The Furnace of Los
And yet, there we were. Standing on—or hanging from—the roof of a workshop at the bottom of Glove Street. The watchman at last turned the corner and vanished from my sight. My arms and legs were stiff with cold, but they moved quickly enough when Mercury’s grasp suddenly failed him. I fell to my knees and hurled myself forwards - over the edge. My left hand hooked a sleeve and clamped around a frail wrist whilst my legs clung on to the undulating ridges and grooves of the tiles, scraping my toes and knees but somehow arresting my fall. Mercury was breathing deeply, and his face - eyes closed, teeth clenched, forehead furrowed - was that of a man anticipating the touch of death. With my free hand I was able to push myself up onto one knee, and then I raised the little man up onto the roof; I let him go and he rolled himself into a trembling ball. While he pulled himself together, I decided to take a look around.
The workshop—whose drainpipe we had both just climbed up—was an old building with a second storey recently grafted on top. The roof was pan-tiled and almost horizontal across its middle, falling away on all four sides as you approached the edge. The eves were narrow, which had allowed us to gain access to the guttering. There were four skylights in the centre that looked down on the workshop below.
‘This is worse than stupid,’ I said to Mercury when he joined me. ‘Once we’ve got in, how do we get back out?’
‘Angel, Angel,’ he said, shakily raising his hands, ‘the solution will present itself to us the moment we require it. Have patience.’
I glared at him, but the little man ignored me. He took his glasses off and polished them with a cloth that he pulled from his sleeve. Unlike me he was dressed for the evening’s work—black boots, trousers and jacket, with a small knapsack on his shoulders. His cropped black hair gave him a military bearing, but his pale, soft face and intelligent eyes gave the lie to that impression.
‘It’s perfectly simple. We find the alloy and we leave. The workshop is empty so we will have no further problems.’
‘Is that what the Nestorians told you? They’re hardly reliable, you know.’
‘I’m sorry it had to be tonight. It was blind chance that the workshop was shutting early today—otherwise I’d have warned you. I’ll admit it seems rushed, but they’re paying us well—it’s worth it, Angel.’
I rubbed my scratched knees doubtfully.
‘I need your strength, Angel. We work well together. The little guy and the tall girl; there are no two jems in Lebensraum to touch us.’ He smiled and I brushed a stray strand of hair from my face.
‘And what about the workshop’s owners? The Phlogiston are bound to suspect one of the other guilds. If they are given our names, they’ll be after our blood.’
‘I was careful. The Nestorians don’t know who is working for them. The identity of the perpetrators will never be known.’ His eyes twinkled; this clearly amused him, but I couldn’t see the joke.
‘You know the Phlogiston have spies everywhere. They’re virtually at war with every guild in Chemytown and their membership is growing. This is not a good time to work for the competition.’ His recklessness had so annoyed me that I even threw in some gossip I’d picked up. ‘I’ve heard that they’ve got a member on the Council of Seven.’
‘I told you that.’
‘Then you should know that ripping off the Phlogiston is near suicide. Here’s something else you once told me: never cross an alchemist.’
He looked pained. ‘Can we get on? It’s cold up here.’
