Suppose (in his mind, by contrast, it was bitter cold) he was Duke Valens. Suppose he found out that Ziani Vaatzes opened the gates of Civitas Eremiae. Just suppose. Needless to say, it would change everything. It was a cold spot in the war, a flaw in everything. But the war must be fought to the end, and without Ziani Vaatzes it couldn't be won, and so the cold spot had to be overlooked, the seam had to be closed up around it, he had to forget about it or pretend he didn't know it was there. Now (let's suppose) he's Ziani Vaatzes, staring at the cold spot in the heart of the white glow, knowing that everything he's done is unsound, so brittle that one tap in the right place will shatter it. If the cold spot had been in the first seam, or the second, the third, the fourth, fifth, sixth or seventh; but the eighth seam, as they shovel the last city on to the fire and lean on the bellows handles, with Daurenja standing over him twitching and whimpering with lust… The eighth and last seam, closing up the tube.
"That's it." Daurenja's voice, raw as though the lining of his throat had been scraped with glass. "That's it, leave it, you've done it."
"It's no good." Daurenja was trying to pull him away, take the hammer out of his hand. He struggled, put his hand on Daurenja's face and shoved him. "There's a cold spot. There's a fucking cold spot in the last seam."
Daurenja shouldered past him, thrust his face, his bright eyes and his stupid little button nose, so close to the yellow iron that his eyelashes shrivelled. "Where?" he yelled. "Where is it? I can't see anything."
Funny joke. Ziani could barely see at all, only round the edges of the terrible white hole. He wondered how he could possibly explain. "It's there," he said. "I felt it."
Daurenja was huddled over the glowing tube like a mother over a cradle. He was bathed in the steam from his drenched clothes, the wet sheepskin he'd draped round his head and shoulders. The light from the bright iron shone in the cloud. "There's nothing there," he said. "It's all right, you're imagining it. It worked, you did it. I knew you could do it. It worked."
Two men were trying to pull him away now, before he scorched his face and ruined his eyes, but his skin hadn't burnt and he wasn't even blinking. Only a hero or a monster could get that close to yellow iron and not burn. (Wasn't that what the savages believed, that you could try a man with hot iron? If he burned, it meant he was guilty, or was it the other way round?) "You bloody genius, Ziani," he was yelling, his voice high and shrill, "I knew you'd be able to do it, I knew all along, right from the first time I saw you, and I was right, wasn't I? I knew there had to be a reason, I knew it was the right thing to do." They were trying to make him move, hauling at his shoulders and arms, but they couldn't shift him, and as the iron gradually cooled, he seemed to grow even stronger, as if the heat was leaving the tube and draining away into him (but he didn't burn, only sweated).
"Right." Ziani heard his own voice, barely recognised it. "Get the hoops in the fire, I want this job finished. Wait till the tube's gone dull red and then quench it; oil, not water. I need to sit down for a bit and close my eyes."
"Yes, of course." Daurenja was still staring into the light, cooling it with his eyes. "Get the first hoop up to white, and for crying out loud keep them in order." At last he turned his head away, looking at Ziani. "There wasn't a cold spot, was there? I looked, but I couldn't see anything."
"I don't know," Ziani replied. "I could've been wrong. I thought I saw it, but…"
"There wasn't one," Daurenja said. "You imagined it. Hardly surprising, staring into the weld all that time, it's enough to screw up anybody. Look, we can finish now, shrinking the hoops on is no big deal. Why don't you go and lie down or something? You must be wrecked."
"I'll just go outside for a while," Ziani replied. "It's a bit too warm in here."
The night was dark and cold, and the stars were just sparks from the weld, he knew that now, just as the moon was hot iron and the clouds were steam. He stared into the darkness until the white rip began to heal, gradually shrinking until all that was left of it was a scar, a blemish, like a fault in a seam. It was still there when he closed his eyes. It was her, then. She told them.
Well, then. The City would still have to fall, he couldn't prevent that; no choice now. He'd condemned it to death a long time ago, in the bright white light of his lamp, when he changed the specification. By the illuminating glow of the cold spot-how much would he be able to see before its light faded?-he saw her standing in the doorway of his workshop, a silhouette with the firelight behind her, her head a little on one side as she watched him.
"What are you doing?" she said.
"Just drawing."
She came a step closer. "Work?"
"No. Actually, it's for Moritsa. Something I'm thinking of making for her."
A step closer still, and her body was between him and the yellow glow, so that he could only just see the paper in front of him on the table. "That's nice. What is it?"
Carefully he put the pen back in the ink bottle. "You remember when we went to the Guild fair, and they had those dancing mechanical dolls?"
A pause; then, "Oh yes. They were funny. She really liked them."
"I know." He looked for her face, but it was in shadow. "I thought I'd make her one."
"Really? Do you think you could?"
The surprise in her voice delighted him. He'd always known she admired him, was proud of having such a clever husband. It'd be a present for them both, in a way. "I don't see why not," he said. "Basically it's just clockwork, with some cams and levers. I got the specification from the library this afternoon, I was just drawing it out. Here, take a look if you like. Don't suppose it'll mean much to you, though."
He felt her hair on his shoulder as she leaned over him. "It's all just lines and squiggles," she said. He laughed. "Will it dance like the ones at the fair?"
"Well, no. They were Type Sevens, this is a Type Four. Type Seven is a restricted pattern."
"Oh." It wasn't much. A little inflection, probably not even intended. A cold spot. "Well, never mind. Will it be able to turn its head and move its arms?"
"Of course. Here, look, this is the linkage mechanism. This arm here bears on this cam, which raises this pawl here…"
She giggled. "If you say so," she said. "But it looks really difficult and fiddly, all those bits and pieces. It'll be a lot of work, won't it?"
"I'll just do a bit at a time, when I've got a spare moment. I'll enjoy it. It's been ages since I did any small work."
"I know she'd really like it," she said. "But you work so hard as it is, at the factory. You'll wear yourself out, you will."
He smiled. "You know me," he said. "I hate just sitting still. Anyway, I like making things. That's why I became an engineer, right?"
He wasn't looking at her face, but he could feel the warmth of her smile, like the heat of a fire making his cheek glow. "It'd mean a lot to her," she said. "Specially if you made it for her. She's very proud of her clever daddy."
"Well, then."
She neither moved nor spoke, but she didn't need to. The moment's hesitation, a cold spot, said it for her: it's a shame it won't dance, though, like the ones at the fair. And at that moment (the white rip was fading from his vision, he could barely see) it occurred to him that it would be better if it could dance, even though it was a Type Four. Why couldn't a Type Four dance? Well, because it wasn't a Type Seven. Sevens dance, Fours turn their heads and move their arms, that's why we have types. Dumb question. You might as well ask why the sun doesn't shine at night.
She left him, and when she'd gone the light came in through the doorway and he could see the machine again, lines on paper. Why couldn't a Type Four dance? But it could, if you duplicated the pivot-and-socket assembly, driving it off the main spindle with an auxiliary train…