Fair enough, thought Daud. He would do the same.
The room was lit by one fizzing light globe on the far wall, the only working survivor of a series that were spaced between the portraits. The light flickered annoyingly. With a frown, Daud went over and tapped it, then he walked to the desk. There was a table lamp there, and as he peered down into the shade he saw it was more or less intact. He fumbled around for the switch, but the lamp was a delicate thing, an antique with a stained-glass shade that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the drawing room of one of the city’s old mansions. Unable to activate the lamp, Daud pulled his glove off so he could feel for the switch. Once located, he turned it on. The desk lamp flared bright white, then went out with a pop, taking the wall lamp with it—but as the wall lamp went out, there was a blue flash that seemed to fill the room. Daud, temporarily blinded, screwed his eyes shut and cursed to himself. The entire building was rotting away—electrics included.
And then he realized he wasn’t alone. He could senseit, the feeling of presence like a sudden pressure on his eardrums.
She stepped out of the shadows and into the cone of light that came in through the window in the door. She was tall, dressed in a short red leather tunic with a wide round collar and heavy brown shoulder panels. Her pants were a dark brown that matched her skin, and were tucked into high boots. Her hair was shorter than he remembered, but she was wearing a scowl Daud knew all too well.
He stared at her, not sure whether to believe his own senses. There was a shard of some dark matter embedded where her right eye should have been, its center a glowing red. Her right arm was also strange—artificial, from the elbow down at least, a complex latticed framework of metal and wood and what looked almost like stone.
Despite her changed appearance, despite the years that had kept them apart, Daud recognized her in an instant. He exhaled, suddenly—surprisingly—relieved, like a weight had lifted from his shoulders. He shook his head in amazement.
“Billie Lurk, as I live and breathe.”
Billie moved toward her former mentor, a smile appearing across her stern features. As she got closer, Daud’s gaze was drawn to her artificial arm, and he saw it wasn’t a mechanical prosthesis, it was something else entirely, a collection of mineral shards, the pieces sliding around each other, magically, moving fluidly like no machine could.
Then he looked up at her face, and saw that she wasn’t wearing an eyepiece, the glowing red ember was her eye, embedded in the socket, framed with dark metals.
Daud shook his head in wonder. “What happened to you?”
Billie’s smile vanished. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you thatnow,” she said, “but I can tell you something else.”
Daud frowned. “What?”
“That you, Daud, are in great danger. The mission you’ve undertaken has consequences you can’t even imagine. So I’ve come back to try and fix things, before it’s too late.”
26
PROTECTORS’ LEAGUE SAFE HOUSE, AVENTA DISTRICT, KARNACA
23rd Day, Month of Harvest, 1852
“Well, it was pure luck, but I managed to get myself passage to Morley aboard a decent ship. The Dreadful Wale, it’s called. Is that a mistake? Shouldn’t it be The Dreadful Whale, like the sea beast? I didn’t want to risk pointing something like that out to the captain, that Foster lady. She looks like the sort to dump a disagreeable passenger overboard without a second thought.”
—GOODBYE KARNACA: A MUSICIAN’S FAREWELL
Excerpt from a personal diary, author unknown
Mr. Devlin sat on the edge of the desk, his naked torso glistening with sweat. He winced as his wife tightened the bandage around his ribs and took a swig from the bottle of old King Street brandy, which had been stowed in the hideout along with a basic field-dressing kit.
“How’s that?” asked Mrs. Devlin, standing back to admire her handiwork.
Mr. Devlin glanced down. “A work of art, my dear. It’s always been a thing of wonder that your exquisite eye forfashion sees into the medical arts as well.” He frowned. “Although I would have preferred something a little more… colorful.”
Mrs. Devlin dumped the surgical shears onto the tray behind her, wiping her bloody hands with a cloth as her husband eased himself off the desk and reached for his shirt. Fortunately his wounds were limited to bruised ribs and a gash on his abdomen that had bled far more than it looked like it should have.
As he gingerly buttoned himself up, he glanced at his wife. “Do you think he believed you?”
Mrs. Devlin shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“That, my dearest Mrs. Devlin, depends very much upon your point of view,” said her husband, settling himself back into the chair.
Mrs. Devlin started packing up the medical supplies. “He is driven to complete his quest for the artifact, and while we dangle the possibility of its easy recovery in front of his nose like a carrot leading a bloodox, he will be sufficiently distracted.”
“That distraction, my dearest heart, will change into something rather more alarming if he begins to suspect we are lying to him.”
“But even if it reaches that point, my darling husband, we shall by then be making our exit from this dreadfully moist city.”
Mr. Devlin winked at his wife. “You are a sly one, my dear.”
“But of course, Mr. Devlin. Have you ever known me to be otherwise? Wyman has paid half of our agreed fee already. Ample funds.”
“So we send in the troops then skip out before things get sticky?”
“Precisely so. Either the men are successful and Daudis eliminated—and our contract is completed—or Daud kills them all. And, my dear husband, I have a
