The Alchemy of Stone - By Ekaterina Sedia Page 0,44

or did you have accomplices?”

The man just stared, his eyes startled and wide, his mouth still straining after each shallow breath.

“The bastard can’t even speak properly,” one of the mechanics said.

“Or he doesn’t speak our language.” Bergen cleared his throat and moved closer to the prisoner. He spoke slowly and loudly, as one did with children or feeble-minded. “Alone? Were you alone?”

The prisoner gasped. “I did nothing,” he whispered.

Mattie tugged Loharri’s sleeve. He frowned and shook her hand off. “What?” he whispered with a fierce expression on his twisted face.

“That’s not the right man,” Mattie whispered. She hadn’t realized how silent the room was, until her whisper resonated, and made everyone turn toward her. “It’s not the right man,” Mattie said, louder, addressing Bergen and everyone else. “I was there, I saw. The one who attacked the procession was much bigger. And he wasn’t an easterner, he was local. I saw his hand—it was pink, like yours.” She pointed at Bergen’s hand gripping the pommel of his cane.

Tense silence filled the room, palpable, broken only by the ticking of Mattie’s heart and the ragged breath of the prisoner who watched Mattie with almost religious hope on his face, mixed with open-mouthed wonder.

“Nonsense,” Bergen said, and turned away.

The rest of the mechanics coughed into their hands and shuffled their feet, covering up their visible relief.

“Loharri,” one of the mechanics said. “Perhaps you should take your automaton outside—she seems prone to hysterics. I guess all women are like that, mechanical or flesh.”

Loharri did not say a word and gave Mattie a gentle shove. “Run along, now,” he said softly. “I will see you soon.”

Mattie turned to the door, the gaze of the prisoner imploring her not to leave him. She gave a small shake of her head and walked out, the panicked eyes of the man, their whites prominent and blinding like those of the sheep in the slaughterhouse, burned into her memory.

Chapter 10

We follow the girl as she walks through noisy streets, crawling with the vile mechanical contrivances that did not come from the stone. The girl walks as if blind, stumbling over the cobbles, and we hear her heart whir and whine deep inside her, creaking with tears she will never weep. We are glad that she is gone from the place of sorrow, where so many of our children have perished and so many others have behaved badly.

Content that she is on her way home, we turn and leap from roof to roof, our toes grasping shingles like steps; our wings balance us, keep us steady. We follow the inverse labyrinth of the buildings, the negative reflection of the streets between them, to a different location.

We see a small, white-haired man who used to move like a crab when he was little, but who has now learned to walk upright, with dignity and grace. He has words now, and we are proud of him, as proud as we are of any we like to follow. He moves toward the place the girl has just left, the pulsing streets converging on the ugly stone heart of the city, and we almost wish we hadn’t built it.

Everyone flees at his approach; the soulless creatures like ourselves are the only ones who are immune to his repulsive charms. We remember the time he swallowed his first soul, as we remember all the countless others, gone up in smoke and inhaled by his wide loving mouth. He is nothing but loving.

The courtyard of the jail is filled with people, but they too flee as he gets closer; they go into the jail building and wait inside. The only man left in the courtyard is the stranger—red earth, salty sea, hands bound, feet shackled, and nowhere to run.

The white-haired man, the smoker of souls, stands before him, quietly, mildly. “Are you ready?” he asks, his eyes of milk staring over the stranger’s head into the infinity of the jail walls.

The stranger shakes his head side to side, the frantic motion of a terrified child.

“Shh,” the blind man says, “shhh.” He takes the face of the prisoner into his hands, and the stranger goes limp and docile.

The blind man’s hands are soft and gentle, and he touches his lips to the stranger’s.

The stranger tries to keep his mouth closed, but it is of no use. His soul, sensing the companionship of many others, presses on his lips from the inside, and he finally gives with a loud exhalation. His lips brush against the blind man’s