I felt alive. Alive like I'd never been, alive like a star falling out of the sky. Burning alive. My lungs were on fire, and my blood was glowing in my veins. The rational part of my mind said this was all very bad, but I didn't care. Everything felt good.
I rode a column of wriggling black slugs up out of the river. They got me to the shore, miles downriver of the city's gate and within sight of the waterfall that had nearly claimed my life. The far horizon was filled with the broad fields of the Arbarra Rare, the distant land that we had seen for generations but never reached until the invention of the zepliner. I pulled myself onto the muddy bank of the Reine and turned my face to Veridon. And ran.
I don't know what the Mother Fehn did to me, but it was amazing. Didn't get tired, didn't hurt. My hands were clean and new, like she had washed them clean of a lifetime of scabs and calluses and work. That's how I felt, all the way down to my bones. New. Clean. I trotted down the river road toward Veridon, and my legs ate up the distance. In no time at all I was passing through the scattered homes leading up to the city, and then the city gate itself. The broad gate was closed. Rare enough, in these days of zepliners and automated carriages, long years since siegecraft was even practiced. The gate was no challenge. I took it hand over hand, scaling the iron grating and hauling myself over the unmanned gatehouse. Didn't stop to think how unlikely that was, how it was a good ten feet from the top of the gate to the top of the wall, and that I had just swung myself up there like it was nothing. Of course I could manage that. Feeling as good as I did, I could manage anything.
From the gatehouse I could see the city laid out in front of me, the streets still empty in the wake of the curfew. All of my fatigue was gone, all my doubt. Three things caught my eye: the column of smoke that rose from the Manor Burn; the black, circling bands of crows around the Church of the Algorithm on the far side of the city; and, finally, the cracked husk of the Manor Tomb. A grand tree was growing out of it, wretched and knobbly, poking through the windows and shrugging aside walls like a giant. The tree was bare, and stood half again as tall as the Manor itself. It looked like a seed pod that had burst its shell.
I knew instinctively. That was the Patron, or what was left of him. Not dying, but living in such a way that he couldn't really be called alive. Crane had eradicated the Family Tomb, their lineage, their place on the Council, and their holdings. All in one blow.
Trouble for later. I turned my face to the Church of the Algorithm, and hopped from the gatehouse down to the street below. Thirty feet, and I landed without a bruise. Pushed that into the back of my mind, and just ran.
Everything seemed brighter. Clouds still hung low and heavy across the city, but the frictionlamps that lined the streets burned sharp in my mind. I lost myself in the smooth effort of running, the cobblestone streets passing under my feet like a dream. I breathed, and the city breathed with me. Faces peered out at me from closed houses, eyes wide, as I rushed past. I thought about waving, to reassure them, but I wasn't sure that would help. Wasn't sure what I looked like. A madman running through the streets, faster than thought.
Valentine had given me a revolver. I had forgotten. As I crested the last terrace and began my descent to the Church, I unholstered the piece and checked the load. Looked good. There were additional rounds in my belt, shiny against the dark leather. Worry about their time in the river vanished under the all-consuming optimism of whatever was flowing through my veins. My clothes weren't wet. Why would my shells be damaged?
Why weren't my clothes wet? Never mind, just run. Run and run and run.
There was the Church. The engines had stopped, finally ground shut by whatever Camilla — or Crane — was doing deep below. The courtyard was clear, but there were Wrights standing at the gates. Wrights with guns. I adjusted my track to keep buildings between us, but they had already seen me. Signals were given. Rifles were raised. I grinned and ran on.
Ran faster, in fact. I was having trouble keeping up with my feet. Felt like something was running through me, some vast eye that was burning through my body. My grin had become stiff, my hands quaking from the presence of that terrible mind. The Wrights' first shots danced off the cobbles by my feet, off the walls, whistled high overhead. Warning shots, or poor aim. Rational Jacob would have ducked for cover and found a better way to approach. Rational Jacob would have tricked his way in, or given up and floated down the river. Rational Jacob would not smile and run straight at them. I was not Rational Jacob.
I came out of the street that opened onto the courtyard in front of the Church, dodging to one side as I hit the cobbles. There was a wagon, a supply wain that had been left there by its owner, prior to the curfew. I ducked behind it and kicked the stops out from its wheels. With a great, groaning heave, I set my shoulder against it and started it moving. Faster and faster, each time I shoved my shoulder into it. Once I had some speed I fluttered the brakes on the inside wheel and turned the wagon toward the gates. Slightly offset, so I would have cover for most of the approach. There was enough of an incline that I didn't have to give it much, once inertia took over. I drew my revolver and threw my arm around the edge, firing blindly. Bullets clattered at the wheels of the wagon, ricocheting up into the wood, or past my legs. Good shots, these Wrights. I put a hand on the corner of the wagon and kept pushing, accelerating toward the gate. Still grinning.
One of the Wrights got smart and maneuvered for position. I saw him scrambling between barrels, getting far enough to the side that the wagon was no longer between us. But line of sight goes both ways. I put a shot into his shoulder, and another into his leg, and then the hammer fell on an empty cylinder. Still running, I tossed the cylinder open and thumbed six fresh rounds into the slots. By the time I'd reloaded, I could see the wall of the Church gate over the top of the wagon.
Impact.
The wagon went sideways into the bars and smashed. Splinters went into my arm as I covered my face. I vaulted the wreckage of the wagon and kicked at the gate. It was already bent beyond its limits, and my boot struck the perfect spot. The right hand gate creaked and fell into the Church courtyard, rattling like a dropped saucer.
The second Wright stood up from where he had taken cover from the wreck, rifle at his shoulder. I put a shot into his chest even before he had the rifle clear. Good shots, these two, but poor at close tactics. Probably not a lot of cause for small-unit maneuvers inside the Church.
I dropped into the Church grounds and started walking toward the chapel's side door. These were wooden doors, cheap. A recent addition, bolted on as the Algorithm inside grew and swelled and new entrances were needed as old ones were choked shut by the engines of god. I was more careful now. Surely the crash would have been heard inside. They knew I was coming, or that someone was coming. There were a lot of windows looking down into the courtyard, but I didn't see any faces.
No way but the direct way. I rested my hand on the wrought iron handle of the door, breathing deeply. The iron was cold and my palms were sweating. Nothing to hear inside. Nothing to do but go at it. I pulled the door open and stepped inside.
The chamber was dark and cold. I had never been in here when the engines of the Algorithm weren't going. It made sense that the Engine would stop — the whole place ran on the angel's heart, and if Camilla had reclaimed that cog, then it should all shut down — but the lights should still be on. I walked forward carefully, keeping the pistol close to my hip, the other arm up to foil any attempts at disarming me. My boots were loud on the slate floor.
With just the light from the door, the gears and cogwork that crowded the chamber were reduced to spiny shadows. After a dozen steps I lost track of the clear path through the room. I bumped into a pillar bristling with machinery. The impact shifted some of the clockwork forward, setting off a series of clinking actions above me. I knelt down, in case someone with better vision heard me and looked this way. Not like I hadn't been silhouetted every step of the way. When I heard no other movement, I crept around the pillar, hand trailing along the ground.
They started by putting a boot down on that hand. I looked up at the crushing pain, just in time to see a boot swinging at the pistol in my other hand.
I was fast enough to deflect that, the boot just glancing off my forearm. I tried to stand, but my hand was trapped. Heavy, whoever it was. Another shadow stepped around the pillar and raised something long and heavy-looking over its head. I barreled into the body standing on my hand, crashing into a pair of legs and then something that felt like a pew. Behind me, the second shadow swung his weapon at the floor. A shower of sparks flowered in the darkness, and I could see that my assailants were robed, and large.
The guy I had bowled over grabbed me by the back of my neck and hugged me toward him, smothering my face against a chest that smelled like raw meat. Before I could bring the revolver around, he pinned that hand against the floor. I punched him twice with my injured left hand, right into the armpit. Probably hurt me more than him, but I was still riding whatever it was the Mother had done to me. Tried to stand, just in time to take a shot across my back from the second attacker. He over-reached his swing, but there was something sharp on the head of that club, like an ax or pick. Metal cut into my ribs as he pulled back to swing again. Enough screwing around.
I rolled toward my pinned gun hand, pulling the first attacker over me like a big, meaty blanket. The other guy had already swung; I heard the impact and the oaths when he realized he had his own guy. I squirmed until the revolver came free, then squeezed off two shots without worrying about where the barrel was pointed. The shots went wide, clanging loudly off the gearwork all around, but the muzzle flash did the job. With a smell of burned flesh, the guy on top of me jumped back. I lay an elbow against his neck and pushed him into his friend. They went down and I stood, emptying the cylinder into their dark shadows. The flash lit up the room like a lightning strike. Just two guys in robes, their eyes wide as the lead went home.
Still grinning. Really wishing I could do something about that. I felt hot all over, and there was a sheen of sweat across my brow, even though the room was cold. Freezing, even.
Lights started coming on in the hallways leading into the chamber. There was shouting, too, but that was coming from outside. Couldn't stay where I was, and I didn't want to go down either of the lit hallways. In the ambient light I was able to find a dark corridor. Good enough for me. Took the time to slot six more shots into the revolver, then jogged down the new corridor with one arm outstretched. Little chance I was going to surprise many more folks, not the way I was going.
This hall went up, which wasn't ideal. Getting caught was less ideal. I quickly found myself among the living quarters of the Wrights, all abandoned. Signs of struggle, blood on the walls, barricades that had been broken open. So his control of the Wrighthood was incomplete, or had been. Maybe Crane was stretching himself beyond his capacity. A lot of dead Fehn in the river for him to track, plus all the Wrights. Plus whatever he had going on with Camilla. She clearly thought she was the one in control, so maybe he was having to keep a low profile.
I came to a hallway lined with arched windows on both sides. It was a walkway between two parts of the building. The light was a relief, but it really wasn't much light. The skies outside were nearly night-dark, and rain was beating against the glass with heavy hands. Even in the miserable weather, a lazy spiral of crows orbited the Church. It seemed like more and more of the birds gathered with each passing minute. Was Crane using them as his eyes, or were these just soldiers, waiting for their orders? No telling. Not from in here, at least, and I had no desire to go out there and interrogate them. The whole lot of them seemed to be circling the lower terraces of the Church, the river-side of the building, where the Wrights kept their greenhouses. Almost like they were pointing to something, or waiting.
Or standing guard. I had seen him possess my father, but I hadn't seen the real Crane since he spotted us with his crows while Wilson and I were spying on him. If that had really been him. But he had to be somewhere, broadcasting his attention through these damn birds. For a while now, I had been assuming that he was holed up in some nondescript warehouse somewhere, locked into a crate or a vault or just hidden in plain sight. There was too much geography in Veridon to really do a thorough search, not with the kind of time we had. So I opted to head off his plans, rather than hunt down the man himself.
But what's to say that he wasn't in the Church somewhere? If he really meant to make a play for the angel, that would be a delicate operation. Maybe he needed to be on site? Camilla seemed pretty confident that they had captured Crane. And maybe they had, or at least he had allowed himself to be taken, so that he could be close when the next phase of his plan went down. Whatever that was.
I looked from the lazy cyclone of crows to the bulbous domes where I had left Wilson in Camilla's custody. Would he still be there? Different directions. I could get to both, but I had to pick which one to hit first. Save Wilson, kill Crane.
They seemed like the same thing, to my addled mind. That grin came back, stiff and tight. Shells clattered to the floor and I reloaded. Gotta be careful with my shots. Not many bright little shells left on my belt, and I had so many people to shoot. So many people to put down.
But first, Crane. Like I should have when we first met. Such trouble that would have saved.
Mottled gray light glimmered through the thick panes of the greenhouse, illuminating the room in a dull, pewter-like glow. There was no other light. Rows of wretched shrubbery huddled under the vaulted glass ceiling. It was cold in here, colder than the rest of the building. Like the glass panes were made of ice, sucking the warmth out of the damp, foggy air. Raised crosswalks ran between the plants, so that I was walking among their leaves. Below me was dirt and the creaking pipes of the irrigation system. Above me, beyond the greenhouse ceiling, the crows circled.
Crane was here, under guard. From the entrance to the greenhouse I could see four small fires at the center of the room, glimmering in their brass braziers. Crane stood in the middle of them, bound tightly in a tall cage, not much wider than his chest. His arms were bound to the bars, and his head was bolted into an iron box. Around him stood a dozen former Wrights, all of them showing signs of having changed into the cog-dead. These were presumably still under Camilla's control.
Logical Jacob would have dropped down among the trees and snuck up to the central platform. Taken them from below. But that grin was in place, and whatever fire the Mother Fehn had kindled in my blood was having no patience with stealth. I walked right down the center of the aisle, revolver in hand. Didn't take them long to see me. One waved and came to meet me halfway, leaving his brothers behind. It was a former Elder, his lips smeared in the stiff black gore of the cog-dead.
"Jacob Burn," he said. "We wondered if you would return. As poetic as your execution was, we began to doubt it would be sufficient to kill you off. Did the girl survive?"
"She did. Don't know where she is now, though."
"Of course. Why keep track of your ladies?" he said, smiling. When he was about ten feet away I raised the revolver and he stopped, hands up. "Calmly, Jacob. This is something we can talk through."
"I'm here to kill Crane, your master," I said. "So I don't really have time for talking."
"You always seem to have time for talking, Jacob. And you're mistaken. Camilla is in our hearts, and in our souls. This man Crane is merely the conduit."
"You're about to get bitten by your conduit, Cam." I addressed the cage. "He's had access to the Mother Fehn. He knew you were here. You're the one who's trapped."
"She can't hear you, Jacob. The connection's not that good." The Elder folded his arms and cocked his head at me. "But we really can't let you kill this man. He's proving very useful."
"As useful as he wants to be," I said. "Useful until he's figured his way into your angel's head. Then we'll see how useful he is to you."
"Listen, I know you're the hero type and all, but we really do have things properly in hand, here. You're nothing but a distraction, Jacob. That must be terribly disappointing, hmm? Not being anything more than in the way?"
"Listen to me. Crane knew Camilla was here. He didn't fly into a trap, no matter what Camilla thinks. He came here to get close to the angel, to figure her out. Right now, in that cage, he's worming his way into her. Through you, most likely."
"Jacob, you offend me. As if we know nothing of our opponent." He raised a hand dramatically to the cage, sweeping to take in the whole room. "You're right, the Church is a dangerous place for him. His power seems to derive from cogwork, and we have more than a little of that here. But not in this room. Nothing but plants and glass. We even have fires to light our vigil, rather than frictionlamps. So, as you can see, everything is under control." He turned back to me. "Now. Get out of the Church, or we're going to have to kill you."
"It'll take more than an Elder and a dozen dead Wrights to stop me, sir."
"We know. That's why we've been talking, you and I." His face became serious, all of the genial glee washed out. "Chatting away while my friends showed up."
Light from below. Torches. The room was filled with Wrights, each holding a torch, creeping along the paths between the trees, under the crosswalks. Dozens of them. Maybe a hundred. Maybe more.
"Yeah," I whispered, looking down and flexing my free hand. "That's probably enough."
"Right. Crane has played with you, Jacob. He got you to deliver the virus to the Fehn, he got you to disrupt the Council enough that they turned their attention inward, instead of looking for the threat from outside. They spent so much energy wondering if you were working for the other Families, trying to start a civil war in their midst, that they never saw Crane. Right under their eyes. And now he's arranged events to convince you that you need to kill his body. I don't know why, or what purpose it could serve. But Camilla has seen enough of this game to know that whatever you're doing, no matter how clever you think you're being, it's just Crane pulling your strings. So if you'll just surrender your weapon and come with us, we can get past this bit of unpleasantness and proceed with Camilla's plans for you."
"I said 'probably,' Elder." And snapped the pistol up, put one in his forehead, bulled him off the edge of the platform and made a break for Crane.
They rushed me, but the platform was only so big. The dozen that were up here already were the only ones that had a chance to stop me. I only had so many bullets and the quarters were tight, so I wrapped my fist around the cylinder of the revolver and used it like iron knuckles, battering my way forward.
They had hammers, but the Wrights were clumsy. Clumsy and strong. The first one I punched twice in the face, each blow shattering bone, but it wasn't until the third strike that he stumbled backwards. Didn't fall. Just stumbled. And then his companion was on me, hammers swinging. I dodged to the side, then jumped forward to get under the arc of the backswing. Caught his elbow with my shoulder, ducked under and lay the barrel of the revolver against his armpit. The shot came out the top of his skull and he slumped. One less bullet, and still ten guys up here, and dozens more at my feet, clambering up the support girders to the crosswalk.
I snatched up the fallen Wright's hammer in my other hand, flipped the revolver around so I could use it as a sap, and turned back to the guy whose face I had dented. He was swaying, arms outstretched, waving about. I came at him from the side, switching blows with the hammer and the grip, drumming his head until he keeled over. Two down. I turned back to Crane.
The rest of the Wrights had gotten organized. They stood in a loose half-circle between me and the cage. I was hurt, my rational mind could feel the bruises where hammers had skidded off my shoulder and arm, but the Mother burning through my veins was still grinning. Still going. I supposed I should be glad for that. Rational Jacob would be down on his knees, howling. Then again, Rational Jacob probably wouldn't get me killed. I had no idea what the Mother burning through me was planning, but it felt kind of terminal.
Beneath me, the crosswalk shuddered. The dozens of Wright who were climbing up it clenched their fists and hugged the metal, but a couple fell screaming to the dirt below. I almost lost my feet. The clumsy Wrights squatted and looked around, bewildered.
Not sure what caused that. Not sure I cared. It was all the opening I was going to get. I threw myself at the center of their little arc, shouldered into the lead guy and spun around once. I put each of my tools, the hammer and the gun, into the side of his knee. As he buckled I grabbed the hem of his robe and pulled him over me like a cape, putting him between me and the fastest-reacting of his companions. His pal swung with abandon, doing him a lot of harm, even after I rolled clear. Took them a second to refocus on me, and by then I was circling behind the cage. They closed on me like a pincer.
The one to my left looked a little weaker, in the sense that he actually had a neck and fairly average shoulders, as opposed the rest of the brutes. Camilla had picked her biggest Wrights for this little duty, and they were all built like pack-mules. But this guy was the least pack-mulish of the bunch, so I jumped at him.
He was clearly chosen for his speed. While the others were strong and slow, he was strong and fast. Worst choice I could have made, attacking this guy. Just add it to the list. He dodged my attack and put the flat of his hammer between my shoulder blades. Only thing that saved me was the fact that I tripped, so the blow skipped off my back like a stone on water. Hurt like hell, though.
Down on my hands and knees, I decided that maybe this guy warranted a bullet. I rolled onto my hip and brought the revolver up, flipping it around so that the barrel was pointing in the right direction. He had a similar idea, or at least recognized the possibility. Hadn't even gotten my finger properly inside the trigger guard before his boot came up, slapping the revolver off target. I didn't drop it, but it was a close thing. He followed through, stomping on my gun hand, crushing it between the revolver and the iron crosswalk. I screamed, in pain and frustration, the animal rage of the Mother in my veins. The Wright smiled.
"Enough out of you, Jacob Burn," he growled. Wrapped both meaty hands around his hammer and raised it up. The others crowded eagerly in. "Enough trouble out of you."
I leaned back, then brought my forehead into his crotch. Good news, that works on the cog-dead, too. Wasn't sure if it would. He winced and stumbled, enough that I could work the revolver out from under his foot. I drove the elbow of that arm into his inner thigh, then, standing and putting the full force of my legs and back into it, I smashed the grip of the revolver under his chin. He crumpled.
His friends looked briefly disappointed, then murderous. This wasn't going to last much longer. Had to find a linchpin, or they were just going to butcher me here and let my blood feed the trees.
I shot the first one, then the second. That was enough of a gap for me to push through, even before their bodies hit the grating. Still had the hammer in my other hand, and I brought it down on the lock that held Crane in. It shattered with a satisfying flower of sparks, and Crane fell out of the cage. His arms were still bound, so he hung awkwardly by his shoulders, face down, like a man waiting for the ax. I provided the ax. A quick blow on the lock freed him from the iron box holding his head, and then I put the barrel behind his ear and held my other hand up.
"Crane is your conduit," I yelled as loud as I could. "Stop, or you're all dead."
They stopped, more from uncertainty than any kind of fear. All I could ask for.
"The Elder said that Crane was serving as Camilla's conduit," I said as loudly as I could. My breath was coming in ragged gasps, and my arms were shaking. The Mother was burning out of me. "Stands to reason that if he dies, the tap dies with him. And whatever power he's using to keep you alive goes with it. Camilla loses her loyal little army. So, back off."
"You're out of bullets," the nearest Wright sneered.
"I can count, buddy. Four shots. Two left. I could miss and still end him. But really," I shoved the barrel against Crane's skull. "Do you think I'm going to miss?"
They didn't move. Thinking it out. This was working. It was going to work. All I needed to do was get Crane out of here and then kill him at my leisure. It was working.
A cold hand closed around my wrist. I looked down. Crane had slipped his bonds and was straightening up. Shocked, I pulled the trigger. The gun crumbled into rust in my hand, the flakes gritty between my fingers. Crane patted me on the shoulder.
"Wasn't sure I had that in me. Off-the-cuff transmutations can be tricky, but you gave me just enough time with your tough talk. Good work, Jacob. Such a good lad."