12. Nine Fathom Deep He Had Followed Us

The whispering awoke Ridley in the full stillness of the night. He blinked up at the dark rafters, his eyes slowly adjusting until he could distinguish their shadows from the deeper ones of the attic roof. The aetheric bonds holding him across the chest and waist, anchored to the floor below the simple cot, crackled when he tried to turn farther to peer into the corners. Too bloody dark, he thought, fear rippling along his vestigial tentacles, and he squirmed unhappily beneath his dirty tunic. How he longed for a bath in the sea... Oh yes, a bath, and a swim...down and down and down til I can’t see the light of day no more, down where my Dearie was born, and maybe swims now, poor love...oh, but take me from this place, this dirty musty junkheap, why am I here? Where’s Mikael? Mikael said go to his home, and so I did, dinn’t I... More rustlings, soft susurrations within a rusting steamer trunk, made him jerk his head and whimper. Ghosts, all attics have ghosts! Worse than ships, they is...

When Ridley Fogchaser was ten, his uncle and only parental figure had bound him out on a ship for the New World, hoping it would both ease his own burden in feeding so many mouths, and perhaps teach the lad the value of hard work. Whether it was fair or no, the captain told Ridley upon reaching Boston that more was still owed on his passage, and so he stayed on board when the ship took on more cargo and sailed the treacherous route around the southern continent. Ridley saw hurricanes, and brutal calms under tropical heat, and near-wrecks of his own ship as well as the skeletons of schooners which had failed to navigate between the wintry southern gales and the jagged rocks. He endured every deprivation of the sailing life in those months-long voyages, and yet, when the ship docked in San Francisco and Ridley scampered off as soon as the captain was too far in his cups, the boy almost immediately signed aboard another vessel and sailed for the far Pacific islands. He couldn’t explain it to any man who’d never loved the sway of a deck beneath his feet, or the sting of the salt in his face, but life at sea suited him. The Cataclysm had spared his ship – he was first mate by then, of the trading schooner Ecclesiast – for some purpose. There had been signs. Ridley Fogchaser believed ardently in signs. And in ghosts.

More whispery noises in another part of the attic worried him. He knew this was Mikael’s house, but suddenly the thought that his lover’s ghost might have returned here sent a shiver along his flexible bones. He began to murmur a half-remembered prayer. “Yea, though I swim through the shadow of the straits of Death, I won’t fear no evil, no, for thy arms and thy beak they comfort me...” He shut his eyes, straining against the bonds the sorcerer had put on him. “Bloody Dust-magicker, why’d he go and do that, I wasn’t no harm to him nor his lady...nor his...sister...”

Sister. The word instantly conjured the face of the girl, the tiny, sickly thing: her white face haunted by the immensity of the broad dark bed burying her. Little sister. There was a...Mikael said...sister, autumn sister, what was...

Dearie touched his face.

Ridley stiffened, motionless, feeling the soft, cool tip of an immense arm caressing his cheek, his lips; the wriggling growths above his mouth reached hungrily for the kraken’s comforting suckers. Obligingly, soft kisses trailed along his lips, his hands, underneath his tunic. Ridley moaned, surrendering eagerly, and his bonds hissed and spat sparks as Dearie brought him swiftly to shuddering, jerking bliss. Tears trickled down his cheeks. Oh my Dearie, my Dearie dear, you’ve come back! I knew you couldn’t leave me, no, knew you would return for me, oh take me with you into the deep, the briny deep your home, your heaven...love you so much...

The soft touches withdrew, and slowly Ridley’s heart quieted, joy suffusing every ounce of his blood. He blinked past his tears, seeing only darkness upon darkness, the glow of the aether-bonds his only illumination, but he could feel his kraken above him, majestic, sweeping the air in cool patterns across his flesh. When his thoughts cleared at last, calm and content and assured of his own death, the kraken gently pointed out to him the ends, the knots in the energy restraining him. Ridley inclined his head, and looked, and suddenly saw the intricate weave of the strings of greenfire, the pattern.

He giggled. “It’s a Chinese puzzle, innit, my pet? Oh yes, I’ve solved me them a time or two. I see it now.” Encouraged by the feeling of pleasure and pride he received from Dearie, he snaked the tentacles on his chest (were they longer now? how nice!) through the bonds and began untying them, unweaving them, ignoring the sizzle where tender moist flesh encountered powerful Dust-energy strands. Within just a few minutes he was able to sit up and tug loose the threads like so many silk cords in a kite-fight. Then he was free. Then Dearie spoke again. It told him things. Lots of things.

Ridley sat and listened to the dead kraken in perfect calm, in perfect darkness.

Then he picked up the wheel of a broken safety-bicycle where it languished by the trunk, and cracked it over his knee. He did not flinch as he stabbed one of its wide, flat spokes directly into his chest, into the bulging flesh between the writhing arms. He shoved a hand into the hole, prising it open wide enough to withdraw the crystalline rock he’d carried safe on Mikael’s behest these many weeks. Though no light fell upon it, it glittered.

Immediately his head felt clearer. Ridley knew what to do next.

The attic stairs creaked slightly as he descended, but he felt no fear. The sense of the sorcerer, the one who’d bound him but also fed him tasty crab bits, had departed from the house some time ago. He didn’t feel the man here at all now, only the lady and the girl. Little Sister. He had some things for that one, oh, didn’t he now. Wonderful things. Ridley had to stifle another giggle.

An oil lantern glowed in the upstairs hall, showing him two doors ajar not far from each other. The Krakenpilot cautiously pushed open the nearer one, and stood in the doorway a few minutes, regarding the soft rise and fall of the sleeping lady. Her hair, freed of its pins and ribbons, spilled across her pillow, reminding Ridley of a sea-fan. For a moment he fancied he saw it waving in the current. Her face contracted in worry, shadows filling it and then slipping away again, as the waves of her dreams washed her gently. She was enough like Mikael in the brow and soft cheeks that Ridley almost went to her, thinking of touching her face. Then she mumbled something, and rolled on her side, and sighed as she relaxed again; the curves of her breast and hip were nothing like the spare, lean frame of Mikael. Ridley turned away, and walked to the other door.

It eased open silently. Dim, shifting streetlight pattered up through the trees and the lace curtains. Embers glowed in the hearth, but the tiny figure in the massive bedstead appeared white and still and cold. Alarmed, Ridley hastened to her. Her labored breathing at least reassured him the girl was alive. Standing over her at the side of the bed, he trembled.

Suddenly her eyes opened. She stared at him, and her eyes filled with the same terror he’d often seen on the faces of the natives, when he and Dearie had dropped upon them, the kraken screeching, tentacles flailing, Ridley whooping as savage a cry as any Comanche. Ridley quickly leaned over and covered her tiny mouth with his hand.

“Shh, now,” he whispered. She struggled feebly. He seated himself beside her, and with his other hand pressed her shoulder into the thick featherbed, tenderly. “Don’t fuss so, Little Sister,” he said, but it was clear from her terrified eyes the girl didn’t comprehend him. He paused, and with the clarity granted him by Dearie’s guidance, realized the growths around his mouth and the beak beneath his lips were hindering his speech. With great effort, he shaped them, and at last managed to say words which sounded more like English to his slowly adjusting ears: “Hush yourself; I have to talk to you. I won’t hurt you.”

The girl subsided, too weak to continue struggling. He was afraid she would try to scream. Carefully he spoke again. “My name is Ridley.” He released her mouth, then her shoulder, anxiously holding his breath while she studied his face with suspicious, dark eyes, like a sparrow in a trap.

“What kinda name is that?” the girl demanded, her voice hoarse and high. Her indignance made Ridley grin, and she recoiled. He waved a hand before his mouth, trying to show her he was amused, not hungry. She edged herself up against the pillows, wary. “You’re a monster. Do monsters have names?”

“I’m not a monster!” he objected. “Don’t you know them hides under the bed?”

“You did!”

“Fair doos,” he agreed, surprised. “But that was to keep clear o’ the coppers, like. I’m...I was...a pilot.”

“How come you’re talking now?”

He pondered this. His memories of entering the house, of first encountering this beautiful little girl, were blurry as though he’d been into the rum. Hadn’t he spoken to her then? He’d recognized her right away. He’d been awestruck, that much he knew. “Well, there’s things you need, y’see. And I have a job, now don’t I? An important job now, oh yes, Dearie said.” He nodded earnestly, showing her how serious he was about this charge, but she frowned.

“You’re not supposed to be here. Miss Holly said...”

“Never you mind that. I’m here now, Little Sister.” His eyes filled, and he blinked away the salty tears, tasting them with unhappy little fingers above his mouth. “I’m here now.” He took one of her tiny hands in his own, clasping it firmly. The girl stared at him, but didn’t pull away. He managed a smile for her. Weak, she’s so weak, lookit her all pale like a bleached whalebone. Oh, my Dearie, yes, I shall be yours, I shall make you most proud. Wiping his face with the sleeve of his tunic, he forced brightness into his voice. The words seemed to be coming easier now. “Shall I tell you a story, Little Sister? Yes. That’s what we’ll do, we’ll have us a nice little story before you sleep. Let’s see.” His mind cast about, fastening on a scrap of memory from long ago, before the kraken rose from the deep, before the rocks smashing into the earth and sea changed all of life, before, even, he had put to sea.

“Long, long ago, there was a wee princess with hair like wheat, and eyes like the grass,” he began, and stroked her soft, light brown hair back from that tiny pale forehead. “And her kingdom was a northern island in the middle of the deep, deep sea...”

The longer he rambled, the more the girl relaxed, despite his voice being ragged from disuse, and his memory so fractured he was sure he was mixing up several stories. He told her of the sea-unicorn, with its ivory horn; of schools of shimmering fish so vast they appeared as moving curtains in the ocean; of the lords of the deep, with shining huge eyes and many arms that could drag under the mightiest vessel, if the men aboard it displeased them. “And the princess was sent to their kingdom, these mighty lords, because her cruel father wanted her to pay tribute to them. Every year they sent tribute, so the lords would allow the men to fish in their rich waters, y’see.”

The girl wrinkled her nose. “What’s a tribute?”

“Like something you has to give away. Like taxes,” Ridley tried to explain, though he was unsure himself. “Anyways, this king, he thought if he gave the Deep Lords his little girl, she was so beautiful, and so sweet, that he’d have great fishing for years to come.”

“Could she swim?”

“Oh ye—“ he began, but saw her mouth shape into a worried purse, and amended, “No, the poor dear; she couldn’t at all, but that didn’t matter to the king, for he was a bad, bad man, now wasn’t he.” Searching for the right words, Ridley told her of the long voyage to the black, cold sea, where landfall was impossible and the clouds gathered night and day, forgetting that this child would never have known a sky which was not grey. He described the sea, and the shapes in the clouds, and the murky things moving always just under the surface, and the hard life of the princess aboard the ship, where she was made to polish brass fittings and scrub the deck til her skin was raw from the salt air. Memories crowded his mind, but he had presence enough to understand that not all of what he’d experienced was fit for female sensibilities, no matter how much Ridley himself had come to enjoy these things when he was older. As he talked and talked, still stroking her hair or her clammy skin, she fell completely silent, and her eyes closed. He might have garbled on all night, but the touch of Dearie inside his skull roused him.

Ridley quieted, studying the soft breath, the just-perceptible rattle in her chest. Time. His limbs moved restlessly under his tunic, and excitement built within. The enormity of the charge laid upon him made him prickle all over. Slowly he lifted his tunic, and brought out the precious, throbbing thing cradled in two of his young tentacles. The crystals sparked deep within the rock. Ridley took a deep breath, braced himself for the expulsion of energy sure to result, and with a strong hand broke off a small cube.

The release was horrible and immediate. His whole body jolted, and he choked, grabbing the blankets. His jerking legs awakened the girl again, and she tried to sit up, alarmed. With a low groan, Ridley pushed her down, pried open her mouth, and before she could cry out, stuffed the bit of rock past her tongue. She gagged, then swallowed, then stiffened, then went into convulsions. Gasping, Ridley held her arms, keeping her from flopping around like a landed salmon. The fit, thankfully, passed in a few seconds, and she slumped into the downy bed. He watched her anxiously until she began to breathe again, then released her.

Swallowing dryly, he offered a prayer to his savior. Dearie, it’s begun. Your Little Sister has begun, now she has, oh yes. And soon, soon, I’ll be with you.

He sat there on the side of the bed until the sky lightened. The kraken’s words brushed his thoughts, and he bestirred himself, pulling open the gash in his flesh and secreting the rock once more. Mikael had only guessed at the power of this element, his most lethal discovery in the Crater. He’d paid for this secret with his life and the lives of his crew, but here was simple Mr Fogchaser who’d gone from a life of sailing ships to riding a friend and lover more dear than all of mankind to him; lucky, doomed Ridley, keeper of the miracle, guardian to she destined to be Sister of the Deep Lords. It made him dizzy at once; fog filled his brain, and all clear purpose fled. Yet his ghost urged him on. The pilot chuckled at how silly he felt, rose and staggered back up to the attic and lay down upon the cot once more. As the sun shone dimly somewhere past the ashen sky, he snored, assured at last of the reason he had been spared when the seas boiled and the skies fell.

11. A Shot in the Dark

It was well past sunset when Vonken reached his sanctuary at last. He was weary down to the last particle of his being, and fumbled in his coat before remembering he’d shifted the key to the small pocket in his trousers which normally held his watch, for closer safekeeping. After an unsuccessful hour trying to question the Krakenpilot, he’d been forced to draw the unhappy conclusion the man’s mind was deranged. He’d have to distill another batch of Vitae veritae on the morrow and try anew...though it seemed doubtful that even that potent concoction would extract anything useful from such a kaleidoscope of a brain. He’d left a request at the clinic for Hodgson to see to the possible pox brewing at poor Mrs O’Leary’s; he hated loading up his medical partner with more work, but if this crazed Pilot was indeed the lone survivor of the ill-fated Autumnson expedition... Vonken bit his lip grimly as he strode inside the converted bank building. If he knows what happened, he could denounce Villard. Provided I can restore his sanity...though certainly plenty of people will say a Pilot has little sanity to begin with. Moreover, if he knows what became of the element...

He discovered he was trembling. He stood still within the cavernous marble lobby, shut his eyes, and drew all focus inward, feeling the pump within his chest steadily working, gently touching the aetheric string of the heartlink connecting it with its living double. I must have it. There is no better alternative. Even if it means setting out for the damned Crater myself.

All plans would have to wait for tomorrow. It was well past the appointed hour for the sabbath, and he was in no sense ready. He frowned at the pang of shame which went through him, and moved with purposeful steps to his living quarters.

Vonken wouldn’t have been able to speak truly as to why he still observed the ritual. The answer he might have given anyone who inquired, that it was simply the custom of his family, rang hollow. He had met others of his faith since the Cataclysm; most of them had rejected the old traditions, and lived without hope. Others, like many of the goyim, had adopted this or that apocalyptic doctrine, convinced the destruction of this world signified nothing less than the Creator’s ultimate disapproval of the ones made in his image. Vonken saw only desperation in the new faiths, the cults of doom; but he somehow couldn’t embrace the dull cynicism of those who’d turned their back on any belief in some grand purpose. He considered all this again while he bathed and dressed in simple robes of plain linen.

Is this gift or curse? Did he foresee even this? Perhaps if the rabbis had paid more attention to the doomsayers among the Messianics...perhaps this is what mad, lonely John saw when the angels unhinged his skull and poured into it visions incomprehensible. If this is what being chosen means, find me a whale to dive into. He smirked in reflex, though the joke had long since ceased to amuse. There must be meaning here somewhere. Consider all you can do to assist, to heal...surely there is some significance? Are you truly only a freak, or is this his plan, to gift a few with the ability to recover whatever is possible? Do you have the hubris to imagine yourself some sort of modern tzadik, some twisted saint chosen in the worst lottery of all time to carry the world on your back? He shook his head with a grimace as he settled the long white tunic over his shoulders. No. Outrageous. That way leads only to madness...still, there must be some reason. Some meaning to my living, even in this fashion, while everyone else choked and boiled and... He cut off that line of thought quickly.

Soft-slippered, enrobed in layers which barely warmed his flesh in the chill room belowground, Darius Vonken laid a simple supper on the table and stood a long minute, quieting his mind before beginning his solitary shabbat. Though he had much to do when the sun arose, he felt impelled to observe this ritual tonight just as he had his whole life, ever since, as a boy, the candlelight had seemed magical to him. Candlelight was as strong an illumination as his damaged eyes could bear now, but he felt the same pause, the same precious spark of inner stillness, strike though him tonight upon lighting the single beeswax taper as he had then. He stared into the soft, flickering light, and in silence began a prayer of his own fashioning, acknowledging the painful mystery of the mind who had allowed such things to pass, asking again to understand his role; asking, as always, for signs to guide his actions.

The wail of the alarm froze him. Blast it, why now? Damned vermin will pick the least opportune time to try my defenses! He sat another second, debating with himself, but the mechanisms he’d crafted to alert him to any break-ins proved far too irritating to simply ignore. He leapt upstairs two at a time, growing angrier with each step. A motion of his hand through the air silenced the alarm, and stretching out both palms to feel the disturbance to the wards he’d cast brought him the immediate and surprising information that no one was trying to force the windows or climb the edifice. “Who in blazes tries to force a door?” he snarled. Looking around, he took swift stock of his dormant constructs, snapped his fingers and whistled at one in particular.

The watchcog shook off the sheet draped over it, clockwork gears clicking in counterpoint to the sound of its claws on the marble tiles. Greenfire flared in the depths of its bulbous glass eyes, and the jaws opened, displaying jagged spikes of teeth. It bounded to him, and Vonken started for the door with the sharp command: “Heel, Bartimaeus.”

Vonken threw the heavy bolt and swung the front door wide. Barty lunged forward, jaws snapping with a clang and a metallic growl. The Constable and his men all took a fast step back, looking remarkably well-choreographed, their expressions of fear identical. Vonken was too angry to enjoy the sight. As his watchcog snarled and edged up to the crackling energy protecting the entry, Vonken squinted at the crowd outside, and even with his eyes hurting from the lamps the Watch carried, easily discerned which of them was the Coldspark. “Letriver? Were you honestly trying to disarm my ward just now? Well, perhaps ‘honestly’ isn’t quite the proper term.”

The man wore the uniform of the City Watch, but bore no weapons or distinctions save a tiny pin on his collar. The Watch Coldspark-at-arms lowered his hands, yellow sparks dying out from his stubby fingers. The lamplight gleamed through the fringe of pale hair around his egglike skull. “Just doing my duty, Doctor,” he muttered. The Constable himself recovered his dignity and stepped forward, and Vonken scowled at him.

“What duty prompts you to attempt to force the wards of a privately held home well after dark?” Vonken demanded.

Constable Rubgelt met his glare coldly. He unrolled an official warrant, and held it up for Vonken to read at least the large print at the top. “Under orders of Judge Thricekilled, Doctor Vonken, we have come to search this domicile for stolen property belonging to the Northern Pacific Airways Exploration Company. You are required by law to disarm your wards and allow us to conduct a thorough search, or be held accountable to the courts.”

“Stolen property? What is it your lord and master alleges me to have stolen?” This was hardly his first unpleasant dispute with the Watch, but the suspicious absence of certain bits of scrap metal and junked prosthetic parts from the hospital could not be definitely pinned on him; those times, Vonken’s status at said hospital had carried enough weight to stop the questions before they went very far. Besides, few people wished to argue with a Coldspark; and really, why would he have stolen bits of metal when he had money enough to simply buy them? Granted, new-mined metal didn’t have the lingering taste of Dust embedded in its very molecules the way even failed Dustcrafted projects did. This, however, looked to be a wholly different beast of law.

The Constable didn’t budge. “Lower your wards, or my man will tear them down. And order your metal monster to stand down, or I won’t be responsible for the damage to your mutt, though you certainly will be to any injury of my men.”

Vonken weighed his options very, very carefully, feeling chilled. They mustn’t see the inner vault. Mustn’t see it. How good is Letriver? He didn’t wish to do anything as obvious as touch the other Coldspark’s aura with his own, to feel out his strength, his experience. He’d met the man before, seen him tagging along with the Watch on some official arrest or other, and hadn’t been particularly impressed by what little he’d observed... The alternative, though, bespoke nothing short of a declaration of war, and Vonken could ill afford to throw down that gauntlet just yet. With a grimace, he gestured and growled the passwords, and pointed the ‘cog back from the door. Barty, despite his immobile steel skull, managed to appear disappointed, but obediently backed up and sat.

Rubgelt walked in, his scowl belying the cautious way he moved. Letriver entered next, followed by five of the Watch. The same Captain whom Vonken had warned away from Autumn Hill that afternoon was only too pleased to stand guard outside with a few more men. It required no acting for Vonken to be indignant. “Do you comprehend the grave insult you are tossing at my feet this evening, Constable? I was in the midst of my shabbat observance. This intrusion is a direct violation of my right to practice my faith!”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t carry out a search at some more convenient time for you,” Rubgelt said, though his contempt seemed impersonal. “I honestly don’t care what you Pre-churched types do, ‘long as it doesn’t involve baby-eating. But a warrant is a warrant. We are under orders to search your property now, and now it is.” He waved one leather-gloved finger in a circle over his head, and three of the Watch reluctantly spread out and began examining the tables, workbenches, and half-finished machinery around the main room. Vonken ground his teeth as he saw them yanking protective sheets off of delicate projects.

“I will be billing the city for any of my equipment which your oafs damage in the least, be assured,” he told the Constable, who shrugged, and looked around in the dim lobby with a frown.

“Tell the boys outside we need more lamps. By the love of the Deep, Vonken, d’ya have to keep this place so blasted dark?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “This place has a vault, doesn’t it? And where the hell do you sleep?”

“Assuming he does,” one of the men examining the single-seat ornithopter muttered, thinking the Coldspark doctor wouldn’t overhear.

“Only the just may truly sleep,” Vonken snapped, voice raised, startling the Watchman. “Do you?”

“We’d like to see the vault,” Letriver said. Vonken turned on him, and had the cold satisfaction of seeing the other ‘spark flinch an instant. That fear gave Vonken hope. Slowly, he began drawing thin trickles of Dust energy from the items around him, hoping to build it within him without alerting Letriver.

“This way,” he said, and strode ahead of them, his anger an excuse to move fast. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, hearing them clattering a few steps behind, he swept his arm at the steel door to the inner vault, and the blank paneling of the walls on either side of it rippled and flowed over it. He whirled to face Rubgelt entering through the reinforced but open doorway, and gestured at his table. “As you can see, I’d not even begun my dinner. Which, clearly, is not the braised heart of a newborn...though at the moment I’m considering the merits of other cuts of meat.” He glared at the Constable.

The head of the Watch was too old and canny to show much, whether he felt any unease or not. He looked around the apartment Vonken had made from the former bank vault, taking in the simple wooden table and chair, the fire-grate and small chimney where a modest pile of logs burned naturally, the armchair before it. Letriver arrived then, in obviously less hurry, sniffing the air. Vonken counted on the Dust permeating the whole building to throw him off. All they’ll see is the wall, and that’s all he’ll perceive as well, unless...unless he’s better than I think he is...

“Very droll,” Rubgelt commented, sounding bored. He pointed at the table. “Sit there, Doctor, and by no means allow us to interrupt your meal, hm? You, check in there. You, kitchen,” he ordered. The remaining men he’d brought down edged into Vonken’s bedchamber and the small room behind the dining table, their nervously darting eyes attesting to the stronger energy palpable in the close air belowground.

Vonken folded his arms across his chest. “If you won’t allow me to supervise the foolhardy meddling with my work upstairs, then I’ll stand right here where I can at least keep you from drinking my good bourbon, Constable.” The redness of cheeks and nose plainly spoke of Rubgelt’s familiarity with a different sort of strong power.

“Step aside, Vonken,” Rubgelt snapped, and pointed at his feet. “Letriver, check the floor.”

Vonken took precisely one step to the left, looking down in contempt as the Watch’s pet Coldspark knelt unhappily and examined the area. “Nothing, sir.”

“Hm.” Rubgelt remained unconvinced. “Check all of it.”

“I really don’t think—“ Letriver began, but his superior cut short his complaint.

“The whole floor, Letriver! And then the bedroom...unless I miss my guess, that used to be the room for the safe-deposit boxes. If it’s here, I’ll wager that’s where he’s stashed it.”

“What exactly am I supposed to be harboring in defiance of all law and common respect of private rights to property?” Vonken demanded again. The Constable flapped the warrant in his face, and Vonken ripped it from his fingers disgustedly. He skimmed over the printed form to the spaces filled in by fine ink penmanship. “This doesn’t even specify what object you’re looking for!” he protested. “Why, I haven’t seen wording this vague since the confidentiality agreement the vice-mayor signed for ‘services rendered’ at the Red Lantern!”

Rubgelt didn’t turn a hair, clearly unsympathetic to the rumors surrounding the lascivious Vice-Mayor Freely. “We have reason to believe you may be in possession of certain property which was recovered from the Wastelands by the Company.”

“So Henry Villard believes I’ve stolen some trinket of his from the States-That-Were and am hoarding it in my own private museum?” Vonken snorted. “If I wanted meaningless symbols of a fallen republic, I’d go forth into that blasted desert and get them myself!”

“We’ll see,” Rubgelt said. He turned to his men, approaching with glum expressions. “Anything?”

“Some good bourbon, like he said,” one said, producing the bottle. Rubgelt took it and stuffed it into a coat-pocket. “Nothing else here, sir.”

“You can’t just make off with my liquid refreshment like a common tavern thief,” Vonken growled, but the Constable flashed a tight smile.

“Care to produce a bill of sale for this, Doctor? No? You should remember that the Molstead Act requires all legitimately produced spirits to be sold with a lading bill to prove the Columbia tariff’s been paid. Keep it handy next time. Of course I know an upstanding surgeon like yourself wouldn’t be trading in black-market liquors.” Rubgelt frowned at Letriver. “Come on, don’t tell me we dragged you along for nothing!”

The Coldspark scowled back, turning in a slow circle, continually making a gesture with both hands as if casting a fishing net. “Don’t rush me! There’s so much energy down here...”

Rubgelt barked at him, “Well, latch onto the strongest thing and root it out! How damned hard can that be?”

Letriver stopped, his glare shifting to his boss. “The strongest Dust presence down here is him.”

“Then search him, you mealworm!” The Constable nodded at Vonken. “You men, hold him if he resists.”

The Watch looked alarmed at this suggestion. Struggling to tamp down the outrage that wanted to spill over in a violent surge, Vonken raised his arms over his head, gaze locked on Letriver’s, but didn’t twitch as the other man cautiously reached for him. He bore the brushing of energy on energy with gritted teeth while Letriver used his own abilities to search his person without physically touching him, but when Letriver stopped, disappointed, Vonken caught his eye again. Sparks crackled from his fingertips, a very pointed threat, and for an instant every other man in the room held his breath. Satisfied his displeasure had been clearly communicated, Vonken lowered his arms, and Letriver backed away. “No. He doesn’t have it on him.”

“Blast it, must be here somewhere,” Rubgelt muttered, though he looked less certain now. He went to the doorway and called up the stairs. “Ho, you rascals! Anything?” Dim shouts floated down, distorted in the echoing chamber above. Irritated, the Constable gestured to his men in the vault. “You. Watch him.” He hurried out, heavy boots tromping loudly on the stairs.

Vonken threw the Watchmen his most practiced contemptuous glare, and deliberately sat at his dinner table again. Letriver looked plainly unsure whether the order extended to him or whether it would be prudent to leave. Vonken took a sip of purified water, and kept his voice quiet, though it took effort. “Why the hell are you working for the Watch, Letriver? There are plenty of rewarding professions for Coldsparks without denigrating ourselves in servitude to the corrupt.”

Letriver narrowed eyes at him. “Not all of us can be surgeons.”

“Even a poor rock-breaker has more dignity and honor than that,” Vonken argued, with a nod at one of the Watchmen. The man bit his lip, but kept it shut. “You’re a glorified bloodhound.”

“At least I have a nice house above the ground, instead of holed up in the dark like a mole,” Letriver returned. “And I have a wife and a child, and friends. What exactly do you have for company, Doctor? Your clockwork constructs? Do any of them do what a wife does?”

“Why, are you in the market?”

Letriver scowled again. Before he could invent a reply, boots lighter than the Constable’s trip-trapped down, and another of the Watch poked his head cautiously through the doorway. “Constable wants everyone upstairs, now. Uh...you, too, Doctor. Please,” he added quickly.

Anger still burned, but a rising relief prompted Vonken to do as he was bid this once. Letriver trailed after him, but the man’s continued footfall behind him told Vonken that the other Coldspark hadn’t noticed the disguised door. Upon reaching the main floor, Vonken froze. Then he ran. “My ‘cog! What have you idiots done!”

“Your creature snapped at one of my men,” Rubgelt said coldly. “Attacking a member of the Watch carries the harshest consequences, Dr Vonken.”

Vonken dropped to his knees beside the damaged watchcog, grabbed the truncheon wedged into its gears between metal ribs, and yanked it out. Barty whimpered, a scrape of brass on steel. Tiny sparks of Dust energy sizzled between the now-misaligned cogwheels, and the creature’s right front leg twitched and clanked uselessly. Cold fire crested in him, and Vonken stood fast, bringing his hands up. The Watchmen all cringed behind cloaks or pikes, but Letriver immediately had his arms up as well. Yellow sparks lit up the center of the room, green the entry where the wounded construct sat, as two Coldsparks braced for conflict.

“Vonken!” the Constable shouted. Vonken glanced at him, and saw him aiming a pistol. Not a simple revolver, but a much larger Dust-pistol than the brute Hammer had fired at him. At that distance, it was more likely to disintegrate the support pillar to Vonken’s right than himself, but... Breathing hard, fighting to master himself, Vonken slowly lowered his hands, pulling back in the wildly sparking coldfire – and staggered when a blast from Letriver hit him in the shoulder.

“Son of a—“ Vonken snarled, thrusting his hands forward, but Rubgelt closed the distance, running.

“My apologies,” Letriver called. He didn’t sound at all apologetic.

“Both of you, hold your power,” the Constable yelled. He locked stares with Vonken. “Now, Doctor, if you please.”

Vonken let his arms drop, seething. Too close too close if that had hit the heartlink –

“Damn it, Letriver, rein in!” Rubgelt approached Vonken, still brandishing his pistol. “I want no trouble out of you either, Doctor!”

“I’m not the one who sparked another unprovoked!” Vonken spat. “Muzzle your dog, Rubgelt, or I’ll do it for you!”

“I said that’s enough.” Rubgelt looked him over from a few steps away, putting his pistol back in its holster when Vonken winced and checked his aetheric wound. “Looked plenty provoked to me,” Rubgelt remarked, his voice calmer. “It’s never a wise idea to threaten the Watch, Doctor. Let that be a lesson.”

Vonken bit back the curses filling his mind, and felt the muscles around his left shoulder. It hadn’t been a killing energy, by far, but it stung like blazes and he knew his whole arm would be stiff and sore for days to come. He looked at Letriver. The Watch-lackey’s expression of smugness faded as he realized Vonken wasn’t fool enough to seek retribution...openly. He swallowed, and moved closer to Rubgelt.

“Are you finished with your damned search?” Vonken asked, his voice hoarse. All the lights they’d brought in hurt his eyes, his shoulder throbbed painfully, and the damage to his pride, above all, demanded a reckoning, but not now.

Rubgelt answered reluctantly. “We of course reserve the right to return, if further evidence brings us here again...but yes.”

“Then get the hell out of my home.”

At the Constable’s nod, his men hastily packed up their gas-lamps and scurried out the front door. His gaze swept the huge room one more time as if he expected his quarry to suddenly pop into view. “It seems you are in the clear for the moment, Dr Vonken; but I trust you will keep your nose clean, knowing we are always on Watch.”

“Mine’s quite clean,” Vonken snapped, “as I don’t make a habit of pressing it against a pampered German backside in City Hall.”

Letriver shot him a glare, then hurried out. Rubgelt ignored the insult, but waved a hand at the disrupted experiments and projects around the room as he exited. “If you need a cleaning-crew, my cousin Falk runs a very reasonable business. Perhaps you could call him for some assistance. Mention my name, and he’ll give you a discount.” He smiled thinly. “Good night, Dr Vonken.”

Vonken stood still, trembling, until their noisy steps had tromped off some way outside. The rage swelled, and with a curse he unleashed it at the door. The boom of it slamming shut resounded like cannonshot through the street as well as the bank building. The wards hissed over it, seething flames of green. Vonken stormed to the nearest table, where several gears and the main control lever had been torn off the prototype ornithopter. Furious, he picked up a shattered distillation vial, the expensive mercury coating within now uselessly oozing on the tiles. He restrained the urge to gather up all the broken and carelessly damaged things and throw them at the ceiling. The ceiling. Seized with an idea, he whistled for the gargoyle. He heard the scratch of its claws through the vent, and then it swooped down to him. His rage driving energy through his body, he grabbed his little guard by the neck and vomited a stream of pure, crazy-sparking light into its mouth. It wriggled happily, unused to such a feast.

Dazed, he released it, staggering back until he smacked into a pillar. The coolness of the massive stone through the linen he wore brought him to his full senses again. He cast about in the room, locating a trace of Letriver’s residual energy, and snatched it up like a shred of clothing, presenting it to the gargoyle. “Track,” he ordered. “Observe. Return in three days.” His monster peeped excitedly, rattling its wings, then took off, shooting up and out.

Vonken slumped against the pillar, energy and anger cooling. He hadn’t experienced such an emotional burst in...well, many years. He’ll pay. That snapping little dog, and his master, and especially Villard. He thinks this will teach me not to cross him, does he? Lucky for him I don’t have the element yet. When I do....

Panting, shivers coursing through him as his body recovered from the shocks of the night, he looked up into darkness, his eyes gradually clearing. “Is that supposed to direct me? Is that a sign?” he whispered. “You don’t have to demonstrate to me what kind of tactics Villard favors. I am well acquainted already.” The sick feeling of having expended too much of his own energy overcame him, and he forced himself to go downstairs.

Collapsing into his armchair, he put trembling hands out to the dying fire, drawing what little Dust energy he could from the remnants in the logs, what the tree had sucked into itself unwitting while alive. A few minutes of this eased his nausea enough to rise and put another log on, poking the embers until it caught. He rested a while longer there before going to the false wall and removing the illusion. Thank every power there is Letriver’s a fool. Thank you. Had this chamber been discovered...certainly he’d be dead now, or at best a fugitive. He had no wish to enter it tonight, but he could feel the heartlink strained after the conflict. It always seemed to heal faster if he was in direct contact with what he had been. Swallowing down another gulp of sourness, he undid the ward and opened the inner vault.

Its coolness and darkness were almost a comfort tonight. He slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. A faint green glow flickered in the tank, echo of the energy inside the body he now wore. Bracing himself mentally for the horror of it, Vonken came close to the bubbling tank and folded back the sleeves on his left arm, though it hurt to move it. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and thrust his hand into the viscous fluid.

He jolted, and a moan escaped his lips, when the rotting hand of the former Darius Vonken touched his...then grabbed it strongly, and the energy of his current form clashed and melded with the diseased, dying, aetheric echo which was all that kept his fleshly heart beating. Beating, and singing along the tenuous connection to the metal one which now thumped in his chest, until once more they kept perfect time.