Canticle

pushing back his long hair to slide them over his ears. “You are Rudolfo,” he said.

Rudolfo nodded. “I am.”

The men kept at their singing, all but the old one in the middle, as the short, long-haired man leaned closer. “I bear tidings from Petronus. And I bring a charge for you to keep watch over.”

Rudolfo’s eyes narrowed. “You are Esarov, then,” he said. “The Democrat.” When he said it, he found the word distasteful in his mouth.

Esarov nodded. “I am. I know you seek Petronus for reasons of your own, but I’m afraid he is not available.”

Rudolfo considered the man’s face and read the half-truth upon it. “Where is he? He is under my protection.”

Esarov smiled, and Rudolfo frowned at it. “Rumor is that you nearly rode him down on the highway to Caldus Bay for what he did to Sethbert and the Order. Interesting that you still consider the Androfrancine your protectorate.”

“Interesting or not,” Rudolfo said, “he is, and I would know of his circumstances.”

“He is under house arrest at Erlund’s hunting estate,” Esarov said. “He turned himself in for trial by Jury of Governors-in exchange for this man.” Here, he pointed to the balding old man.

Rudolfo gave him a closer look. The men had stayed near him, guarding him as closely as they guarded Esarov. Even now, they took up positions at each door or alley within eyeshot of the rendezvous. He was not quite as old as Petronus, though he looked older in this moment. He was haggard and pale, several days unshaven, and disheveled with dark rings beneath his eyes. This, Rudolfo saw, was a man who had not slept in a day or two.

“Who are you?” Rudolfo asked him.

The man blinked. “I am Charles, Arch-Engineer of the School of Mechanical Science.”

Rudolfo’s eyebrows furrowed. “You’re Charles?”

I bear a message for the hidden Pope Petronus. The metal man that Aedric, Neb and Isaak now pursued in the Churning Wastes.

The man nodded. “I am Charles.”

“You created Isaak.”

The old man looked perplexed. “Isaak?”

Rudolfo smiled and dug in his memory. Rudolfo had given Isaak his name. Before that he’d been known by a title and number. Rudolfo remembered that day in the tent at the edge of Windwir’s ruins. “Mechoservitor Number Three,” Rudolfo said.

Charles paled. “The one Sethbert paid my apprentice to rescript. The one that sang the spell.”

Rudolfo nodded. “Yes. He goes by Isaak now. He heads up the restoration of the library.”

Charles’s eyes came to life. “Then you found it. Sanctorum Lux was spared.” Relief flooded his voice with emotion.

“No,” he said. “We’re rebuilding from the mechoservitors’ memory scripts. We’ll restore a great deal but not everything.”

“And Three. Isaak. assists in this?”

Rudolfo shook his head. “No,” he said, “he doesn’t assist. He leads the effort-he’s planned it quite thoroughly. He studies human leadership behavior and then practices it.”

Charles shook his head in wonder. “Unbelievable.”

Rudolfo nodded. “I consider him part of my family.”

A low whistle cut off their introduction. “We’re finished here,” Esarov said, looking in the direction of the noise. Rudolfo followed his eyes. Already two of the Democrat’s men scrambled back toward them, motioning for them to leave. He looked back to Rudolfo. “Charles is under your care now. We need to go.”

Rudolfo couldn’t keep the growl from his voice. “Petronus is under my care as well, and I-”

“Petronus chose to give himself for this man,” Esarov said, cutting him off. “There’s nothing more to say here.” A small group of black-jacketed men appeared to their north, walking quickly toward them with hands on the hilts of their knives.

Rafe Merrique was already returning to the dock, whistling for them to follow.

As Esarov and his man gathered up, Rudolfo led Charles to the dock. Magicked hands reached up to pull the old man into the long boat and under the tarp. Next, the Gypsy Scouts climbed aboard and Rudolfo turned to join them.

A low voice materialized to his left and he jumped. “Guard Charles well,” it said, “and find Sanctorum Lux.”

Rudolfo looked and saw nothing. “Who is there?”

“A friend of Petronus’s,” the voice said. “He bid me pass this to you.” A sheaf of papers appeared-magicked hands thrust them at him.

He took them. “Have you seen Petronus? Is he well?”

The men in the black coats were calling out to Rudolfo, but they were too far away for him to pick out the words. Everyone but Rudolfo and the pirate had fled or climbed aboard the magicked longboat.

“Grymlis, I presume?” Merrique asked.

“Aye, Merrique,” the voice answered. Then, he added, “The mechoservitors should be able to cipher out Petronus’s notes.”

The name was familiar, but Rudolfo could not place it. He looked down at the bundle of papers, then tucked them into his shirt. The black-coats were nearer now, calling for them to stop. Merrique was already climbing into the boat, and hands reached toward Rudolfo as well.

“I will guard Charles well,” Rudolfo said. “I trust you’ll keep watch over Petronus?”

Grymlis snorted. “As well as I can from outside. Now go.”

Rudolfo nodded and let the hands pull him down into the boat.

When they reached the Kinshark and were again beneath deck, the first mate passed Merrique a note. “The bird came while you were away,” he said.

The pirate read it and passed it to Rudolfo.

Rudolfo frowned at the simple, uncoded message.

The Summer Papal Palace has fallen. The Marsh Queen rides to war.

Pylos and Turam march north.

The Ninefold Forest would have to respond, he realized. Their kin-clave with the Marshfolk and their protection of the Androfrancine remnant would require it. Of course, Jin Li Tam would know that. He looked up. “Is there time for me to send birds?”

Merrique nodded. “Certainly.”

Rudolfo excused himself and went to his cabin. He sat at the small table and stared at the message paper and ink needle. Beside it lay the packet of papers from Petronus, waiting for his attention. But before that, he had messages to craft. What he knew he must write in them weighed heavily upon him.

I should be home now, he thought. But the image of his son’s small, gray face caused him to shake off that feeling and lift the needle. Jin Li Tam was every bit the formidable strategist that he was-more so, even. He could trust her with this work as he did his own.

He scribbled the first message out in practiced triple code, then paused to reread it.

Esarov’s words earlier struck him. He did consider Petronus-and all of the Androfrancines-under his protection still. He took his word seriously, as his father had taught him, and he had taken that mantle during the war when Petronus offered it. Those refugees were his responsibility not just because of that, but because Petronus-that clever Franci behaviorist-certainly had known that when he bequeathed the vast wealth of the Order to Rudolfo that the Gypsy King would care for its refugees. But not just the refugees of Windwir. All refugees-some from the now- failed book houses of Turam, many from the Entrolusian Delta.

No, not refugees.

He thought of Neb out in the Wastes with Aedric and Isaak, beyond the bird, last time he’d received word from home. And now Winters no doubt prepared her first War Sermon to face some strange foe that arose within her own people. Rudolfo’s family had broadened to include even a metal man who carried the sorrow of genocide on his accidental soul.

I truly am a collector of orphans.