Tristan snorted again. “No doubt they’ll be sighing over me and saying things like, ‘My, he was a fine looking youth before the Machine got to him’.”
“You flatter yourself,” said Rafe, keeping his tone light, but he gave Tristan a warning look over the head of the measurer. It was one thing to express his feelings in privacy among friends, another to have it known abroad that the Crown Prince and future Machine Operator was not happy about taking on his hereditary role for the public good.
“I haven’t seen you at all since you returned,” said Tristan abruptly. “What are you doing here?”
“What, I’m not allowed to pay a visit to my favorite cousin? Care to meet me for a practice round at Westbridge’s?”
“Huh. What about your work?”
“I’m on leave.” Rafe shrugged a shoulder.
“Oh?” Tristan raised both his eyebrows. He had never managed Rafe’s trick of the one-eyebrow lift, and it had always rankled him. “Well, not entirely unexpected after Blackstone and Ironheart.” His tone was snide.
Rafe kept his expression amiable, though the insinuation about his failures stung. He said with casual rue, “They were going to send me to Clearwater on a routine assignment but the Fisher Council complained. They’d prefer their city remain intact. So here I am.”
Tristan raised his nose in the air. “Unlike you,
I
have responsibilities. I’ve been assisting Father in the Operations Room and attending meetings and taking notes. Just like I’m supposed to. I’m being
good
.” The last word was etched with bitterness.
An irritated voice rose from beyond an archway. “Don’t pester me now, Arnold. Why else are you around but to deal with things like that? That’s your job, not mine.” Roland stumped into the room, wiping his blackened fingertips with an oily rag. “Do they think I’m some kind of scorched speechwriter?” he demanded of the conservatory at large. “Oh, hullo, Rafe. Haven’t seen you much since that Blackstone debacle. Ah, and there’s Tristan, too.” Roland beamed fondly at his son and Tristan flushed and looked away.
Roland dismissed the measuring man with a wave, then turned to Rafe. “Tris has come along well, wonderfully well, these past few weeks. I thought I’d never make a king out of him. He hardly showed any interest in the Machine. Why, when I was his age, I was in the Operations Room every day, polishing levers and oiling wheels, anything I could do to show my father that I was serious about the work. Tristan? Nothing. But then one day, he comes to me and says, ‘Father, I’m ready to take on some responsibility, ready to step into my role. Show me how.’ And I did, and he’s doing wonderfully, really wonderfully.”
Tristan winced at this effusive praise and developed a fascination with his feet.
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Rafe guardedly, after a sidelong look at Tristan.
“I could use the extra help,” said Roland bluntly, “after the Assembly’s latest vote. Rocquespur pushed his cohorts into it—even got some of the cool heads in the Assembly to vote yes. Him and his five seats. Leo’s been trying for years to revoke that privilege.” Roland shook his head.
Rafe said nothing. He didn’t like Oakhaven sinking to Blackstone’s level. For all his life, Oakhaven had stood for liberty. Now she was taking over a former ally. What was it with Rocquespur and his ability to bring out greed and avarice in everyone?
Roland was less concerned about the morality of Oakhaven’s foreign policy than the logistical burden it imposed on him. “Do you know how many resources I need to shift to supply Ironheart?” he grumbled. “And the antimachinist leadership is still at liberty.”
“Have there been any new developments, sir?”
Roland grimaced. “We’ve circulated posters based on Tristan’s descriptions, but no one’s come forward yet. What we have found out is that they’re a well-funded group, with access to high-level government information. It could be anyone in the bureaucracy so we’re keeping things tight around here. Wil’s got a plan.” Roland lowered his voice and leaned in. “We’ve laid a trap for them on Elm Street for tomorrow after moonset. Leaked the word that we’re moving vital machine components on the Circle Line ahead of schedule. That should bring the maggots out.” Roland rubbed his hands together. “All they’ll find, though, is a lot of soldiers packing rifles and grenades.” Rafe glanced over the King’s shoulder and noted Tristan listening intently. When he caught Rafe’s eye, Tristan dropped his own gaze. There was something shifty about his stance.
A silvery chime sounded. The King beamed. “There she is, calling me. I must go.” And off he rushed, back to the Machine.
Rafe looked at Tristan. “So what about that fencing? I could use the practice, I’m afraid. You’ll be able to even the score dramatically today.”
Tristan shook his head. “Sorry. I have an appointment in the city. Father’s got me observing the light machinery at work, talking with the operators and all that.”
“I’ll come with you, then,” said Rafe. “I might need a career change some day.” Tristan shrugged. It wasn’t an invitation, but without an outright refusal, Rafe strode beside his cousin with determined cheerfulness.
Rafe kept up some casual conversation as they left the palace, squeezed into an empty trolley with Tristan and his guards, and rode it into the Iron District. Once back on the cobbled streets and out of earshot of the trailing guards, Rafe asked, “So, tell me, what are the valid points the antimachinists are making?”
Tristan started. “Wha…? You heard my father that day. Are you trying to get me disowned?”
“No. You’ll note that I waited until we were safely out of the palace to bring this up. Come, now. You’ve been giving this some thought. Probably even have a copy or two of their literature under the mattress.”
Tristan looked very guilty.
Rafe groaned. “Seriously?”
“Well, isn’t it good military strategy to know the enemy?” began Tristan belligerently.
“Yes, but for Sel’s sake, don’t hide anything you don’t want found under the mattress! It’s never as safe as you think. Trust me, that’s the first place anyone will look.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll just… um… move it.”
“Burn it,” advised Rafe. “Be sure to stay nearby until it’s all gone up in smoke and turned to ashes.”
“I will.” Tristan took a moment to gather his wits. “But, anyway, the antimachinists have several points. Like, machines taking the jobs that people could do.”
“Yes, because people are lining up in queues stretching for miles, shovels in hand, ready to dig the subways and mine tunnels,” said Rafe, dryly.
“Well, no. There’s nothing wrong with machines doing
that
sort of work
.
But there’s all the new machinery in the factories, taking over making cloth and furniture and such. The jobs women did to bring in a little bit extra, but now you have to go work in a factory to do now. And then Ma—well, one of the main antimachinist people says that the upper classes—that’s us—is using the machinery and the agri-caves to lord it over the rest of the people, keep them helpless and dependent.”
“Yes, I believe that the whole Blackstone revolution was founded on that idea,” commented Rafe to the street lamps.
Tristan rushed on. “But the main thing, the really big thing, is that they find the Machine scary. A thing that can see and hear and be everywhere, that makes decisions and gives directions, that shows intelligence and emotions—you see how Father talks about it! They don’t like that something like that is so powerful, that controls the whole city, that has even my father in thrall to it, and”—in a burst of defiance—“neither do I!”
“And all this is behind your recent interest in the Machine? A desire to—what? Wrest control from the Machine? Free your father from its thrall, as you called it?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to… find out more, see for myself. I thought, if I understood it better, I could tell whether the antimachinists were right or wrong. And if they were right, maybe I could catch the Machine out in a lie or something and prove to my father that he’s wrong.”
“Wrong in trusting the Machine instead of people?”
“Yes. He barely listens to Mother anymore, and she used to be the only one who could get him to come out and bathe and eat and sit at the table and make conversation with the rest of us. Now—well, you saw how he was dressed! I don’t believe he’s been barbered for months.”
“Yes, he does have that obsessive tendency,” mused Rafe. “But, Tristan, haven’t you considered that it might the fault of your father, and not the Machine? Haven’t you read your history? Remember Nevin the Never-There? He had the First Minister run the Machine for him. And there were others who ran the Machine and played cards and danced at balls, who had a life outside the Machine Room. Emulate them, not your father. The Machine is a tool, just like any other.”
“I suppose.”
They stopped as a laden trolley clanged across the street. “Just don’t do anything reckless, Tristan. You may be in sympathy with the antimachinists—and you’re right, they do have some points—but they are destroyers, not builders. Do you really want to see your people digging subways and hauling trash by hand?”
Tristan shook his head—in answer to his question, or just twitching off his words, Rafe couldn’t tell. “Here we are.” He stopped in front of a low one-storey building. Most of the factory would be underground, taking advantage of the earth’s heat and access to underground tunnels. The hum of machinery vibrated through the soles of Rafe’s boots. “They don’t like me being late, prince or not.”
“Then we’d better not keep them waiting,” said Rafe, stepping aside for a guard to precede them into the building.
They spent several hours in what turned out to be a cooking pot manufactory, led around by a stocky foreman in a leather apron. Tristan appeared happier and more interested than Rafe had seen him in a long time, asking question after question about casts, alloys, and the inner workings of various machines.
Rafe kept his attention on the prince’s surroundings and thought how easy it would be for some disgruntled antimachinist worker to hit Tristan on the head with a wrench or pour liquid metal on his foot. Who’d come up with the Prince’s schedule in the first place? There was no way to vet all the people who worked at the factory, much less the strangers who passed him on the street.
Rafe dropped Tristan back at the palace gates a bit after Scatter. The prince’s mood had turned gloomy.
“See you at the Brightmoons’ tonight?” Rafe asked Tristan.
“No,” said Tristan. “I’m to dine privately with Father and Mother tonight. Professor Baintree’s got some new machine designs to show Father and he wants me to look at those with him.”
Rafe thought it was just as well, but made vaguely commiserating noises. Tristan disappeared inside the palace complex and Rafe started for his rooms.
An “Information Wanted” poster tacked up to the pole of a nearby gas lamp caught his eye. The woman’s picture was incredibly detailed, the written description precise, and under it were the words, “Wanted for questions regarding attack on royal property on Selene 17
th
, at the Hour of the Dead.”
It was the female antimachinist leader Tristan and Rafe had seen, but she was aged about twenty years, her hair was a different color and her features subtly different.
Rafe frowned at the discrepancies. Witnesses often forgot or missed details in the confusion. But he distinctly remembered Tristan commenting on the girl’s youth and good looks.
Had the Prince deliberately misled the authorities?
The Brightmoons were new money, nobility whose titles went back only fifty years. Rumor had it that the first Lord Brightmoon had earned his fortune trading in dreamdust and manufacturing drainpipes. The behind-hands scandal mongering did not prevent the aristocracy from flocking into the Brightmoons’ silvery tower of a house on High Street. Rafe had to slip between numerous sedan chairs waiting to disgorge their passengers before he gained the shallow steps under cool silver lights floating from slender posts. Water swept down the stairs on either side. Silver empress lifted bell-shaped blooms to the sky, while weeping maids trailed fronds of delicate white flowers and small grey leaves.
Inside, the silver and grey effect of delicate coolness and an insinuation of secrets gave way to golden glitz, overpowering perfume, and sensual music. The main ballroom was immediately inside the open doors, a new architectural feature. Tonight it was decorated with the patterned silk hangings and sprays of huge colorful feathers that Sable Monarique imported from her homeland and sold to only the most exclusive of boutiques and the richest and best-connected of patrons.
Rafe edged his way around the room. Several debutantes eyed him with speculative interest before one said, over-loud, “He’s only a second son”. An older gentleman with a wooden leg, wig askew, smelling strongly of alcohol, clutched at him for support. Several acquaintances hailed him with invitations to chat or join a game of cards.
Talk of the Ironheart occupation abounded, but Rafe deflected any attempts to draw out his own opinions. The amateur political commentators soon joined the large crowd around Bryerstar. The former ambassador, resplendent in maroon, held forth on Ironheart, which he characterized as a backward uncivilized state who should be grateful for Oakhaven’s magnanimity.
It made Rafe’s blood hot to hear that, but Leo would not be happy if he got into a public quarrel with Bryerstar. Instead, Rafe claimed several dances in the next hour and kept himself busy fetching iced lemonades for the dowagers.
“Oh, Rafe,” one matron tittered, tapping him on the wrist with her folded fan. “We have missed you so. I hear they’ve
shackled
you to the ministry walls, just
shackled.
What a waste of your youth!”
“Well, they left the key within reach tonight,” said Rafe. “If I’m lucky, it’ll be a few weeks before anyone decides to tunnel through all the paperwork around my desk to find me.” He bowed and gracefully removed himself from the ladies’ company, feeling angry and sad, then empty, as he did so. Had he really been such a silly fellow, a pretend-cavalier? He felt left out of most conversations; he had not seen the latest plays, or read the latest romances, or heard the latest scandals. His clothes were cut according to last year’s fashions, as he had not had time to visit a tailor. Something else to remedy, though Rafe felt no pleasure at the prospect.