Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

But that had just been the start of their troubles. He’d known they were vulnerable once they’d reached the earth, and the moment he’d heard the soldiers coming, he’d hastily buried the metal cube, even though Athena loathed being in the earth. Just in time, too, because the soldiers had taken him prisoner and Athena would no doubt have gone for scrap. Beneath the stranglehold of the steam barons, any kind of metal had value. The only good thing was that his captors had arrested him simply as a vagrant. They had no idea that he was the fearsome Captain Niccolo, or things would have gone much worse. At least he wasn’t trapped in a cell. Unfortunately, bound with iron chains and surrounded by every kind of metal, his air magic failed him utterly. He was as helpless as Athena trapped beneath the dirt. The only strength he had was in his bones and brawn.

In fact, his job that day was to move the raw materials from the mountainous supply in the yard to a giant clay-lined vessel suspended between two huge legs. The smelter consumed its meals faster than Nick and the other prisoners could feed it—fifteen tons at a load. Sometimes they hauled bars of the pig iron made from ore and scrap. Steam-powered trolleys moved enormous bins of the stuff right up to the furnace, where men shoveled fuel like imps serving their demon god. But the bins had to be filled, and that was done with muscle and sweat—a job that broke bones and spirits as swiftly as a fire ate kindling. The one boon of the job was that the yard was a few degrees cooler than the furnace shed, and on the days he loaded iron, Nick got to see the open sky.

Today a heap of scrap sat in the yard—carriage wheels and railway ties, old generators and coal grates. Some was the detritus from industry, some the remains from domestic use. Nick even saw a tiny wagon made of tin—a child’s toy painted in bright colors. His crew had been assigned the task of throwing the scrap into the bins to be melted down.

It was a job they did at least once a week. Whether one was in the city or a country village, metal was hard to come by—and these furnaces were the reason. Old materials could make new machines, and so the steam barons’ men scoured town and hamlet for anything they could take. After all, there was no profit in the townsfolk building something for themselves.

Nick bent, picked up an old wheel, and heaved it into the bin, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his skin. They had given him gloves, but those had quickly worn through, and he could feel flakes of rust clinging to his fingertips like bloody sand. Next, he grabbed a cast iron pot just like the one Gran Cooper—the fortune-teller who had all but raised him—used to hang over the fire for soups and stews. He slung it over the side of the bin and heard it fall with a hollow crash. The men never talked as they worked, the roar of the machines around them making conversation impossible.

Even after work stopped for the day, they had little to say. Half the men there were deaf, blind, or struggling to pull air into their scorched lungs. Anger here was a dull thing, crushing resentment more than a lancing fury. Fury took strength, and theirs was all spent under whip and short rations.

Nick found an old coffee mill, the paint chipped away from its iron sides. This he lifted more slowly, using his legs because it was heavy and awkward to hold—and even so, he could barely shift it. He didn’t notice the guard speaking until the man rammed the butt of his rifle into his shoulder. The wheel barked his shin as he lurched forward, catching himself just in time to keep from falling against the waist-high rim of the bin. He dropped the corner of the mill, barely missing his foot. Anger flared as he turned, hands closing into fists, but he banked his temper at once, self-preservation smothering his reaction. The guards at Manufactory Three never hesitated to put those rifles to use.

Keeler, the man standing next to Nick, wasn’t as quick. He slammed into the bin, his feet leaving the ground as momentum took him over the edge. Nick grabbed the back of the man’s sweaty shirt and hauled him to safety. Keeler landed with a grunt and shuffled around to face the guard, not even acknowledging Nick’s help. A dull, mute acceptance drained the expression from Keeler’s eyes, like a horse beaten too often to fight the bit. Nick understood all too well—Keeler had begun to spit up blood at night. He wouldn’t see another springtime.

Another guard joined the first, and Keeler, Nick, and another prisoner were shackled, one linked to the next. The iron chains rattled, a counterpoint to the clank and rattle of the scrap in the bins.

“This way,” the guard said sullenly, prodding three of them toward the furnace.

There was no explanation, and that was worrisome. “What’s going on?” Nick asked, but all he got was a rap to the head with the rifle barrel.

So Nick followed, shackles clanking, glad of the chance to rest his aching back and shoulders. Though he’d been fit and healthy when he’d arrived, nine months of hard labor had pushed his body to its limits. He could feel every joint as he moved.

A steam whistle sounded as they walked toward the furnace, signifying that a batch of steel was ready to pour. The bulbous vessel swiveled on its enormous legs and vomited a shimmering river of molten steel. It had a strange if terrible beauty, like the birth of dragons. Even from where Nick stood many yards away, a hot wind found him, stinging against his skin and driving the moisture from his eyes and nose.

But not even the hellish winds slowed the guards. They turned the prisoners to the right, leading them along a path that ran to the outside of the shed, past the place where they lined up for rations of bread and stew and past the infirmary that was little more than a quiet place to die.

Their journey finished at a low building of brown, sooty brick. Now Nick could see something unusual was afoot. More guards stood at attention outside. A fleet of Steamers sat on the pavement outside the building, drivers polishing the steam-powered vehicles from steering wheel to the upright exhaust pipe that reminded Nick of a squirrel’s tail. Every one gleamed with gold accents and lush velvet seats. The place had visitors, and they were wealthy. Now very curious, Nick allowed himself to be herded inside.

Beyond a small reception area was the domain of Commander Rose, despot of the prison factory. He was one of the Scarlet King’s right-hand men and as such an important figure in the Empire.

As the prisoners shuffled into the room, more guards joined them, forming a tight wedge. Nick was in the middle, behind Keeler, and he strained to see past the man’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of what awaited them. Nick’s gaze found Rose at once. The man was tall and spare, distinguished without ever having laid claim to good looks. He wore the uniform of the Scarlet King’s men—a quasi-military jacket with a red waistcoat beneath.

As they came in, Rose sat down at a long mahogany table, inviting his guests to join him. Soon, a half dozen men flanked him, all facing the prisoners. With a pang, Nick saw that several wore the crisp uniform of the Merchant Brotherhood of the Air, dress swords rattling as they shifted on the leather-covered seats. He imagined the clean, crisp wind clinging to the airmen’s hair and clothes and ached for it.

The three prisoners were brought to a halt, the muzzle of a rifle to each of their heads. Nick stood, feet braced a little apart. Keeler slumped to one side; a bearlike man named Ambling loomed on the other. In the clean white room with its shining brass lamps and scrubbed wooden floor, the prisoners seemed a species apart, a smelly offshoot of the human race due to be extinguished as a bad job best forgotten.

Rose looked from one of them to the other, a thin, disapproving crease forming between his brows. Then he turned to address his guards. “Is this the best you could do?”