guys weren't the scaled bastards. They were men.' I sighted the weapon, and made sure there hadn't been any damage in the fight. 'They were machines.'
'And the scholar?' Isabel asked.
I stopped what I was doing and looked at her. 'The girl?' I asked.
'Yes, the Amonite. What became of the Amonite?'
I stood there, silently, watching Simeon load shot into his antique revolver. The rest of the Elders were clustered tight, nearly trembling.
'The hell with the Amonite,' I hissed. 'Barnabas is gone, Isabel. Your Fratriarch has been taken.'
That broke the spell. They stepped back, Isabel nearly fluttering with anger.
'I am an Elder of this Cult, Eva, and your sworn master. You will not-'
'Next time, Izzy.' I slapped the cylinder of my revolver shut and holstered it, then walked briskly to an anointing tub and dipped my sword into the water. It came out shimmering, the remaining dead, cold blood of the Fratriarch's kidnappers rolling off in clumps. 'We can have this spat next time, when I have a day or so to listen to your holy nonsense. Today, right now, while we're talking, Barnabas is in enemy hands.'
'Of course,' Tomas said. 'There is no time. We will convene the Fist and contact Alexander's representatives. The city must be mobilized.'
'Sure thing,' I said, then all but ran out into the street. The giant wooden door, carved with the histories of the scions of Morgan, greasy and worn with time and neglect, slammed closed behind me.
Felt good to be on the move again. To be mobilized.
* * *
The representatives of Alexander. The Healers, the whiteshirts, the nurses. Alexians. They had to be contacted, right, because they wouldn't otherwise notice the gunfight that just broke out in the middle of their city? Sure. It was a whiteshirt patrol that had given me a ride from the crash site back to the Strength of Morgan, and another patrol that was tearing hell to the godking's palace. Probably to amp up their own security.
I love my Elders, honest to Brothers, but they've gotten old. Even Elias, hard as stone, isn't going to do much more than carry that revolver tucked into his belt while he putters around his highgarden. Doing things was up to the Paladins, and these days, that was me. Just me.
I swung into the whiteshirts' wagon, crouching on the bench so my sword wouldn't bang against the wall. The Justicar sat across from me. His head was wreathed in a communications rig. I tapped the shiny iron band across his eyes and leaned in.
'Any word?' I yelled.
He opened the rig and gave me an angry glare. 'It wasn't on, lady. You don't have to yell.'
I slapped the rig, knocking it fully off his head, then grabbed his collar and put my lungs into it.
'Any! Word!'
'Gods, okay, okay. It's not like… Okay, it's exactly like that. Hold on.' He picked up the rig and spun it up. 'There's been some kind of interference today. Something wrong with the channels. But no. Your Fratriarch hasn't been seen. Not him, not the convoy of flying corpses that you say took him. Just one wrecked train and a lot of scared citizens.'
'This is why you were late? Why I had to fight off the whole stinking pile of them myself? Your… channels were interfered with?'
'Yeah, that's part of it. These things go out, sometimes. Bad timing.'
'Terrible timing. The worst timing.' I leaned back in my seat and cursed as my articulated sheath rattled against some gear, knocking it to the ground. 'Can we go somewhere, already? Can we just… just turn that siren on and let's go?'
'Where are we supposed to-'
'Go,' I howled, then leaned forward and slapped the siren on. The rest of the patrol piled into the wagon and hauled the doors shut. We sat there in the wailing of the siren, the Justicar and I looking daggers at each other. Finally, he sighed and turned to the driver.
'Get us to the Harrington Square station. We'll check in with the land line there, see where we should deploy.'
The wagon lurched forward.
I smiled at the Justicar. 'It's a good start, sir. A good start.'
'Glad you're happy with it.'
'Happy enough. Your name's Arron, right?'
'Owen,' he said.
'Owen. You're doing fine, Owen. Alexander would be very proud.'
'To hell with that,' he said, then twisted back to the driver. 'And turn that damn siren off.'
he station was a squat brick building, sprouting a crown of heavy communication wires that crisscrossed the city like a spider's web. Inside it was hot and crowded, everything painted a dull, chipped white, the paint applied sloppily and thick. The air smelled like kitchen cleaner.
We checked in with Owen's patrol coordinator and were told there was no news. We checked in with headquarters. No news. A runner came from the Strength, specifically to tell us that there was no news.
The Fratriarch of the Cult of Morgan was missing, and no one knew anything more than that. I gave my interview to one of the representatives from the palace of Alexander, a real efficient-looking guy in a suit who asked brief questions and got brief answers. When we were done he folded up his notes and walked out of the station. Everyone seemed relieved when he was gone.
The city was busy enough, that's for sure. The printsheets were stuttering out of the vendors splashed with big, black letters: FRATRIARCH OF MORGAN KIDNAPPED. Every time I got up to pace to the door, one of the whiteshirts would put a hand on my shoulder to say that their boys were on the case, they had people working leads, that it was best if I stayed put and let them do their work. I felt caged. I felt like those Amonites in the Library Desolate must feel, only I hadn't signed up for it. It was well past noon when I gave up being patient and kind, and decided to go ahead and be a Paladin of Morgan. It was my nature.
'I'm going,' I told Owen as I marched to the door for the fifth time that hour. They had tried to take my sword and bully when I got there. They settled for the bullets on my belt, and a promise not to draw steel. More for their own good, I think. Owen followed me to the guard station and tapped his foot while I checked out the ammo. I examined the bullets. All in order.
'You can't do any good,' he said. 'We've got people. Let them do their thing.'
'What thing are they doing?' I asked.
'Interviewing people. Searching the scene of the crime.'
'Scene of the crime. Like someone's precious bike was stolen.' I slapped the cylinder shut, opened it again, spun it, slapped it shut. Nervous. 'This isn't stolen property. This isn't even a murder. It's an act of war, Justicar.'
'We don't know that. Honestly, we don't know much of anything. This stuff takes time, Eva.'
'Time. Right. We're just awash with time. Probably a whole twenty-four hours before they kill him, right? Isn't that what the statistics say?'
'For a normal kidnapping, yes. But this isn't a normal kidnapping-'
'That's what I've been saying! Brother-damn hell, Justicar, we should be turning this city inside out.'
'There's… we don't want to upset the populace.' He looked back to the den, to the bunch of officers milling about desks and talking into clockgeists. 'We don't want to scare anyone.'
I sighed, like a steam engine bleeding off pressure.
'I'm going out.'
'You can't,' he said, trying not to sound timid. Well. Trying to sound forceful, I guess.
'I can't.'
'There are orders. I was trying to tell you, but… it's complicated. We're supposed to keep you here.'
