‘And his nose,’ added someone, to general laughter.
‘Was he badly hurt?’ asked Arthur.
‘Hurt?’ Alyse laughed. ‘When you’re working on the tower, as we was, if you fall off and your wings don’t work, you don’t get hurt. You get dead. Even a Denizen can’t survive that fall. Twelve thousand feet, straight down. We were lucky to find his belt and tools, and his wrench had to be replaced. Bent like a crescent, it was.’
Arthur shook his head. He’d always thought Suzy was quite callous, but these Piper’s children were even worse.
I suppose when you’ve lived a very, very long time, you feel differently about dying, he figured. I wonder if I will feel the same . . . not that I’m likely to live that long . . .
A tug at his elbow interrupted his thoughts.
‘I have to go,’ said Dartbristle. ‘Got work to do, and there’s a flood due through right after twelve.’
‘Thank you,’ said Arthur. ‘I really appreciate your help.’
He offered his hand, and bent down close to shake the Raised Rat’s paw and whisper in his ear, ‘If you hear anything about Part Six of the Will, send word to me.’
‘Aye,’ said Dartbristle. ‘Goodbye, Ray and Suze.’
‘Thanks, Dart,’ said Suzy with a wave.
Once the Raised Rat was gone, she added, ‘Come and get yer tea, Ray,’ as she searched out two good-sized mugs from the dozens of chipped and damaged porcelain teacups and mugs that lay in disorganised piles around the spirit burner. Several grease monkeys who were gathered there to drink tea started to say hello, and Suzy poured tea with one hand as she spat and shook with the other.
‘I’m going to check my stuff,’ Arthur called out, which was probably the wrong thing to do. The other grease monkeys went back to their activities, and none came to introduce themselves as he went over to his peg.
Arthur put on his rain-mantle, which was like a sleeveless raincoat with a hood that went over his peaked cap. The cap had a buckle to fasten under the chin. Beneath the cap on the peg was a pair of clear goggles, which Arthur tried on and adjusted to fit. In the single large pocket of the rain-mantle there was a folded pair of dirty yellow wings. Arthur took them out, shook them so they expanded to full size, and spent ten minutes plucking out pieces of grit and dirt before folding them back up again.
The utility belt was very heavy. One of the six pouches held several different sizes of nuts and bolts. Another had a mouldy apple core in it, which Arthur removed. The next had a small grease gun, which was leaking until Arthur tightened the nozzle. The fourth pocket contained a pair of light leather fingerless gloves, which he put on. The fifth had an apparently unused cleaning cloth, a small cleaning brush and a cake of soap that had BEST QUALITY WATERLESS PERPETUAL SOAP stamped on it.
The sixth pouch was empty. Arthur tested its strap, then quickly slipped his elephant and the Fifth Key inside.
He looked around to see if anyone had seen him, but it looked like he had managed to be surreptitious. That done, he took the soap back out of the fifth pouch and tried it on an oily patch on his coveralls. Part of the stain was erased with surprising ease. Arthur was about to clean it off completely, but paused to look once more at the other grease monkeys, most of whom were now putting on their gear.
All of them had stained coveralls, and Alyse’s coveralls were the most splotched of all, with at least a dozen different-coloured oil stains.
Arthur quietly put the soap back in its pouch and put the belt on. Suzy was putting her belt on too, farther down the line. She waved at him and smiled.
Having fun as usual, thought Arthur. She lives in the moment. I wish I could.
He smiled a slight smile and waved back, then drew out his shifting wrench and hefted it, slapping the head against his palm. It was very shiny and very heavy. The screw-wheel that opened and shut the mouth of the wrench was gritted up, so Arthur quickly cleaned it with the brush and applied a spot of grease from his grease gun, not noticing that Alyse was watching him with approval.
‘They can scrub us between the ears,’ she said, ‘but good workers never forget to look after their gear.’
She climbed up onto one of the tables and waited expectantly. The last of the grease monkeys finished putting on his belt, and they all turned around to face their leader. Arthur and Suzy followed a beat behind.
‘Are we ready?’ asked Alyse.
‘Ready!’ called the grease monkeys.
‘Then let’s go!’ Alyse jumped off the table and took her place at the head of the line. The grease monkeys did a right turn that would have made Arthur’s old drill instructor Sergeant Helve start screaming at the informality and slovenliness of it. Completely out of step, they marched to the door.
TWELVE
ALYSE UNBARRED AND opened the door. Splashing through the first puddle outside, she led the grease monkeys out onto a rainy, cobble-paved square that was surrounded on three sides by warehouse-style buildings made of riveted iron, and on the fourth side by the sharp corner of a truly vast and massive construction.
There was a bedraggled reception committee waiting outside. A group of a dozen Denizens huddled under black umbrellas, wearing long black coats over grey waistcoats and pale-blue shirts, with grey cravats and hats that were like tophats, only not so tall. Their white trousers were tucked into green waterproof Wellington boots and they stood in a semicircular line around the door.
Alyse ignored them, splashing between them toward the huge building that Arthur figured was the one Suzy had spotted from the window of the warehouse. Now that they were closer, he could see it was a tower that stretched up and out of sight, its great bulk appearing to rise even higher than the pallid, rain-obscured sun that hung off to one side.
Arthur could now also see what he had been told – that this tower was completely made up of boxlike office units that had no walls and latticed floors, so you could see a long way up the inside. It was rather like looking into a modern glass skyscraper at night, if that skyscraper also had interior glass walls.
Judging from the closer offices, which Arthur could see into very distinctly, each one of these little boxes was inhabited by a Denizen working at a desk. Each desk had a green-shaded lamp and an umbrella over it. The umbrellas, Arthur noted, were of many different shades and colours, although he couldn’t figure out why.
Arthur was second last in the line of grease monkeys. The grease monkey behind him stopped to shut the door behind them, then ran to catch up. He was a good foot shorter than Arthur, had brown hair as badly cut as Alyse’s, and big sticking-out ears. Instead of marching behind Arthur, he walked next to him, spat on his palm, and offered his hand.
‘Whrod,’ he said. ‘Bolt-turner Second Class. We’ll probably be working together.’
‘Rod?’ asked Arthur, remembering to spit this time before he shook.
‘Whah-rod,’ said Whrod.
‘Good to meet you,’ Arthur replied, but he was already looking over Whrod’s shoulder at the black-suited umbrella wielders who had begun to follow them in a doleful fashion.
‘Don’t mind them,’ said Whrod, following Arthur’s glance. ‘Sorcerous Supernumeraries. Detailed to kill us if the Piper shows up and tries to make us do something. Terrible job for them, standing outside in the rain all night, not to mention trying to follow us all day and never quite managing to catch up. Still, they’re used to disappointment.’
‘Uh, why?’ Arthur asked. They certainly looked miserable. He’d never seen such mournful-looking Denizens. Even Monday’s Midnight Visitors hadn’t looked so terminally depressed.
‘They’re Sorcerous Supernumeraries, of course,’ said Whrod. ‘Failed their exams to become proper sorcerers and can’t get a decent post in the Upper House. They’ve got no chance of moving up higher than the floor . . . It gets them down.’
‘Why don’t they leave? Go to some other part of the House?’
Whrod looked at Arthur.
‘You did get a good washing, didn’t you? No one leaves Superior Saturday’s service. Unless you get drafted like you did, and then it’s only for a hundred years. Besides, I reckon they secretly enjoy being miserable. Gives them a focus in life. Come on, we’re lagging behind.’
Whrod walked faster, and Arthur picked up his pace. Behind them, the Sorcerous Supernumeraries followed at a gloomy lope.
Alyse led them into the base of the tower. Arthur thought they would go through a door and a corridor, but instead they just walked into an office, filing past the desk of a Denizen who was watching something in what looked like a shaving mirror. At the same time he was writing on two separate pieces of paper with a quill pen in each hand, occasionally dipping them in a tarnished copper-gilt inkwell. The umbrella that shielded his desk from the rain and the constant rush of water from above was dark brown and rather mouldy, letting in numerous drips that somehow only fell on the Denizen and not on his work.
He didn’t look up as the grease monkeys and their shadowing Sorcerous Supernumeraries filed past. Nor did the next one, nor the next, nor the one after that. By the fiftieth office, Arthur didn’t expect any of them to do anything but look at their mirror and write feverishly.
At the fifty-first office, Alyse held up her hand and everyone halted. She climbed up to one corner of the Denizen’s desk and, stretching to her full height, made some adjustment to a six-inch-wide pipe. Now that Arthur’s attention was drawn to it, he saw that there was a network of similar pipes that ran through every office and horizontally under the floor of the offices above, with junctions every now and then for vertical pipes that ran up the corners of certain offices, like the one Alyse was in.
‘What are those pipes?’ Arthur asked Whrod.
The grease monkey gave Arthur another look of disbelief.
‘They done a job on you,’ he said. ‘Practically the village idiot. Those pipes—’
He was cut off as Arthur gripped him by the collar of his coveralls and lifted him up, twisting the cloth tight upon his throat.
‘What did you call me?’ he hissed.
‘Arghh,’ Whrod choked out. His right hand felt for the wrench at his side, but before he could draw it, Arthur grabbed his wrist with his left hand and squeezed.
‘Ar – I mean, Ray – drop him!’
Suzy’s voice penetrated the total focus of rage that had gripped Arthur. He shivered and let go, and Whrod fell at his feet. Suzy ran up and slid to a halt next to him, immediately holding on to his arm. Arthur wasn’t sure if it was a gesture of friendship and solidarity or a preparation to restrain him.
The Sorcerous Supernumeraries, who were spread out through several adjoining offices, glided closer, some of them even forgetting themselves so much as to look directly at what was going on, rather than stare at the ground and take occasional furtive glances when required.
‘Sorry,’ Arthur whispered. He lifted his head and took a gulp of air and a faceful of water, most of which splashed off his goggles. ‘Sorry . . . I think . . . my head’s not quite right. I take insults badly.’
Whrod felt his throat, then got up.
‘Didn’t mean nothing by it,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’re strong – stronger than anyone I ever met.’
‘A hundred years in the Army will do that,’ said Suzy. ‘Come along, Ray.’
‘What’s the holdup?’ called out Alyse from up front.
‘Nothing! All sorted!’ answered Suzy.
‘I really am sorry,’ said Arthur. He offered his hand to Whrod, who hesitated, then shook briefly. Neither of them spat, and Arthur wondered whether this meant anything. He couldn’t tell under the peaked cap and the goggles whether Whrod was looking at him with newly kindled hatred, curiosity or some other emotion.
I’ll have to watch my back. It’s easy enough to fall if you’re pushed, and even I might not survive a twelve-thousand-foot fall.
‘The pipes,’ Whrod said carefully, ‘are pneumatic message tubes. For sending records and messages around. They’re not used much down here, not among the lowest of the low. These clerks just copy stuff, and their papers are taken and delivered by slow messenger.’
‘Thanks,’ Arthur muttered.
They started walking again, trailing through more offices, mostly in a straight line with an occasional detour, such as one made to avoid an office that was essentially in the midst of a raging waterfall. The sodden Denizen there bravely continued to work on her completely dry papers as water cascaded from her head and shoulders, her stoved-in umbrella at her side.
Around the hundredth office, Arthur noticed a noise coming from somewhere ahead – a deep, rumbling noise that sounded as if there were a very large coffee grinder working away. It got louder as they continued walking, until it was so loud that it drowned out the sound of the rain, the drips and even the swoosh of an occasional cascade from above.
The noise came from an open space up ahead, which Arthur could only glimpse through the offices, umbrellas and the grease monkeys ahead of him.
When they got closer, he saw there was a small cleared area the size of several office units, bordered by massive vertical iron beams in each corner, with similar horizontal beams above at the next level of offices, and more beyond that, a square strut of iron box-work that went up and up and up.
In the middle of this shaft, two chains hummed and groaned and rattled. One went up and one went down, through a grilled hole that every few seconds emitted a waft of steam and smoke.
The chains were not like the one Arthur and Suzy had ridden up from the oil warehouse. They were more like bicycle chains, huge bicycle chains, with each link six feet wide and six feet high. In the space in the middle of each link, there were rings welded to the inside wall. Sometimes there were frayed ropes tied to these rings, and sometimes even a welded iron chair or a bench.