Engn II

VI

VIWhelm screwed a brass-ringed lens into his eye and studied the tiny spirals etched onto the memory spindle.

“Interesting,” he said after a few moments of scrutiny. “Yes, very interesting.” He looked up at Finn, his left eye huge through the lens. “I've never seen a spindle like this. Where did you say you got it?”

They stood in the workshop attached to Finn and Diane's cottage. It was a week since the earthquake. There had been no aftershocks for five days. Only a few people with badly damaged houses remained at the Moot Hall now. Some would be fixed, and some would be pulled down and rebuilt. Each day, everyone went to work repairing broken walls and cracked roads. Whelm, true to his word, had done what he could, lending his horse to lug materials, bending his own back to carry stone wherever it was needed. People were wary of him, resentful, but they appreciated his help. People gave him food and water in payment, not smiling as they did so, but not scowling either. Mostly they were too tired for either.

Whelm slept in the workshop, his roll of bedding filling the narrow space between the benches. It was the only compromise Diane would put up with. She hadn't wanted Whelm to stay with them at all. She'd made it clear she wanted him out of the valley, out of their lives.

“You told me often enough what he did, Finn. He carted you off to Engn in that steam-powered prison. He was a brute, and you're inviting him into our home.”

She'd been angry, and they'd argued, something they never did. He understood why she was angry, of course, but things were different now. And if Whelm could help him with the spindle it would be worth it. In the end, Diane had agreed to let Whelm sleep in the workshop for a few nights, just while they needed help to repair what the earthquake had wrecked. But she didn't speak to Whelm, and she barely spoke to Finn when the three of them were together.

The ex-master, meanwhile, had spent two evenings working on the smashed spindle reader and now claimed it was nearly workable. The damage it had received in the quake had puzzled Whelm at first, and he'd quizzed Finn about how exactly it had got so mangled. As he'd promised, he'd worked hard on the device late into each night. Now the contraption sat on the workbench, an exploded version of the devices Finn remembered from Engn. Wheels and lenses and cranks were held in place by clamps or were lashed together with wire. The whole assembly hummed and gave off the faint smell of burning dust as Whelm connected it to a junction board fed by the cables from the waterwheel.

Once again, Finn wished he could tell Whelm everything about the spindle. It would be so much simpler. But he didn't dare. He needed Whelm's help, and the ex-master wouldn't help if he knew the truth. Finn was to blame for destroying Whelm's life. Somehow, Finn needed to see the pictures on the spindle without Whelm doing so as well.

He glanced down at the ex-master, who waited for the answer to his oft-repeated question of how Finn had acquired the spindle. How much did Whelm know? How much had he guessed?

“I found it,” said Finn.

“But where?”

The easiest way to conceal a lie was to tell the truth. Or part of it at least. “The Directory. Did you ever go there?”

Whelm looked puzzled now. “Of course, I didn't. You couldn't go there. It was sealed off. No one was even supposed to know it existed.”

“But you knew?”

Whelm shrugged. “I heard rumours. I pieced things together. But how did you end up there? You were never even a master.”

Finn hesitated, thinking what to say. “I worked in the Blueprint Hall. We had to go all over Engn to deliver plans. One day I went to the Directory.” It was the truth, in a way.

“And you just found this spindle lying around?”

“Yes.”

Whelm didn't say anything for a moment. He studied Finn, eyes narrowed slightly. Finn could see he didn't believe him.

“So why is it unusual?” asked Finn, trying to change the subject.

Whelm returned his attention to the slender metal rod. “See here. Normally you get one continuous line etched into the metal, enough for maybe two hours of pictures. New spindles had to be constantly put in and the full ones taken away. That's why there were so many; they got through hundreds every day.”

Finn recalled a room in the Directory where he and Diane had hidden. The rows and rows of metal drawers, each filled with tinkling metal spindles. There must have been tens of thousands of them. What did they keep them all for?

“But this one is different?”

“See the marks on it. They keep stopping and starting. There are tiny gaps between each section.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means someone has recorded some pictures, then stopped, then later recorded more. Like they were collecting images together onto this spindle.”

A thrill fizzed in Finn's stomach at Whelm's words. He tried to keep his expression neutral. It was just as he'd believed all along: the spindle was special. Connor had gone to a lot of trouble to make it, then had made very sure Finn received it. He had to find out what it said.

“There's more, though,” said Whelm.

“What?”

“Well, it's the scratches themselves. If you look very closely you can see they look … odd.”

“You mean like damaged?” He'd always been so careful. His excitement was replaced by dread. If they couldn't read the spindle, he'd never have his answers.

“No,” said Whelm. “I don't think so. I think they're encrypted.”

“How can you tell?”

“The grooves look different. The little marks look random. Disjointed rather than flowing. It's subtle, but you can tell if you know what you're looking for.”

“The images can be encrypted like the line-of-sight messages?”

“They can. The reader lets you punch in the key to view the pictures just like any 'scope.”

A terrible thought struck Finn. “Which means, if you don't know the key…”

“Then there's nothing you can do,” said Whelm. “There's no way to view what's on the spindle. You could try each number in sequence but that would take your whole lifetime. Probably several lifetimes. These seeing orbs use twenty-digit numbers, not ten.”

Finn sat down. The sinking sensation overwhelmed him. This was bad news, very bad news. Connor hadn't given him the key. He'd just handed the spindle to Finn. Finn thought back, trying to recall everything Connor had said and done. At no point had he made any mention of a twenty-digit number.

Had Connor intended to give him the key later? Or had he hidden it somewhere and Finn had failed to spot it? He'd never know. Most likely, Connor had taken the key with him when he died in the fall of Engn.

The spindle was useless. It took several moments for the news to sink in. What was he going to do? He'd depended on the metal stick to explain everything, make sense of everything. The secrets were all on there, but now he'd never be able to decipher them.

“How come you know so much about the spindles, anyway?” asked Finn. Perhaps Whelm was wrong. Perhaps it was all a story so Finn would sell the metal stick.

Whelm shrugged. “When I first went to Engn, I was given the job of making the blanks. Me and lots of other people in this big hall, filing and polishing them to a shine. Later, I was promoted to working on the orbs. Repairing them and testing new ones.”

“Then you must know how they function, how all the mechanics and electronics work.”

“Pretty much.”

A glimmer of hope returned to Finn. “Then you must know a way to view the pictures without having the key. A way to bypass the mechanism.”

Whelm shook his head. “I told you, it's not possible. The images are hopelessly garbled without the key. If you try to view the pictures, you'll get a snowstorm of noise. I'm sorry, Finn, there's nothing I can do.”

Finn nodded. His glimmer of hope died. He had to get away, think about Whelm's words. They changed everything. Had he become too obsessed with the spindle? Maybe this was a sign to move on. Forget the whole thing, get on with his life in the valley.

“I should go,” he said. “I promised I'd take Mrs. Megrim some food.”

“Okay,” said Whelm. “I'll finish work on the reader anyway. I think I can make it work. It's delicate though – it could break down at any moment, understand? Not that it matters much now. The moment you put the spindle in you'll see…”

He trailed off. Something had occurred to him. He stared into the middle distance, eyes narrowed.

“What is it?” asked Finn. “What have you thought of?” The glimmer of hope sparked again.

“Do you have another magnifying lens?” asked Whelm. “A stronger one?”

“I suppose. We could use the lenses from a line-of-sight. Why? What is it?”

Whelm was deep in thought for a moment. Then he replied. “Something we worked out once with a broken orb. It's not going to help much. It's most likely not going to work at all.”

“What? Tell me.”

“When we were repairing the etching mechanisms, we noticed the encryption components didn't always engage straight away. It was a flaw in the design. The arm that was supposed to move across sometimes got stuck.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning the images got recorded unencrypted before the thing was properly warmed up. Sometimes it was only a second or so. Sometimes a few minutes, like maybe the operator didn't notice for a while and then engaged the encryption arm manually. Sometimes they stuck mid-recording, too, but that was rarer. You'd see a stutter of normal pictures among all the random fuzz.”

“There could be visible images on there after all.”

“Maybe, Finn. It's very unlikely. Only if the pictures were recorded on a machine with the design flaw. And if it hadn't been repaired. And even then, you might only get a few seconds.”

“We have to try,” said Finn, full of excitement once again. He rummaged around for an old 'scope. He'd seen one about somewhere, one of its lenses hopelessly cracked. “Would this help?”

“It might. If I unscrew the eyepiece and get the focal lengths right. I'll have to hold everything in place with clamps.”

Whelm worked for ten, fifteen minutes, making minute adjustments to the spacings between the lenses, occasionally muttering to himself. He moved his head backwards and forwards to get the tiny scratches into focus. There was silence. Finn found he was barely breathing.

Finally, he could stand it no longer. “Anything? Can you tell?”

Whelm didn't reply, all his attention focused on the spindle.

“Whelm?”

The ex-master looked up. “You're in luck. Not all of them, but some of the tracks have been recorded with a flawed orb. Which means the pictures were recorded on different devices and collected together later, as we thought. There should be a few scenes visible here and there. But not many, Finn. Most of the spindle will be unreadable.”

“But you can get something?”

“There's a chance. If I can get everything hooked up properly.” Whelm looked up at Finn. “Leave it with me for a few hours and I'll see what I can do.”

“Thanks,” said Finn. “I'll see to Mrs. Megrim and be back as soon as I can.”

Whelm nodded, his attention already turned to the nest of wires and metal arms on the bench.

Outside, Finn collected eggs from the chickens they had scratching around in the garden. Diane approached from down the lane. She'd been helping Flane rebuild one of the bridges over the Silverburn. She's been happier these past few days, having finally heard from her home village. All was well down there. Still, she looked weary, her face stained with mud.

She smiled as she saw Finn and hurried up to kiss him, deliberately smudging mud onto his face.

“Thanks for that,” he said.

“You're welcome. Off somewhere?”

“I'm going to take these to Mrs. Megrim.”

“That's good. And how is our guest?” The ice in her voice was subtle but clear if you knew her.

“He thinks he can get the reader working again.”

“He does, does he?”

“Which is good, isn't it?” said Finn. “Once that's done, and now most of the buildings are fixed up, he'll be leaving soon.”

“And you think he'll just go?”

“Of course,” said Finn. “He doesn't want to be tied down here. He likes to be free. He knows he's not welcome, not really.”

Diane didn't look convinced. She was sure he was up to something. “Which is hardly surprising, is it?”

“No. I know.”

She stroked his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. “You need to get this cut. How can you even see clearly?”

“Will you do it for me?”

“I will.”

“There's hot water for a bath,” said Finn. “You've earned it.”

She squeezed his hand, then picked her way through their little patch of garden towards the cottage. Finn watched her go, grinning at the sight of her, then turned to head down the lane.

Shadows were already gathering in the valley as Finn followed the familiar track past the Switch House and up to Mrs. Megrim's cottage. The rooks had ceased their squabbling and settled down into the treetops for the night, bringing a welcome peace to the familiar scene. Lines of smoke filtered up into the clear air from the chimneys dotted here and there. It was hard to believe the earthquake had happened. The valley glowed in the fading evening light and everything looked as it always looked.

Finn stopped to take it all in, breathing deeply. A breeze made the leaves whisper around him. It was strange, but he hadn't noticed the beauty as a boy. The valley was just there. His playground, his world. Only now he'd been away and come back could he see how special a place it was. He knew he was lucky to be able to spend his life there.

Like Connor's mother, Mrs. Megrim sat alone in her room. Her window, however, was open to the evening air. She sat in her old leather chair, a woollen shawl around her shoulders, reading the reams of line-of-sight messages scrolling constantly from her 'scope. She might not get out much anymore, but she still knew everything taking place in the valley. And beyond. It came tumbling out of her device in a constant torrent.

“Ah, there you are at last, boy,” she said, looking up at him over her half-moon reading glasses. “I thought you'd forgotten all about me.”

“I brought eggs and bread,” said Finn. “Shall I cook something?”

“As long as you don't burn it like last time.”

Finn went off to prepare food in Mrs. Megrim's tiny, square kitchen. When he returned, she was frowning over some fresh scrap of readout, shaking her head and tutting.

“What is it?” asked Finn.

“Oh, youngsters,” said Mrs. Megrim. “They're all idiots.”

“Yes. You've mentioned that before.”

“Well it's true. Don't know what's good for them, that's their problem. Think they know best.” She dropped the piece of paper and turned to study Finn. Under her gaze the room seemed to shrink, gather around Finn as if leaning in to hear what he had to say for himself.

“So, Finn. Are you still giving that cruel young man a place to sleep?”

“You mean Whelm?”

“Of course I mean Whelm. Who else would I mean? How many cruel young men are you currently housing?”

“He's still staying with us, yes.”

“I don't approve, you know.”

“I know. You said.”

“Neither does Diane. It's not fair on her. It's not fair on you, either.”

“He's trying his best to help. He couldn't help becoming a master, could he?”

“Couldn't he? You managed to avoid it. You had your chance to play their ridiculous game and you turned away. That one revelled in it.”

It had been Whelm, of course, who had dashed Mrs. Megrim to the ground the day Finn had been taken, leaving her in a broken heap by the side of the road. The fearsome Mrs. Megrim reduced to a pile of rags.

“He's helping me to fix the spindle reader,” said Finn.

“And you know what I think about that, too, don't you?”

“If I recall correctly, you think I should melt it down in my father's forge and get on with my life.”

“Nothing wrong with your memory, at least.”

“You should eat your food before it goes cold.”

“Trying to shut me up, eh?”

“Always,” said Finn.

With a hmmph, Mrs. Megrim began to eat.

“Actually,” said Finn. “There was something I wanted to ask you about.”

“Oh, I'm allowed to speak now, am I?”

“It's about Connor's mother,” said Finn, ignoring Mrs. Megrim's jibe. “You know I went to see her.”

“What about her?”

“How well do you know her?”

“Not well at all. She's not from the valley, of course. Connor's father brought her here, away from her own family. I've never even spoken to her, not face to face, but somehow I don't think she was very happy here.”

“Because she was bed-bound?”

“Perhaps. She wasn't always, though. I don't think she's ever really felt she belongs here.”

“Because of her family? She said something about the old wars.”

Mrs. Megrim nodded. “Her family's too stuck in their traditions and resentments, fighting ancient fights.”

“To be honest what she said was all a bit … confusing. She kept contradicting herself.”

Mrs. Megrim nodded and stared out of the window for a moment, as if looking for answers. “She's not well,” she said finally, “and I don't just mean her legs. Her mind isn't always in the same room as her body, if you know what I mean. I think she's stuck in all that history. She's not always sure what is now and what is then. She was immersed in it as a girl, brought up to think it still matters.”

“She said Engn had something to do with the war. And the earthquakes. And then how Engn was built to provide power. Or standardized time. Or the line-of-sights. To be honest, I'm not really sure what she was saying.”

“No, well, she's been through a lot. Losing Connor and then her husband has tipped her over the edge. It's understandable.”

Finn didn't say anything. He wondered how close Mrs. Megrim had been to that edge, with both Tom and Rory taken to Engn.

“She's right about the clocks, though,” said Mrs. Megrim. “Engn did standardize time. And more besides. The names of the days, the length of the week, even what year it is. Before Engn, every little place had their own system, their own names. You could walk ten miles and suddenly find you were a hundred years in the past in a completely different month. It was madness.”

“And that was what people fought over? It's ridiculous to have a war about what time it is.”

“Oh, you'd be surprised how much people resent a little thing like that. They think the way they do things are normal and natural, and everyone else is deluded. No one likes being told what to do. Besides, there were other arguments, other resentments. They called it the Clockwork War, but I think the clocks were just the final straw. The excuse. There were already all these ancient rivalries going back years.”

“The Guilds?”

She nodded. “Glad to hear you paid some attention in my lessons. The ancient city-states had been scrapping for centuries. They'd been keeping each other in check, I think, with all their intrigues and alliances. Then the upstart houses came along with their new ideas and clever mechanisms, and everything changed. The arguments came to a head over the clocks and suddenly it was all-out war. Ridiculous, really. But that's people for you.”

More paper scrolled out of Mrs. Megrim's line-of-sight. The network was back to normal. He wondered what she did with all the rolls of paper. Somewhere she must have a room full of them.

“Here's one for you,” she said, angling the sheet to the light so she could read it.

“For me?”

“From Diane. Or from that master, I suppose. It just says Come home. Something you need to see.” She looked up at him. “And what's that all about, I wonder?”

“I don't know,” he said. But he did, of course. Whelm had got the spindle reader working. “I have to go. I'll try and get back tomorrow.”

He rose and turned to the door.

“Finn, I don't like this. I don't like any of it. Whelm. That damn spindle of yours. No good's going to come of it, understand? No good at all. People will start going off again and getting themselves killed. If you want my advice you should leave it alone. Leave it all well alone.”

Finn nodded but didn't reply. He closed her door quietly behind him as he left, but then broke into a run, back up the lane.

From her window, Mrs. Megrim watched him race off into the darkness. “Ah, Finn. You're not going to pay any attention to what I say, are you? You never did. Off you'll go, back to Engn. You haven't even admitted it to yourself yet. You're drawn to that place like a moth to a fire. It's been destroyed and yet look at you. You've got your master to take you and now you're going to find your excuse for returning.”

Shaking her head, she watched him as he disappeared from sight.