Free Gears of the City by Felix Gilman Page A

truly a ghost here, he could say what he liked without consequence; or he could walk past them and down into the cellars and they couldn’t touch him.
    Suppose that
he
was real, and
they
were only ghosts; suppose this whole ugly city of factories and slums and ruins and brutal men was only a backdrop for some nasty dream. Then he could simply walk up to them and say,
enough now. That’s enough. Go home.
He could march in and claim the prophecy he’d purchased from the monster in the cellars.
You bore me, Know-Nothings. Bring on the Beast.
    Arjun watched them from across the street. The market had emptied out and all the stalls had been packed and wheeled away. The plaza was empty, and they could hardly not have noticed him standing there. Soon enough they’d be bored enough to come over and ask him
what are you looking at, ehi
He slipped quietly away, keeping his head down.
    W here was Carnyx Street? South of the Museum, southwest … Arjun couldn’t quite remember.
    A high moon—yellow clouds slunk like cats across it. How long could the Low sisters survive the attentions of the Hollows?
    An empty concrete lot, fenced with chains, was strewn with broken boxes, stamped: holcroft combine engine mfg. He built them into a tottering heap, from which he could reach a low-hanging fire escape. He climbed quickly past occupied windows, leaking dim light, the sounds of whining and dull arguments.
    On the roof an iron chimney, brown and hooded, bent like a monk, vented clouds of white fog like stale incense. Arjun held his sleeve to his mouth and looked out over the darkening city. Where was Carnyx Street?
    He oriented himself by the Mountain—there it was, looming on the skyline, marking the north pole of the city. The high dome of the Museum, off to his right, was tiny by comparison.
    The Mountain! Unshakable, unchanging. There was so much he was so close to remembering.
    There were old tricks; ways of triangulating between two landmarks—one, the Mountain, permanent, perfect, the same from Age to Age; the others purely local, ephemeral. Rivers came and went, flags and signposts couldn’t be trusted, golden pillars and copper roofs got stolen, even marble crumbled; but the explorers of the City Beyond had their tricks. There were no maps, but a smart traveler was never lost.
    Arjun remembered Shay snarling:
that way, north, you idiot, can’t you see it? Never forget it. Never turn your back on it.
That was a thousand years ago.
    In a flash, he remembered another time, another place: golden-haired St. Loup, shimmering in sunglasses, scarlet snakeskin jacket, silk shirt, and shined shoes, checking his watch and smiling, saying:
here comes the storm, chaps.
St. Loup had been a rich man back in real life, something in business or banking or aristocracy. Over his razor-sharp collar spilled golden curls so perfect they seemed to conduct light.
See
—
it starts on the peaks.
Gesturing north with a wave of a manicured hand.
Lightning, fire. Set your watch by it. Only here, only now, only in this dreary little district.
    Arjun couldn’t remember the district, he couldn’t remember the place. They’d been on a rooftop? Haifa dozen of them, watching the skies. Blood-red and snake-green flashed over the Mountain. A crack
in the armor
, St. Loup had suggested,
the gears grinding, the fires of creation, fireworks and jubilation among the lords and ladies of the Mountain? One hell of a show. What do you think? Useful intelligence? Gentlemen, what do you propose?
    Abra-Melin, shaking, with his gnarled staff and black skullcap and dirty beard, had boomed:
the Gods are angry, you fool.
His huge frame was sagging with age like a condemned building.
The angels make war.
His robes were like a heap of old laundry.
    Turnbull had shaken his head:
God is dead.
A plain suit, glasses, an egg-shaped head, the manner of a middling academic or an unbelieving priest. A pedantic little shrug.
God is dead. The Mountain is empty. Sometimes a storm is