Page 64 of Beyond

Help them through, whenever you can.

“All right. I need to think things through. I need to—to find out what all I have to work with. What’s next—Ah. After Court, will any suspicions be raised if I see how you—vrondi, I mean by that—are imprisoned?”

Star paused a long while. “There is a way. A Duke can walk freely in the Annexes, if a pass-token is worn. A pass-token is issued by someone of superior rank to whoever would scry or confront you. Such pass-tokens are held in a drawer of one of the administrative areas we can freely Gate to.”

“And if we aren’t being observed, I can just take one?”

“This one is not empowered to stop you, nor under obligation to alert anyone if you do. More accurately, this one should file an incident report, but the rules stipulate no immediacy, so this one can wait. Indefinitely.”

“So if I happened to pocket one of these pass-tokens—even if we’re scryed from the Palace, they wouldn’t make an issue of it, because a pass-token had to have been authorized by someone above the scryer.”

“Correct, my Lord. This one can tell you that scrying is a job populated by those of very low ambition, operating devices which do most of the work. Thus, in the interest of their own self-preservation, scryers prefer that their superiors never take note of them, unless they have certainty of a violation.”

“Which a Duke, with a pass-token, wouldn’t qualify as. I like it,” Kordas answered. “There is a lot I need to learn yet, about what happens and where. I want to see the Trap so I can disable it somehow, and free any vrondi caught in it right now. It makes sense to me that the Empire would keep a vrondi-trap close to where Dolls are produced.”

“You are correct. The Trap is in the Fabrication Annex. And yes, the Trap catches my kind continuously.” Star sounded particularly sorrowful. “It has seldom been empty.”

* * *

Court filled Kordas with an aching anxiety—a despondent feeling that, while he knew he was present for things that affected countless lives, it was also unspeakably boring. Literally unspeakable; despite the hundred-plus people present, only those there on official business could talk, and even then, they were expected to keep it brief. The other reason it bored Kordas was that he could see their patterns, all based on the Three Games in one manner or another. He doodled in a little sketchbook he’d picked up for his satchel. Horses, of course, and some flowers, and corn, bits of tack decorations, an imaginary landscape with a cottage. Without a doubt, everybody’s minds were being scanned while they were present, so he depended upon the protective amulet behind his crest to make him seem like he’d rather be out riding a Gold on lush green hills than here.

Which was true.

Court ended when the Emperor simply stood and left. He made no special statements, or even gestures—he just went through his office door, and that was that. No guards accompanied him; a Herald proclaimed, “The Emperor has Adjourned the Court.” Claimants and petitioners in line, dressed in their finest, clutching folders of papers and charts, stood around looking stricken, while every noble in the place left through a Gate within minutes.

Kordas returned to the Copper Apartment immediately and flopped on the bed. Star, Rose, and Clover followed Beltran into the bedroom from where they’d waited on his return in the main room.

“How could hours of nothing happening be so tiring?” Kordas sighed.

Star replied, “With respect, my Lord, a Doll may not be the best to answer that. These ones are usually stored in a closet.”

Kordas and Beltran both laughed. Damn it all, I shouldn’t laugh at that. It’s tragic. But it’s also top-shelf snark, Kordas thought. And Star probably said it that way on purpose. They’re not just poor souls to be rescued, they’re also likable. He checked Star for the sign that they were safe to speak, saw that they were, and rubbed at his eyes. “Beltran, what have you kept yourself busy with?”

“Officially, being a tourist and lounging. Unofficially, watching the timing of things, listening, and judging why this place works at all. I’ve found some disturbing clues that tell me that it might not work at all, before long. The earthshakes—you don’t seem to notice any but the large ones, probably because you are a lifetime horseman and you’re accustomed to jolts and rolls with every hoofstep. But I—I’ve had trouble sleeping here at all, and I figured out some of why. It isn’t just the strangeness of the surroundings. It’s that this City is always shaking.” He sat down beside Kordas. “This city has cracks in it. Every building and bridge, too. I’ve always had sharp eyes, so they stand out for me. Here.”

Beltran got up and went to the window, and pulled out his side-knife, chisel-pointed like Kordas’s, made for dining not fighting. “Here’s an example.” The trim around the window rocked half a thumb-width when Beltran pried at its edge. “This place is under constant repair,” he continued, “and everything in the Palace has been pointed and patched, and its seams painted. But that can only do so much.”

To illustrate the point, Beltran jammed the knife deeper under the window trim and pried with more force. The entire window trim broke away as one piece, showering plaster and stone dust, and then the window surround simply—fell off, clattering to the floor.

Clover spoke, “This is true. It did not seem important to mention this, amidst your other plans, as they already put you under such stress, my Lord.”

Kordas exhaled gustily. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Star said, “There are forces affecting the City and Palace that did not feel germaine to your plans, due to the time frame, but we can tell you more if you wish.”

Kordas sat up fully. “Absolutely,” he replied, his eyes sharp with that look his Herald knew well. It was the look of Kordas sensing opportunity. “But let’s have a look inside the Fabrication Annex first.”

* * *

It was apparent that the scrying mages had lost even more interest in them, since Kordas easily palmed a pass-token from an unguarded drawer and they were within the Fabrication Annex moments later. To have called it a maze of wooden beams, brass, steel, and crates would be an understatement. Some of the work areas were five stories tall, connected by wooden trestles, and most of the guardrails were broken. There were pockmarks and cracks almost everywhere, and in some places, mending-plates were three or four thick holding braces together. The place was loud, very loud, and Dolls moved in crews without taking any special notice of Kordas, Beltran, and Star. Steam jetted out from hundreds of places, striking condenser awnings that turned the vapor into rain that showered down into troughs with every major hammerfall, between one and four times a second. The whole of the place sounded like a waterfall, with headache-baiting clashes of steel mixed in. Sparks flew from grinders where Dolls skillfully smoothed down stampings pulled from huge dies, and yet, there were areas where the air was not only chilly, there were actually icicles hanging under machinery, all lit by a blue glow.

“This is how pellets are made,” Star narrated. “Thin sheets of seaweed gelatin are fed in here. The dies above drop onto these banks of pistons, driving the tray here downward and compressing air as it goes. The searing grid encapsulates the air with the gelatin, then hardens it into the small spheres you know. It was found that this size alone was the safest and most reliable for pellets. Poomers simply use more of them, rather than using a larger, more unstable size.”

The machine was huge, larger than a warship. They walked down two stories of steps, and they hadn’t yet reached its base. By the look of it, it was one of sixteen in the Annex, each one a barge-length apart. “Finished pellets are ejected by these felt-padded arms as the piston returns to the top, and all the pellets fall safely into these trays on rollers, which then pack into standardized crates.” The machine clanged again and hundreds more pellets dropped into trays. “This is as close as we should get.”

Star pointed to a crew of at least twenty Dolls, hanging from or crawling through the nearest machine, some oiling, some tightening bolts or tapping shims. “If the tolerances shake loose while we are near, an entire tray might detonate.”

“How often does that happen?” Beltran shouted.