*Chapter 4 brings us into the city proper for the first time. Amalus and Gharom's role in the tale is moving in ways I didn't expect.*

*This chapter is long, so I've split it up into three parts. Part b is about 1,800 words*

*There's no art for this chapter as I have clear pics in my head, but can't find a suitable translation. If any one would be interested in collabing on art, drop me a line.*

*In Chapter 4a we met Amalus and Gharom, and Amalus is tasked with finding out about the strange visitors to night-time Sar Chona*


The next day Amalus huddled on the grate as rain fell from a mottled sky. Water trickled down her neck and soaked the layers of old clothing below. It was always more difficult to beg in the rain, but that wasn’t the main reason she didn’t move. The previous evening had opened a door to the past, piercing the shell of forgetfulness she constructed for protection. Now her head roiled with voices, a cacophony of anger, despair, and hopelessness. 

The alley she lay in was little used but the few who did scurry through with hoods and collars turned up against the rain heard Amalus’ keening and muttering as the torment inside her forced it’s way out. 

Eventually a passer-bye stopped and knelt. “Is there someone I can get to help you?” He asked.

Amalus recoiled, eyes wide and bloodshot. She pressed herself against the wall and looked at the man, who stayed on his haunches and watched her. A paroxysm of coughs shook Amalus and the combination of this and being spoken to allowed her to clutch the few threads of sanity that remained. She drew them in, holding them tightly. The coughing faded and she turned her head to spit into the grate. A slimy dark gob fell between the bars. She turned back to the man.
“No, there’s no one. But thanks for stopping.” She nodded her head at him, a motion of dismissal.

“Are you sure. I can get you to the hospice in—“

“No, I’m fine. Just the weather.”

Bracing against the wall Amalus pushed her self up to a standing position. The man also stood. He looked at her doubtfully but could see the iron of isolation in Amalus, the solid core that would continue to reject assistance. He shook his head.

“If you’re sure.”

Amalus nodded vigorously. The man turned and carried on, glancing back once. Amalus watched him go and then turned to go the opposite way. She walked without intent, her mind dwelling on what the events of the previous evening may mean. The more she considered the automata the more she was sure some, more than some, were hers. Built by her, right there in the workshop on Artificers Square. None of the machines had the sleek metallic beauty of when they left the workshop, and some looked as if they had been altered significantly. Still, some of the shapes that lurked below the abuse, neglect and modifications were as familiar as when she had sketched them with thin crayons in a frenzy of design.

Around her Sar-Chona carried on uncaring. Was the city aware of this nightly pilgrim? They must be. The Inspectorate, the cities cruel and pervasive security organ, knew everything - well it tried to - they were probably watching the ebb and flow of automata. But the majority of people would be unaware, uncaring. 

Someone dropped a half eaten pie on the floor ahead of her. Without thinking Amalus stooped to scoop it up. Leek and potato, not a favorite, but still warm. She devoured it and for the first time in the day considered Gharom. She turned, heading towards Chooner’s Lane. It was too early to expect a pie, but she could tell Gharom what she had seen. The rain continued to fall and the worn leather on her boots became saturated; soon each footfall sounded like a wet slap. The sky began to darken, the thick cloud bringing evening prematurely. Amalus wondered if the machines would begin their journey sooner, or if they were bound by set times.

When she arrived at Chooner’s Lane there were still a good number of people about, ducking in and out of stores. Amalus hung back in the alley resting against the bit of warm wall, ignoring people who stared at her when she coughed. Gradually the numbers dwindled, the darkness deepened, and she edged round to the pie stall.

“Gharom?”

“She don’t work here now. Since I discovered her giving my profits away to some filthy beggar. I reckon that’s probably you. Get lost, and don’t come near my stall again.”

They glared at each other across the counter. Amalus coughed, deliberately, she spat loosened phlegm in a long arc that flew over the counter and landed across the pies sitting in the warming oven. If Ghoram had been working the glass cover would have been down to protect the pies, Amalus would never have been able to do it. The stall owner cursed and swore. Amalus jogged into the alley pretty sure that he wouldn’t risk leaving the stall to chase her, but kept up her shambling haste all the same.

At the other end of the alley she turned left and slowed to her normal shuffle. The rain pattered softly on the rags covering her head. Hunger faded from the foreground. Amalus knew nothing now. Concern for Gharom fluttered in the background but the aggressive encounter had once again thrust Amalus into a twilight of memory. She muttered as she walked, reforming arguments which had been lost decades ago. Unconsciously she began to walk uptown. The main roads were filled with wagons bringing goods into the city, with tuk-tuks that weaved in and out - their passengers clinging to safety straps, with people scurrying to get out of the rain. Her ramblings were lost in the noise. 

In Artificers Square lights were still on, doors still open. Amalus crossed the middle of the square, heading for her old workshop. The door opened and a youth exited. Amalus frowned and halted, not recognizing him. She looked at the name above the door and seeing Finnen Developments dragged her back to the present. The unconscious purpose with which she had negotiated the route to the square disappeared. She began coughing. The youth glanced in her direction, but kept moving.

Amalus did a slow turning sweep of the area. Random filaments of the past sparked as she looked at the doors and windows. She fought to stay present and reached for a focus. The machines, they would be coming here tonight. 

One of the larger workshops was already dark and its doorway was deep. Amalus crossed to it and huddled down to wait the coming of the automata. The past still threatened to consume her, like an angry god devouring a supplicant who had raised its ire. It was always easier to succumb, to drift with the past and gnaw the skeleton of her failures. She focused hard on the machines. Remembering them from the previous evening, recalling individual forms.

The workshops became dark and silent as work finished for the day. Some workers exited through the square, none of them looked at Amalus. Rain continued to fall, though the depth of the doorway Amalus was in protected her. Time passed and the city grew quieter until there was only the patter of raindrops. Amalus dozed.
When she woke the square was half full of automata and more were arriving. The incessant rain pattered against the metal bodies, little sharp tings where a drop hit an area that resonated. The feeble street light cast watery shadows, barely illuminating the machines, but one caught her attention.

Pushing herself up against the door she waited for the coughing to subside before walking over to the machine she thought she recognised. The closest automata watched as she walked round their fellow, peering at it. Finally she ran her hands over the side of the machines torso. Her fingers traced welds and when the straight line twisted and twirled she knew for sure that this was a machine she had built. She remembered welding that seam, remembered signing her initials in the weld. It had been an impulse. The end of a long week where a new form of propulsion hadn’t worked as planned. Solving the problem and sealing the casing had been an act of relief and release. She trailed her hand across the wet steel. For a moment she was complete, her mind whole again like before the decline, the fall, the fracture. Looking at the square functional head she tried to remember who had bought it and for what purpose. The details remained elusive. No matter.

“I made you,” she said. Her words were swallowed by the air. Metal necks creaked as heads turned to look at her.
Amalus looked round. Every one of the machines faced her. Some had shifted position so they had a line of sight. Amalus stepped back nervously.

“You are The Maker?”

She turned to the voice. Valves glowed warmly in the chest of the talker. She remembered designing the system to allow it to shout at recalcitrant birds. 

“I, I designed this one,” she pointed at the one she had examined, “and I designed you.”

“You are The Maker.”

Amalus looked round at the machines. She couldn’t be sure she was responsible for all of them but enough, she guessed.

“Yes.”

“Why did you leave us?” The same machine spoke, its valves pulsing brighter. Glass eyes and slits or bands with semi-precious stones stared at Amalus. Despite the emotionless faces there was an air of expectation.

“I didn’t know you needed me.”

“We are your creation. You knew our purpose. You knew our limitations and that we would need repaired, reformed. You knew our springs would seize and our pistons rust.”

“But I sold you. Your owners should have maintained you.”

“Some did. Some did not. But they were our owners. You are The Maker. You abandoned us.”

AmInd had built robust machines, designed to last. But there was never an intention that the company be the ongoing wardens of the machines. They were sold with warranties and there was always an expectation that some owners would come back to the workshop for repairs, but the majority would either use someone local, do it themselves, or just run the machine until it seized up and was abandoned in the corner of a shed or field. From somewhere, these machines had taken memories of being built, and their builder, and expected her to care for them.

Amalus was unsure what to say and stood silent for long moments, looking round at the metal bodies and recognizing more and more of them.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“We forgive you.”

“You speak for all of you?”

“All who seek The Maker speak for each other. We are of one mind. You made us, now you must remake us, restore us by your powers.”
Desire flared in Amalus, a burning sun of craving for tools to be in her hand and to fix these mechanisms sprung from her own imagination. The prospect of fixing and mending blossomed like a summer meadow and drove doubt to the edge of her consciousness.

“Yes, yes, I will remake you. I will rebuild you. I am your maker.” 
She pulled herself to full height, muscles complaining at being stretched out. She took a deep breath, the air was redolent of grease, oil, and metal from the machines around her and the workshops lining the square.

*words by stuartcturnbull*