Steampunk II: Steampunk Reloaded Part 9

The madwoman had by now stopped struggling. She lay in a ball, shuddering, emitting small keening noises. They grasped her by her feet and slid her to the portal. The dromedon repeated his incantation, and they pushed her through.

William straightened. "Now for myself, if you please, I would like-" He stopped, and looked at the portal. It was thinning, now, shimmering, losing its consistency. It flickered, dimmed, returned. And then it was gone.

There was a silence. William said: "Ah."

"I'm afraid I have been less than candid with you," said the dromedon. "The device was only designed to accommodate two souls."

William sighed. "We are two souls, you and I."

"But those two deserved salvation more than we, don't you think?"

William shook his head. "As a matter of fact, I don't." He looked around at the carriage. The walls were fading away now, turning slowly to shadow. Troubling shapes lurked in the darkness beyond. "How long?"

"Not long," said the dromedon. He extended a hand. "We have not been formally introduced. I am Jeremy Albert Benjamin."

William looked at him for a long moment, and then took his hand. "William Thackery. Pleased to meet you, sir."

"The pleasure is all mine," said Jeremy Albert Benjamin. And they stood together, smiling vaguely, as the world dissolved quietly around them.

10: THE CONDUCTOR IN HIS PARLOR.

Virgil bent over the piano, eyes closed, and let his fingers fly over the last bars of the movement-felt the music course through him and play along his body. It wasn't perfect, not yet, but it was quite good. He'd have it in time for his performance at Marshracht Hall, he thought. After that, he was scheduled for the Vozenkult, and then a private recitation for Prince Reagar himself.

He straightened and looked to his wife, knitting beside him on the settee. "How was that, my love?"

Chloe looked up. "Fair," she said.

"Ah. Do you mean sublime?"

"Is that what you want me to mean, my dear?"

"It is."

"Then that is what I mean."

Virgil smiled. "You are an excellent wife."

"So you've said. Although it strikes me that you only say it after I compliment you on the sublimity of your performances."

"Nonsense. I seem to recall granting you your excellence, just last week, when you thought one of my recitations merely inspired."

She smiled, and put her work aside. "I must see to dinner."

Virgil rose from his bench, took her hands and kissed them lightly. "I do love you, Katerina."

She lifted an eyebrow. "And I you," she said. She glanced over her shoulder, making sure that none of the servants were about, then stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. "Now you must excuse me, Jan."

Virgil watched her leave the parlor. She was quite as beautiful as she'd been when they met at the Prince's Ball, so long ago. Could it have been ten years already? Could it be that their children were entering preparatory school? Truly, could the store of memories they'd built together be so very large?

But there were other memories, of course, lurking behind the real ones: a terrible sundering in a filthy Yorkshire apartment; a wife and a child abandoned in Calcutta Bubble; a raving, bloodstained woman who resembled his wife in every particular, clawing at his eyes, tearing at his face, steadily destroying him. And others, more distant still: the memories of a young Englishman, yearning for a talent he could not have.

He did not know if Katerina had her own store of false memories. If so, she never spoke of them. And this was right and proper. She was Katerina Lichtman, formerly Katerina Vogel. He was Jan Niklas Lichtman, son of Albrecht and Hedda Lichtman, and the most sought-after concert pianist in Leipzig Bubble. This was the reality. The rest were dreams.

He sat down at the piano, rested his fingers lightly on the keys, and paused to whisper a few words of thanks-the same words he repeated before each of his performances.

His friends generally a.s.sumed that he was thanking G.o.d.

He was not.

He began to play.

The Mechanical Aviary of Emperor Jalal-ud-din Muhammad Akbar.

Shweta Narayan.

SHWETA NARAYAN was smelted in India's summer, quenched in the monsoon, wound up on words in Malaysia, and pointed westward. She surfaced in Saudi Arabia, The Netherlands, and Scotland before settling in California, where she lives on language, veggie tacos, and the Internet. Other Artificer bird stories can be found in Realms of Fantasy and Clockwork Phoenix 3; Shweta also has fiction in Strange Horizons and Beastly Brides. She was the Octavia E. Butler Memorial Scholarship recipient at the 2007 Clarion workshop and can be found online at www.shwetanarayan.org. Of her story, she writes that it is "based on a South Indian epic, the Cilappatikaram (The Tale of an Anklet, 5th CE); the original is quite a bit stranger. The mechanical cities were inspired by the work of Alberuni, an 11th-century Persian scholar. In his great tome on India, in a listing of the peoples of India, he mentions a race of golden and silver people in the south who live on sunlight. Akbar the Great is of course historical, but his aviary is not."

BULBUL AND PEAc.o.c.k.

NOW AKBAR-E-AZAM, THE Shah-en-Shah, Emperor of the World, who is called the Light of Heaven, has built markets and mosques and schools for his people of flesh and of metal and for the eternal glory of G.o.d. But he commissioned the mechanical aviary for himself and only himself. Not even his favorite wives could enter-only the Emperor, his slaves, and the Artificer, who is herself a bird of metal.

It was a small aviary, notable only for its roof: panes of thin clear gla.s.s which cast no latticed shadows but let the Sun light up the birds unhindered. Birds of cog and gear and lever, their mechanical lives powered by springs, they were made from shining copper and silver and bronze. Enamel coated their heads, their tails, their wing-tips, in gleaming colors for the Shah-en-Shah's delight. From Falcon, whose beak and claws were edged with diamond, who had once brought down a tiger, to Phoenix, whose mechanism built a child within her and sealed its final seams in the fire that melted her away-every bird was a wonder. Not a feather rusted, not a joint squealed, not a single spring wound down, for the merely human aviary slaves were careful and skilled.

The Shah-en-Shah (blessed with long life, Allah be praised) was at that time barely more than a boy. He loved his birds and denied them nothing. Most especially he could not deny his favorites, Peac.o.c.k and Bulbul.

For though he was proud of Falcon and Phoenix, he came most often to hear Bulbul's sweet song and see the flashing colors of Peac.o.c.k's dance; or to have Bulbul sit on his shoulder while he rubbed jasmine oil onto Peac.o.c.k's feathers. This brought him peace; and to Akbar, who inherited a crown and a war when he was thirteen years old, who had to execute his own foster brother for treachery, peace has always been harder won than pride. For the joy of their music and dance he loved Bulbul and Peac.o.c.k above all others-and for the joy of their music and dance they grew to love each other.

And so they approached the Artificer.

"O Lady with human hands," sang Bulbul, "will you build us a child who can both dance and sing?"

But the Artificer bird would not.

"O brightest of eye and feather," said Peac.o.c.k, "does our wish displease you? Do you find these slaves presumptuous?"

"Not presumptuous," said the Artificer, "but certainly unwise."

They were so distraught that Peac.o.c.k tripped over his own tailfeathers when he next tried to dance, while Bulbul piped one thin, flat, endless note.

"Are you ill?" asked the Emperor. "Are your cogs slipping, one from the other?"

"Son of Heaven," Peac.o.c.k said, "the illness is in our heartsprings. We wish to make a child together, but the Lady will not help."

At this the Emperor frowned. "Is such a task below you?" he asked her. For the Artificer was no slave; she had once been his teacher, and was now an honored guest.

She rustled her copper tailfeathers. "Far below me," she said, "to betray you so. Every bird here has one purpose, and one bird fulfills each purpose, and thus is peace maintained. Will you breed strife in your sanctuary?"

"Children strive against us," said the Shah-en-Shah (who had yet no children). "We raise them in love nonetheless. If you are truly my friend, give my birds their wish."

The Artificer was silent for a long time. Finally she said, "As I am your friend, I shall. But hear me first."

THE DANCING GIRL.

In the Golden City of legend, Mechanical Pukar (which Westerners called Khaberis), there were wonders lost now to the ages. Rooftops and roads inlaid with yellow sapphire, emerald, cinnamon stone, and the other astrological gems; mechanical people wearing spun and filigreed gold; markets piled with ingots and fine tools. There were slaves of flesh to tend to people and wind them up. There were pools of fragrant oil to bathe in, tiled with obsidian and warmed by the Sun. And there were temple dancers, who also sang.

Nothing compared to the dancers' beauty; but having both abilities wound their heartsprings so tightly that they could think only of themselves and their art. So too could any who grew close to them think only of them.

There was an artificer once, a young man of gleaming bronze, with sharp eyes and skillful fingers. He and his wife worked hard and well together. They made a fortune. Then he made a dancing girl and fell in love.

He squandered everything he owned, everything his wife owned, save only her anklets. Instead of his commissions he built treasures for his dancer, treasures which the Shah-en-Shah himself would gladly accept if they existed today. But the girl thought only of her dance and her song.

She danced away, in time. His heartspring nearly snapped, but he woke from that dream and found that, despite everything, he still had a wife. They left Pukar together that day, in shame, walking barefoot through the dust.

DEVADASI.

"So I shall make them a child," said the Artificer, "but it shall either sing or it shall dance. Not both."

"We could not love such a child equally," said Peac.o.c.k.

Bulbul said, "It must do both."

"Pukar is but an old legend," said the Shah-en-Shah. "Will you deny them for a story?"

"A story?" The Artificer clicked her beak. "I wear one of those anklets around my neck."

Akbar smiled, but as he smiled in court, with grace rather than belief.

"What you ask worries me," said the Artificer. "But it worries me more that I seem to have taught you nothing. So be it, King of Kings; bring me beaten silver to replace the worn copper in my tail, and precious metal and enamel enough for this task, and they shall have what they want."

And so it was; she made a little golden child with wings and tail enamelled green, and named her Devadasi. Bulbul and Peac.o.c.k raised her and taught her with love and patience. Being made by the Artificer, whose skill exceeds all others', she soon sang with greater range and sweetness than her father and danced with more grace and expression than her other father. All the birds were entranced-except the Artificer, who stayed away.

One day, when Akbar came to the aviary with trouble on his shoulders, Devadasi fluttered down to him. "May this slave sing to ease your soul?" she asked. "May I dance to give joy to the brightest star in the Heavens?" For her fathers had also taught her manners.

Now, the Shah-en-Shah had just abolished the pilgrim tax, and he was anxious to forget his mother's anger (remember that he was very young in those days). So he smiled, and accepted, and Devadasi sang for him and danced. And like all others, the Emperor of the World was entranced.

"What a clever bird you are," he said afterwards.

Devadasi preened and asked, "Do you not think my singing sweeter than Bulbul's, O my lord?"

The Emperor said, "Yes, little bird, it is sweeter than any other music in the world." This was thoughtless of him; but indeed he was not thinking.

"And do you not think my dancing prettier than Peac.o.c.k's?"

"I do, little one," he said.

Bulbul and Peac.o.c.k had approached to see how their daughter fared; but their heartsprings broke at Akbar's words, and they sang and danced no more. Struck by grief and guilt, the Shah-en-Shah bent his head and wept.

"Do not mourn, Great One," said Devadasi. "They are merely metal now, it is true, but surely it would please their springs and screws to be made beautiful. Have the Artificer bird use them to build more birds like myself, and my fathers' very cogs will rejoice."

And so the Light of Heaven commanded.

The Lady obeyed (for even an honored guest obeys the Ruler of All). She sawed Bulbul and Peac.o.c.k apart, melted them down, reformed them. But their balance wheels and their broken heartsprings she quietly set aside.

The Devadasi birds exulted. They sang in complex harmony and ch.o.r.eographed elaborate dances, their different colors flashing in varied patterns. And they wanted, always, to make more complex music, more complex patterns. They wanted more of themselves.

So too did the Light of Heaven want more of them, for the memory of Bulbul and Peac.o.c.k made him doubt his every thought and judgment. In the Devadasi birds' presence he could forget the new torture of shame and indecision; he came more and more often to the aviary, sometimes even cancelling his open court. And each time he came, the birds asked for something more.

They asked for bronze from the aviary's central fountain, and copper from the pipes that pumped in warm oil. He granted their wish, though it meant the other birds grew creaky and stiff. They wanted the solder that held together the aviary's panes of gla.s.s; and they had it, though the roof shattered and the rain came in.

They asked him, then, for stories of warfare. He spoke of swords and guns and killing machines, of strategy and of treachery on the field. And Falcon heard, and knew that her hunting was only a game for princes, and her heartspring broke. Then they asked whether owls of flesh could spin their heads all the way around; and Owl tried it, and unscrewed his head until it fell right off and smashed. They asked about wild swans, how gracefully they could glide through still water; and Swan tried to swim, and sank.

As each bird died there was more metal, and more still, and Devadasis' wishes kept the Artificer busy. But she saved every heartspring, and every special movement plate and wheel, and she hid them away. And late at night when she would not be disturbed, she spent long fraught hours patching broken heartsprings with copper from her old tailfeathers.

The day came when there were no birds left to murder for salvage, nothing more to harvest from the aviary itself. On that day the flock asked the Shahen-Shah if they might go with him to the Artificer's workshop, and on that day he did once again as they asked.

"See what you have wrought?" sang the Devadasi birds, their pure voices interweaving. "If not for you, the aviary would still be whole. You are flawed, Artificer; we are perfect. It is fit that you sc.r.a.p your wings and make more of us."

But the Artificer said, "You will not find it so easy to break my heart-spring."

"Then at least take that ugly anklet from around your neck," they chorused. "It is not fitting for a bird to wear jewellery, and it will help make one of us."

"Do you know the cost of an anklet?" said the Lady. "I shall tell you."

"We care nothing for your stories," they called.

"You will listen anyway," she said; and they did.

THE ANKLET.

Once a young couple from Pukar came to Maturai, ruin of the south, in search of work and a new life. In that time, the city that is no more was thriving, rich in the manner of the flesh people, with fruit and meat and wandering cows and children and elaborate, painted woodwork.

The couple were barefoot, their skin scratched and muddy from travel. They owned nothing of value but her gleaming golden anklets. Ragged lengths of dyed silk fell from their shoulders, a mockery of the spun-gold robes they once had worn. But these were no paupers; they were master artificers both, and hoped to rebuild their fortune in Maturai.

Settling beneath a banyan tree on the edge of the city, they waited for sunrise. She beat a rhythm on her right anklet, her copper fingers dark against the gold. It sprung open with an oiled click-whirr. Moonlight caught on its tiny hinges and on the nine precious stones on their internal belt.

"Will you calculate our future?" asked her husband. For her right anklet was an astrological device; each stone represented a star.

"No," she said. "How would knowing help? We must speak to this raja's artificer; we have no choice."

Her husband bent his head. "Forgive me." His voice was dull as his once-gleaming skin.

She said only, "You were not yourself."