Edward pushed on. ¡°Diversifying your portfolio, is it?¡± ¡°Honestly, I don¡¯t really keep track of the¡­real estate side.¡± ¡°A private lift is not a house, Cowen, last I checked.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what diversity means. You have taken an interest in my affairs.¡± Ed laughed. ¡°I don¡¯t care what you do with your money. Buying eighty-seven houses to hide one lift ¨C whatever, not my business. I just like to think out loud, seeing that I am uh, not as bright as some of you geniuses at schemes and plans and murder-mysteries, and I wouldn¡¯t have any idea what you¡¯d hope to achieve with¡­whatever it is that you think you are doing. So, just thinking out loud.¡± Enri prodded Sam on the chest. ¡°Why do you get to be here?¡± she asked. ¡°My staff had to be rescheduled. And the giant! Cowen gets special treatment ¨C again!¡± she sniffed. ¡°Pour me another.¡± Sam poured her another. James shrugged. ¡°Logistics are easier optimized when supply chains are in-House.¡± ¡°I should have thought of that, had I been clever.¡± ¡°You are a capable and outstanding individual, Ed. Our collaborations have always run smoothly.¡± Edward laughed. ¡°Shut the fuck up. Wipe that smartass grin off your fucking face.¡± Sam suddenly felt much too full. Enri gulped down her second tonic like water. Joran hyperventilated. ¡°Now, Ed ¨C¡± ¡°There¡¯ll be changes coming,¡± Edward snapped. ¡°I¡¯m not running Jack¡¯s fucking errands ever again, you hear me? I¡¯m not a busboy, picking up children.¡± ¡°Huh.¡± If James had a hundred eyebrows, he would have raised them all. ¡°You want to talk about it, whatever it is?¡± ¡°We know what you are doing. Jack knows, the old man knows, I know, fucking Edwin knows and he can¡¯t even properly take a shit. So I really don¡¯t understand why I have to sit here and make nice with you when, really ¨C¡± he clicked his fingers, and the butlers stepped forward. ¡°¨C I got an hour and a half to end your little schemes before I have to deal with it.¡± James shrugged again. ¡°You can try.¡± The two men stared at each other, Edward glowering, James smiling pleasantly. Joran hyperventilated and wiped sweat from his armpits. Lucia simply stood there, perfectly still. Enri giggled. She shoved the empty glass into Sam¡¯s hand and grabbed the gin by the neck. ¡°Men are so stupid, aren¡¯t they?¡± she spoke into her ear. ¡°First chance they have, they bite each other¡¯s head off like it¡¯s an achievement. You and I, darling,¡± she threw an arm over her shoulder and drew her back. ¡°We stand in a corner and let them do their thing, then we pick up the pieces afterward. And we shall drink, copiously.¡± ¡°It was you,¡± said Sam. ¡°You told them.¡± Enri squeezed her a little harder. ¡°You must let the boys play, because playing is all they do, they are obsessed, and we can¡¯t beat them no matter how hard we try, because we don¡¯t live that life. Our validation comes from¡­hobbies, or a fetish for cheese, or for knitting socks, grandchildren ¨C whatever it is, we use it to out of the way of the boys, or they will hurt you, understand? My mother, bless her heart, once told me ¨C¡± Edward burst out laughing. It sounded false, awkward, like squeezing phlegm from his lungs. ¡°Just kidding, Cowen,¡± he declared, obviously not kidding. ¡°It¡¯s a test,¡± he explained, obviously lying. ¡°I can¡¯t try. I¡¯m too dumb to make moves for myself, you understand! I¡¯m just doing what I¡¯m told.¡± he chuckled without humour. ¡°I got ten thousand tethers, three apprentices and a secretary. I could never dream of standing up against you¡­giants! But ¨C enough of that, I need to go take a shit, so excuse me, but when I get back I¡¯m going to drink and be at peace. Ha!¡± Ed Finley disappeared into the bamboos, laughing at the greenery. James and Joran exchanged a look. Sam freed herself from Enri¡¯s grip and started for them. James held up a hand. The butlers advanced another step. ¡°This you, Ed?¡± James called out. ¡°I wish ¨C good luck!¡± Lucia set down the box and pulled away the straps. A six-foot length of steel came away with it, sharp as a blade on one edge, flat like a hammer on the other, ending in a drill-like tip. Joran hummed appreciatively, suddenly not hyperventilating. ¡°You got it working.¡± ¡°Excited?¡± ¡°For what?¡± Sam looked around. Having seen these things bring down a giant in the middle of what must have been a thousand bystanders, there was no way any of them was going to survive the collateral violence ¨C except James, who gets to hide inside a box. The Maestro raised his hands and the Green poured from his fingertips. Thousands of ephemeral strands alighted upon the ceiling, the walls, shifting like electric arcs yet supple like silk, flexible and unyielding all at once. When they touched Lucia, they melded through her skin; when they touched the butlers, they trembled. James spoke, his voice soft and loud, not quite emanating from his mouth. ¡°Right here, right now?¡± Sam shivered; Lucia¡¯s eyes were moving rapidly under the blindfold. The butlers jerked, struggling against forces invisible. For a moment it seemed as if they were going to lunge. Then some decision appeared to have been made, and they retreated until their backs were against the wall. As one, they bowed. James lowered his hands and the Green blinked out of existence. ¡°Astounding,¡± Enri muttered. ¡°What did you just do?¡± asked Joran, unable to hide his envy. James lowered his hands. A sheen of sweat covered his forehead. He nodded at Sam. Sam cleared her throat. ¡°The Maestro had seized ¨C¡± ¡°Attempted to.¡± ¡°¨C attempted to seize ¨C¡± ¡°Well no, more like I demonstrated that I could have.¡± ¡°The Maestro had demonstrated that he could have seized the secondary tether while the primary was still active.¡± Joran¡¯s face was blank. ¡°What does that mean?¡± ¡°Means I fought him for control,¡± said James. He approached the buffet, wobbling on his feet. Sam gave him water. ¡°Him? You mean Ed?¡± James laughed, then coughed and sputtered on Enri¡¯s coat. ¡°Sorry. Didn¡¯t know you were still here.¡± ¡°No hard feelings, James,¡± said Enri, shaken. ¡°Oh no, there definitely are.¡± The sound of running water echoed in the walls. Edward emerged looking pleased with himself. ¡°Trouble has a way of sorting itself out, doesn¡¯t it?¡± He plopped himself onto a divan and wrung his hands. Three diamond-encrusted Rings fell onto the cushion. ¡°No hard feelings, Cowen. You know how it is. One man tells you this and another tells you to that. What am I to do? No way to satisfy them all. But ¨C you know what, if they wanted it done right they would have sent someone else. Can¡¯t really blame me for fucking it up, now can they? I am me!¡± The House of Solutions 1

1

She slept in a field of wind-blown grass; she laid among the slow-living as the sun spun into night, and day, and night again. She slept, in the light, in the dark, waking only to appreciate the flowing stars. A dream, or two, or twelve ¨C she indulged, fearful of waking to a world unchanged. The wind soothed the burning behind her eye, and she saw the silhouette of the stranger, waiting in the shadow of the moon, tall and beautiful and dead. Look at me, she said. I am sorry. ~ Red carpet rolled out from the VIP lift. An honour guard of fusiliers stiffened into salute as Edward Finley sauntered out, munching on a slice of cake. James shook his hand vigorously, cream and all, and gave his elbow a smack. The two men beamed at each other like the best of friends. ¡°Ed, how are you?¡± ¡°Cowen, faring well?¡± They stood shoulder to shoulder and smiled at the gathered press. Phosphorous lights blinked in their rigid faces. No one asked questions. The few that raised their hands were quickly pulled away. ¡°My colleague, Maestro Mina Enri of the House of Juniper,¡± said James. ¡°Maestro Enri, faring well?¡± ¡°Edward, good to see you.¡± They shook hands. Sam could see Enri¡¯s hand rummaging inside her pocket, rubbing off the crumbs. ¡°An old friend from my school days, encoder first-class, Joran Guiyu.¡± The big man swaddled forth, sweat running rivulets around his blackout goggles. ¡°Joran, faring well?¡± ¡°Ed.¡± Sam set down her bags just in time. ¡°My apprentice.¡± Edward Finley grinned at her breasts. Sam gave a deep bow and resisted the urge to pull tighter her coat. She hid behind the press as the three VIPs from the Floor of Seventeen posed together for one more round of smiling and nodding, then the fusiliers snapped to attention, Edward beckoned, and they started for the lift. ¡°Come on, Lucia,¡± said Sam. Lucia slung the box across her back and parted the crowd with the billowing of her cloak. Her chainmail inlay jingled as her armoured boots fell on the carpet like muted thunder. Her blindfold was midnight black and threaded with hair-thin copper wires coalesced into the rays of a rising sun. Her brittle white hair was tamed under silver clips and cascaded to her shoulders. Her lips glistened like roses in the morning, more vibrant than living flesh. Sam could hardly look at her. The VIP lift contained five divans each the size of a small room. Hundreds of unfathomable delicacies waited upon a gargantuan buffet. A grand piano played itself by the far wall, its open top exposing thousands of copper cylinders spinning in sequences too complex for eyes to follow. An archway of flowering vines led to a resplendent garden full of miniature trees and steaming pools. Twenty butlers in orange tux stood inanimate, five in each corner. The doors slid shut. The counter showed one hour and forty-five minutes to the Floor of Twenty. The signal light blinked a single time, and the floor began to vibrate almost imperceptibly. Sam felt dizzy. The VIP lift imparted a sense of unsteady motion, as if they were zigzagging through a maze. Edward dropped himself onto a divan and dove into a half-finished cheesecake. ¡°Relax,¡± he said, his voice suddenly flat. ¡°Going to be a long week.¡± James sat. Sam manoeuvred herself to the buffet and began stuffing her face with salami and mutton stew. ¡°You take out the red carpet for everyone?¡± she heard James ask. ¡°Jack¡¯s idea,¡± said Edward. ¡°What isn¡¯t?¡± ¡°What?¡± Enri came up looking sheepish. Sam poured her a glass of gin. The Maestro smiled at her. ¡°I heard you bought half the houses on your Floor,¡± said Edward. ¡°Just diversifying my portfolio.¡± ¡°Doing well then?¡± ¡°Yes ¨C thanks to Jack and his generosity.¡± ¡°Yeah?¡± If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°None of us would be where we are without his support. Joran?¡± The encoder grunted. ¡°There¡¯ll be changes coming,¡± said Edward Finley. ¡°Yeah? Like what?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll find out.¡± ¡°From you?¡± ¡°What?¡± Sam spotted a tray of pickled pineapples and began stuffing them into her pockets. Then she spotted the macadamia-stuffed dates and lamented the fact that she only had two pockets and not twelve. Edward pushed on. ¡°Diversifying your portfolio, is it?¡± ¡°Honestly, I stopped keeping track a while ago.¡± ¡°A private lift is not a house, Cowen, last I checked.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what diversity means. I¡¯m glad you have taken an interest in my affairs.¡± Ed laughed. ¡°I don¡¯t care what you do with your money. It¡¯s a free market. Buying eighty-seven houses to hide one lift ¨C whatever, not my business. I just like to think out loud, seeing that I am uh, not as bright as some of you geniuses at schemes and plans and murder-mysteries, and I wouldn¡¯t have any idea what you¡¯d hope to achieve with¡­whatever it is that you think you are doing. So, just thinking out loud.¡± Enri prodded Sam on the chest. ¡°Why do you get to be here?¡± she asked. ¡°My staff had to be rescheduled. And the giant too! Cowen gets special treatment ¨C again!¡± she sniffed. ¡°Pour me another.¡± Sam poured her another. James shrugged. ¡°Logistics are easier optimized when supply chains are in-House.¡± ¡°I should have thought of that, had I been cleverer.¡± ¡°You are a capable and outstanding individual, Ed. Our collaborations have always run smoothly.¡± Edward laughed. ¡°Shut the fuck up. Wipe that smartass grin off your fucking face.¡± Sam suddenly felt much too full. Enri gulped down her second tonic like water. Joran hyperventilated. ¡°Now, Ed ¨C¡± ¡°There¡¯ll be changes coming,¡± Edward snapped. ¡°I¡¯m not running Jack¡¯s fucking errands ever again, you hear me? I¡¯m not a busboy, picking up children.¡± ¡°Huh.¡± If James had a hundred eyebrows, he would have raised them all. ¡°You want to talk about it, whatever it is?¡± ¡°We know what you are doing. Jack knows, the old man knows, I know, fucking Edwin knows and he can¡¯t even properly take a shit. So I really don¡¯t understand why I have to sit here and make nice with you when, really ¨C¡± he clicked his fingers, and the butlers took one step forward. ¡°¨C I got an hour and a half to fuck you up and end your little schemes before they give us any trouble.¡± James shrugged. ¡°You can try.¡± The two men stared at each other, Edward glowering, James smiling pleasantly. The encoder hyperventilated and wiped sweat from his armpits. Lucia simply stood there, perfectly still. Enri giggled. She shoved the empty glass into Sam¡¯s hand and grabbed the gin by the bottle. ¡°Men are so dumb, aren¡¯t they?¡± she declared. ¡°They bite each other¡¯s head off at the first opportunity and think it¡¯s some kind of achievement. You and I, darling,¡± she threw an arm over Sam¡¯s shoulder and drew her back. ¡°We just stand in a corner and let the masculine do their business. And also, we shall drink, copiously.¡± ¡°It was you,¡± said Sam. ¡°You told them.¡± Enri squeezed her a little harder. ¡°Sometimes, darling, it is much easier to put down your cards and let the boys play, because playing is all they do, they are obsessed with playing, and we can¡¯t beat them no matter how hard we try, because we just don¡¯t care that much about their games. My mother, bless her heart, once told me ¨C¡± Edward burst out laughing. It was a false, awkward, phlegmy noise, like he was squeezing air from his lungs to make room for bullshit. ¡°Just kidding, Cowen,¡± he declared, obviously not kidding. ¡°It¡¯s a test,¡± he explained, obviously lying. ¡°I can¡¯t try. I¡¯m too dumb to make moves for myself, you understand! I¡¯m just doing what I¡¯m told.¡± he chuckled without humour. ¡°I got ten thousand tethers, three apprentices and a secretary. I could never dream of standing up against you¡­giants! But ¨C enough of that, I need to go take a shit, so excuse me, but when I get back I¡¯m going to drink and be at peace. Ha!¡± Ed Finley disappeared into the bamboos, laughing at the greenery. James and Joran exchanged a look. Sam freed herself from Enri¡¯s grip and started for them. James held up a hand. The butlers around the room advanced another step. ¡°This you, Ed?¡± James called out. ¡°I wish!¡± came the response, then a pause. ¡°Good luck!¡± Lucia set down the box and pulled away the straps. A six-foot length of steel came away with it, sharp as a blade on one edge, flat like a hammer on the other, ending in a drill-like tip. Joran hummed appreciatively, all symptoms of panic erased. ¡°You got it working.¡± ¡°Excited to see your routine?¡± ¡°If I wasn¡¯t about to be pulverized, yeah.¡± Sam looked around. Having seen these things bring down a giant in the middle of what must have been a thousand bystanders, there was no way any of them was going to survive the collateral violence ¨C except James, who gets to hide inside a box. The Maestro raised his hands and the Green poured from his fingertips. Thousands of ephemeral strands alighted upon the ceiling, the walls, shifting like electric arcs yet supple like silk, flexible and unyielding all at once. When they touched Lucia, they disappeared through her skin as if absorbed into some subdermal vortex; when they touched the butlers, they began to tremble. As one, they lifted one leg and wobbled, as if unable to choose between forward and back. James spoke, his voice soft and loud, not quite emanating from his mouth. ¡°Kill me now and Lucia dies with me.¡± Sam shivered; Lucia¡¯s eyes were moving rapidly under the blindfold. The butlers jerked, struggling against forces invisible. For a moment it seemed as if they were going to lunge. Then some decision appeared to have been made, and they retreated until their backs were against the wall. As one, they bowed. James lowered his hands and the Green blinked out of existence. ¡°Astounding,¡± Enri muttered. ¡°What did you just do?¡± asked Joran, unable to hide his envy. James lowered his hands. A sheen of sweat covered his forehead. He nodded at Sam. ¡°The Maestro had seized ¨C¡± ¡°Attempted to.¡± ¡°¨C attempted to seize ¨C¡± ¡°Well no, more like I demonstrated that I could have.¡± ¡°The Maestro had demonstrated that he could have seized the secondary tether while the primary was still active.¡± Joran¡¯s face was blank. ¡°What does that mean?¡± ¡°Means I fought him for control,¡± said James. He approached the buffet, wobbling on his feet. Sam gave him water. ¡°Him? You mean Ed?¡± James laughed, then coughed and sputtered on Enri¡¯s coat. ¡°Sorry. Didn¡¯t know you were still here.¡± ¡°No hard feelings, James,¡± said Enri, shaken. ¡°Oh no, there definitely are.¡± The sound of running water echoed in the walls. Edward emerged looking pleased with himself. ¡°Trouble has a way of sorting itself out, doesn¡¯t it?¡± He plopped himself onto a divan and shook his arms. Three diamond-encrusted bracelets fell onto the cushion. ¡°No hard feelings, Cowen. You know how it is. One man tells you to do this and another tells you to do that. No way to satisfy them all ¨C so what do you do? Family is family. But ¨C you know what, if they wanted it done right they would have sent someone else. Can¡¯t really blame me for fucking it up, now can they? I am me.¡± James looked at Enri, at Joran, at Ed. He shifted between three kinds of smiles and said nothing. The House of Solutions 2

2

A steam engine was waiting for them in the Royal Lobby. Two apprentices in Enri¡¯s purple-and-white danced on their feet and tried their best to avoid gawking at Joran¡¯s ambler, who had donned a veil-like gown so thin it might as well be nude. Sam ignored them and stared at the ceiling. A dome of faceted glass glittered in sunlight. Sunlight. The faint blue hue reminded her of picture books she had read as a child, except this was no old paint chipping on the page. The sky was blue on the Floor of Twenty. James gave her the window seat. The engine left the lobby through a low tunnel carved from bedrock. Dim bulbs illuminated a bright-yellow warning on the walls, repeating over and over: EMERGENCY EXIT: DO NOT COLLAPSE. They emerged into a world of green, of rolling hills dotted with cottages and evergreens, ensconced on three sides by white peaks striking into the clouds. The midday sun was liquid gold, its light warm, the air cold and pristine. A flurry of snow drifted from high, scattering into nothing. In the distance, the City of Twenty shone like a castle out of fairytale, its whitewashed walls melding into the snowy banks until there was no telling between nature and artifice. The road was black asphalt and sparkling with tiny gems. A dozen steam engines waited at an intersection. A fusilier in a brilliant blue-and-white uniform waved a signal flag in each hand, performing a task that on any other Floor would have been assigned to the dead. Veering left, the engine began to climb. A grove of ancient pines rose from the craggy snow, their canopies a fractural maze. A herd of deer ran past, startled by the noise, and Sam almost broke her neck keeping track. The road narrowed between a pair of jagged cliffs. In the sliver of sky between them, an airship rose, languid as a balloon, the distant boom of its propellers diminished to an insect-like buzz. Carrying tea, maybe. Sam laughed. The way twisted and dipped, revealing a forested plateau and a crescent lake, embraced on all sides by insurmountable peaks save for a great chasm to the east, where the mountains fell away completely to reveal a roiling sea of thunderclouds stretching to the horizon. Overlooking that grey pandemonium was a city-sized palace, with one wing beside the lake and the other poised above the precipice. It was larger than the market on the Floor of Twelve. Countless marble columns held up layers upon layers of domed roofs that intertwined like the pedals of a rose. Garish orange flags flew from every banister. The carriage turned onto the garden path and pulled up before two hundred pristine steps. A row of palanquins sat at its foot, each with a compliment of six bearers. A few were already halfway up the stairs; rickshaws and engines were pulling up a dozen at a time, unloading droves of guests. Their reception was a gangly teenager covered in acne from brow to neck. He called himself Jack Finley, apparently sixteenth of his name. He jumped at the sight of Lucia, then jumped again when Sam stopped him from tripping over himself. ¡®M-Maestro Cowen? My great uncle told me to take you to him as soon as I am able ¨C as you are able,¡¯ he said, voice breaking faster than his sweat. ¡®If you don¡¯t mind uh, following me¡­¡¯ James eyed the stairs, then the palanquins. Sam looked longingly over her shoulder, at the manicured lawn and the nameless flowers blooming in the cold, and left them behind. ~ The master study: chandelier, armchairs, fireplace, mahogany shelves, crystal decanter, boxes of caviar, a mountain of papers arrayed on a marble slab. Jack Finley strode from behind his desk, pyjamas billowing, cucumber slices plastered all over his face. ¡®Get out.¡¯ He shooed the boy, then made the same gesture at Sam and pretended Lucia did not exist. ¡®My apprentice will stay,¡¯ said James. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. Jack glowered but said nothing. The boy fled the room, and James sat down uninvited. ¡°Whiskey?¡± ¡°No, thank you.¡± Jack poured two glasses. ¡°You read the itinerary?¡± ¡°Just show me the votes.¡± A piece of paper was shoved under James¡¯s nose. ¡°Follow this exactly.¡± James blinked at the appended list, committing it to memory in the same span. ¡°I don¡¯t see my item.¡± Jack tossed it into the fireplace and watched it burn. ¡°What do you mean? Item Seven: allocation of harvest from the Floor of Twelve. House of Grain, eight hundred thousand. House of Dawn, eight hundred thousand ¨C¡± ¡°I meant the audition. My apprentice is not on the list.¡± Jack rolled his eyes. ¡°Again with the apprentice.¡± ¡°We have an agreement.¡± James sounded calm. ¡°I vote with you, you give me two million and a slot.¡± ¡°Why are you favouring Ingel? I thought you wanted two million for yourself.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve not answered my question.¡± ¡°Neither have you.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t.¡± James sounded beyond tired. ¡°We settled this months ago.¡± Jack swallowed his whiskey in one gulp. He glowered at Sam again, as if debating whether she was worthy of his voice. ¡°I no longer have stewardship over daily operations.¡± ¡°Figured,¡± said James. ¡°Did you now?¡± ¡°What¡¯s changed?¡± ¡°The old man is awake.¡± ¡°So?¡± Jack strolled to a corner table and began cutting up more cucumbers. ¡°You are not Finley. You don¡¯t understand the lengths we go to keep this family together. I have two hundred cousins, all of them waiting for me to fall down the stairs when I get up to piss.¡± ¡°Get to the point.¡± ¡°This House ¨C my House ¨C is beyond your little schemes.¡± The wet squelch of cucumber being slapped onto bare arms echoed in the silence. ¡°Whatever you had planned with Catherine, I¡¯ve already seen it twice since breakfast. I am aware of your¡­line-toeing. I just have bigger problems. Internally.¡± ¡°Like what?¡± ¡°The old man is awake.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t understand the implication.¡± ¡°Yes, you do.¡± James grabbed the whiskey and touched it to his lip. He grimaced. ¡°Am I supposed to care?¡± ¡°You would already be dead if not for me.¡± Jack stabbed a finger at Lucia. ¡°This thing. Why does he want it?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°Yes, you do.¡± ¡°Nothing changes if I tell you.¡± ¡°You can have your two million and your precious apprentice can go to audition.¡± James laughed. ¡°No. That was a settled thing. You don¡¯t get to renegotiate.¡± ¡°Let me be clear.¡± Reaching out, Jack took the glass out of the Maestro¡¯s hand and set it aside. Two slices of cucumber fell onto James¡¯s lap. ¡°I can do whatever the fuck I want. If I tell my people, go to Cowen¡¯s house and tear it down, there is nothing you can do to stop it. The only reason it¡¯s still standing is because I know, deep down ¨C¡± he prodded James¡¯s chest. ¡°¨C you don¡¯t give a shit. About yourself. Your legacy. Your House. All you care about is this,¡± he nodded at Lucia, ¡°and I am telling you, the only thing stopping Jackson Finley from destroying you is me. But it¡¯s a mutual partnership. You keep the little Houses entertained, make them think they got a chance at playing the game, and I give you and yours special treatment. That is the only settled thing. So you do what I tell you to do, or I¡¯m going to be a good little grandson and let my granddad take us back to the good old days, where everyone in the Pile did exactly what he told them to do, alive or dead.¡± The two men stared at each other. Slowly, James¡¯s lips twisted into a grin. The Green bled into the whites of his eyes, and Lucia moved in complete silence. She laid a hand on Jack¡¯s shoulder before he could move. ¡°Are you breaking face with me, Jack? Over one apprentice?¡± Jack Finley could not help but glance at the shadow towering over him. ¡°What do you think you are doing?¡± ¡°Here is my offer.¡± James took back his glass and downed it in one gulp. ¡°We do as we agreed, or I destroy you, right here, right now, and then I take Lucia through your impregnable House and kill every Finley I see, until either you are all dead or I am.¡± Hidden doors opened all around the study. Orange-clad amblers surfaced behind the wall, under the desk, crawling from vents in the ceiling. Sam counted twenty, but the sound of footsteps outside told her there was more. Jack looked impressed. Beneath the initial shock there was no fear. In fact, he seemed relieved. ¡°Finally grown some balls.¡± ¡°I¡¯m on a schedule,¡± said James. ¡°We can¡¯t just bring about the apocalypse now, can we?¡± ¡°That would be extremely counter-productive.¡± ¡°Shouldn¡¯t have let you bring the abomination.¡± ¡°Guessing it wasn¡¯t your decision.¡± ¡°No, it was not.¡± Jack Finley clicked his fingers, and the amblers retreated into their holes as if they were never there. Lucia let go of his shoulder. ¡°Fine. Suppose we can act like men of integrity a while longer.¡± Jack topped up both glasses. ¡°The two million is yours, but candidacy for the audition is out of my hands. The old man is only allowing in-House candidates.¡± ¡°Think of an alternative.¡± ¡°I have. Your apprentice is interviewing with us¡­tomorrow, isn¡¯t that right?¡± The two men looked at Sam. Jack¡¯s expression was matter-of-fact. James¡¯s shifted from surprise to anger, then to pain, then to nothing at all. ¡°So it¡¯s true,¡± he said. The House of Solutions 3

3

Beyond the confines of the central rotunda and its rigid halls, the Finley estate was a maze of dead-end corridors that throughout the centuries have morphed into a labyrinth. Young Jack, the sixteenth of his name, declared that it took an hour to walk the shortest route from one end to the other. James clutched his stomach as he walked. For one who sometimes threw up porridge, downing that whiskey would be equivalent to swallowing daggers. They arrived at an opulent suite overlooking the crescent lake. A pneumatic capsule stood by the door with a tuxedoed ambler inside. A diamond Command Ring sat on the bedside table. James scowled. With a sound like ripping paper, Lucia tore the capsule from the wall in a rain of bolts and plaster. The terrified teenager barely jumped out of the way as she threw the whole thing into the corridor, carving a trench on the floor. James grabbed the Ring, went to the balcony, tossed it into the lake. He turned on the boy. ¡°Get out.¡± ¡°I-I-I-¡¯ Little Jack¡¯s acne grew flaming red. ¡°I¡¯m supposed to show your apprentice to the ¨C apprentice quarters. Three thousand rooms ¨C¡± ¡°Get out.¡± The boy ran off terrified, slamming the door behind him. James sat down. Beads of sweat ran down his chin. ¡°What are you doing? Meds.¡± Sam started. She scrambled to take out the pillbox from her satchel. It was larger than her clipboard and three inches deep. Two minutes passed in silence. The Maestro began to relax, his face slowly returning to pleasant nothing. ¡°I thought Robert made that up to provoke me.¡± ¡°I meant to tell you.¡± ¡°Told me everything else.¡± ¡°I ¨C¡± ¡°I mean, I knew.¡± He laid down and gesticulated. ¡°They are poaching from every House. Luckily, I only have you. But against my better judgement I had convinced myself that she wouldn¡¯t do that, and if she did she would tell me. I should never doubt myself. I am always right.¡± ¡°He ¨C Robert ¨C said he would kill me if I refused.¡± ¡°You miss the point. You do what you need to do to survive. So do we all. But that¡¯s not the problem. Communication is the problem. If I can¡¯t trust you ¨C¡± a pause ¡°- what is the point of keeping you? I can hire anyone to run errands and write letters. Why do I need you? Look at Ed. He is incompetent, but he¡¯s indispensable to the operation of this place, because you can count on him to be exactly what he is. What are you?¡± Sam wished, more than anything, to crawl under the bed and stay there, but against every instinct to hide she held her head high and kept her voice level. Her eyes felt rather wet, very wet, but James was staring at the ceiling, so this was fine. ¡°I apologize, Maestro.¡± ¡°I do not accept it,¡± said James. ¡°All you had to say was, ¡®Maestro, Robert tried to hire me¡¯. Takes no effort at all. The only reason you would keep it from me is that you entertained the idea.¡± If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°I apologize.¡± ¡°Elaborate, please.¡± ¡°I¡­¡± Sam did not know what to say, let alone how to say it. How can she explain that when she closed her eyes she saw a little girl with azure eyes, not her father¡¯s eyes but they were the same, both dead and both once a part of her, and that she wanted to run from them, forever? It had nothing to do with it. It had everything to do with it. ¡°Speak,¡± James snapped. ¡°I don¡¯t want to do this anymore,¡± Sam blurted out. ¡°I want to quit.¡± ¡°And go work for Finley?¡± The idea made her gag. ¡°No! No, I¡­I don¡¯t want to work for anyone. I just¡­had enough of¡­of everything. I want to go home.¡± James laughed. ¡°Home? To that bunch of¡­sitting meat on Twelve?¡± ¡°No, not them. Home.¡± ¡°Where is that?¡± ¡°I¡­I don¡¯t know,¡± said Sam. ¡°It¡¯s not a place. I just want to¡­stop, and¡­go away. I don¡¯t want to think about¡­this.¡± She flapped her arms uselessly, indicating nothing and everything. ¡°I want¡­I don¡¯t even know. It¡¯s like I¡¯m fighting, all the time, and I don¡¯t even know why, I haven¡¯t even done anything. I can¡¯t do anything, yet somehow, I¡¯m always busy. I never know where I¡¯m going yet I¡¯m running, all the time, to places I don¡¯t want to go.¡± She could feel the tears now, falling fast. ¡°I don¡¯t know how to explain. I don¡¯t know what to do or¡­where to go or¡­what I want. I¡¯m not even sorry about not saying anything. I¡¯m not. It just¡­happened, and I didn¡¯t mean to offend you, or him, or any of the¡­but it¡­I don¡¯t know how to handle it. I just want it to all go away.¡± That was a terrible explanation, but it was too late. Her career was over. James was going to fire her. Being a blacklisted apprentice was the same as being dead: she would be unemployable. A position coveted by millions, a future of untold wealth and power and influence, thrown away. She would have to go back to the Floor of Twelve, and sit in her father¡¯s old farm ¨C which her aunt now owns ¨C and wait for the harvest. Or she could lie down and die. It was all the same. A rustle of cloak. Lucia knelt so their faces were level. Sam took in the details of Lucia¡¯s blindfold, the intricate copper threads, the way the curvature of her eyes pushed up the fabric. She had an acute sense of being examined. ¡°I was like you once,¡± said James. ¡°You are a lot smarter than me, Maestro,¡± said Sam, drily. ¡°Catherine terminated my contract three times. I had an attitude problem, apparently.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t¡­¡± Sam shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t care.¡± ¡°I was younger than you when I met Lucia,¡± said James, to no one in particular. ¡°I was¡­frolicking. She came up with a lamp and shone it in our faces and was a creep about it. Didn¡¯t say a word. Just stood there. I told her to go away, can¡¯t you see we¡¯re busy. And she said,¡± he swallowed. ¡°She said, ¡®I don¡¯t know where to go.¡¯¡± He laughed. ¡°I didn¡¯t know at the time she was Catherine¡¯s¡­what was it, great-great-granddaughter? I just thought she was weird. Can¡¯t put two sentences together to save her life. ¡°And me, I never stop talking. So I don¡¯t know how or why or when or what kind of hallucinogenic fungi made me spend time with her instead of any number of¡­¡± He chuckled. ¡°It was the strangest thing. She could just sit there, listening to me go on and on and I would just¡­go on. A kid from the canals in the middle of princelings on the Floor of Seventeen ¨C there were no happy stories, only violence. She was there for all of it. Why did you stay with me, Lucia?¡± He asked, and Lucia shook her head. ¡°You see, that, that ¨C I made her do that.¡± The Maestro sat up in a rush. ¡°But that¡¯s not what Lucia would have done. And that is the crux.¡± He laughed. ¡°I don¡¯t understand her. I can recite every invoice I¡¯ve issued since I was fifteen, but I can¡¯t replicate the way she looks at me. ¡°My point is, Sam, it doesn¡¯t matter where you are or where you are going, because it is too late to change your mind. There is only one thing you can do now to influence your career. Tell me ¨C what do you want, more than anything in the world?¡± Sam opened her mouth but the Maestro cut in. ¡°If you say a House on Twenty or buying Madam Tian¡¯s, I might actually fire you.¡± Sam was surprised that she knew the answer. ¡°That pyro, Jack.¡± There was a glint in James¡¯s eye. ¡°Yeah?¡± ¡°I want to beat him up, like you did.¡± ¡°Just him?¡± ¡°Also, Charlie, for treating me like a kid. And¡­and,¡± Sam swallowed, embarrassed. ¡°I want to beat up a lot of people, for making me do things I don¡¯t want to do.¡± ¡°Including me?¡± ¡°Especially you, Maestro.¡± James laughed. It was a pleasant sound. The House of Solutions 4

4

The banquet hall was the size of a small city. A wall of unbroken glass overlooked the primordial mass of the Storm Below. Countless stars glittered above the thunderheads, infinitely more brilliant than the stone-bound imitations of the Domes Luminous. Airships traversed that tranquil space in between, their searchlights canvassing the clouds, signalling low-pressure vortices that would induce a violent death for crew and cargo. The walls opposite were crowded with faces. Hundreds of stern-looking men with the same too-fair skin, the same receding hairline, the same double jowls, gazed down imperiously from their canvases of varying shades of brown. The bigger frames were arrayed just below the gallery, decreasing in size until the bottommost few were no wider than a hand. The biggest portrait of all loomed behind the hosts¡¯ dais, a hundred feet tall. A young man with hair like charcoal needles and a knife-edge jaw glared at the little people beneath him. His pupils were dark blue and speckled with Green. Jackson Finley, First of His Name, the plaque said simply. Beneath the lush glow of a hundred chandeliers were a thousand tables draped in orange-on-orange. Those closest to the dais were bedecked with banners denoting the colours of notable Houses and guilds, islands in an orange sea. The black-and-gold of the House of Dawn was front row, centre left; James sat alone behind a gargantuan table. At the opposite end of the hall, near the kitchens, Sam found her name spelled incorrectly on a tag alongside the names of two dozen apprentice and aides. They have all brought their own plague masks and put them next to their plates like trophies. Those from the Necromantic Houses took up two thirds of the land mass, leaving the rest ¨C the pyros, the alks, and a lost-looking intern from the Lower Courts ¨C crowded to one side, bumping elbows. In the absence of Finleys at their table, a hierarchy of sorts had been established. No one spoke to the wannabe lawyer; the metallurgy guilders pandered to the alchemists; the alks chatted up the pyros; the pyros grazed at the minor Houses; who in turn competed to chat up one of Ingel¡¯s, a young man in the yellow-on-grey; who, understandably, could not stop gawking at the girl from the House of Porphyry, bejeweled in fifty varieties of gemstones. All avoided looking at Sam. The isolation did not bother her as much as the absence of food. They have been idling for thirty minutes, and guests were still filing in; the Finleys were yet to show up, and the plate of assorted cheeses had long been demolished. She let her eyes wander, seeking a distraction. The gallery above was filling up with amblers. Almost all were women festooned in outrageous gowns. One had a taxidermized peacock as a headdress. Another wore a spiralling dress stitched from fresh roses that looked like it could fall apart at the slightest touch. Their perfect, porcelain-like faces transcended beauty yet looked identical. Their bodies were uniformly voluptuous, with wide hips and jutting breasts, as befit the current fad. On the Floor of Nineteen, there was a whole street of guilds specializing in the transmogrification of the human body. Sam had seen their prices. Most of these creatures would cost more than a mansion. There was Lucia, a black inkdot amidst a garish rainbow. The other amblers, perhaps by design, gave her a wide berth. Sam tried to picture having her own showpiece up there, decked out in the finest silk for the singular purpose of showing off in front of other rich people who were also showing off, and all she could conjure up was a cloak of midnight, and a blindfold glittering with stars. A side door opened, and dozens of apprentices in orange spilled into the hall. They went from table to table, shaking hands and smiling. The encoder, Joran Guiyu, was surrounded, while the two dozen others at his table sat awkwardly, approached by no one. Slowly, the orange wave filtered to their end. Most have already sat down, having gotten whatever they needed from whomever they needed. A few were going around the apprentice tables. A young man with fuzzy hair wandered over to theirs and looked around uncertainly. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Sam felt the pressure of twenty pairs of imploring eyes. Suddenly exhausted, she stood up and put on her best smile. ¡°Hi, I¡¯m ¨C¡± ¡°Sorry, just looking for a friend,¡± said the Finley apprentice, barely sparing her a glance before stalking away. Sam sat down. The pyro to her right smiled at her meekly, as if expecting embarrassment. Sam felt nothing. ¡°Pass me the water, please,¡± she said. The pyro filled her glass, and the others relaxed. The girl from the House of Porphyry cleared her throat prettily. ¡°Hi, um, Samantha, is it?¡± ¡°Sam,¡± said Sam. ¡°Hi Sam, I¡¯m ¨C¡± ¡°There you are.¡± Sam turned around and saw rust-red hair. She tried to remember his name, then remembered that she never asked. Like the others, he wore an orange dinner jacket, but his bowtie was a faded green, the only item of its colour in this never-ending palette. He was holding out his hand. Sam shook it while seated. ¡°Hi.¡± The apprentice looked over her table. ¡°Why are you all the way down here? Sorry ¨C Kevin¡¯s the one who arranged the seating. He¡¯s not¡­uh¡­¡± he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ¡°Want to sit with us?¡± Sam followed his direction and saw a table of Finley apprentices, laughing over some distant joke. Her expression must have slipped. ¡°I know it¡¯s not your thing, but I just¡­thought I¡¯d ask.¡± He scratched absently at the scar on his neck. ¡°Um¡­there¡¯s going to be steak.¡± ¡°I like steak,¡± said Sam. ¡°Look, I should¡­¡± ¡°You go ahead, it¡¯s good to see you.¡± ¡°No, no I meant ¨C I¡¯m glad to see you¡¯ve worked things out with Robert.¡± Sam shivered before she could control herself. ¡°Can we talk later?¡± ¡°Of course. Where are you ¨C¡± he shook his head as if to clear it. ¡°I¡¯m the room coordinator for day two. Suppose you¡¯ll be with Maestro Cowen?¡± Sam nodded. ¡°Then I will see you the day after tomorrow.¡± He nodded as if to reassure himself, then walked off. Sam picked up her glass and noticed the others staring at her. ¡°You know Eric Finley?!¡± Ingel¡¯s apprentice exclaimed, eyes wide. ¡°Of course she does,¡± the girl from the House of Porphyry batted her eyelashes. ¡°She¡¯s with Maestro Cowen.¡± ¡°Do you know all the Finleys?¡± the pyro whispered in awe. ¡°What are they like?¡± Sam shrugged. ¡°Stiff,¡± she said. They were looking at her expectantly, so she added. ¡°I like their little pins. The skeleton thing. It¡¯s cute.¡± ¡°Do you know how much they make?¡± the metallurgy apprentice blurted out, to sudden silence. ¡°More than you, probably,¡± said Sam, and everyone laughed. The pyro puffed out his chest. ¡°I need to apologize in advance, I know this isn¡¯t the best time but, I-I never get to meet anyone from the Upper Houses and I don¡¯t think I ever will again, I don¡¯t even know how I got here, honestly ¨C¡± He gave a shrill laugh, then quickly sobered. ¡°Sorry. Um. I was just wondering ¨C we,¡± he looked around the table, seeking approval, ¡°- were wondering, because we saw your-your name, and I was ¨C we were wondering if you are, um, your House, is, you know, hiring.¡± ¡°You want to be a necromancer?¡± ¡°Who doesn¡¯t?¡± All around the table nodded eagerly. Sam wanted to ignore him, but then she saw Ingel¡¯s apprentice rolling his eyes, and a swell of rage put words into her mouth. ¡°The House of Solutions is always hiring, I think,¡± she said. The pyro cringed as if physically struck. ¡°Don¡¯t think I¡¯m good enough for them. I¡¯ve applied fifty times. Never heard a word back.¡± ¡°And¡­you think you are good enough for¡­¡± ¡°No-No! I didn¡¯t mean it like that! I ¨C¡± he frantically looked around for help, and everyone was busy not listening. ¡°I-I just feel like, with them I¡¯ll never get a chance, but with you I¡­I might. Sorry, that sounds like I¡¯m ungrateful.¡± ¡°You can try,¡± said Sam, thinking of the hundreds of applications stashed in her bottom drawer. ¡°If I may, how¡­how did you get this position?¡± Everyone was suddenly attentive, and Sam almost laughed. ¡°I got lucky,¡± she said. ¡°Well¡­. well, there must be more to it than that, right?¡± ¡°Someone helped me. A¡­not even a friend. Someone I didn¡¯t know helped me.¡± The pyro looked confused. ¡°Why would they do that?¡± She slept in a field of corpses; she laid among the dead as the Green spun day into night, and day, and night again. Her head was on fire. The migraine made the task sheet a blur. The Command Rings she wore, three, four, five of them, looked like a hundred. She pointed, this way and that, and Finley¡¯s amblers moved. They were heavy, heavier than any physical weight, as if with every motion she was attempting to split the world and her mind with it. But she had to succeed. Maestro Cowen was watching from the palisade, watching her, and thirty other final-round candidates, all chasing the career of their dreams. Stab, she told them, over and over, and the amblers did what they were told. The candidates fell out, one after another, exhausted or driven mad by the weight, the heat, the smell, until only she and one other were left. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± the boy said. He was just a kid, younger than her. He was not apologizing to her, but to the harvest. ¡°They couldn¡¯t handle the work,¡± said Sam. The House of Solutions 5

5

Jack Finley orated with the voice of thunder and the zeal of a goldfish. To his left sat the three Eds, dozing off. To his right sat Robert, expressionless; a thirty-ish man whose jowls dangled like a Finley; and a woman with hair coloured like rusted steel. She had emptied her wine glass and filled it with loose tinder, which she then lit up with a match. The others ignored her as she gazed into the fire cup, a dazed smile on her face. ¡°¡­and my father, the eminent Jackson Finley, second of his name, gave me my first contract, and he said to me¡­¡± No one was listening, but they all looked like they were. That was the trick. Supplicants and sycophants were not expected to retain information, but to display devotion. Behind their fixed stares and empty smiles there were gears turning, schemes brewing ¨C or perhaps not. Maybe they really were just staring into the void, letting Jack¡¯s voice wash over them like a cleansing wave. Sam struggled to keep awake. Her mind wandered to the rolling green hills and the white walls of the City of Twenty. The air, so cold and pristine. The sunlight. The tall grass. If she could spend the rest of her life here¡­ ¡°¡­my great-great-grandfather sends his apologies. The man is two hundred and fifty years old, give him a break!¡± The crowd laughed. The apprentices at her table smiled uncertainly, following social cues they did not follow. They would like to live here too, Sam imagined. Who wouldn¡¯t? It was the most mundane dream in the world. A side door opened. Sam turned her head at the sound of a steel cane, and she saw the Madam, dressed in a flowing robe of emerald and gold. Bant, looking like he just fell off a cliff, kept pace behind her. ¡°¡­and I said to him, I said to-to him¡­¡± Jack faltered as he spotted his new guests. He gestured at Robert, who stood up without a word. ¡°¡­and I said to him, ¡°Pops, I don¡¯t need you to micro-manage me anymore, I am my own man now¡­¡±¡¯ The Madam made her slow way through the hundred-mile hall, turning every head. Soon enough, no one was pretending to listen anymore. A hundred separate gossips broke out, drowning out Jack¡¯s ongoing spiel about being a self-made man in a competitive environment. The affront only made him louder. ¡°¡­now, a toast!¡± He grabbed his cup like a weapon. ¡°To my great-great-grandfather, Jackson Finley, the First of His Name, the founder and architect of our House of Solutions, the pioneer of the necromantic arts, the pinnacle of a man¡¯s aspirations. May he live long, live with satisfaction, and lead us all to bountiful harvest!¡± A thousand chairs scraped against the floor as the room found their feet. They put wine to their lips, and in the brief silence, all one could hear was the steel cane, striking sparks on the floor. Jack clapped his hands, and hundreds of servers poured out from the kitchens, carrying trays upon trays of steak and gravy. The apprentice tables roared with delight, startling Edwin Finley from his nap. Apparently, his cousin¡¯s booming voice had no effect, but the ruckus of young people enjoying themselves was intolerable. Sam stared at her plate of steak in gravy and contemplated its presence for about a quarter-second before attempting to shove the whole thing into her mouth at once. Around the table, all semblance of civility was forgotten as the brilliant apprentices dove into the meat that was worth more than a year¡¯s worth of their salaries. Dim thoughts of protests flittered through Sam¡¯s head: this is Finley food, they can¡¯t make me eat it, this is how they control people, etcetera, but ¨C will you look at that, her plate was already empty, and her moral contemplations were out of date. The mood grew festive and the hall grew loud. A mechanical piano began blasting out tunes through a series of tubular amps, drowning out every voice, and the voices rose in retaliation, drowning out the music. Old alks from the Upper Guilds, having thoroughly inebriated themselves at alarming speed, stood up in threes and fours and began wriggling out what might be described as dance. At the host¡¯s table, Jack Finley was deep in conversation with a woman bedecked in jewels. Ingel was slapping the table before the Eds, who looked like they were watching a clown and not a man losing his shit. The woman with red hair was now inhaling the smoke from her smouldering cup. The Finley apprentice, Eric, was attempting to take it away from her but met heavy resistance. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. Robert was lost in the crowd somewhere. So was James. Everywhere swam faces strange and familiar at once. Half her table was empty, having moved on to better pastures. The pyro was still trying to talk to her. Sam could not hear him over the din, but that was probably for the better. Beneath it all, the steel cane grated at the edge of her hearing. Sam looked around, her eyes drawn to the wall of glass. The night was stars and lightning. An airship flew close to the balcony, searchlights sweeping. A red light blinked on its bow, short-long-short-long. A hand, withered and old, rested tenderly upon the glass. The light made it seem like there was a hand on the other side, reaching out. Before she knew it, Sam found herself beside Madam Pierre. The old woman¡¯s cane leaned against the glass, vibrating perceptibly, powered by some inner contraption. Her chaperone was nowhere to be seen, but she seemed not to care. Sam wondered if her eyes saw anything at all. ¡°Can I get you anything, Maestro?¡± Sam asked. ¡°Water? Wine? Do you drink?¡± The old woman looked at her. The Green shone through her thick cataracts like stars in the mist. Sam marvelled at them. ¡°Or should I look for Bant? I don¡¯t know where he went.¡± A spill of light distracted her. Another airship had joined the first in sweeping the balcony. Another red light blinked on its bow, silent and somehow urgent. ¡°They must be looking for something,¡± said Sam. ¡°I don¡¯t imagine someone has fallen over¡­I don¡¯t even see a way to get out there. I¡¯m sorry I ¨C I¡¯m talking to myself.¡± She laughed awkwardly, feeling foolish. ¡°I¡¯m usually more professional than this. Today has been¡­sorry.¡± ¡°Nothing matters, Samantha.¡± Sam started. The old woman¡¯s voice made ripples in her retina, almost forming letters. A streak of lightning lit up the thunderheads, and Sam glimpsed millions upon millions of strands of Green, radiating from the woman¡¯s skin like rays of sunlight. ¡°What do you mean?¡± she asked. ¡°If today was your last, what would you do?¡± James¡¯ sneering face surfaced in her mind, vivid and annoying. A hypothetical for teenagers and astrologists, the image said. Sam shook her head to make it go away. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she said, ¡°but¡­nothing special, I think. It¡¯s not like I¡¯m a different person suddenly, just because it¡¯s the end.¡± ¡°You are kind.¡± ¡°Am I?¡± Sam blinked. ¡°What would you do, Maestro?¡± ¡°Do anything I can to stay alive.¡± Sam thought about it. The sound of the cane vibrating against glass was hypnotizing. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t.¡± The stars seemed to be falling, pulled in by the Green like a wrinkled canvas. ¡°I don¡¯t know why but¡­I think I might lay down in the grass and feel the wind on my face, and¡­let it be.¡± ¡°You are still young.¡± Sam shrugged. ¡°You were young once too, Maestro. What would you have said?¡± ¡°The same.¡± ¡°Oh¡­I¡¯m sorry.¡± ¡°But you are not, are you?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know what you mean.¡± ¡°Always so polite. Teach Cowen that.¡± ¡°I admire the Maestro for how he speaks,¡± said Sam, not knowing why she was talking at all. ¡°I wish I could do what he does.¡± ¡°Would you not rather do nothing?¡± ¡°What? No. Oh I see. But it¡¯s not a contradiction. I just admire him. I don¡¯t want to be him.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°He is¡­¡± Sam swallowed, suddenly terrified of this conversation. ¡°He is angry,¡± she whispered. ¡°Always angry. He hides it with humour, but he is not that funny. Every day, he gets angrier, and sadder, which makes him angrier, and his jokes get worse. I don¡¯t want to be like that. I just want to be rich without all the¡­bitterness. I¡¯m sorry, what am I saying, please forget all of that ¨C¡± ¡°You don¡¯t need to be polite.¡± ¡°But I do,¡± said Sam. ¡°It¡¯s how I survive.¡± ¡°Why? Why survive?¡± The old woman peered into her soul. No such thing as souls, James had said. How full of shit he was. ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°Do you enjoy it? ¡®Surviving¡¯?¡± ¡°Well¡­no. No I don¡¯t.¡± ¡°Then why?¡± ¡°Because I have to! I have nothing, no one, no money, nowhere to go.¡± ¡°Then why not lay down in the grass and feel the wind?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not ¨C it¡¯s not my last day, Maestro!¡± ¡°Why isn¡¯t it?¡± Sam could not speak. A third airship has joined in now, and a small crowd was gathering before the glass wall, drawn by curiosity and the glare of the searchlights. They were all looking for something. From the corner of her eye she spotted Robert Finley, who had drawn closer seemingly by coincidence. ¡°Why¡­why isn¡¯t it?¡± Sam blurted. The question made her dizzy. ¡°I still want to live, Maestro!¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Why??¡± Sam laughed incredulously. What a bizarre word, why. ¡°I haven¡¯t done all I can yet! I¡¯m not a necromancer, I don¡¯t have ten thousand amblers under my name, I don¡¯t have a house on Twenty, I don¡¯t have anyone, anyone, no family, no lover, thank the Lords Above. I don¡¯t even have a dog! I can¡¯t just lay down and die not having even tried!¡± The old woman turned her eyes to the horizon, a sad smile on her lips. ¡°But how could you know?¡± ¡°Know what?¡± ¡°That you still have time to pretend.¡± A hand grabbed the balustrade from below. Then another. Then ten more. The shadows writhed as the giants climbed up one after another.