Chapter 1
It was hard to look at the view with one eye swelling shut, but Sania was used to difficulties, both small and large. It would be her last time on the balcony, soaking up the beautiful, chaotic view, and at least now she could pretend her tears were from the thumping she’d received. She should not miss Wayward House, but should not and would not were rarely interchangeable. It had at least been safer than sleeping in the street, and quieter as well. The city of Paronity clicked and clanked and rattled both day and night as all of its cogs and levers and springs wound and released and turned and pushed and flexed. It filled the mind, the clatter of the city, and if you had nowhere to go but the streets, sometimes it pushed at your thoughts until you wanted to scream.
The door opened behind her and little Fallmouth looked in. “It-th time,” the girl lisped and then slid away, not much more than a brittle little shadow. The girl was good at going unnoticed. Many of the younger ones were until they were old enough that the shape of their bodies screamed louder than words, at least. Fallmouth was not the girl’s real name, but she had been kicked in the face by a Clydesdale while running from the SpringGuard, stolen bread in hand. Now she lisped badly, and her mouth drooped open on one side. But at least the Guard had dumped her here, and she was safe. Sania raised one hand to her eye. Kind of safe, anyway.
She stole one more quick glance out at the city, marvelling at the crowded buildings, the domes of splotchy copper and green, the crooked cobbled streets and that damn clank and clatter, and then turned her back on it. Plenty of time to explore the city – if her temper hadn’t scuttled her new life. She sighed. Her temper. Again.
Sania hurried down the hallway towards the stairs, pausing briefly to inspect herself in one of the many mirrors the upstairs of the House was practically pocked with. She was short, too short for Mrs. Comfrey to be happy with, but she was slim and fit. Her hair was long and curling, and her skin was olive enough to suggest some outlying Lever Quadrant heritage, but her eyes were large and green and displayed an innocence as false as any feeling of safety that the House conveyed. Or at least they usually did, when one wasn’t purpling and swollen. She smoothed her plain house dress and hurried down the stairs to the receiving room.
The room was as neat as rigid rule and an army of small girls could make it. There was a rug on the floor, faded but with the looping, interwoven patterns of the Southern Isles that marked it either as a rarity or a cheap copy. There was a small table and tea set, steam curling from the little stout pot. Two delicate cups were set out, but Mrs. Comfrey was alone in the room, sitting ramrod straight in her uncomfortable formal sitting chair. She looked at Sania down her long, thin nose for a moment before sighing.
“Sit, child.” Her voice was as nasal and unpleasant as usual, but there was a note of gentleness there that Sania did not like at all. She sat.
“I’m not getting out, am I?” Sania blurted. She was of age and had been apprenticed to the Cog Shaver Guild. It was not pleasant work, but it was something—a life—an adult life.
Mrs. Comfrey looked at her for a moment longer. Sania wondered if she imagined the pity that seemed to flash across the older spinster’s face – there and then gone.
“You will be getting out, as you term it, young Sania. You are of age, and you cannot stay.”
There was a pregnant pause. Sania’s eye throbbed.
“But you will not be apprenticed to the Cog Shavers. Nor anywhere, I am afraid.”
Sania felt fresh tears start. “He grabbed me!” she snapped. Her damn temper again.
Mrs. Comfrey looked away, uncomfortable either with the tears or the words.
“You just asked me to show him to the Boiler. It wasn’t an invitation for him to prime his own pump!”
“And you hit him,” Mrs. Comfrey snapped back, her anger and frustration bubbling over. She sighed. “And you hit him,” she said again, softly, and then held up a hand.
“It’s not right. Of course, it is not. But I have a house full of girls, and winter is around the corner. The Heating Guild is powerful, and most powerful, as the leaves turn and the autumn heat fades from the air. They have made their dissatisfaction plain. There is nothing else I can do.”
Sania bowed her head. She had known. When the slimy workman – no, scrap that, workboy – had grabbed her, even before she had kneed him between the legs, she had known it was a bad decision. He had punched her, of course, and stormed out (once he was recovered enough to walk upright and pretend he had some dignity), and that was that.
“So I’m to leave.”
Sania thought of Fallmouth, and Gracie, and Pennyfoot. All the girls, some new, some almost as long-term residents as herself. She had let them down. She would have to leave and hope that Mrs. Comfrey could use that to placate the Heating Guild before winter.
“I’ll get my bag,” Sania said and stood.
“Just a moment,” a new voice spoke from the doorway.
###
Sania turned and stared at the newcomer. She was tall and elegant, not beautiful in any normal sense but handsome in a powerful, removed way. Her hair was grey and pulled back in a tight, simple bun, and her eyes were dark. Her cheeks had the slightest dusting of rouge, her lips perhaps coloured slightly, as if out of habit but nothing more. She wore a short skirt and leggings, a common enough fashion in the young but odd to see in someone older. Her light tunic was embroidered with blue and red roses. She strode into the room and sat herself in the vacant chair, uninvited.
“And you are?” Mrs. Comfrey asked, with all the calm that decades of dealing with wilful girls had bestowed.
“I am Madame Adla. Of the Guild of Lady Protectors. I let myself in.”
Sania gaped. Mrs. Comfrey almost gaped but caught herself just in time and gave a little cough. It was as inconceivable as if the Duke of Cogs had popped around for a cup of tea.
The Madame smiled slightly at their reaction and actually poured herself a cup of tea. She took a sip and raised one eyebrow.
“Is that a hint of orange spice? My, that’s lovely.”
Mrs. Comfrey shook her head and blinked. “I… yes. I make it myself.”
“What a pleasant idea.” The Madame took another sip and then smiled, her eyes flicking between Comfrey and Sania.
Sania’s mind whirled like a cog in a shaving frame. She stared at this woman, and for some reason felt resentment at her refined nature, her tight little smile, her amused glances.
“I’m sure the tea is pleasant. But if you will excuse me, I have the task of becoming homeless to see to.”
“Oh, do sit down, young lady. You cannot make decisions about your future without having your paths presented to you.”
Sania stayed where she was, unsure of how to respond but not wanting to comply. Easy enough, seeing as how there were no other chairs. She could at least pretend her natural contrariness was simply related to the lack of appropriate furniture.
“My future is my own,” Sania managed. Mrs. Comfrey winced and shot her a warning look, which Sania easily ignored. If she were going to be on her own, she would speak as she wished.
The visitor sighed and put her cup down.
“As are all our futures, Sania.”
“How do you know my name?”
The older woman waved that away.
“We all make our own decisions, Sania. It’s just the choices that vary. One decision severs the lines of many choices, and maybe opens up others. Sometimes you come to a place where there are only a few viable strands of choice, threads that lead to a future or are cut – snip – short.” She made a little scissoring gesture with her fingers and then pointed at Sania.
“Here is one such place for you.”
“What are you talking about?” Sania snapped. She had just been told she was homeless because she wouldn’t let a letch grope her in the dingy Boiler room. She didn’t need this crazy old woman ranting at her, even if she was a near-mythical figure in the city of Paronity.
“Keep your ramblings.” She continued, her anger growing. “I’ve got to get going if I’m going to find somewhere safe from the SpringGuard for the night.” She turned and made for the door.
“Stop, young lady.” The woman did not raise her voice, but the bite of command was as sharp as a blade.
Sania turned back to see the woman holding up a flat grey disc about the size of a saucer.
“This,” the woman said, “is the seal of my Guild.” She turned her gaze on Mrs. Comfrey.
“I would be willing to bestow it upon the Wayward House, along with all traditional protections and guarantees.”
For the first time in all the years Sania had known her, Mrs. Comfrey looked completely flustered. She stammered and waved one hand as two red splotches appeared high on her cheeks. After a moment, she managed to gather herself a little.
“In exchange for what?”
Madame Adla smiled slightly.
“Two things. First, I would take young Sania here as an apprentice to my Guild. If she so agrees, and if I find her suitable after a trial period.”
Mrs. Comfrey appeared speechless. Sania considered being speechless herself, but her natural curiosity was too strong.
“And the second?”
The Madame took another sip of her tea and smiled. “Why, I must have the recipe for this orange spice blend.”
###
The Madame was standing on the front landing when Sania joined her. The older woman took one look at the single canvas bag the girl had slung over one shoulder and made a face of slight distaste.
“That is all?”
Sania felt herself bristle.
“An orphan doesn’t accrue much on the street, nor in the Wayward House. I have some clothes.”
“Just clothes?” The Madame said, raising one eyebrow slightly.
“As far as you need to be concerned,” Sania replied and then bit her lip. The Madame was going to be her new master. As an apprentice, she had almost no rights beyond what her master granted her. Being lippy was not the best way to start.
And yet, the older woman simply raised one sculpted grey eyebrow.
“You have made your farewells?”
So perhaps the Madame was astute enough to tell what was really annoying her new charge. Sania shook her head.
“It is not encouraged.”
“Ah.”
There was a short silence in which Sania diligently avoided the older woman’s gaze. Instead, she looked down the cobbled street that sloped away from the top of the hill. Behind them, the high, dark wall of the Anarchy rose, that secretive walled city within the city, the black heart of the whole of Paronity that almost everyone shunned. Oddly enough, it had made the land around it so cheap, for so long, that it had been the perfect place for something like the Wayward House to take root. The view across the city was almost unparalleled, but the presence of the dark, overbearing stone walls meant the nearby streets were a maze of rundown struggling businesses – second-rate Cog Shavers, mercenary houses filled with old and tired Spring Guards, and even the occasional sad little mechanical repair shop. Sania had even heard whispers of a few black market dealers in Paron, the purple crystal that powered every spring, lever, and cog work in the city, even though dealing in such without a noble seal was a crime punishable by death. Which would be proceeded, of course, by the requisite amount of torture.
And yet, even here, the city was bustling. People walked along the street, some hurrying, others with no apparent destination in mind. Sania saw men in work clothes and a few hard-eyed women in garb that perhaps hinted at night work, as well as a swarm of dirty children that more than hinted at said night work. Here and there, hawkers cried out, imploring passers-by to examine their superior fruit, meats, or artisanal offerings. Most of these were wisely ignored.
Technically, the Wayward House sat in the Lever Quadrant, and here and there, you could see the stilted form of a Lever Walker stalking down the street, its long delicate legs spidering along, the fat carriage above holding one or two, or sometimes even half a dozen people. Some wore goggles to shield their eyes. Others just squinted or raised one hand ineffectually against the purple Paron smoke that flowed from the chimney above the lever engine. Like most Paron-powered works, the Walkers were fast and nimble, but they made a horrible scratching noise as their legs scraped on the cobbles.
Below them, moving in haphazard low jumps, were a few Springies. They looked like fat little copper toads with a rider, and they would pause for a moment, making a low ratcheting sound as the spring rewound and then leap forward as the mechanical pushers released underneath. Each jump came with the expected puff of purple. As Sania watched, a larger springy lurched down the street with three Spring Guards atop. One of them stared at them as they zoomed by and raised a hand in a polite little salute to the Madame. She returned the greeting with a nod of her head.
“Shall we go, then, my young charge? I must admit I detest the sounds of the street.”
Sania looked at the older woman in surprise. She had never heard anyone complain about the noise of the city, and had long ago assumed everyone was so used to it that it didn’t register. The Madame waved at one of the grubby urchins nearby, a boy with a crooked smile and a floppy cap that had some very suspect stains on it. He trotted over.
“Take this young lady’s luggage to the Guild of Lady Protectors. You know where that is?”
The boy’s eyes widened.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She fixed him with a hard stare.
“Then you know you will be rewarded. Or punished, as deemed appropriate. Attend to the task.”
The boy nodded and held out his hand for Sania’s bag. She hesitated briefly.
“I can carry it,” she said.
“No doubt. I would not be interested in you if you were so febrile or uppity not to do so. But we have a stop to make first.”
“A stop?” Sania echoed as she handed her bag to the small boy. “Where?”
The Madame cast an eye over her new charge, her gaze lingering pointedly on the bruised and swollen eye.
“We have a Heating Guild member to visit.”