she had taken a personal hand in drafting. ‘Then the new methods instituted in our third shed have caused …’ Vallimir frowned towards the newest of the three buildings, longer, lower and with even narrower windows in its already grubby walls. ‘Considerable ill will.’
‘I often find the more effective the method, the more ill will it causes. Perhaps we should begin our tour there.’
Vallimir winced. ‘I am not sure you would be … comfortable inside. It is extremely noisy. Very warm. Not at all a suitable place for a lady of your standing.’
‘Oh, come now, Colonel,’ she said, already striding towards it, ‘on my mother’s side, I am from tough common stock.’
‘I am aware. I knew your uncle.’
‘Lord Marshal West?’ The man had died before she was born, but her mother sometimes spoke of him. If you counted the sentimental platitudes one used about family long in their grave.
‘He once challenged me to a duel, in fact.’
‘Really?’ Her interest piqued by that flash of an honest recollection. ‘Over what?’
‘Rash words I have often regretted. You remind me of him, in a way. He was a very driven man. Very committed.’ Vallimir glanced towards her as he produced a key and unlocked the door. ‘And he could be quite terrifying.’ The hum of machinery became a roar as he pushed it wide.
Inside, the whole place shook with the endless anger of the engines. The slap of belts, the clatter of cogs, the rattle of shuttles, the shrieking of metal under furious pressure. The manufactory floor was dug deep into the ground so they stood at a kind of balcony. Savine stepped to the rail, frowning down at the workers, and paused, wondering if there was some trick of perspective.
But no.
‘They are children.’ She let no emotion enter her voice at the word. Hundreds of children, lean and filthy, gathered in long rows about the looms, darting among the machines, rolling spindles of yarn as tall as they were, bent under bolts of finished cloth.
‘If Valbeck has one commodity in abundance,’ shouted Vallimir in her ear, ‘it is orphaned and abandoned children. Paupers, serving only as a burden to the state. Here we provide them with useful occupation.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘Welcome … to the future.’
In one corner of the shed there were large shelves, five or six high, equipped with sliding ladders but holding only rags. As Savine watched, a tangle-haired girl crawled from one. Their beds, then. They lived in this place. The smell was nauseating, the heat crushing, the noise thunderous, the combination positively hellish.
She stifled a cough as she tried to speak again. Even up here on the balcony, the air was heavy with dust, the shafts of light from the narrow windows swarming with motes. ‘Wages are minimal, I imagine?’
Vallimir gave a strange grimace. ‘That is the beauty of this scheme. Aside from a stipend to the poor house from which they are acquired, and minimal expenditure on food and clothing, they receive no wages. They can, in effect … be purchased.’
‘Purchased.’ Savine let no emotion enter her voice at that word, either. ‘Like any other piece of machinery.’
She looked down at her new sword-belt. She had been delighted when it was delivered the other day. Quite the masterpiece. Sipanese leather, with gem-studded silver panels showing scenes from the Fall of Juvens. How many children could she have bought for the same money? How many had she bought?
‘We used to employ skilled hand-weavers, but in practice there is little need. Children can learn to mind the machines just as quickly, and with one-tenth the fuss.’ Vallimir gestured towards the whirring engines, the little figures crawling around them. Though more the gesture of a judge towards a crime than a showman towards a spectacle. ‘With the improved machinery, plus the lower costs of labour and housing, this shed is more profitable than the other two combined. And far more easily controlled.’
Vallimir nodded down towards a heavyset foreman patrolling the floor. Behind his back, Savine saw that he held a stick. Or would one describe it as a whip?
‘How long do they work here?’ she croaked out, over the hand she had unconsciously pressed across her mouth.
‘Shifts are fourteen hours. Any longer has proved unsustainable.’
She had boasted of her toughness, but a few moments in there was enough to make Savine feel dizzy, and she clutched at the rail. Fourteen hours’ hard labour in that dust and noise, day after day. And hot as the Maker’s forge,