The Cogwheel Exchange was not an open square. It was an eighty-foot upright cave carved into the dark rock beneath the central foundry basins, lit up entirely by the dull red glare of overflow melted rock waste water chutes.
Four tiers of rusted iron balconies clung to the circular rock walls, linked by swaying chain-ladders and greasy cargo hoists. The air hung thick with atomized cutting oil, crushed coal dust, and the sharp, vinegar tang of lead batteries. Below the balconies, hundreds of miners, unlicensed boiler mechanics, and deserters from the Void-court work-gangs moved through narrow stalls hammered together from scavenged locomotive plating.
Ren Vale kept his rough wool hood drawn low, his chin buried in the collar of his grease-stained lambskin apron.
Beside him walked Vane Vale, whose midnight-blue velvet coat was hidden beneath a giant canvas tarpaulin to hide the high-born embroidery. Even so, the Merchant walked with the stiff, fastidious stance of a man navigating a cholera ward, his kidskin-gloved fingers constantly checking the heavy gold-trimmed brass counting frame tucked securely into his sash.
Behind them loomed Unit Ren.
To avoid inciting an immediate riot of panic, the machine-grafted summon had draped himself in three layers of heavy, grease-soaked burlap sacking. It was tied around his iron shoulders with frayed hemp cable. Beneath the burlap, the bulk of his blackened breastplate made him look like a nine-foot freight hauler. At the same time, his three-foot piston-wrench was wrapped in oily rags and slung across his back like…
