Authors: Simon Kewin
He turned and picked one of the metal objects from a brass trolley behind him. He unwrapped it and held it up for them all to see, admiring it as if it was a wonderful fruit he had plucked from a tree. It was about the size and shape, thought Finn, of a sheep’s heart. He had often watched one of the Baron’s men butcher one of the creatures, fascinated at how it could flower into so much meat and offal and bone, at how much blood puddled the earth.
‘You, Boyle. What do you think this is?’
‘I don’t know, Master. A weapon of some sort?’
‘Does it look like a weapon, boy?’
‘Not really, Master.’
‘Then why did you say it was?’
The boys sniggered at Boyle’s humiliation. Satisfied, Master Owyn continued.
‘These are self-governing valves. They are used throughout Engn. They are an essential component of countless mechanisms and devices. Without the miracle of this simple device, the machine would not function. You, Croft, What did I say it was called?’
‘A valve, Master,’ said Croft. ‘A self-governing valve.’
Master Owyn grunted, then held the device up to his eye to indicate there were holes bored through it. He rotated on the spot, looking at each of them as if through a telescope.
‘Vapour or liquid flows through these bores. But the flow is moderated by the helical valve mechanisms within. As I turn this knurled wheel you will see a spring-loaded flange inside the tube closing. It is possible, by accurate turning of the various wheels, to control the flow of the liquid or gas down any one of three different channels or even back the way it came. Do you understand?’
He passed the device to Croft, standing at one end of the semi-circle.
‘Pass it round. Examine it closely. You must each become adept at constructing these valves.’
Croft glanced at it for a moment then handed it on to Finn, smirking as he dropped it unexpectedly into Finn’s half-outstretched hand so that it nearly fell to the floor. The valve was heavy, almost solid metal. Its surface was highly polished, gleaming and black at the same time. Finn turned it over and over in his hands, noting the knobs and wheels the master had mentioned. He could make little sense of it. There were, in fact, a total of seven round holes bored through it of varying diameters, each meeting in the centre of the valve. A small plate riveted on one side of the valve presumably allowed access to the inner workings. A single, long number was etched onto the plate.
He could see no way of attaching the valve to any pipes or ducts; there was no thread or seal around any of the holes. But there must be a way. He passed the valve on, marvelling at the complexity of Engn. How were so many valves controlled? There must be hundreds under construction in the room, and a great train of the trolleys already full beside the table waiting to be wheeled away. They were self-governing, so presumably, they needed no adjustment once set up. But how were so many thousands and thousands of tiny wheels and screws adjusted so that water and gas flowed in precisely the right amounts to their correct destinations? How were they monitored and checked so that worn out ones were replaced before they failed? It was a marvel that it all worked, that the great wheels turned without failing.
‘Now, follow me,’ said the master, turning away from them, his cape billowing out around him.
He strode towards the table and indicated to Graves, Bellow and Croft three empty seats where they were to sit. To Finn’s eye, the boys looked suddenly smaller as they sat down, like children at an adult’s table. A man pushed another brass trolley around the inside of the table and he stopped, now, in front of Bellow. Before him he set out, in a very precise and careful way, an array of metal objects that he picked from his trolley. They were the individual parts of a completed valve, Finn could see, the outer casing itself along with an assortment of delicate springs, clips and bearings.
‘Touch nothing for now,’ said the master.
He led the rest of the group around the table, stopping at each empty seat to indicate to one of them where they should sit. Soon there was only Finn left, and no unoccupied places around the great table. What did the master have planned for him now? The thought that it might, again, be some special treatment, something to mark him out from the rest, filled him with a flood of anxiety. He saw Croft nudging Bellow over by the doorway, nodding at Finn. Then Bellow said something and they both laughed, relishing Finn’s discomfort.
Finn carried on walking, following the master. They were on the opposite side of the great room now. Another entrance led off here, its high wooden doors covered in scratches and scuff marks. These were barged open as another trolley load of valve parts was wheeled in. Finn caught a glimpse of what lay beyond: an unlit passageway and then another brightly lit room. He could also see, silhouetted against the far doorway, four standing figures: more Ironclads by their outlines, protecting that far room. What went on through there?
The master stopped behind one of the artificers, an old man with a bald head and a bushy grey beard billowing out from his chin. The man’s head was slick with sweat from the naphtha lamps. Finn watched as he constructed one of the valves with a practised flick of his fingers, placing clips and springs into the device with the greatest care.
The master tapped the man on the shoulder and he turned around quickly, startled, confusion clear on his face. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, so lost had he been in his work.
‘This is the boy’s place now,’ said the master. ‘Complete the valve you are constructing and go.’
The man didn’t move. He clearly had trouble understanding what the master meant. ‘Go? But … I’ve worked here forty years. Never missed a day. I can’t just go.’
‘This boy is taking your place now.’
The man looked at each of them in turn. ‘But where do I go?’
‘Where did you come from?’
There was another pause as the man considered the question. ‘Across the plain. Enloth in the Greendowns.’
‘Then there.’
The man’s lips moved but no words came out. He looked at Finn as if he might be able to explain what was happening, then turned back to the table and the valve he was working on. Forty years thought Finn. How many valves had he constructed in that time? Had he sat here, in this same chair, all that time? And what would happen to him once he left Engn? Finn had never heard of Enloth. Perhaps it didn’t exist anymore. But the Greendowns were a long way distant. Many weeks’ travel. Could this man even make such a journey?
The man completed the valve he was working on and laid it gently on the table before him. He sat still for a moment, staring at the completed valve, then at his hands. They were rough and calloused, the colour of tanned leather. The man breathed out, his shoulders sagging. One of the trolleymen picked up the valve, wrapped it in a sheet of green cloth, and placed it into his brass cart before trundling on around the table. The man stood up, collecting his tools from the tabletop.
‘Leave the tools,’ said the master. ‘The boy will use them now.’
‘Leave them?’
‘Leave them.’
The man stared at the tools in his hands for a moment, his brow furrowed as if he was trying to understand some difficult idea. Then he set them back down. He walked away from Finn and the master, back around the table towards the doorway to the Octagon. Finn expected him to look around as he went, see the room one last time, say goodbye to the other artificers, but he went with his eyes fixed ahead of him, saying nothing. In a few moments he was gone.
Finn sat down on the wooden chair, still warm from the old man. The pieces of another valve were being laid out on the table before him. He tried to see how they might fit together, how the mechanism operated, but could not.
‘Instruct the boy,’ said the master, talking to a woman who sat next to Finn, working on a valve of her own. The woman nodded. She was younger then the old man. Perhaps the same age as his mother. But her face was expressionless, no warmth to it, as she glanced up at Finn. She had her brown hair tied back in a rough sheaf, giving her face a taut appearance. Her hands were as calloused as the man’s had been. Once she completed the valve she was working on, she turned to Finn.
‘Right handed? Take the valve body in your left hand, and one of the pressure clips in your right. There’s a slot right inside you have to hook it into. Twist it around as you push and it will snap into place.’
Finn stared at the objects before him, trying to understand what he was being told. The valve body was obvious enough but there were any number of metal pieces that might be pressure clips.
‘Here,’ said the woman, irritation clear in her voice. She picked up a crescent-moon shaped metal strip with a saw-like edge and gave it to Finn. ‘Place this end in the trunk tube and twist it into place.’
Finn tried to follow the woman’s instructions. He managed to work the clip into the hole but couldn’t get it to clip into place.
‘Press harder,’ said the woman. ‘You have a child’s fingers.’
Finn tried to twist the clip around. It was hard inside the narrow valve tube. He scraped off skin from around his knuckles, exposing delicate pink flesh that pooled with blood.
‘Harder. This should only take you a moment,’ said the woman.
There was a snap as the clip fitted into place and, immediately, a shock of pain in Finn’s index finger. He cried and let the valve thump down to the table. His finger was bleeding openly, the pain raw. It looked as if its tip had been sheered off by the serrated edge of the clip.
The woman smiled and held up her own right hand. The curved end of her middle-finger was gone too, although it was healed over now.
‘You’ll get the hang of it,’ she said. ‘Once the bleeding has stopped, try the other clip. The trick is to pull your finger out of the way at just the right moment.’
Finn wrapped a rag around his bleeding finger, the oil on it making his wound sting. He squeezed hard to staunch the flow of blood.
He looked around the room. No-one paid him any attention. It seemed no-one had even heard him cry out over the background thrum. Master Owyn had left. Directly opposite him sat Bellow and Croft, each of them lost in concentration, struggling to get their own clips into place. Finn watched them, waiting to see what would happen; whether they, too, would catch the ends of their fingers. He could probably warn them by shouting across the room. He decided not to. With comic timing, both managed to work their clips into place at precisely the same moment, dropping their valves and yelping in unison. Finn couldn’t stop himself smiling at the sight of them.
‘The man who sat here,’ said Finn to the woman. ‘What was his name?’
‘No talking,’ she said, her attention back on her next valve.
Above the woman’s head, on the wall, was a great, brass counting frame made up of rows and rows of black metal beads sliding along horizontal runners. He studied it, trying to make sense of it. Each row was numbered. Finn watched as one of the trolleymen picked up a long wooden rod and flicked some of the beads to the right, consulting a piece of paper as he did so. The man glanced across at Finn, then clacked all the beads on another of the rows back to the left.
A tally of how many valves you produced. He could just make out a green, oval plaque next to his row that said 56. His number. He returned his attention to his valve. The bleeding had stopped now. He lifted another clip and prepared to work it into place.
They worked for six hours, then after a short break another six. Then another six. Half the day, all told. By the end, Finn’s head throbbed and he could barely keep his eyes open. Three of his fingertips were bandaged. He followed Graves, Croft, Bellow and the others out of the room and back into the refectory for more food. This time, at least, he was hungry and very, very thirsty. He ate the lumpy stew without talking to any of the other boys. At least the others all looked exhausted, too. With any luck they would be too tired to bother him that night.
In the end they came for Boyle in the next bed that night. Finn lay with his head under his covers, listening as the other boy cried out in pain. Graves, Bellow, Croft and a couple of others took turns punching Boyle through his bedclothes. The contents of his cupboard were thrown out of the window. They threatened to hurl Boyle out, too. The rest of the boys said nothing and did nothing. Finn, relieved they weren’t attacking him, did nothing either. What could he do?
Plans for escape, for the destruction of Engn, buzzed around in his exhausted mind. He wondered if Connor had ever slept in this room. He shut out the sounds of Boyle’s bed being lifted and turned upside with the boy trapped underneath it. Within moments, he fell into exhausted asleep.
The small brass case Master Owyn had given him on the first evening woke him at three quarters to the sixth bell. Finn slept with it under his pillow, now, terrified he wouldn’t hear its gentle buzzing. It was a clock of sorts but with no dial or hands, no features at all except for a small square hole on one side. And, embossed in tiny figures on its base, the number 520. You could hear a gentle ticking and whirring from inside it if you put it to your ear. The little device woke Finn every morning, so that he could ring the sixth bell to wake up all the others.
He rose and dressed as quietly as he could. A thin light slanted in through the window. The other boys were stationary shapes underneath their blankets, breathing peacefully as he crept past. Boyle, next to him, hadn’t managed to right his iron bed. He lay asleep on just his mattress, knotted up in a tangle of sheets and blankets.
Finn stepped out of the dormitory, closing the door as gently as he could. He crossed to the door on the far side of the balcony. He ran as quickly as he could, conscious of the great gulf of space beneath him. The balcony, like the winding steps, had little in the way of support to hold it up. Through the other door was the cramped spiral of wooden steps Master Owyn had shown him. They led up higher and higher before opening into a small, dusty room filled with wooden crates, cobwebs and broken beds. A small, square skylight above his head gave him a view of the clock tower overhead and, elongated by the oblique angle, the face of the clock he had to time himself by.