Engn II

VIII

VIIIGuildmaster Ven Adage of the Clockmakers and Timecounters walked into the echoing stone chamber of the Inner Wheel. Each step on the hard flags jarred through his knees and into his hips. As they always did these days. He was getting old. Still he, of all the guildmasters, had to accept the fact. Had to accept the passage of time. He had lived his life by the ticking of clocks, by the careful, deliberate measurement of each passing second. He could have no complaint time was catching up with him.

And he only wanted to live long enough to see their long plans realized. That would suffice. Oh, he would never see the final end of the Clockwork War of course. That was a distant prospect. But he might see the decisive battle won. The turning point reached; the moment when the clock started ticking for their enemies and their destruction became an inevitability. And the beauty of it was the great old guilds had no idea the battle was even being fought. They'd destroyed the great clocktower and they'd destroyed all the mechanicals sent against them in battle, and so in their simplistic way they thought they'd won the war.

The whole thing was an intricately crafted mechanism, as cunning as any of the miniature timepieces his Guildsmen laboured over. Yet it was a mechanism so vast it was, in a strange way, too big to see. Too big to understand. It became simply what was. And it was a mechanism that existed in people's heads as much as it did in the stone and steel of the real world. That was the beauty of it. Their hated oppressors thought the twelve mechanical guilds had been beaten back into their place. And it was being allowed to think those thoughts that would, one day, spell their doom.

Adage couldn't resist a smile at it all. Just so long as their enemies never learned the truth. Didn't grasp the Treaty of Enloth was a sham, a feint. Carried on thinking the upstarters were utterly defeated, their troublesome ideas crushed. Because, in truth, they nearly had been. But the old guilds' ignorance had been their downfall. They didn't understand, could never understand what was being built. Their brains couldn't think big enough thoughts, that was their problem.

So, they had accepted the stories about reparations and compensations, secure in their supposed superiority. They had accepted the assurance the great machine would supply free, unlimited energy to all the ancient city-states ringing the great plain. All those backwards bastions of inequality and superstition with their crumbling temples. And they would never know what was actually being built here in their heartland. They would never know until it was too late.

Adage reached his chair, carved into the very rock of the stone chamber. The twelve chairs were arranged in a circle, like the face of a clock. He liked that. Strictly speaking, of course, there should have been thirty-six thrones. Twenty-four for the old guilds and twelve for the new. One for each hour on the standardized time they used within the machine. But this was their inner sanctum, and the masters of the old guilds weren't welcome there. This was where Adage and the others could discuss their plans in safety. And, thinking themselves so superior, the old guilds simply let them get on with it.

He looked up at the towering stone walls around him. Across the circle, where the masters of the Silversmiths Guild sat, the likeness of old Agrion had already been carved into the bare stone. His old friend had been dead a month and now a new master sat in the throne. And that was the way it should be. Life was change. Time moved on. It was the old guilds that wanted everything to remain the same forever. One day soon, his own face would be carved above the Clockmakers' Throne. And there he would remain for decades and centuries to come, watching over each new generation of masters until the time finally came. He craned his beck upwards. The soaring walls of the Inner Wheel chamber rose into distant shadows high above him. Room for the many masters to come after them.

The others were filing in now: some old like him, some young and keen-eyed. The brightly coloured robes they all wore always amused him. Their ridiculous regalia, the decorated clock he wore around his own neck, and all the rest of it. But they'd deliberately mimicked the old guilds to maintain the pretence of defeat and compliance. Adopted their ceremony and archaism. It was a price worth paying.

Adage waited for them all to be seated before he began. “We are all gathered. Are the doors closed and guarded?”

Master Dragus of the Ironmasters hauled himself back to his feet with his iron stick and nodded his head, his shaggy grey hair falling over his face for a moment. “I have set iron-clad guards of my own guild upon the door. No one will enter without their say so. We may speak freely.”

“And the seeing orbs?”

Now Enderby of the Lensmen bobbed to his feet. “The orbs are now fully functional in this part of the machine. Everything they see is being stored on the spindles.”

Here was something that troubled Adage. People said he was too old, too cautious. Perhaps he was. But they were playing a long game, and even one small mistake could still ruin everything. Of course, the completed spindles were to be hidden away in an underground chamber, but could they remain a secret for all the decades and centuries to come? “Can we be absolutely sure our enemies won't see what the orbs see? They think they own the machine; that they control it. What would they say if they discovered what the orbs actually do?”

“They would probably think them magic and run a mile,” said Enderby. A murmur of amusement rippled around the circle. “But there is no need to worry. Most likely our enemies think the orbs are mere incandescent bulbs we can't make work.”

Another ripple of amusement.

“Even so,” said Adage, “We must take no chances. Now the first stage of our plans is nearing completion there must be no possibility of our hosts discovering what we are doing. No chance whatsoever. Do we agree?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Enderby. “But we must also be sure those who succeed us understand everything we have put in place here. Everything we have set in motion.”

“The masters of the old guilds will never be able to grasp the truth of the machine,” said Dragus. “We have deliberately built it to be complicated and confusing. The very idea of it is so large they'll never be able to fit it into their crumbling brains. They look at it all and shake their heads in disbelief and walk away. We'll give them standard time and the telescopic conversation network and the promise of free power one day and they'll be content.”

Master Trabat of the Railers stirred, a series of little coughs and exhalations indicating he was preparing to launch into speech. The word was he hadn't cut his hair for forty years. Looking at him, Adage could believe it. A look of amusement flashed between the younger masters as he hauled himself briefly to his feet before sinking back into his chair. Trabat was by far the oldest of the twelve and the one, if the whispers were to be believed, most sympathetic to the old ways. More than one wayward son or daughter from his family had married into the Wheelwrights or the Woodturners or one of the other Temple Guilds.

“And what of these cold northerners we have allied ourselves with?” Trabat rumbled. “How can we trust them? What do they see when they look at the machine? How do we know what they really want?”

It was an old argument, often repeated. “We do not need to trust them,” said Adage. “It is a simple arrangement of mutual benefit. They get what they want from the arrangement and we get what we want.”

Trilobite worked himself up to another sentence with a series of snorts and hmmphs. “Their wonderful technology failed us in the last war. All those clockwork soldiers and steam-powered carriages. Why should we trust this monstrous mechanism anymore?”

“The war started before we were ready,” replied Enderby. “Another twenty years and the forces we were building would have been unstoppable.”

“Besides,” added Adage. “It is to their advantage to ensure this new marvel works.”

“And,” said Enderby. “It is us who will betray them. Eventually.”

Trabat looked unconvinced. “If everything works as planned. It's a dangerous line to walk if you ask me. A very dangerous line. Many of us could be killed.”

“None of our descendants will be anywhere near at the end,” said Adage. “We will make sure of that. The Clarion call will ring out to warn them. Then, afterwards, they can return and reclaim what is rightfully theirs, all our enemies destroyed.”

“And these Lords of the High Ice?” said Trabat. “They won't take very kindly to that, will they? When they realize what we've done. Who knows what they are really capable of?”

“They will hardly be able to complain,” said Enderby. “They will have done very well out of the whole arrangement. We're the ones taking the risk.”

Adage nodded. “Quite right. I believe we need not fear our friends from the north. Nor do we need to concern ourselves too much about the Temple Guilds. They are incapable of understanding anything more complicated than an abacus. I see only one threat to our plans. One group of people who might endanger us.”

“Who?” asked Enderby.

“Us,” said Adage. “The Inner Wheel.”

“You think someone among us can't be trusted?” said Dragus, a look of outrage on his old face. A ripple of unease flowed around the circle like an electric current. Master glanced at master, as if suddenly expecting to see a traitor sitting there next to them.

“No, no,” said Adage. “Not any of us, of course. We have all fought together, suffered together for too long. Slaved away under the yolk of the Temple Guilds. I would trust each of you with my own life. But it is the generations to come I am thinking about. Those who succeed us, as Enderby puts it. All those as-yet-unborn masters who must carry on the plans until the time comes. What of them? When we are all carved heads above these thrones, faded and worn into oblivion, can we really be sure that each and every master who sits in these seats is to be trusted? Because if any hint gets out about what we are really constructing here, the old guilds will rise up in rage and march upon us.”

There was silence in the room, a heavy stone silence. The deep, distant rumble of the machinery thrumming through the floor seemed to wake to fill the quiet.

“So, tell us,” said Enderby. “What new piece of mechanism do you have in mind? I know you. You only ever ask a question when you already know its answer.”

“An outrageous statement,” said Adage, letting the faintest smile play about his lips. “But it is possible I do have an inkling of an idea. This secret underground chamber of yours, where the memory orbs send their pictures and the spindles are stored. Where is it exactly?”

“North, far from here,” said Enderby. “Well away from the Hub and well away from the Inner Wheel. I can show you the way.”

“And you say the room is difficult to find?”

“As cryptic as any maze if you don't have the map.”

“And should anyone manage to find this sanctum sanctorum there are, no doubt, dire warnings about the dangers of entering? Of, perhaps, delicate or deadly machinery within? Of the f*******n place that must not be entered?”

“Just so,” said Enderby. “The best barriers are those people carry around in their own heads. The ideas they keep with them and whisper to their children so the lie is continued.”

“Excellent,” said Adage. “Then I think we should follow your lead, old friend. Except, I think we need to think larger.”

Another heavy silence filled the room then as the gathered masters considered Adage's words.

Finally, Dragus spoke. “How much larger, exactly?”

“Much larger,” said Adage, looking up as if to perceive distant vistas. “Much, much larger.”

“Go on,” said Darien, the new master of the Silversmiths. “Do, please, spell out exactly what it is you have in mind.”

Adage paused for a moment, deciding where best to begin. Darien was young, ambitious. He rarely spoke when the Inner Wheel met, but Adage wasn't fooled. Darien was clever. Calculating. It was perfectly clear he was plotting ways to replace Adage and run the Inner Wheel himself one day. Which was exactly what Adage would have done. What he did do once, come to that.

“The best machines are those regulating themselves,” said Adage. “Are we agreed? A mechanism requiring constant oversight will fail sooner rather than later. But a mechanism that governs itself without need for outside intervention will run and run.”

“Just so,” said Darien. “But I don't see how this relates to the machine we are constructing here.”

“It's perfectly clear,” said Adage. “We need our great device to govern itself, without outside control. Therefore, we need a self-contained, sealed system that understands and directs the purpose without the need for anyone to intervene.”

“You are suggesting we cede control of the engine to another group?” asked Darien. “A wheel within the Inner Wheel?” The young master looked scornful.

“In a way, yes,” said Adage. “Although simply creating another wheel won't change anything. We'd still have the same problem. I think we need a completely different approach. Something akin to Enderby's secret chamber, but greater in scope. A whole secret machine within the machine, cut off from the outside, immune to outside interference. A machine that can direct operations for the decades and centuries to come.”

“And who will form this secret Inner Inner Wheel?” asked Darien, suspicion clear on his young face.

“We will,” said Adage. “You, I, all of us. We will select the initial population from among ourselves and those we trust. When the population is large enough to be self-sustaining, we can seal them off and let them run everything, secure in the knowledge the great purpose is safe in their hands.”

“But we tell no one about it,” said Darien.

“Only those selected to go,” said Adage. “Only them and no one else. The guards, the other guild members – none of them must know. We will set the mechanisms up, so they are all controlled from in there. No one out here will take direct orders from them, but secretly everything will be directed by them. They will be the guardians of the sacred flame – the sacred furnace, I should say – at the heart of the machine.”

“And the Inner Wheel?” asked Enderby. “What happens to all this? Do you just toss this aside?”

“Oh, it continues,” said Adage. “In fact, it must. It is all a part of the show. The image we are presenting to the old guilds. Everyone will believe the Inner Wheel is running everything. And it won't matter how fossilized or ineffectual or ridiculous we eventually become, because really the secret group will be directing matters.”

“This secret wheel would have to be huge to be self-sustaining,” said Darien. “It would need hundreds of people.”

“Just so,” said Adage. “And we can perhaps allow one or two to join over time. Carefully vetted, of course. Fresh blood will always be needed. But no one here, outside, must ever know the truth. Must ever know the secret heart of the machine even exists.”

“It will be difficult to miss something as large as that,” said Darien. He sounded just a little like he was warming to the idea.

“That is true,” said Adage. “But people are rather good at not seeing large things and focusing on the tiny and inconsequential, don't you find? I think we simply need do what Enderby has done with his secret chamber. No obvious way in and plenty of talk of dangerous machinery. It isn't safe to go near. People will soon accept it. It's amazing what people will overlook if they see others doing so.”

“It will need many hands for the construction,” said Dragus. “What of all them? How are we going to ensure they keep this thing quiet?”

“Simple enough,” said Adage, as if it was of no consequence. “We will have to keep the people building this new part of the machine isolated as well. Seal them off, wall them into villages of their own.”

“Walled villages are hardly secure,” said Dragus. “Some people see a wall and feel the urge to find out what is on the other side.”

“Then a labyrinth of underground tunnels,” said Adage. “A maze not connected to the rest of the outside world the workers are taught to navigate. Although nothing must be written down, of course. They'll have to keep the paths of the maze in their heads. But they can live their lives in subterranean caverns while they carry out their labours. It is hardly any different to what is taking place in the mines being excavated beneath the machine.”

Darien still looked suspicious. “And what if – many years from now – someone from within this secret place becomes curious? As Master Dragus says, people see a wall and wonder what lies over it. We can't be sure they will remain trustworthy either.”

Adage nodded. It was a good point, and one he'd given considerable thought to. “Ah, but by then it will be too late. We will bring up each successive generation to believe what we want them to believe. We can direct them, mould them. Take away their curiosity. Discourage questioning, instil loyalty. They will come to know a simple, quiet truth: that there is nothing outside the machine. Nothing at all. Nothing beyond the walls. That the walls aren't walls, but rather … the edge of things. These will become sacred truths, passed from generation to generation. Don't you see? We all laugh at the old guilds and their ancient ways, but perhaps we can learn something from them. Use their superstitious ways against them.”

“You wish to learn from the old guilds?” said Darien. It was dangerous talk to suggest anything good about their enemies. Adage knew this was precisely the sort of thing Darien would use against him if he could. He had to tread carefully.

“Let me enlighten you,” said Adage. “Were you aware the Guild of Papermakers know anything written on paper not made by them is automatically and eternally wrong? No matter what it is, however obvious? That is why they take such delight in burning books and scrolls whenever they can. Their belief is clearly ridiculous, yet they would defend its truth to the death. As they have on many occasions. People are malleable, you see. They can be squeezed into shapes like ingots of lead. Or beaten into shape if necessary, like iron on an anvil. We must simply foster the myth in our chosen few that the larger world does not exist. In time, the inhabitants of this secret wheel will accept it. Give them a vital purpose, make them know they are superior, the elect, and they will even become proud of what they believe. I told you. Most people don't ask the big questions. Only the trivial ones.”

“And when the work is complete?” said Enderby. “What of the hands living in the underground labyrinth?”

“Regrettably, we will have to kill them all,” said Adage. “For fear of the secret escaping.”

There were one or two frowns among the masters at that. They had all suffered at the hands of the old guilds. Their families had suffered and died for generations. They, the twelve mechanical guilds, were different. But sometimes a price had to be paid for a greater good. No one spoke up. As Adage had calculated they wouldn't.

“So, a secret group controlling everything, cut off from all outside influences,” said Dragus. “And what should we call this place, this group? What name had you in mind, Adage?”

Adage shrugged, again as if he had given the matter no thought. “They will be directing the machine. I suggest the Directory or the Directorate, something along those lines.”

“And is there to be a Director?” asked Darien. “A single person controlling everything; the true and ultimate power in the machine?”

“Well, yes, that does seem like a very good idea now you mention it,” said Adage. “The one individual who can pass between the secret heart and the rest of the machine, ensuring the smooth running of everything. I will, of course, be happy to put my own name into the hat for election to such a difficult and onerous position.”

“Yes,” said Darien. “I suspected you might.”

No one spoke for a moment. The tone of threat, of challenge, was clear in the young master's words. Adage studied Darien. He would have to offer the boy something; otherwise, they would be mired in pointless arguments for years. Old masters pitted against young.

“Although, of course,” said Adage, “there will need to be an apprentice to the Director at all times. A younger master who is taught the secrets and who is ready to take over at a moment's notice. Should the worst happen.”

It was a dangerous road to take. If Darien became the apprentice, he would have a clear incentive to kill Adage one quiet evening. Darien would see that, of course. The risk was not so great; there were ways to manage it. It was simply a matter of eking out the secrets piece by piece. Ensuring the apprentice didn't dare act for many years for fear of missing something vital.

Darien was grinning now. A contented grin. He had taken the bait. Adage smiled back and nodded his head.

There would be interesting times ahead.