Free Metal Emissary by Chris Paton

fire. “Your fire is blowing out.”
    Najma scoured the ground around the tent. Selecting the flattest rocks, she built a low wall around the fire. The flames licked at the rocks and her hands as she warmed them.
    “Bryullov?”
    The Russian looked up. Holding the last guy line in his hands he took a step away from the tent to see Najma. That’s the first time she has used my name, he thought. “Yes?”
    “Where will you sleep?” Najma pushed at branches and sticks turning black in the flames.
    “Where will I sleep?” Bryullov tied the guy and walked to the fire. Crouching opposite Najma he pointed at the tent behind her. “In there.”
    “Fine,” Najma nodded. “It is expected.”
    “What is expected?” Bryullov sat down next to the fire.
    “I will sleep outside.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Bryullov pulled on a glove and reached for the kettle sitting on a flat rock inside the stones circling the flames. The water steamed out of the spout as he lifted it. “You cannot sleep outside,” he looked at the sky. “It will snow again.”
    “But I cannot sleep inside the tent. Not with you.”
    “Is that some kind of honour thing?” Bryullov poured water over the tea infuser inside his enamel mug.
    “Yes. We are not married.”
    “No,” Bryullov smiled, “we are not.”
    “And unless you plan on marrying me,” Najma picked at the small stones by her side with her fingers.
    “Najma,” Bryullov handed her a mug of tea. “I am not going to marry you.” She stared at him. Bryullov held her gaze. Such fire, he thought. She would make a good wife.
    “Then it is settled. I will sleep outside.” Najma placed the mug by the side of the fire. Standing, she smoothed the dust and snow from her pantaloons and began picking her bedroll and blankets from the packs and saddle bags.
    “Najma,” Bryullov stood. She raised her hand. Finding the Russian’s bedroll she tossed it inside the tent along with his pack. “Listen.”
    “I have listened to you enough today already,” she lay her bedroll flat on the ground by the fire. Carrying a pile of blankets, Najma lay down on the bedroll and crawled under them. Making a tripod with her riding stick and branches from the fire, she draped the last blanket over it, raising the wool from her face. From beneath the makeshift tent, Najma’s hand searched for rocks under which she tucked the corners of the blanket. Bryullov shook his head as her hand scrabbled on the ground for one more rock. He shoved one over to her with the toe of his boot.
    “Goodnight, Najma,” Bryullov finished his tea and placed the mug next to the kettle. Picking up the saddle bag with his personal belongings, he entered the tent. Laying on the bedroll, Bryullov opened the saddle bag and pulled out the smooth wooden box with rounded edges. He drew a second item from the saddle bag, a leather map tube. Unsnapping the lid he pulled out a bundle of wooden shafts engraved with a continuous spiral of copper wire. The ends of each shaft were capped with copper male and female threads. Bryullov joined them together, fished a triangular connector adapter with three attachment points from inside the lid and fastened them all together. The base was a copper stand with a free strand of eight thick wires woven together. This he plugged into the rear of the box.
    The box, as tall as the pullstraps on his boots and only slightly longer than the outsole, was locked. Bryullov reached inside his shirt and slipped the chain from around his neck, the small iron key dangled at the end of it. The wind flapped at the canvas and the tent trembled. Bryullov unlocked the box.
    Inside the deep lid spun the innards of a multifaceted machine, layer upon layer of cogs and springs and coils. Where one layer ended it meshed with a second and a third in a self-repeating spiral of motion between the layers. The cranking handle, redundant, was secured in a leather pocket attached to a wooden wall inside the main compartment,