Creeeak.

A man in grey overalls pushed through the front door. His hat was brimmed and straw and cast his face in shadow. He took large steps to the counter where Indrá sat, stealing quick peeks at the trinkets about the shelves.

"Hello, sir," said Indrá. "What brings you to the Artifice All-Father?"

The man peered over Indrá's shoulder. "You's all? I got a fan't needs fixin'." He plunked a rusty metal box onto the counter.

"I'm an apprentice." Indrá gently picked up the device and looked about its valve and grate. "We've got a veteran in-house, but he costs double. I can fix this for 12 coppers. 24 if you want the expert."

Grunting, the man reached for his fan. "Sorry, boy, can't lose m'cooler."

Indrá held his grip. "We replace what we can't fix, sir—free of charge."

"Mmk, that'll do." The man dropped his arms. "Name's Joe. When'll she be ready for pick-up?" Joe fiddled with his clinking pockets.

"One moment." Indrá popped the chassis, baring the hoary-silver innards. "Sir, do you have a rat problem?"

"Ya, why?" Joe sorted a pile of change on an open palm and then looked up. "Shit!" He stumbled back.

"Then I believe we've found the problem," said Indrá, squeezing his nose in one hand and holding a leathered tail with another. "Disposal will cost you another copper."

"Nah, I got it," said Joe, cheeks pink. He came and dropped the 12 coppers on the table and took his two prizes. "You have a good one now."

"You too, sir."

Creeeak.

Indrá's day pattered on much as the weeks before. Customers would enter in rag or linen, most poor of manners and rich of heart. They would bargain, spit, and curse, yet never failed to leave well-wishes.

Repairs were plenty and challenges few. Indrá's skill was above the apparatus that came and went, and his speed yet grew. The menials would gawk and gossip of a boy with a farmer's hand and crops of metal. They told him as much. "Metal Doctor," they would call, "my machine—oh!—how it hurts! I need a cure!" And, for a dozen coppers, sometimes more, they would have their cure.

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When day dimmed to night and fatigue loomed, Indrá hung the closing sign and locked the shop door.

Father's in paradise while I'm ... here. How can something be so near yet feel so far?

He sighed, trotting past the counter and into the workshop. The sight of his father poring over cryptic scripts and the hum of machines felt like a plump pillow in the eve of hardship. This is where I want to be, he thought. Here, with my family.

Mōden looked up from his papers. "How was your day? Is being an artificer all you'd dreamed and more?"

"It was fine," said Indrá, donning his leathers. He chuckled tersely. "All I'd dreamed? Well, it did nearly put me to sleep ..."

His father stared. "Take this seriously, Indrá. You're smart—extremely so—yet you lack experience. The former is gifted, while the latter is earned. Tell me you understand."

Indrá failed to meet Mōden's gaze. "I can't, Father, but"—he raised his head, fighting not to flinch—"I will. For understanding is not told but earned, right?"

"Right!" Mōden pitched the scripts before his face. "Get back to work on that storage cube. I won't impart my craft to a boy who can't keep my food warm."

Flap!

He loosed a corner, giving Indrá a one-eyed glare. "Or cold."

Flap!

=====

Hidden behind his paper veil, Mōden held a toothy grin.

Vol, Medira, your boy's a prodigy! He's got your wit, Medira, perhaps more. And Vol, ho-ho, he's got your stubbornness.

His smile quivered, but he held it.

I wish ... I wish you could see him now. You'd be so proud. So proud.

=====

Indrá hovered over a halved cube with creased brows and pursed lips.

I don't understand. I can match the food's temperature, but I can't stop it from cooking or freezing.

He picked apart the thermo-adapter's dense circuitry, hoping to find an answer in its lines and coils.

How can I keep something hot without cooking it?

Knuckle-under-chin, Indrá stared until his fingers numbed and his elbow ached.

Hissss, pain like an army of ants shot through his arm. Indrá flicked his wrist to and fro, ailed in mind and body. How am I not getting this!? It's only ... only ... huh?

"Umm, Father?"

"Yes?"

"Are you asking me to freeze time?"

"Maybe ..."

Indrá threw up his hands. "Was this all just a test? A lesson about the importance of asking questions?"

"Yes and no," said Mōden, carrying over a bowl of soup. "I would've also accepted a box that freezes time."

Indrá leered as his father knocked his scraps aside, trading meal for metal.

"A good question." He ruffled Indrá's hair. "It seems this exercise was not in vain. Now eat your food"—he winked—"before it gets cold. If only there was a device ..."

"Yeah, yeah," said Indrá, shoveling a spoon of thin meat and briny broth to his lips. "So"—slurp—"it's impossible?"

"Nothing's impossible."

His father began clearing the table.

"Actually, the reason I set you on this task was to buy time." He fanned a canvas of sketches and runes—the very scripts from before. "Time so I could solve it on my own."

Cough!

Mōden rapped his son's back until a sodden chunk flew across the room.

"You wh—"

"Hush. You need only listen." Mōden drew a long breath. "You've all but mastered basic circuitry—faster than I'd ever hoped. It's time you learn the next—and last—great abstraction: Asâmbï, the Language of Truth."