Druids didn't worship any particular deity, they attuned themselves to Nature itself; in time, that attunement let them draw upon the power of Nature to perform magical deeds. Thinking about it, I had to admit the downhill force of Entropy was just as strong, if not stronger, than the vitality surging through plants and animals. If you attuned yourself to Entropy, why couldn't you learn to channel that strength?
Even as I watched, the channeling began. Yasmin used her last reserves of willpower to reach out and take the wight's offered hand. Weakly, she pulled it in toward her body, pressing it against her stomach. «Do you give willingly?» she asked the wight.
It nodded.
For a long moment, nothing discernible happened. Then the wight's lips pursed into a tiny O, and its eyes opened wide. It let out a tiny trickle of sound, a small astonished breath; the noise made me think of a woman in passion, touched by her lover and finding herself swept with a deep surprising heat. The wight reached out with its other hand, taking Yasmin by the arm and holding tight, its talons digging into Yasmin's flesh. I shuddered for a moment as I remembered the wight behind the Mortuary, clawing its victim and withering her arm… but in the blink of an eye, it was the wight who began to wither.
The orc woman's hair went first. It fell, strand by strand, onto the rotting garment that covered the wight's shoulders. Then her skin puckered, wrinkling, cracking, flaking away. Underneath, her muscles were taut bands of filaments stretched over bone; but as the seconds ticked by, the tautness eased and the filaments separated from one another, like threads slipped off a loom, one by one.
Layer by layer, the wight's body fell away, sloughed off like unneeded clothes. Nothing decayed entirely – all the pieces remained. It was only the life energy that seeped off, drained from each fiber of flesh… and once the life was gone, the stray bits of anatomy had no remaining cohesion. The pieces separated quietly, like strangers who had no reason to stay together.
Despite the power flooding out of the wight, I could see little improvement in Yasmin. Perhaps the worst of her burns looked a little glossier, covered with an almost invisible veneer of regenerated skin; and perhaps the blood had stopped welling quite so quickly from the knife wound in her back. Even so, her eyes retained a deathly dullness and her hands showed only fatigue as they clung to the crumbling wight. Entropy might be allotting Yasmin a tiny portion of the wight's lifeforce… but it was keeping the lion's share for itself.
Soon, the wight had devolved to nothing but a meatless skeleton. One hand still pressed against Yasmin's stomach, and the other held her arm in its claws; but with a click of bones, it released its taloned grip and lifted its fingers to cup Yasmin under the chin. The gesture was exquisitely tender, like a mother reassuring her child… and then the skeleton peacefully relaxed into a litter of unconnected bones, their fall to the floor muffled by the dry pillow of tissues that had slumped off first.
«More,» Yasmin whispered hungrily. And the next wight stepped up, its face composed in total serenity.
* * *
Three more wights. Three more subdued collapses. I think Yasmin could have absorbed the energy of a dozen such donors and still longed for more; but the four who sacrificed themselves were enough to repair the most grievous damage. The stab wound under her shoulder blade was closed and clean. The patches of charred flesh on her arms and shoulders had now coated over with milk white, as smooth as the cataract in an old dwarf's eye. There was even a dark fuzz of hair covering her scalp, like red-brown lichen on a stone – not a fashionable coiffure, but my fingers longed to touch that close-shaven beauty.
«Hello,» she said, a sparkle in her eyes at last. «Hello,» she said again, looking directly at me. «Hello. Hello. Hello.»
«Can I help you up?» I asked.
«Please.»
She reached out both arms, like a child eager for her father to lift her. I had to use one foot to sweep away the remains of wights surrounding her; then I raised her gently, wrapping my arms around her as delicately as I could, no matter how fiercely I longed to enfold her with my full strength. Yasmin had no such reserve – as she rose to her feet, her arms encircled me and pulled me close, squeezing as if she wanted to completely embed her face in my chest. I returned the embrace, clasping her as tightly as I dared and aware of nothing else in the world but the woman I held.
«Honored Cavendish, Honored Handmaid,» murmured Wheezle as he plucked at the hem of my jacket. «We must go now. There is so little time.»
«There is no time,» said a new voice. And suddenly the room was filled with a blinding cloud of fine white dust.
9. THREE DUSTY COMBUSTIONS
Blinded by the dust, I couldn't see for the next few seconds. Kiripao must have tried something, because I heard him utter a cry of attack; but he was answered with a thunderous boom, and he made no other sound.
Yasmin, still in my arms, whispered, «Didn't you have someone watching our backs?»
«Hezekiah was out there,» I replied. «The Clueless little berk…»
«He's hurt,» said Oonah, somewhere in the cloud.
Gradually, the dust settled around us. Every face around me was powdered white; every stick of furniture, every scrap of clothing was clotted with the same white silt. The door to the control room had shut tight – the boom I heard must have been the door slamming. Kiripao was straining to push it open, but without success.
Oonah knelt a short distance from the door, bending over the motionless body of Hezekiah. I could see no wounds on the boy; and as Oonah gave his shoulder a shake, he groaned and rolled over on his back.
«What happened, Kid?» Miriam asked. Her voice was surprisingly full of concern.
«Someone blanked me,» the boy muttered. «Shut me down.» He slammed his fist against the floor. «I hate that.»
«But you're all right now?» Miriam insisted.
«I'll live,» he said. «But… I'm a bit scrambled at the moment. I won't be able to teleport for hours.»
«Don't trouble yourself,» Oonah told him. She raised her staff and pointed its silver-wire tip toward the door. «Now that I'm properly armed, this little cage won't hold us for…»
«Don't!» Wheezle and I shouted in unison.
«Why not?» she snapped.
Wheezle shuffled forward, dust dribbling off his ears like flour. «Alas, honored Guvner, this dust is dangerous… at least if you invoke magic. We must exercise extreme caution.»
«What a shame,» echoed an unfamiliar female voice. «I hoped you wouldn't know what the dust did. It would have been ever so interesting to see what happened.»
The walls of the control room looked like concrete, coated with the chalky powder that covered us all; suddenly, however, the cement-like material turned as clear as glass, offering us a dust-smeared view of the machine room outside. No wonder this control room didn't have any windows: the walls themselves could become windows, and obviously someone outside knew the secret of making that happen. Quickly, I swept a hand across the wall closest to me, cleaning away enough of the dust to see through clearly.
A gang of eight wights stood back five paces from the wall, their faces nearly as dusty as mine and ten times as ugly. All of them were huge bashers, their shoulders wide, their claws the size of pine cones. I saw no hint of friendliness in the expressions of these undead; hate blazed in their eyes. Perhaps the hate was inspired by the people who stood in front of the monsters – two humans who could only be Rivi and the Fox.
I'd seen men like the Fox many times before: grizzled old sods with streaky gray hair and five days of stubble on their faces. This particular example wore an ecstatic leer of madness, and his gaze never stopped swooping about the room, as if he were surrounded by wonders mere mortals could not see. Poor old barmy: his type wandered the streets of Sigil daily, begging for handouts or talking wildly to themselves until they were taken in by the Bleak Cabal and given a bed in the Gatehouse asylum.
Rivi was much more extraordinary. To say she was an albino would not do justice, either to Rivi or to albinos in general. She had the telltale white hair and eyebrows, the unpigmented skin and the pale pink eyes; but she had decided to paint herself, to apply make-up and dyes in a controlled chaos that only emphasized her pallor. Red eyeshadow made her eyes look like blood-filled sinkholes in her face. The merest touch of blue on her cheeks gave her the icy look of a corpse who has lain overnight in the snow. Her long white hair was streaked with bands of red and green, which would look cheerfully festive on some women; on Rivi, however, the effect was harshly lunatic, as if nightmares had bled from her skull and contaminated her scalp.
She wore a gown of clinging black silk, sheer enough to betray the stark whiteness of her body beneath; and like many venomous women, Rivi had the body of a goddess, maintained as carefully as a champion fencer might hone her sword. I could scarcely take my eyes off the play of black silk over white flesh, taut fabric stretching over tauter curves. Some sages claim that the powers of evil take delight in bestowing such visceral allure on the most corrupt of souls… and although I have known many beauties with no great darkness in their hearts, I have met a handful like Rivi, demons sporting the voluptuousness of an angel.
Rivi smiled at me now with the triumph of a viper watching its victim die. «Hello, darlings!» she cooed. «What lovely subjects for my experiments! No sooner do I find my wee trinket than you give me a chance to use it.»
She held up the «wee trinket»… an artifact of terrifying power disguised as a harmless salt grinder, a small white container with a winding arm on top. Trickles of pale dust spilled out the bottom. «The crank controls the flow,» Rivi said, holding the grinder up higher. «Anything from a light shower like this to that cloud that coated you all. Think what it can do against those precious wee schemers who use magic in Sigil.»
«The Lady of Pain will stop you,» Oonah snapped. «She'll seal every portal against you.»
«Perhaps,» Rivi admitted. «But a little bird told me there are some things too powerful for The Lady to stop. This coy wee grinder is one of the most potent relics in the multiverse; it will be such lovely fun to compare its strength to hers. And even if I'm barred from Sigil… oh, the planes offer a world of opportunities for a woman who can stop magic in its self-important wee tracks.»
«Who can stop enemy magic,» the Fox put in, speaking for the first time. «The people on our side don't have to worry.»
He lifted a trinket of his own, a twin to the grinder Rivi held, except this one was tan in color. Holding it over his head, he flicked the crank with one finger, and a deluge of brown dust cascaded down on top of him. «See?» he asked, his gleeful eyes blinking under a cake of dust, «I'm magic and you're not. Hah!»
«Don't play, darling,» Rivi said, taking the brown grinder from him. «It'll make the other children jealous.»
«I'll show you jealous,» Oonah muttered, raising her staff.
Wheezle put a gentle hand on her arm. «Let me try first, honored Guvner.» He moved to the patch of wall I had wiped free of dust and pressed his face to its glass-like surface. His gaze slipped slyly toward the Fox and Rivi, then fixed on the gang of wights. Suddenly he snapped Unveiler up into sight and shouted, «I command you —»
He never finished his sentence. The dust-covered scepter erupted with searing incandescence, so hot that a blast of scorching air hit my face like an invisible punch. Wheezle, much closer to the expulsion of energy, was thrown off his feet and propelled shrieking backward toward the opposite side of the room. He smashed against the wall and slid downward, coils of smoke curling from the hand that had held the scepter.
Unveiler itself, still blazing white-hot, tumbled to the floor. Normal metal would have melted to lava… but then, the Dustmen had done their best to destroy the scepter without noticeable success, so why should a little heat make a difference?
«I don't understand,» Hezekiah cried. «What happened?»
«The white dust burns if you try to focus magical energy,» I replied.
«But Wheezle didn't use any magic,» the boy protested. «He was only talking to the wights.»
«Unveiler uses magic to control the undead,» I told him. «As soon as Wheezle tried to issue a command….»
«Wights!» Wheezle groaned, not trying to get up. «Listen to me, honored wights… I am still your master.»
He was answered with an agitated shuffling of feet. Both inside and outside our room, the wights seemed confused and anxious. Perhaps they wanted to obey Wheezle, but he was no longer holding the scepter; that left them leaderless and adrift. Would they attack us indiscriminately now, filled with the customary hatred of the undead for the living? Or would they simply wander away like disoriented children, eventually stumbling out into the infinite dust?
«I can't tell you how this irks me,» Rivi murmured, glaring hungrily at the fallen scepter. «Petrov… dear Petrov… pick up that wee bauble, please, before it gets dirty.»
Petrov, on our side of the transparent wall, stared at Rivi in disbelief. «You're barmy!» he told her. «It'd burn my sodding hand off.»
Rivi's eyes narrowed. «Darling – I said, pick it up!»
For several long moments, nothing happened. Petrov wasn't held tightly by wights anymore; they were blinking stupidly, trying to decide what to do. Our friend Bleach-Hair struggled free of their limp grasp and looked desperately around the room… maybe searching for a hiding place, hoping he could escape Rivi's reach.
Her eyes continued to bore into him, as sharp as stilettos; and at last, as if an invisible giant had him in its grip, Petrov turned to face the woman. Immediately, he tried to look away again. He couldn't. I don't think he could even close his eyes – as he shuddered under her gaze, flecks of dust shook free from his hair, wafted downward, and settled on his bare eyeball. Petrov didn't react… but prickles of sweat beaded up on his face as Rivi's eyes continued to pierce his mind.
«Please,» he whispered. «Please don't.»
Rivi answered with a calm smile. «Pick up the wee scepter, darling. You've been a bad boy, leading these people around our stronghold… but I'll forgive you with my soft girlish heart if you do me this kind wee favor.»
Petrov took a jerky step toward Unveiler. At the top of his lungs, he screamed, «No!»
«We all love the sound of your voice, darling; but bring me the pretty wee thing.»
Petrov jerked forward another two paces. The veins on his neck bulged with strain, resisting the flood of power from Rivi's mind; but mere flesh couldn't oppose the woman's dominating will. Roaring and weeping, Petrov was forced across the room like a convulsive marionette, his strings pulled by the cool albino.
At last, the scepter lay at his feet. One arm reached downward; the rest of his body fought back, tendons standing out like cables. Something burst with a loud crack – his collarbone, I think, snapped in the tug-of-war between different groups of muscles. It didn't matter. Slowly, agonizingly, Petrov picked up the scepter.
It blazed white-hot again. I had to avert my eyes to avoid being blinded.
«Tell the wights to obey me, darling,» Rivi said. Her voice had turned thick and throaty, aroused. «Order them to obey me, and perhaps I'll let you set that bauble down.»
«Obey her!» Petrov shouted to the wights. «Do whatever she tells you to. I command it!»
«Very good, darling. But I don't think you should let go of the scepter yet. Bring it to me.»
Squinting, I looked back at Petrov. His entire arm was sheathed in flame, from the blazing sun of Unveiler to the smoking flesh of his shoulder. The air around him wrinkled with the heat, burning so fiercely I had step back. Still, I considered leaping forward with my rapier, plunging one clean thrust into Petrov's heart, just to put him out of his misery; but what good would that do? Rivi wanted someone to bring her the scepter. If Petrov were killed, she'd turn on the rest of us. Did I want to see one of my friends mind-raped and set on fire?
«Open the door,» Rivi commanded the wights. «And don't let the breathers escape.»
The wights bowed to her, their eyes blazing.
* * *
Twelve wights stood against us, with the Fox also stationed at the ready, his hands fluttering in mystic gestures – probably preparing a fireball in case any of us tried to escape the control room when the door opened. Not even Kiripao made the attempt; we were hopelessly outnumbered. As soon as Petrov staggered out of the room, the wights closed the door again and barred it shut with the heavy wood beam they'd used before.
«Well, darlings, that was fun,» Rivi said, as the still-flaming Petrov dragged himself to her side. «However, all good things must come to an end…»
«What are you going to do with us?» Hezekiah demanded.
«I haven't decided,» she answered. «I don't know any of you… except for Judge DeVail, of course, whose mother was a helpful dear to keep such a detailed diary. No doubt, you all have your wee talents or you wouldn't have got this far. Perhaps I'll let you live and work for my noble cause… after a wee adjustment in your attitudes, of course.»
«What is your noble cause?» Oonah asked. Trust a Guvner to seek as much information as possible.
«My noble cause,» Rivi repeated. "My noble wee cause. Well, darlings, let me tell you a story of a regal family: rulers of all they surveyed on a lovely Prime world planet… not a backwater either, because they had a stable wee portal to Sigil, which let them keep in touch with multiversal affairs.
«The royal family,» she continued, «had three daughters, all charming wee girls. It was the tradition to teach such princesses useful arts – skills that would help them become wise and magnanimous rulers when they ascended the throne. Daughter One, whom we'll call Fatuous Smug Pig…» Rivi paused and gave us a coquettish smile «…was educated in the arts of white wizardry. Daughter Two, who'll be known as Loathsomely Drippy Cow…» another smile, "was raised as high priestess of an appallingly goody-goody power whose name can only be pronounced by his faithful. I usually called him Bunghole the Simpleton, but that's not what he wrote on his smarmy wee tabernacles.
"Anyway, Pig became a wizard and Cow a priestess. That only left the third and youngest daughter, whom we'll call Fabulously Beautiful and Shrewd Beyond Her Years… or Rivi, for short. When it came to Rivi's education, the king and queen chose the path of the mind, arranging for the ravishing princess to study under the greatest psionic masters of Sigil and the Outer Planes. It was hard work for the poor wee girl, but she devoted herself to it with a passion; because she dreamed of the day when she could tear her sisters' minds to confetti. When she could force them to draggle their tails in the filthiest streets of the Hive. When she could seize their pure wee brains and turn their thoughts into cesspools.
«And why was Princess Rivi so angry with Pig and Cow? Because they were generous to her. Because they were nauseatingly kind. Because they wanted to protect their poor wee sister who was all white like a maggot. Can you imagine? They pitied me. They actually pitied me! Pig would come into my room at night to amuse me with vapid tricks of sorcery, like making my dolls stand up and say, 'Rivi, Rivi, we wuv you!' And Cow was forever dragging me along on her holy rounds, curing the sick, comforting the wretched, bringing the word of Bunghole into filthy peasant huts… all in the hope of rallying my spirits to cope with my 'condition'. My condition! My pale wee condition… as if I were some repugnant cripple and soft in the head.»
She stopped to glare venomously at each of us, daring us to speak. No one rose to the challenge. We all knew Rivi's big problem wasn't being an albino; it was being a total barmy. The lilting speech patterns, the fierce glitter of her eyes, the rationalizations for hating her sisters… the woman was mad as May-butter, and howling at the moon.
«Well,» she continued, "despite what Pig and Cow thought, I wasn't soft in the head – I was very, very hard, and I made myself harder by the day. It took me almost no time to outgrow the limp-wristed berks hired to teach me the Will and the Way. Without my parents' knowledge, I arranged for more suitable tutelage: a renegade Dustman mind-flayer. He taught me interesting wee secrets about raising the undead, but more importantly, he nurtured the full power of my mind. Sorcery and priestly magic were feeble things, sucking on the multiverse's dugs for a few drops of power. With psionics, the energy comes from within; from your soul, from your hate.
«So… when I learned about these darling wee grinders, I just had to have them. If I could bury a city – Sigil, for instance – in the white anti-magic dust, wizards and priests would be helpless: as they gather their power around them, it sets the dust on fire. Psionics, on the other hand… it's a completely different form of energy. Internal – it doesn't react with the dust. These grinders let me shut down spellcasters of every type, without the slightest effect on my own power. Delightful! I only wish I'd had them with me when I finally took on Pig and Cow…»
Her voice trailed off, but a dreamy smile remained on her face. I could imagine what happened to Rivi's poor sisters… or perhaps I couldn't. Some things go beyond a sane man's imagination.
«Well,» said Rivi, suddenly snapping out of her reverie, "that's all bodies under the bridge now. You wanted me to explain my noble wee cause, and I believe I've done so. I want to make every wizard and priest in the multiverse suffer the torments of the damned… and then become my slave. Whoosh, I hit a victim with the white dust so she can't protect herself. Zap, I spend a few hours raking through her mind, until she loves me with eternal devotion. Whoosh again, I use the brown dust to give my new ally back her magic; but now she casts her spells in my service.
«I already have a list of targets in Sigil – deputies in all the major factions. Not people at the very top, but ones with influential positions: clever wee dears who can arrange for me to have private interviews with folks higher up the ladder. Once I've had time alone with a few factols…»
She laughed. From anyone else, the laugh might have been charming: totally open and honest. It chilled me to the bone.
«Let me get this straight,» Hezekiah said. «You're doing all this – killing all those people at the courts, manufacturing wights, torching poor Petrov here – all because you didn't like your sisters?»
«Oh, darling,» Rivi answered, «I don't like any spellcasters. Sorcerers and priests are all annoying sods…»
«I know I am,» the Fox piped up cheerfully.
«So,» Rivi continued, «consider it a public service when I serve the wee darlings their own entrails in a bowl.» She took a deep breath. «Starting with the magic-users in your wee group. I intend to rip out your brains and stuff in thoughts of my own. By tomorrow, you'll kill your own mothers for the privilege of kissing my toenail.»
«I know I would,» the Fox piped up again.
«Watch them,» Rivi commanded the old barmy. «I have to set up a suitable place to work – somewhere I won't have distractions. Somewhere soundproof, somewhere with clamps. I've been meaning to redecorate one of the lounges anyway. Give me an hour.»
«But what if these berks get boisterous?» the Fox asked. «Can I burn them… please?»
«No, darling, they'll be more useful to us in one piece. But just in case…» She handed him the white grinder. «Take this. It's just barely possible they might scrape away their dust and try something foolish. If so, give them another blast.»
«Yay!»
Cackling with delight, the Fox spun the crank of the grinder, loosing a flurry of white that sifted down over Rivi herself. Where it touched her skin, it was almost invisible; but her gown's black silk was completely frosted over, making her white from head to toe.
«Dear, dear, Fox,» she chided as she waggled a finger in his face. «Try to be careful.» Taking his wrist lightly between her thumb and forefinger, Rivi moved his hand so the grinder pointed its stream toward the floor. «As I said,» she smiled, glancing back at us, «the dust doesn't affect me. My wee tricks aren't magic – psionic powers use a different type of energy.»
«Fire is energy too,» the Fox announced.
Rivi patted his arm. «Keep an eye on our guests, darling. I'll be back in a while.»
She turned away and began to walk in the direction of her own quarters. Dust spilled from her clothes with every step. Part way across the machine room, she looked back and called, «Heel!» Obediently, the squad of wights lined up and traipsed after her. Petrov, too, followed along; the flesh of his arm had burned away, but the blazing scepter remained in his hand, fused solidly with the bone. Any normal man would have passed out long ago from the pain. I could only assume Rivi was keeping him conscious with the power of her mind.
She waited for Petrov to catch up, then wafted a caress under his chin. «You'll be ever so handy come nightfall, darling – I'll use you as a lamp.» Laughing, she strode from the room, with the wights and the fire-ravaged Petrov shuffling along behind her.
* * *
«Well,» said Yasmin to the Fox, «time for you to let us out.»
«Can't,» he replied. «Not supposed to.»
«But it's fun to be bad,» Kiripao told him. «Don't you like being naughty?»
The Fox smiled and nodded.
«Then let us out,» Kiripao said.
«Can't,» the Fox replied. «Not supposed to.»
«If I were Rivi,» I murmured to the others, «I'd dance all over the old barmy's brain to make sure he always follows orders. He's too unreliable to trust otherwise.»
«Agreed,» Oonah nodded. «I doubt if he's capable of disobeying her directly. We'll have to try something more subtle.»
I bowed slightly to her and leaned back against a dust-covered control console. Watching a Guvner be subtle could prove immensely educational.
«Fox,» Oonah called, «talk to me. You've got us at your mercy, right? This is the time when it's traditional to gloat about all your plans.»
«Hah!» he replied. «Shows how much you know. Rivi never tells me her plans.»
«But you must have a little information… like why you were attacking the various faction headquarters in Sigil.»
«Oh that.» The Fox stuck out his tongue in distaste. «Rivi just wanted to bob all the records from the last expedition to come here. How to reach the Glass Spider, how to steer it, where the grinders were… boring stuff. If it weren't for me setting fire to things, we wouldn't have fun at all.»
«And how do you like to have fun?» Oonah asked.
«Burning things, of course. This white dust is supreme. Setting all the magicians and priests on fire… isn't that a laugh?»
«I certainly would like to see you set something on fire,» Oonah said. «What do we have handy that would burn well?»
«That gnome of yours looks pretty flammable…»
«No, no,» Oonah shook her head, casting a quick glance back at Wheezle. Our Dustman friend had made no effort to get to his feet since the blast from Unveiler had blown him against the wall; I hoped he was simply conserving his strength. «Let's see what else there is,» Oonah continued. «I'm sure you shouldn't damage any machinery… or any of us… so we're really just left with that useless chunk of wood right there.»
Of course, she pointed to the heavy beam blocking the door.
The Fox stared at it suspiciously. «I don't know…»
«Oh, you don't think you could burn it?»
«Of course I can burn it!» he snapped. «But…»
His brow furrowed, as he struggled to understand whatever misgivings he had. In a way, I felt sorry for the old barmy: his mind must be fragmented beyond recovery, broken by whatever hell he had experienced long ago. Once, he must have been a formidable man – Oonah's mother wouldn't have adventured through the planes with a weakling – but now he was simply a mad old twitch, falling for a trick that wouldn't fool a child.
«I don't think you can burn it at all,» Oonah said sharply, not giving him time to recognize the trick. «I think your flame has gone out.»
«Gone out!» he roared. «I've got a flame the size of a bread loaf!»
And with a bellow of arcane syllables, the Fox loosed a fireball at the beam.
* * *
Shooting a fireball precisely is like throwing an elephant from a catapult – you've got plenty of margin for error, but there's going to be a splash. In this case, the splash hit the outer wall of the control room, giving those of us inside a view of angry red brilliance; then it bounced back into the machine room proper, washing gouts of flame across the collection of pistons, gears, and camshafts gallumphing through their regular paces.
Sturdy though the mechanisms were, they weren't designed to withstand a sudden fiery blast. A cog blew off a spindle; the spindle sagged into the path of a flywheel; the flywheel flew off its mount, and churned whackety-whack through the outer plate of a boiler; and then there was steam everywhere, spurting from the boiler in scalding high pressure clouds.
