The fusilier squinted at their invitation. ‘Just the two of you?’

His esteemed colleague spat inches from Sam’s shoes. ‘We put out the good shit for two?’

Sam kept her eyes on the fusilier’s bulging waistcoat, where a button was about to burst from the pressure of pent-up flesh – a valiant and ultimately futile struggle. ‘This is Maestro James Cowen, of the House of Dawn.’

They glanced at Lucia and at each other. ‘The courtesies of the Royal Lobby are yours. Your lift arrives in…fifteen minutes? That about right?’

His colleague shrugged.

The door to what Sam supposed was the barracks was propped open by a smoothbore cannon flipped on its side. Men could be heard laughing and dealing cards.

The fusiliers led them to a hexagonal building from which rose a gargantuan Pillar of the Pile, ten times thicker than the utilitarian superstructure at the lift. He opened the doors to a wave of delicious warmth. ‘VIP lounge,’ he said. ‘Enjoy.’

‘Lucky bastards,’ his esteemed colleague muttered.

Lucia raised a hand as if to slap the man, and he recoiled so fast the curb caught his heel and sent him sprawling into the dirt.

‘Thanks,’ said James.

Two rows of leather divans each the size of a bed; a wall of curved glass overlooking the red-and-grey streets of Seventeen; a salad bar piled high with fresh fruit, sliced meats, twenty shades of cheese – a near fantastical display of abundance. Sam helped herself.

Lucia set down Charlie’s box, then went to the bar. Sam, stuffing salami into her mouth, watched with one open eye as Lucia filled a cup of water without spilling a drop. It still seemed surreal to see her perform such tasks with a blindfold on (a formal gold-and-azure today) - not that amblers needed eyes for seeing.

James drank his water and, as usual, could not suffer the silence. ‘Stop eating that junk. There’ll be a banquet.’

‘What’s his place like?’ Sam asked between mouthfuls of pickled dates.

‘Ah. The House of the Golden Fleece. Three thousand rooms, five hundred servants, nine banquet halls, hot spring, racecourse, hangars, vineyards –’

 ‘Hangars? Airship hangars?’

‘The[JQ2]  Floor of Twenty is the apex of the Pile. It’s open to the outside.’ James saw her face and grinned. ‘You’re excited. My stoic and incorrigible apprentice, giddy at the thought of seeing sky. Those that pass the audition earn the right to purchase land there. Wouldn’t that be nice? Work and live under sun and rain, wake to birdsong and sweet morning dew.’

His mockery was ice-cold water. ‘Will you really let me audition?’

‘Your lack of faith offends me. How many interns did I bring to the Floor of Six? Thirty?’

Lucia’s arms red to the elbow, bits of brain under her fingernails. ‘Thirty-two.’

‘And you’re the only one left. Loyalty begets loyalty.’ He then prepared excuses. ‘There’s a quota, of course, as with all things. The Finleys get half and the other Houses compete for the rest. The candidates get one chance to prove themselves at the Palace Above. You either come out a necromancer or lose the ability to see the Green forever.’

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Forever?’

‘Don’t concern yourself,’ he shrugged. ‘You’ll pass.’

‘It’s a formality, then?’

‘If only.’

A bright ding from the far end of the lounge. The gilded leaves of the royal lift opened in a spill of soft yellow light, silhouetting an old man in full tails and an orange bow tie. He looked around a moment, as if bewildered by his surroundings, then he came to James and bowed.

Only then did Sam realize that it was an ambler. Its face was slightly too pale, and its eyes, hidden behind horn-rimmed spectacles, were two clever balls of glass with chert for pupils. Its curled mustache, its confident yet deferent gait…every minute movement was effortlessly lifelike.

James looked at it the way an accountant might look at numbers. ‘I have luggage,’ he indicated Charlie’s box. ‘Carry it for me.’

James had packed half his lab in there; it was harnessed to a system of steel straps and weighed at least half a ton. The ambler dragged it toward the lift, cutting a deep groove on the carpet, its back bent almost flat. It struggled like an old man too vain to admit failure.

‘Tether-less audiosensory reactivity,’ James muttered. ‘Extraordinary muscle density without bulk. Life-imitative feedback with at least fifty redundant routines per millicycle. This is beyond Jack’s ability. Old Finley made this.’

‘Old Finley?’

‘Jackson Finley, first of his name,’ he breathed. ‘Pray we never meet him.’

The royal lift contained five divans each the size of a double bed. Extravagant displays of food – hundreds of nameless delicacies arrayed on tables and shelves and platters and troughs – took up a third of the interior. In one corner was a curtained stage, on which sat a music box in the shape a grand piano, its open top exposing thousands of copper cylinders spinning in harmony. Sectioned to one side was a steaming pool behind a screen of bamboos. Flowering vines were corralled into an archway to its side, winding to a miniature garden resplendent with a tumbling creek and a dozen varieties of tiny trees.

‘This is nice,’ said Sam.  

‘Hold the door! Hold it!’’

A ball of a man rolled into the lift. Sweat drew a deep trench down his shirt, where a button had quit, leaving a swell of his belly squeezed out like a fleshy balloon. Beneath plastered yellow hair he wore a pair of what looked like goggles ripped from a plague mask with black-painted lenses.

A woman followed him, tall and slender with a veiled face. She put a hand around the fat man’s waist and guided him to a divan, where he promptly became one with the cushions. She then poured him a glass of water with oddly sensual flourish.

‘Hello there,’ James declared, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. ‘Fancy seeing you out of the workshop, my friend.’

The fat man started at his voice but did not look up. ‘Maestro Cowen, but of course,’ he muttered. ‘They’d never send the royal lift for a code monkey.’

James was all curtsey. ‘This is Jo, the most talented encoder I have ever met, and I have met many. He doesn’t go out much, but he’s lovely once you get past the…’ He waved vaguely.

Jo emptied the cup over his face and sputtered like a drowning cat as he sprayed sweaty water everywhere. Sam took a step behind Lucia.

The butler pulled a lever, and the doors eased shut. The countdown clock indicated an hour and fifty-five minutes – the longest lift ride Sam has ever had.  

Jo sat up, rolled up his pants, began kneading his calves. The squelchy slap-slap magnified magnificently off the mahogany walls. A minute passed before James reached his limit. The kneading has progressed to Jo’s crotch. ‘So…you go to Finley’s often?’ James asked pleasantly.

The fat man started, as if realizing all over again that there were people present. He began kneading his crotch with speed and vigor. ‘No no, I…this is my first time in…well, since I last saw you, Maestro.’ He sniffed. ‘You have a human now.’

‘Sam,’ said Sam.

‘Urghhh…’ The peculiar wheeze seeping out of his lips reminded Sam of a deflating balloon, only a hundred times creepier. ‘She speaks.’

‘Yes she does,’ James said pleasantly.

‘I do not care for women who speak,’ Jo said. ‘They never say anything nice. What was wrong with Lucia?’

‘Nothing’s wrong with Lucia,’ James said pleasantly.

‘Hrgghhh…’ Jo leaned back, and the couch groaned under him. The veiled woman was feeding him grapes now, and with every morsel he suckled on her fingers like a baby with a pacifier. ‘I respect you, Maestro, and I respect your taste in women, so I will refrain from commentary.’

‘I don’t recall seeing you at the last meeting.’ James said pleasantly.

‘What? No…no no, I didn’t go.’

‘Then you must have special business this time.’

Jo’s face flushed a deep plum red. ‘I – I – really, I’m not supposed to say, so…’

‘Ah, alright then,’ said James pleasantly. He folded his hands and smiled and waited a whole of two seconds.

‘The Perfect Vessel! I finished it! Joy has the tapes – and look!’ Jo tickled at the veiled woman’s chin, and she slapped his hand playfully. ‘An infinite array of lifelike routines – well, only two to the power of sixty, but life is not infinite, and neither should be its imitation. But for a little calibration with the Green, she would be flawless – better than any woman alive!’

‘A flawless imitation of life,’ James muttered.

‘Yes! Not the talking, naturally, which is an advantage since women have no need to speak. The concept of language is so abstract that a routine for speech would have to be…have to be…’ Jo shuddered. ‘I shudder at the thought, so to speak.’ He giggled and wheezed.

Sam looked at the veiled woman. The way she sat with her legs casually swung over the armrest, how she tricked grapes out of the bowl and fed them to the fat man, little finger raised…this was an ambler? There was not a single blemish on her skin; it was smooth and perfect, healthier-looking than Sam’s.

‘Her name is Joy?’ Sam asked.

Jo seemed to like that. ‘Yes! Yes it is! The love of my life, and is there one more perfect and…oooh, more perfectly proportioned than she? Even before the Perfect Vessel she was…hnnnn….and now…and now!’ He huffed mightily. ‘My finest work – and always will be! Isn’t she, Maestro?’

James sounded like the end of patience. ‘That veil…I’m guessing her eyes still don’t work.’

Jo’s face became dangerously red, as if he would roll out of that couch and swing a fist. Then he deflated and sank his chin into the fleshy folds of his chest. ‘The veil is a fine accessory, though it does…does distance her lovely cheekbones. But I’ll not blindfold her like you Lucia. The way you treat your woman is not…feminine.’

‘Feminine,’ muttered Sam.

James was out of his couch. He strolled over to Jo’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. The fat man turned and smiled uncertainly. Joy tried to prod a grape into his cheek, failed, then began prodding his face with it, over and over.

James knelt. ‘My friend, let me say this once: I appreciate our working relationship, from one professional to another.’

‘Well thank you –’

‘That being said, I am dismayed that you would compare Lucia to this powdered corpse where you shove your flaccid cock. It makes me irrationally angry. Please, for both our sakes…shut your mouth.’

Sam watched the fat man’s face melt into terror and felt butterflies in her stomach. It was rude to judge on first impressions, but, as she had come to realize, quick judgement was all too satisfying.  

Jo forgave him. He and the Maestro went back…how long has it been? He has always been poor with time, but it seemed almost a decade ago when Cowen gave him Joy.

That was a long service period for an ambler. Alchemy could preserve flesh longer than the lifespan of humans, but the Green…the Green was a fickle thing to be shut inside a tapebox. Cowen himself had said it was like water, always looking to escape.

Jo didn’t know anything about the Green, but he knew good work from poor. His friends – if they could be called that, the imbeciles – had to get new companions every year. The Green just seeped out of them, especially the ones heavily…used, and over time they became weirder and less lifelike, no matter how many routines went in. Those idiots spent fortunes on replacements; pretty cadavers were so awfully expensive.

But Joy has stayed by his side all these years. Modifications beyond counting – hundreds of thousands of routines, the complexity of each rivalling the entirety of a Finley product – worked in concert from her tapebox. The Green didn’t like that, as a rule. Complexity made them want to escape all the faster. Yet Joy has remained perfect, and he knew it was thanks to Cowen.  

All in all, Jo was grateful. Cowen could get angry sometimes, he knew, especially about that abomination of his, but for Joy’s sake he would let his transgressions pass.

Jo was a generous man.

The Finleys were not, but that was not his problem.

Next Chapter: Balustrade (1)