In Part 1 blind stall worker, Gharom, asks Amalus to investigate some mysterious visitors to Sar-Chona.
Sar-Chona specialized in sucking people towards itself. They came to get rich, or famous, or for a better life. A few succeeded. The majority failed. Some had success for a time, until they were broken and discarded - left to find a level of obscurity and penury to cling to. Amalus had found hers - begging wasn’t easy, but it placed few demands on her and she had developed a regular route of places that would provide the little sustenance she required. She wondered what brought these automata back to the city.
Another mono-rail carriage hissed into the station. This time doors swished open and the voices floating down hinted at drunken bonhomie amongst the last of the nights revelers returning home. Amalus shuffled out of the alley and moved in the direction of the machines. She matched her speed to their’s. They left the lower shopping district, passed the fringes of the theatre area, climbed beyond the entrances to the salt-sea docks and ware-houses, and finally came to Artificers Square. A rare piece of level ground in the cities middle section, it was part of a small ridge which cut halfway across the steep slope between the upper and lower sections of Sar-Chona. Around the edges of the square craftsmen and mechanisters worked in sheds and workshops that sprawled out to abut other streets. Here were the makers of shock-flails and sprackle-cannons; constructors of vacuum globes and frictionless flywheels; designers of seeing guides - such as Gharom’s - and other automata, like the ones which gathered there now.
The climb up the city had taxed Amalus. She slunk into a wide doorway and wheezed, coughing dark phlegm onto the back of her arm. The square steadily filled, both with the machines and the sound of their workings. A cacophony of whirring, ticking, buzzing, knocking, and hissing as gears, pistons, cogs, and flywheels moved constantly.
The square was about half-full. It was the most automata Amalus had seen in one place since… She stopped, willing the thought to a finish, yet not wanting to. It was the most automata she had seen in one place since before the decline, the fall, the fracture. She was wracked by another bout of coughing. More expectoration, and with it the taste of iron that was becoming more common. Looking around the buildings of the square was like looking back in time. The same doors, the same windows, even most of the signs remained the same as when she had worked here in a small workshop. The old workplace was just visible from the corner she pressed into. In the poor light of the street lamp it was impossible to say if the door was painted the same green color, but the name above the door was different. She wondered what D’Vore Developments made. It probably wasn’t automata like AmInd had made, did make. It still produced machines she believed, of course the company name was different, no longer hers, and the workshop was a huge warehouse somewhere along the Wyrnal Canal.
AmInd hadn’t crossed her mind for years. Artificers Square wasn’t on her begging route. Not just because there was little food to be had here, but because memories were still vivid and real and she fought to keep them away.
She watched the machines. They stood unmoving. When a new one arrived it filed into line and stood as still as the rest. A steady drip of arrivals continued. When it stopped Amalus expected something to happen but the machines just stood facing the same direction.
A short time after the last automaton arrived, it left. The steady drip of arrival turned back on itself and the tide of metal flowed from the square. Amalus watched it go, unsure of what it meant or why they went.
Staring at the retreating machines Amalus felt herself sink through the years. She had watched automata walk from this courtyard, had felt pride as they followed their owners down the hill, off to fields and farms where they would be used to for jobs as big as hauling machinery as small as scaring birds. Now she watched these machines depart to wherever they had come from. She counted as they left and reached forty-two by the time the last one departed. The number meant nothing to her. Some of the machines did trigger memories though, they looked familiar. Of course, there was no reason an automata she had built fifteen or twenty years ago wouldn’t still be working. In the early days she would have expected any of her machines to last far longer than the person who purchased them. Later, when the company was being stolen from under her, when she stopped watching the end product and only worked on new ideas, then quality became poor. Machines bearing her name started being sent back for repairs within weeks.
A violent cough dragged Amalus out of her reverie. She crossed the square to her old workshop and ran her fingers across the door. The new owners kept the paint as thickly glossed as she used to. It felt like a link, that somehow the door, and the workshop behind it, were still part of her.
The urge to yawn overwhelmed her and the desire to sleep came with it. She turned and began the long walk to where she slept on a grating behind the bakery. The bakers never gave her any food, but it was a warm place to sleep.
§
The next day Amalus huddled on the grate as rain fell from a mottled sky. Water trickled down her neck and soaked the layers of old clothing below. It was always more difficult to beg in the rain, but that wasn’t the main reason she didn’t move. The previous evening had opened a door to the past, piercing the shell of forgetfulness she constructed for protection. Now her head roiled with voices, a cacophony of anger, despair, and hopelessness.
The alley she lay in was little used but the few who did scurry through with hoods turned up against the rain heard Amalus’ keening and muttering as the torment inside her forced it’s way out. Eventually a passer-bye stopped and knelt.
“Is there someone I can get to help you?” He asked.
Amalus recoiled, eyes wide and bloodshot. She pressed herself against the wall and looked at the man, who stayed on his haunches and watched her. A paroxysm of coughs shook Amalus and the combination of this and being spoken to allowed her to clutch the few threads of sanity that remained. She drew them in, holding them tightly. The coughing faded and she turned her head to spit into the grate. A slimy dark gob fell between the bars. She turned back to the man.
“No, there’s no one. But thanks for stopping.” She nodded her head at him, a motion of dismissal.
“Are you sure. I can get you to the hospice in—“
“No, I’m fine. Just the weather.”
Bracing against the wall Amalus pushed her self up to a standing position. The man also stood. He looked at her doubtfully but could see the iron of isolation in Amalus, the solid core that would continue to reject assistance. He shook his head.
“If you’re sure.”
Amalus nodded vigorously. The man turned and carried on, glancing back once. Amalus watched him go and then turned to go the opposite way. She walked without intent, her mind dwelling on what the events of the previous evening may mean. The more she considered the automata the more she was sure some, more than some, were hers. Built by her, right there in the workshop on Artificers Square. None of the machines had the sleek metallic beauty of when they left the workshop, and some looked as if they had been altered significantly. Still, some of the shapes that lurked below the abuse, neglect and modifications were as familiar as when she had sketched them with thin crayons in a frenzy of design.
Around her Sar-Chona carried on uncaring. Was the city aware of this nightly pilgrim? They must be. The Inspectorate, the cities cruel and pervasive security organ, knew everything - well it tried to - they were probably watching the ebb and flow of automata. But the majority would be unaware, uncaring.
Someone dropped a half eaten pie on the floor ahead of her. Without thinking Amalus stooped to scoop it up. Leek and potato, not a favorite, but still warm. She devoured it and for the first time in the day considered Gharom. She turned, heading towards Chooner’s Lane. It was too early to expect a pie, but she could tell Gharom what she had seen. The rain continued to fall and the worn leather on her boots became saturated; soon each footfall sounded like a wet slap. The sky began to darken, the thick cloud bringing evening prematurely. Amalus wondered if the machines would begin their journey sooner, or if they were bound by set times.
Tomorrow Amalus learns more
text by stuartcturnbull, art by anaterate via Pixabay