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The cast came off. Sam would never play the piano or wear press-on nails again, and she celebrated the occasion by splurging on a pair of gloves from Madam Tian’s. Burgundy they were, made from a synthetic that was supposedly water- and stain-resistant and worth a month’s salary.

A week after their return from the Floor of Twelve, a letter arrived from the Guild of Preservation, Branch Six, informing Maestro James Cowen that his batch was ready. Through a network of intermediaries and labour agencies, Sam had already secured ten thousand vacancies on the Floor of Three, one of the more established factory Floors. James, as a rule, did not care where his amblers were placed. He was also very busy. With what, Sam did not know. She was told to oversee their deployment by herself.

The Maestro’s prep talk had included: don’t talk too much; never stay silent; observe and record everything; don’t record anything; network with the preservers, the overseers, the apprentices; but not too much or they would ask favours of you, though exceptions were expected.

Armed with confusion and willpower, Sam took the mass transit lift to the Floor of Three.

Angular sheet-steel roofs, interspersed with a thousand smokestacks, stretched uninterrupted from the Pillar to the smog-shrouded boundary walls. Factories proliferated in every direction – a hundred square miles of mills, refineries, smelters, manufactories, warehouses.

The transport hub was a barren cathedral of concrete. A huge map spanned the western wall, highlighting four thousand and sixteen factories and thirty-six bulk delivery cargo bays. James’s batch was to arrive in bay #35, in thirty minutes.

Sam had panicked as she jogged along the labyrinthine laneways, thinking what a terrible first impression she must be making, to arrive late for her first solo inspection. She found bay #35 empty, the lifts dead and silent, the lights half-dimmed. She sat down on a bench, catching her breath, trying to tie up her confounded hair. Hydraulic hammers echoed in the distance, rhythmizing with the hiss of molten metal and the teeth-grinding lullaby of ore crushers. In the bay, there was complete silence. Sam could hear her own heartbeat.

“It’s cold,” she said to the void.

The lift arrived twenty-five minutes past the appointed time. Two columns of amblers goosestepped into the bay, arms swinging in unison, steel toes drumming on the floor, the yellow sun of the House of Dawn flashing on their stiff grey overalls. Their vacant faces shone as if transmogrified into marble.

Sam readied her ledger. The information was garbage – James had tossed her notes over the cliff – but it would have looked even worse if she showed up with nothing. This way, she at least had something to hold. She put on her plague mask and gloves, her layers of confidence.

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Two preservers approached on a palanquin. Sam recognized the wrinkleless woman from the Floor of Nine; the other wore a ghoul mask with red lips and filed teeth.

“Where is Maestro Cowen?” the woman demanded.

“It’s just me today,” said Sam.

“Huh. You must be awfully capable. Where is your palanquin? Were you going to walk fifty miles?” She sighed like a grandmother. “Come up then. We’ll take care of you. What’s your name?”

“Sam,” said Sam.

“You may call me Grace. This is Luic. He does not speak.”

The palanquin was piled high with cushions. Eight amblers carried it on long steel poles. They bore no distinguishing branding, perhaps to avoid conflicts of interest.

Paperwork was exchanged. The preservers signed theirs with such vigorous nonchalance, Sam had to point out that the inspection was supposed to take place beforehand. Grace shrugged; Luic flashed a topaz-inset Command Ring, and the palanquin ran a little faster.

There were nine thousand seven hundred and sixteen amblers. Treatment losses were higher than the industry average; with James, they always were. Sam tried her best to fill out the ledger without looking at their faces. Making up ten entries was easy; nine thousand, not so much.

“You don’t need to do that, you know,” said Grace, watching her struggle. “It’s just a formality.”

“How do you keep track?”

“We don’t. Grade Bs are all the same. Functionally identical, Luic would tell you.” Luic nodded sagely.

“But –”

“Prep and code – that is our motto. In fact, we don’t even code. We subcontract to…what was his name? Anyway, this diligence of yours is off-putting. Relax and have a drink.”

“Does anyone keep track?”

“Auditors.” The preserver sniffed. “You don’t see many of them around, do you?” Luic shook his head. “If it works, don’t mess with it. You and I, our jobs end here –” she tapped her signature. “– and the rest…well, I can’t say I care. Drink.”

Sam took a swig from Grace’s canteen. Hot coffee – a rare treat. “This…this is my first time,” she admitted.

“Thought so. This part of the transaction is all very…what’s the word, Luic?” Luic bobbed his head. “Pedantic. Politicky. Pretentious. Mostly handshakes and dealmakes, isn’t it? Did you bring the Command Rings?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Eleven.”

“Awfully conservative, Maestro Cowen.” The preserver sniffed, and Luic nodded. “What does this factory make?”

“Uh, nuts and bolts and washers.”

The preserver balked. “Lords Above – one would think his is a House from the pits! You’d not get seven thousand for a lease like that! With my work too! I am not cheap, you know. There are Guilds out there that charges half as much – but don’t tell him that. Nuts and bolts! And washers!” Luic shook his head in absolute shock. “I paid for the full routine tapes too. These!” She waved a hand over her amblers. “They can make pistons! Lamps! Surgeon’s scalpels!”

“The Maestro approved of the factory,” said Sam.

“Do you like my work?”

“Uh. Yes. It’s…good.”

“It’s good because there is pride in it. The pride of my guild and my person. We do not cut corners like…like certain subsidiaries. I supervised every step of production, inspected all the vats myself. You’ll not find any blemishes, any fluids in their knees! I work to a high standard because I take pride in my personal enterprise. Your Maestro, if you don’t mind me saying –” the preserver leaned in, “– spends too much time on that giant of his. He has no pride in his work. No pride at all. It’s like he despises us – but don’t tell him that.”