Read The Inexplicables (Clockwork Century) for Free Online

mildew took its cues from the Blight-tainted air. It was inscrutable and blank. It appeared unbreachable by all but the most foolhardy daredevils, given the slippery flora, wet slime, and treacherous patches of fickle moss that would slough away without remorse even under the desperate fingers of a fervently praying climber.
    But once he got up close, Rector could see that it harbored secrets and promises.
    He tiptoed, moving his legs more carefully through the vegetation and keeping his eyes peeled against the heavy darkness that kept him guessing about his progress. He did not want to light a candle, not yet. Besides the fact that he had so few, he did not wish to draw attention to himself. Not until he figured out exactly where he meant to go, and exactly whose attention he needed.
    This next part would be tricky.
    He listened for all he was worth and, around the swirling fuzz of the sap still sparkling between his ears, he heard the gruff, intermittent chatter of men who were bored and not very happy. Rector turned himself sideways and walked along the tall stone barrier, its shadow made thicker still by the wee morning hours and a moon smudged over by clouds.
    The men were somewhere above him and ahead of him. He followed their voices.
    His footsteps ground into wet grass and against slippery pebbles, leaving streaked prints along the groove at the wall’s base. The path was uneven, broken by tree roots and fallen pieces of rock; it was clotted with the detritus of leaves, dead grass, and human trash blown by ocean winds to collect against the stones like snowdrifts.
    At times, he sank to his calves in rotting mulch, the compost of things lost, forgotten, and turned damp by the climate.
    Rector muttered a sour curse and wished out loud that, just this once, the June Gloom would take it up a notch and freeze. Frozen mud would be easier to navigate, and ice was no slicker than the vitreous slime that squished down the grade.
    The conversation above him grew louder.
    Both participants were wearing gas masks. Rector could hear it from the muffled hum to their words, and the way their consonants were rubbed off around the edges, but as he came closer, he could pick out the gossip more clearly.
    “I just don’t want to hear about it later, that’s all. If Yaozu tries to cuss me about it, I’ll … I won’t be real happy. But if we’re late, that’s what he gets for putting a kid in charge. That ain’t right.”
    “Can you install the gears?”
    “No.”
    “Then you aren’t right for the job. Me either,” the other man added quickly, possibly in response to some threat Rector couldn’t see. “If Houjin knows how, let him. He mess it up, it’s not our fault. He do it right, we look good for helping. See?”
    “Yeah, I see,” came the grudging response. “That don’t mean I like it.”
    A crackling snap of pleasure or pain—Rector couldn’t tell which—zipped across his vision and was gone, leaving a comet trail of contentment in its wake. He smiled and listened a little longer, until he was absolutely confident that these were workmen and not guards. Almost certainly an older white man and a somewhat younger Chinese man.
    Rector took a deep breath and flinched as a pang of tomorrow’s hangover made itself known in the soft spot just behind his ear. He shook it off and stepped away from the wall, but not far enough out to be easily seen or shot at.
    “Hey, you fellas up there?” he called, not in a big shout, but loud enough to make it clear that he wasn’t sneaking up on anybody.
    The two men above went silent, then the Chinaman called back, “Who is there? What do you want?”
    “Rector Sherman here. I want to get inside the city.” It sounded grandiose when he put it that way, but he decided he was all right with that, so he let it stand. “I don’t want any trouble, and I don’t want to bother nobody. I got business inside, that’s all.”
    “Business? What kind of business you got in the