Pile of Bones (21 page)

“Excuse her,” the artifex said absently. “She’s newly made.”

The towers had always intrigued him. Built to please Fortuna, they provided a haven, court, and school for each of the day gens. The Tower of Artifices, over time, had become more of a workshop than a place of worship, and Babieca saw very little obeisance going on. You were supposed to turn inward, to regard yourself and your place on Fortuna’s wheel, but the artifices concentrated entirely on deciphering
scrolls and tablets. They were thinking about their next project, not their fate. He didn’t know what went on in those towers devoted to the night gens, but he’d heard stories.

The meretrix would know. He’s of the night gens.

The Tower of Meretrices, he thought, must be a giant basia fucking the skyline. A monument to love and coin. He pictured Felix kissing the wheel. He must have had his reasons for taking the mask. As Roldan had pointed out, trovadores and meretrices were separated only by a spoke on the wheel, parallel gens that watched each other uneasily. Music’s reverie was not so far from love’s. Both songs loosened the limbs, both made you close your eyes, wishing to lock the moment in amber. Perhaps it was useless to assume any moral high ground.

Babieca reached the top floor. Light cut through tall, red-tinted windows, making everyone look as if they’d been drawn fresh from the forge. Unlike the sanctum of sagittarii, which had been sparse and well ordered, this room was a blaze of activity. Builders were gathered in loud groups, comparing machines, swapping parts, decrying the tools of their rivals. Devices leapt and played at their feet, sparking, clattering, making awkward circles, while their creators looked on with fierce pride. The altar to the goddess was covered in mechanical debris. Her wheel turned, powered by water, but its hiss was drowned out by the cries of the builders. Only a single artifex knelt before it. Babieca spied a lock of red hair, which had escaped from her cowl, and smiled.

He knelt beside her. “What do you ask of Fortuna?”

She turned, and her eyes widened. “What are you doing here?”

“Answer my question,
and I’ll answer yours.”

The young artifex glanced around the room. “You’re wanted, you know. You, the auditor, and the crazy archer who felled the silenus. Anyone in this tower could find a dozen ways to spend the reward they’d earn for your capture.”

“They’re distracted, and I have an unremarkable face. Answer my question.”

“I’m asking forgiveness.”

“Well, you should. That bee nearly killed a basilissa.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“You can’t deny that you’re in as deep as we are.”

“You’re practically underwater. I’m still clinging to the shore.”

“Let go of the branch and help us.”

Her look was between fear and anger. “I’m not yet a builder. Just a nemo with no die and no machina to serve her. Basilissa Latona won’t hesitate to kill me.”

“Nor us. It’s going to be a huge killing party, which is why you should come.”

“How are you so flippant about this?”

Babieca held his hand out to Fortuna’s wheel, letting it graze his fingers as it passed. Though the motion was artificial, it still made him feel less alone.

“I’m scared,” he said. “Like you, I’m no die-carrier. I’ve no right to ask a boon of the goddess. All I have is music and a bit of luck. But my fear doesn’t matter. If Basilissa Pulcheria dies, there will be war. Die-carriers and dominae are going to decide the course of that war. But the nemones—you and I—will be ground underfoot. We won’t have a chance. I don’t know about you, but I love this city. I want more time. I want to grow. If Anfractus goes to war, I’ll be stoking a hypocaust again, if I don’t become a meal for some hungry silenus.”

The artifex considered his words for a moment. Then she leaned in, speaking even lower in spite of the noise around her.

“I may have an answer,” she said. “But it’s in the undercroft.”

“Can you sneak me in?”

“We’ll need to find you a proper tunica. If nobody’s looking too closely, you might pass for a builder. Follow me.”

She led him to the floor below. It was an empty tabularium. The stone shelves were filled with scroll cases and pumiced covers, along with ragged strands of decaying papyrus. Next to one of the shelves, someone had placed a wooden crate. Babieca saw that it was filled with an odd
assortment: lenses, gears and bolts, a sandal, bent wires, a broken nutcracker.

“What is that?”

“A vessel for lost things. Every floor has them. Artifices are incredibly forgetful.”

She reached all the way to the bottom, withdrawing a soiled tunica. It was covered in grease spots and sported multiple tears. Brushing the flies away, she shook out the tunica, then handed it to Babieca.

“This has been here for weeks. I think it belonged to one of the more ancient builders. He’s a bit touched now, and sometimes he leaves his clothes in the oddest places.”

“Did he piss in that?”

“I imagine so. Put it on.”

“You’re joking.”

“Were you planning to knock someone out and steal their clothes? There’s hardly time for that, and it will draw notice, even from this lot. Put on the tunica. I’ll say that you’re my idiot brother and I’ve just dragged you from a ditch somewhere.”

“I feel as if you planned this.”

He undressed, folding his own tunica neatly and laying it in the vessel. Then, shuddering, he put on the soiled garment. This close to his skin, it smelled faintly of vomit, among other things. He stifled a gag. His flesh was crawling, but he couldn’t argue with her logic. Attacking an artifex would be stupid. This might actually work, unpleasant though it was.

Babieca followed her down the spiral stairs. A few of the less-distracted builders looked up as he passed, wrinkling their noses. Their interest waned after a moment, and they returned to their tasks. A filthy artifex wasn’t enough to fully divert their attention. The air grew chill as they passed underground, to the lowest level. A bored builder stood by the entrance to the undercroft, reading a tablet. He looked up, and his eyes narrowed.

“Who’s he? Why does he reek?”

“Found him passed out beneath the aqueduct,” she replied. “He’s family, though. What can you do?”

“If I found my brother in that state, I’d leave him there.”

She gave him a long look. His expression suddenly changed, as if he’d only now recognized her. Then, paling slightly, he nodded.

“Sure. Go ahead.”

They passed through the door that led to the undercroft.

“What was that about?” Babieca whispered.

“It’s complicated. I’ll explain later.”

His reply died softly as he took in the room. It was twice as large as any undercroft that he’d seen before, with a vaulted ceiling. Mosaics on the walls depicted Fortuna as architect, laying the foundations of Anfractus. Devices of every shape and size were gathered in piles, some of which came close to brushing the ceiling. Babieca saw clusters of lodestones and glass spheres for kindling fire. There were alarm clocks, door openers, self-trimming lamps that would burn all night if left alone. Discarded sundials and water clocks had been pushed against the walls, next to rusted pumps and lengths of broken chain. One pile was composed entirely of wooden birds, which must have warbled at one time but were now silent.

“We keep all manner of things here,” she said. “Broken machinae, toys that never worked, devices no longer in fashion.”

Babieca regarded a giant water screw leaning against the wall. Its teeth reminded him of a savage, burrowing animal. Next to it was a glittering case with a brass disc inside.

“What’s that thing?” He pointed to the small box.

“You can attach it to a wagon. It chimes with regularity, letting you know what distance you’ve traveled.”

“Strange,” he said, surveying the clocks and dials, “how officious we are about parceling out time. All that really matters is day and night.”

“Time is rhythm. Without it, there’d be no music.”

“You’ve got an answer for everything.”

“That’s what my mother used to say.”

He followed her through the chamber. Glass counters winked at him from the mounds, resting amid shattered
spokes and bits of leather. He saw dispensers with coin slots—which he knew had once been popular—huddled next to a cracked water organ. In one corner was a frightening mechanical likeness of Fortuna. The paint was peeling from her face, and she held a libation cup whose gems had been pried off.

“The cup used to pour milk,” the artifex said. “And her eyes moved, or so I’ve heard. Such things are deemed ostentatious now. Latona buried it here, along with whatever else she thought was too bright or loud.”

“She may have been right about that one,” Babieca admitted. “I wouldn’t want Fortuna’s torso splashing milk on me.”

He followed her to the dimmest fold of the undercroft. There sat a pile of rings, fibulae, and other adornments. Most were rusted, but a few still held chips of onyx and chalcedony. They were fashioned into countless shapes: diminutive wheels, vine leaves, nightingales, and the inevitable cock meant as a fertility charm.

“Fibulae used to be a huge business,” she said. “You could fit them with all kinds of concealed mechanisms. A bird would chirp at your breast. A snake would writhe about your finger, driven by the teeth of tiny gears. A few of them, the older ones, even had real power. They could let you walk unseen in the middle of the day or give you the gift of many tongues. But that art was lost centuries ago. Now, they’re just bright, useless things.”

“If they’re so useless, why did you take me here?”

She looked away. “I’ve done a bit of research on the bee fibula.”

“I knew it.”

“I tore through every tablet. Some of the schematics and descriptions were beyond my understanding, but I did find something that mentioned a similar device. It had multiple functions—the most obvious being a sonic diversion, meant to draw the attention of the silenoi. Like a dog whistle.”

He watched her dig through the abandoned lapidary. She picked up a copper bird, examined its base for a moment, then put it back.

“What are you looking for?”

“The bee is only part of the mechanism,” she said absently, plunging her hands deep into the gleaming pile. “With the base, you can call the insect to you, or even send it flying back to the one who made it. We may not have the original base, but according to what I’ve read, they were all built along the same principles.”

His eyes widened. “Are you saying that you can make one?”

“I can try. I’ve got all the spare parts that I could ask for, and like I said, I’ve studied the fibula. I’m no expert, but I may be able to fashion something close.”

“I can see why Narses chose you.”

She looked slightly embarrassed. “Don’t sing my praises yet. Much of this is beyond repair. Just try to be quiet, and watch the door.”

He fell silent, watching her instead. She was too distracted to notice. Her hands moved quickly, lifting and sorting, occasionally removing a piece to lay it aside. She assembled a collection of small gears, a silver beak, three lengths of wire, a brass disc, and something triangular that he couldn’t identify. He watched her break brooches, sifting through their interiors and taking what she needed. The resulting hoard seemed random to him, but she stared at it thoughtfully, examining bright fragments. Eventually, she began to fasten things together. She tested gears, rubbing their brass teeth along her thumb. Like the artifices he’d seen on the steps, her mind was entirely focused.

Something moved in one of the piles.

“Did you hear that?”

She ignored him. The room was silent for a moment. Then he heard it again, a discrete rustling in the debris. He prepared himself to face a murderous machina, or perhaps the crazy old artifex that she’d mentioned earlier, whose stinking tunica he wore. What emerged from the pile, though, was neither of those things. He actually felt relief when he saw those familiar black orbs, swiveling in their brass sockets.

“Sulpicia! How long have you been here?”

At this, the young artifex looked up. Whatever she’d been assembling dropped from her suddenly nerveless grasp. Her eyes widened.

“Long enough to see that this one knows what she’s doing.” The fox regarded her mildly. “You’re trying to reconstruct a fibula, correct?”

She stared at the fox’s whirring tail. “Are you—what I think you are?”

“Her name’s Sulpicia,” Babieca said. “And yes.”

Gently, as if reaching toward insubstantial smoke, the artifex held out her hand. Sulpicia raised a single brass paw. Girl and machina touched, briefly. She stared at the fox in wonder. Her mouth moved slowly, but no words came out.

“You’ve done a nice job,” Sulpicia said. “You’re missing something, though. Here.” She nudged a small piece of brass across the floor. “Use this. It won’t be pretty, but that’s not really the point of the thing.”

“I thought you lived in the Arx of Violets.”

“Every now and again, my brother and I like to visit this place and check on the builders. Mostly to ensure that you don’t forge a weapon or burn down the city.”

“And”—she looked uncertainly at Babieca—“you know each other.”

“I fainted in his friend’s arms,” Sulpicia said. “Or pretended to, at any rate. Now go on. Attach the last piece. I want to see if it works.”

With shaking fingers, she attached the final component. What she held resembled a short rod with gleaming parts. Nothing happened at first. Then Babieca heard a low clicking noise, which seemed to come from the fibula. The artifex looked at it uncertainly, as if it might catch fire or devour her hand.

“What’s it doing?”

“You’ll see.” The fox lay down, examining her paws. “There aren’t many devices like that left in the city. If the creature is nearby, it should—”

Babieca heard a buzzing. At first it was faint, but it grew louder. A smile broke across his face when he saw a blurry
spark rush through the open doorway. Like a scrap of quicksilver, it flew directly toward the fibula. The artifex, to her credit, stayed still. The bee circled her hand, then alighted on the fibula, as if it were a flower petal. Babieca drew closer. He could see the insect’s wings, fluttering rapidly. He noticed an unmistakable spot of green on its reflective underside. A dot of emerald blood.