‘I need your help, one more time,’ I murmur.
The figure inclines their head. When they speak, their voice is soft.
‘There is a price.’
‘I know.’ My head swims as I look into the dark glass of the goggles. ‘I will pay it.’
The Seeker nods, reaching for one of their knives. Fire flashes on the blade.
I open my eyes. I am sitting beside the fire, the dirt all around me undisturbed. There is no one, only the faint rustle of Esterházy’s clothes stirring in the wind.
And yet when I look down I see the Augur’s dice lying on the sand before me, resting on the number two.
* * *
I push the buzzard hard all night, running the aircraft to the point of overheating until, at noon the next day, I reach the station Bebe talked about. I land the buzzard in the holding pen near the stable, keeping my head low beneath the Marshal’s hat. No one looks at me much, and if they do they recoil in distaste. With a surge of relief I see the Charis docked at the far end, looking shabbier than ever, but locked up. Shouldering the pack, I set off to find the others.
For a no-hope, hard-bitten place in the middle of nowhere, Drax is busy. There are miners from the mineral pits, leaving on rotation or reluctantly returning. Mica dust is engrained in the pores of their skin and the lines of their faces, so that they shimmer strangely in the light. There are traders with wagons of supplies – airtights and illegal water canisters and soil bulkers and pre-spawned fungus blocks – on their way to the settlements, and a snake oil salesman, displaying serpent wines labelled Rượu Rắn and coils of dried meat and vials of “restorative” venom. Two grubhawkers, hoping to outdo each other, snatching sales from the bored and the hungry.
But, to my dismay, the place is crawling with Accord. It doesn’t take me long to realise there must be a fort nearby, and that the station exists mostly to support it. From here, the Accord draft in new recruits, promising decent food, pay, and most alluring of all, the chance to leave Factus.
The street outside the Air Line platform is crowded, folk jostling and pushing to get a look at something that gleams on the track. I stop among them. It’s the strangest Air Line wagon I have ever seen. It squats on the rails like a huge, metal insect, windowless and armour-plated, shining with newness, sparking with small lights that tell of high-grade tech. It looks like something from another world. Which it is.
‘What the hell?’ I murmur, as figures in Accord uniforms start to emerge, filling tanks and checking panelling.
‘It’s an Iron Slug,’ a woman in dark-lensed glasses beside me says, chewing hard on her century leaves. ‘Came from Landfall before sun-up. We ain’t never had one here before. Not even when they finally caught the Chow Baron. They transported him to trial on the regular Air Line, in a crate.’
‘It’s for prisoner transfer?’ I look again at the soldiers. These aren’t sun-worn, hungry, hastily instructed local recruits. They’re Air Fleet: well-trained, well-armed. Well able to hold their own.
‘Sure.’ The woman sucks her green teeth. ‘And I’ll tell you this for free—’ She stops, seeing me for the first time. I catch a glimpse of myself in her lenses, wrapped neck to brow in yellow-stained bandages. ‘Ugh,’ she utters, edging away from me without another word.
I can’t help but smile, a little. Folk are so afraid of yellowrot, they never spare a thought for what might be beneath the bandages.
‘You too, huh?’ From the edge of the crowd, an elderly man nods at me. His flesh is bubbled with swellings, some of them crusted, the bandages stained a tell-tale bright yellow.
I nod back, and in silence we watch the soldiers about the Iron Slug.
‘Look at that goddam thing,’ the man mutters.
‘Know who it’s for?’ I ask.
‘Talk round camp is one of them war brats.’ He lips at the bandage above his mouth. ‘Gone mad, they say. That’s why they sent the Slug.’
The Accord sent this wagon for the General, I’m certain, and this time, they are taking no chances. Is she aboard, even now? The dim, flickering departure board shows a noon train, but there’s no sign of one. Either way, it’s probable that we do not have long…
I hurry to the saloon. It’s busy, humid with breath and steam from the kitchens, and reeks of disinfectant vapour and sweet, stale liquor. At a table by the window, one of the grubhawkers is displaying a tray of glitter worms to two women, poking at them to make them extrude the glimmering, seductive ooze that some people like to paint their faces with. Shards of plastic crunch under my boots as I make my way towards the bar.
A group of Peacekeepers have laid claim to most of the space, their weathered faces flushed with drink, their knuckles scarred and scabbed. Were they some of the crew who killed Pec Esterházy? Clenching my hand in the pocket of my jacket, I jerk my chin to the bartend.
‘Mezcal,’ I mutter quietly, but still, the Peacekeepers turn to look at me, their lips curling in distaste.
The bartend too looks uncertain, licking her lips and glancing at the crowd. Finally, she thrusts a tumbler in my direction, careful to avoid my bandaged hand. ‘Drink it outside,’ she barks. ‘And throw the cup away.’
At that moment, the door crashes open. Two figures stand silhouetted against the blinding dust. Falco and Pegeen. The chatter in the place momentarily dips.
‘Is that?’ I hear one of the Peacekeepers murmur.
‘Malady Goddam Falco,’ the other confirms. ‘What the hell’s she doing out here?’
Ostentatiously, she elbows past me.
‘Got any peaches?’ she asks the bartend.
The woman gives a
