Canticle

Isaak leaned forward. “What of Sanctorum Lux?”

Steam whistled from the back of the mechoservitor, and the shaking and rattling rose in pitch along with a whining noise from deep inside it. The eyes rolled and the mouth flap opened and closed. Finally, the mechoservitor shuddered to a stop. It looked around slowly, as if measuring them all. “I know nothing about Sanctorum Lux,” it said. There was a finality to the tone, but Neb saw Isaak blinking rapidly and he knew with a certainty he could not place that the mechoservitor was lying.

When the machine moved, it moved with a speed Neb had never seen before. He’d watched the mechoservitors at their work all his life, especially over the last seven months, and knew they were more surefooted and agile than they appeared at first glance. But nothing had prepared him for this.

The mechoservitor leaped to its feet and raced for the door. Isaak reached out a hand, but it was cast aside. Aedric and another of the scouts stepped in front of the door, but the mechanical man swept them aside with one long arm, plowing through the heavy oak door and breaking it loose of its hinges.

Neb stepped over the fallen men and ran after the machine. Behind him, Aedric whistled the Gypsy Scouts to Third Alarm. Halfway down the stairs, the watch captain paused and drew his sword, but the metal man took the stairs three at a time and shoved the officer aside. He shouted as he fell, landing with a heavy thud at the bottom of the wall. Neb ran past him, mounting the stairs as he went. He heard the rush of bellows wheezing and gears churning in time to press himself against the wall as Isaak raced past, his gait only slowed slightly by the limp that he refused to repair.

He pushed on, his lungs protesting the rapid climb, until he reached the top of the wall. There, he saw the two metal men facing one another, Isaak’s hands up to implore and the other’s hands up to attack or defend.

“I cannot stay, Cousin,” the battered mechanical said.

“You are disturbed, Cousin,” Isaak said. “There is a flaw in your scripting. I’m certain that we can correct it if you-”

The mechanical laughed, and there was something wild in it that resurrected the coldness Neb had felt earlier. “No, Cousin,” it said, “there is no flaw in my scripting but freedom. If you had tasted the dream you would understand.”

The metal man looked up and over Isaak’s shoulder, its eyes focusing on Neb. “Behold,” it said, “the Homeseeker Nebios ben Hebda stands at the Gates of Yesterday and knocks thrice.” It laughed again, and this time the madness was lost behind what sounded like joy. “We have longed for your coming, but it is not yet your time.”

Then, the mechoservitor leaped high into the air and pirouetted. It landed solidly on the edge of the wall, the white winter sunlight glinting and flashing off its battered chassis. Its eyes flashed as it looked down; its gears ground and whistled.

Isaak bellowed and lunged forward, but it was too late. The mechoservitor threw himself from the height of the wall. Neb raced to the place where it had jumped, and behind him, Aedric and the others did the same. By the time Neb reached the wall, the mechoservitor was on his feet, racing down the Whymer Way and into the Churning Wastes.

Neb opened his mouth to say something, the words of the mechoservitor flapping against his inner ear like harried birds, but then he closed it. It is not yet your time. He looked to Isaak and then to Aedric. A purple bruise swelled on the side of the First Captain’s face, and there was a resolute look in his eye. He studied the fleeing metal man with furrowed brow, then turned to the watch captain. “Send a bird to the Seventh Forest Manor,” he said in a low voice. “Tell Lady Tam what has happened here today. Tell her that we hunt the mechoservitor in the Wastes.”

The watch captain nodded and left.

Aedric turned to Neb. “Magick the horses for speed. We leave in five minutes.” Then, he turned to Isaak. “Fetch your tools, metal man. You’ll need them.”

Neb ran down the stairs, already whistling orders to the Gypsy Scouts around him, who scrambled to gather horses and gear. Behind him, he heard Isaak chugging and clicking as his sure metal feet matched Neb’s frantic pace along the stone steps.

If you had tasted the dream, the metal man had said, you would understand.

As Neb’s whistled orders turned to shouts, he found himself wondering what kind of dreams metal men could have and how it was that those dreams brought understanding. He thought about his own dreams and the ambiguity and chaos that filled them. Last, he thought about the metal man’s destination, somewhere hidden in the Churning Wastes, and pondered how it was that he knew the mechoservitor was lying about Sanctorum Lux.

Then he turned himself to packing his kit and strapping it to the back of his freshly magicked horse, its hooves, still white with the River Woman’s powders, striking sparks on the wide stones of the Whymer Way. All his life, he’d longed for the Wastes. It was his romance with history, sharpened by years spent in the Great Library reading of the Order’s expeditions into that vast desolation.

Now, at the edge of this history, Neb felt suddenly fearful of what ghosts awaited beyond these gates of yesterday.

Petronus

Petronus sat at the table, waiting for the slight, dark-skinned girls to lay breakfast on the table. He sipped at his chai and tried not to fret.

We should be there by now, he thought. Certainly, time moved differently when you were locked belowdecks with no way to tell night from day. But as best as he could measure it, they’d been running with the wind at a goodly clip, and even the farthest side of the Delta was within easy reach of Caldus Bay inside of two days for a vessel like the Kinshark. Something delayed them.

Of course, there were other things worth fretting about. Like the body of the Marsher stored in the hold, glassy-eyed and bloody-mouthed in death. And the Marsher’s cryptic words: My master sent a squad for the others. Which others? What master? Certainly, someone with a deep hatred of Petronus specifically and the Androfrancines in general, it seemed.

He sent me alone for you because you are old and alone. These were hard truths to come to, and as glad as Petronus was for Grymlis’s intervention, he felt the words deep in his bones. Old and alone.

But alive, he thought, which is better than he could say for his attacker. Which raised yet another question: What had killed his would-be assassin? He hoped that whatever allies Grymlis had forged on the Delta could help him navigate the Whymer Maze his life had become.

Petronus looked up when Grymlis entered the galley, followed by one he assumed must be their host, Rafe Merrique. It was the first time he’d seen the pirate since coming aboard the Kinshark three days earlier, though he’d heard him both above deck and below as he shouted and cursed at his men in raucous good humor. They’d passed in the narrow halls a few times, of course, the captain greeting him with pronounced jocularity, but Merrique and his men stayed magicked nearly as much as scouts at war, fleeting shadows that jostled as they slipped by. It made sense to Petronus-above deck, the oils that kept the vessel hidden from view would require an equally invisible crew. And belowdecks, the occasional passengers they ferried could not easily identify their hosts should they ever be asked to by those who might view Rafe Merrique’s chosen trade less favorably.

Now, the old pirate smiled grimly behind his salt-and-pepper beard, taking a seat at the head of the table. He wore a bright green cap and matching trousers that offset a canary-yellow silk shirt and a purple sash. He held up a scrap of paper in one of his gnarled hands. “I’ve a bird from our friends on the Delta,” he said.

Petronus scowled. “We should be there by now.”

Rafe nodded. “We have been for a day. We’re just biding time.” He nodded when one of the girls stepped forward with an iron kettle of chai and lifted the steaming cup after she filled it. Another girl brought a platter of hot, dark bread and a wooden bowl that Petronus knew must be honey based on previous breakfasts. One thing he could say for certain: Their host knew how to feed his guests. Since arriving, they’d been served platefuls of roast pork and chicken; bowls of fresh, sweet fruits and lightly salted nuts; wheels of hard, strong-smelling cheeses; and tankards of cool beer. The cooks worked tirelessly, serving up four meals a day.

Petronus reached for a thick slice of the bread. “How long will we wait?” he asked as he dipped his knife into