Archive of Our Own

The trip from the factory to the tower’s lower levels was simpler than expected. Not a week ago, it would have been a challenge of trial and error, of a FORMULA that could easily go inert, but the Traveler had revealed something new, FIVE parts connection to ONE part nervous enthusiasm.

The nerves were Htet’s contribution. She could only hope things didn’t EXPLODE.

Before her trip down to the lower levels, Aung had stopped her in the LIBRARY. To her great surprise, the older archives had small, handwritten dictionaries between Alchem and all the tower’s languages, and she was placing the last volume in her satchel before Aung waved her over and asked if she were headed somewhere.

She nodded. “.”I’M FIXING PLANTS

Aung did not deal with botanical derivatives, working mostly in the SILVER MINE, but it was a well-known fact that he’d always been curious about their neighbors down below. He gestured behind him, to a group of study carrels in a quiet corner of the library. Bards sat there, chatting in their open, melodic language.

Htet stared, but the bards didn’t notice. They were huddled over a book, translating Alchem. They took easily to the tones but seemed to struggle with word order. Someone laughingly murmured ME YOU LOVE and got a good-natured slap in return.

“YOU WANT TO HELP THE BARDS?”

Alchem didn’t have a word for Devotee. “I’M FIXING THE DEVOTEES’ PLANTS,” she said. But maybe she could visit…

“YOU’RE VISITING THE BARDS,” he said in Bardic, reading the thoughtful tilt of her head.

She hummed in acknowledgement, and Aung laughed.

“BROTHERS!”

“BROTHERS,” she repeated, then slapped him on the shoulder, gently, as she saw the bards do. She imagined a smile beneath his mask.

Books on hand, she headed down the elevator. At the bottom was a dark place, a bit SCARY as she realized how close it opened to LABORATORY 3. There was a low, rumbling echo from a shadowy cavern nearby. She hurriedly walked past lanterns set equidistant along the path and entered a cave.

The cave was strange. Alchemists had some training in magnetics, and there was a certain… buzz to magnetic fields that could be felt even through their robes. The magnetic field in the cave was wobbly. How long would it take to leave?

A few dizzying steps later, and she was leaving the blue-red walls and squinting at sunlight. A part of her wanted to ask how she’d gotten out so quickly, to take measurements against the strangeness, but the other part… The other part was dazzled by just how lush the gardens were.

Had she more time for research, the bards’ biome would have been an irresistible tunnel to dig. The communication between her and Horti, the Devotees’ gardener, had made the bard’s floor more diversion than destination, but oh!

The sky was clear overhead. Spiky fronds left dappled shadows beneath them, photosynthesizing on tall, healthy trees. It was so unlike the dark factory, where plants were grown under UV lights and carefully propagated to ensure that seed stores never ran low.

What else did we lose, with the tower so divided?

As she continued downward, she came across an artist painting on canvas. Alchemists and bards wore masks, so both peoples relied on body language as a part of communication. Like two plants from the same gene, each offshoot carried similar traits, and even though Htet’s Bardic was rusty, the artist seemed pleased much in the way an alchemist would be to hear Htet’s admiration of her work.

“I FIND BEAUTY,” Htet said, pointing at the leaves and stems.

The artist chuckled. “YOU’RE NO FOOL,” she said, praising and boasting both.

Htet grappled for the Bardic word for plant, coming up short. “I LIKE PLANTS.”

The artist considered the words, and smiled. “I LIKE PLANTS.”

If only Htet knew more words! They could speak of anther and calyx and palmate leaves, whorls of petals on delicate stems. The Traveler had revived connections, but only just. All Htet could do was hum appreciatively and hope it was enough.

After a quick bow and a wave from the artist, Htet continued downward and finally reached the boat that would lead to the elevator to the warriors’ floor. She removed a glove, allowing herself to feel the cool water flow through her fingers. In the factory, water was dangerous; too much runoff from the machines, too much mine dust.

When the boat stopped and she regloved, the fabric felt tight against her damp skin. A crossed-out sign overhead stated no warriors allowed, but she passed by two people with unmistakable helmets. As she pulled a lever, the floor lowered and air grew chillier. Her eyes adjusted to light much like her floor’s own.

The warriors had an austere floor, geometric. Alchemists had their own precision points, where a wrong-sided number could result in DEATH. There were no plants here, either. No greens or pinks, although the red light sometimes shone like the COPPER-touched flowers at the mine.

She passed a huge amphitheater, listening to Bardic mixed with bits of Warrese, open vowels and guttural consonants. They weren’t meant to mix, like a BAD FORMULA, but that was exciting too. Chances for something wonderful, a new synergy.

“HEY,” someone called, and Htet jumped. She turned to see a person wearing a shorter helmet than those of the warriors in the gardens above. They were without armament, although two wrists were encased in metal bracers.

From what she could piece together, they were Brandr, head of inventory. Their work was like that of the scientist who ensured ingot stores were maintained in the WORKSHOP. As they spoke, they gestured with long sweeps of their arms.

It turned out that some of the bottles and pipes in the factory were warrior-made, built in workspaces tucked beyond the storerooms. In defiance of their name, warriors weren’t just fighters. They were musicians and craftsmen.

Htet smiled and nodded as Brandr showed off a forge. Did they have CARBON stores too? That would make powerful weapons indeed.

As Htet checked her timepiece, Brandr asked about the numbers on its face, and that resulted into another lively conversation about number systems. The warriors also used staves and ticks, but had less need for larger numbers. That made sense—who could possibly move thousands of bottles in one pass?

Then it really was time for Htet to leave. “BYE,” Brandr bellowed.

There was a pathway between the warriors’ and Devotees’ floors that appeared to be hardly used, even more starkly polished than the rest of the space. The temperature rose as she descended, a rush of dry air making her thankful for her mask while also making her sweat beneath its synthetic polymers.

“MILADY!”

There was a woman at the gate, shuffling from foot to foot as if nervous. It was Horti, the gardener from the tower communication. She spoke slowly, which Htet appreciated. Her head was already full of new words and ideas, and even parsing the honorific was tricky. And a bit embarrassing!

“HELLO,” Htet said, switching respectfully to Devotee, which seemed to make the woman a bit less nervous. The consonants were tricky, unfamiliarly spiky, but she’d practice. “I HAVE COME.”

Horti bowed and thanked Htet in words Htet couldn’t quite catch.

“I FIX PLANT,” Htet replied.

“NOT PLANT, SINGULAR,” said Horti with a sad sigh, which had Htet momentarily puzzled. “PLANTS, PLURAL.”

Right, right. Plurals. “PLANTS, PLURAL,” Htet agreed.

It sounded like a bigger problem than she’d thought. Could alchemic science help? She patted her satchel nervously, reaching in to confirm that her notebook was tucked between the dictionaries. “DON’T WORRY; I WILL HELP YOU FIX THE PLANTS.”

Horti looked puzzled the slip into Alchem, but smiled gratefully.

And the connection grew stronger.