Trent Jamieson - Night's engines

“I didn’t realise that I was sick. The stress, I’ve never taken ill that way. It-”

“No, it is to be expected. Almost all of us have suffered from it. It happens to those that come up north. Some weirdness, a contagion. The flesh melts away, and if it doesn’t kill you, you find yourself stronger.”

“I’m a doctor, I’ve not heard of it.”

“When did you last run a practice?” Grappel said, handing him a glass of Drift rum. “When did you last keep up to date with the journals?”

Medicine took a sip of the strong stuff, winced. “It’s been a while since I have actively chased the journals. But, surely-”

“It’s something that’s little spoken of here. A rite of passage. Why share it? No one would come this way.” Grappel cleared his throat, looked at his own rum, but didn’t drink. “Did the dead visit you?”

Medicine looked away.

“Of course they did,” Grappel said. “They always come. All that is death is in that fever, and you so close to it, you can’t even tell the difference. Some people lose themselves to it. Quite frankly, I thought you would be one of them.”

“So you called me, to see that I was hale and hearty, and that was all?”

Grappel shook his head. “I have bad news, I’m afraid,” Grappel said.

“Why am I not surprised?” Medicine said.

Grappel sighed.

“Well, out with it! I’ve people that need me in the infirmary. I doubt that my own fever has seen an end to illness in this place.”

“Cadell is dead,” Grappel said.

Medicine felt his heart constrict. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, and more than that, the Old Men have been released. They say they hunt the Milde boy.”

“David?” Medicine wanted to say that the young man had visited him in his dreams, but he kept quiet.

“Yes, the boy’s alive. Cadell, they say, saw him from Chapman to Hardacre. He is with Buchan and Whig. Our spies say that he has changed.”

“That’s the Carnival, surely.”

“No, this isn’t the transformation of an addict. There is no sleeping sickness, no madness. He seems more assured, more certain of himself. They still seek to travel north, with the support of Buchan and Whig. To Tearwin Meet.”

“Is that a good idea?” Medicine said. “With Cadell gone, what chance do they have?”

“From all reports they seem confident that they could achieve their objectives; the boy is wearing Cadell’s Orbis.”

Medicine found himself instinctively reaching for the place where his ring finger should be, where he had once worn his own copy of the Engineer’s ring, before Stade chopped ring and finger free.

“It doesn’t matter, none of it does,” Grappel said. “We have them in Hardacre, and they will not move.”

“Will you be bringing them here?”

Grappel seemed surprised. “A ship, the Collard Green, has been sent for that purpose,” Grappel said. “Now, the question is, what do we do with you?”

“If you’d wanted me dead, I’m sure you’d have killed me by now. What service can I be?”

“Politically, you’re a problem,” Grappel said. “Your links to Stade, no matter how transitory, have tarnished you. But there are other things that you can do.”

“I’m a doctor,” Medicine said. “And I am already doing that. I see to the sick.”

“Mr Paul, there are more than human sicknesses to attend to. There’s a darkness in the heart of the Project, and I would have you find it.”

Medicine looked at the man who had ordered the execution of Agatha and her troops, and was almost certain that he was staring at that very darkness. “Where do I begin?” Medicine said.

“I’ve heard rumours of something called the Contest. I want you to find it out.”

Medicine nodded. “I’ve one question,” he said.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Who did you see when the fever struck you?”

Grappel lifted the rum, considered it in the candlelight, gold, the ice cubes gleaming. “All of them,” he said. “Every single one. Oh, and don’t believe it stops. Every night they find me, and every night there is more of them.”

He finished his drink. “The blood on these hands, Mr Paul. The blood on these hands, you would think me a monster.”

Medicine nodded his head, but he didn't say a thing.

THE CITY OF HARDACRE 964 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL EDGE

The window jammed. Margaret sighed, and kicked at the frame, it opened with a crack, wood splitting. The door behind them rattled. David looked at Margaret.

He said, “I may have left the note in a too obvious place.”

“Too obvious?”

“David? Margaret?” Buchan shouted; the door shook again. “You did lock it, didn’t you, David?”

He looked back at her. “Of course.”

The door boomed. “Don’t make me do this!” Buchan said.

“Out,” Margaret said. “Hurry.”

He slid through the window, not the first time he’d had to. And just as he had that time, he slipped, felt himself go — Oh well, it wasn’t going to kill him, just break a few bones, or would it, would he lose the part that was him, and just become the hunger, and maybe that would be easier.

Margaret’s hands gripped him by the belt. She yanked him back against the wall, and he found his balance: his bag hanging from one shoulder.

“All moot now, anyway,” David said.

Margaret peered down at him. “What?”

“Quite a first step,” he said.

Margaret grunted. “Just climb.”

Everything was slippery, but there were handholds, and Margaret knew how to find them. David followed her lead, and where he went the water froze. I’ve become a tipping point, he thought. From water to ice, life to death.

It was still raining. David wondered about Mirrlees, if it was still raining down there, if people still looked up at that low dark sky.

The door in the room beneath gave way just as they clambered onto the roof. David looked down, and into Buchan’s face. There was no way the big man was following them, he couldn’t have fit through the window.

“David,” he said, and there was a pleading tone to his voice that stung. Poor Buchan, always calling on Cadell, and now him. “We can talk this out. You don't need to-”

“We can't talk,” Margaret said. “We do this now, or we're prisoners.” David shook his head once. “We really are sorry,” he said.

David felt like Travis the Grave. After all, he was always running over rooftops, though Travis was never pursued by his allies. Travis wasn’t the sort of man to betray his friends, stalwart and true — nothing had ever muddied his outlook. Fictional characters could choose to be like that, life was never as complicated in books. Goals always clear, or revealed to be in the end. This, all of this, was far murkier, and it had been from the start.

“I’m coming out,” Whig called.

Now there was a man who could fit through windows.

Margaret had her rifle free.

“No need for that,” David said. “Surely no need for that.”

“Where is it?” Margaret said.

“You’re heading into the jaws of Death, boy. This is absolute folly, Margaret. Patience, both of you, patience,” Whig said, his head peering over the gutter.

“Down, tall man, or you lose your eyes.”

“You wouldn’t-”