We're greeted at the salvage dump with a friendly wariness. Once we give them the cover story, the workers relax a little. They assume we know what we're looking for, give us thick gloves and let us get on with it. Feyn and I stand together at the trench, sifting through the tide of shrapnel and broken components, trying to appear busy.
The salvage dump is near one wall of the forge. Black, smoke-stained stone rears high above us. Behind me is a raised metal walkway that runs between the various sections of the forge, connected to them by short sets of steps. Every shift the Overseer comes strolling along, descends, admires this section or that, then returns and passes along the walkway to the next section. Nobody's quite sure of the purpose of these visits. Perhaps he's just fastidious, and sees these inspections as a duty he mustn't shirk no matter how little good it does. It'd certainly explain why he's so punctual.
I try to calm the anticipation building in me as I work. I'm doing something. Even if it gets me killed, I'm doing something, and that feels good. I begin to run chua-kin chants through my head, curbing the hot swell in my chest that will make me do something rash. The chants, we are taught, are only screens to distract our conscious minds from the subtleties played out behind them, the true meat of chua-kin learning that allows us to control our bodies. But I like them for themselves. They have a certain appealing monotony.
My heart slows, and the jitters subside. I notice that our neighbours have begun filling small metal bins with cogs, clockwork parts, pieces of piping and so on. I pay attention to what they take and start looking for my own pieces to contribute.
From here I can just see the Overseer's door through the black haze. It sits amid a strip of narrow, grimy windows, high above the forge, linked to us by a zigzagging flight of stairs bolted to the stone wall. I picture him watching us from his office, then turning back to his desk, tallying this and that, unaware of the plans being hatched by the prisoners below. I wonder what's beyond that door, and if it's even worth the risk to find out.
Then I see the door open, and there's no time to wonder any more. Arachi emerges, straight-backed, rigid. A billow of sparks fly up through the murk, carried on the thermals, obscuring my vision for a moment. By the time it's passed, he's descending. I didn't see where he put his key. I can only hope it's in the usual place.
Feyn catches my eye. He shows me a jagged shard of metal in his hand. I'm in no doubt he'll play his part. All we can do now is wait.
Sweat has dampened my hair. The pores of my face itch. Fresh sweat cleaning away old sweat. I don't know how long it's been since I bathed. I hate this heat. I want the cool air of Veya, the air chilled by the unforgiving endlessness of rock that surrounds it. I want Jai with me, in our chambers in the Caracassa mansions. He can use that wonderful, logical mind of his to construct devices that dispense potions, or which grind ingredients to a fineness hitherto unheard of. He can even make devices for war, if he likes.
It's a nice dream, but the reality is that my son has gone off to war for all the wrong reasons, and I didn't do enough to stop him. I've lost acquaintances, comrades and close friends to the battlefield or to the machinations of the Plutarchs, but I only really understood when I lost Rynn. And I can't bear that it might happen to Jai too.
Arachi descends to the bottom of the steps and my view is blocked by the machinery of the forge. He's meeting with his escort. A guard always accompanies him on his rounds, except when one of us is being removed. Then there could be three or four. I hope this isn't one of those times, or the plan will have to be abandoned. I've learned through long experience that, in matters of subterfuge, timing is everything. Patience is the highest virtue of the spy.
The man to my right hisses at me just as I'm about to drop some piece of scrap into the metal bin. 'Leave that, it's useless,' he snaps. I throw it back into the trench. My mind's not on my job.
I hear two sets of boots clanking on metal. Only one guard, then. I try not to look, but I can't help glancing up as Arachi approaches. His long white hair is brushed and waxed, and he's doing his best to look dignified in the withering heat of the forge. His collar is already damp and he dabs at his face with a pocket-cloth. The guard at his side is young, presumably saddled with escort duty because of his inexperience. He looks bored. Good. He'll respond well to some excitement.
Arachi and his escort descend from the walkway to our sunken enclosure, to get a better look at our work. Arachi is inspecting the salvage bins and murmuring approvingly about what valuable things we are finding, when Feyn screams.
There's something appalling in the alien way he expresses pain, high and raw and uninhibited. He stumbles back from the trench, one gloved hand clamped around his forearm near the elbow. The dirty white of the glove is already staining red.
He flails into my arms, babbling in the clicking dialect of his people. 'He's hurt!' I shout, as if it wasn't obvious. The other prisoners crowd close, trying to see or to help. I look at the guard and the Overseer in supplication. You're the masters here. Will you aid your helpless subjects?
It works. The guard wades in, suddenly aware of the need to assert his authority and impress the Overseer. I pass Feyn into the arms of another prisoner while the guard clears a way to assess the situation. In the confusion, it's easy to back up to the walkway and slip behind Arachi. He's watching the drama anxiously, presumably worried about how the accident will reflect on him. I wonder if he really understands that we're prisoners, and all headed for an unpleasant death anyway. He runs his little empire more like a factory than a forced labour camp.
The pouch hangs from his belt. He hasn't tied it properly.
The secret to picking a pocket is confidence. You have to be quick and light and sure. I've picked dozens of pockets and only twice been caught. My hand darts in and out of the pouch. The key is medium-sized, made of a sturdy metal and fashioned with an ornate grip. It disappears into my palm and I've moved away in moments. It's fascinating how much distraction can blind you.
I shove my way back in the group. Someone is wrapping a bandage torn from Feyn's sleeve around his arm. 'Get him to a chirurgeon, this needs sewing!'
'I'll take him!' I say, pushing through. 'Hoy! I'll take him. I know this boy.'
They relent, happy to let me take responsibility. They've probably worked the salvage dump for a long time now, and they're glad to be rid of two clumsy amateurs.
~ Find the duty officer ~ the guard says in Gurtan. ~ He's over near the smelting pits ~ When I look at him blankly, the Overseer repeats it in tremulous Eskaran.
I put Feyn's arm around my shoulder – we're about the same height – and start hauling him up the steps. He plays weak, in a swoon. Overseer Arachi steps back, faintly disgusted by the sight of blood.
We go up the steps and along the walkway until we're out of sight of the Overseer. Then we slip between two enormous flanks of metal, part of a giant system of sediment pots. Now that we're hidden, Feyn drops the swooning act.
'Are you alright?'
'I will not fail.'
'You cut yourself pretty deep.'
'It is not easy to be exact.'
There's nothing else to be said. Better be quick.
Between us and the blacksmiths are a labyrinth of trenches, the alleys of the forge. We keep to them as much as we can, running with our heads low to avoid the guards. We stop, crouch and wait for them to pass by, dark ghosts in the fiery murk, backlit by the yellow-white glow of molten ore. Feyn's wound is our excuse if caught, but they'll send us back the way we came in search of the duty officer. No ruse is going to get us close to the blacksmiths and Charn; there's no reason for us to be there.