Council still met in such an inaccessible location, now that Ondinium was no longer torn apart by war, but the tower was more than just a building. It was also the doorway into the hollow shell of the mountain, where Ondinium's clockwork heart floated — the colossal Great Engine, each giant gear, pin, and lever cast out of pure ondium and suspended in the center of the mountain, ticking away in constant motion as it calculated Ondinium's future.
Taya soared up on an air current, rising above the unruly gusts of the diispira
, and circled the tower. She loved being this high, where her ondium wings swept her effortlessly through the clear air, their metal feathers gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. The Yeovil Range stretched out around her. The three mountains immediately surrounding Ondinium were dotted with townships and mining camps, lumber yards and herders’ crofts. None of them were as crowded as Ondinium Mountain, where every square inch was covered by buildings, streets, or walls, but they formed a secure barrier between the capital city and the wilderness that enveloped the rest of the range.
Then she wobbled and remembered the damage to her flight feathers.
I don't need any more excitement today
, she scolded herself. She tilted and landed on one of the docking balconies.
The balcony doors were closed against the late autumn chill. Taya let herself in and pulled off her goggles, cap, and gloves. The room was dim and not much warmer than outside. Ondinium's engineers had tried running gas lines to the tower, but the pipes had kept breaking during the winter storms. As a result, the Council still conducted its business by the archaic light of fireplaces and oil lamps.
One of those lamps lit the single lictor who sat at a desk, feet up, nose buried in a cheaply printed magazine.
«I've got a message to deliver,» Taya announced.
«Destination?» The guard moved her boots and set aside the magazine. Taya read the upside-down title.
The Broken Lens — political commentary and satire. Pyke's kind of publication.
«Do they really let you read stuff like that in here?» Taya pulled the package from her back pouch.
«Are you kidding? The decaturs buy it wet off the press. The Lens’ reporters know more about what's going on in Council than they do.»
«That's not very reassuring.» Taya tilted the package toward the light, looking for the address. «Decatur Forlore. Delivered by Taya.»
The lictor dipped her pen into an inkwell and wrote as Taya stole another glance at the magazine's cover. Maybe she should pick up a copy tonight and see if it said anything about Decatur Octavus. Of course, Pyke might already have one… but borrowing it would mean listening to his latest political rant.
No thanks.
Maybe Cassi would have a copy. Her best friend didn't give a tin feather for politics, but she lived for gossip and scandal.
«Okay, you're all set.» The guard told her how to find Forlore's office and waved her through.
Taya strode through the high halls, taking the opportunity to stretch the kinks out of her arms, legs, and back. Most of the strangers who passed traded respectful nods with her — dedicate clerks, librarians, and programmers, and the occasional lictor. Once a masked and robed decatur paced past, and Taya joined everyone else in the hall in stepping aside, bowing with her palm pressed against her forehead. The lower-castes who worked in the tower had developed a fast and perfunctory bow around their decatur employers — a necessary compromise between intercaste formality and day-to-day work life — but Taya carefully followed protocol. If she became a diplomatic envoy, precise decorum would become her life.
Decatur Forlore's office was in one of the highest towers, and by the time Taya had finished walking up several flights of curving stairs, she was grateful for her wings. Their lighter-than-air metal made the climb a lot easier. Even so, she was breathing heavily in the thin air by the time she reached the doorway.
She knocked.
«Decatur Forlore? Icarus. I have a package for you.»
«Enter.»
She swung the door open and ducked through. Most of the city's buildings had been constructed with wings in mind, but doorways could still pose a problem.
The decatur's office was crammed with shelves of books, stacks of paper, and odd knickknacks strewn here and there on top of chairs and small tables. Two men stood at a table in the center of the room, examining a clock.
Neither was covered, although Taya spotted a set of public robes thrown over a chair in one corner, its ivory mask laid on top. Despite the lack of ritual garments, and even though they had their backs toward her, it was easy to pick out which one was the decatur. His clothes were made of beautifully dyed silks, and his long black hair was bound back in an ornate style held together with glittering gold clasps, just like Viera Octavus's. Taya saw the flash of rings on his fingers as he set the clock down.
Then the decatur glanced over his shoulder and smiled. He was a handsome man, with a generous mouth and green eyes that twinkled amiably.
«Wait for me a moment, icarus. I'll be right with you.»
He looked back to his guest, who wore the short hair and somber black suit of a famulate craftsman.
«Thank you, Cris. I'm impressed. But in truth, I'm always impressed by your work.»
' I'd be impressed if I knew how your guests managed to knock it off the mantel,' said the repairman, one hand resting possessively on the clock case for a moment before rising to adjust his wire-rimmed spectacles. 'This clock isn't light. What in the Lady's name were they doing?'
'It was an accident,' the exalted said, lifting a dismissive shoulder. 'High spirits and too many of them, I'm afraid. I appreciate your bringing this all the way up to the Tower. You could have simply taken it around to the mansion.'
'I didn't want to visit the mansion. And I wish you'd send a servant to pick up your packages, instead of expecting me to bring them to you. I have other work to do, you know.'
Taya shifted uncomfortably at the repairman's sharp tone. He sounded better-educated than most famulates and used the formal speech patterns of the ruling caste, but that didn't excuse his taking such a familiar manner with an exalted. He and the decatur must know each other well. Maybe the decatur broke his clocks on a regular basis. From the looks of his office, Exalted Forlore wasn't very careful with his possessions.
'Yes, well, at least this way I have the opportunity to see you once in a while.' The decatur held out a hand. The repairman shook his head, but they clasped.
'You could always come down to visit me, for a change.' The man turned and Taya drew in a startled breath.
The repairman was exalted, too.
The contrast between the wave-shaped castemarks on his cheeks and his somber black famulate suit was so shocking that it took her a moment to collect her thoughts. She'd heard of exalts who'd rejected their caste, but she'd never actually seen one before. She'd always considered them as unreal as dragons and unicorns.
Instead of an exalted's traditional long, ornamented hairstyle, the repairman had cut his black hair carelessly short, as if he didn't care at all what impression he made. His face was narrow and sharp, with cold grey eyes behind silver-rimmed glasses and a thin mouth set in a skeptical twist.
Taya dragged her gaze away, afraid she was staring, but he seemed to be looking just as intently at her. His chilly examination made her wonder if she'd somehow offended him. Should she have bowed? Then he took
