“The king still bleeds, you know,” she said. “His wounds won’t knit. My contacts say you carry a blade that nearly took Prusias’s heads, one by one. Rumor has it the malakhim have to replace his bandages thrice a day lest they soak through and frighten off all his little concubines. Can you imagine? The King of Blys sullen on his throne while those wraiths attend him like anxious nursemaids!” The smuggler laughed like a mischievous girl. “Poor Prusias, no wonder he’s grown so ill-tempered! I should like to see the weapon that could hurt one such as he. Do you have it here?”
She was standing very close, beautiful and wicked by the light of the burners. The others were asleep, snoring beneath piled blankets while Toby dozed as a luxuriant ermine. When Max did not respond, Madam Petra gave a nostalgic smile.
“It’s so strange to think that you were Bragha Run,” she reflected. “I saw three of your victories in the Arena. You fought like a god—so strong, so quick. Your matches were poetry. The whole kingdom was dying to know who was beneath that frightful mask.” Leaning close, the smuggler searched his face. “There’s something in you that isn’t in those clones,” she concluded with a whisper. “Something immortal …”
She stared at Max as though he were a piece of art, a prized jewel she’d salvaged from her smoldering safe back in Piter’s Folly.
Max’s tone was sharp. “I’m not some moonstruck politician or Workshop admirer.”
The smuggler’s smile vanished. “You misunderstand me, Max.”
“I think we understand each other perfectly, Madam Petra. I’m taking my friends and the pinlegs back to Rowan. You and Katarina will be welcome if you choose to come with us. At Rowan, you’ll have land of your own and whatever protection we can provide.”
The smuggler gave a wry laugh. “And if we choose
“You can do what you like,” replied Max. “But until we’re on our way home, you and Katarina are staying with us. I won’t have you running off and raising the alarm.”
“You think I’d betray my own kind to the demons? How uncharitable.”
“You were fleecing your own people on Piter’s Folly. I don’t pretend to know what you’d do or who you’d sell. But you won’t sell us.”
“So Katarina and I are hostages?” she asked, obviously bemused. “Let’s see if I understand this properly. You sneak into my home, bring assassins to my door, steal my pinlegs, and hold us against our will, but
“Yes, ma’am,” said Max, returning the smile. “You can lodge a complaint with the Director.”
“You know, I met her once at a party,” recalled the smuggler. “Beautiful woman; terrible shoes—”
Just then, something heavy struck the basket, nearly upending it. Stumbling at the impact, Madam Petra toppled out, catching its rim with her fingers. She clung to the bucking balloon as if it were a life raft.
“Get it off me!” she shrieked, her face white with terror.
Lunging over the side, Max seized the smuggler by both wrists and wrenched her up. Something dark was clinging to her lower legs. A screeching filled the air as something else collided with the balloon from above.
Heaving Madam Petra back into the basket, Max saw what had been clinging to her. At first he thought it was a baka, for the creature also had batlike wings that scratched and snared on the wicker. But as it raised its bloody, raptorlike face and hissed, Max saw that it was a Stygian crow—a rare breed of evil creature he’d read about in one of David’s books. It was three times the size of its natural namesake and had a fiery core that shone through thin, membranous patches along its rib cage. Its talons were enormous, and these had raked the smuggler’s legs cruelly. The creature had released the woman, however, and was now hopping about the basket like a ravening vulture, stabbing its beak at Katarina, who screamed and kicked at it. More screeches sounded in the air.
Max’s first swing of the
Down, down the balloon swept and spun toward the earth, curving away north as it was buffeted about by the icy gusts. Max could see stars through holes in the balloon’s fabric as it strained to hold together. The crows screeched and struggled to hold on, their belly fires burning like bright furnaces.
“Hold on to anything you can!” Max shouted, skewering another crow and stumbling back to seize several ropes. The balloon was impossible to steer, but Max had glimpsed a lake glittering below and prayed that they might reach it. Thrusting the ropes in Petra’s hand, he stumbled as the balloon bucked in a sudden gale and nearly sent the pinlegs tube skittering over the side. Max snatched out his hand and caught it, cradling it under his arm and peering over the basket’s edge. The army was much closer now, individual torches visible to the naked eye as they plummeted down. They would end up crashing into its midst, unless …
“Toby!” Max yelled, cutting away the ballast of sand bags. “Become something big—something with wings that can slow down our fall!”
“What do you want?” cried Toby. “There’s only so much—”
“ANYTHING!”
The smee leaped out of the balloon, hovering momentarily with a look of terror upon his ermine face. They quickly left him behind, spinning like a top as the ruptured balloon plunged to earth. The Stygian crows had now abandoned their crashing quarry, their silhouettes turning lazy circles against the bright moon. The balloon had drifted a mile or two east of the marching army, but the ground was already racing up to meet them, a blur of snow-sprinkled terrain that was dotted with lakes and pine forests. One of the lakes was just ahead, but their altitude was dwindling rapidly. By now, the balloon was no more than a charred and torn sail dragging against the wind. Across the basket, Petra was huddled around her daughter. Max did the same with David, propping the unconscious boy up in his arms and praying that they struck water.
And then, almost imperceptibly at first, they began to slow.
Above them, Max beheld a pair of wings, stretched as wide and taut as a glider’s. A gargantuan albatross had snatched up the remains of the balloon and ropes in its talons and was breaking their fall. The bird’s wings were twenty-five feet across, and yet it could only dampen the speed of their descent. The smee squawked with the strain, his voice warbling as the balloon’s trajectory smoothed and they were skimming twenty feet above the lake Max had sighted. Just a little slower and they could safely—
With a screech, the albatross abruptly dropped the balloon and they crashed into the water.
The initial shock of impact was replaced by brutal cold, needle stabs of pain as Max tumbled about in the shallows of the icy lake. He saw stars as his head struck something, a log or fallen tree. He groped for air, felt it rush into his lungs as he finally broke the surface. A hand brushed his and he glimpsed David sinking back below. Seizing his friend, Max raised his head out of the water and began swimming toward shore.
It was hard going. The chain shirt was an anchor about Max’s neck, pulling him ever down into the reedy depths. He kept his eyes fixed on the stars, glittering beyond the billows of his sputtering breath. Gasping and straining, he towed David to shore.
Madam Petra and Katarina were already there, shivering on the banks and sorting through the wet baggage they’d managed to salvage.
“The p-pinlegs?” asked Max, chattering in the frigid cold.
Petra could not speak but merely pointed out toward the lake.
“Get in the woods,” said Max, nodding toward the nearby trees. “Start a fire.”
“The army,” gasped Petra. “They’ll be coming. We have to hide!”
“It w-won’t matter if we die of cold,” said Max. “Can you carry David?”
The smuggler nodded, buckling only slightly as Max slung the boy over her shoulder. She walked briskly to the woods, Katarina staggering along in her wake. There was a coughing sound near Max’s feet. A beaver was waddling out of the shallows, looking cold, wet, and miserable.
“Toby,” said Max. “Are you all right?”
“I think I broke something,” the smee groaned, limping.
“Petra’s gone ahead to start a fire,” said Max, quickly pulling off cloak and hauberk. “I’m going back for the
