Then, the mechoservitor leaped high into the air and pirouetted. It landed solidly on the edge of the wall, the white winter sunlight glinting and flashing off its battered chassis. Its eyes flashed as it looked down; its gears ground and whistled.
Isaak bellowed and lunged forward, but it was too late. The mechoservitor threw himself from the height of the wall. Neb raced to the place where it had jumped, and behind him, Aedric and the others did the same. By the time Neb reached the wall, the mechoservitor was on his feet, racing down the Whymer Way and into the Churning Wastes.
Neb opened his mouth to say something, the words of the mechoservitor flapping against his inner ear like harried birds, but then he closed it. It is not yet your time. He looked to Isaak and then to Aedric. A purple bruise swelled on the side of the First Captain’s face, and there was a resolute look in his eye. He studied the fleeing metal man with furrowed brow, then turned to the watch captain. “Send a bird to the Seventh Forest Manor,” he said in a low voice. “Tell Lady Tam what has happened here today. Tell her that we hunt the mechoservitor in the Wastes.”
The watch captain nodded and left.
Aedric turned to Neb. “Magick the horses for speed. We leave in five minutes.” Then, he turned to Isaak. “Fetch your tools, metal man. You’ll need them.”
Neb ran down the stairs, already whistling orders to the Gypsy Scouts around him, who scrambled to gather horses and gear. Behind him, he heard Isaak chugging and clicking as his sure metal feet matched Neb’s frantic pace along the stone steps.
If you had tasted the dream, the metal man had said, you would understand.
As Neb’s whistled orders turned to shouts, he found himself wondering what kind of dreams metal men could have and how it was that those dreams brought understanding. He thought about his own dreams and the ambiguity and chaos that filled them. Last, he thought about the metal man’s destination, somewhere hidden in the Churning Wastes, and pondered how it was that he knew the mechoservitor was lying about Sanctorum Lux.
Then he turned himself to packing his kit and strapping it to the back of his freshly magicked horse, its hooves, still white with the River Woman’s powders, striking sparks on the wide stones of the Whymer Way. All his life, he’d longed for the Wastes. It was his romance with history, sharpened by years spent in the Great Library reading of the Order’s expeditions into that vast desolation.
Now, at the edge of this history, Neb felt suddenly fearful of what ghosts awaited beyond these gates of yesterday.
Petronus
Petronus sat at the table, waiting for the slight, dark-skinned girls to lay breakfast on the table. He sipped at his chai and tried not to fret.
We should be there by now, he thought. Certainly, time moved differently when you were locked belowdecks with no way to tell night from day. But as best as he could measure it, they’d been running with the wind at a goodly clip, and even the farthest side of the Delta was within easy reach of Caldus Bay inside of two days for a vessel like the Kinshark. Something delayed them.
Of course, there were other things worth fretting about. Like the body of the Marsher stored in the hold, glassy-eyed and bloody-mouthed in death. And the Marsher’s cryptic words: My master sent a squad for the others. Which others? What master? Certainly, someone with a deep hatred of Petronus specifically and the Androfrancines in general, it seemed.
He sent me alone for you because you are old and alone. These were hard truths to come to, and as glad as Petronus was for Grymlis’s intervention, he felt the words deep in his bones. Old and alone.
But alive, he thought, which is better than he could say for his attacker. Which raised yet another question: What had killed his would-be assassin? He hoped that whatever allies Grymlis had forged on the Delta could help him navigate the Whymer Maze his life had become.
Petronus looked up when Grymlis entered the galley, followed by one he assumed must be their host, Rafe Merrique. It was the first time he’d seen the pirate since coming aboard the Kinshark three days earlier, though he’d heard him both above deck and below as he shouted and cursed at his men in raucous good humor. They’d passed in the narrow halls a few times, of course, the captain greeting him with pronounced jocularity, but Merrique and his men stayed magicked nearly as much as scouts at war, fleeting shadows that jostled as they slipped by. It made sense to Petronus-above deck, the oils that kept the vessel hidden from view would require an equally invisible crew. And belowdecks, the occasional passengers they ferried could not easily identify their hosts should they ever be asked to by those who might view Rafe Merrique’s chosen trade less favorably.
Now, the old pirate smiled grimly behind his salt-and-pepper beard, taking a seat at the head of the table. He wore a bright green cap and matching trousers that offset a canary-yellow silk shirt and a purple sash. He held up a scrap of paper in one of his gnarled hands. “I’ve a bird from our friends on the Delta,” he said.
Petronus scowled. “We should be there by now.”
Rafe nodded. “We have been for a day. We’re just biding time.” He nodded when one of the girls stepped forward with an iron kettle of chai and lifted the steaming cup after she filled it. Another girl brought a platter of hot, dark bread and a wooden bowl that Petronus knew must be honey based on previous breakfasts. One thing he could say for certain: Their host knew how to feed his guests. Since arriving, they’d been served platefuls of roast pork and chicken; bowls of fresh, sweet fruits and lightly salted nuts; wheels of hard, strong-smelling cheeses; and tankards of cool beer. The cooks worked tirelessly, serving up four meals a day.
Petronus reached for a thick slice of the bread. “How long will we wait?” he asked as he dipped his knife into the butter.
Rafe shrugged. “Not long. But given the circumstances, we must be cautious.” He slid the note across the table.
Petronus took a bite of the bread, set it down, wiped his hands on a cloth napkin and picked up the paper. He read it quickly, his stomach lurching as he did.
My master sent a squad for the others.
He read the note again slowly now, the dread in his belly growing colder as he did. Erlund was in hiding after a double had been killed on the same night Petronus was attacked. The Marsh King and the Crown Prince of Turam were killed at Rudolfo’s Firstborn Feast. Queen Meirov’s heir-a ten-year-old son-had been butchered in his bed. There were others, too. The male heirs and in some instances, the minor lords themselves, throughout the Named Lands, had all been struck, including the loose affiliation of city-states along the Emerald Coasts and even a few of the stronger houses on the Divided Isle. He passed the note to Grymlis and watched the old guard pale when he read it. When he finished, he passed it back to Rafe.
Petronus looked to the bread but knew now he wouldn’t be eating it. “These are the most powerful families in the Named Lands.”
“Aye,” Rafe Merrique said. “Excluding two.”
Petronus thought about this. “The Forest Houses and House Li Tam.”
Rafe nodded. “Indeed. And the finger points to your friend Rudolfo again.”
Yes, Petronus thought, just on the heels of the Named Lands going to war against the Gypsy Scouts in the mistaken belief that he’d brought down Windwir. In that instance, Rudolfo had been framed by Sethbert in a strategy to shore up the loss of Windwir’s impact on the Entrolusian economy by seizing Rudolfo’s resource-rich lands. Petronus’s mind reeled as it worked the cipher. If Marsher Scouts, under blood magicks, had killed their own king and these others, it meant a brewing storm as surely as a red sky at morning. But he could not believe Rudolfo would be behind it. He knew the man, and it was not in his nature. But there was another-an older friend-more likely.
“It smells of Vlad Li Tam’s handiwork,” he said, and it broke his heart to say it. Vlad Li Tam and his children had sailed out from the Named Lands. The last visit of his iron armada, seven months past, was still the tavern talk of Caldus Bay.
Rafe filled a plate with roasted ham and spiced potatoes. “Our friends concur. They believe there’s a Li Tam network of some kind still in place.”
Petronus’s eyes narrowed. “You seem to be quite privy to your friends’ knowledge.”
Rafe smiled. “Knowing my employer’s motivations and suspicions is often good business. And I have an interest in the success of their experiment in democracy.”
Petronus nodded. It wouldn’t be the first time the notion of representative government had raised its head in the New World. But he doubted it would come to much. Even the Order, as enlightened as it had been in many ways, had recognized the unlikelihood of that approach to government working, though the earliest days of Settlement had operated in a similar fashion. Still, he’d followed the Delta’s civil war with interest, picking up what news he could by the bird, though political machinations weren’t his primary focus. And he could see why the notion of free, democratic city-states at the delta of the Three Rivers could benefit someone in Rafe’s line of work. A thought struck him. “You keep a thumb on the pulse of your employer?”
Rafe chewed his food and swallowed, chasing it with a mug of lemon beer. “Certainly. As much as I can.”
Petronus leaned forward. “Then perhaps you’d have some idea as to why they’d want to fund my escape and harbor me?”
Rafe smiled. “I have theories. Nothing solid to stand on, of course.”
Petronus sat back. “Indulge me.”
The pirate chuckled. “Isn’t it obvious? You killed Sethbert. He wasn’t terribly popular at home or abroad. Especially among this particular crowd. That makes you a kind of hero, I suspect. You are also the last Pope of the Androfrancine Order.” Rafe must have seen the dark cloud pass over Petronus’s face. “Regardless of your feelings on that matter, it makes you a powerful political figure with threads of kin-clave woven into a fairly vast tapestry of connections.” He paused to sip more beer. “They face a nearly impossible task and need all of the friends they can make. And judging by the corpse in the hold, you need all of the friends you can make, as well.”
The day Petronus had dropped the knife and ring beside Sethbert’s body, he’d also dropped all notions of involvement in affairs of state. And the day he’d first seen Vlad’s satchel of papers, he’d given himself to a new work that required all of his attention. He had no time for violent idealists and their own backward-looking dreams. He turned to Grymlis. “Do you concur with our host?”
“I do, Father,” the old soldier said. He didn’t smile as he said it. “And I believe I can keep you safe there. Safer than in Caldus Bay.”
He nodded slowly. “And do you think they could be the ones who warned you of the attack?”
Grymlis shook his head. “I doubt it. Why would they remain anonymous in that case? If they truly wish your influence on their cause-at any level, quiet or public-they would be better served to build your trust quickly with forthrightness.”
Petronus sighed, pushing the food on his plate around with his fork. He had no appetite left. “We’ll know soon enough, I imagine.” He pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “If you gentlemen will excuse me?”
At their nods, he left the galley and returned to his room. Over the course of his three days aboard the Kinshark, Petronus had availed himself of his room’s small shelf of books. He’d picked his way through Gervais’s Four Plays of the Early Settlements; read smatterings of verse by the Poet-Pope Windwir, namesake of the fallen city; and had perused Enoch’s largely apocryphal History of the Wizard Kings, starting with the Year of the Falling Moon and the last of the Weeping Czars, Frederico, who fell in love with a wizard’s daughter and brought down the wrath of Raj Y’Zir. These books lay open on the small table, waiting for him, but the conversation over breakfast had stripped him of his hunger for them.
Instead, he went to the packet of papers and started winding through that Whymer Maze once again, jotting notes as he went.
Vlad Li Tam
He awoke to water and darkness, opening his mouth to drink hot air. It was like breathing through a sock that had been boiled in urine, and he retched. Nothing came up.