She ploughed on. Nunar went on to speculate about a General Theory of Power General Theory of Power, which would deal with nodes themselves, the several different strong strong forces they were expected to be made of, how they related to each other and, finally, how such prodigious forces might be tapped. Nunar noted, however, that nodal forces might never be tapped safely. She also mentioned the holy grail of theoretical mancers, the forces they were expected to be made of, how they related to each other and, finally, how such prodigious forces might be tapped. Nunar noted, however, that nodal forces might never be tapped safely. She also mentioned the holy grail of theoretical mancers, the Unified Power Theory Unified Power Theory, which would reconcile all the forces mancers knew of, weak and strong, in terms of a single field. Nunar closed the section by stating that such a theory seemed as far off as ever.

Tiaan hid the book behind a loose brick in the wall, under her bed. It seemed no use at all.

She dozed briefly, her head crackling with fractured crystal dreams, to wake with the answer in her mind. She must design a device to test the faulty hedrons and read what had happened to them. Only then could she find a way to solve the problem. Sitting up in bed, Tiaan reached for slate and chalk and began sketching.

She had just completed a rough sketch, and blown out her candle, when Tiaan heard the rattle and groan of a clanker coming up the road. It had to be Ky-Ara returning. Since it was practically dawn, she dressed and went out.

A sleepy attendant with a lantern was opening the side gate as she arrived. Gi-Had was there too. He must have returned in the night. Tiaan watched the monster emerge from the dark. The clanker had covered lanterns on the front, a broad, segmented body made of overlapping plates of armour, and four pairs of mechanical legs driven by ingenious gearing. It was large enough to carry ten people and all their gear, though in bone-shaking discomfort. The shooter's platform on top, with its mechanical catapult and javelard, was empty.

The clanker clumped into the shed and stopped. The mechanism creaked and groaned, then there was silence save for the whine of the twin iron flywheels that stored power in case the field was interrupted momentarily. The flywheels would still be going at dinnertime, slowly running down.

The back hatch opened. A slim young man climbed out, pack in one hand, a satchel in the other. He stretched, gave the machine an anxious pat on the flank and turned around.

Ky-Ara was not overly tall. His lean, handsome face was marred by a weak jaw. A shock of wiry hair stood out in all directions. His dark eyes were red-rimmed. There was a smudge of black grease across one cheek. Despite all that, Tiaan rather liked the look of him.

'It's good to have her whole again,' Ky-Ara said to Gi-Had, avoiding Tiaan's eye. 'After the controller died died... I thought I'd never drive her again.'

His face crumbled. The bond between clanker and operator was intense, almost like that between lovers, and a threat to it had been known to cause mental breakdown. Ky-Ara looked close to one now. Tiaan felt for him.

'It's been hard work getting used to the new controller,' he continued. 'I've got a shocking headache. Despatch for you, surr!' He handed the satchel to Gi-Had.

'Thank you.' The overseer turned away to open it. He began to read a document, frowning as he did.

'What happened when it failed?' Tiaan asked Ky-Ara.

The operator's top lip quivered but he mastered himself. 'We were heading up the coast from Tiksi. Everything had gone perfectly. We were passing out of the aura of the Lippi node towards the Xanpt node. That's a really strong one ...'

'So I believe,' said Tiaan. She liked the shape of Ky-Ara's mouth. A wonder she hadn't noticed him before.

'I had the controller helm on, sensing out the Xanpt field in advance. Sometimes it can be tricky shifting from one to another, and I didn't want to get stuck between fields. The flywheels won't drive her weight for that that long.' long.'

He looked sideways at Tiaan. She nodded.

'The Lippi field began shifting wildly: sometimes strong, at other times hardly there at all. The fields grew harder and harder to visualise; I couldn't tune either of them in.' His voice cracked as he relived the awful scene. 'I began to think that the Lippi field was going, though the two clankers ahead of me seemed to be having no trouble.' Ky-Ara went pale and had to sit down.

'What happened then?' Gi-Had prompted after a long silence.

'I lost it. Both fields were gone! The hedron was dead and there was nothing I could do about it. If it had happened in battle ...' He shivered. 'I took the controller out, got a lift back to Tiksi on a cart and sent the controller up the mountain.'

'I have it in my workshop,' said Tiaan. 'I can't work out what's happened. The crystal is completely dead.'

Ky-Ara looked distressed, like a lost boy. 'If that's all,' he said, cradling the controller in his arms, 'I'll go to my quarters. I haven't slept for two nights.'

'Yes, thank you, Ky-Ara,' said Gi-Had. 'I know you've done your best. It must have been difficult for you.'

The young man went out. Tiaan's dark eyes followed him thoughtfully.

'You're wondering if he might be the one?' Gi-Had's rumble broke into her thoughts, startling her.

Tiaan flushed. She had been thinking exactly that. Also thinking that, if she must mate, why not with a clanker operator? There were many similarities in their lives and work, and if they did not get on, he would be away most of the time. If nothing came of it, no one could say that she had not done her duty.

'Yes,' she said softly.

'Strange folk, clanker operators. Their machines always come first you know that.'

It didn't require an answer. He shook out the rolled despatch, scowling ferociously. 'Bad news?' she asked.

'Another problem. A worse one.'

'Oh?' said Tiaan warily.

'More clankers wiped out, on the coast well north of Xanpt. Each time, the enemy knew just where to find them.'

'Clankers are pretty noisy,' said Tiaan.

'Not these ones.' Gi-Had looked over his shoulder. The attendant was a long way away but the overseer lowered his voice anyway. 'They were using a new development, a Sound Cloaker! You can't hear them move. And no one knew where they were going.'

'But that means,' said Tiaan, 'the enemy has a way of finding them. Using the Secret Art '

Gi-Had spun around. 'Oy, you, clear out, now now!'

A large bald man touched his brow then slouched off. It was Eiryn Muss, a halfwit who had a lowly place at the manufactory. He was always shambling about, peering over people's shoulders.

Gi-Had turned back to Tiaan. 'And if they can do that, they will destroy them all. And us! And us! Find out how they do it, Tiaan.' Find out how they do it, Tiaan.'

'Is this more important than finding out why the hedrons failed? Or making replacement controllers?'

'They're all important,' he growled.

'I can't do everything. I'm always exhausted as it is.'

'Leave controller-making to the others for the time being. The best artisans from every manufactory have been ordered to work on these two problems.'

Her head jerked up. 'So it's not just my my controllers that have failed?' controllers that have failed?'

'Not according to this. But that doesn't mean you're in the clear.'

'Are you you happy with my work, overseer?' happy with my work, overseer?'

'Let's just say that I'm keeping an eye on you. Better get on with it.' Nodding distractedly, Gi-Had hurried off.

THREE.

Cryl-Nish Hlar looked up from his bench as Tiaan went by. He desired her, and had ever since arriving at the manufactory three years ago. Unfortunately, Tiaan was oblivious to him. That hurt Nish, as he was mockingly known. In the local dialect the word meant pipsqueak.

Nish was short and it was the bane of his life. He came from a long line of short people and despised every one of them for it. He was not unhandsome, in a brooding sort of way, with his cap of dark hair that showed the contours of his skull, and bright eyes that could be as green as the ocean, or as grey. Unfortunately his sallow skin was spotty, which was a torment, and his downy chin incited sneers of 'bum fluff'.

He had a strong body though broad, square shoulders, a stomach as hard and flat as a paving stone, jutting buttocks which excited ribald comments from the women he worked with, and heavy thighs. He was also, he liked to think, sturdily equipped for breeding.

Not that, Nish thought gloomily, he got any chance for that. Despite the severe shortage of males the women of the manufactory, like those of the mining village nearby, were not enamoured of him. He felt sure it was because he was short and spotty, and had no beard. How he hated his body.

That had nothing to do with it, of course. In these times even hideous men had their choice of partners. Moreover, he had other appealing characteristics he was clever and of good family. Unfortunately he had one handicap fatal to intimacy. With women younger than his mother, Nish was so anxious that he became mortifyingly inarticulate.

Though not particularly skilled with his hands, Nish had a lively, restless intelligence and learned quickly. He also had a brilliant memory for names, faces, things seen and conversations overheard. That was of great benefit to him in his other, unmentioned occupation.

Both his father, Jal-Nish Hlar, and his mother, Ranii Mhel, had been examiners. All the more incomprehensible that they could have made such a mistake with him. Every child in the east, and possibly the entire world, was taken before the examiners at age six, where every talent, creative or intellectual, manual, mechanical or psychic, was identified. On that basis children were assigned their occupations for life labourer, miner, scribe, artisan, merchant, soldier, breeder breeder! There was no room for childhood; the war with the lyrinx was a hundred and fifty years old. The soldiers, and the other dead, had to be made up. Children must work. The entire world was regimented for one thing survival.

The examiners came again at the age of eleven, and for the third and final time at sixteen, to make sure. Some promising talents withered early, while others blossomed late.

Nish had been happy in his prenticeship as a scribe for one of the great merchants of Fassafarn, a trading city on the south coast of Einunar. Fassafarn was an ice-free port through which much of the wealth of the south was shipped to markets as far away as Crandor, and even Thurkad before its fall. He had been learning the principal languages and scripts of the known world, and was ideally suited for such work. Nish liked meeting powerful people and being trusted to translate their documents. He'd planned to become a merchant himself, one day, and make so much money that he could buy anything he wanted.

Then, aged sixteen, came the catastrophe. After his examination there had been hurried conferences and, with no more than an hour's notice, his parents had shipped him across the mountains to become a prentice artificer at this godforsaken manufactory. Nish was devastated. It did not occur to him that the move might have saved him from the army. Their only instruction had been to 'Keep your eyes and ears open, and write about what you see and hear, every day'. Nish was a dutiful son. He still wrote every day, and once a month his bulky letter would go out with the other mail.

His first year at the manufactory had been a nightmare. All the other prentices, male and female, had been taller. His skin erupted into hideous spots. Worse, he knew less about being an artificer the design, constructing, operating and repairing of machines of warfare than even the six-year-old factory kids. But worst of all, rumour spread that he had failed disastrously as a scribe and had been sent here as a last resort. If he failed again he would become a pit labourer, as good as a slave.

Nish could not bear that. It was the most powerful motivation of all. He was determined to succeed at being an artificer, no matter what it took. Though he had little aptitude for the craft, he would master it.

What he lacked in ability and experience, Nish made up with hard work and sheer, directed intelligence. He worked night and day until he was so exhausted that he could have slept standing. He drove his supervisors mad with questions, had them show him the workings of the war engines over and again, and invented ways of teaching his reluctant fingers what the other prentices learned easily.

At the end of his first year he was ranked among the lowest of the prentices, along with the stupid and the chronically lazy. But he was not the the lowest, and to Nish that was a major achievement. If his parents were impressed, they did not say so in their infrequent letters. Nish was hurt, but planned to try even harder next year. lowest, and to Nish that was a major achievement. If his parents were impressed, they did not say so in their infrequent letters. Nish was hurt, but planned to try even harder next year.

After two years, he was around the middle of the group. That earned grudging praise from his mother and a call to come home to celebrate his eighteenth birthday. He worried in case they had another change of profession for him, perhaps sending him to the army. His imagination and his wide reading told him exactly what war was like. He did not want to experience it at least, not on the battlefield.

When he got home Nish discovered that his father was the one who'd changed profession. Jal-Nish was now a perquisitor, charged with rooting out troublemakers, subversives and traitors wherever he might find them. It was an important, lavishly paid position, answering only to the scrutator for Einunar. One day he might even be be scrutator. scrutator.

At the end of his third year Nish had moved above the middle of the prentices, but there, to his intense chagrin, he stayed. Sheer intelligence and hard work, no matter how well directed, could raise him no further, for he simply lacked the aptitude for artificing. It galled him, but Nish was nothing if not self-aware and wrote to his father telling him so, and expressing the wish that he might go back to being a merchant's scribe.

His father showed neither surprise nor disappointment. Jal-Nish merely wrote, 'You're doing well. Don't forget to write, every day.'

Nish bent his head to the clanker parts he had been wrestling with all morning. They formed the lower half of a mechanical-leg assembly, and putting it together was a job he particularly hated. The parts had been made in a dozen different sections of the manufactory and if any one was infinitesimally out of tolerance the assembly became a nightmare. Sometimes he spent days on the most tedious work only to find that one part had to be machined again, and all his labour undone.

He banged the housing with a dirty fist. He was covered in grease, as always. Nish hated that he liked to look his best. The women of the manufactory tended to sneer at artificers, mere 'fitters' as they called them, because it was such a filthy job. Many of the fitters were women, and they were friendly enough, but Nish disdained them. Artificers were beneath him, though he was one himself. He looked to the top of the heap, where he belonged.

At that moment Tiaan walked by. Most respected in this manufactory were the artisans. They worked with their hands, but only with precious things: gold and silver, platinum and quicksilver, copper, amber and crystal. They never got dirty doing it and the best were brilliant, lateral-thinking designers. More importantly, artisans worked with their senses. They had special talents, akin to the Secret Art that was the province of mages and mancers.

Nish could never hope to be an artisan; he lacked the vital talent. But prestige was everything to him and he wanted one of them for his woman. There were four artisans here, though only two were available. Of those, Irisis went by the fitters with her nose in the air, for she was of the House of Stirm, a crafter's daughter and a crafter's niece, made for better things than a lowly artificer. Nish hated her for it, but he understood her too. She was much like him.

Tiaan was a different matter. He felt that he might be in love with her. Now he looked up to see Tiaan on her way back. Putting down his wrench, he stared at her. She was above him, and yet beneath, for she came from the breeding factory and did not know her father. To lose a father was commonplace, in these times. Not to know his identity was a major failing in a world obsessed with family and Histories.

Tiaan carried her head high, though not aloof as Irisis did. Tiaan seemed oblivious to her surroundings, as if the only world that mattered was inside her head. The Ice Virgin, some called her, but Nish knew better. He felt he understood her too. She had the reputation as the hardest worker in the manufactory, and the cleverest. She was trying to make up for something. Was it her unfortunate birth? Her lack of a father?

She wore loose trousers and a blouse of grey flax, with old but well-cared-for grey boots. More was not tolerable here, just across from the furnaces. Her breasts bobbed with her light step, a sight that liquefied his middle. Desire made him forget everything.

Do it now! She's a quiet little thing. She will listen and be flattered. He hesitated too long. Without a glance, without even knowing he was there, Tiaan went by. She wore a faint, internal smile. Her glossy black hair bounced against the back of her neck.

Soon she would turn the corner and be gone, down to her own workroom in the cold part of the manufactory. Go on, you fool! Today you have something to offer. Not even the Ice Virgin will refuse you now. She has the breeding factory in her blood and her belly. She's just holding out for the best offer, and no one can best you.

Dropping his tools on the bench, Nish wiped his greasy hands on a rag and ran after her, up the aisle and round the corner to the section where the artisans and all the other clean crafts worked. Inside, the artisans' workshop was sealed off by double doors designed to exclude all dust and dross.

Tiaan was already out of sight. He burst through the doors without putting on a clean overall or taking off his filthy boots. Everyone stared. He did not notice.

'Tiaan!' he cried. 'Artisan Tiaan!'

She was going through the door into her own cubicle, but turned at his wild cry. 'Yes?'

He ran up to her, froze, then forced the words out.

'Tiaan, I admire your work tremendously. I ... I think you are the most brilliant woman I've ever met.'

For an instant he saw panic in her eyes. Anger covered it up. 'If you admire it so much,' she said frostily, 'why are you dropping your filth and grease everywhere?'

Recalling the state of his clothes, he flushed. Sheer desperation propelled him on. 'I'm sorry, I'll clean it up.'

'Don't bother. What do you want, artificer?'

'Just to talk to you. You're brilliant, Tiaan.'

'You already said that.'

'Would you ... Would ...?' He faltered under her astonished stare. Her lips were the reddish-purple colour of pulped blackberries. He wanted to crush his mouth against them.

'What?' she snapped.

'I thought ... perhaps dinner ... or a walk along the path to the lookout ... and then ...' He couldn't get it out, with the prentices sniggering and rolling their eyes at each other. Artisan Fistila Tyr, who was heavily pregnant, set to with her grinding wheel to cover it up.

Tiaan turned those unusual eyes on him, scanning Nish from smoky cheeks to grease-stained hands and filthy boots. He felt sure he knew what she was thinking. Not only is he dirty and spotty and inarticulate, but he's a runt!

'Yes?' she said in a low voice that had the prentices bending over their work. Nish recognised the danger, but if he did not speak now he would never be able to.

'We both have our duty to perform. I thought we might share your bed!' he burst out. 'Or mine, if you prefer. I have ...'

Her honey skin flushed red-brown. For a full minute she could not meet his eye; then Tiaan drew herself up. 'How dare you!' she hissed. 'How can you imagine that I would give myself to a dirty little artificer, and not a very good one either? The thought makes me sick. Get out!'

Nish flushed beneath the dirt. Across the room, Irisis was watching the show with open mouth. This afternoon he would be the laughing-stock of the manufactory. There was only one way to recover.

'I don't think you realise who my father is, Artisan Tiaan,' he said coldly. 'He is Perquisitor Jal-Nish Hlar, one of the most important people in the land. He is a high inquisitor! He can make you, Tiaan, or he can break you. And my mother is a chief examiner, nearly as important.' Looking over his shoulder, he softened his voice. 'I know you and Irisis are rivals, Tiaan. Think what you can achieve with a perquisitor's patronage. You need never fear her again.'

He gave an uncertain smile, for Nish was new to this game. He'd not tried to use influence before and wasn't quite sure how to go about it, despite having often seen it done in his scribing days. He lacked the authority, and the easy arrogance that told him he deserved whatever he desired.

'What do you say, Tiaan? We can take pleasure from each other and your career will blossom. Do you want to work in this dungheap of a manufactory forever? Come '

'I would sooner mate with a lyrinx!' she shouted. 'I don't care who your father is. I will never lie with you. Now get your squalid self out of my workroom!'