The Sunken by S. C. Green

suspiciously.
    “We’ve no services today,” the mouth belonging to the eyes said.
    “Don’t pretend you can’t see me, Peter. I’ve brought Nicholas Thorne to see Isambard.”
    Nicholas paled. “Please don’t use that name,” he said. “It’s Rose now.”
    “Nicholas Thorne ?” The man spat. “The scoundrel who done killed our brother?”
    Nicholas stepped away, shocked by the resemblance between Aaron and the priest. Although at least ten years his senior, the priest shared Aaron’s piercing eyes, curled black hair, and gaunt features. Nicholas remembered the fearsome reputation of Henry’s elder brothers among the Stokers — priests who delighted in finding religious transgressions within the Ward to bring before the Council. They’d been particularly diligent in weeding out troublesome Stokers, and had played a crucial role in convicting Marc Brunel. Nicholas decided it was prudent to keep his mouth shut.
    Aaron had no such qualms. “Henry got himself killed with his own stupidity, and you will too if you don’t open this door.”
    Aaron’s brother slammed the cover over the slot, and with a hiss of steam, the door swung inward. Peter — who towered over them both in his silk robes — scowled at them. “What’s he doing here?”
    “Priests don’t ask questions,” Aaron said. “That’s the price you pay for not ever having to get your hands dirty.”
    “You’d better watch your tongue, or I’ll report you to Oswald.” But Peter sloped off into the shadows, leaving them alone in the Nave.
    “Oswald?”
    “My other brother. He’s Head Priest, and not as angry as Peter, but even more dangerous. You’ll meet him in time.”
    “I thought your brothers were priests in Stephenson’s church.”
    “They were — and a fine penny they were making from it, too. But Stephenson refused to take them with him when he left for the north. Being Stokers, he didn’t consider them trustworthy.” He snorted. “They’ll do anything to avoid manual labour, and Oswald was smart enough to realise the priesthood of Isambard’s church would incur no wrath from the Stokers. It’s less power, less money, but it’s an easy life. We take the elevator here.”
    He pulled aside a panel decorated with a pattern of rivets forming a Stoker cross, and stepped into a metal cage. Nervous at once again entering the darkness, Nicholas stepped in beside him. Aaron closed the panel and leaned his weight against one of the levers sticking out from the floor of the cage. With a jerk, they lurched downward.
    Aaron had brought no light with him, and Nicholas had plenty of time, lost with his thoughts in the darkness, to wonder what awaited him at the bottom of that elevator shaft. It occurred to him briefly that maybe he was being set up. Maybe Isambard had used Aaron to lure him here, to exact revenge for Nicholas’ part in Marc Brunel’s sentence. The knife in his pocket felt heavy, and Nicholas wondered if he would have to use it.
    The din of the compies still came upon him in waves, but it was abating. Not even the compies would come this far into the earth.
    Finally, the elevator jerked to a stop. Nicholas heard Aaron pull open the grate, and a hand grabbed his sleeve. “Through here,” Aaron said, directing him through a low door.
    The workshop was dim, lit by a roaring furnace in the far corner and a row of Argand lamps scattered across the benches. Nicholas could barely make out the shapes of the long tables, laden with strange machines and rolls of technical drawings smudged with oily fingerprints. Sheets of metal, half-formed cogs and stacks of miscellaneous parts leaned against one wall.
    “Nicholas.”
    The voice startled him. He whirled around as Brunel stepped out of the darkness and rushed forward to greet him.
    His emotions on edge, Nicholas’ first instinct was to step back, his hand flying to his pocket. Isambard, seeing his distress, held up his hands in surrender. He extended one, and after a few