Unlike the empress, Vera was very interested in the construction process of the skyships, particularly the strange men that Osyrus was using for the work. She had no idea who they were or where they had come from, which made them a potential threat to Kira’s safety.
“Does your ship have a name?” Pence asked.
“Not yet,” Kira responded. “In Almira, it’s bad luck to name a ship before her maiden voyage.”
“And when will that be?”
“Not soon. As I am sure you know, all spare dragon oil must be used for the war effort. The royal engineer is not even building an engine for my ship. For now, I simply want to give the people of Burz-al-dun something to look forward to in these bleak times.”
“An excellent idea, Empress Domitian. These are indeed bleak times. You heard of the trouble at Edgemar Fortress?”
“Terrible,” Kira agreed.
General Grakus had indeed been murdered by a furious Velesar Nun, who accessed Edgemar Fortress with the administrative seal Kira had arranged for him. Velesar Nun was swiftly executed, and the entire incident had been mostly swept under the rug, but the rumor mill around the palace spun. As Kira had predicted, Actus Thorn departed yesterday to take command of the war effort.
“But I wouldn’t worry,” Kira continued. “With Actus Thorn in command, the Lysterian revolt will be smashed to pieces in a matter of weeks. We just need the weather to clear so the skyships can do their work.”
“Yes, of course.”
“But while he is gone, there is plenty to keep us busy. I believe your offices have received word about the relaxation of your pond taxes, with my compliments.”
“We have, Empress. I must admit, I am curious how you made the levy ministry budge. In my experience, those ministers would rather murder their own firstborn than lower taxes.”
“Everybody wants something, Minister Pence. Sometimes, all you have to do is ask nicely.”
She looked at him expectantly.
“I see. And I am, of course, more than willing to repay your goodwill in any way I can.” He hesitated. “Perhaps a portion of the surplus in revenue…”
“Not necessary. In fact, you have my word that you may skim the entirety of the extra pond profits for yourself, and nobody in the government will hassle you or go looking for the missing coin.”
“That is very generous…” Pence said, waiting for the true cost.
“All that I ask in return is a small favor. Well … two small favors.”
* * *
After Kira was done with Freemon Pence, they went to see Osyrus Ward in his workshop. Despite the fact that Actus Thorn had refused his request for more specimens—whatever that meant—Ward had filled the room with dozens of glass tanks that held different kinds of insects, mice, and rodents.
Kira strode in and surveyed the long line of tanks. Bent at the waist to examine one that was placed in the middle of the room.
“What’s this one all about?” Kira asked, tapping the glass. Ward glanced up from his table, which was strewn with gears and wire. He was fiddling with a stone orb the size of a baby’s heart—stringing a translucent thread around it in a careful and tight pattern.
“That is a mapping experiment,” he said absently, then turned back to the orb.
“Mapping? All I see are a few butterflies. And the, uh, the things they make. Cocoons.”
“A chrysalis.”
“Chrysalis. Right. Do the butterflies have names?”
“Specimen 879 and Specimen 880.”
“Those are boring.”
“Everything needs a name,” Osyrus replied without looking up. “But in time, you learn to forgo colorful choices with high volume experiments. They are a sentimental distraction. Nothing more.”
Kira looked closer. “Why do you have those wires attached to them?”
“As I said, it’s a mapping experiment. The caterpillar’s entire body is reduced to a soup of nutrients and biological information, which then forms into a completely different creature. The butterfly. The process is incredible, but also mysterious. Each transformation that I monitor peels back a bit of the enigma.”
Vera studied the tank. The wires that Ward attached to the chrysalis ran down the side of the glass case, then funneled into a small hole in the floor, mixing in with all the other machinery and piping that ran through the palace and was powered by the Kor Cog.
“Why do you care how butterflies work?” Kira asked.
“I don’t care about butterflies in particular. But these creatures reduce themselves to a formless soup, then grow themselves anew in a completely different form. That ability has a wide array of potential applications. A very wide array.”
Kira turned away from the glass tank. Gave Osyrus a look. “You’re an odd person, Osyrus.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
“How is my engine coming along?” Kira asked, motioning to the orb. Long ago, Kira had learned to switch topics frequently and without warning to maintain the advantage in a conversation, but the tactic seemed to have little impact on Osyrus Ward.
“Progress is being made,” Osyrus said, halting his work. “I placed the alpha build in the Time’s Daughter before the skyship began its overwatch mission on the western coast of Almira. Initial diagnostics are positive, although the mechanism is less efficient than I’d like. Yours will be far superior—a true explorer’s ship, bound by nothing except the constitution of the captain.”
“Mm. I like the sound of that. But when?”
“Soon. Soon.”
“You said that last time.”
“I was occupied with Actus Thorn’s request for the cold-weather uniforms so his rebellion quashing can begin in earnest. My poor hands.” He rubbed them. Seemed to feel genuine pain. “But the new design is complete.” He motioned to the corner of the workshop, where a uniform made from dark leather hung. There was a heavy clock apparatus over the chest, with wiring that streamed down both arms. “It’s truly a remarkable achievement—along with the added insulation, each device is synchronized to the central Kor, allowing different skyships to communicate with each other across leagues of mountain, ocean, and forest. Almost as powerful an advantage as the skyships themselves. I have ensured that every deployed skyship crew will be outfitted with them. Thorn even approved my request for a skyship to resupply the Time’s Daughter while she performs her precious overwatch of Almira’s western coast. Even from so far away, she will be connected to the fleet.”
“Impressive,” Kira said absently.
“Of course, Actus Thorn offered little in the way of thanks. And he has refused yet another request of mine for fresh specimens. I had to collect those caterpillars myself from a public garden in District Three. These city creatures are not ideal for study at all. Too many degradations and impurities.” He sighed. “Anyway, my acolytes are handling the mass production and distribution of the uniforms, so my work on the engine can continue. I am close.”
Vera’s attention perked up at the mention of Ward’s acolytes. Those were the strange, masked men who had been working on Kira’s ship.
“Where did those acolytes come from?” she asked. Vera had checked empire immigration records—as well as palace entry logs—but found no mention of them, which was strange. Even Gyle, Rike, and Wun had come through customs on false documentation and the pretense of being Ghalamarian wheat traders.
“That is an interesting question,” Osyrus Ward replied. “In one sense, they are from far away. But in another, they were born in Burz-al-dun.”
Vera was about to press Ward for a straight answer, but Kira was already moving toward the door.
“You’re making excellent progress, Osyrus. I’m happy. And do not worry, when I am in control of Balaria, I will make sure you get all the bug specimens that you want. Come on, Vera. We have another gala tonight, and I need to get ready.”
17
BERSHAD
Ghost Moth Island, Central Wilderness
They mad
e the long trek north without incident, following a river, then traversing a forest, and finally crossing leagues of decrepit swamp dominated by massive black mushrooms the size of trees. The mushrooms were pocked with specks of green and orange and red pustules. The farther inland they moved, the more putrid the landscape became.
“How much further?” Ashlyn asked after it took them twenty minutes to navigate around a sludge pit.
“We’re close,” Wendell said, then pointed ahead at a big wall of rotting, weeping mushrooms. “This is the last bit of nastiness, then the wall.”
“Wish I still had my mask,” Bershad muttered, drawing his Curdachi and preparing to start cutting through the mess.
“I usually squeeze through real careful,” Wendell said when he saw what Bershad was about to do. “So as not to disturb anything, you know?”
Bershad kept walking. Hefted his sword and hammered it through the first swollen, corrupted vine. It sprayed apart in a shower of gore that smelled like a popped pustule on a dying man’s asshole. Felgor retched. Goll turned away with a Lysterian curse.
Bershad reared his sword up again.
After a few minutes of brutal hacking, his blade got caught in a disgusting vine covered in black slime. He tried to wrench it out. Failed. Then dropped his shoulder and shoved his weight against the mass until it strained, tore, and gave way. He stumbled into a clearing. Struggled to regain his balance. Looked ahead.
About three hundred strides past an expanse of flat, dead grass, there was a massive palisade built from sun-bleached dragon bones. No other animal was large enough to account for the size. The wall was four times taller than Bershad. The entire upper third was wreathed with red-tipped thorns the length of daggers. The bones had been carefully arranged so that there were no gaps in the barrier, but the pattern was complex and ornate—ribs placed perfectly next to femurs and wing bones and fingers.
Behind him, the others picked their way out of the mess. Stared at the wall, too.
“Well, that is extremely unsettling,” Felgor said. “And I’ve seen the Line of Lorbush back in the Razors.”
“Line of Lornar,” Bershad corrected.
“Whatever.”
Ashlyn took a few steps toward the wall. Eyes narrowed.
“Who built this?” she asked.
Goll scratched his armpit. “The demons. Obviously.”
“No,” Ashlyn said. “Not demons.”
“Why not?” Goll asked.
“Because you have to actually exist in order to build something,” Bershad said.
Goll gave Bershad a look. Spat. Then crossed his arms and raised his chin in silent defiance.
Bershad studied the wall. “Osyrus could have done it, right? The bones don’t seem that different from the hull of the skyship you shot down.”
“I don’t think so,” Ashlyn responded. “The skyship’s design was strictly functional. No frills. No style. No wasted elements. But look at that.” She pointed at the twisting bones—which cascaded and locked together in a complicated pattern. “There was no practical reason to make it so elaborate. And it must have taken years. Whoever built this had a deep sense of aesthetics. Of beauty.”
“That does not sound like Osyrus Ward.”
“No,” Ashlyn agreed. “But regardless of who built the wall, the answers I need are behind it.”
They all took a moment to look for a way across.
“Those thorns near the top do not look friendly,” Felgor said, pointing to the festooned rim.
“It’s Snake Grass,” Wendell said. “The barbs are full of poison that bring visions.”
“I stand corrected. That does sound fun,” Felgor said.
“Not good visions,” Wendell said. “The last man who got stuck with one wound up popping his own eyes out because he thought a dragon had laid eggs behind them.”
“Oh.”
Bershad scanned the wall. “There has to be some kind of gate,” he muttered.
“Why, there some rulebook that comes along with building dragon-bone fences?” Vash asked.
“Let’s get a closer look,” Bershad said, ignoring him.
“No,” Vash said. “We agreed to take you here. We took you. Whatever you do from this point, we’ll have no part in it.”
“But Dad, I want to see if they can open it!” Wendell protested.
“And I want your mother to still be alive,” Vash snapped. “We’re leaving.”
“Do what you want,” Bershad said, picking his way down to the wall. Ashlyn came with him.
He didn’t turn around to check on Vash’s decision, but he didn’t hear any of them walking away just yet, either. When they reached the wall, Bershad pulled off a gauntlet and pressed his bare palm against one of the bones. The surface was unnaturally warm, and his hand came away with a wet, sticky film that felt like the interior of a freshly cracked eggshell. Ashlyn examined one of the long seams between the bones.
“They’re perfectly aligned,” she said. “But they haven’t been honed or carved. Incredible.”
“How do we get it to open?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Well, I got one thing to try. Stand back.”
“Wait,” Ashlyn protested when she saw Bershad heft his sword. “Just wait a minute before you start—”
Bershad stabbed the blade into one of the seams with enough force to drive it through a warden’s armored chest. The tip of the blade got lodged between the two bones and stuck there. Bershad shoved all his weight into the side of the sword, trying to pry the bones apart.
“Silas, that isn’t going to work. The whole framework is tied together.”
“Uh-huh.”
Bershad shoved harder—feet sliding in the mud, fingers and palms aching as he pressed more of his weight into the hilt.
The tip of the blade snapped off.
“Fuck,” Bershad hissed. Shaking the pain out of his hands.
“Told you,” Ashlyn said.
“It was worth a try.”
“No, it wasn’t. Brute force won’t work here. We need a little more finesse.” Ashlyn frowned. Looked around. Her eyes settled on the pack of supplies Bershad had dropped back near the others. “Come on, there’s something I can try.”
They headed back across the field.
“Looked like you bashed your finger pretty good,” Felgor said when they were back within earshot.
“I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh. Well, how’re we planning to get through, then? Don’t see any locks to pick, and I am very much opposed to exposing myself to the possibility of plucking my own eyeballs out.”
Ashlyn ignored him. Started rummaging through the pack of alchemy supplies that she’d rescued from their ship. But before she’d done more than remove a few vials, all the birds in the trees around them went quiet in unison.
“Something’s wrong,” Bershad said, turning around to study the wall.
A section of bones shuddered, then opened along jagged seams like the grisly maw of a massive creature. A foul stench hit Bershad’s nose—a mixture of fetid rot and decaying meat. It was overpowering.
There were two men standing on the far side. One was average height, but so thin he looked skeletal. A white leather cloak covered his right arm. The second man was so massive he could have passed for a giant out of a children’s story, but his size wasn’t natural. His forearms and stomach were lumpy and deformed. Joints swollen. Mushrooms sprouted wild and erratic from his heavily muscled shoulders, and worms wriggled from holes in his bloated ankles. He wore a thick iron collar around his neck and he was holding an enormous club that had been carved from a Ghost Moth’s finger bone. His eyes were rimmed with infected, putrid green liquid.
“Fuck me with a clock gear,” Felgor muttered. “They really are demons.”
18
ASHLYN
Ghost Moth Island, Central Wilderness
Bershad looked at Ashlyn. Shrugged. “You wanted the gate open. It’s open.”
A
shlyn studied the men for a moment. Their anatomy was clearly human, but both had been altered in significant ways. Ashlyn could guess who was responsible for that, but she needed details.
“I will go talk to them.”
“They are demons,” Goll said. “You cannot just … go talk to them.”
“Yes, I can.”
Ashlyn crossed the field again, taking the satchel with her. The thin man moved forward, too, keeping his visible hand completely still. The giant mirrored his motions half a heartbeat later, and they all met in the middle of the field, stopping about twenty strides away from each other.
“Outlanders,” the thin man said in a raspy voice. He spoke Balarian with a Pargossian accent. “You approach our domain uninvited. Why?”
“We come seeking knowledge,” Ashlyn responded in Balarian.
The thin man studied her. “I have none to offer.”
“That is not the deal you made with Simeon.”
“Simeon craved weapons. Armor. Is that what you desire?”
“No. I want to understand how the weapons and armor were created. How they work.”
The thin man seemed to consider that.
“You speak with an Almiran tongue, but your hide stinks like one of Okinu’s dogs,” he said. “It has been many years, but we remember the scent.”
“Okinu told me where the island is,” Ashlyn admitted. “But I am not her dog.”
“Yes, you are.” He grimaced. “The last hound in a dismal pack. All of you sniffing around Osyrus Ward’s footprints.”
Ashlyn narrowed her eyes at that comment. Studied the thin man a little closer. His right arm was covered, but there were tatters of gray fabric burned into the skin and wrist of his left arm. Alchemist’s robes. When Osyrus arrived, he’d written that there was only one alchemist on the island—the botanist who was searching for immortality in the mushrooms.
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