The Black Rose (5 page)

Sardâr had left before the others had awoken, leaving only a note in the most ambiguous terms explaining that he was going on a fact-finding mission and would see them that evening. Jack suspected he didn't want the landlady, with her clientele apparently fervently committed to bigotry, to have too much of an idea what he was up to.

At school, Jack had enjoyed learning about the industrial revolution, but nothing could have prepared him for this factory. The dark-bricked cuboid squatted by the riverside, encircled by a rusting cast-iron fence and a collection of ramshackle outhouses. Chimneys rose from its apex like dark spires, belching smoke into the air to be sifted over the rooftops by the wind. A thick crowd of men poured over the cobbles into the forecourt, foremen assigning them through various stable-like doors. Jack and Bál joined the mob, trying not to trip and be engulfed by the many boots marching relentlessly onwards as if belonging to some kind of gigantic millipede. They were swept beneath the sign on the gate—Goodwin Construction Ltd.—and, directed by a man on a soapbox, dragged off in a slipstream through one of the dim entrances.

The first thing that hit them was the noise: the clanging and grinding of machinery refracting off the walls and floor. The room was cavernous, the upper half a matrix of leather pulleys and metal piping. Two of the chimneys extended through the chamber like trunks, their bases, if not the heat emanating from them, obscured by the aisles of interconnected devices. Jack breathed in and spluttered—the air was pummelled with gases and particles thicker than oxygen.

He glanced at Bál. The dwarf's eyes were wide in shock and possibly terror, much more so than they had been in the midst of battle. Jack had to remind himself that the dwarf could never have conceived anything like this, his own kingdom being almost a millennium away from this kind of economic progress.

Though the crowd had slimmed, they were still carried with considerable force past the aisles. Perhaps hundreds of men were already here, operating the machinery, stoking the chimneys, and shifting a plethora of metal components about. They all, without exception, looked exhausted and ill. Their backs were hunched with strain, and grease and dirt matted their clothes, hair, and skin. Jack noticed many with missing limbs and some with open wounds that still seemed to be bleeding. Something knocked into his thigh, and he looked down to see a child, no older than seven or eight, bow his head in apology and scuttle away, hugging a hefty iron disc to his chest.

Somehow, Jack and Bál found themselves in front of a line of consoles with a group of other men. Apparently aware of the next step, the others stepped up and began busying themselves with the operation. Jack and Bál hung back.

“What do we do?” the dwarf roared at him over the din.

“I don't know,” Jack shouted back, shrugging. The contraption before them looked ancient and seeped oil.

He watched the man next to him take a metal rod the length of a cricket bat from a bundle on the left and clamp it in place. With a switch, the man turned on a spinning blade, which made contact with the rod with a grinding shriek. Hot ribbons of metal and sparks cascaded off. After a couple of minutes, the blade was released and stopped spinning. The man dropped the rod, now thinner along one-third of its length, into a tin barrel to the right and took up the next one.

Jack stepped up to his machine and, showing Bál how to do it, completed his first rod. It wasn't particularly even, and he had to apply quite a lot of force to keep the blade in place for two minutes.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he dropped the rod into the barrel and turned to the man he'd watched. “What are we making?”

The man looked up with red-rimmed eyes, shrugged, and returned to his task.

The working day was much longer than either of them had thought possible. Once light began to fade from the massive grime-encrusted window above them, gas lamps were lit at every few workstations. The labor quickly became mind-numbingly dull and then actively painful. The workers could not sit down and so had to hunch over the consoles, shifting their weight to keep both feet working. The factory floor was stiflingly hot, and Jack suffered several coughing fits when the smoke-heavy air became too much. Oil quickly ingrained their clothes and arms, and their muscles ached from applying pressure to the spinning blade.

Foremen prowled between the aisles all day, batons in hand, clearly searching for anyone who appeared to be slacking. Just as at school, Jack could sense the others around him working particularly efficiently whenever they were being watched. But, at school, relaxing too long hadn't earned anyone a beating. He witnessed an elderly man in the next aisle being dragged out under the arms, a bruise blossoming on his temple.

Jack could feel Bál shifting next to him, instinctively reaching for the axe that was usually by his side. Jack placed a warning hand on the dwarf's arm. He was as disgusted as Bál, but they were under strict instructions from Sardâr not to draw attention to themselves. He had to resist the urge to exact quick and undetectable alchemical revenge on the guilty foreman.

Finally, once all sense of time had been drained from the two of them, Jack became aware that the mechanical noises were quieting. The men finished their tasks and stepped away from the machines, easing their muscles. Jack and Bál did the same and joined the slow trail of dirty bodies trudging out of the factory. Small pouches of coins, incredibly light, were handed to each upon their exit from the building.

“Not great pay, is it?” a boy next to Jack commented, rattling the bag.

“Nope,” Jack croaked, his voice hoarse from thirst.

“Oh, well. I guess it'll buy dinner.”

Jack couldn't even muster the energy to agree as the boy turned left out of the forecourt and disappeared into the crowd.

Lucy could see them at least half an hour before they reached the camp: three insubstantial mounds, almost like dark igloos. She had first thought they had been small tents, until they drew close enough for her to make out the shuffling movements and the glint of reptilian eyes reflecting the snow.

Their journey across the plain was arduous, and it took much longer than they'd expected. The snow was piled thicker on the flatlands, and in places they found themselves trudging through freezing powder. The wind cut harder the farther they ventured into the open, sheets of daggers sliding into any exposed flesh and pounding it deep crimson. Lucy's gut, already uncomfortable, was wrenched with hunger when they halted, shivering, several feet before the goblin trio.

“Welcome,” the central goblin called in a Slavic-like accent, her hoarse voice barely audible over the wind. “We do not receive many visitors here.” She was immensely old, her greyish-green scaly skin cracked into wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. What Lucy had taken to be obesity at a distance was actually a cocoon of matted furs and hides wrapped around her so as to only leave her face and gloved hands visible. The two either side, both male, were taller but more lightly wrapped, and both carried spears from which shreds of cloth fluttered.

“We mean you no harm.” Hakim laid down his staff. “We have come in search of an alchemical artifact and to deliver a message to you. Perhaps there is somewhere we can talk?”

The goblin matriarch nodded and turned, shuffling through the snow into the midst of the campsite. Lucy, Vince, Adâ, and Hakim followed, the two goblin guards closing ranks behind them.

The campsite seemed to have been constructed to provide maximum wind resistance for those moving about within: tents assembled in concentric circles with minimal gaps between them. As they passed through the aisle between two banks of canvases, the resident goblins clambered out onto thresholds to watch them intently.

Lucy felt slightly uneasy. The goblins she had met before had been quite happy to mix with elves. They had even recognized her and Jack as humans through their alchemical disguises, but to expect the same of these would be like assuming there were no racist humans. If this community was as segregated from the outer world as it seemed, they might not react well to alien visitors.

At the center of the campsite stood the tallest tent, a domed structure decorated with tribal patterns and weighted with snow. The goblin matriarch disappeared beneath the awning, and the travelers followed her.

The interior was significantly warmer. It was lit by a circle of candles set in the center of the floor, a few flickering out from their movement as they stooped to maneuver into seated positions. Some sort of stylized map was cut into the material of the floor between the candles, depicting mountains, rivers, and several other locales. What appeared to be the matriarch's living space was on the opposite side of the entrance: a nest of furs, thick hides, and rugs, into which she now settled herself.

The candlelight did little to penetrate the darkness encircling the group of travelers. The matriarch retrieved a slender wooden stick and proceeded to relight some of the candles. The only other illumination was the humming glow of four language rings as the goblin began to speak.

“I believe I already know what you seek. The Fifth Shard of the Risa Star, long since entrusted to my tribe to protect. It is our most holy relic. We will not yield it lightly.” She completed the circle and, raising the wand to her lips, blew out the flame.

“We do not seek it lightly,” Hakim responded. “We are Apollonians: we represent an organization which aims to reunite the Risa Star to defend our worlds against the Darkness.”

The matriarch fixed him with her gaze, piercing despite her age. “You are either familiar with our legends or have similar ones of your own. We have guarded the Shard against the Darkness far longer than your organization has sought it. Even if it is to be used for good, why should we give it up to you?”

“That's the message we've come to deliver,” Vince cut in. “There's another organization, the Cult of Dionysus—our mirror image, if you like—that wants to obtain the Shards to create a superweapon. If they succeed, Darkness will pour into our universe like never before.”

“And you believe this Cult is here, in the Sveta Mountains?”

“We know it. Or they're at least on their way. We mean no disrespect”—he eyed the guards, who had followed them inside with their spears—”but you've never faced anything like them before. Particularly not the two archbishops who've specifically been dispatched to extract the Shard from you.”

The matriarch regarded him imperiously. “We are not savages, human. We know how to defend ourselves and that which we love.”

“Of course, we know,” Adâ replied, bowing her head slightly, “but we still think our expertise would not go amiss. How might we convince you of our need to take the Shard?”

“The high priest is currently praying at the Shard's resting place at the Cave of Lights. You may converse with him on such matters when he returns. Until then”—the matriarch stood—”we will provide for you.”

The guests got to their feet and bowed their heads, understanding themselves to be dismissed.

The guards led them out of the tent and into the biting gale. A small crowd had accumulated outside the matriarch's quarters, evidently curious about the visitors.

One of the guards raised his spear and called over the wind, “These travelers are our guests until the high priest returns from prayer. Who amongst you will share your home to give them keep?”

The response wasn't exactly stirring. There were mutterings, and those in the front shrunk backwards as if they would be picked on just for being most visible. The guards scanned the group for a few moments. Then, finally, a solitary, thickly wrapped hand rose.

“Many thanks, Maht. The matriarch will consider you kindly.”

The crowd dispersed. The goblin who had volunteered was left looking slightly forlorn and more than a little intimidated, and the four tall strangers approached her. She was slight, even though enshrined in layers of clothing, with wispy dark hair that was partially beaded. She coughed a little whilst beckoning them to follow her.

Maht led the four into one of the alleyways, moving round the circle of tents until they had lost sight of the entrance. She halted outside one of the smaller tents and hoisted the flap, ushered them inside, and folded it shut behind them.

Maht's dwelling was far less grand than the matriarch's. It seemed to be a general practice that tents were lit by a circle of candles in the center of the floor, though this one was significantly smaller. Furs were piled to the left of the entrance, where a small goblin girl was curled up asleep. The goblin's few possessions—a collection of pots, bundles of long candles, and sealed jars that seemed to make up some kind of larder—were stacked around the rest of the room.

Maht busied herself rearranging the furs to create as much additional sleeping space as possible. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Would you like a drink? Or something to eat?”

Lucy nodded vigorously, and the other three seconded, though rather more politely.