The city of Wehnomahtor did not sprawl; it climbed. Like ivy choking an ancient tree, the architecture of the city clung desperately to the sheer cliffs of the Still Reach, a vertical labyrinth of stone and iron, pipes and pistons, all shielded from the world’s fury by the colossal ancient Lavaforged Stormguard Wall.

 Here, in the rarefied air of the Upper Reach, where only the ‘High Houses’ dared to build their towers, the smog of the lower foundries was but a distant, sulphurous haze. It was a city of pipes—steam vents hissing like serpents, hot water conduits groaning under pressure, chemical sluices gurgling with the lifeblood of industry—all woven together in a chaotic tapestry of necessity and greed.

Mr. Ponzi stood at the high arched window of Lautrec Manor, a cup of lukewarm tea in hand, watching the sun attempt to pierce the perpetual gloom. It was a rare privilege, this view of the sunset, reserved for those who lived above the cloud line.

 Below him, the city descended into the murk, a stratified hierarchy of misery; but here, surrounded by the rich mahogany and velvet of a bygone era, time seemed to hold its breath. 

The ‘High Houses’ were peculiar creatures—migratory birds who nested in these airy towers only during the Calm Season, retreating like frightened moles into their subterranean bunkers when the Storm Season howled. Gloomy, sun-starved aristocrats, clutching their ‘Patterns’ as if they were shields against the encroaching chaos.

He turned from the window, his gaze settling on the portrait that dominated the study. Lord and Lady Lautrec, frozen in oil and varnish, stared back with eyes full of pious resignation. They were gone now, consumed by their own devotion and the merciless economics of a changing world. Ponzi, once a servant in the strictest sense, now found himself in a peculiar position. The young master, Richard—that ‘Engine-Boy,’ that whirlwind of gears and heresy had declared such distinctions ‘archaic.’

Mr. Ponzi summoned a memory that refused to fade into the city’s perpetual smog—a recollection as sharp and stinging as fresh steam. It was in the hollow silence immediately following the double funeral. There stood the young master, that precipitous youth known variously to the whispering staff as the Pipe-Lad, the Steam-Child, and ultimately, the Engine-Boy.

With a face smeared with the grease of some unholy machine he had doubtless dismantled to assuage his grief, and eyes burning with a terrifying intelligence, he made his proclamation.

“‘From this hour, you are Mr. Ponzi,’ he announced, wiping a blackened hand upon his fine mourning suit without a care. ‘You are my colleague, sir! Partners in crime! I have long held the term “servant” in utter contempt. Such distinctions are, frankly, archaic!'”

Ponzi sighed, the sound lost in the ticking of the grand clock. Partners. It was a dangerous promotion. He picked up the ledger, its leather cover worn smooth by years of anxious thumbing. 

The numbers did not lie; the Lautrec fortune was a candle burning at both ends, fuelled by the young master’s insatiable curiosity. He thought of Richard, undoubtedly down in the Scrapyard at this very moment, haggling with criminals over rusted junk. A genius, certainly. A visionary, perhaps. But a Lord?

“Oh, Master Richard,” Ponzi whispered to the empty room, “you wish to calculate the chaos of the stars, yet you cannot balance a simple chequebook. What are we to do with you?”