Taya's father ran an iron smelting factory in Tertius, and her sister was marrying one of his chief engineers. Most of the factory workers had come for the festivities, along with the family's friends and neighbors.
Taya held a cup of weak punch and watched Katerin dance, a flash of white moving through the dark suits and dresses of the other guests.
"That'll be you down there, soon enough," her father said, at her elbow. Taya started, then smiled.
"I'm not in a hurry, Papa," she said.
"Too busy working, are you? Heard from the exam board yet?"
"No. It's still too soon. Even if I do well on the exam, they'll be running background checks and talking to my employers and friends."
"You've not a thing to worry about." He kissed her on the forehead. "I've faith you'll pass your test, and nobody will speak poorly of you, not under the wires nor up in the air. Now, doff those wings and join the dancing. You've done your duty today, haven't you, and then some."
"I wasn't planning on staying much longer." Taya glanced up at the wings that curved over her head. The two primaries were still bent. She'd returned to the eyrie too late to ask the smith to repair them, and she'd needed her armature for the wedding. Icarii were considered good luck, especially at weddings, so she'd promised her sister she'd wear her wings to the ceremony.
"Tired?"
"It's been a long day."
"I suppose it has, and the longer for spending time with us instead of your own caste."
Taya glanced at him, worried, but her father was smiling, one hand on her arm while his eyes followed his youngest daughter with contented pride.
Filled with affection, Taya leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. His red hair, which she'd inherited, was streaked with grey now, and dirt from his job had ingrained itself into his skin like another tattoo, revealing his caste as clearly as the black circle on his forehead. Taya knew some icarii who were embarrassed to come from the famulate caste, but she'd always been proud of her father.
"I wouldn't have missed this for the world," she said. "Tomas seems like a good man."
"He is that." Her father smiled. "We're glad you came down. Katie's told anyone who'll listen that her sister the icarus was going to be at her wedding, hasn't she?"
"She's not jealous of me leaving the caste, is she?"
"Of you, sweetness?" Her father's eyebrows rose. "Lady, no. She thinks you've a dismal enough life, full of long days and risky work and not a decent man in all those crowded eyries of yours."
"There are too decent icarii!" Taya protested, shooting her oblivious sister an annoyed look.
Her father chuckled and moved away to talk to his guests.
Taya stuck it out for another hour, exchanging polite inconsequentials with childhood acquaintances who came up to ask about the wireferry wreck and touch her wings for good luck. They were all famulates, and Taya felt the familiar discomfort of having left her birth-caste behind whenever the conversation faltered or turned to local affairs. A few children, clearly on the verge of their Great Examinations, asked her how to become an icarus, but she couldn't give them much advice. She knew that being small and not being afraid of heights were important, but she couldn't begin to guess what other variables the Great Engine calculated when it made its decisions.
Decatur Forlore would know
, she thought, then smiled at herself and dismissed the thought.
At last she kissed Katerin and Tomas good-bye and left the party with a distinct sense of relief.
Tertius sprawled at the base of Ondinium Mountain, where it primarily housed members of the famulate caste — miners and metalworkers, engineers and smiths — and those foreigners who'd managed to purchase a labor or residency license, or who were visiting the city on business or out of curiosity. Even during the day, the streets of Tertius were shadowed by the network of wireferry towers and girders that surrounded the mountain with a metal web, and darkened by the ever-present blanket of smog from the factories that turned the sector's sky a sickly yellow and covered everything in a thin layer of soot.
Taya looked up but couldn't make out the stars, only the lights from Secundus and Primus. Returning to Tertius always gave her a twinge of nostalgia for the sights and smells she'd left at age seven, but her father was right — she didn't belong here anymore. Icarii moved between all the castes but fit in well with none of them, a social position that could be as awkward as it was liberating.
Breathing in the smoky, metallic air, she walked through dark, narrow stone streets toward the Great Market. When she'd been a child, she hadn't noticed how dirty everything was on Tertius, or how shabby.
The Great Engine ensured that nobody starved in Ondinium, but the difference between the heart of the city's industrial zone and the luxury of Oporphyr Tower was inescapable to someone who moved freely between them every day.
Still
, she thought, Ondinium is better than most countries.
It might be dirty and crowded, but she'd rather breathe a little soot than hunt and skin her own dinner, like the residents of neighboring Demicus.
Civilization had its price, but it also had its advantages.
Lost in thought, Taya was about to pass beneath the broad stone arch of a footbridge she had played on as a child when she heard footsteps scrape on the cobblestones behind her.
She turned.
Two men stood under a gas lamp, five yards away. One was tall and fair-haired: a Demican, wearing his people's rough native garments. The other was shorter and had the stocky build and bright vest of an Alzanan. Their faces were uninked. Foreigners.
"Can I help you?" she asked, trying to sound confident. Her gaze flickered to the sky. The way was clear enough, although she hadn't had to take flight from a flat run for years. But flying meant locking her arms into her wings, and she didn't want to make herself that vulnerable unless it became necessary.
"We am lost, Icarus," the Alzanan said, struggling with Ondinan. "How we go Blue Tree Hotel?"
The Blue Tree Hotel? That was a nice place… too nice for them.
Still, they might be meeting someone there
, she told herself, trying to keep an open mind.
Then the thought flickered past:
This could be one of those secret diplomacy tests.
"It's on Jasper Street in Secundus," she said, speaking Alzanan. "This bridge goes up to Secundus, and you can ask the guard at the sector gate how to get to the hotel. You'd better hurry, before the midnight lockdown."
"This bridge?" The Alzanan began walking forward, his neck craned. His tall companion followed, wearing the flat, stoic expression Demicans cultivated. "How do we get up to it?"
"Go back a block and turn right on Damper, then right again on Alumina. There are access steps on Crate Street. Look for the signs directing you to Whitesmith Bridge."
"But we were on Crate Street, and we didn't see any way up," the Alzanan protested in his own language, still advancing. Taya touched the utility knife strapped to her chest harness.
"Please don't come any closer, gentlemen," she said, still speaking Alzanan.
The two men paused.
"You don't need to be afraid of me." The Alzanan looked hurt. "I'm just asking for directions."
"Go back a block. Make two rights." Taya's heart was pounding. This could be a test, but it could also be the prelude to mugging. She was on Tertius, for the Lady's sake — people were attacked down here all the time. "Please go."
"Can I touch your wings for good luck?" The Alzanan took another step forward. Taya stepped backward, her hand tightening around the knife grip.
"I'm sorry, but I—"
Then she heard the scrape of metal against stone above her. Instinct took over and she threw herself forward, but heavy coils of rope hit her, jarring her wings and dragging at the metal feathers. Taya staggered, off-balance, and looked up. A second Alzanan leaned over the side of the bridge, leering down at her.
A net. Taya swore, feeling it encumbering her wings, its awkward weight threatening to pull her on her back.
This isn't a test!
The first Alzanan and the Demican lunged forward. Taya yanked at her harness buckles with one hand, slashing out with her knife when the Alzanan drew near.
"Help!" she shouted, feeling a buckle give way beneath her fingers. She began pulling at the next. The Demican drew a dagger from the back of his belt, his face hard.
They were going to kill her.
"Help! Guards!"
The Alzanan darted in like a knife-fighter, a thin blade materializing between his fingers and snapping across her harness. Its razor-sharp edge cut the backs of her fingers. Taya stabbed at him. He danced backward. A small nick marked his bare forearm.
The second buckle opened and her wings slid to one side across her shoulders. Taya tugged at the buckle around her waist, her fingers slippery with blood. If she could get out of the armature, she'd be able to fight. But right now her wings were nothing but deadweight.
"Guards!" she shouted again, angry. "Dammit, somebody get help!"
The Demican shoved his partner aside, stalking forward with menacing intensity. Taya worked harder to pull the waist strap open. Demicans were hunters and warriors, hardened by their nomadic life outside civilized lands. And this one was about two feet taller and wider than she was.
"What's going on here?" a hard voice snapped with authority.
The two men looked around, and Taya abandoned the buckle, taking the moment's opening to even the odds. She lunged forward and thrust her utility knife through the Demican's wool shirt and into his chest.
He roared with anger, grabbing her wrist and yanking her aside. The net tangled her feet and she sprawled, losing her knife. She wrenched her waist buckle open with both hands and twisted aside as the warrior's knife slashed down. The point of the blade caught her shoulder as she rolled away, leaving the net behind her.
Scrambling on all fours, Taya snatched her utility knife off the cobblestones.
Something gave a sharp, machinelike hiss. Behind her, the Demican grunted, sounding surprised.
Taya spun, rising into a fighting crouch.
The Demican was staring down at his chest. Two long metal needles stuck out from his shirt, blood spreading around them to match the growing stain where she'd stabbed him.
"Forget her! We go!" the Alzanan shouted in Ondinan, and ran. The Demican staggered, looked at his fleeing companion, and then followed.
Taya craned her neck, but there was no sign of the second Alzanan who'd been on top of the bridge.
Her wings floated a foot off the ground, trapped by the heavy rope net. Taya hurried over to them, hoping she could untangle the armature from the ropes without damaging it any further.
The newcomer's footsteps sounded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see a lictor.
Her rescuer had crouched to study the drops of blood on the cobblestones. The hem of his greatcoat dragged on the street, and he held a bulky iron airgun in one hand. Taya had seen the air rifles carried by Council guards, but she'd never seen one that was pistol-sized before.
Then the man looked up, lamplight flashing from the wire rims of his glasses. For a moment he and Taya stared at each other with mutual recognition.
"Exalted." Taya ducked in a clumsy bow, remembering their disagreeable meeting in Decatur Forlore's office. "Thank you for rescuing me."
Cristof was silent a moment longer, then stood. He slipped the gun into his coat pocket, where it made an unsightly lump. The cold night breeze ruffled the uneven ends of his dark hair. Taya had to look up to meet his eyes — like most icarii, she was small and slight, whereas he had an exalted's height, six feet tall or more.
"Well, icarus," he said, frowning. "You're either very careless or very unlucky."
His words irritated her. She turned back to her armature before he could see the annoyance in her expression.
"Actually, I consider myself very lucky," she said, working hard to keep her tone even. "I'm still alive."
"You're bleeding."
She glanced over her shoulder at the dark stain on her flight suit. The wound stung, but it was less inconvenient than the cut across her fingers.
"It's just a scratch." She turned back and tried to find the bottom of the net.
"Don't. You'll break it if you try to untangle it here. Take it back to my shop and do it in the light."
She hesitated. She didn't like his manner, and if she weren't so worried about her wings, she'd take great satisfaction in turning him down.
But it wasn't worth damaging her wings for the sake of pride.
"Is your shop close?"
"A few blocks away." He stepped next to her and began gathering the net's loose ends. She scooped the whole bundle off the ground. He turned his frown on her again. "I'll get it."
"I can do it, exalted," she insisted. "It's not heavy, and they're my wings."
He gave her a cool look, then handed her the rest of the net. As soon as she'd gotten all the ends wrapped up, he began walking, one hand jammed in his coat pocket.
Taya followed, silently, and wondered if this might be a test, after all. Her classes in diplomatic protocol had never covered how to deal with an outcaste exalted.
Cristof's workshop was small, tucked into the basement of a larger building that was filled with small businesses. They descended three steps from the street to get to the door, which he unlocked with two keys.
"Be careful," he said, leading her in. Taya followed, tugging her floating bundle behind her.
The first thing that struck her was the sound — a loud ticking, whirring, and clicking that came from every direction at once.
Cristof struck a lucifer match and lit a lamp. Taya looked around with wonder as he turned it to its brightest level and hung it on one of the low ceiling beams.
The exalted's shop was filled with clocks and watches, pumps and wind-up toys, every kind of clockwork mechanism imaginable. Most were in motion, their hands turning, pendulums swinging, and gears rotating.
"You have so many!" Taya breathed, her annoyance forgotten. She clutched her bundle and stared. Enamelwork and metal gleamed in the lamplight like moving jewels. Cristof had a small fortune hanging on his walls and sitting on his shelves. "Did you make them all?"
"No. Not all." He hesitated, then walked to a desk. The lamplight reflected off his cheekbones, making his face look even thinner. The exalted's waves tattooed on his face seemed to move in the unsteady light. "Put the net on the table. Make sure the armature doesn't float too high."
Reminded of her business, Taya tied two ends of the net to the table legs, letting the rest of the bundle float. Cristof returned with two knives and offered one. His hands were covered with dark smears — dirt or machine oil, she guessed. It was another indication of his outcaste status. Exalteds were fastidious about their appearance.
"It'll be faster to cut the ropes," he said. "That way we won't bend any feathers."
"If those bastards broke my wings, I'll kill them." Taya grabbed the knife, sawing at the cords.
"You might have, already. The man you stabbed was losing a lot of blood."
Taya cut through a rope and attacked the next. Then she set down the knife a moment, looking at the blood welling from the cuts on her fingers.
Had she really killed a man?
If he got to a hospital, he'd be all right.
Of course, he was a foreigner, and probably not even a licensed resident. Physicians weren't obliged to treat anyone who didn't pay Ondinium's taxes, and any respectable doctor would ask questions about those wounds that the Demican wouldn't want to answer.
Why did she care what happened to him, anyway? He'd tried to kill her.
"Scrap," she muttered, angrily.
Cristof paused, on the other side of the table.
"What?"
"What about you? You shot him, didn't you? If he dies, he'll probably die from that."
"Maybe." The exalted studied her. "Although needlers seldom kill at range. They're intended as deterrents."
"Oh. So if he dies, it's my fault." The thought depressed her. How would inflicting a fatal injury on a foreigner affect her chance at the diplomatic corps?
"If he dies, it's his fault for going icarus-hunting, not yours for defending yourself." Cristof went back to work, his slender fingers tugging at the net strands. "And it's his fault for letting himself be led around by Alzanans. A Demican should know better."
Not feeling very comforted, Taya picked up her knife again.
"I guess you don't like Alzanans."
"Half the Alzanans in Ondinium are spies. Maybe more." He sawed through another rope. "It doesn't surprise me that they'd want an operational armature. They could demand a king's ransom for these wings."
Taya began working on another rope, considering his words. She knew her wings were valuable, of course, but she'd never thought they'd attract thieves.
"Do you think they were specifically looking for wings?" she asked.
"They came with a net. That isn't a standard mugger's weapon. Did anyone know you'd be on Tertius tonight?"
The rope unraveled beneath her blade, and she sighed.
"Just about everybody in the neighborhood. I was at my sister's wedding."
Cristof was silent. Taya kept working, ignoring the fresh trickles of blood that ran over her hands as she worked.
She didn't like the thought that those men had been hunting her. They must have heard she would be attending the wedding in armature and — what? Had they waited to see if she'd leave alone? Had they guessed that an icarus would find it easiest to launch from the Market Tower? Was she that predictable?
She could have foiled their plans if she'd done something unexpected, but why would she? No one harmed icarii. They were Ondinium's couriers and rescuers; its alarm system and its luck.
Of course, those three had been foreigners. They wouldn't have an Ondinium citizen's respect for icarii.
The armature jerked as the net slid apart. Taya grabbed the harness before it could hit the ceiling and hauled it back down. Without a word, Cristof tied one of the severed ropes to a harness strap and anchored it into place over the table.
"It doesn't look too bad," Taya said, inspecting the wings. The net had yanked them out of their locked position, which meant they might have sustained damage to the joints, but she wouldn't know until she tried them on again. She caressed the metal feathers closest to her, tugging them. They still seemed to be securely fastened to the wing struts.
On the other side of the table, Cristof was doing the same thing, frowning as he concentrated. His dirt-stained fingers moved confidently as he tested the feathers and their housing.
Taya surreptitiously studied him. His coat was as plain and well-worn as any other craftsman's. He didn't wear any rings or necklaces. He didn't have any pins in his lapels or any clasps or jewels in his short black hair. Even his spectacles were ordinary. There was nothing in his appearance to indicate he was anything other than a simple famulate mechanic, except the curling blue waves tattooed on his cheeks.
Once you get past the discrepancy between his castemarks and the way he dresses, he's not so bad-looking
, she thought. He still had an exalted's features, after all. His copper skin was smooth and his badly cut hair was thick and glossy. His features were sharp, though, and there wasn't much extra weight on his tall, thin frame. Grey eyes were unusual for an exalted. He must have foreign blood in his ancestry; Demican, maybe. His pale eyes were what made his face so cold, their light color emphasized by the silver rims of his spectacles.
"This wing seems all right," he said at last. She collected her thoughts.
"Mine, too, unless some of the joint mechanisms have been damaged."
He glanced at her hands.
"You're getting blood all over everything. Sit down."
"They're just cuts." She looked down and made a face. He was right. She'd smeared blood on her flight suit, and blood had dripped on the table beneath the armature. The scratches weren't deep, but working with her hands had been keeping them open.
Cristof pulled off his greatcoat and threw it over a chair, then vanished through a doorway. Relieved to be free of his critical gaze for a moment, Taya curled her bloody hand in her lap and looked around with wonder.
All of the clocks and timepieces indicated the same time, but otherwise they varied widely, from the somber black long-case clock standing in one corner to the fanciful jeweled stag-shaped clock set on a high shelf to the open-geared clock under a glass case that took up two feet of the top of a tool cabinet. Three short shelves next to a worktable were covered with wind-up toys, the kind Taya had played with as a little girl. Two caught her eye: small birds that floated over the top of the shelf, tethered with pieces of string. She stood and walked over to them, holding her bleeding hand close to her chest to avoid making any more of a mess.
The birds were cunningly crafted with tiny, bright enameled feathers and little beaks of gold. The miniature keys between each set of wings looked gold, too. The birds’ eyes sparkled in the lamplight, and Taya wondered if they were made of cut glass or gemstones. Gemstones, she guessed, if they were the expensive toys they seemed to be.
"They have ondium cores," Cristof said, returning with a basin and two hand towels. He put them on the table beneath the floating armature. "Wash your hand."
"They're beautiful." She pulled herself away and dipped her hand in the cold water. Blood stained the cold water as she rubbed the cuts clean. "Are you repairing them for someone?"
"They're mine." Cristof held out a handkerchief, and she pressed it against her cuts. He'd washed his hands, too, she noted, but dirt still smudged his shirt cuffs and the sharp bridge of his nose, where he must have touched his face to push up his glasses.
"Do they really fly?"
"Let me see your shoulder. The cut might not bother you now, but your harness will irritate it."
"I don't think it's too bad." She tried to crane her neck around to see it. "It stings, but it doesn't hurt much."
"Let me see," he repeated, impatiently.
She made a face, then unbuttoned the flight suit's high collar, down to the top of her breasts. A clock repairman wouldn't be her first choice of physician, but she supposed he was better than nothing.
"This may sting." Cristof lifted the suit away from her bare shoulder. The suit's cotton padding stuck to the coagulating blood as it peeled away, and Taya winced. Cristof pressed a wet towel between her suit and skin.
Taya shivered as cold water dripped down her back. The outcaste's fingers were cold, too, as he touched the edges of the cut.
"You're right. It's shallow. Have a physician look at it tomorrow. It shouldn't impair your flight tonight." Cristof's voice was as detached as it had been when he'd reported on the status of her wings. She remembered Decatur Forlore's quip about the repairman's way with machines and felt a flash of amusement. He had worried about her armature first and her wounds second, hadn't he? She imagined the exalted touched his broken clocks with exactly the same care and dispassion with which he'd touched her bare shoulder.
He laid the bloodstained towel on the table and picked up a clean one, pressing it over the cut. "That will be enough of a bandage for the flight to your eyrie."
"Thank you." She buttoned her suit back up and reached for the floating harness.
"Give the cuts on your hand a few more minutes to clot." He pushed up his spectacles, turning away. "Do you want to see them fly?"
Taya studied his back, confused by the sudden change of subject. Then she remembered the toy birds.
"Please. If you don't mind."
He untied one of the birds, holding it gently and turning toward her once more as he wound the key. For a moment the lamplight flashed on his glasses again.
"My mother gave these to my brother and me, when we were little." He held the bird up with both hands and spread his fingers, releasing the bird.
The clockwork wings beat and the little bird took off, darting across the room and hitting the opposite wall. It floated there, its beak pressed against the wall, its wings still flapping uselessly.
Cristof walked across the room and turned it with one finger. The bird flew away again, coming to an abrupt stop at the next wall.
"They're meant to be used outside," he said. "Or in a very long hallway, preferably with an unsuspecting adult at the other end."
Taya laughed, and for a brief moment Cristof's thin lips twisted upward in response. He retrieved the bird. Its wings were winding down, their beating slowing, but its ondium core kept it aloft. It floated between his hands.
"My brother broke this one and threw it away. I decided to fix it for him. It took me six years to learn how, but now it flies as well as ever." Pride shone in his pale eyes as he regarded the tiny mechanism. "They aren't made anymore. Using ondium in a children's toy is considered too much of an extravagance now that the main veins have been tapped out."
"I think they're wonderful." Taya smiled. "Did you ever give the bird back to your brother?"
"No. By the time I'd fixed it, he'd moved on to other toys and didn't want it anymore."
"Oh. That's too bad."
"It's typical." He turned and tied the bird back to the shelf. "Alister adores his toys until they disappoint him. Then he throws them away." For a moment his voice turned sour.
"Alister?" Taya felt a jolt of recognition. She'd already heard Cristof use that name today. "You don't mean—" But of course he did. It made perfect sense. "Decatur Forlore is your brother?"
Cristof's hands stopped.
"I thought you knew."
"No, I didn't." She faltered. "But, if he's your brother, why are you living down here?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, he's a decatur, and he's still speaking with you. So why doesn't he bring you back to Primus?"
"I have no interest in going back to Primus." His voice had turned cold, but Taya forged on.
"But you don't want to be outcaste, do you?"
Face twisting in rage, Cristof turned and slammed a hand down on the table.
"My brother and my caste are none of your business, icarus!"
Taya flinched, then slid off the chair and dropped to one knee, pressing her palm against her forehead.
"I'm sorry, exalted," she said, furious at herself. How could she have forgotten her manners around an exalted, even an exalted in exile?
Some future diplomat!
"Stand up." Cristof's voice was tight.
She glanced at him. His face was pale with anger. She bowed again, feeling sick.
"I'm sorry, exalted," she repeated.
"Dammit, icarus, stand up!"
She scrambled to her feet, bracing herself for a slap.
"Look at me!"
She risked another glance and saw him glaring at her. She dropped her eyes again, not daring to anger him any further.
"You see?" he asked bitterly. "That's exactly what I hate about my caste. You're brave enough to stab a Demican who's twice as tall and as strong as you are, but all an exalted has to do is raise his voice and you're on your knees."
"I apologize," she said. "I was out of line."
"Look at me when you talk. You're not a slave."
She swallowed and looked up.
He started to say something, then closed his mouth and scowled. For a second the only sound in the shop was the ticking and whirring of the clockwork around them. They stared at each other.
"What's your name?"
"Taya Icarus, exalted."
"Icarii stand outside the caste hierarchy. The next time an exalted shouts at you, stay on your feet and answer him like an equal."
"I can't do that, Exalted Forlore."
"Why not?" His voice was sharp.
"It wouldn't be respectful. An exalted could take away my wings, if he wanted." She shivered at the thought. "I'm sorry I made you angry."
"I'm not going to take away your wings, icarus. I'm barely an exalted now, anyway."
"You still wear the castemarks."
He touched his copper-skinned cheek, his scowl deepening.
"Do you think wearing them makes me a coward? Do you think I should burn them away, or ink them over?"
"No," she protested, sensing she was on dangerous ground again.
This man is a test in diplomacy all by himself.
She reached for her armature, pulling it toward her and untying it from the table. The sooner she could get out of here, the better. "I think you'd be foolish to give up your caste. The Lady granted you an exalted rebirth for a reason, and it would be sinful to treat it lightly."
He fell silent, and she slipped on the armature and reached for her buckles.
"Do you like being an icarus?"
"Yes, exalted." She tightened the straps. The cut on her shoulder was going to hurt on the way back up, but she was eager to leave. "I wouldn't want to be anything else."
"Then it would be foolish of the Council to take away your wings at the whim of an angry exalted. The city barely has enough icarii as it is. If you understood how valuable you were to Ondinium, you wouldn't be so intimidated by authority."
She didn't answer, busy with her armature.
"I have to adjust this outside," she said after a moment, sliding her arms into the wings long enough to lock them into tight-rest, which pressed them close to her body. She lost no time in escaping the small, noisy shop but, to her dismay, Cristof followed.
Outside, the light from the gas streetlamps washed the narrow street in black and white. Taya unlocked her wings and spread them out, testing the joints and tilt, making sure the feathers closed and opened correctly. Everything seemed to function.
"Go straight back to your eyrie until you can get your shoulder tended," Cristof directed.
"I will." His peremptory tone was grating, especially after he'd made such a fuss over icarii being equal to exalteds. She had to bite back the urge to point out his hypocrisy. "I—"
The clocks in his shop began to chime, a hundred different bells ringing at the same moment.
A loud explosion ripped through the air and the ground trembled.
Taya whipped around and saw flames rising in the distance. She took a step forward.
"Don't!" Cristof snapped.
"They'll need—"
"Others will attend to it." Cristof grasped her arm. "Your armature is damaged and you've been hurt. You'll only be a danger to yourself and the rescue crew."
Taya laughed humorlessly and pulled away from him.
"Sorry, exalted. Equal to equal, I've got a job to do, and I don't have time to argue with you about it."
He cursed as she ran down the street and lifted her wings to catch the wind.