underground hold to see out the centuries of winter.’
They climbed a set of stairs that had been carved into the rock, passing dumb waiters carrying up copper cylinders marked with the celgas symbol. There looked to be far more canisters of the strictly controlled celgas than Abraham Quest should have had access to. At the top of the stairs, a window in a narrow corridor looked down on a chamber containing an engineering-frame hung with models of various airships — some based on the Jackelian aerial navy, others blue-sky designs, outlandish shapes of connected hulls with battleship-like under structures. A rotating propeller driven by a compact steam engine was simulating a powerful wind down the length of the test frame.
Damson Beeton turned her head to and fro despite the weight of her hex helmet, drinking in all the sights the airship works had to offer. Stolen celgas. Unauthorized airship designs. Military forces far beyond the company limits allowed to fencible regiments. There was enough evidence down here to see Abraham Quest and his staff take the drop outside Bonegate for the amusement of the Circleday gallows crowd a dozen times over.
The granite walls gave way to narrow wooden corridors, as if they were walking along the inside of a steamship. At one point they had to form into single file to cross a wooden gangway across a cavern, rope nets covering store rooms below, the space being loaded high with sacks and crates by a column of Quest’s workers.
Prods from the fencible soldiers’ rifles kept them moving, apart from a brief halt when a squad of retainers came striding across their path. They all looked of an age in their green uniforms. There was a flicker of inquisitiveness in their eager eyes as they passed by the motley prisoners, but they kept on marching in a disciplined formation.
‘Young,’ noted Septimoth.
‘From his academies, no doubt,’ said Damson Beeton. ‘The homes for street children and urchins that the House of Quest sponsors.’
‘They look more like soldiers than poorhouse sweepings to me,’ said Cornelius.
‘I’m sure their training is superior to that of the army’s regiments,’ said the housekeeper. ‘A better deal than parliament’s silver shilling and the taste of the lash more often than the taste of grog rations.’
‘The cadets are trained by the free company,’ said the Catosian, the pride evident in her tone. ‘At least, in matters pertaining to military instruction. They want for nothing when it comes to honing their bodies and their minds.’
‘Philosopher-kings,’ whispered Cornelius. ‘He has raised an army of philosopher-kings.’
‘I doubt that Quest found much time for tutoring them in philosophy,’ said Septimoth.
‘You are wrong,’ said the officer, watching the last of the column of cadets pass by. ‘Without a perfect mind to drive it, a perfect body is reduced to barely competent muscle. A soldier must understand what is worth dying for and what is worth living for, and the distinction between the two.’
Damson Beeton frowned. The wolftakers of the Court of the Air lived by a similar code. ‘Now that sounds worryingly familiar.’
‘You will have the opportunity to hear it again,’ said the Catosian. ‘Very shortly.’
They entered a round chamber with polished wooden decking but no natural light, recessed gas lamps hissing gently with a yellow radiance. Steps on either side led down to pits where retainers tended transaction engines and monitored illuminated dials. Dressed in aprons similar to those worn by Greenhall engine men, the staff regulated their machinery’s pressure by working wheels set along racks of copper pipes.
At the end of the chamber stood Abraham Quest and Robur, a handful of fencible officers in attendance — some obviously Catosian, others more of his academy sweepings. Quest turned, smiling, when he noticed Cornelius and the other two prisoners from Dolorous Isle. ‘A little different from the last tour I gave you, Compte de Speeler.’
‘All in all, I preferred the orchids,’ said Cornelius. ‘Even the ones that ate your mice.’
‘You three were coming close to uncovering my real game,’ said Quest. ‘So close that I thought I would spare you the trouble of breaking into my airship works and the undignified business of sneaking around my premises.’
‘Or the trouble I was taking to update the whistler network with my last report,’ said Damson Beeton.
‘You mean the Court of the Air doesn’t know about me already? You needn’t underplay your organization’s curiosity about my ambitions,’ said Quest. ‘I appreciate the interest the Court has been taking in my activities, wholly predictable as your people’s predations are.’
‘I’ve been called a lot of things in my years,’ said Damson Beeton, ‘but never predictable.’
‘Please,’ said Quest, ‘no false modesty. I am one of the few people in the world to grasp the amount of transaction-engine power it takes to model the whole of Jackelian society, to structure the quiet but deadly interventions of your wolftakers. How does the House of Quest and myself appear in the maths turning on the Court of the Air’s transaction-engine drums, I wonder?’
‘Leakage,’ said Damson Beeton. ‘Pure leakage.’
Quest’s lips tightened into a thin smile. ‘Well, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. I have been putting my own theories of transaction-engine modelling to good use.’
‘Using deceased steammen components, perhaps?’ Cornelius said.
‘You’re not even warm,’ said Quest. ‘No, I used my transaction-engine rooms to model the pattern of what should be the behavioural norm for my employees. Here’s what came up as abnormal-’ Quest gestured at one of the workers in the pit and a Rutledge Rotator spun into operation on the wall. The image pixellated into a row of coffins, heavy armoured affairs gleaming black, with silver sigils sketched across them. The angle of the picture altered to show human heads visible at the other end of the metal coffins, mouths gagged with the same style of restraining mask Damson Beeton had been wearing. The old woman hissed as she recognized some of the faces.
‘Normally I admire persistence,’ said Abraham Quest. ‘You can accomplish so much with simple persistence. Give it enough time, and the wind can wear away mountains with a breeze as gentle as a whisper; but the Court of the Air’s tedious desire to infiltrate my concerns has really grown into something of an irritation for me now.’
‘You really think you can do
‘I’ve already had a taste of your reprisals. One of your sleeper agents managed to escape my attentions. He tried to eliminate me when he discovered I had captured your colleagues, but in one of life’s little ironies, I was pushed out of the way of his killing shot by your employer.’ Quest laughed, and looked across at Cornelius. ‘Would you save me again if the opportunity arose? It is interesting, is it not? For all the havoc you inflict across the border running around wearing a Furnace-breath Nick mask, when you had to act on pure instinct, your first reaction was to save life, not take it. I would say there’s hope for you, yet.’ Quest pointed up at the image of the restrained agents. ‘I’m sure there will be repercussions, damson. Wolves prey on sheep; wolftakers prey on the wolves, but who preys on the wolftakers? I do believe you will find the Court of the Air’s position in the ecos has just changed.’
‘You think you’re the top of the food chain now?’ said Damson Beeton. ‘Circle preserve us all, then. What do you intend to do with our agents?’
‘Your colleagues are alive,’ said Quest. ‘Albeit a little limited in capacity, currently. I didn’t want to find out their level of proficiency in the worldsinger arts the hard way, so I devised the hex boxes as a way to curtail the Court’s witchery and sorcerer’s tricks. I modelled the hexes on a transaction engine too — another first, I believe. They are very complex. I doubt whether there are many agents in the Court capable of breaking them. As to your colleagues’ fate, I am sure I can find a good use for them. As bookends, perhaps?’
A retainer in an elaborate blue uniform came up to Quest, whispering something in the mill owner’s ear. Quest looked at Robur, nodded, and the mechomancer descended into one of the instrumentation pits, both his hands reaching out to yank down a lever. As he threw the lever, the entire room started to tremble, the wall behind Quest lowering to reveal an arc of armoured glass stretching from the floor to the ceiling. There was only darkness behind the glass, but it was getting lighter, the growing illumination accompanied by a massive crunching sound beyond their room.
Septimoth covered his sensitive ears with his glove-covered talons. ‘That noise …’
‘Pneumatic pistons,’ said Quest. ‘Extremely large ones.’
With a heavy jolt their chamber was raising itself from the earth, the dark rock face outside falling away as
