Book 4 - Chapter 147 (Patreon)

Far down in the Gulschak city lay the Furnace, a machine of tubing and gears so intricate and convoluted it was more akin to a structure imagined in the depths of a dream than a working machine. Its size was that of a hundred city blocks, and a tightly guarded perimeter enveloped its hulking mass. Gearheads clad in full porcelain prowled the grounds. Each entrance to the furnace itself was secured with freshly oiled gears and stable bolts.

This was no place one just entered. Still, some people had the luxury of coming and going. For the golden halls within the machine itself were the home of the very upper echelon of the city’s Blessed.

And no matter the effort the gearheads poured into surveilling all that entered the inner city, one fortunate rat had found its way inside the restricted area, hitching a ride from within a metal container with a missing bolt. The person delivering the goods was not allowed to enter, and the goods themselves soon rattled down a band. That’s when the rat made its move. It squeezed itself out of the container. A long row of goods was moving down the rolling band in a space too tight for a human to fit. Along the sides, mechanical arms rattled to life, unscrewing lids and parsing through the contents.

The rat squeaked as a mechanical arm barely missed it, taking apart its means of entry. Further down the band, hoses sprayed what remained of the contents in a wall of continuous fire, burning away the unwanted.

The rat jumped a moment before certain incineration, holding on to a mechanical arm that continued its unceasing labor. It scurried down its length to safety, pressing itself into the narrow gap by a wire, and disappeared. For hours it crawled through the tight space, sometimes forced to gnaw on the wire-casing to make space for its infiltration.

Finally, light shone in its tiny eyes once more, and it tumbled out of the narrow space onto a street of reflecting steel. A yelp came from above, along with the swaying folds of a thin dress. The rat darted off as vermin do, hiding in dark corners of the street to finally gaze upon the true interior of the Furnace.

Roads of metal coated in filigree and moving inventions. Men and women—dressed in thin and relaxed summer clothes—walked side by side with huddling machines. Hats were adorned with cogs and moving contraptions, canes that cushioned one's step, shoes that rolled forward along the polished floor. All were lit under a myriad of tiny lights above. With the populace and their inventions strode other things. The Father’s presence. Gearheads, more akin to dolls with their thin, porcelain limbs, so unlike their morbid half-human counterparts up in the Cold-Circle. These strode confidently, helping children adorn their heads with flowers from automated pots, carrying goods, and repairing loose gears.

It was clear to anyone that this was a place of invention, where dreams and inspiration were fuel to overcome the impossible. Though such things held little interest to a rat.

It scurried onward, hitching a ride on a carriage drawn by a mechanical horse, the vermin driven by a silent command. It jumped onto a slow-rolling machine and down its wheels towards a set of pipes, but fled from a feline creature encased fully in blue-painted porcelain. Deeper it crawled, hiding despite the gnawing hunger in its stomach and the scent of fresh food. For something willed it onward. A pedestrian passed it by, a young man with stark white hair and piercing blue eyes.

The rat stared from its hiding spot—and followed.

It trailed a hundred paces behind, never breaking sight of the figure. A hum grew in the rat’s ears, and the figure walked towards it. Finally, the man slunk into a golden hall with a ceiling so high it was a blur to the rat's unfocused eyes. Squeezing through the gap under a door, the rat followed.

Through an opening wide enough for ten thousand of its kin, it stuck to the shadows by the walls. Figures stood around a raised podium before a gate of gold, engraved with endless names. A subtle presence leaked from the gate, hard and certain like steel, sending a shiver down the rat’s fur.

“Good day, ladies and gentlemen,” a mechanical voice chattered from above. “I thank you all for coming on such short notice.”

The rat squinted, trying to see who was speaking. A group of eight was gathered on the podium before the gate, with a doll of pure white standing rigid and without clothes in their midst.

“The tremors, is it not? My internal seismograph rattled all through the night,” responded a hunched figure draped in a red robe. His back bulged like a snail, and a continuous clicking came from whatever hid beneath. “Is it one of the tunnel denizens again? That one from six years ago still left me a scar.”

“No, it came from the Fumes, not below the Furnace,” a man answered. The white-haired youngling the rat had followed. “But before we begin, shouldn’t you soundproof this meeting?”

A cackling old voice answered. “Oh, traitorous child of Nov Yanosk, always so careful and scared. We are in the heart of the greatest city in the world. The Father’s engine protects from divination, the perimeter is secured with his creations, and above, a million of his loyal bloodline stand guard. Be at ease,” said a man who looked to be ancient, sitting in a chair that was mostly made up of a metal orb that balanced his frail body. “But if you so wish, let me show one of my latest works.”

A spring squeaked from the chair, and a ball of gold and red burst into the air. Insect-like wings sprung from its surface, buzzing to halt its fall. There it hovered over the group.

“This one is far less annoying than the last, and it only allows those pumping with the blood of the Father to comprehend what we say. Familial Blood is its name, and it might win the yearly fair, so take a good look,” the old man said.

Despite the man’s words, the rat still stared from the shadows, ears pricked up. It did not have veins filled with such blood. But perhaps whatever drove it here did.

“That tiny thing, settle your mind on defeat, then, elder. Losing my brother in the crusade has proved a font of inspiration,” said another man, a tall and broad figure. On his back, glass vessels contained liquids glowing in every color imaginable.

“Order, if you may,” said the doll in a courteous yet mechanical tone. “I’ve been tasked with—”

“Oh come on, pa, you’re not going to speak in person. I’ve got better things to do than spend my day with a lowly Beast-Flame. You’ve no idea how many assistants I lost in the lowlands,” said the old figure in his ball-like chair, casting a look towards the white-haired youth. “Grendel, it was? Pyre or not, we aren’t the same.”

The doll twitched, slumping its back. From the golden gate behind the podium, a glow of orange nestled through the crack.

A pulse of power.

So intense that the ball buzzing in the air struggled to stay afloat, and the rat scratched its claws so as not to be blown away. A pain pierced the vermin's skull, brought on by just gazing at the gate.

The doll straightened with a new demeanor, its voice suddenly deep and threatening. It moved around the table with the spring-like step of a young man. The doll pointed its hand at the flying ball, and it shuddered, flying over the doll as if it were now its true master. “Konstantin, my dear son…” the doll said, now leaning in to whisper in the old man’s ear. “Did I hear you bemoan our war efforts, our vengeance? I’ve been kind to you…Konstantin. I let you stay and rest because you were not ready, let the very Beast-Flame you mock take your place, and you dare groan about the loss of assistants. They were no such thing. They were our blood and flesh, people with families and ideas, hopes and dreams. Even as we speak, my gears turn, and my hands move to bury them within the ice above. But each time our claws sharpen, the taint of loss grows deeper in us. In fifty years another round, and fifty after that, yet another. So let us get to the things at hand, for neither of us has time to idle.”

Konstantin blinked, and the other seven lowered their heads as the doll spoke. “Sorry, didn’t mean it like that.”

A porcelain hand on Konstantin’s shoulder made the old man jolt. The porcelain mask traveled over the group. “No harm done, and a good invention, this Familial Blood. Though the wings could be improved. Four instead of six would produce the same lift but minimize strain on the gears, and the counterweight is a third of an inch too far back. Take a look when you find the time.”

The doll lumbered back, the hovering orb returning to its original master. “Now, you guessed correctly. I’ve called you for what happened in the Fumes last night. Might you have any guesses?"

The figure clad in red with its many pistons and gears chimed in immediately. “My calculations settle the most probable cause to be a tunneling creature from the mountain. The side-shafts to the mines and farms have grown too many, leaving the rock with weakened structural integrity.”

“Perhaps the grand invention of an up-coming prodigy returning from ascension in the war. Such things would explain the location,” said another of the group, a man with a mustache that twirled into two full spirals and a golden chestpiece of ticking gears.

“Perhaps,” said the doll. “Any other guesses? I won’t fault you for a simple idea.”

The room fell quiet, and in the corner, the rat held its breath so as not to break the silence.

“It’s not that,” said Grendel finally. “You people have spent too much time with every need at your fingertips.”

The group turned to the white-haired man, so out of place in his mundane appearance.

“What do you propose took place then, kin of ideals?” said Konstantin, casting Grendel a side-eye.

Grendel shook his head. “The things we brought back from the lowlands have provided an influx in things deemed of value. And value stirs those who yearn for more, bringing instability. Whatever gangs you have in this city have likely fought since the first train back from Sternthal arrived, isn’t that right?”

The group looked at one another, then back to the doll. It, too, was quiet for a second. “You are right. Yesterday we had three prominent leaders in the shadow of the Fumes, all Blazes like most of you. A Death-Flame, one of Domination, and one of the Real. Today, I’ve confirmed only one to be still alive.”

Whispers rose in the group. “You’re telling me we have three Blazes up in the Fumes just wrecking things as they like? Why didn’t we send them to the front lines?” said the man with the mustache.

The doll turned its mask. “I’ve let them grow as a father does, hoping they would find the conviction and urge to break out from these restraints. You know I force no one onto that path. Now the tunnels are overrun with the denizens from below, halting progress. And that is the one thing I can’t allow.”

“A fascinating discovery. Perhaps living my entire life down in the glory of the Furnace made me miss such details. I will calculate the matter tonight,” the red-robed figure said, several sets of mechanical hands gesturing in excitement.

“I’ll take the one that remains here. Lecture him as a parent does, and send him back to clear the tunnels. With time he might grow to a Pyre and be invited here in earnest. But until then, he will remain in the Fumes,” the doll said.

“You’ll take a Blaze here?” said Konstantin with a furrowed brow. “He’s not even an Ingenuity Flame! We are breaking rules upheld for hundreds of years! Only those of Ingenuity Flame at the tier of Blaze and their extended families or Pyres are allowed to enter the Furnace. It’s been true for generations! I think—”

The doll raised a hand, silencing the group. “That is final. I’ve made those rules, and it is only fit that I may break them when needed. Now leave, my wounds ache.”

A shudder ran through the doll, and its posture straightened to a mechanical rigidity. “Please evacuate the premises. I’ve been informed that the meeting is done,” it said in a tone as artificial as it was kind.

“Baah,” Konstantin said, and his ball-like chair whirled into motion, hurrying to descend the ramp of the raised platform.

In a dark corner, the rat lay quiet, its beady eyes watching the group leave one by one. Last was Grendel. For more than a minute he stared at the gate of gold in solitude. Then he turned, his gaze fixed on the rat. “Rats here are rare, but one sitting still through a meeting…” Before the creature had time to even squeak, Grendel crossed the room in a blur and caught it in a hand. “I only know one Blessed who could do that, half-brother!”

With a twitch, he wrung the life from the vermin before it could scream.