Free Clockwork Angels: The Novel by Kevin J. & Peart Anderson

heart of the world beating. His coldfire source.
    Cleverly concealed conduits beneath the cobblestoned streets delivered energy throughout the city, powering steam boilers, illuminating street lamps, heating homes, powering hospitals. The alchemist-priests had created a great vaulted chamber in the catacombs, the nexus of all the coldfire that kept his Stability stable. The people lacked for nothing, and the machinery of society ran on well-oiled gears.
    The Watchmaker walked purposefully, with the dog pacing beside him in a stiff, measured gait. He could hear the ticking of Martin’s mechanisms, the movement of not-quite-smooth gears in his major joints. He believed even this semblance of the dog enjoyed the daily walk, however, and he himself was reassured that all was as it should be, and forever.
    His chief alchemist-priests, ten of them—because that was a perfect round number—maintained the pulsing coldfire heart. They added the prescribed amount of sulfur and antimony, mercury, natrium, and their associated distillates, crystallizations, and powdered allotropes. They followed the reaction recipes as specified in great tomes filled with alchemical symbols.
    The spells and rituals were the height of modern science. In a release of elemental empathy, a change of synergy, the blissful chemical reactions powered the city’s underground turbines. A crackle left the air with the metallic scent of ozone after a thunderstorm. Several alchemist-priests covered their faces with scarves to ward off the chemical fumes, but to the Watchmaker, the aroma was a mixture of hope and potential, although not everyone could smell it. His eyes didn’t even water.
    More than a century ago, the city had been a riot of smokestacks and slums. People crowded together in squalid conditions. Murder, sickness, even plagues swept the underclasses. Countless industrial accidents, uncontrolled fires, horrendous mayhem—it was every man for himself in a lawless, sprawling “civilization” that proved to be anything but civilized.
    Amidst that turmoil, the man who had become the Watchmaker organized his research and gathered a team of adept alchemists to begin methodical investigations. And finally they found the Philosopher’s Stone, which allowed him to turn common metals into gold.
    For a simpler man, the dreams would have ended there. He would have made himself wealthy, built a palace, and relaxed in a fine life. For the Watchmaker, however, that was only the first step. He manufactured immense quantities of gold, built a stockpile greater than the greediest dragon’s imaginary hoard, and swept into Crown City with wagonloads of riches. He simply purchased everything he needed, every building, every factory, in such a swift and methodical manner that he controlled the city before the economy collapsed under a blizzard of cheap gold.
    Then his real work began. He was already the wealthiest man in the land, but even gold grew dull after a while, and he intended to pursue greater challenges. His alchemists discovered coldfire, which cleanly and cheaply powered the city, removing the necessity for dirty coal and inefficient industry. After that great shift, he set about changing the world.
    He continued to make improvements, raised the standard of liv ing, cleaned up the city, fed and clothed the people. And he imposed order, giving them a place, showing them straight lines, inviting them to follow the mystic rhythms of the timepiece of the universe.
    Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
With Martin beside him, the Watchmaker stared at the swirling, hypnotic blue phosphorescence, a glorious sight that would have made even the core of the sun envious. He did not know how to create diamonds or the variety of gems that were vital for the many timepieces around the city, but his numerous alchemical discoveries, among other things, allowed airships to take flight, let steamliners continue their perfect commerce, and produced a quintessential tonic that had