The Alchemy of Stone (16 page)

She dribbled some sheep’s blood over them, added the herbs and the elements, and a small crystal of her eye to animate it, to make it listen to her. The homunculus took form, and Mattie put it in the same jar as the previous one, made from regular stone before Sebastian’s appearance interrupted her work.

The homunculi bubbled and seemed to size each other up, and Mattie quickly poured the mineral essence into the jar to feed them, and tightened the lid. She watched as the two creatures lapped up her offering and then locked arms. They struggled and wrestled with each other, and for a while it looked like neither was gaining the upper hand, until Mattie realized that their hands and arms had fused together.

Their shoulders touched and stuck, then their stomachs. Mattie thought that soon she would be in possession of a much larger homunculus, when the one made with gargoyle stone opened its mouth with slow hissing and bubbling of drying blood, and engulfed the head of its adversary. The other homunculus, headless now, thrashed, and Mattie wondered if it was capable of feeling pain.

The homunculus made of gargoyle stone devoured its fallen opponent, wrapping itself around the lifeless body and engulfing it, bit by bit.

“Hm,” Mattie said. “I wonder what that means.”

The homunculus burbled and tittered, and banged its shapeless fists on the glass surrounding it. Pink bubbles formed on its lipless mouth as the homunculus closed and opened it, as if trying to speak. Mattie hesitated—she wanted to hear what the thing had to say, but she felt disturbed by its behavior; Niobe hasn’t warned her about the possibility of homuncular cannibalism. She also didn’t tell Mattie that these things could talk, or at least attempt to; or maybe Niobe did not know. Mattie felt an electric tingling in her fingers such as she usually experienced when something special happened.

She turned away from the jar and paced along the bench, her heart ticking like a cricket on July night. She was not prepared to have created something so unexpected—and, she guessed, horrible. For a moment she fought the temptation to just destroy the creature, fling it with its tightly locked jar into the fireplace and flee from the apartment; toss it onto the streets below and let the lizards’ claws and the segmented legs of the mechanical caterpillars tear it to pieces and smear it into a long bloody streak on the cobbled pavement; destroy it forever so it never got a chance to whisper its terrible secrets to her with its mutable, liquid mouth.

She stared out of the window, distraught, until she realized that the streets below were unnaturally silent. She hung out of the window, to see as far as she could, but there seemed to be no signs of disturbance. She was about to pull the shutters closed when she heard a distant but unmistakable crackling of musket shots—a fast rattle at first, getting more disorganized and scattered soon after.

Mattie wanted to worry, to run to the Parliament to see if everything was all right, to check on the unfinished Calculator to make sure it still stood. She could picture it in her mind, towering and clanging and belching, like a miniature foundry surrounded by a phalanx of grim and determined mechanics . . . Loharri would be there for sure, she thought, ready to defend the Calculator.

The sound of breaking glass startled her from her reverie, and Mattie whipped around, the joints of her waist whining with the sudden movement, the springs of her back taut and stretched to their limit.

The jar lay shattered on the floor—the homunculus inside must’ve wrestled it to the edge of the bench and flung it over, and now it gathered itself into a human form again, moving toward Mattie on its soft, boneless legs. It hissed and burbled, and Mattie stepped back, only to feel the hard ledge of the windowsill behind her back.

The homunculus, almost knee-high, reached for her, and its small, fingerless hands left dark smears on her skirt. Its hissing and bubbling grew louder, and it tugged in her skirt, demanding.

Mattie kneeled next to the creature, repulsed and intrigued. Its disgusting mouth formed another pink bubble, and it hissed—boiling of blood, susurrus of waves reaching the sandy shore—strange words. Mattie bent lower.

“Lissssen,” the homunculus whispered, its lips next to her ear.

The children of stone clamber to the surface in broad
daylight, and we watch them with a measure of surprise. The spiders and the miners, the ones who smell of soft earth and grain (and we think, they shouldn’t even be here, underground)—they all are there, afraid yet exhilarated. They carry weapons—heavy axes and hoes, mostly, but there are a few muskets, the silver filigree on their stocks glittering.

We want to ask them to be gentle, but the very thought is ridiculous; their eyes, squinted in the sun glare, dream only of burning, we can see it plainly. They do not want to be underground, and we cannot blame them.

They emerge like cicadas, in great numbers and all over. We know the tunnels and the shafts under the city where they and others like them had burrowed for centuries—like cicadas—until one day they realized that instead of digging sideways they should go up, up, toward the sun, where they can become what they always dreamed of. We did the same before them—at least, we assume we did; we cannot remember our lives before the stone shuddered and vomited us into the pool of sunlight, harsh and beautiful, where only the basalt under our feet felt familiar.

The children of the city—our children—run at the sight of them, except the ones encased in metal, glittering like large iridescent beetles. They advance, on foot and on their small mechanized monstrosities that carry them around on their backs, metal heaped upon metal, and we wonder if there is any flesh in them at all.

One of the miners fires the first shot, and the metal man jerks backwards, an almost comical fountain of blood springs forth from where the metal of his head doesn’t quite meet the metal of his chest, and we guess that the flesh underneath was not just our imagination.

The metal men fire into the crowd, and many fall. And then other people come—they come from behind the houses, from the alleys, many on lizard back and dressed in expensive clothes; there are also the children of red earth, dark-skinned traders and artisans that tried to make their homes here, and we cannot watch anymore.

We flee from the carnage, aware of disregarding our duty of eternal watching, but our eyes refuse to look and close or turn away, and our legs carry us against our will across the roofs. In other streets, other places we see the same scene—we see blood and gutted lizards, the metal monsters devoid of their riders bumping mindlessly into the walls of the buildings, the sizzling metal buckles, the coal spills, the houses catch fire. We do not recognize the city anymore and flee to our only hope, to the girl who can help us.

We look through her window, suddenly worried that she might be dead and dismembered somewhere, the ticking of her heart silenced, the window in her chest broken. But she is alive and at home, and we sigh with relief, and wonder why is she kneeling next to the creature who smells of blood and stone, the creature who is whispering into the pink perfect shell of her ear. She is so absorbed in its words that she does not hear the door opening behind her, and we do not think of warning her.

Chapter 16

Mattie startled when someone tapped her on the shoulder, and jumped to her feet, her fists balling.

Loharri smiled. “Easy there,” she said. His eyes watched the homunculus with keen interest. “What is this, Mattie? Did you make that?”

“Yes,” she said.

“What does it do?”

“I’m trying to make it obey me,” Mattie said. “I made it from the stone of the gargoyles, and now I want to compel it to release them . . . but I want to find something else to attach them to, first.”

“Fascinating,” Loharri said, and looked away from the homunculus. His long eyes seemed cold now, and Mattie felt another wave of creeping terror. Had he guessed that she made one for Iolanda? Did he suspect that Mattie had the power to bind him? She thought back to the very first time she had met Ogdela, and saw Loharri afraid; how she envied that power then! And yet now she wished he didn’t know what she was capable of, that he wouldn’t look at her like that—as if sizing up the enemy. “You’re not safe here,” he said. “They’ve taken the northern district, everything there. The enforcers are holding them off, but they are advancing on the east. Best you come with me. Bring that thing along.”

“But . . . ”

“I’m not asking,” he said. “I’m telling you. You are coming with me. Bring it with you.”

Numb, Mattie obeyed. It was just like before, and no matter what had happened to her since, no matter how powerful or emancipated, she still did as she was told—because she could not do otherwise, because he was the one that made her. Just like the gargoyles obeyed the stone—or was it the other way around? she could not remember—she obeyed Loharri, and mutely gathered the homunculus into the cradling hammock of her skirt. It wobbled and hissed and stained the dark brown fabric a darker red; Mattie did not complain and followed Loharri out of the house, past the boarded-up entrance of the apothecary downstairs.

He did not say a word, and Mattie felt a dark foreboding. The city matched her mood—the traffic was sparse, and there seemed to be fewer people in the streets. She heard occasional musket shots coming from the east and smelled the smoke and gunpowder in the air. But that did not preoccupy Mattie—at least, not as much as Loharri did. His brisk, angry steps, his tight-lipped demeanor of disappointment all indicated the inevitable punishment.
He can’t take my eyes away,
Mattie thought.
He can’t do this
. And yet, when she asked herself who would prevent him, there was no answer. The enforcers were too busy fighting, and even if they weren’t, would they ever interfere with a high-station mechanic taking apart his creation?

She wished she could cry. Her freedom was just an illusion—she was emancipated because Loharri let her, and therefore she had no power at all. Everything she had was either given or allowed by him. Mattie wondered if it were possible to hate anyone more than she hated Loharri that moment, to be more afraid.

And where was Iolanda? Probably busy with other things, probably safe away and underground, with Niobe at her side, both of them real women who shared a bond Mattie neither understood nor could ever hope to partake in. Iolanda would defend her, of course—if she were here to defend, and if it didn’t interfere with her plans. Protecting Mattie, helping her get her key back was not a high priority, and she bided her time before she would attempt to control Loharri—bided it until it was needed. It was not about love, Mattie realized; it was about gaining access to the mechanics’ secrets. When her co-conspirators would take the city, then she would use her influence to build an alliance with the mechanics, to tame them.

“Bokker is a good alchemist,” Loharri said without looking at her.

Eager to maintain whatever illusion of amicability she could get from him, Mattie nodded. “He is. Why, were you working with him on the city defenses?”

“No,” Loharri said. “He finished the project I needed finished—the one you were working on before you started with the gargoyles. Remember? You asked my permission to take a break, but I didn’t expect you to abandon it completely.”

“I’m sorry,” Mattie said. Despite her better judgment, a feeling of relief filled her—if it was just about that silly project, then he would forgive her soon enough. How important was it, now? Just a game, a curiosity. “I remember—you wanted a chemical that would capture images for you. Too cheap to pay the painters.”

He smiled at that. “Indeed. But Bokker, he did well—thanks to your list. And I worked out how to record not just pictures but also sounds; I can watch people as they move, as they talk, without ever being there. Very entertaining.”

“I thought you were preoccupied with the Calculator.”

“So I was; but you’ve had your distractions too, haven’t you?”

Mattie nodded and hung her head pensively. “I’m sorry.”

“We do what we must,” he said with a shrug.

They remained silent until they reached the western district and his house. He stopped in front of it, patting his pockets for his keys. He unlocked the door and Mattie followed him meekly inside.

“I have a new face for you,” Loharri said, and locked the door behind him. “Come to the workshop, and I’ll fit it on.”

“I like this one,” Mattie said.

“I don’t.” He took Mattie’s elbow and dragged her to the workshop. The homunculus, sleeping peacefully until then in the folds of her skirt, woke up and hissed.

“And shut that thing up,” Loharri said, and shrugged off his overcoat, letting it drop to the floor. “I’m really not in the mood for this, Mattie. Tell it that if it doesn’t become quiet, I’ll smear it on the walls.”

The homunculus apparently did not need intermediaries, and fell silent at once.

“Put it down and sit,” Loharri said as soon as they entered the dark cluttered space of the workshop.

Mattie obeyed, and the homunculus stood on its liquid legs but did not leave Mattie’s side, holding onto her skirts as if afraid to let go. Loharri did not look overly bothered by its presence—he merely made a peevish face and made a show of circumventing the creature in a wide arc. He dug around in the pile of junk.

Mattie watched him extract another face—an exact replica of her previous one—and wanted to be able to cry. No other response seemed fitting as she realized that she was about to be forced back into the mold she was working so hard to escape. “You are not going to take my eyes, are you?”

“Of course not.” He dug under her jaw and popped off her face. Instead of putting the new one immediately on, he tinkered with something in Mattie’s head. She heard the faint click of a tumbler, and lost sensation in her limbs. She tried to move, but her arms hung by her sides, limp, and her legs, heavy now, straightened against her will in front of her. “What did you do?” she whispered.

“It’s only a temporary disabling switch,” he said. “You won’t feel any pain—in fact, you shouldn’t feel anything at all. And you won’t be tempted to run.”

He dug again, and Mattie cringed as she felt the contents of her head, the delicate gears, beveled and plain, grate against each other as Loharri’s fingers moved around. “Don’t let it bother you,” he said, and turned her chair to face the wall—a plain white wall with nothing interesting painted on it. He shifted more tumblers, and Mattie’s eyes emitted two light beams that met on the wall, creating two partially overlapping spotlights. She whined in fear.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s nifty, really—Bokker’s chemical captures images onto a rotating copper roll, and the same roll records the sound. And everything you see is written on it—it’s like your memory, but now I can see it, too.”

“How long has it been there?” Mattie whispered.

“Since you were last . . . broken,” he answered. “I’m not a fool, Mattie, and I notice things. I notice it when you lie, when Iolanda lies—she thinks she is so clever not to hide her feelings but make them sound like jokes. But now we will see what really happened.”

The light coming from her eyes blinded Mattie, but still she could see through the haze the vague shapes moving, the cobbles of the city streets jumping up and down in rhythm with her steps. Iolanda’s frizzed hair, her pitying look as she leaned closer, her face taking up most of Mattie’s vision. Niobe standing by the window, watching them, her arms crossed.

Sebastian’s face appeared, by turns kind and mocking—Mattie was surprised to see it so clearly now. His face leaning closer, his lips smiling . . . Then the image became dark, and Mattie recalled with embarrassment that her eyes were retracted then, blind, the rest of her oblivious to everything but the pleasure of Sebastian’s hands on her chest.

Loharri made a small sound, of surprise or annoyance, Mattie could not tell. He touched something in Mattie’s head, and the image blurred. Loharri swore through his teeth but fell silent when the pale face of the Soul-Smoker took up the entire wall and the shouts and whispers of the dead poured from his lips. And then there was darkness of the tunnels, the faces of the courtiers . . . Mattie’s voice asking about Iolanda.

“Interesting,” Loharri said. His face remained composed, but she could see the vein swelling on his mangled cheek. “I knew you were hiding something, but this, Mattie, this . . . I have to go now and talk to Bergen. You stay here and we will talk when I get back.”

He picked up his overcoat and put it on, his movements slow and measured. Mattie wanted to plead with him, to remind him that he loved her. But the ice in his eyes told her that he was beyond pleading and entreaties, that she was beyond forgiveness—perhaps, even beyond the consideration that one gives to the most insignificant creatures. She could even hope to live through this, because now she was even beyond vengeful dismantling.

He turned to leave, but stopped abruptly. “Oh, I almost forgot: I’ll need these to show to my peers.” His fingers, cold and accurate, prized her left eye out of her head, then her right. She cried out, but her only answer was the sound of the slamming door, the turn of a key, and a quick rattle of footfalls on the steps outside.

Mattie did not know how much time had passed. She had counted her heartbeats at first, but given up after two thousand. She wished she could see the sun, and if she tried hard enough she could imagine how it would look out of Loharri’s workshop window—large and molten, with a tang of copper, enclosed in the delicate cage of black rose branches, still like cast iron.

It was always so peaceful here, so quiet—Loharri had often said that he enjoyed the stillness of the air, the absence of sound, which made it easy to imagine that this house was the only place that existed, surrounded by an infinite bubble of luminous and empty space. And now Mattie realized that even if she screamed for help, her cries would be muffled by the dense hedge, and in any case, people were used to screams by now and hid and ran rather than rushed to help.

Something touched her lips—a wet, cold, and unpleasant touch tasting of blood and sulfur—and Mattie started. The familiar hissing reassured her; the homunculus clambered up her senseless form and now whispered in her ear, its voice indistinct and blurred by the gargling quality of its speech. “I can help,” it said. “Help?”

“Do you know which switch he has turned?” Mattie asked, her disgust for the creature tempered somewhat by hope.

“Yessss,” it hissed. “I see everything.”

“Can you turn it?”

The slurping sounds indicated the homunculus’s progress; there was a shifting of metal, and a sudden jolt shot through her arms and legs. She doubled over in pain, sending the homunculus splashing to the floor. “Are you all right?” she asked. “I’m sorry.”

“Yessss,” it said and burbled. “Would you like me to find you new eyes?”

“Yes please,” Mattie said. “You are a clever little fellow.”

“Of course,” it answered. “I am earth. I am stone.”

The homunculus slurped across the workshop floor, and even though Mattie could not see it she imagined the black blood trail it was leaving on its wake. She heard the sounds of rummaging, slow and laborious, and she thought that it took such a little thing an enormous effort to shift the pile of parts and rejected machines; the limitations of its size posed an almost comical contradiction to its grandiose claims, but Mattie was disinclined to find humor in anything just now. It was earth, or at the very least its essence. She wondered if the gnomi, the earth elementals, looked just like the homunculus; she wondered if it was somehow one of them, a creature that could move through solid stone with the same ease as she moved through the air. She discarded the thought as unlikely, and carefully stretched her arms and legs, awakening to life with tingling and electric jolts.

She felt around with her fingers; the layout of the workshop was familiar to her and after a few minutes investigating her immediate surroundings, she remembered how she used to navigate these rooms by touch. Often even touch was superfluous—after a day of darkness she developed new senses, which allowed her to feel when the walls were too close, and to circumvent the obstacles.

Mattie felt her way to the pile of parts and rooted through it, the shape of her eyes familiar to her—long cool cylinders with latches in the end that locked into her eye stalks. Her fingers felt gears, faces, metal plates, bits of armor, coils, valves, engine parts, and flywheels. She recognized them all and was momentarily delighted before discarding yet another disappointment.