stood up, speaking in a quavering voice that was only partly an act. “I hit my head…You’re an Overseer?”
The Overseer swore in a language Arthur didn’t know. The Key had enabled him to speak all languages of the House, but without it, he had only kept the power to understand the lingua domus that Denizens of the House spoke, not the specialized dialects of each demesne.
“More damaged goods!” the Overseer continued. “Those other Days are always trying it on. Follow me! Obey orders or you’ll get steamed.”
To demonstrate his warning, the Overseer pulled out a large-bore flintlock pistol—the kind pirates and highwaymen had in films—but this one was connected by a hose to the miniature steam engine on his back. He cocked the flintlock, then pulled the trigger. The lock snapped down, sending a spray of sparks into the air and a whistling blast of steam quite close to Arthur. The boy flinched and jumped aside, to the Overseer’s great delight.
“Har! Never seen the like before, have you? Behave and you’ll keep some flesh on your scrawny bones.”
Arthur jumped again as the Overseer pushed himdeeper into the smog. He only had a moment to glance back over his shoulder, to try and fix his location for a later exit. There was a door there, tall and imposing, easily thirty feet high. But it didn’t look like the Front Door. It was made of carved wood and showed scenes of a tall, thin man—presumably Grim Tuesday—making things at a forge and a bench, and being worshipped by hundreds of apron-clad disciples. But the scenes were fixed and unmoving, stained with streaks of grime and pitted as if acid had been sprayed across the surface. Nothing like the constantly shifting, colorful, and vibrant images on the Front Door. Clearly this could be the Front Door, because Arthur had come out of it, but it wasn’t at the moment. There had to be some secret to its use.
There would be no easy escape through there.
The Overseer pushed Arthur again, shoving him to the right. Arthur saw that he was heading towards the back of a line of sad-looking Denizens that disappeared into the eddying smog. The line was halted, but there was a sudden brief lurch forward as Arthur joined it and a momentary lightening of the smog gave him a brief glimpse of their destination: a long mahogany desk, little more than fifteen yards away, where a Denizen wasbeing presented with a leather apron and a cape that looked even drabber than the one Arthur had.
“Get in line and get yer stuff,” said the Overseer with a final push. None of the Denizens looked around as Arthur joined the line. They simply shuffled along, their eyes downcast.
Arthur almost called out that he already had his stuff but he kept his mouth shut. The Overseer might not like his stupidity being publicly announced. Or perhaps there was other stuff being given out as well as the leather aprons and capes.
When the Overseer had disappeared back into the deeper smog, Arthur hesitantly tapped the Denizen in front of him on the shoulder. It was a woman, dressed in the sort of strange combination of nineteenth-century clothing that Arthur had seen in the Lower House. This woman had a long, torn dress as the basis of an eccentric outfit that appeared to include at least a dozen scarves wound around her arms and torso.
Arthur’s tap on the shoulder didn’t have the effect he expected. The Denizen shrank beneath his touch, losing six inches in height without bending her knees. She turned around fearfully, obviously expecting someone much scarier than Arthur.
“Beg pardon, sir,” she whispered, tugging at her fringe. “It wasn’t my fault, whatever it was.”
“Uh, sorry,” said Arthur. “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else. I’m not one of the Overseers or anything. I’m…ah…one of you.”
“An indentured worker? You?” whispered the Denizen in amazement. “Then how?”
She made a gesture with her hand pushing down on her head. She was
The Overseer swore in a language Arthur didn’t know. The Key had enabled him to speak all languages of the House, but without it, he had only kept the power to understand the lingua domus that Denizens of the House spoke, not the specialized dialects of each demesne.
“More damaged goods!” the Overseer continued. “Those other Days are always trying it on. Follow me! Obey orders or you’ll get steamed.”
To demonstrate his warning, the Overseer pulled out a large-bore flintlock pistol—the kind pirates and highwaymen had in films—but this one was connected by a hose to the miniature steam engine on his back. He cocked the flintlock, then pulled the trigger. The lock snapped down, sending a spray of sparks into the air and a whistling blast of steam quite close to Arthur. The boy flinched and jumped aside, to the Overseer’s great delight.
“Har! Never seen the like before, have you? Behave and you’ll keep some flesh on your scrawny bones.”
Arthur jumped again as the Overseer pushed himdeeper into the smog. He only had a moment to glance back over his shoulder, to try and fix his location for a later exit. There was a door there, tall and imposing, easily thirty feet high. But it didn’t look like the Front Door. It was made of carved wood and showed scenes of a tall, thin man—presumably Grim Tuesday—making things at a forge and a bench, and being worshipped by hundreds of apron-clad disciples. But the scenes were fixed and unmoving, stained with streaks of grime and pitted as if acid had been sprayed across the surface. Nothing like the constantly shifting, colorful, and vibrant images on the Front Door. Clearly this could be the Front Door, because Arthur had come out of it, but it wasn’t at the moment. There had to be some secret to its use.
There would be no easy escape through there.
The Overseer pushed Arthur again, shoving him to the right. Arthur saw that he was heading towards the back of a line of sad-looking Denizens that disappeared into the eddying smog. The line was halted, but there was a sudden brief lurch forward as Arthur joined it and a momentary lightening of the smog gave him a brief glimpse of their destination: a long mahogany desk, little more than fifteen yards away, where a Denizen wasbeing presented with a leather apron and a cape that looked even drabber than the one Arthur had.
“Get in line and get yer stuff,” said the Overseer with a final push. None of the Denizens looked around as Arthur joined the line. They simply shuffled along, their eyes downcast.
Arthur almost called out that he already had his stuff but he kept his mouth shut. The Overseer might not like his stupidity being publicly announced. Or perhaps there was other stuff being given out as well as the leather aprons and capes.
When the Overseer had disappeared back into the deeper smog, Arthur hesitantly tapped the Denizen in front of him on the shoulder. It was a woman, dressed in the sort of strange combination of nineteenth-century clothing that Arthur had seen in the Lower House. This woman had a long, torn dress as the basis of an eccentric outfit that appeared to include at least a dozen scarves wound around her arms and torso.
Arthur’s tap on the shoulder didn’t have the effect he expected. The Denizen shrank beneath his touch, losing six inches in height without bending her knees. She turned around fearfully, obviously expecting someone much scarier than Arthur.
“Beg pardon, sir,” she whispered, tugging at her fringe. “It wasn’t my fault, whatever it was.”
“Uh, sorry,” said Arthur. “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else. I’m not one of the Overseers or anything. I’m…ah…one of you.”
“An indentured worker? You?” whispered the Denizen in amazement. “Then how?”
She made a gesture with her hand pushing down on her head. She was
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