"Strom lantern, self-oiling, one."
"Storm lantern, you mean," said Arthur.
"Says strom lantern in my book," replied the clerk. "Hurry along and join your gang. Just follow the railway tracks behind me. Unless you hear a whistle, in which case, get off the tracks for a while."
"This storm - sorry, strom - lantern is broken," Arthur pointed out.
"They're all broken," sighed the clerk, indicating the lanterns at each end of his desk, which were identical. "That's the pattern. I suppose our lord and master has better things to do than fix up the pattern. No use complaining. I complained once and look what happened."
Arthur stared at the clerk in puzzlement.
"Got downsized, didn't I? I was a foot taller and a Maker Fourth Class before I was stupid enough to complain about badly made strom lanterns. At least I didn't get sent down the Pit. Now off you go before I get into more trouble."
"What's your name?" asked Arthur. This clerk might be a useful contact. At least he talked about Grim Tuesday and the Pit.
"Name! Supply Clerk Twelve Fifty-Two. Now get going before an Overseer shows up! Around the desk and follow the rails."
Arthur turned to go, holding his smoking lantern high. But before he disappeared into the smog, the supply clerk coughed. Arthur turned back.
"Mathias. That was my name," muttered the clerk. "I don't know who you are, but something makes me want to tell you. Good luck in the Pit. You'll need it."
Chapter Six
There were railway tracks behind the desk, only ten yards away but unseen until Arthur tripped over the first rail. Inspecting them with the lantern, Arthur saw they were made of some dull metal that looked like bronze, and they were set very wide apart, at least eight feet, which he thought was a wider gauge than any railway back in his world. The rails ran on stone sleepers rather than wood or concrete, and the rubble under and between the sleepers was of some strange material that was the shape and color of wood chips but was very heavy and hard - perhaps another kind of light stone.
The rubble was called ballast, Arthur remembered. Bob's ninety-four-year-old uncle Jarrett - Arthur's great-uncle - had worked on the railways all his life and liked his great-nephews and great-nieces to know the proper terminology for everything from the tracks to the trains. He even had recordings of different types of steam engines they'd had to listen to.
But Great-uncle Jarrett wasn't there to tell Arthur anything about this particular railway, and the boy didn't know which way to go. The tracks ran to the left and right, disappearing into thick smog in both directions. To try to get a better idea of where he was, Arthur crossed the tracks and walked away at a right angle. Having learned that visibility was effectively nil in the smog and general weirdness of the place, he trod carefully, alert for another stairway or a sudden drop.
Crouching down and raising his lantern, Arthur saw the stone floor simply ended as if it had been sheared off clean by an enormous knife. Swirls of smog blew along the edge of the precipice, cloaking how far down the drop might be. Arthur couldn't see the other side at all.
He guessed that he had found the edge of the Pit. Slowly he backed away, not feeling safe until he had returned to the other side of the railway.
Now that he knew he was on the edge of the Pit, Arthur realized that the railway slanted down in one direction. That would be the way he was supposed to go. But if he followed the rails, he would be drawn deeper and deeper into the horrible life of an indentured worker in Grim Tuesday's realm. On the other hand, if he followed the rails up, he'd probably get steamed? and unlike a Denizen, would not survive the experience.
I'm in trouble.
It was really sinking in now that he was trapped in a very unpleasant part of the House. He didn't have the Key, so apart from some faint lingering power in his hands, he had no magic to help him and no weapon. He had no way to get out and no way to communicate with his friends. No one knew he was here except the Lieutenant Keeper - who couldn't tell anyone unless they asked first.
He'd rushed in to try to stop his family from suffering any more financial assaults, but all he'd managed to achieve was to get himself into very serious trouble.
Arthur sat down on the rail, put his head in his hands, and massaged his temples. He felt slow and stupid and utterly defeated. He had to figure out a way to escape. There was no way he could survive going farther down the Pit.
He started rocking back and forth. Somehow that slight motion made him feel better, as if any movement might help him come up with an idea. As he rocked, he felt a slight pain in his chest. Not the internal ache of a stiffening lung, but something poking into him from his pocket.
The Atlas.
Suddenly full of hope, he got the green-cloth-covered book out and rested it in his lap. Then he laid both hands flat on the cover and thought out his question.
How can I get out of the Pit?
The Atlas opened with less than its usual alacrity, and instead of growing to its usual dimensions, only expanded to twice its pocket-sized form. It also kept partially closed, so Arthur had to peer in. Clearly the Atlas didn't like the air in the Pit either.
A single letter was slowly sketched out in ink, then the unseen hand grew faster and wrote a word, then another. As in the first time Arthur had used the Atlas, the words were not in English, and the letters were not any that he knew. But as he looked at them, they changed into a more recognizable form.
There are numerous ways to leave the fearsome Pit of Grim Tuesday. There are the official ways, requiring suitable passes and permits. They include: a. by walking up the service road; b. as a passenger upon Grim Tuesday's train and e. as one of the Grim's messengers, with a wheel recalibrated for ascent. There are the unofficial ways, which are dangerous or self-defeating. These include: a. by flying, with its attendant risks, some specific to the Pit; and b. by destruction at the hands of a Nithling or an eruption of Nothing. "No," said Arthur. "I mean specifically how can I get out of the Pit now?"
Nothing happened. The page of the Atlas remained still and frozen. No unseen hand wrote, no ink shimmered.
Arthur slowly closed the Atlas and put it in his pocket. For a moment he had thought it would give him some easy way out, some secret way to exit the Pit. It had helped him back in his world, but it either couldn't or wouldn't help him here.
I suppose I could go to an Overseer and ask to see Grim Tuesday, Arthur thought despondently. And just sign the stupid paper that would give him the First Key and the Lower House . . .
"Excuse me! I think you're meant to go ahead of me," said a polite voice out of the smog. Arthur looked around and saw the Denizen who'd been behind him in the line.
"They seem quite keen on staying in line here. Name's Japeth, by the way. Former name, I suppose."
"I'm Arthur," said Arthur. He extended his hand. Japeth took it, but before he could close his hand, blue sparks erupted from Arthur's palm and lashed around Japeth's wrist. The Denizen let go with a yelp and withdrew, sucking his fingers.
"You're not an indentured worker!" he exclaimed.
Arthur tensed for the Denizen to call out to the Overseers, who would surely be somewhere near in the smog. Japeth might get a reward, or early release, or something. So he mustn't be allowed the opportunity?
"Don't worry!" Japeth added quickly as Arthur bent down and picked up a piece of the weird stone ballast from the train track. "I'm not a snitch, tattletale, dobber, blabberer, squealer, fink, or indeed, easy-mouth. Whoever you are, I shan't say a word, phrase, utterance, syntag -"
"You'd better not," warned Arthur. He tried to sound severe but was very relieved as he dropped the stone. "I'm here? on a mission to help all the indentured workers."