He led them along the shadowed corridor and into the dining room, then across to the door that led down into his secret workplace, unlocking it, then leading them down the steep, narrow flight of steps.
Here he did his work. Here were a thousand secrets that were kept from the world. As they stepped through between the crowded racks, they stared about them, eyes wide in wonder. It was a treasure trove of technological marvels, most of them beyond the comprehension of the Claymen. But one thing, standing there in the space between the end shelves, they did understand. It was a dayman, like themselves. As they approached, the dayman removed his hat and bowed to them. , "Good day, my friends. I've been expecting you."
Ben, who had stepped to the side, looked back at them and smiled.
"This," he said, "is Genna."
"Delighted to meet you," Genna said, stepping forward to shake their hands; and as he did he named them. "Scaf. Crefter. Kygek. Blonegek."
Ben watched, noting their reactions; how, like animals, they surreptitiously sniffed the stranger, their senses fully alert.
"Well, my dyvrow," he said, using the old Cornish for exiles, "it's time you understood how things stand. You had a vote, neh? You decided."
All four of them looked away, abashed, yet there was something defiant in the way Scaf stood there.
"Genna, come here!"
The Clayman turned and, taking four steps, stood before Ben.
"Give me your knife," Ben ordered, his voice neutral, his eyes perfectly calm.
Genna did as he was told.
"Now roll back your sleeve and hold out your arm."
Genna took off his jacket and threw it down, then ceremoniously rolled back his sleeve and held out his arm, as if he knew what was to come.
Ben slipped the knife into his belt, then took a hypodermic gun from his shirt pocket, and, holding it against Genna's bared upper arm, fired it—once, and then again.
The others were watching intently now.
Ben threw the gun down, onto Genna's coat, then took out the knife again. Its razor-sharp edge flickered in the lamplight. Ben hesitated, waiting for the drug to take effect, then, grasping Genna's arm firmly, dug the point in and scored a line all the way down his arm from inside the armpit to the wrist. Blood welled in the gash and ran.
The Claymen gasped.
"Watch," Ben said, throwing the knife down onto the jacket, then began prizing open the gash with his fingers, opening up the wound as one might prize open a fig.
There was another gasp. A low moan of fear from the watching Claymen. Wires showed, and metal struts. The Clayman, Genna, was a machine. Or, at least, his arm was.
Ben stooped down and wiped his hands on the jacket, then picked up the knife and, ripping open Genna's shirt, began to cut into the chest. Genna shuddered but stood still, as if mesmerized by what was happening to him.
Ben cut and pulled, then stood back, letting them see. More wires.
More plastic and metal. Blonegek fell to his knees. After a moment Crefter and Kygek joined him. Only Scaf still stood.
"You understand now?" Ben asked, the power and authority in his voice like that of a young god. "I made you. Sinew and bone, I made you, here in my workshop."
"No," Scaf said, frowning; the effort of denying his Master costing him a great deal. "I have memories. Memories of a time before we came here."
"I gave you them," Ben said.
Scaf shook his head, but even as he did, Ben spoke again.
"What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?"
Scaf stared at him, horrified.
"Remember?" Ben asked. "Do you remember asking yourself where that came from? Well, Scaf, it came from me. I gave it to you. Like all your thoughts and memories. Because I made you. Every last bit of you."
A shudder went through Scaf, like a sudden surge of power, and then, bowing his head, he knelt.
And so it's done, Ben thought, moving between them and touching each one's head, as if blessing them. A few wires, a simple speech program, the subliminal seeding of a few lines of poetry, and they believe.
Lies. He had lived all his life among lies and fictions. Why should this be any different? And yet he felt a sudden disappointment looking at them, kneeling there, worshiping him as a god—strong because so unexpected.
He looked at the machine, standing there staring ahead sightlessly, and frowned. To make machines think they were human—that was nothing. But to make humans think they were machines . . .
"Okay," he said, shrugging off the mood and clapping his hands. "Let's get packing. I want to be gone from here before sunset."
THE PILLAR STOOD in an open space at the end of Boscawen Street in the heart of the Myghtern's city. It was as broad as a dozen men and reached up at least three hundred ch'i, disappearing into the floor of the Above. In the darkness it had seemed more a shadow than a solid thing, but now its blackness was breached and light spilled from the open gate, revealing sleek, curving surfaces of silvered metal.
Five men came down the steps, suited up, their faces obscured by wraparounds, their shapes silhouetted against the brilliant light. Two made to go ahead, but the others paused, looking about them. All this was new to them. The illuminated fronts of the old Georgian-style houses, the unlit streetlamps, the cobbled surface of the street. They looked at it all in awe, surprised despite their expectations, then moved on, urged by the first of them.
GENERAL RHE1NHARDT sat on the far side of Haavikko's desk, looking through the latest reports. Li Yuan had asked him to investigate the operation as a matter of urgency, so here he was, unannounced. Finished, he closed the file and looked up. "So what's the state of play? Have we heard anything?" "Nothing yet, sir," Haavikko answered, trying not to let the General's stare unnerve him. "We've fifteen operatives in the Clay—twelve on the Mainland and three in the Western Isle—but as yet we've heard nothing from them. However, as the last of them only went in a few days back, it's not a cause for worry."
Rheinhardt nodded. "And the other line of inquiry? The merchants? Where have we got to there?"
That was how this operation had begun, with a tip-off from a merchant. Someone had contacted a Junior Minister, who had put him on to Haavikko's office. The man had spoken of sinister goings on in the Clay—of deals and unauthorized visits. Haavikko had arranged to go and see the man, but when he got there he had found him dead, his throat cut, his rooms ransacked, and anything that might have given them a clue was missing.
It might have ended there, only Haavikko's natural curiosity led him to investigate the movements of the man, and he had found two gaps in the camera record—two periods when the merchant was nowhere in the Northern Enclave. He hadn't gone out by any normal exit from the City, therefore he must have gone down. Down, into the Clay.
"It's a long job, sir. We don't really know where to look, who to investigate. None of the man's business colleagues were involved, nor, it seems, were any family contacts. All we can really do is work through the list, hoping to get lucky."
Rheinhardt considered that, then shrugged. "Was there no club the man attended? Somewhere he might have . . . well, met people? This ... I can't believe it's random."
"That's if we're right, sir. That's if there is anything to be found down there."
"So? Did he go to any clubs?"
"Not regularly, sir. He went to brothels occasionally. Aside from that ..."
"Have you investigated that angle?"
"Sir?"
"The brothels?"
"I . . ." Haavikko made as if to consult the file, but he knew the answer. "No, sir."
"Well, get onto it at once. And, Major Haavikko?"
"Yes, sir?"
"You have two days to get a result. Understand? Li Yuan wants this matter sorted out by Friday morning. He wants a report on his desk first thing, in time for the Council of Ministers that afternoon."