Page 22 of Still the Sun

It takes some effort, and some grease, to loosen the bronze alloy plate and lift it. Machine One had something similar, which was how I learned a piece of it went through the floor of the tower. This one’s at a different angle, and when I move it—

I see the wall. A sigh blows sweaty hair off my forehead. “Whoever built this was drunk as a bard,” I mumble, feeling in my pocket for the screws I’d pulled out. From the outside, it probably looks like the machine is eating me; I’m almost entirely horizontal in it, near the bottom, with a strut poking into my thigh. Screw in hand, I adjust the plate to push it back in, then pause.

And stare at the perfect, hair-thin crack running down the stone wall.

Biting my lip, I pocket the screw and set the plate aside, wriggling in a bit more to get a better look, tracing my finger down that line. It’s not damage in the stonework. It’s too straight and even for that. Noting that the usual pattern of unchippable mortar is gone from this section of the wall, which Machine Two sits tightly against, I follow the crack down, to where it meets another perpendicular to it.

“Is this ...?” I twist, though that strut and the tight confines do not want me to. I follow the seam a little more, until I can’t reach any farther, but I can see it.

It almost looks like ... a door. But if it were, there’d be no way to open it.

“Unless you move.” I grunt in the narrow space, trying to get a better look at the floor. Machine Two doesn’t respond. The beam supporting its base—does it join with the one at the front? If it’s any kind of hinged arm, maybe Machine Two can move away from this wall.

Interesting.I start to crawl my way backward, only for my butt to get caught on that stupid strut. Grumbling, I wriggle left, then right, grabbing a support rod to angle myself free. Glancing up, I see something that both excites and irritates me at the same time.

There’s a power switch. Right in the unreachable middle of the machine, with no apparent means for supplying power around it. Just like in Machine One.

“Drunk. As. A. Bard.” A little more squirming, ignoring the rip I just put in my pants, and I slide free, new grease stains on my shirt and running up my arms. I’ll be spending my time off making soap.

A headache forms behind my eyes. Sitting on the cold stone floor, I rub them. My brain refuses to contemplate another thought.

Blinking my vision clear, I glance at the hole in the ceiling across the room. That leads up to a third machine. And then two stories above that juts that extra mechanism, almost like an enormous peg hammered into the tower’s northeast side, up at the top. As if the Ancients built the tower first and the machines second, without realizing how muchcapacity they’d need. At least, I assume it’s a machine up there. Only one way to check. Just my luck: first sun pierces through lingering mist.

I hesitate. I’d be going out in the sun, but technically Moseus didn’t say I couldn’t scale the tower in the sun, and I’m not risking it in the mist.

I stand, stretch, and collect the tools. I need to know how I’m going to fix this place up, so investigating the protrusion is nonnegotiable. Or, rather I’m not going to negotiate, so the keepers can’t tell meno.

Best way to climb to the protrusion would be through a window, to save myself some effort, but all the windows are cut the same—too narrow for even my body to fit through. A sigh slides through my nose. At least it’s not too narrow for the ladder. A few heaves and a grunt later, and I shove the ladder through the window, letting it fall two stories below. I retrieve some rope from that closet on the first floor and head out into the brightness of first sun.

Finding some level ground that’s not too sandy, close to the tower’s protrusion but away from peering eyes, I set up the ladder. It’s heavier than it looks. After ensuring it’s secure, I climb up eighteen rungs and pull myself onto a second-story window.

I wedge my foot in, giving myself a moment to piece out the best way to do this. Manage to sidestep over a subtle lip to another window, which I cram my shoulder into for balance while I tie a wrench to the end of my rope. Takes four attempts to swing the thing up and into a third-story window, where the wrench catches. The tower’s tiers get smaller as they go up, so there will be space to stand once I get up there. Purposefully not looking down, I haul myself up, and—

My lips part when I get an elbow up. “Ruin crush me,” I whisper, pushing myself onto the floor. I’d been so intent on fixing Machines One and Two, I hadn’t bothered to investigate the third floor. Through this slotted window, my eyes center on a third machine.

It’s larger than the other two. Or it would be, if it weren’t in pieces.

Because this thing is inpieces.

Desperate for a better look, I slide down the rope to my ladder, and down again to the ground. The ladder bites into my bone when I balance it on my shoulder. Takes a second to get it through the front door, but the open floor plans allow me to make it up the spiral stairs all right. Reset the ladder and climb up.

The wreckage strikes me anew as I step foot into this new chamber, my lungs bellowing from the effort. I walk toward Machine Three cautiously, as though it might come alive and attack. Chunks composed of assemblies, shielding, and gods know what else spill across the floor. The foundation seems to be intact, but struts, coils, springs, shafts, and gears splay ... everywhere. Hanging off cables and axles, forgotten against walls, or just haphazardly piled up. Like someone set off an explosion right at the machine’s heart.

I crouch down on the balls of my feet, taking it all in.At least I don’t have to take it apart to see how it works.But how will I ever know where everything goes?

Like Machine One, it’s predominantly silver. Steel. I think it’s meant to stretch the entire height of the room; I can see pieces attached to the ceiling, like some of it should connect up there. The fallen supports are certainly long enough to reach. It’s like the Ancients got all the parts they needed, hauled them up here, then got into a fight using the mechanics as weapons. After, they sealed up this lone, scattered monolith and followed the Serpent to another world.

Leaning forward, I pick up a small sprocket.

“Don’t—” a voice says.

Starting, I turn around. Heartwood stands on the ladder behind me, his pale features so severe they might have been carved from plaster. I ignore my speeding pulse; I’m surprised I didn’t hear him, what with the shoddy make of that ladder and his weight on it. I stand straight, internally berating myself, and force my shoulders to relax. My heartbeat doesn’t.

Rubbing the sprocket’s teeth between my fingers, I say, “You’re awfully quiet on your feet for someone your size.” I turn the sprocketover. Set it down right where I found it, in the hope that it will give me a clue to where it goes when I get around to assembling this mess. “Don’t what?”

Heartwood’s mouth works. His sharp gaze shifts from me to the machine, and I wonder if my presence somehow rankles him as much as his does me. He doesn’t answer.

Suppressing a sigh, I cross the room and peer out the skinny window. I can see that jutting piece of machinery almost straight above me, sticking out of the tower’s highest tier. “I know I’m supposed to be gone by now, but I’m going to go look at that thing.” I don’t have the mental space to start on this ... mess.

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