Mainspring by Jay Lake Page A

center was three stories tall, topped with a clock set within a cupola, and a lion and a unicorn rampant on brick insets to each side of the clock. Two-story brick and marbled wings extended to each side away from what was clearly, even to Hethor’s untrained eye, the original facade. Little round windows below the animal figures were set about an ordinary double-hung window, and below that a balcony that had the look of something used to read proclamations, or perhaps to declare public punishments. A Union Jack flew over the clock, while the blue-on-white stars of Her Imperial Majesty’s New England colonies flew to one side, and an unfamiliar yellow-and-red banner flew to the
other. The sigil of the viceroy, Hethor supposed. He hoped it meant that the man was in residence now.
    Doubt gnawed at his heart in the face of his goal. Should he go to Anthony’s tap room on Pier Four and seek out this Malgus first? Hethor had no assurance that the viceroy would not simply laugh him away, or even worse, make an example of an upstart Colonial countryman.
    There was no way for Hethor to know. Master Bodean had not been a political creature, preferring to stick to his clocks and pay his assessments and let the Crown get on with the business of ruling. As a result, Hethor had inherited no politics from his master, other than the politics of business—charge cash up front, pay slow against your own credit, never sell for less than you bought plus a solid margin.
    He advanced slowly up the marble steps that led to a surprisingly low door beneath the balcony. A small brass plate read MASSACHUSETTS HOUSE. Inside was cool and dark, almost damp. Two soldiers stood there in the gray wool uniforms of the New England colonial militia, each with a carbine over his shoulder. They looked bored. A circular marble desk was ensconced before a double flight of stairs, with galleries leading left and right to the wings.
    Hethor stood in front of the desk. An enormous register, even larger than Librarian Childress’ books of artistic engravings, lay open on the counter. Sharp copperplate script displayed the comings and goings of men of power. A thin man, face pinched tight above a dark suit and an almost clerical stiff collar, gave Hethor a fishy-eyed stare from behind the armor of his book.
    â€œServant’s entrance is on Chatham Street.” The thin man’s voice was as reedy as his looks. “I’ll thank you not to muddy His Lordship’s front hall.”
    â€œI’m here to see His Lordship,” said Hethor slowly. He was trusting inspiration to come, but his trust appeared to have been misplaced.

    â€œOne of the Specials, hmm?”
    â€œSpecial. Well, er … yes.”
    â€œPassword?”
    Password? “Uh … albino toucan.”
    â€œHmm …” The thin man pulled a small notebook from his coat pocket and flipped through it. “I see.” He looked up, past Hethor. “Sar’n’t Ellis. Please be so kind as to detain this … individual … for questioning. He claims to be a Special. I expect Mister Phelps will wish to see him whether or not that is true.”
    â€œAlrightie.” The burly Sergeant Ellis grabbed Hethor’s arm none too gently. “Come on, then.”
    â€œI suggest the Blue Room,” said the thin man helpfully.
    â€œI knows me business,” Ellis grumbled before leading Hethor around the desk to a stairway heading down beneath the marble risers.
    â€œBut I need to see the viceroy,” Hethor protested as Ellis tugged him through the door.
    â€œOh, and you will.” Ellis chuckled.
    Belowstairs, the hallway was vaulted brick, as if it had been tunneled rather than built. Rooms opened on each side, much like Hethor imagined a dungeon to be, but when Ellis gently pushed Hethor into one, the room proved to contain only two settees and a desk, and a small, dirty window up near the ceiling that admitted a minor ration of