I had only been to the Patron's chamber once before, and that was in the middle of an emergency. I remembered a secret door, and a stone corridor that snaked between the walls, but very little about the exact route. It took a while before I realized that the dining room where all those house guard had died was the room I was looking for. It took a fair amount of banging on walls before we found the false panel, and then some violence to get it open. While we were tearing the plaster from its moorings, a distant siren started up, cutting through the quiet air that hung over the city. Wilson and I exchanged a look. He rushed to the window.
"Someone else's problem," I said, getting back to the door. "We have enough on our plate."
"There's smoke in the air. Black column rolling straight up into the sky," he said.
"I don't care, Wilson. We need to get downstairs."
"Jacob." Something in his voice. "It's coming from the direction of the Burn estate."
That stopped me. I went to the window, numbly. Sure enough, there was a single column of smoke, black as night, about where the Manor Burn should be. Where home should be. Even against the dark clouds of the storm, it stood out like an inky tornado.
"Someone else's problem," I said again, more quietly. "Let's get downstairs."
The last of the panel came away, revealing the stone corridor I remembered from two years ago. Angela and I had fled down here when the Manor Tomb had been attacked. That time it was because some rogue agent in the Council had wrested control of the Badge and was using it to lay siege to the Tombs. I had been the ultimate target of that attack. Angela shot me, to keep them from catching me.
I realized I was lost in memory, just standing dumbly in the mouth of the corridor. "Come on," I said, and rushed forward. But it was dark, and after about twenty feet we had to turn back and scrounge up a frictionlamp to see where we were going. Not a good start to our heroic charge into the depths of the Manor Tomb.
The corridor was much as I remembered. Narrow and dusty, with smaller branches that snaked between the walls of the house. There were listening posts, places where a dozen vents brought voices from different rooms to a single location. We went by several of these, each one haunted by the chaotic activity apparently still going on in the Manor Tomb. There were sounds of fighting, of terror, of screaming and the multitudinous flapping of wings. The Manor was under attack, it seemed, although Wilson and I had seen no one on our flight from the tower to here. Maybe these were the ghosts of disasters past, trapped between the walls and echoing only in these secret paths. Either that, or things were getting violent fast.
We finally came to the stairs down. These I remembered. They were just as narrow as the rest of the corridor, but much older. I suspect that, like the tower we had just left, this part of the house went back to the days of the founding of Veridon. I wondered if this had once been a mausoleum of sorts, apart from the main house. There were stories of the origin of the Tomb name, but I always assumed they were just stories.
I led Wilson down the stairs. Just as I remembered, there was a wide door at the bottom, but this door was different, a new door. Two years ago a mad angel had pursued me here. When I escaped, he was beating a hole through the original door. This one was iron, bound in arms of slithering cogwork.
"Now that's a complicated lock," Wilson said, admiringly.
"Fall in love later. Just open it."
"Oh, there's no chance of that." He placed a hand against the iron door and whistled. "These bands here, they're unformed foetal metal. They haven't been given a complete pattern. They'll only open for someone who has the completed pattern. They probably have to remake them every time they open this door. Nasty."
"Which means they haven't been opened since they were remade," I said. "Meaning he's not down here."
"I guess not," Wilson backed away from the door, sticking his hands into his pockets. "At least the Patron is safe, right?"
"Small comfort," I said. "So what now?"
"Now you will go inside, Jacob." We whirled to face the voice behind us. It was Crane. He stood on the stairs, his shoulders swarming with crows. He held a shotgun in his long, thin hands. "And we will have a little talk with the Patron."
"I have trouble believing that Angela gave you a key to this room," I snarled. I thought for a second about going for the revolver at my hip, but his finger was on the trigger of his shotgun.
"She didn't have to. I made the lock." He smiled and touched a broach at his throat. A single beetle rose from his chest and flew above us, smacking loudly into the door. Its chitinous shell dissolved and melted into the bands of foetal metal. The whole door sagged, then settled into its tracks. "Give it a push, will you, son?"
Wilson turned and gave the door a shove. It slid smoothly into the wall. The room beyond was dark, except for a single light that hung over the Patron. I remembered the room being bowl shaped, like an auditorium. The Patron sat at the bottom of the bowl, his body preserved inside a living coffin, shaped like a giant head looking up at the ceiling. The light hung just over the metal forehead, and rows of glittering lines ran all around the bowl, like concentric bands of jewels set into the sides. I raised the frictionlamp and stepped inside.
The dead Fehn, their faces white, their black eyes shimmering in the light, turned to face me. Hundreds of them. They stood shoulder to shoulder, back to chest, like a silent congregation. Their eyes looked past me to Crane, and there was a flash of hatred, then passivity. They turned back to the Patron.
"So, you see, I no longer really need this," Crane said, swinging the shotgun like a child's bat. He tapped me on the shoulder with the barrel. "If you'll go on down, please. Time to say 'hi' to our friend the Patron Tomb."
The dead parted for us, without word or signal. I wondered what sort of control Crane had over them. How he maintained it. He seemed cheerful enough, not under any sort of strain. There was a tightness in the air, like static. I wondered if the storm outside was getting serious, or if something else was causing that. I glanced at Wilson and saw that his shoulders were hunched tightly beneath his coat. He looked terribly uncomfortable, like something was scratching at his nerves. A flash of his face in the blue-tinged light from the friction, and I realized that he looked sick.
"Everything okay?" I whispered.
"We're buried in a room under the Manor Tomb, surrounded by the recently dead. Also, this guy has a shotgun, but he doesn't seem to feel like he needs it. So I imagine we're in some serious shit. Other than that? Yeah, everything's great."
"Oh, well. Okay then. Long as you're feeling okay."
"You two," Crane said. "Like old lovers. Come, come, gather close."
Crane led us to the Patron's final home. It was as I remembered, although a great number of the tubes that once led from under the head had been replaced with clear glass pipes. They were flowing with something that looked like storm clouds. Pure foetal metal. I had seen something like this once before, under the Church of the Algorithm, feeding a partially dissected angel.
"So, Patron," Crane chirped. "How are we feeling?"
The Patron was enclosed in a giant head, iron and cold. It rested against the floor of the bowl, splintered wood around the edge like it had been dropped from some height. The eyes were half-open, their lids hanging over glass panes that revealed the central tank of the Patron's prison. The liquid there, once bright and green, was murky and clouded with sediment. I caught a glimpse of the body, pale and bloated in the suspension. Dark veins stood out on the flesh, like black veins in snow. The Patron did not answer Crane's question. For all I knew he was already dead.
Ezekiel Crane walked around the Patron, running his hand along the iron cheekbone, until he reached the forehead. There was a scaffolding there, which Crane mounted until he was standing over the head. He sat on the edge of the scaffold like he was dangling his feet over a pier, then reached down and cycled open a door. The room filled with a smell like swamp water and illness. I didn't know if this was what was killing the Patron, or simply a symptom of his death.
"I assure you, the Patron is still with us," Crane said. "I am familiar with all sorts of death, Mr. Burn. The Patron's kind of dying is unique, I will admit, but he is still among the living. For now."
"Why do you think I care about that?" I said. "He and I have never been friends."
"No. But you have been allies. And you will be allies again. In name at least." Crane unslung the shotgun and rested the tip of the barrel on the edge of the hatch. "Besides, if he wasn't alive, I wouldn't have the opportunity to threaten him. And I do enjoy threatening my old friend Tomb."
"What is happening?" the Patron rumbled. His voice was like grinding stones. It shivered through my skeleton. Wilson took a step back. Tomb continued, "I know that boy. Alexander's son."
"There we go," Crane said cheerfully, prodding the water with the tip of the shotgun. "That's the Patron we all know and love."
"Is this your doing, Burn? Was it not enough to destroy the girl? Did you send this man to us? We trusted him to heal me, to make me new. Whatever darkness has passed between us, nothing is worth this torture. You mean to destroy my line, and I won't have it. We will stop you. Angela will stop you."
"As much as I am amused by the petty squabbling of the Council, I would like a little credit in this. You are not dying because of some power struggle in the Chamber Massif. You are dying because I am killing you. In my particular fashion."
"Why bother with him?" I asked. "I'm the one you want, aren't I?"
"You? While I have found it amusing to play with your good father, I have little interest in you. It was an accident that you survived the attack on the Fehn. And an accident that you found the mask, and my little messenger in the house." He lifted the dripping barrel of the shotgun and poked it at me. "No, things have not gone exactly according to my plan. But you are done interfering. And you may yet play your part."
"I'm curious about the, uh, little messenger," Wilson purred from behind my shoulder. "I have little interest in your motives, Mr. Crane. But I would like to know how that trick was accomplished."
"I imagine you would. You have something of the tinkerer in you, eh? Something of the Maker." He held a hand up and waved it around his head. "House lights, please."
The lights came up. I was unsure if he had help in the rafters, or something trickier. The hordes of cog-dead around us didn't seem like the type to turn on lights and bring you a drink when you asked for it. There were frictionlamps scattered around the room, and their lightning-tinged glow filled the bowl.
There were pipes, just like the ones we had seen in Crane's house, ringing the room. I knew what that feeling was in the air, now. Crane was broadcasting, either his consciousness, or something similar.
"Impressive, yes? I built this to heal the Patron. With the right tone, the right music, I can project a mind into the city. There are many willing vessels in Veridon. Well. Willing isn't the right word. Available, perhaps."
"This is where you were when we met you in your house," Wilson said. "I see. But how does it work?"
"Jacob may be able to tell you something about this. Tell me, Mr. Burn, do you remember much from your Academy days?"
"How can I forget? Best days of my life."
"I imagine they were the last good days of your life. You know, I've studied you. I don't think we're that different. My grudge might be older than yours, but the sources are the same. And look how we ended up. Anyway. The pilot of a zepliner is sealed into his ship, yes? And what happens to him when he's locked in to the prime chamber?"
"He takes on the consciousness of the ship. His mind moves through the zep, controls it. Feels through it."
"It's more than that. He becomes the ship. The device used to accomplish this is called the soul cog. I heard about your accident, two years ago. Such an interesting event. The pilot was murdered while he was sealed in, and his soul became trapped in the pipes. Nasty, don't you think?"
"He got us over the falls," I said. "He died trying to save the passengers and crew."
"Ah, but he failed. And you were the only survivor. You must feel very lucky. Anyway, the soul cog. Do you know where that technology came from?"
"Where everything comes from," Wilson answered for me. He could tell I was pretty pissed off about this whole thing. Didn't like being lectured. "From the Church of the Algorithm."
"I really expected more from you, anansi. Thought you had a better idea of the history of these things. No, that technology came from the Artificers Guild. The original Guild, the one they shut down."
The tension in the air cycled up a notch. It felt like there was an echo in my teeth, Crane's voice scratching through my skull.
"Who are you projecting this to?" I snapped. "I understand that you're trying to make some kind of statement. Toying with us as your petty little revenge scheme comes together. I don't like being toyed with."
"Oh, ho, ho. Jacob Burn has lost his patience. I'm sure we're all surprised by that." Crane poked the shotgun at me one last time, then settled back on the scaffolding and returned the weapon to pointing at the Patron's tank. "You'll sit and listen like the rest of the audience. I've waited long enough to have my say. I'll let you know when I'm done."
"You mentioned the Artificers Guild. I thought they were disbanded for interfering with the dead."
Crane grimaced at me, but returned his attention to Wilson. "The living and the dead. We dealt with the very stuff of life. Which is why I was able to convince the Family Tomb that I could perform a miracle here." He kicked his legs like a child. "And why I am able to kill the good Patron in such a unique fashion."
"You'll never kill me," the Patron groaned. "I cannot be killed."
"True. Whoever bound you to this tomb did an amazing job. But there will come a point where what you are doing can no longer really be called living, either."
"Whoever bound him. That was me," Wilson said. "Or my family. I believe I know you, Maker. And I can tell you that what you are doing, while elegant, will not work."
Crane's eyes went wide. The shotgun slipped, but he recovered it quickly enough.
"You know nothing of my work, bug! This is the work of a generation, of the finest Artificer alive. The final Artificer! I have formed this plan since my birth, and nothing you say is going to change that. I have struck a blow at the heart of Veridon! I will strike this city dead!"
"By killing the Patron of a dying house? By driving my father mad? Honestly?" I took a step forward, putting my boot on the enormous chin of the Tomb. "For all your talk about the history of Veridon, I don't think you have any damn idea how this city works. Others will step in. The city will change, sure. But nothing is going to end this place."
"Such a blunt child," Crane said. "This just isn't your game, Jacob. It's almost sad, watching you try to work it out." He turned to Wilson. "And you. Anansi. There were your kind among our number during the purge, but they left us. The Artificer's gift has left your people behind. I am the last Artificer in Veridon, as we were the first."
"The Guild still exists, idiot."
"An amputated child, kept for the amusement of the rich." Crane shouldered the shotgun and pointed angrily at me. "Their engram singers are a fragment of my glory. Don't insult my lineage by calling them Artificers."
"And that's what I was waiting for," I said, drawing iron and putting a shot into his chest before he could bring the shotgun back down. His chest shimmered and bled. He began to laugh.
"Oh, Jacob. Such" — he coughed — "such enthusiasm. But so much to learn. Here to save the Patron, but he's already dead. And look at what you've lost."
He fell to his knees, the shotgun clattering across the floor before it slid to a halt near my boot. As I watched, Crane's body shuffled and collapsed, his skin falling in fist-sized clumps onto the scaffolding. Each drop curled open and fluttered away, darkening as they flew. Crows. His whole body exploded into a murder of crows, clamoring as they swirled through the room before bursting out into the corridor and away.
The body that he left behind, now that the facade of his Artificer-formed possession was disrupted, was that of my father. The shot had gone through Alexander's chest, right into the heart. His eyes clouded as he fell.
My only hope was that he was dead before he saw me. Before he saw his son, and the revolver.
I always had trouble separating the father I knew from the father I remembered. My childhood was filled with memories of this man, this giant. Lifting me over his head, howling with laughter. The smell of his leather coat as we hunched behind a longrifle on my first hunt, powder stains on his hands as he taught me to load the weapon; standing beside me when the first shot missed and I tried to reload as the boar charged, his steady voice talking me through the steps as my quavering hands spilled gunpowder all over the element, the muzzle. The bullet dropped from my fingers and as I scrambled in the dry leaves for it he took the shot, the tone in his voice never hinting at disappointment. Practice loading, he said, or hit with the first one next time.
This, compared with the shrunken failure who sat in his empty library, berating me for getting kicked out of the Academy. Throwing me out of his house. This man, who couldn't even talk to me without swearing. His every word laced with failure. Mine, and his. Our histories so thoroughly meshed, and nothing I could do was good enough, and nothing he could do would help that. The father I knew, who couldn't even look me in the eye, who wouldn't talk to his friends about me, who never answered their questions about where I was, what had become of me. The father who would pass me in the street without a second look.
And the father I remembered. Guiding me, strengthening me, pulling me up when I fell. Always careful to watch me fall, and show me why, and give me a boost on to the next thing. The pillar of strength in my childhood, and the pillar of disappointment as I became a man.
Now they were the same man. All I had was a father to remember, and never know again.
I stood over my father's body, trembling. The revolver was no longer in my hand. Whether I had dropped it, or thrown it away, I didn't know. Wilson stood beside me, his hand on my shoulder.
"Jacob," he said, his voice laced with sorrow. "We're going to have to fight our way out of here."
"You can't give me a minute to mourn?"
"Not when it'll get us killed, no." He tugged at the collar of my coat. "Now get up. Come on. You didn't even like the guy. Gods know he didn't like you."
'Get up' because I was on my knees now. Get up because there were tears in my eyes, and I was unarmed, and there was a room of shambling horrors at my back. Get up because the city was falling apart, and somehow that was my problem. Just get up.
"Still my father," I said, blinking tears away. "Still my dad."
"Then do something about it." Wilson was facing away from me now. "Soon enough, you won't be able to do anything at all."
I stood and lifted the shotgun that Crane had dropped. My father had dropped. It was a Regetta Model No. 5, manual feed magazine. By the weight and balance, all ten rounds of the magazine were full, lined up under the barrel like soldiers. I turned and slipped the safety clear.
"Okay," I said. "I'm ready."
The horrific congregation just stood there, looking at us. Wavering slightly, like they'd been standing too long and were getting tired. The dead don't get tired. Wilson stood next to me, knives held loosely at his waist.
"What do you think? Did we disrupt his control, or something? Or are they just waiting for us to make a move?" Wilson asked.
"Beats me. You wanna just start shooting, see where that gets us?"
"Sounds good." He loosened his shoulders and then unfurled the long, sharp arms of his spider-self. "After you, kid."
"We gonna just leave the Patron here?"
"Are you going to carry him out?" Wilson asked.
"I guess not. Okay," I said, trying to work myself up to it. My mind was clean and bright. I hadn't been this clear in days. Raised the shotgun and sighted at the closest cog-dead. Ten shells. There were more than ten of them. A lot more. "Okay."
The shotgun shuddered against my shoulder, the report echoing through the concave space of the chamber. I flinched. The buck tore into the front line of the cog-dead, shredding pale flesh and opening wounds that gushed tarblack blood. Three of them stumbled, one missing most of his shoulder and neck, his head hanging by a flap.
The rest didn't move. Stood there, staring at us.
"Okay," Wilson said. "Save your shot, I guess."
He walked forward and pushed a path through the room. I followed, holding the shotgun in front of me like the prow of a ship. The limp arms and legs bumped against me, weak hands clutching at my coat, several of them slipping and tumbling over as we pushed through. They looked at us with terrified eyes, eyes that remembered and saw and understood, but robbed of volition. They were robbed of their bodies, but they had their eyes. I paused.
"Wilson, I think… I think they're coming out of it."
He paused and looked. The cog-dead he had just pushed out of the way limped back to him, put two soft arms on his chest and leaned forward. His mouth, gaping and drooling that thick, black ichor, got closer and closer to the anansi's face. I tightened my grip on the shotgun.
"Hu, huh, hu," it said, a whisper, a prayer. "huh, hu."
"'Help,'" Wilson answered. "Gods damn us, Jacob. 'Help.'"
The cog-dead nearly collapsed into Wilson's arms.
"I don't want the responsibility of this, Jacob," Wilson whispered. "I don't want to deal with this."
"We don't get to choose what comes to us, Wilson."
"No, but still."
A high, piercing note rang through the room, vibrating from the scattered pipes, singing through the chamber. The cog-dead became anxious. Afraid.
"Huh, huh, hhhaaaaah," the one in Wilson's arms screamed, and then his grip tightened and he lunged at Wilson's face. The anansi ducked, then brought his knives around and cut him down. The pearl-white body fell to its knees, holding up ruined arms. "Huhl, hahl, puh…"
Wilson kicked him in the face and sprinted for the exit. I was right behind him, the congregation of pale faces suddenly animate as the pipe music snapped into an even tone that threatened to deafen us. The room shook with the sound. They were on us, grabbing, biting, tearing at our clothes and our skin. Neither of us could strike. Neither of us could look back, afraid we would see the horror in their eyes, hear them begging under the oppressive clamor of those pipes.
We reached the door and threw it shut behind us. The last thing I saw as I struggled against the press of bodies was the stage far below, and my father's body spread out over the Patron's tomb, and a sea of terrified eyes, screaming and tearing and crying as they came at us. The door boomed shut and the music stopped. It was quiet in the stone chamber, deep under the Manor. We stayed there for a minute, catching our breath, shaking the adrenalin out of our limbs, and trying to forget what we had seen. What we had done.