Serpents and Stairways

Chapter I - Part 4

In master Bolyai's workshop everything ticked.

Dinah heard the tick of the narrow pathways—that were winding between the clock frames, tables, lamps and drawing boards—laid with eastern carpets tossed one over the other. The ticking came from every corner: from the exposed mechanisms, put on displays; from the price-tagged clocks, hanging on the walls; from the tiny pocket lilliputs, and from the gigantic floor towers, with princesses and dragons inside following their daily schedules. Servantes was also ticking, but somewhat...

"Oh my," Announced from the depths of the workshop someone's hearty full-bodied voice, "Someone here has been through a lot, it seems!"

...inconsistently. It smelled of dust, bergamot and burnt rosin. Light, filtering in through the colored glass, divided the space into distinct geometric sections, the sharpness of their edges lost on Dinah.

"We had a tough day," Dinah admitted, glare of her glasses darting around the workshop in futile attempt of telling the owner of that voice apart from the commodes, buffets, and mahogany shelves that he immediately resembled in her imagination, "My name is Dinah Gremin, this—is Servantes, and you must be master Bolyai. Or one of his apprentices."

"Master Bolyai in the flesh!" Said one of the cabinets and parted from the wall, "Let's take a look at the big guy, shall we?"

And so commenced the examination which was indistinguishable from magic. By the clanging caress of screwdrivers and pliers against the metal body, by the alloy marks of flashes, by the chime of tools that resonate when someone's seeking for the right one, Dinah was trying to foretell Servantes's future, cautiously peeking into what was to come.

She ran her fingers through her hair, untangling the stranded strands. She touched the bags under her eyes. She pulled out a pine needle from the vest lining and tried to stitch together the hole in the cosmos, which was making the minutes of waiting seem so long, by pricking her fingertips with it.

"I'll be honest, Miss Gremin, your friend isn't doing well." Master Bolyai said about an eternity and a half later, abruptly removing his monstrous goggles with arrays of auxiliary lenses, "Just replacing the missing pieces is going to take who-knows how long. Master Wolkov's work, isn't it?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Factory assembly engineers aside, there aren't that many puppeteers in the world. Besides, you've said his name is Servantes"

"Yes, but..."

"Master Wolkov names each creation of his after some writer. A well-known fact among us, puppeteers."

The master swiftly left the table. He was wearing a two-piece suit, an apron over it, and a cologne, as arduous as mountain trails—a seismic wake that followed him around the workshop.

"Is that... bad? I thought that Wolkov was a good engineer."

"The best there is! The problem is that I'm not him, young lady."

The man made an abrupt turn, evaded some obstacle in his way, and sat down at the bench near the window. By the long-drawn-out pause Dinah figured that he was either inviting her to do the same with a gesture, or that it was supposed to be self-evident. A kettle gurgled twice, filling two cups. Alright...

"So, how much do you know about the way automatons work?" Master Bolyai asked, overlooking her efforts. Did he really not notice or was he trying to be polite?

Dinah tried to remember. She knew that Servantes's body—all of its couplings, weights, wheels, levers and shafts, all that his body contained—wasn't in its essence what he was, Instead it was a terminal, a way of interacting with the world. The real existence of her daring knight—who he was, his thoughts, feelings, memories and other borderline-meaningless and evanescent nonsense which is the substance of any thinking being—was hiding in his crystal heart. That, however, was the extent of her knowledge.