The Inexplicables (Clockwork Century) by Cherie Priest Read Free Book Online
Authors: Cherie Priest
of the shambling rotters down on the roads below. As this thought flickered through his head, he adjusted his own mask so it fit him better and seemed less likely to leak.
“Watch your wiggling,” the white man urged. He was precisely what Rector had expected: average height and size, with ratty brown hair and clothing that had been tied up tight at the wrists and ankles to keep the gas off his skin. The Chinaman was likewise no great shock, except that he was wearing almost the same exact outfit. In Rector’s experience, the Chinese population tended to dress differently, in outfits that had odd, chopped-off-looking collars and lines that white men more commonly wore to bed than out for business.
“I can see that, sir. And I will absolutely watch my step. And my wiggling.” Planting his feet on one board each, he balanced against the slight tilt of the platform and then took note of the gate itself. “So this is it, huh? This is how people are going to get inside and out?”
“Someday, but right now it’s not even halfway sorted. Turned out to be a bigger job than anybody’d expected.”
“How much longer ’til it’s open for business?”
“Two or three weeks, if we’re lucky. Longer than that, if we ain’t.”
The hole was shaped as if it ought to host a drawbridge. It was arched and somewhat unsteady despite the braces of timber and pulleys that held the hole open and clear. Rector imagined he could hear the posts straining against the wall’s weight, another hundred and fifty feet above it—and when he thought about it that way, he went weak. How many tons of rock was that, anyhow? How many thousands of pounds, held up by timbers and stones and the calculations of a despot?
At present, the hole was shielded by a set of curtains fastened behind the buttressing timbers. Rector reached out past the boards and felt for one of the dangling swaths of fabric, rubbing it between his bare fingers.
“You got gloves?” asked the Chinaman. “You need gloves.”
He lied, “I got some. I’ll put ’em on in a minute.”
“Gas burns skin.”
“I know that.” The curtain was several layers of burlap fused with wax, or pitch, or something else to keep it water- and gas-tight. It felt waxy and unpleasant, like the flesh of a cooled corpse. “Pretty good way to hide your work,” he observed.
“It does all right,” the white man said. As if the reference to hiding had prompted him, he adjusted the lantern, shuttering the bulk of its light and turning down the wick so that it gave the weird little way station a dim glow instead of a brilliant beacon. “Nobody much comes around to this side of the wall. Not yet, anyhow.”
Rector had questions, but none of them were very pressing except the obvious: “So, I just go through this hole … and then what? Is there a staircase or something over there?”
The Chinaman laughed, and the white man shook his head. “Not yet. You’ll walk along the temporary steps. They’re not very wide, and it gets a little slick from the gas and the wet—you know how it goes—so watch your step. Go either way you like, left or right. Both of them stop at a set of ladders and rooftops. Go right, and you’ll wind up closer to the Station. Take the left, and you’ll be aimed toward the Doornails’ territory.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Depends. They got themselves some law, and they don’t much care for the sap. Mostly they leave us alone and we leave them alone, and that works all right, but we stay off each other’s blocks. You never been inside before, have you?”
“No sir, I ain’t ever been inside.”
“You know about the rotters though, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“You got a gun, or anything?”
He lied some more. “Yes sir, in my bag. I’ll fetch it out once I’m in, and I don’t need both hands for climbing.” As he said this, he considered retying the bag so it could sling across his chest. The jar of pickles weighed heavily against
“Watch your wiggling,” the white man urged. He was precisely what Rector had expected: average height and size, with ratty brown hair and clothing that had been tied up tight at the wrists and ankles to keep the gas off his skin. The Chinaman was likewise no great shock, except that he was wearing almost the same exact outfit. In Rector’s experience, the Chinese population tended to dress differently, in outfits that had odd, chopped-off-looking collars and lines that white men more commonly wore to bed than out for business.
“I can see that, sir. And I will absolutely watch my step. And my wiggling.” Planting his feet on one board each, he balanced against the slight tilt of the platform and then took note of the gate itself. “So this is it, huh? This is how people are going to get inside and out?”
“Someday, but right now it’s not even halfway sorted. Turned out to be a bigger job than anybody’d expected.”
“How much longer ’til it’s open for business?”
“Two or three weeks, if we’re lucky. Longer than that, if we ain’t.”
The hole was shaped as if it ought to host a drawbridge. It was arched and somewhat unsteady despite the braces of timber and pulleys that held the hole open and clear. Rector imagined he could hear the posts straining against the wall’s weight, another hundred and fifty feet above it—and when he thought about it that way, he went weak. How many tons of rock was that, anyhow? How many thousands of pounds, held up by timbers and stones and the calculations of a despot?
At present, the hole was shielded by a set of curtains fastened behind the buttressing timbers. Rector reached out past the boards and felt for one of the dangling swaths of fabric, rubbing it between his bare fingers.
“You got gloves?” asked the Chinaman. “You need gloves.”
He lied, “I got some. I’ll put ’em on in a minute.”
“Gas burns skin.”
“I know that.” The curtain was several layers of burlap fused with wax, or pitch, or something else to keep it water- and gas-tight. It felt waxy and unpleasant, like the flesh of a cooled corpse. “Pretty good way to hide your work,” he observed.
“It does all right,” the white man said. As if the reference to hiding had prompted him, he adjusted the lantern, shuttering the bulk of its light and turning down the wick so that it gave the weird little way station a dim glow instead of a brilliant beacon. “Nobody much comes around to this side of the wall. Not yet, anyhow.”
Rector had questions, but none of them were very pressing except the obvious: “So, I just go through this hole … and then what? Is there a staircase or something over there?”
The Chinaman laughed, and the white man shook his head. “Not yet. You’ll walk along the temporary steps. They’re not very wide, and it gets a little slick from the gas and the wet—you know how it goes—so watch your step. Go either way you like, left or right. Both of them stop at a set of ladders and rooftops. Go right, and you’ll wind up closer to the Station. Take the left, and you’ll be aimed toward the Doornails’ territory.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Depends. They got themselves some law, and they don’t much care for the sap. Mostly they leave us alone and we leave them alone, and that works all right, but we stay off each other’s blocks. You never been inside before, have you?”
“No sir, I ain’t ever been inside.”
“You know about the rotters though, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“You got a gun, or anything?”
He lied some more. “Yes sir, in my bag. I’ll fetch it out once I’m in, and I don’t need both hands for climbing.” As he said this, he considered retying the bag so it could sling across his chest. The jar of pickles weighed heavily against