Chapter 11

“That woman spends far too much time with spoor and not nearly enough in good company,” Fox muttered, his beard seeming to grow even more pointed. “Well, little Loris, let’s adjourn to the garage. All these trees make me feel itchy. You can tell me what you’ve covered with Shrike as we go. And here, is this your sock over here on this bush? Where are your shoes?”

I thought about it, “Trees can be dangerous and refinement is the way to success. Lorus doesn’t want to wear socks and shoes. They hurt.”

Fox snorted, “Refinement! As if. Well, forget everything Shrike told you on that. Sounds like we’ll have to cover the Laws of Transference. Again. Alchemists always think everything is about just getting the right mix. It’s not, I tell you. It’s a matter of attunement. If you are in sync with your environment, then it operates for you. None of this blending, mixing nonsense. Augmentation, that’s the way to go.”

He offered me a hand up off the rock and glanced at my feet.

“Ah, that’s right. You’re the one without the wee piggies. Well, hop-up. We’ll see if I haven’t something in my magic bag to replace those.”

“Hop where?” I looked around, but Fox had turned his back to me and now held both his hands over his shoulder.

“Grab on and hop.”

I wanted to say ‘what’, but the word seemed to make Shrike so cranky. Still confused I put my hands in his and carefully gave a little jump. Fox pulled up on my arms and leaned forwards. With a squeak I plopped on his back like a baby possum, legs swinging and dangling awkwardly.

“Wrap your legs around my waist. What’s wrong? Never had an elk-a-back ride before?”

“No! Loris hasn’t even been on an elk! Ever!”

I wriggled a little more until I could swing my feet around and hook them at the ankles in the front. Then we were off. Fox took a few steps then as soon as we were out of the conservatory and back into the tiled halls, Fox’s stride suddenly became a glide. I looked down. He had wheels on the bottoms of his shoes! I could see them as he pushed off now and then, propelling us down the hall.

“Why walk when you can roll, eh?” he chuckled.

At one point we flew past the staircase just as my cousins were coming down. They froze open mouthed as we rolled by. Abbi, the oldest’s, turned bright red as her mouth turned into a frown. I couldn’t help myself. I laughed. It was strange hearing that noise coming out of my throat.

Mr. Fox talked with me about the history of New Castle, much of which I already knew from immigration class, but for him the true triumphs were in the determination of the builders. Every generation was an upgrade from the one before. The walls, built originally from rubble scavenged from fallen grancestor cities, were layered testimonies of the Castelians’ determination to stay, even after being burned down at least three times. Fox grudgingly admitted the Alchemists may have contributed somewhat to the second and third layer of the walls, which not only were fire repellant but also slick and unscalable in the last third.

The city had not suffered an invasion for at least three generations since Great Catalyn’s time as gradually the surrounding peoples who chose not to strive for the Castelian vision learned that the lunatics they once scoffed at for stopping daily for tea and scones were now outstripping them in technology and resources. Even the Roadies had learned a harsh lesson about trying to pilfer from the rich hemp and amaranth fields around the city.

“That’s why our friends out in the Shoals and Purgatory are so important. Much as the city dwellers may hem and haw, they provide a buffer and contact with the outside world. It would be easy to wall ourselves off completely, but no technology survives in a vacuum. I’m sure Shrike would say something about necessary participation for evolution, but the Shoals and Purgatory allow us a way to build our city in the world but not fall back into its savage ways,“ he smiled as he folded up his measuring stick and stuck it back in his overcoat. “That should do. You’re a very good client. I should have these banged together in just a few days. Just one more thing. Open your eyes wide and hum for me please.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what he was about, so he demonstrated. It looked pretty ridiculous, and I wondered if he was making fun of me, but with a little coaxing I copied him. Then Fox gently placed his hands on my temple, fingers spread across my forehead. His eyes half-closed, he began harmonizing with me.

“Wh-what are you doing?” I asked a little uncomfortable.

“Tuning,” he answered, eyes still slits. “Hum for me again.”

Awkwardly, I did, and after a moment he nodded and took his hands away. He took a moment to write a few things down in a leather bound notebook then gave me a wink.

“Tuning. Every Thaumaturge can do it, but some are better than others,” he gestured to a nearby workbench where shiny tools that looked like they’d barely seen a day of work laid gleaming and waiting. “In our grancestor’s day mass quantities of everything was made: tools, clothes, shoes, weapons. Even vehicles were mass produced, marvelous machines that could move without elk, gear only. Ever since the Arcadians reset the world’s mechanics, simple machinery is really the only dependable ones we have any more: Push, pull, turn, burn. These simple actions are the basis for all of our technology.”

I shook my head, “Not burn, though. Burn will get you blown up.”

Fox smiled, “’Light’ will get you blown up. Something has happened to the initial conversion of matter to energy. Our grancestors had weapons called guns that operated on a fast exchange of chemical and mechanical energy that propelled something called a bullet at deadly rates of speed.” He shook his head. “After the Big Sleep, the rate of mechanical failure and misfire increased to nearly 50% every time a gun was used. That’s why Castelians use bolt rifles, a modernization of the ancient crossbows. The original crossbow design is still very effective, but with our Thaumaturgic lever-load, they can fire more rapidly and accurately without the risk of it exploding in their faces. But-“

He paused.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“But what?”

Fox shrugged and picked up one of the wrenches from the bench, “But there’s still a deterioration rate. As long as a bolt rifle sits on the shelf it hypothetically works beautifully with no problems, just like all of our other tools. The minute it is used, it begins to decay. It’s as though our touch itself has a rotting effect. Tools, clothes, any machine really, has to be regularly maintained or replaced at a rate based on how complicated its construction was. That’s why our cogs are so important really. They keep everything clean and working properly with constant fine tuning.”

That was a new thought for me. Of course I had seen the cog attendants all over the house cleaning and scrubbing every inch of it. I never realized it was preservative, not merely vanity on the parts of the Forsythes.

“But you still haven’t explained ‘tuning’,” I pointed out.

“Ah, yes.” Fox pulled out a strange glass device, much like the one Uncle Cebis carried around. “Tuning syncs a machine or device’s deterioration rate to its user. It’s kind of like putting a cup of tea on top of an out-of-tune piano that some louse is banging about on. If left unattended, the vibrations will shake the poor teacup right off the surface, spilling all its glorious contents. However, if you have a tuner come along and tune the piano, there are less vibrations and shivers, and it takes longer, if ever, for the tea cup to be broken. If you have a well-tuned instrument along with a master player, vibrations can be nearly eliminated to some really outstanding results.”

He pointed at my feet, “For the construction of artificial limbs and prosthetics, it is essential to have the replacement as well-tuned to the user as possible,” he winked, “You can imagine how inconvenient it would be to have your arm falling off at a constant rate.”

Indeed I could.

I would like to say the rest of the day was as interesting as spending time with the Alchemist and the Thaumaturge, but after mid-day dinner, Miss Crane had quite different plans. Apparently, there was a whole slew of studies called ‘reading, riting, rithmatic’ that all cogs, let alone Wardensans were supposed to know. The littlest cousins Danse and Eerie were too young, but Abbi, Blanche, Cori, and myself were laden with notebooks and charcoal pencils then sent to some place called the Atrium.

Apparently, it was actually a big collection of junk the Castelians had collected over the years that they found interesting or important, leftovers from a technological golden time. It was part library, part museum, part storage and display for the various nick-nacks adventuring Castelians brought back from their Walkabouts on the outside. Only the first Ward had such a thing. To me it looked like the same lunatic designer of the Forsythe house had been let loose on the Atrium as well. I commented as much to Abbi.

“You really are slow, aren’t you?” she sighed and tossed a lump of her corn silk hair impatiently over her shoulder.

“Lorus isn’t slow! I’ve run a lot faster, probably longer than you have in your whole life!” I grumbled.

She exchanged a look with Blanche and Cori who tittered in unison then made a strange twirling gesture with their fingers at their temple.

“Not running, you’re slow in the head, Loris,” she pointed to a row of plain looking cog houses, much like all the streets of them I’d passed on my ride into the city. “All of these buildings, including the row houses the cogs live in, have been here for over a century. Each ward gets to decide what style they want to design in. Since Forsythes were the original heart of the council that decided to rebuild in what our grancestors called the Victorian era, we are also keepers of all the collections of traditions. It’s a point of pride for every Forsythe to add some new detail to one of our structures. It was actually our great, great, great, great aunty Nebula who first started the Atrium.”

“Apparently, the other Wardens were squabbling all the time about who would get to keep the books and stuff they found, so she would store it until they could decide. Whenever arguing would get too loud, she would slip off to her atrium for tea and to study the newest find. She had to add more and more wings to her shed to keep all the things the Wardens kept bringing but couldn’t agree on keeping until actually finding Aunty Nebula became quite a chore. One day she just disappeared into the atrium and never came back out. Ever since then, any recovered artifact that can’t be peaceably agreed on storage goes to the Atrium.”

I shrugged, “Lorus still doesn’t see why we have to go there.”

“You really are thick, aren’t you?” Abbi and her sisters exchanged pained looks. “Look, you’ve been missing for ten years, gallivanting about who-knows-where, and while that might be fine and all if you were a Rover or a Regular, you’re not. You’re a Forsythe…at least that’s what they say. And you have the very important job of learning and keeping all the traditions of New Castle, which means you have to fill that empty, thick, slow skull of yours with all the knowledge we can possibly fit in it. Dunce!”

Abbi went to emphasize her point by giving me a rap on the head. I’d dealt with her type before though. I knew the gesture as soon as her arm raised, so I simply side-stepped and let her own momentum carry her past, stumbling over her own feet.

“Now who’s the dunce? Dunce!” I retorted then took off running.

“Loris! Loris! Get back here! You’re going the wrong way!” one of the cousins yelled.

But even without toes, running was something I knew I would always be better at than them. I bolted down the cobble street, wind in my hair, feeling the freedom of movement, even with those ridiculous skirts and shoes. I didn’t know where I was going; I just went. I ran, faster and faster, and I just knew I had left those snobby cousins behind in the dust.

“Is that really as fast as you can run?”

Cori was jogging next to me, arms tucked behind her back, not even breaking a sweat. Blanche trotted on my other side and giggled.

“Abbi wasn’t kidding! You really are slow Loris! Come on, you’ll make her mad if you skip out on lessons.”

I skidded to a stop looking in dismay at them.

“How-how? Are you really that fast?”

Blanche shook her head, “It was like watching you move in slow motion. At first we thought you were making fun of Abbi, but you really looked like you thought you were whizzing along.” She wrinkled her nose, “Guess it makes sense now how the Roadies caught you when you ran away.”

“Ran away? More like walked away!” Cori laughed, looping her arms through Blanche’s as they turned away.

“If you’re late to lessons, Professor Qa’la will make you stand with a book on your head the whole time,” Blanche said as they walked off.

“Or, he’ll make you stand on your head on a book and everyone will see your under things!” Cori added. The two laughed like squirrels, like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

Depressed, I shuffled my feet and started following after them. But then I thought, why should I? I would be in trouble either way. Apparently, I had lost much more of my edge than I originally anticipated by moving to New Castle. It was making me soft. Slow. Why bury myself in books and useless junk when obviously I needed to learn more about how to survive in this new environment? They would come after me again as soon as they realized I wasn’t following, and they would probably just get bossier when I didn’t do as I was told. I needed some place I could hide, some place I could get away.

I looked up, hoping it would be here in Ward 1 as well. At that moment a mail carrier went flying overhead. The funny thing is she still wore skirts and a bodice, though admittedly not nearly as fancy as anything the Jenkins were wearing. Apparently, mail carriers don’t worry about anyone looking up and catching a glimpse. That was just what I needed though. If I couldn’t out run them, I needed to go someplace they couldn’t or wouldn’t follow. I began to climb.