Chapter 4 brings us into the city proper for the first time. Amalus and Gharom's role in the tale is moving in ways I didn't expect. I had not expected Gharom to have any POV chapters, but here she has. I think it will be interesting 'seeing' Amalus' development.
This chapter is long, so I've split it up into three parts. Part c is about 1,400 words
There's no art for this chapter as I have clear pics in my head, but can't find a suitable translation. If any one would be interested in collabing on art, drop me a line.
In Chapter 4b we Amalus discovered the who and why of Sar Chona's night-time visitors
Gharom had taken the day to recover from being summarily dismissed by the pie stall owner. The search for a new job was neither urgent nor a thing which could be allowed to drift. She lived frugally and, with judicious management of her savings, could probably last to the solstice, and there were always places needing people then.
She tried not to think about the temporary nature of such jobs.
The knock on her door was unexpected.
She opened it, and knew her visitor before they spoke. ‘Amalus. I didn’t know you knew where I live.’
‘I only knew the block. I often followed you home. Sar Chona can be a dangerous place, and I didn’t want you coming to harm.’
‘Oh, well, thank you.’ There was something different about Amalus’ way of talking. A surety Gharom was unused to. Beyond that the sudden knowledge that she had been followed home for the months was unsettling, despite the reason proffered.
‘Well, don’t thank me so much. Feeding me lost you your job the man at the pie stall tonight told me.’
‘Burram Murchas is a tight-fisted misery who would prefer to see food wasted thrown away than given away. You were only ever given what would have been put in the refuse.’
‘Well, thank you. You were often the only place I ate.’
‘I could tell. Look, Amalus, I don’t mean to be rude, but, why are you here?’
‘Right, yes. I found out about the thing you asked me to look into. And I need your help.’
Gharom had forgotten about the task she’d set Amalus. Burram had not been gentle or reasonable in tone when quizzing her about ‘giving away perfectly good pies to smelly vagrants who would be better off in The Lumps with the rest of the scum and dross’. Her heart rate increased as the encounter came back. The warmth of his breath as he shouted in her face, the slurs about her lack of sight, her lack of-
‘Is everything okay, Gharom? You look like you need to sit down.’
‘Sorry. I’m fine. I don’t have any money, Amalus. Well, some, but without work, not enough.’
‘I have money. I need help getting it, and doing some things. Look, I know you’re neigbors not in - I knocked on their door before yours, but could we talk inside? I’ll explain and I promise, I don’t need money.’
‘Come in. Do you want a drink?’
‘Something warm?’
They sat at the small table which. Amalus on the single chair, Gharom her bed. Apart from a chest of draws these were the only furniture in the room.
‘So, tell me what you found, and how I can help you,’ Gharom said.
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Apart from the woman who stopped by to ask if there were spare pies? No, Amalus, I know nothing about you. I’ve wondered, wondered how you… well, what led you to where you are.’ She could tell Amalus was nodding, a faint movement in the air indicating the action.
‘I’ll tell you sometime, if you want. If I can.’
Amalus paused for a moment. Gharom heard sipping and wondered if it was a drink to cover a difficulty in speaking. There’d been pain in the voice. ‘Okay’, she said.
‘Years ago I had a business, a workshop up in Artificers Square, before they started building the factories down at the bottom. Back then, and this is maybe twenty-five, thirty years, I forget exactly, a workshop there meant you were really good. I don’t know now, but then you had to be elected into the square, as well as having the money to pay.’
‘And you had the money?’
‘Oh yes. More than I thought I’d ever need.’
There was another gap, another sip. Gharom stayed silent, letting Amalus return to telling her story in her own time. Imagining Amalus back then was trying her imagination.
‘And the way,’ Amalus continued, ‘that I made money was automata. Your seeing eye dog, that kind of thing. Though yours is better than I made. There’s a real elegance to it. If you had one of mine people would think you had a big hunting hound from out in the country. But that’s fine, because some people want their automata more robust and the ones I made were. Most were for farm work, though a few went to factories. There are specialised ones that do specific jobs, but not everyone can afford two, three, or four machines. I made ones which could, well, they were more human in shape and could be used to do most things a farmer or factory worker can do. It might take a day to train it up when you changed the function, but that’s still cheaper than having dedicated machines, some which wont be used from one season to the next.’
‘And it’s these machines coming into the city at night?’
‘Yes. They come in, they go up to Artificers Square, stand, then go home. I guess the ones furthest out arrive last, and leave first.’
‘Are they all ones you made?’
‘I’m not sure, but some of them are. I recognise them. One of them even has my signature welded on it. I remember the day I finished making it.’
‘You remember making a single machine thirty years ago?’ Again the faint whisper of air and Gharom guessed Amalus was nodding.
‘I can remember individual welds on machines. Automata were my life.’
‘What happened?’
‘I’d prefer not to talk about it. There are still,’ Amalus paused then said. ‘I can’t talk about it.’
Gharom thought for a moment, remembering her interactions with Amalus which had gone on over the past year or so. She tried to remember what her initial thoughts about the woman had been, if she’d created a backstory. Nothing came to mind. Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn’t. People who became regular in her environment tended to develop a space that just theirs, with no deeper thought required. Now there was thought to give.
The idea of being followed, tracked, was uncomfortable. A sudden fear of other unknown followers, with less benign motives rose in her chest. Fighting with this was the new knowledge that Amalus was not born of poverty, but had descended there and still had money.
‘Amalus, you said you still have money. I don’t understand why you live like you do, especially if you can make these machines.’
‘They took it away from me,’ Amalus said. ‘Stole my company, my work. I fought, but I didn’t understand what was happening and the pressure, the fights, and arguments, and constant fire-fighting of problems even while I still worked amking, designing, and overseeing other-’
‘Okay, I think I understand, you don’t need to say more.’ Gharom could hear the toll the few sentences took on the woman and she didn’t want to drive her back from what seemed to be a lucid and coherent mindset. ‘You said you had money, but need help.’
‘Yes. I’ll still have money in the bank. Well, there’s a vault I keep the key to. But they’ll not want to let me in the building looking like this. If you can help me tidy up, look more like regular folk, then I can get the money. There should be enough to open a small workshop and start repairing the automata. That’s what they want, they want repaired, made purposeful again.’ There was drive and passion in Amalus’ tone. ‘Oh, and I can give you a job. You can be my assistant.’
‘I know nothing about engineering,’ Gharom said.
‘No need. You can deal with tracking orders and the like.’
‘I wouldn’t know how to.’
‘You know how to run pie stall, and a home. You’ll be fine.’
The enthusiasm and confidence which exuded from Amalus eroded Gharom’s doubts.
‘Okay’, she said. ‘Let’s start by getting you cleaned up.’