Si glyph [https://i.imgur.com/mHhTdaF.png]

Simon squinted at the board above the door. ‘Danta, Artificer.’ He checked again the paper in his hand. 

Meet me at the workshop of the artificer Danta, in Potrack Street, at noon tomorrow.

The message was headed with the House Oryche Labyrinth crest, the black wax seal had been impressed with the Oryche mark, and it was signed by Eranon. It was undeniably genuine, yet he couldn’t imagine why Eranon wanted to meet him in the dingy workshop of an obscure artificer in the industrial outskirts of Athanor, instead of in his own office at House Oryche.

Still, the message had come from Eranon, and this was the place specified, and the time. Simon knocked on the door. No one answered. From within came a muffled banging and clanging of metal on metal. He pushed the door, and it swung open.

Inside was a high-roofed space, lit from above by skylights, full of looming machinery. Steam puffed from a squat black engine with flame glowing in its heart. A piston thumped repetitively up and down. Interlocking wheels span, turning a leather belt which ran up and across to drive various machines of spinning blades and drills. 

A dark-skinned woman bent over a table covered with papers. She scowled at a plan of some sort, jabbing it with a pencil as she pointed something out to Eranon, who stood opposite her. 

Before Simon could reach them, a tall young woman wearing House Phylaxes red stepped between him and Eranon. Her short-cropped hair was bronze in colour, her eyes dark and fierce, and her hand clasped the hilt of a sheathed sword.

Eranon glanced at him. ‘It’s all right, Riga. Let him be.’

The bodyguard stepped aside, her sneer suggesting that while she didn’t trust Simon one inch, she also didn’t think much of him as a potential assassin.

Ignoring her, Simon joined Eranon and the artificer.

‘I’m glad my message reached you,’ Eranon said. ‘Are you settling into your new lodgings?’

‘How did you know where to find me?’

Eranon smiled his thin little smile. ‘Very little is secret in Athanor, not if one wants to know. Besides, Numisma had no reason to hide you from me.’ 

That was true, of course. House Numisma cared for his mother. Eranon didn’t need to spy on Simon to deduce Numisma might know where to find him. ‘What did you ask me here for?’

‘Let me introduce you,’ Eranon said. ‘Artificer Danta, this is Simon vai Oryche.’

They exchanged nods. She pushed aside the plans on her worktable and, seizing Simon’s hand in a vice-like grip, she peered at his missing fingers.

‘What are you doing?’ She didn’t answer. Simon turned to Eranon. ‘What is she doing?’

‘You want to use a stylus again, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’m paying. Danta is the best artificer in Athanor for this sort of work.’

Danta’s dark eyes studied his hand with a curious intent expression, as if he were an interesting puzzle. Releasing him, she opened a drawer and pulled out a black leather glove. ‘Put this on. It should fit.’

Attached to the leather of the glove were two jointed steel fingers: fingers in place of the ones Simon had lost. He pulled on the glove. It fit snugly, tight but not uncomfortable. The polished steel fingers gleamed like silver. They were jointed just as his real fingers were, even detailed with nails and fingerprints. They were beautiful.

‘How does it feel?’ Danta asked.

‘Good.’ He turned his hand. The weight of the new fingers felt strange. Stranger yet, the ghosts of the old fingers remained, invisible but definitely there, independent of the prosthetic.

Danta adjusted the fingers, curling them round as if he gripped an invisible tool. ‘Little stiff. The joints should move easily, yet hold their position in use.’

Imagining himself holding a stylus, Simon flexed the finger joints. ‘This is marvellous. You’re a miracle worker.’

His compliment on her work drew a faint smile. ‘Hardly that. It’s really very crude. If you have the money, I’d recommend you find a flesh-worker. There are a few with a good reputation who can regrow fingers.’

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Simon adjusted the fingers again. In time, he thought, he could grow used to them. Already the steel fingers felt more natural, as if the ghosts of his old fingers had moved into the metal. ‘I don’t like flesh-workers.’

She shrugged. ‘No one likes them. But they’re useful sometimes.’

‘Since our last meeting, I’ve thought a great deal, Simon,’ Eranon said. ‘I want to offer you a job.’ 

Simon was so entranced by the fingers, it took a moment for him to realise what Eranon had said. ‘A job? What sort of job?’

‘One you’re uniquely qualified for. But first, let me show you something. If you please, Danta.’

‘These joints need adjustment,’ she said.

‘Later.’ Eranon gestured for her to lead the way.

Danta emerged from behind the worktable. Eranon and Riga followed her into the maze of machinery, and Simon brought up the rear. As he walked, he fiddled with the metal fingers. The joints had the same range of motion as his real fingers. Perhaps they were a little stiff—but all he could think of was holding a stylus again. Working Earth again.

Danta stopped beside a large something shrouded in a tarpaulin. It was the size of a small house, taking up much of the limited floor space in the workshop. She tugged the tarpaulin. Dark metal appeared.

It was a wagon, of sorts, but very different from anything Simon had seen before. The many small wheels were set in a line, surrounded by a continuous track made of metal plates joined together. 

‘Magnificent,’ Eranon said.

Danta grimaced. ‘It was a devil to build, I’ll tell you. Still not got all the demons out neither.’

‘But you can be ready?’

‘Hope so.’ She patted the side of the metal monster. ‘She’ll run. Not sure how long for, but she’ll run.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Simon said. ‘What’s it for?’

‘I’m sending a team to Sark,’ Eranon said. ‘Before the month’s out.’

‘But it’s winter,’ Simon said, feeling stupid to be pointing out something so obvious. No one traveled the plains in winter. Thick snow made the road impassable for wagons. Storms brought even more snow and winds strong enough to knock a man off his feet. In the intense cold, iron fractured and even mammut died on their feet.

Danta pointed to the wheels. ‘This is designed for traversing snow. The wheels move the track. Effectively, it lays down its own road, which as you see is very wide — that’s to spread the weight. Even in soft snow, it won’t bog down.’ She climbed onto a step and tugged a handle. A small, strongly built door swung open. ‘There’s accommodation for five, if you’re friendly.’

‘What pulls it?’ Simon asked. ‘Mammut?’

She snorted. ‘Don’t be daft. It doesn’t need animals to pull it. It has a gas-powered steam engine, much like the one I use here to drive the tools, but smaller. The gas is stored in cylinders.’ She pointed to the rack of metal tanks attached to the rear of the vehicle, each cylinder as tall as a man. ‘Conveniently, the gas is safer kept cold.’

Simon was aware of steam engines as a theory, though he’d never seen one in use. In Sark, there wasn’t enough fuel to run such a machine, but Athanor had plentiful supplies of flammable gas. So plentiful, one had to watch for it building up in cellars. If it wasn’t vented, the eventual explosion could demolish whole streets.  

‘The journey to Sark should take no more than a week, in this—’ Eranon turned to Danta. ‘Do you have a name for the thing?’

‘Snowcrawler.’

‘Ugh. That’s rather dull. Never mind. It will get to Sark and back more quickly than any wagon train, whatever the weather.’

Simon fiddled absently with the metal fingers. If he believed Eranon, then his efforts to get a deal for the miners had been wasted. Eranon—or his people, anyway—would reach Sark in the winter, and pay the miners a pittance. The miners wouldn’t know any better offers were available. No mail would reach Sark until the spring. 

‘Forgive my doubts, Danta.’ Simon eyed the dark silent bulk of the snowcrawler. ‘Will it really work as he says?’

‘Everything I build works,’ she said bluntly.

Simon nodded. Incredible as the machine seemed, her confidence was convincing. ‘So you’ll get what you want from the miners. Why show me this?’

‘I said I wanted to offer you a job. I want you to go to Sark. You really are the best man for the job — you know the miners, and they know you. They’ll trust you. And rest assured, you’ll be well paid for a couple of weeks work.’

Simon turned away. Acid burned the back of his throat and his hands shook, and that at the mere thought of going to Sark. He didn’t want to go to Sark. He didn’t want to go anywhere, but least of all Sark. 

The journey from Sark to Athanor had nearly killed him several times. If not for Andra, his whole family would have died. He still woke at night in a cold sweat, remembering her knife cutting away his blackened flesh, the pain and the blood on the snow, and the dog — Light, the dog’s teeth lunging for his throat— He swallowed.

No force in heaven or earth would drag him back to Sark in the middle of winter. 

If he did… which he wouldn’t… but if anything happened to him, if he didn’t come back, what would become of his children? And even if all went well and the trip was as quick as Eranon promised, he’d still be leaving the children and Nana alone in Athanor for weeks. After everything they’d suffered already, he couldn’t do that to them.

And yet, and yet… he sorely needed the money. His family needed the money. 

Then there were the miners to consider. He’d sworn to get a good deal for them. If he went to Sark as Eranon’s representative, he’d be betraying their trust. He couldn’t do that. 

But with or without Simon’s assistance, Eranon would get what he wanted. Nobly starving to death on the streets of Athanor would help no one.

He rubbed his brow, and was surprised by the touch of cold steel. He had forgotten the new hand. With working fingers, he might find work in the city after all. He didn’t have to take Eranon’s offer. 

But the fingers were Eranon’s gift — a gift too vital to refuse, too expensive to repay. House Oryche never forgets or forgives a debt.

‘I’ll have to think about it,’ he said.

Eranon smiled. ‘You have until next week to make your mind up. I trust you’ll come to the right decision.’