The Furnace of Los
‘We’ve got to leave,’ I said, trying to rise.
He shook his head. ‘There are more constructs in those crates. And there are parts for the assembly of many more.’ His glasses glinted in the gas light, lending his eyes the flame of fanaticism.
‘Get the alloy . . .’ I said through clenched teeth.
‘I think I’ve found it, but that’s not all. I think I know why the Phlogiston have developed it.’
‘It’s none of our business.’ I tasted blood in my mouth.
He held up a strip of bluish metal that was coiled into a disk the size of a small plate. It must have been heavy because he was holding it in both hands. ‘According to the Nestorians, this alloy has many unique qualities—the two which interest the Phlogiston, though, are its strength and rigidity.’
I closed my eyes and, pushing down on my hands, I managed to raise myself to a crouch, leaning against the bench. At the other end of the workshop, concealed in the shadows, was the rope hanging from the skylight, but there was no way that I was getting out the way we had come in.
‘I can see why the Nestorians might want it, but the Phlogiston . . .’
‘I’m leaving with or without you.’ I ran my tongue around my gums and spat on the floor, a dark dollop of blood and saliva.
He looked at me, finally comprehending. Then he put his finger to his lips. I heard it this time, too. Voices. Somewhere downstairs a door opened and then banged closed, and I distinctly heard two men arguing as they mounted the stairs.
I hunkered down deeper against the crate, trying to make myself smaller. Where was Mercury? After extinguishing the burner, he had helped me over to the shelter of the crates and then he had vanished. There was a dull ache at the back of my head and I was finding it difficult to focus my eyes.
‘You see to the lights, I’ll check everything is ready.’ The voice was thin and reedy, commanding but without authority. Through an opening between two of the crates I could see two figures—both fat and robed—pass in front of a window. One approached me, the other disappeared from my sight.
‘Why, it’s cold in here tonight,’ said the other, from the far end of the workshop. His voice was nasal and whining. There was a flash and then the soft, warm glow of gas light.
‘Asquinol, look here,’ said the first voice, just beyond the crate. ‘How did this happen?’
‘Ruberic, first you ask me to see to the lights, now you call me over there; I wish you’d make up your mind.’
‘It was upright when I left. It must have fallen over. We can’t leave it like this. Help me get it back in position, will you. This wouldn’t make a terribly good first impression.’
They struggled to raise the fallen construct off the ground, making several attempts before they succeeded. Having felt its weight, I sympathised with their efforts.
‘There is oil on the floor. Get a cloth and clean it, will you.’
The raised construct stood against the crate that I sat behind and I tried to shrink as Ruberic fussed over it, ensuring that it was undamaged from its fall. Mercifully for me, he didn’t check its rear side or notice the knife.
‘Okay, that will do. No more lights. We wouldn’t want the watch to come knocking on our door tonight of all nights, and I don’t want our brother to be distracted by the clutter. We must focus his mind on the matter at hand.’
