Like most homes of a certain age, the Manor Burn had more rooms than the family had ever used. The ambitions of the architect outstretched the progeny of the elder Burns, and whole wings had alternately been shuttered and rehabilitated in the generations my family had been living here. As a child I used to make a game of the empty chambers, searching for ghosts or treasure, or making up stories about the ancestors who'd once lived in those dusty rooms.
This only got worse as the family's fortunes declined. No servants meant no servant quarters. No parties meant no formal dining room. No money meant no library, no stockhouse, no stables. All of those rooms had been sealed away or just left empty, until the Manor Burn was mostly a graveyard of bedrooms and corridors and closets.
So when Billy said that father was upstairs, I assumed that meant in one of the recently lived-in sections of the house. Before I left, my father and mother made their quarters in the master suites, just off the solar on the second floor. I found it abandoned. The solar itself looked well used, but not recently. I wondered if someone had been squatting in the semi-outdoor space, judging by the bedroll and primitive fire in one corner. That's where Billy found us.
"Those are his," he said. "When he came back from the upriver, he couldn't stand to be away from the stars. So he claimed." Billy toed the bedroll. I couldn't imagine my rotund father sleeping out here, on the ground. "I think something about the house frightened him. The way his eyes moved, always looking in corners, down empty halls. I should have known something was going on. Things have been so strange."
"Where is he, Billy?" I asked sharply. Billy collapsed a little bit.
"Follow me. Just" — he held up a hand — "just don't judge him."
"I think it's going to be lady's things," Wilson whispered behind me. I shushed him, then nodded my assent to Billy. The old servant led us deeper into the house, and higher up.
These were corridors I hadn't seen in a long time. Even with the thrumming power of the Deep Forge at our feet, it was difficult to heat these spaces in the winter. Besides, any scrap of power that went into the house was a scrap that wasn't being sold to the city. And while the market had collapsed, the rates people were willing to pay now a mere whisper of what they had once been, every scrap counted. More than ever, now.
Billy took us about as high up as the manor went. I remembered some of these rooms from my childhood wanderings. Especially the room where we stopped: the grand solar. Its glass dome was speckled with wooden planks, where the tiny jewel-like panes of glass had fallen out over the years. Somewhere along the way, even this mediocre repair work had ceased, and much of the dome blinked up into the sky. I was startled to realize that it was full night, stars glittering down at us through the dome. There was little light in the grand solar, other than what washed in from the city outside. Billy went to a side cabinet and began fumbling with a frictionlamp.
"No engines, Williamson. Leave us in the dark."
The voice came from the center of the room. Unquestionably my father's, and different from what I was expecting. With all these stories of madness and prophecy, I expected to hear his voice tinged with hysteria or disease. Instead, he sounded tired. Much like he sounded in the bar, each time he'd brought me there to describe the depth of his disappointment, either in me or the world. Billy stepped away from the cabinet.
"You have visitors, your lordship."
"How many years have you been with me? 'Lordship'?" A shadow moved in the dark, coming closer. "Since when do we… Ah. I see. You have brought me the boy."
"Hi, dad," I said. Silence answered me. The darkness swelled as my eyes struggled to adjust. Now that my father was still, I couldn't even be sure of where he was standing. Too many shadows, and nothing to distinguish his from any other. Finally his form turned away from me and disappeared back toward the center of the room. I gave Billy a nervous look, then followed.
"We came to talk to you, dad. Wilson and I. There's something going on, and I've heard some things. Stuff about you, and the Council." It felt weird talking to my dad about Council business. Usually we just yelled at one another until someone got tired and left. "And then Billy said some stuff, about Noah. He said that you were hearing voices."
That stopped him. I couldn't see what he was wearing, other than to know that it wasn't his usual suit. He had lost some weight, that's for sure. Even his face was obscured in the darkness. When he turned to me, all I could see was a black expanse.
"Voices. Two of them," he muttered. "Two voices. And then one. You probably think I'm mad."
"I should get a light," Billy said from the door. He rattled away down the hall. Wilson stood silently behind me, barely breathing. I crossed my arms and faced my father.
"I don't know what to think. Angela Tomb seems to think she has you around her finger."
"Tomb be damned. The Council be damned." He retreated from me, drifting back to the center of the room. My eyes were nearly adjusted to the light. He was wearing robes, and something over his face. "What have they told you about me?"
"Curiously, nothing. Angela made a special point of not discussing you."
"And why are you talking to that bitch again?" He asked it without spite, without violence.
"She got me out of jail." I moved to the cabinet, where Billy had been assembling the frictionlamp. "Listen, Alexander. I would really like to have some light in here."
"Not with those machines!" he snapped, and I found the edge of hysteria I had been expecting. He got dangerously close to the light from the hallway. I could almost see what was over his face. He realized it, and shied back. "I won't stand those machines. I wouldn't let you up here if your engine were still working, Jacob, son or no son. Even now, I can hear it in your chest, mewling like a sick cat."
"The cogwork is talking to you?" Wilson asked. There was a touch of reverence in his voice. "You can hear them talking?"
"It's not the engines, no. I know what you're thinking, bug." Alexander strode forcefully away. Once his back was to us, his hands went to his face. I hear metal and leather, straps, and then the shuffling of fabric. "I can hear it in your voice. No, it's something else. Talking through the engines. Some damn voice, like the dead, singing up from their graves."
I wrinkled my brow and looked back at Wilson. He was limned in the light from the hallway. My father wasn't a poetic man, even at his best. I couldn't read Wilson's expression, though, so I pressed on.
"Billy said this all started while you were upriver." I said, walking toward him. "On some kind of business for the Council. You mind telling me what you were about, up there?"
"Trade routes. The Council has become restless, Jacob." He turned towards me, and I could see that whatever had been covering his face was no longer there. "Restless and hungry. They are no longer content with controlling the routes down the water fall. They want the routes upriver, too. And they sent me to make the deal."
"Why you?" I asked. Not fifteen feet from him, now. Getting closer. I had half a mind to try to subdue him, drag him out into the light. Something. This was just too creepy.
"Because it was dangerous," he answered. Alexander was standing next to some kind of furniture, a lounge or a bed, resting one hand on it. "Because we're expendable to them."
"Since when were members of the Council expendable?"
"Not simply members of the Council. Us. The Family Burn." He shrugged in the darkness. "We haven't much to lose, have we?"
"A cheery way of putting it. And then?" I prompted.
He didn't move. Didn't look up, didn't drop his hand from the bed. But he seemed to deflate. Become insubstantial.
"I don't remember. There was a man, among the delegation. He reminded me of your brother." And there was that edge of hysteria. "I meant to speak to him, but I lost him in the alleyways of DelHaran. You've been there?"
"No, father. But that's where Noah died."
"Noah died," he answered, his voice faltering. "Yes. Yes, he did. I couldn't keep up with him."
There was a lot of stock in the 'going mad' school of thought, as far as I was concerned. I got as close to him as I dared and balled my hands into fists, just in case. I had struck my father before, of course, but usually we were both drunk for it.
Cue Billy running in with a torch. An actual torch, guttering and drooling pitch on the stone floor. It was like some penny-pulp scene, the villagers bursting in on the monster's den with their pitchforks and period-appropriate lighting devices.
Alexander looked like he always looked. Put out by my presence, other things on his mind. Formerly regal. What I thought were robes turned out to be a bathrobe, pulled tight around his belly. He had lost some weight and gained some wrinkles, but there was nothing in his bearing that hinted at madness. He looked down at my fists, half-raised into a fighting stance, and chuckled.
"You were going to punch me, Jacob? And you wonder why I wrote you out of the will. Honestly." He turned from me to Billy. "Get us something to eat, will you? A light lunch, perhaps."
"It's well past supper, sir."
"Well, then consult your books of etiquette and see if there's some way you can possibly bring me a sandwich and a warm beer and pretend that it's supper without all of us getting arrested by whatever powers enforce these social niceties, okay?" He turned away and strolled among his collection of furniture. "Because I could murder a sandwich, right now."
Billy looked from Alexander to me, even to Wilson. I shrugged and nodded. He set the torch in a stand that was apparently there for just that purpose, and then went back downstairs. I turned my attention back to father.
He was sitting at a desk. There were other bits of furniture around; a bed, a long table that was cluttered with plates and books and more than a few bottles from the bar downstairs. They were arranged haphazardly around the room. It looked as though he had simply dragged them as far as he could and then given up. I went to stand behind him.
"You're in my light," he said. I moved to the side to see what he was reading. A journal, quite old. There were drawings of wildlife and plants, alongside graphs of measurements. Typical scientist's stuff.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Something I've been reading. A journal of an unnamed scientist, from early in Veridon's history. I think he might have been part of the group that eventually became the Artificers Guild." He absentmindedly flipped the page and looked up at me. "Why are you here, Jacob?"
"I could ask you the same thing," I said, not yet willing to get to the heart of it. "Last I checked, there were perfectly good bedrooms downstairs."
He snorted and turned back to the journal. "Too close to the streets, to the carriages. To the Deep Furnace. I had to get away from the voice."
"You said two voices, before."
"Yes. They've told you I'm mad, of course."
"They?"
He twisted in his seat to look up at me. "The Council. Angela. Whoever it is she's trying to replace me with, or maybe the industrial families, trying to get our seat revoked."
I thought of the argument between Veronica and the Lady Tomb. It seemed father was aware enough to know forces were moving against him in the Council.
"You're living in a dark room, alone, and telling everyone that you're hearing a voice from out of the cogwork. What do you think they told me?"
He chuckled again.
"So they sent you to check in on me? Get me declared insane, is it?" He stood up from the desk and went to the table. He put it between us, put his hands on the surface. "Would that be revenge enough for you, Jacob?"
"I've given up on revenge, Alexander. There's nothing I could do that would make us even."
"Noble of you to feel that way. Very egocentric." He grimaced. "Maybe there's hope for you yet."
"No one sent me, dad. There was some bad trouble on the docks today, and I got caught up in it. Seems like the Council knows more about it than they're letting on. I thought I'd see what you knew. See if you could help me."
"Was it another one of those attacks?" he asked.
I told him about the ship, and Crane. I left out some stuff, because it was a complicated enough tale, and I wasn't yet sure he was in his full mind. I didn't mention Angela, or Veronica, or the iron girl.
"And the mask," Wilson said. I was just about to get to it, hadn't decided if I was going to include it or not. Wilson sensed it and made the decision for me. "We found a mask in Crane's place."
That caught his attention. He held out his hand, and with some small hesitation, Wilson gave it over. Alexander sat on the bed, holding the mask in both hands and staring at the words. Finally, he reached into his costumey robes and produced another mask. It was a cheap imitation of the mask we had found, made of hammered tin and child's paint.
"I've been having dreams," he whispered. "I've been seeing things in my dreams. It won't let me sleep."
"What is it?" I asked after a while.
"The Rite of Purge," he answered, his voice far away. "Something we haven't had in Veridon for quite a while. Hopefully never again."
"Oh," Wilson said. "Ah. Maybe that explains your vision, Jacob."
"Vision?" Alexander asked. "You've been having visions, and you accuse me of madness for hearing voices. Typical."
"It was the words there that triggered it." I tried to explain what I had seen. Alexander nodded the whole way through. "So what is this Rite of Purge about?"
"Used to be there was only one punishment that the Council could bring against its members. Now we have fines and restrictions and tax brackets," he said, waving his hand. "Now it's nice and complicated. But back at the Founding, the Councilors were above all reproach. We could do no wrong. If someone did do something wrong, it was so wrong that there could only be one punishment."
"Death?"
"Erasure." He looked up at me with those old eyes, stared hard at me. "Absolute removal from the city. From the history of the city. A complete purge of the family from the story of Veridon."
"How often has this happened?" Wilson asked.
"How would we know? Even the decision was removed from the books. Only the people who were there would know, and it was in their interest to forget. Hasn't happened in my lifetime. I suspect not in several generations. And this," he said, lifting the mask. "This is the symbol of office. Worn by the man charged with removal. It's a butcher's mask."
"Do you think Crane fancies himself an instrument of the Council?" Wilson asked. "Sent to purge one of the families?"
"Who's to say he isn't? Whole point of the mask is to invest the Council's power in one man." Alexander tossed the mask onto his bed and rested his head in his hands. "That mask is a mandate. Crane had this. Who knows what resources he has at his disposal?"
"He had it, but he left it behind," Wilson said. "So was it given to him, or did he take it from someone?"
"I'm getting tired of this," Alexander said. He was leaning against the table with his full weight, arms spread wide, head drooping to his chest. "I'm getting tired of these games."
"Kinda late for that," I said.
"Kind of. Yes." He placed the mask gingerly on the table, straightened the edge of it so it lined up with the table. "There are things I should have left for you, son. Other than obligations."
"And mind-numbing debt," I laughed. "Good news on the debt part. Since I've been written out of the will, that won't be my problem either."
Alexander lifted a square of paper from the table and tapped it against the mask. When he raised his head, I thought for one startling second that he was crying. He slid the paper toward me, then sat at the table and crossed his arms.
When it became clear that I wasn't going to move, Wilson went and got the paper. He laughed as he read it, then held it up for me to read.
I got the words "Right of Name," "Councilor-in-Standing" and "Son, Jacob Burn" through my head before I turned and walked out of the room, leaving the letter behind. Wilson followed, laughing all the way, with a touch of hysteria.
Just a reminder. My father, Alexander Burn, betrayed me. He sold a part of me to the Church of the Algorithm, buried one of their secrets in my flesh and then cast me out of the house when I didn't show the proper gratitude. When his little compromise got some of my friends killed, I acted against his will. Directly against his will. This is what got me shot by Angela, got Emily killed, got me a bad name in the city of Veridon. Everything that man has done has in some way acted against me. And this was his last shot. He took everything from me, spent it all, and now he was giving me the bill.
"We should get a drink," Wilson yelled from behind me as I pushed through the busy streets of DowningTown. "Celebrate. You've been reinstated!"
I gave him a nasty look over my shoulder. He was all smiles and teeth.
"You know damn well that it's too late for that," I yelled back. The crowds were loud tonight. Rumors of the attacks at the dock this morning were driving a certain madness through the air. "The Burn family name died a long time ago. That skeleton has just been rattling along."
"So it's up to you to bury it. Shouldn't be that hard."
I grimaced and kept trudging through the crowd. Lots of pushing, lots of noise. The Down wasn't usually this busy, even on festival nights. People were seriously spooked, if they were treating this like some kind of holiday from sanity. But who was I to talk? One thing Wilson had right. Way things were going, we should seriously get a drink.
We chose a place I used to frequent in my days as a serious criminal. I didn't think they'd recognize me. Hoped not, at least. Some people I pissed off back then, they might pay folks to let them know I was around. Come by and have a swing at my head. Or maybe that's just what I needed. A good fight to clear the head. Wilson seemed like he could do with the same. Seemed edgy, and there was nothing quite as intimidating as an edgy bug. All those teeth, that smiling, nervous energy. The knives bulging under his vest. We made a good pair.
I got our drinks and found a table in the corner. Wilson sat across from me. Still grinning.
"Cut it out," I said.
"What?"
"That smile. You're happy about this." I drank and wiped my face with the back of my hand. "You like to see me suffer."
"Not exactly. I like to see you when you get like this, though."
"Like what?" I asked.
He spread his hands around the room. People were giving us our space, for all that the rest of the tavern was knees to nuts.
"Dangerous," he said. "People can smell it. You're a man who isn't thinking straight."
"I'm thinking just fine."
"We had questions for your father. Lots of questions, really. Best thing we could do is go back to that morbid house, climb up to that room and sit in the dark with your father. Asking questions."
"Maybe," I conceded.
"But we're not going to do that, are we?"
I was quiet. His smile widened. My beer was empty, but another appeared without having to ask. The barmaid wouldn't meet my eyes. Hurried away. She could smell it on me.
"No," I said. "We're not."
"We left the mask behind. You think we might want that later on?" Wilson sipped his beer and rubbernecked around the room like a tourist. "I think we'll need it. But no matter."
Again, I didn't answer. I wasn't going back to that house. Not now, not ever. I had been under the gloom of the Burn name for years now. Some folks blamed me for the noble family's fall from grace, some folks blamed my father, or the industrialists who were squeezing the Founding Families out of the Council. Out of power. Last thing I wanted was the responsibility of righting that ship. Or worse, standing at the helm when she finally slipped under the water. Thinking that reminded me of the morning's fight on the river, and the crawling dead. I shivered. It also made me realize I'd been up for a lot of hours in a row, here, and a lot had happened in a day. Suddenly, fatigue plucked at my bones. I settled into my chair and stared at my beer. I was feeling unapologetically bad for myself.
"Why did he do that?" I asked no one in particular. "Why'd he reinstate me? What happened to letting the name disappear before he'd hand it over to the likes of me?"
"You may not have noticed this, but your father is in a peculiar state of mind." Wilson folded his hands around his mug. "I don't really understand what he meant by hearing voices. I think we can trace that pretty directly to our boy Crane, don't you?"
"I thought of that. Wasn't sure how to put it to him, though."
"I'm not sure you should have." Wilson sipped his beer, as though it was hot, and licked his lips. "We're in an unusual position, Jacob. I think we have more information than most of the people involved in this."
I blinked at him across the table. Fatigue was really pulling me down.
"Sure doesn't feel that way," I said. "Feels like we don't know the first damn thing."
He laughed, but kept the mirth from his eyes. There was something uncomfortable in the way he was sitting, like he was trying to balance on a very tiny chair.
"We know Crane is working with Tomb. We know that he is somehow connected with a Rite of Purge, and that a lot of the abilities he's demonstrated align with your father's sudden case of madness." He drank, then slid his mug slowly around the table, making patterns in the condensation. "And Crane took the time to hire you for a job that was probably going to get you killed."
"I don't like where you're going with this," I muttered.
"I'm not going anywhere with it. I'm just laying out some facts."
"You're implying that a Rite of Purge has been written out with the Burn name on it."
"I'm not sure that I am," he said. "Although that is a possibility. From what your father described, though, it doesn't sound like the kind of thing the Council would enact. Unless your family has done something heinous that we're just not aware of."
I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my face. "You never know. Dad likes his secret plans."
"Let's discount that for a moment. This Rite of Purge thing seems pretty extreme, even for Angela Tomb. I don't think she'd take the time to bring it in front of the full Council. If she was serious about snuffing out the Burn name, I mean… there are really only two of you left. Your mother's not going to contest the Right, your siblings are dead or married. Honestly, you didn't really count toward the total until your father reinstated you."
"Maybe that's why he did it," I said. "He's worried Angela is trying to get him out of the way, so he brought me back into the family. Putting the crosshairs on my head would force my involvement. Force them to act against me, and me to react against them. That'd be typical of him."
"Doesn't explain the purge mask, though," Wilson said.
I shrugged. It did seem a little theatrical for Angela's style. She was much more the type to just pull out a pistol and shoot you in the chest, without preamble or warning. Which was also the problem with Crane's theoretical role in Alexander's madness. If the Tombs wanted Alexander dead, they would shoot him. Unless they needed to discredit him first. I really needed to know more about what was going on in the Council.
"What about this Bright girl?" I asked. "What do you know about her?"
"Not much. They're a recent addition to the Council. Her father has very diversified interests. One of which, curiously, is not the Council. It was her brother that worked to get them a seat in the chamber. And as far as I know, he's the one who sits it. Aaron, his name is, I think. She acts as his second."
"I take it they hate all Founders, everywhere, and would do everything in their power to bring us down?"
"Beats me." Wilson finished his beer then carefully turned the mug on its head and rested his hands on top of it. "But it sure seems she has no love for the Tombs. Maybe she'd talk to you. Tell me," he said, looking around the bar. "Does this all seem strange to you?"
I finished my beer and pushed the glass away. It left a wet trail on the table, like a slug.
"Does what seem strange to me?"
"This crowd. What is tonight, Tuesday? Tuesday's not usually a big drinking night."
I put a hand on the girl's wrist when she brought me the next round. She stiffened, but met my eyes.
"What's with all the people?" I asked. She answered, but it was too quiet for me to hear. I gave her a tug, until she bent close.
"They're coming for you," she groaned. Voice like a graveyard cracking open, rattling up from the deep parts of her chest.
"What?" I asked, squeezing hard. Wilson squinted at me and leaned in to listen. The girl blinked and looked at me like I was an idiot.
"I said, people are cutting loose before the curfew. Council's shutting the city down tomorrow. Some kind of Badge thing."
"First I've heard of it," I said. "I've never known them to shut down the whole city."
"Not since the red fever came through here," Wilson said, looking mournfully at his upturned mug. "It's pretty strange."
"Anyway," the barmaid fluttered her eyes at me. "Much as I enjoy being held by such a fine gentleman, I do have other tables."
"I really doubt you've been held by many gentlemen," I muttered.
She gave me a look, then twisted her arm free and slapped her palm flat across my cheek before stalking away.
"What was that about?" Wilson asked, eyes twinkling.
"Nothing," I said. "Let's get out of here."
"Aren't you going to finish your beer?" he asked.
"Nope."
"Aren't you going to pay for the beers you finished?"
"Nope."
"Woo, it's a party! We're on a tear!" Wilson jumped up and slapped me on the back. "Skipping out on checks and walking out on your father. Next thing we'll be beating up kids for their allowance!"
"What the hell has gotten into you?" I snapped.
"I'm just glad to see you making mistakes again. You're more fun when you make mistakes." He grabbed me by the shoulder with his iron-hard fingers and kept me from walking away from him. "Seriously. What'd the bitch say the first time? I thought your face was going to fall off."
"I don't know what she said," I answered, looking nervously around the room. "But someone made a threat, through her. A threat or a warning."
Wilson's smile broke, but only for a moment. He looked for the barmaid, but couldn't find her. Without another word he started pushing for the front door.
"Did she look like she had cogwork?" he asked.
"She looked like she had great tits. That's as far as I got."
"You're not helpful," he hissed.
"I thought I was more fun when I made mistakes."
"That has its limits. Let's get somewhere quieter and…"
The sirens started. Out in the streets, the drunken crowd gave a whoop and a holler, and then gunfire sprinkled the air and people started screaming. We stopped talking, and just ran.