The Havoc Machine

Chapter Twelve

“Kill him!” Sofiya paced the wooden floor of the Black Tent in her new gown. “Why did you say you would kill him?”

“I suppose I should have refused the tsarina?” Thad drummed his fingers heavily on a workbench. “The trouble is, the assassin wasn’t a clockworker.”

Sofiya stopped pacing. “How do you mean?”

“A clockworker wouldn’t use dynamite.” Thad was almost snarling now, though he wasn’t sure who he was angry at. “Too blunt. Too pedestrian. Too inelegant. Killing with mere dynamite is no fun. A clockworker who wanted to assassinate someone would use something elaborate or stylish, like a spider that delivered a drop of poison, or a thin wire that sliced your head off as you galloped past on a horse, or an automaton that disguised itself as a bootblack’s box until it sprang into action and sliced you into bits. Dynamite? Never.”

“So who did it, then?”

“Your hypothesis is probably the correct one,” Thad said. “Disgruntled landowner who doesn’t want to lose his serfs.”

“And what do we do about this?”

“How’s Nikolai?” Thad asked, deliberately changing the subject.

She turned to look at the little automaton. Nikolai was sitting upright on the workbench next to Dante. The sparking in his head had died down, and he wasn’t speaking. Every so often he gave a twitch. His left hand jerked upward, then lowered itself over and over.

“Failing,” she said. “He needs repairs badly.”

“Are you going to do it, then?”

She folded her arms. “Why do you care so much? He is just a machine, as you pointed out.”

“Why don’t you care?” Thad shot back. The anger was growing. “You’re the one who loves machines so very much. You haven’t even repaired Dante yet.”

“I was busy creating the act that saved this circus.” The heat rose in Sofiya’s voice as well. “I had to build the colt and put in-”

“Don’t feed me more lies, woman,” Thad interrupted.

“Lies? How dare you!”

“And keep the indignation.” Thad lowered his voice to a deadly steadiness. “I know clockworkers. There’s no evidence in this boxcar that you built that colt here-no scraps of metal, no plans, no calculations, no chipped tools. That colt was inside your horse from the beginning. It’s why you thought it was funny that Nikolai gave it the name of a male deity. The only thing you’ve built lately was my hand.” He held it up. “And that was something you modified from a spider Mr. Griffin built. That’s very, very strange for a clockworker, Sofiya.”

She looked frightened now. “So what? All clockworkers are strange.”

“They’re all strange in the same way. I know,” Thad said relentlessly. A part of him was well aware that he was doing this to avoid what Sofiya had brought up with Nikolai, but he didn’t care. He kept going. “You don’t like to build, do you? But you want to do. You hunger to do. The machines and the numbers call to you, but you’re afraid of them. You said the madness comes on you and you have to build, but that was a lie. You haven’t built much of anything. You said you’re looking forward to going mad, and that was another lie. You’re terrified of the madness, and that’s why you don’t build anything. You’re afraid you’ll fall into a fugue and never come out.”

“I built your hand!” she protested.

“Only because I saved yours.” He locked eyes with her. “What happened, Sofiya? Did you fall into a fugue state and hurt someone when you built Kalvis and that little energy pistol you carry around? Or are you just afraid of what you might become?”

“You kill people like me!” she shouted.

“You made me swear to do it! Or don’t you want me to keep that promise anymore?”

She spun away from him and leaned on the workbench. Her shoulders shook, and Thad realized she was weeping. The anger drained out of him, and he felt stupid and foolish. What had he been trying to prove? That he was smarter or stronger than she was? Shouting and yelling, that was always helpful. And with Nikolai sitting on the table with his head open. Thad was a schoolyard bully. His face burned with shame. He touched her shoulder. “Listen, Sofiya, I’m sorry I-”

He was flat against the wall with her iron grip around his throat and his feet a good six inches off the floor. His breath choked off. He clawed ineffectually at the air. Sofiya’s other hand reached down and clasped his groin. A dull ache snaked up his abdomen.

“Fine,” she growled into his face. Her voice was not her own, and she was speaking Russian. “I will repair the child. I will even repair the parrot. And you”-she squeezed harder and his eyes rolled back from the gut-wrenching agony-“you will help me.”

She casually flung him aside. Thad crashed to the floor, clutching at his neck, gasping for air, reeling from pain. Sofiya stomped about the Black Tent, snatching tools from racks and boxes and tossing them beside Nikolai. “Get up, boy!” she snapped at Thad. Coughing, Thad pushed himself upright. Sofiya crackled with energy. Her presence filled the boxcar and pushed at the walls. Every movement was fast and precise. Thad recognized the signs. She had fallen into a clockwork fugue.

“Bring me that spanner!” she barked. “And that screwpick! Before I slice you open like a putrid rat.”

Without a word, Thad handed her the tools. She snatched them from him as if he were nothing but an open drawer and bent over Nikolai’s exposed machinery. After some muttering and swearing, she grabbed Thad’s brass hand and shoved it into Nikolai’s head. “Hold this wheel in place. Don’t move it!”

“I-” Thad began.

The slap rocked his head back in an explosion of pain. It came so fast he didn’t even see Sofiya’s hand move. “Do not speak again unless I ask you a question. And then speak Russian, not that flea-ridden garbage you sodomite British call language.”

Thad worked his jaw back and forth, so angry he felt he might explode. The thought flicked through his mind: She was a clockworker, just like the one who had killed David. His spring-loaded knives were sheathed in his sleeves. He could still use the right one perfectly well, and it was a better than even chance his brass left was up to the job now, too. If he backed up and waited until her back was turned, he could get in a perfect throw before she knew what was happening.

But this was Sofiya, the woman who had saved his hand and his life. And he himself had brought about her fugue state. Now she could save Nikolai.

A machine. Why did he care about a soulless machine? In one shot, Thad could eliminate both of them. He hung there with a sword down his throat, divided in two.

And what would happen when Mr. Griffin returned? Mr. Griffin, the strangest and most cunning clockworker Thad had come across to date. It would be foolish to face Mr. Griffin alone. He needed Sofiya. He needed Dante. He might even need Nikolai.

Thad swallowed his anger and, feeling cold, reached into the little automaton’s head to hold the wheel as the clockworker had ordered.

“Don’t be clumsy, boy,” she said. “And we can finish this.”

Hours passed. The clockworker stormed about the Black Tent barking commands and pouring vitriol over Thad in equal parts. He kept his head down and obeyed as best he could, understanding fully why clockworkers were rarely able to work with others. Twice more the clockworker struck him hard enough to leave bruises, and only through great exercise of self-control did he avoid striking back. But slowly, steadily, the little automaton’s head came back together. It stopped twitching, though it didn’t move or speak as the clockworker set new rivets into his metal skull. She even produced needle and thread to repair his scalp with swift, tiny stitches. Hunger gnawed at Thad’s insides, and exhaustion dragged at his limbs, but the clockworker wasn’t finished yet. Without a pause, she turned to Dante. Her quick fingers disassembled his gears and wheels. A steady stream of invective punctuated her orders, berating Thad for letting the parrot fall into disrepair and filth. Without expression, he brought buckets of soap and water and a can of machine oil. In a short time, she had cleaned Dante out and put him back together again.

“He needs new feathers and a new eye,” she barked. Her new dress was a wreck, and her hair was a tangled thornbush. “Heat up the forge and fetch that brass spanner. We can melt it down to make-”

“Miss,” Thad interrupted, and this time he dodged her slap. “Miss, it’s time to stop.”

“I decide when it is time to stop!” she howled. “You will-”

He flung a bucket of cold water over her. It soaked her from head to foot. She gasped at him, her mouth opening and closing like a salmon’s. Cautiously, he waited a moment.

“Thad?” she said at last in a small voice. “What happened?”

“It’s me,” he said, and it was a relief to see the madness gone from her eyes. “You’re all right. We’re still in the Black Tent. It must be after midnight by now.”

She looked around fearfully. “What did I do? Oh God, did I hurt anyone? Did any person-?”

“Everyone’s fine,” he said neutrally. “You hurt no one.”

“Then what’s this?” She touched his cheek where she had slapped him earlier, and he moved his head away. “I hurt you, didn’t I? Dear heaven, what else did I do? Tell me the truth, Thad. I have to know!”

Another piece fell into place. “That’s the true hold Mr. Griffin has on you, isn’t it? About your sister.”

She sagged, soaked and sobbing, into Thad’s arms. Thad caught her before she fell, then eased her onto a stool and backed away again.

“Olenka can no longer walk because of me,” she wept. “I did something to her, I do not even remember what. She can’t even bear to look at me now, and who can blame her? I send her all my money so she can live and pay the doctors, and still it is never enough. I feel the monster.”

Thad nodded. He felt flat, cold, and his words came out almost stony. He had allowed himself to get too close. He had forgotten her true nature. No matter what she said or did, this woman was a clockworker, volatile and dangerous, and he needed to remember that at all times. He wouldn’t kill her, not until she had helped him against Mr. Griffin, but he couldn’t trust her. His face throbbed where she had hit him.

“I’d wondered about that,” he mouthed. “It’ll be all right. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Then whose was it?” she demanded, still sobbing. “Every moment, I must keep myself under control, or I will do it again. I have done it again. I hurt you.”

Was she truly sorry or was she trying to manipulate him again? Best to play along, regardless. “A few slaps and insults never hurt anyone,” he said. “And Griffin can’t hurt her, you know.”

“He can. He said if I ever refused him, he would drag Olenka to me and push me into a clockwork fugue, just as you did, so I would finish her off.”

A finger of guilt crept up Thad’s spine. He had indeed pushed Sofiya into this fugue and upset her. But no. He was tired of balancing on a knife. Sofiya was a clockworker, and Thad knew clockworkers. He would keep a close eye on her, use her to find Griffin, and then he would have to eliminate her, too. Before she did more than slap.

“We won’t let Mr. Griffin do anything to you,” he said aloud. “We’ll stop him.”

Sofiya suddenly seemed to realize what she was doing. She straightened on the stool and turned her head to dry her eyes on her sopping sleeve, with little success. “Well, thank you, then. It feels better to hear someone say that.” She crossed the boxcar floor to the worktable and Nikolai the automaton. “But we have other things to attend.”

From a drawer she produced a flask of brandy that probably belonged to Dodd and emptied the contents down the automaton’s throat, then pressed a switch behind one ear. He shuddered all over and blinked several times.

“Nikolai,” he said. “My name is Nikolai.”

“Yes, it is,” Thad said. He suppressed the happy little thrill went through him at the sound of the boy’s voice and kept his voice neutral. “Are you all right?”

“I…I…” He hesitated, a machinelike pause. “I am operating well. I am fine. Yes. Fine.” He held up his metal hands and wriggled the fingers. “Fine.”

“What is the last you remember?” Sofiya asked.

Nikolai cocked his head. “I danced for the tsar. The children wanted me to sit with them. Thad reached under the tsar’s throne. And now I’m here in the Black Tent. What happened?”

“There was an explosion,” Thad said. “You were injured. Sofiya repaired you.”

“Did I die, then?”

The question caught Thad off guard. The automaton was still good at that. “I…don’t know if the question applies to something that was never-”

“You are not dead,” Sofiya said firmly. “Are you hungry?”

“No. But I think I will be soon.”

“Good. That is good.” Sofiya picked up Dante, who was his normal, shabby self, but still inert, and handed him to Thad. “I see I found the time for this as well. You’ll need to wind him.”

An enormous yawn split Thad’s head. Sofiya mimicked him, unusual for clockworkers, who rarely slept. Apparently not wanting to be left out, Nikolai followed suit.

“I think it’s food and bed for me first,” Thad said.

“Yes.” Sofiya staggered slightly. “I have not slept in over a week now, and I think that is the limit for even a clockworker.”

“I will watch you sleep, then,” Nikolai said. “And I will wind Dante.”

The exhaustion grew worse as they stumbled through the dark circus back to Thad’s wagon, where he and Sofiya downed a cold supper. By now, Thad felt numb, physically and emotionally. Sofiya was a clockworker, Nikolai was an automaton. He had stepped over the knife. Thad only vaguely remembered undressing and climbing into bed.

* * *

“Bless my soul! Sharpe is sharp! Applesauce! Bless my soul!”

Thad barely stopped himself from sitting up and cracking his head on the wagon roof. He was in his own bed above the wardrobe. Sunlight streamed through the side window of the wagon, creating a slanted square of gold on the opposite wall. It was chilly-no one had made a fire in the tiny stove last night. Sofiya lay sleeping on a pull-down shelf bed beneath the window. Dante was doing energetic somersaults on his hanging perch, and Nikolai stood beneath it with the tireless patience of a machine.

“Good morning! Good morning!” Dante chirped.

“That’s new.” Thad ran a hand through curly dark hair. His muscles were stiff and achy from everything that had happened yesterday.

“I taught it to him,” Nikolai said. “Good morning!”

“Hm.” Thad climbed down from the bed, shivering a little. He would have to get some coal for the stove. To his surprise, he was able to manage buttons when he pulled on his clothes. At the last moment, he remembered the strand of pearls the tsarina had given him and transferred them from yesterday’s coat to his pocket.

“What are we doing today?” Nikolai asked.

Thad regarded him. The little automaton, with his thoroughly inhuman face and hands and his utterly human eyes and voice, still acted the little boy, but last night had been a sharp reminder that he was indeed just a machine. The illusion of humanity was realistic, but like any skilled circus performance, it was still an illusion, and eventually it would end. It was foolish to become attached to an illusion. That road only led to pain and loss. It would probably be best to hand Nikolai over to Dodd after all. Nikolai would protest, perhaps even cry, but it would be nothing more than noise created by steel and wire. As well to become upset by sad songs played on the calliope.

“I think,” Thad said, “that it’s time for you to-”

“I’ll bet Dodd will want us in the circus now,” Nikolai interrupted. “We should work on our spot before the show this afternoon.”

That stopped Thad cold. With everything that had happened, he hadn’t even thought of-

Someone pounded on the door. This brought Sofiya awake, and she snapped upright. Her hair stood out in a golden haystack. “Who? What?”

“Doom,” said Dante.

Now what? Thad reached for the door, wishing things would slow down for just a moment so he could catch his breath and sort things out. Nathan Storm was on the steps, dressed in his customary Aran sweater and fisherman’s cap. He was handsome man, no doubt about that, and more than one woman in the circus had lamented over his romantic choices.

“Oi,” he said. “Sleepyhead! We’ve been wondering when you were going to make an appearance.”

“What do you need, Nathan?” Thad asked tiredly.

Nathan brandished a handful of papers. “We’ve been getting notes and telegrams all morning from Lord Snootyfruits and Lady Tenderslippers. Every one of them wants you and Nikolai to dine with them or attend their parties or appear in their boxes at the ballet. Three of them are offering marriage to various daughters and sisters.”

“Oh God.” A year ago, even a month ago, Thad would have been thrilled at this development. Now it just filled his chest with heavy dread.

“And Dodd wants you back into the ring,” Nathan went on relentlessly. “The show must go on. The Stilgores were both hurt yesterday-he twisted his ankle and she broke her arm when the explosion knocked them off their stilts. The lions and Betsy are still nervous and in no condition to go in front of an audience. That means we’re short, short, short. You and Sofiya and Nikolai are our new headliners.”

“Told you,” Nikolai said.

“Bless my soul,” said Dante.

“Grand! Your parrot is fixed,” Nathan said with relentless cheer. “Can you do you the pirate sword swallower again? We could use it.”

“Not yet,” Thad hedged. “Look-”

“Oh, and some soldiers are looking for you.”

“Soldiers?” Thad was on full alert now. “What do you mean soldiers?”

“My Russian isn’t the best. Something about General Parkarov wanting to talk to you about your promise to the tsarina? They’re coming now. Jesus, Thad-what have you been doing, then?”

Even as Nathan spoke, a contingent of four stern-faced soldiers in red uniforms came around another wagon into view. Thad swallowed. Sofiya, dressed in a simple dark skirt and blouse, came to the door.

“What is happening?” she demanded.

“Another trip to the Winter Palace, I expect.” Thad held out his arm so Dante could leap down to his shoulder, then moved down the steps so he wouldn’t have to touch Sofiya. “You stay with Nikolai.”

“What do I do about these invitations?” Nathan asked.

“Refuse politely and invite them to the show,” Thad said.

The soldiers said little beyond repeating what Nathan had said, that General Parkarov wanted to see Thad-not Sofiya. At least he didn’t seem to be under arrest. But they took him across the Field of Mars toward the barrack on the western side, not to the Winter Palace.

A line of wheeled cages stretched across the muddy field like a twisted parody of a train. The cages were crammed with men, women, and even children. Some cried out and reached through the bars. Others huddled inside like frightened animals. A few were clearly dead. Their clothes said they came from all classes, from street poor to well born. Even as Thad watched, horrified, a team of automatons hauled at the cages, tugging the train toward the bridge, the same one the clockworker had come across earlier in his cage.

“What’s this?” Thad asked, eyes wide. “What’s going on?” But the soldiers didn’t answer. They firmly marched him into the wide blue barrack. The interior didn’t match the stunning exterior-long, twisting hallways of scuffed wood, no real attempt at decoration, the heavy smell of tobacco and sweat, spare offices, occasional sitting rooms, and long rows of barrack rooms. Soldiers of all ages in various states of dress rushed everywhere, looking harried. Uniformed boys as young as five dodged around carrying messages, laundry, and parcels. Thad wondered how many had been conscripted.

He was shown to a rather larger office redolent with overly sweet tobacco smoke. General Parkarov was waiting for him, pipe in mouth. He greeted Thad heartily.

“We need you down in the Peter and Paul Fortress,” he said.

“You speak English?” Thad asked in surprise.

“Yes, and I would enjoy the chance to practice. Come-my driver is waiting.”

They trooped back outside, where a two-horse carriage awaited them. The line of cages was already gone, but another line of empty ones was taking its place. In the city beyond, Thad’s ears picked up hoofbeats and crashes and screams and the occasional pistol shot. His mouth went dry and his brass hand clutched the side of the carriage as he and the general boarded.

“What is happening, General?” he demanded. “Please explain!”

The driver whipped up the horses and carriage jolted forward. “You know that my investigation into the bombing turned up those foreign spiders in the Nicholas Hall,” the general said. “That can only mean one thing-a clockworker used those spiders to place the bomb under the tsar’s throne. We must find him. Even if the tsar hadn’t ordered it, I would do so.”

“Actually, I’d like to discuss that with you, sir,” Thad said carefully. “No clockworker would use a tool so blunt as dynamite. It-”

“Clearly one did.” The general waved Thad’s objections aside. “It is well known that a number of clockworkers run about loose in Saint Petersburg. They come here from Poland and Belarus and Lithuania, sniffing for the money they need for their inventions. It’s the only thing that stops them-not having enough money or materials to build what they want. That, and men like us.” He clapped Thad on the back. “Ah, the bridge.”

The horses clopped onto the massive pontoon bridge that spanned the River Neva. Traffic was light this morning, allowing the carriage to make good time. The boats turned upside down to make up the pontoons barely bobbed on the inky water. Skiffs and small boats glided about, hemmed in by the low bridges that divided the Neva into sections. To Thad’s left, the wide, deep river flowed around a number of large islands, where it emptied into the Gulf of Finland and ultimately, the Baltic Sea. The breeze on the bridge was cold and smelled of fish. Thad wished he had worn a heavier coat.

“Do you know Saint Petersburg?” the general asked, and continued before he got an answer. “There to the west is Vasilyevsky Island. You see the Kunstkammer there on the bank, Russia’s first museum, founded by Peter the Great himself! I am related to him, you know, on my mother’s side.”

“Are you?” Thad asked casually. “Do you have estates, then?”

“Oh yes. Quite extensive. I am forced to stay here near the tsar and can only visit irregularly. Would you like to visit yourself? My holdings are very beautiful in the spring.”

“That sounds wonderful. Let me ask Ringmaster Dodd about his plans for the circus, and we can talk of it later,” Thad replied, careful to be vague. He pointed at Vasilyevsky Island, which spread across the horizon to the west. About half of it seemed to be wooded. The other half was grown over with buildings. “What’s that building near the museum?”

“Ah! The Russian Academy of Sciences. Human beings work there. No clockworkers. I have heard your ringmaster is a tinker. He might enjoy talking to some of our good Russian engineers, yes?”

“I’m sure.”

“Past it, downstream, are the docks, of course. The pride of Saint Petersburg! They are the reason my cousin Peter the Great wanted this city built in the first place-to give Russia a good seaport. Everything imaginable comes into Russia through those docks. Cousin Peter ordered a foundry built down there, in fact. Much easier to smelt raw ore brought in by the ships when the foundry is by the shipyards. My cousin Peter was a great thinker!”

And the general certainly didn’t want anyone to forget who his cousin was, Thad mused. “A great man,” Thad repeated.

“And up ahead”-the general pointed with his pipe to where the bridge led-“is the other big island of Saint Petersburg: Petrogradsky. Beside it”-he pointed again, this time to a smaller island ahead and a little to the left and entirely ringed with a high stone wall-“is our destination, the Peter and Paul Fortress. That was also built by-”

“Your cousin Peter the Great?” Thad finished.

The general laughed. “Everything here was built by my cousin Peter. We only build higher on his mighty shoulders.”

They finished crossing to Petrogradsky Island and took another, smaller, pontoon bridge to the Peter and Paul Fortress. An arched stone gate within the walls stood open, admitting quite a lot of foot and carriage traffic to a cobblestoned courtyard. A second gate let them into the fortress proper. The general wouldn’t explain anything to Thad about what was going on, which made him tense and frustrated. He wanted to make demands, but of course he couldn’t, not a general related to a tsar.

The fortress was more like a small, wealthy city than a military encampment. Stone streets wound among elaborate building scattered about a cathedral with a golden spire that poked high into the cloudy sky. People were everywhere-richly robed priests and plainly dressed acolytes and ladies in their bell-shaped dresses and men on horses and soldiers on foot. And the automatons! So many, they nearly outnumbered the people-clicking spiders and spindly horses and automatic carriages and automaton servants. Thad hadn’t seen so many automatons in the open since he had come to Russia, though he couldn’t help but notice that none of them moved with the ease and lifelike grace of Nikolai. The general didn’t seem to notice.

“Every tsar in Russia is buried beneath that cathedral over there,” he said proudly. “My family visits Peter’s tomb every year. The cannon that goes off every day at noon fires from the fortress walls, you know.”

At that, Thad noticed the heavy cannons and armaments lining the fortress walls. Huge energy weapons and cannons that could fire halfway to London and crouching automatons that, when they stood, could probably hurl boulders. It looked like enough firepower to level a major city. Thad was impressed. The Russian flag flew at three of the four corners of the fortress walls. At the fourth, a blank green flag was just going up. Parkarov nodded at it.

“That means I’m here,” he said. “When the tsar or his family visits, the flag is red. You can see the arms up on the walls. This place was originally built to defend Saint Petersburg from invasion by the Swedes, though in the end, the cowards never arrived. Best for them in the end, I suppose.”

A trio of dog-sized spiders scampered past, looking tiny after all the enormous war machines. “Why are so many automatons on the street here?” Thad asked.

“That is part of where we are going,” the general answered as they pulled up in front of a blocky, two-story building of stone. “Here we are: the Trubetskoy Bastion, the best prison in all Russia. No one has ever escaped.”

A penny dropped in Thad’s head. “You keep your clockworkers here. And that’s why so many automatons run about on this island.”

“Exactly. Most of Russia’s automatons serve the military, as is proper.” He brought Thad up the steps, through a series of hallways past guards and checkpoints, and down an electric lift that left them in what Thad could only describe as a dungeon. The walls, floors, and ceiling were constructed of solid stone blocks. The ceiling was low. Damp hallways lit by electric lanterns snaked in a dozen directions, and they were faced with small, narrow doors, each with a tiny barred window up top and a hinged food slot below. Human cries and pleas echoed up and down the corridors. The place stank of urine, excrement, and fear. It was horrifying to think that human beings were housed here. Thad cringed inside his own skin. Bile bit the back of his throat, and he forced himself not to vomit.

“What is this place for?” Thad asked faintly.

“I told you-clockworkers. We leave them in the cells where they cannot hurt anyone and give them materials so they can invent for us until they go mad and must be executed.”

An automaton shaped like a low cart trundled past. A spindly arm opened the slot at the bottom of a door and shoved a single bowl of what looked like gray porridge through, though Thad could hear multiple voices within the cell. The automaton moved on to the next door.

“How do they invent anything in here?”

“Well, we keep them under strict observation, of course. You know that clockworkers can build nearly anything, it seems, given the proper materials, and we limit what they have and how much time they can build.”

Which explained why Russian automatons were so clumsy compared to those in the West and in China, Thad added to himself. That Russian clockworkers produced anything at all under such conditions was a miracle. Thad didn’t see clockworkers as victims, despite anything Sofiya said, but there was no reason to torture them, either.

The general took his arm and towed him down the hall. Faces appeared at the tiny windows, some shy and flinching, other imploring. Thad felt sick. “All these people-they can’t be clockworkers. There aren’t this many clockworkers in all Russia, let alone Saint Petersburg.”

“Of course not,” General Parkarov agreed. “That is why we sent for you.”

Thad halted between a set of doors. “I fail to understand my role in any of this, sir.”

“We know a clockworker attempted to assassinate the tsar,” Parkarov explained patiently. “We cannot allow such a monster to run around loose in Saint Petersburg-he might try again, and succeed.”

“My lords!” cried a man between the bars of his window. “My lords, please! I’m not a clockworker! I’m a simple blacksmith! I’ve never had the plague in my life. I have a wife and four children, my lord. They will starve without me. Please, my lords!”

“My lords!” cried a woman from her cell. “I am no clockworker! I help my father in his tin shop, but I am no clockworker. I can’t even read! I have done nothing!”

“My lord…”

“Please, my lords…”

“Good God,” Thad breathed. “You rounded up everyone.”

“Indeed. All we have to do is wait and see which ones go mad. That will show us the clockworker.”

Revulsion swept over Thad in a black wave. He wanted to run, board a fast train and leave Russia and its lunatic rulers behind forever. Forcibly, he straightened his spine.

“What do you want from me, then?” he asked, though he was certain he knew the answer.

The general relit his pipe as if he were in a comfortable study. “With your help, we might find the clockworker more quickly. You’re an expert, after all. Do you see one here?”

The prisoners continued their piteous wail and cry, and pieces of Thad’s heart broke off every moment he stood in this awful place. It was on the tip of his tongue to say none of them could possibly be a clockworker and that the general should release them all immediately, but he had a strong feeling that this would gain him nothing. The general had made up his mind that a clockworker had tried to kill the tsar and this clockworker was among the prisoners, and he would look until he found one.

“I saw children among the prisoners in those cages,” Thad said.

“That is possible.” Parkarov puffed his pipe, adding to the miasma of the dungeon. “My men had instructions to bring in anyone who might possibly be a clockworker-tinsmiths, blacksmiths, watchmakers, machinists, beggars, gypsies, Jews, men who lie with their own sex-”

Thad thought of Nathan and Dodd. “Why? Beggars and gypsies and…the others? They have nothing to do with machinery.”

“They spread plague. Everyone knows that. They and their children.”

“Children are never clockworkers,” Thad said firmly, though he had no idea if that were true. Still, it seemed right enough to get the children out of this place. “The plague does not work that way.”

“Even when-?”

“Never,” Thad repeated. “I have made extensive studies, and there is no such thing. You can let every prisoner under the age of…” He pulled a number out of the air. “…sixteen leave.”

The general nodded. “As you say, then,” though he made no move. A young officer, meanwhile, brought down a desk and set it up in the hall. “You may examine them each from here.”

“Each?”

“Yes.” He gestured. The officer, a lieutenant, opened the first cell and dragged out a middle-aged man in a baker’s apron. “We cannot afford to make a mistake.”

The man fell to his knees before Thad and the general, his eyes filled with terror. “I beg you, sir-” he began.

Parkarov backhanded the man’s face. “Speak when you are spoken to, dog. Examine him, Mr. Sharpe. Is he a clockworker?”

Thad made a show of examining the man. He peered into his eyes and ears and even his mouth. He thumped the man’s chest and straightened his arms. At last, he said, “This man is no clockworker.”

“Are you certain?” asked the general.

“Positive.”

The general turned to the lieutenant. “Process this man and release him.”

“Ser.” The lieutenant returned the relieved-looking baker to his cell and hauled out another man, rather younger. Thad repeated the process and declared the man not a clockworker. And again with a woman, and with a teenaged boy. Each person took considerable time to examine, and the cells down here were filled with people. Through it all, the general puffed his pipe with amused patience. Whenever Thad tried to hurry the process, Parkarov asked questions-was Thad certain? Did all clockworkers fail to present such symptoms? Was it possible Thad was being fooled?

After fewer than a dozen people had gone through the process, they heard the faint boom of the noon cannon far above. Thad jerked his head up from the fruit seller he was pretending to examine. “I have to perform soon,” he said in Russian. “I’m sorry, General, but I’ll have to return later.”

“Of course, of course. My carriage is at your disposal. Perhaps tomorrow morning we will find the clockworker.”

Thad glanced down the long corridors of groaning cells, and his heart sank. “I suppose, yes. The tsarina, you know, wanted me to find-”

“Yes!” Parkarov clapped Thad on the back, a gesture of which he seemed overly fond. “The tsarina. And the tsar. We will do our duty to them both, eh?”

“Yes,” Thad said with a weak grin. “And with that in mind, I would be in your debt if I could examine a comprehensive map of the city. One that showed any tunnels and accessible underground areas.”

“Oh well.” The general waved his pipe. “I don’t know if such a map-”

“There’s one in the offices upstairs,” said the lieutenant helpfully. He was very young for his station and had pale blond hair and brown eyes. “We use it to divide up the city and search for miscreants, just like yesterday. Surely the general remembers.”

Parkarov shot the lieutenant a look of pure venom, and in that moment, Thad knew. The realization was a bucket of ice thrown over his skin and he almost staggered. Thad recovered himself quickly and said, “Thank you, Lieutenant…?”

“Markovich, ser.”

“Lead the way, then, Lieutenant Markovich. Thank you, General.”

He almost yanked poor Markovich, who would probably spend the rest of his posting in Siberia for his trouble, toward the lift and out of the dreadful dungeon. Thad didn’t want to believe what he had just deduced, but there was no other solution he could see.

“You must know the general well,” Thad said conversationally as he and Markovich exited the lift.

Markovich took Thad down a labyrinth of hallways to a room with a bank of pigeonholes, each with a roll of paper in it. He pulled down several sets. “As well as anyone can, I suppose. He is my second cousin, twice removed, on my father’s side.”

“Then you’ve been to his family estates.” Thad unrolled a paper on a slanted reading table and set lead weights on either end of it to hold it flat.

“Many times. I nearly grew up there.”

“The general spoke of them in great detail,” Thad lied. “They sound magnificent.”

“Oh yes.” Markovich gave a smile. “Especially in the spring, when the flowers bloom.”

He was young and naive, and Thad felt guilty about what he was going to do next. He leaned over the map, pretending to study it. “It also sounds expensive, running such a place and keeping up appearances here at court. The general complained of it quite a lot on the ride over here, how much this cost and how much that was bleeding him dry.”

Markovich paused for a tiny moment, then said, “It is very expensive. The tsar has expensive tastes, and the court has to keep up with him.” He lowered his voice. “The holdings have been mortgaged-twice, in fact. Even the serfs.”

“That’s terrible,” Thad said sympathetically. With his finger, he traced a line across the map without looking at it. “If the tsar emancipates the serfs, it would be a disaster for the general. He would owe a lot of money to the banks all at once. The family holdings might go to the crown, and you wouldn’t be able to visit any longer.”

“Very much so.” Markovich sighed.

And if the general found out you gave me this information, you would never leave this prison, Thad added silently.

“Could I borrow these maps, do you think?” Thad asked. “I really need to pore over them where I can think.”

“Oh, I don’t-”

Thad reached into his pocket, broke the clasp on the tsarina’s necklace, and slid off a single pearl. He handed it to Markovich. It was worth more than a lieutenant would earn in ten years.

“Keep them with my compliments,” Markovich amended. “Did you need the general’s carriage as well?”

“Back to the Field of Mars,” Thad said.