Chapter Five: “Purpose”

Markus groaned and rubbed the back of his head. With a wince, he found a large knot, but it didn’t feel like there was any blood, dried or otherwise. What had hit him? Perhaps a falling shingle? No. He had been standing on a roof in the slums. The only thing that had been above him was the sky.

He had been on a roof. But where was he now? He forced his eyes open and squinted at the yellow-white light. He was on a table in a simple room. A door was in the middle of one wall, and another had a large mirror taking up most of the space. In the middle of the ceiling, a single orb filled the room with a constant light.

He sat up, and realized he was bare from the waist up. His right arm, all metal and gears, was in the open where anyone could see it, as was his spike and the metal plates along his side. He looked around, but his shirt and coat were nowhere to be found. He did notice a strange tube that went hung down from the ceiling, and followed it to where it went right into his side, a place normally occupied by his steam reservoir. The reservoir itself was missing.

Panic set in. Without the reservoir and the steam inside it, he would die. Not only did his legs and arm run on the steam, but so did his heart. He got up and looked under the table and around the room, but there was not even a place where it could be hidden. He sat on the table, and looked at the hose again. It must be providing him steam. It also kept him trapped in the room more surely than any chain and manacles. At its full length, the hose kept him just out of arm’s reach of the door.

He contented himself to sit on the end of the table, facing the door, although he stole glances at the mirror. He had heard of a newer type of mirror some meisters had made that somehow only reflected on one side. Whoever had put him here was likely behind that mirror. He considered punching through it, but decided against it. Even if he did find his captors behind there, he doubted he would find his reservoir.

Perhaps a half hour passed before the door opened and a tall, middle-aged man with a beard stepped in. His clothes were finely cut, and he smiled ever so slightly, as if he knew some joke that no one else did. Two men followed him, both in plainer clothes and carrying chairs. The first man walked in without a pause, although the other two hesitated. They overcame whatever fear they had, though, and quickly placed the chairs on either side of the table, ignoring Markus, and then left the bearded man behind. The man took a seat and looked up at Markus, who was still seated on the table.

“The other chair is for you, Mr. McGrigor,” he said.

Markus looked down at the man, who was seated in the middle of the table and close enough to touch. “Who are you?”

“A man who wishes to talk,” he said. “And I find it easier when I don’t have to crane my neck to do so. Please, have a seat. You have no reason to fear. If we wished you harm, we had ample opportunity.”

“I’d say you did harm enough.” Markus reached up and rubbed his head where the knot was. “Where’s my steam reservoir?”

“You’re questions will be answered,” the man said. “But first, please, sit.”

Markus sighed, stood up, and moved over to the other side of the table. He was now facing the mirror, no doubt by the design of the other man, or whoever might be above him. When Markus sat, the man smiled.

“There, that wasn’t so painful, now was it?”

“I never said it would be,” Markus said. “Now, who are you?”

“I am Mikhail Ginken,” the man said. “You’ve heard of me, Mr. McGrigor?”

“One of the leaders of the rebellion,” Markus said. “So, this is about three months ago? Rather brave of you to be in a room alone with me.”

Mikhail smiled. “Perhaps, but I like to think of it as a calculated reality. I take you for a smart man, Mr. McGrigor, and in the time you’ve been awake, I’m sure you’ve realized that you’re life is in our hands. Make a wrong move, and you die.”

“What makes you think I care if I die?” Markus said.

“Because you’re still alive,” Mikhail said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Simply put, that if you wanted to die, or didn’t care if you lived, you wouldn’t be alive right now.” Mikhail pulled out a folio and leafed through it. “I’ve done some research on you, Mr. McGrigor. Sadly, what I really wanted to know, that is to say, what you were doing over in the Adervynian Army, is beyond my reach. For all I know, General Miaroni had those files burned. But, I do have a fairly good understanding of what you’ve been doing here in Tijervyn, and you have been busy.”

“You’ve been spending too much time down in the rumor mills,” Markus said. “I haven’t done a fragment of what is being talked about.”

“Of course. That would be the other three revenants in the city.” Mikhail closed the folio and folded his hands. “Did you know there was a whole mess of unusual crimes last night in the Brass Purses? Oh, of course not, you were unconscious. Well, there was. Murders, robberies, vandalism. Now, that couldn’t have been you.”

Markus narrowed his eyes. “What are you getting at?”

Mikhail opened his mouth as if to speak, but then shook his head and sighed. “You’re not ready yet. I will tell you that I am going to make you an offer.”

“And if I refuse, you kill me?”

“If you refuse, you go on your way,” Mikhail said. “We are not like those in power, Markus. We are not here to force you into anything you don’t want to do. Personally, I find the man who follows of his own will the far better than he who is coerced.”

“I’m supposed to believe that?” Markus said. “Fine, I refuse now. Let me go.”

Mikhail smiled. “Well, perhaps we aren’t all that different. No, you will be staying with us until you have at least heard the offer.”

Markus stood and slammed his hands on the table. The metal surface dented under his mechanical palm. “Then tell me what you want already!”

“In due time, my good man.” Mikhail stood and walked to the door, where he knocked on it. It opened, and he turned back. “Do not overtax yourself. We are giving you enough steam to stay alive, but not enough to hurt yourself.”

Markus furrowed his brow and felt his limps. Yes, they were still stronger than their flesh and blood counterparts, but he could sense they were not as strong as they could have been. The steam must not have been very hot.

Mikhail shook his head. “I am sorry, Markus. We have to take these precautions. You understand, three months ago and all. You must be famished. I’ll send some food.”

And with that, he was gone. Markus looked after him in contempt then looked at the chairs that were left behind. For a moment, he was tempted to throw one through the mirror, but instead just sat back on the table and waited.

 

* * *

 

Mikhail walked down one door to the observation room and stepped inside. Only two men were in the room, not that it could have held many more. The first, Meister Lector Cennet, was a tall, narrow-built fellow with a narrow trimmed beard, a bracer on his left arm and a shockrod at his side. The other, Lord Arik Spears, had as average a face as a man could, and seemed to want to make up for it with the lace at his neck and wrists. From his left sleeve, though, popped not only lace but a prosthetic hook.

Mikhail stepped up next to the men and looked through the one-way mirror at Markus in the next room. “I think this will end up being quite profitable.”

“Not likely,” Lector said. “He was a flutter of an eyelash away from killing you.”

“You think everyone is a flutter of an eyelash away from killing someone,” Arik said. “Although, in Markus’s case, I could see why you’d think that. Still sore over that silly incident?”

Lector kept a stone face, and after a moment, he looked at Arik and smiled. “Are you still sore over losing your hand, Arik?”

Arik scowled, and Mikhail cleared his throat, cutting off whatever he was about to hurl back. It was hard enough running the rebellion as it was without having his meister and his money constantly at each other’s throats.

“I really don’t get why you two are always fighting,” Mikhail said. “It would seem to me we all have a common goal.”

“Just because they do not conflict does not mean they are common,” Arik said. “For example, I don’t much mind who is the High Meister, so long as whoever it is helps me.”

“Helps you sit on the throne,” Lector said. “Or helps you make yourself into one of these monsters so you can be reunited with your most intimate acquaintance?”

“Gentlemen!” Mikhail said. “These are old arguments. Leave them aside. None of it has to do with the subject at hand.”

“Yes,” Arik said. “It is obvious he isn’t going to help us. He already refused without hearing your offer.”

“Our offer,” Mikhail interjected.

Arik rolled his eyes. “He refused. Now, let us kill him and remove the threat.”

“I offered him safe conduct,” Mikhail said. “If he refuses once he’s heard the offer, then I mean to honor it.”

“Honor it?” Arik sputtered. “This monster killed several of our men, destroyed one of our safe houses! He nearly killed Lector! You don’t let a rabid beast go just because you told it you would. You put it down!”

“Is he a beast, Arik?” Lector said. “Do you not wish to be like him?”

“His machinery isn’t what drove him to attack us,” Arik said.

Lector smiled and stroked his beard. “You haven’t been attending mass lately, have you, my lord? It would seem the church’s official stance is that the silver spike drives a man to Praedin.”

“Hogwash and superstition,” Arik said. “Men are evil enough without devils and magic. Really, Lector, you were the last person I expected to hear that from.”

“I have not had a chance to observe and examine a revenant,” Lector said. “I have no professional opinion. I was merely repeating what is on the common man’s tongue. We do tend to care about such things, do we not?”

“Examine? Observe?” Arik said. “Don’t tell me you suggest we keep him alive.”

“We are not having him killed regardless,” Mikhail said. “I offered him safe conduct, and it will be honored.”

Arik sneered. “Fine, give me time to send word to a man I keep in my employ. He can shoot the wings off a fly at a thousand yards. Just tell me how far away it is that the monster has to make it for you to feel him safely conducted, and I will have my man put this beast down a pace beyond.”

Mikhail frowned. “And you wonder why the common man thinks the nobility isn’t noble.”

Arik frowned at Mikhail and turned to Lector. “Well, whose side are you on?”

“He is a monster, there is no doubt,” Lector said. “But right now, he is a caged monster. I see no reason to destroy it when we could learn from it.”

Arik groaned. “Your papers weren’t enough?”

“Papers and notes are only so useful,” Lector said. “Having a live specimen to study will help me infinitely more.”

“If you are so desperate to learn how to make a revenant, just go to Adervyn,” Mikhail said. “I think we could suffer a leave of absence for a little while.”

Lector narrowed his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you could. And then I’d return and you’d have thrown your lot in with Tesma and forgotten me! I will not leave Tijervyn until that usurper is cast down, Ginken! Do you hear me?”

Mikhail winced and glanced through the window. “Yes, Lector, and I wasn’t the only one.” Markus had turned toward the mirror with a curious look.

Lector had the good grace to at least appear contrite. “Besides, I hear that Lazris has gone into hiding. Little chance of him teaching me, and I will not learn from any but the best.”

Mikhail shook his head. “So, three ideas and three men. I guess, in the end, the decision lay with Mr. McGrigor. His actions will guide us, yes?”

Arik and Lector shared a dark look but nodded.

“Good,” Mikhail said. “Now, I need to see to my correspondence. You may speak with him if you wish, but please, do not harass our guest. He needs his time to think.”

Mikhail gave the two men a meaningful look then looked at Markus one more time. He was still sitting on the table, still as a statue except for the motion of his breath. A man like that was hard to read, but Mikhail had dealt with worse. He smiled and left the room, humming a senseless tune as he went.

 

* * *

 

Markus stood when the door opened. Barely fifteen minutes had passed since Mikhail left, and surely this was only the food he had promised. The fact that it was did not calm Markus, and not for anything he saw on the platter. No, it was the man carrying the tray in that caused Markus’s discomfort.

“You’re hungry, I suppose,” Lector said. “Tell me, have you noticed your appetite as been less since you were augmented?”

Markus stood and slowly put the table between himself and the man as he walked in and put the tray down. “I was wondering if Ginken had told you he had me.”

“You presume it is Ginken that has you,” Lector said. “It was actually Lord Spears’s operatives that captured you on that rooftop, and one of his safe houses that we are in. Now, about my question.”

Markus stared at him then glanced down at the food. It was a simple fare: beans, bread, cheese, and a trencher of bacon. The sight of it made his stomach rumble, but he ignored the tray and looked back up at Lector.

“Mikhail promised me safe conduct,” Markus said.

Lector waved a dismissive hand and sat down. “I’m not going to harm you. I merely wish to talk.”

Markus raised an eyebrow.

Lector looked at him and laughed. “Oh, you assume I am cross with you, I’d imagine. You think that I might want revenge, is that it?”

“I did kill several of your men, trash your hideout, and, I’d imagine, break a few of your ribs.”

“But you were there to kill me,” Lector said. “Yet, you did not. Why did you spare my life?”

“You weren’t who I was looking for.”

“Ah, yes, that burly fellow mentioned something about a bruised hand.” Lector looked over to the mirror then back to Markus. “Who were you looking for?”

“Tesma.”

“I’d imagine you would have more easily found him in his tower,” Lector said. “But you didn’t know it was Tesma you were looking for. Who, or should I say, what were you looking for?”

Markus crossed his arms. There was no reason in particular that he should not answer Lector’s questions. No reason, that was, except that he did not trust the man as far as he could kick him.

Lector frowned. “You screamed something at me about a shockshield, and your friend tried to tempt me with shockshield schematics earlier, when Jasyn came to barter for the notes that he used to fix you. Is that you who think I was? That rumored monster that could not be hit by bullets?”

“The shockshield is real,” Markus said. “And yes, that is who I thought you were.”

“Hardly,” Lector said. “It is an impossible technology. I’ve seen earlier schematics for it already, and they are hopeless. As I understand it, even Tesma had more or less given up on getting it to work. His lightning is too uncontrollable.”

“Then perhaps that is his Secret,” Markus said. “The ability to control it. Because, I assure you, the shockshield does work. I had to face it several times.”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Lector said.

“And you don’t have to believe me,” Markus said. “It doesn’t change the fact that the High Meister built something you thought was impossible.”

Lector stood at the jibe. “He is a pretender and usurper. I am the rightful High Meister. He is just a charlatan.”

Markus kept his expression neutral, but finally sat down. “He is a Meister of the Secret.” He pulled the tray of food closer.

Lector half reached to pull the tray away, but then stopped himself and sneered. “The Secret. Superstition and alchemy. There is no such thing, boy.”

He took a bite of bread and cheese. “Yet you wear a shockrod on your hip.”

“That I designed and built,” Lector said. “Science built this, not some magical Secret that only a chosen few can master. Not only did I make this shockrod, I improved it. Such is the way of science. What one man invents, another can improve.”

“I’m sure you had much the same conversation with Tesma before he expelled you from the Guild,” Markus said.

“Be careful of taking sides in a conflict you know nothing of, boy.” Lector forced himself to take a seat and pitched his voice low. “You were what, fresh out of grammar school when Tesma came to this city? It was not skill that allowed him to steal my position, but politics.”

“I don’t know much about politics,” Markus said. “And even less about meisters, but I do know that the man whom the king calls High Meister is Tesma Barak, and the men who call you High Meister are branded as traitors and rebels.”

Lector ground his teeth and shook his head. “True as that may be, we are not here to talk about me.”

Markus smiled but held in his taunt. It would not do to drive the man to actually attacking, not in his weakened state and so obviously at the other’s mercy.

“Tell me, Markus, who made you? Was it Quintin Lazris?”

Markus responded immediately. “Troena made me.”

“Blast boy, don’t quote scripture at me,” Lector said. “And from the looks of it, less than half you is Troena’s work, and instead the work of a man. Who was it?”

Markus took a moment to chew a slice of bacon before answering. “A Meister of the Secret designed my newer parts, yes.”

“To Praedin with your Secret,” Lector said.

“Some have been saying that lately,” Markus said. “I don’t agree.”

Lector’s hands clinched into fists, and he stood. “Very well then. You were made by Quintin Lazris. That is what I really wished to know. Good day, McGrigor. Enjoy your lunch.”

Markus watched the man who called himself High Meister leave. He had not expected anything less than animosity from the man, especially after their first and only other meeting. Now, he felt assured of it. Some small part of him screamed that it was a mistake to have antagonized the man, but there was little he could do now but eat his lunch and wait.

 

* * *

 

The door opened again perhaps an hour later. The empty tray of Markus’s lunch still sat on one end of the table, and Markus had gone back to sitting on the other end, facing the door. He did not recognize the man who walked in, but the hook that should have been a hand was clue enough to his identity.

The man closed the door but stayed right by it. “Do you know who I am?”

Markus nodded. “I can make a guess, Lord Spears.”

Spears nodded absently and looked down at his hook. “I really should thank you, I suppose. Whatever you said to Lector has him cross-eyed.”

Markus furrowed his brow. “You’re glad he’s upset?”

“I’m glad he is more likely to side with me,” Spears said. “I do so prefer it when I get my way. This whole business of being equals with two commoners has become rather boring.”

“Isn’t that the point of this whole rebellion?” Markus said. “To make nobles and commoners equal?”

“Well, if you listen to Mikhail long enough, I suppose so,” Spears said. “But the truth in practice is rather different. There must always be an upper class. Whether you call them nobles or politicians, and whether they are protected by laws or money, it really is all the same. Fortunately, I fall favorably on both sides of the coin.”

Markus shrugged and looked over to the mirror. “How very fortunate for you.”

Spears stared at him for a moment. “Tell me, what is it like?”

Markus looked back. “Pardon?”

Spears tapped the back of his head. “What’s it like, having your parts back? I’ve heard you can actually feel with them, the new parts.”

A smile slowly crept across Markus’s face. “You want to be a revenant, my lord? A quick trip to Adervyn could probably fix that for you. Plenty of meisters that know the Secret of Silver over there that are out of a job now that the war is over.”

“Don’t be crass,” Spears said. “As a man in my position, I think it is admirable and only natural to wonder.”

Markus stared at the man then stood. “Yes. I can feel.”

“How much?”

“I can feel the breeze across my fingertips.” Markus held up his hand and looked at the articulated plates and small, hidden gears within. “I can feel the light caress of a lover’s fingers. I can feel the heat of the sun on a clear day, and the bitter cold of a winter night.”

The hunger in Spears’s eyes was tangible. “So much?”

“For me, yes,” Markus said. “Not all halfmen are as lucky. It depends on the skill of the meister, how much care he takes. I was made by Quintin Lazris. There were others I saw during the war, those made by lesser men, who could barely feel a bullet hitting them. But then, perhaps that was on purpose.”

Spears swallowed hard. “You can feel pain?”

“Yes,” Markus said. “But it takes quite a bit more to hurt me. I have been shot, and I felt it, but it did not hurt. I have held scorching hot metal and knew that it would sear my flesh, yet all I felt was warmth. Again, though, this varies.”

“It varies,” Spears said. “Is nothing the same with you revenants?”

“One thing,” Markus said. “We have a length of silver in our brains and are slaves to a new hunger, one of heat and pressure. And while I do feel, it is not the same. Nothing will ever be the same as flesh.”

“Is that so?” Spears held up his hand. “Do you know how I lost this?”

“I can’t say that I do.”

“I own several factories,” Spears said. “I was taking a tour of one when a piece of machinery malfunctioned. In truth, I should have been killed, but a factory worker saw the falling beam and pushed me out of the way. It crushed him instead and only severed my hand.”

“Factories are dangerous places,” Markus said.

“Indeed they are,” Spears said. “I got off lucky. Truly, what do I need my left hand for? It is my mind that keeps me where I am. Many a lord and industrialist are far from fit, and some of the most successful cannot even walk. But, if I were a factory worker, how would my life be then, with a missing hand?”

Spears looked up at Markus, perhaps expecting an answer, but Markus did not oblige, so he answered himself.

“My life would be pathetic. I’d be fortunate to keep my job, and even if I did, the foreman would be in his rights to dock my pay if I could not keep up with my quotas. Is that fair? Of course it isn’t. And then I heard about this new technology. Oh yes, terrible stuff, creating monsters that are denying us our victory. But, perhaps, I thought, we were writing it off too quickly. What if a factory worker need not be ruined because his leg was crush or his hand cut off?”

“That is what Quintin thought, too,” Markus said. “He never invented cyborgs to be weapons of war.”

Spears continued as if he had not heard. “And then, you came along, a monster right out of a nursery storybook. And I have seen that perhaps the Troenan priests are right. Perhaps that spike does corrupt the soul.”

“Evil does not need superstition to exist,” Markus said. “I’ve seen a thousand-fold worse crimes committed by wholmen than any I ever heard rumored from halfmen.”

Spears smiled. “Even killing several men, half destroying a building, and nearly killing the High Meister?”

Markus pursed his lips.

“I didn’t ask you about your strength,” Spears said. “Because I already know. I know that you are stronger than any man could ever hope to be. And I must wonder, is that right? Are you still a man, Markus McGrigor, or have you become something else?”

“I am a man,” Markus said. “To the end, I will be a man.”

“Ah,” Spears said. “But to what end?”

Spears’s smile faded and he looked to the mirror absently. He then sighed and opened the door and left without so much as a tip of the hat in farewell. After the door latched shut, Markus stood starting at it for a long time before he finally sat back down on the end of the table.

 

* * *

 

Shortly after Lord Spears left, the two servants who had brought in the chairs returned. One picked up the empty tray while the other put a chamber-pot in one corner where Markus could reach it. The entire time, they both stole worried glances at Markus, who did nothing more than sit on the table and look straight ahead at the door.

When they were gone, Markus hopped off the table, turned it on its side, and brought the chamber pot over to relieve himself in what little privacy he could. He had noticed that he ate quite a bit less since he had become a halfman, and even had to answer the call of nature less, but he had seen no reason to tell Lector that.

Once he was done, he put the lid on the chamber pot and put it back in the corner, then righted the table and returned to sitting. Hours passed, and the servants came again, this time bearing dinner and trading out the chamber pot. It was perhaps an hour after dinner when the door opened and let in Mikhail, who was carrying a large case under one arm.

He stopped just inside the door and glanced at the tray of only half eaten food. “Not very hungry, I see.”

“I’ve had enough,” Markus said.

Mikhail smiled and nodded. “I’m sorry I took so long to return. I had not meant to keep you so long.”

“I’m sure you are a rather busy man.” Markus waved his hand in a grand gesture. “Overthrowing a country can hardly be easy, else everyone would be doing it.”

“Quite so,” Mikhail said. “I understand you spoke with Lector and Arik.”

“I suppose you could call it that,” Markus said. “They did come in and talk.”

“Be careful of those two, Mr. McGrigor,” Mikhail said. “I cannot say they wish you well.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Markus said. “Lord Spears did not seem all that hostile.”

Mikhail smiled and shook his head. “Trust me, neither of those men is your friend.”

“And you are?” Markus said.

“I could be.” Mikhail took a deep breath and finally took his seat, back facing the mirror, and placed the case on the table.

Markus slid off the table and took his seat opposite him. “So I suppose you are going to tell me this offer, now?”

“Tell me, Mr. McGrigor, what separates us from the beasts?”

Markus shrugged. “We have guns?”

Mikhail chuckled. “Ah, but we didn’t always. No, it is that we have purpose, Mr. McGrigor. A beast can love, hate, and even fear. But they are not driven by purpose. They live merely to live, and once they die, they are as dust. But us, we strive for something more, something greater. You understand this, do you not?”

Markus looked around the room, refusing to meet Mikhail’s intense eyes. “You’re getting too philosophical for me.”

“Do you have a purpose, Mr. McGrigor?” Mikhail said. “A reason to keep on living?”

“Living is a good enough reason,” Markus said.

Silence hung over the room.

“You don’t believe that,” Mikhail said.

Markus looked at him, ready to yell, but the words died on his lips. Mikhail was still looking at him, but it was not a calculating or condescending look. It was one of pure compassion.

“It is hard, when we lose our way,” Mikhail said. “I know. But we don’t have to stay lost, Markus.”

Markus swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”

“We all have a purpose,” Mikhail said. “Whether we know it or not. A life to live, if you will. I found my calling here in Tijervyn, as did you, once upon a time. Mr. McGrigor, Markus, my offer is for you to work for us, the rebellion, to help bring down the system that robbed you of your purpose. The system that used you then cast you aside. You belong here with us, Markus, and you know it.”

Markus opened his mouth, and Mikhail held up a hand.

“Don’t answer now. Think on it. I’ll have the servants make you up a bed, and even put a curtain over the mirror. Just think on it.”

Mikhail stood and reached across the table to pat Markus on the shoulder. Markus lowered his head, unable to meet the man’s eyes.

“I know you’ll make the right choice, Markus. But, should you decide your purpose is not here with us, you will still be granted safe conduct. I promise you that.”

He left, and Markus looked up to see he had left the case. Slowly, he stood and walked around the table. The case only had a simple clasp, and he popped it open and lifted the lid. He stared at the contents for a long moment.

Inside was a soldier’s uniform.

Story by Richard Fife | Art by April Herron