Jem had made the new spring longer than the broken one.
“It has to be,” he told Iven. “The ends were cut down after the old one was shaped.”
Iven held the two pieces side by side. The original had been formed from a flat strip of steel, curved into a shallow arc, with a hole at each end for a mounting pin. The crack ran through one hole. The blank Jem had prepared was straight, with enough extra material to trim after it had been bent and tempered.
“Did you make it yourself?” Iven asked.
“Dessa found the steel. I cut it.”
“Did Neri approve the dimensions?”
“She approved the dimensions. She hasn’t approved your habit of asking questions before breakfast.”
Iven set a paper packet on the workbench. It contained two hot rolls from Asa’s stall. Jem opened it, sniffed, and handed one back.
“Now you’ve paid for the answers,” he said.
They ate while the yard came to life. Dessa was checking a stack of rope. Neri stood beneath the half-repaired roof, speaking to a client who wanted a new balcony supported from a wall she considered unsuitable. The client kept pointing at the wall. Neri kept pointing at the street below it.
“She’s going to win,” Jem said.
“How can you tell?”
“She already refused the job twice. He’s come back.”
The spring needed a former to give it the right curve. Jem had built one from a heavy block with a rounded face. He secured it to the bench while Iven cleaned the metal blank. They heated the strip in a small forge until it could be worked, then placed it over the former and pressed it gradually into shape. The first curve was uneven. Jem adjusted one end with a hammer while Iven held the other with tongs.
“Not there,” Jem said.
“I was going to put it back.”
“Then not there for very long.”
When the curve matched the old spring, they trimmed the ends and drilled the mounting holes. The holes had to be far enough from the edge that the pins would not split the steel under repeated movement. Iven measured twice, marked the centers, and drilled slowly. He smoothed the edges afterward, running a fingertip around each hole to find any burr that might begin another crack.
The spring still needed its proper heat treatment. Jem took charge of that part. Iven had worked with springs before, but Jem knew this forge and its habits. He watched the color of the metal, adjusted the heat, and cooled it at the right moment. Afterward they cleaned it again and mounted it in a testing frame.
The frame was nothing elaborate: two fixed points for the pins and a screw that pressed on the center of the spring. Neri came over when she had finished refusing the balcony job for the third time.
“He offered more money,” she said.
“Did the wall improve?” Iven asked.
“No. It became more expensive.”
Jem turned the screw. The spring bent, then returned when he released it. They repeated the movement with a heavier load. Iven watched for a twist that would put more strain on one pin than the other. The spring flexed evenly.
“Again,” Neri said.
Jem tested it until the motion became almost dull. That was the point. A spring that behaved once could still fail on its hundredth movement; a spring that behaved repeatedly gave them reason to install it and keep watching.
Iven placed his fingers on the steel after the test. The metal was cool enough to touch. The graft along his left forearm responded with the now-familiar sense of a pattern settling into place. The spring’s function was not strength alone. It stored a limited push, returned toward its resting shape, and released force along the direction in which it had been bent.
He withdrew his hand.
“Another one?” Neri asked.
“Maybe.”
“That’s what you said about the plate.”
“The plate agreed with me.”
He carried the spring to a clear patch of yard and seated the new pattern. The bell and brace were already ready; he let the bell settle back into the library to make room. Then he pressed one foot against the ground and tried to release a small upward impulse.
He rose about an inch and landed on the same foot.
Dessa looked up from her rope. “Impressive.”
“I didn’t want to alarm anyone.”
“Consider me reassured.”
He tried again, more deliberately. This time the push came through both legs. He rose high enough to clear a low timber and landed with his knees bent. The effect was brief and direct, not the feeling of being carried. If he pointed the force badly, the ground would not forgive him.
Neri stepped around the timber. “How far?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then don’t find out near the roof supports.”
She moved a crate into the clear area and marked a line on the ground. Iven stood at the line, aimed for the far side of the crate, and released the spring’s push. He cleared it neatly, landed, and had to take two quick steps to avoid striking the yard wall.
“Far enough,” Neri said.
“Not quite.”
He turned back. The movement had been easier than climbing over the crate and considerably more enjoyable. He could feel the cost as a light warmth in his left arm, but there was no ringing in his ears and no corresponding weakness in his legs. He could do it again if he had a reason.
Jem pointed toward the spring. “Can you enjoy yourself after we install that?”
“I was testing it.”
“You were smiling.”
“An unfortunate side effect.”
They carried the spring to Cage Seven. The suspension sat beneath a protective cover near the lower guide. Tavin had kept the cage at the landing and diverted passengers to the other service route for the morning. He watched Jem remove the damaged spring and compare its mounting points with the new one.
“Will this make the ride smoother?” he asked.
“It will make the guide take the movement it’s supposed to take,” Jem said.
“That’s a longer way of saying yes.”
“It’s a shorter way of saying I won’t promise every passenger enjoys your cage.”
The new spring fitted. They secured the pins, checked that the guide could move without rubbing the housing, and tested the cage empty. It rose, stopped, and returned. The landing felt less abrupt than before. Tavin rode it himself on the second test, standing in the center with one hand on the rail.
“Well?” Iven called when the cage returned.
“I didn’t spill anything.”
“You weren’t holding anything.”
“Exactly. Excellent ride.”
He reopened the cage for passengers. The first was the woman who had brought her father’s medicine. She recognized Iven and asked whether the gate would stay open today.
“I’ve stopped making promises for the heat board,” he said.
“Then promise for the cage.”
“We’ve tested it. Tavin will tell you if anything changes.”
She considered that and stepped inside. Her father followed, moving slowly but without the cart. He wore the freshly washed coat she had carried to the clinic.
“Too many new people again,” he told Iven.
“Same cage, though.”
“That helps.”
When they reached the upper landing, Iven crossed to the rail and looked down toward Rung Ward. From here the lower streets seemed orderly: a curve of roofs, narrow walkways, and pipes tracing lines between them. The smell of cooking rose through the warm air. He could see Asa’s stall by the colored cloth tied above it, and the top of the old bathhouse where Sera’s clinic sat.
He could also see the scar left by the gate closure. A section of the street remained dark where water had stood. People were working there, moving boards and carrying buckets. At this height they looked like small, patient figures repairing the marks left by something much larger than themselves.
Sera found him at the rail. “Your arm?”
“Attached.”
“That’s not the question.”
“The dressing can come off soon. I used the new spring pattern twice.”
“Three times,” Neri said from behind him.
“The first one barely counted.”
“It counted for the crate.”
Sera checked the dressing and told him he could remove it that evening if the skin remained clean and dry. She did not ask him to demonstrate the spring. She had brought a folded work order instead.
“A maintenance team wants an inspection below the rear saddle,” she said. “The work is paid. They need someone who can repair access equipment and knows how to keep out of bad air.”
“Do they know what lives down there?”
“They’ve hired someone who claims to.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No. I thought you might notice.”
The order named a route through several warm maintenance passages. The team was to inspect a series of filter housings, recover tools left by an earlier crew, and check whether recent drilling had damaged a support line. The pay was enough to cover the broken lamp, what he owed Dessa, and a little more for Vale’s fund.
“Who hired them?” he asked.
“The rear maintenance board. The order is legitimate.”
“You checked.”
“I read it.”
He took the paper. “When?”
“Two days. The person who knows about the creatures wants to meet before we go.”
Neri glanced at the route. “There’s a narrow section here. The old map shows a ladder, but the ladder was removed after a flood.”
“Can we get through?” Sera asked.
“Probably. I’d rather ask someone who’s been there recently.”
“That’s why we’re meeting her.”
Tavin came over when the cage settled at the landing. “Are you going below again?”
“If I accept.”
“You will.”
“It’s pleasant to have my decisions made for me.”
Tavin pointed toward Rung Ward. “You owe a woman a lamp. You owe Dessa a morning’s work. And you haven’t stopped looking at that order since Sera handed it to you.”
“I could still refuse.”
“You could.” Tavin held out his hand. “Give it back, then.”
Iven folded the order and put it in his pocket. Tavin’s missing teeth showed when he smiled.
“Thought so.”
That evening Iven delivered the replacement lamp to the workshop woman. He had bought a new glass and fitted it to a sound body, then tested it until the flame burned steadily behind the cover. She examined it without thanking him immediately.
“It’s heavier,” she said.
“The handle is stronger.”
“Is it mine?”
“It is now.”
She lit it. The flame held as she swung the lamp gently from side to side. At last she nodded and placed it on the bench.
“You can cross out the debt.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
On his way home he stopped at Vale’s kitchen. Asa was carrying a pot to the table, and Brin was trying to persuade a child that a fish could operate a lift if it had a sufficiently small uniform.
“The fish would need a ticket,” the child said.
“It owns the lift,” Brin replied.
“Then it should give everyone tickets.”
Iven dropped a few coins into the relief box when no one was looking. He had less than he wanted to leave, but more work was coming. Vale glanced at the box as he stepped away. If she had seen him, she gave no sign.
Asa handed him a bowl. “You look pleased with yourself.”
“I repaired a spring.”
“And?”
“And now I can jump over a crate.”
She looked him up and down. “A large crate?”
“Respectably large.”
“Then tomorrow you can jump over the one blocking my back door.”
“I was hoping to avoid work.”
“That’s why I asked.”
He ate with the others while the kitchen filled. Outside, Mercy’s movement passed through the building as a slow, familiar sway. The bowls trembled on the table, then settled. No one stopped talking. A city had to learn which movements were ordinary if its people were to live inside them.
Iven thought of the chamber beneath filter bank nine, the pale creature striking the bent pipe, and the warm surface that had contracted under its supports. He did not know whether the movement had been ordinary. In two days he would go below with someone who might have an answer, or at least a better question.