Two blocks from the Council’s chambers he saw the first one and he leaned back in his seat with relief. A door had opened and, in the wet and the darkness, a woman stepped out, shambling down the stairs of her expensive home, a butler shouting behind her, following her with a parasol to shield her from the rain.
But she was impervious.
Focused only on finding her way promptly to her designated destination, she ignored the man, staring straight ahead, her path lit by the glow of the ruby ring on her finger.
More doors opened, more red pinpricks of light glinted in the dim of evening, and more women tottered out, making their way to the same place the Wandering Wallace’s carriage was headed.
“Never have the ladies of Philadelphia looked more beautiful.” His gaze dropped to something glimmering in the hand of a nearby woman who staggered along the road’s edge. “Or so well prepared for winning a political debate.”
***
Philadelphia
The carriage pulled around to the back of the Council’s chambers and Marion opened their door, his jaw set, face grim.
The Wandering Wallace hadn’t noticed the heavy shadows under his eyes before. His eyes seemed sunken behind his mask.
Leaping down, the Wandering Wallace extended a hand to Tsu. She stepped daintily down the carriage’s steps, smiled. She pulled out her fan and adjusted her kimono and hair.
Evie looked up and down the alleyway and adjusted her sword and guns.
“Perfection,” the Wandering Wallace remarked in the direction of both of the women.
Marion looked at the Wandering Wallace as Evie and Stache stepped away to secure the door. “Ready?”
“Can we ever be?” He shrugged. “Take us in.”
Marion nodded and followed after Evie, Tsu and the Wandering Wallace trailing them. There was the noise of a scuffle and the heavy clunk of something like crockery hitting cobblestones.
They stepped around the bodies of two Council mechs, the command stones popped out of their chests. Evie tossed them up into the air and caught them again. “Clear as day,” she remarked. “Not a soul to them.” She leaned over and opened the door with a grin and a bow, “After you,” she said.
Inside, Marion waited for them, his breathing fast and shallow, his eyes on the room that opened up just ahead of them, his hand out behind him to stop them. Evie slipped around them to join him, and the Wandering Wallace listened, calming his own breathing to hear what was said just beyond his view.
“But why the devil are they here?” someone snapped.
Indistinct grumbling met the question and the Wandering Wallace’s heart raced. He tapped Marion’s shoulder and mouthed, “Who?”
Marion leaned forward and pulled back, whispering, “There is a line of mostly ladies … and more keep coming.”
“Excellent,” the Wandering Wallace said, barely stopping himself from clapping his hands together. “That then is our cue, good friends.” He dropped Tsu’s hand, straightened his spine, threw his shoulders back and tipped up his chin.
Heart pounding, he stepped out into the large room, spared a glance to the ladies and two young men standing fine as ducks in a row, and he cleared his throat, saying, “I do think the appearance of such special guests would merit some explanation.”
Councilman Loftkin stood behind the long Council table and, slapping his hand on its surface shouted, “Guards!”
But, no matter how long he was willing to wait, the Wandering Wallace knew no guards would answer the call.
His eyes wide in panic, Councilman Loftkin shouted to one of his peers, “Fetch Gregor Burchette and have him rally his men.” Before Evie could reach him, the man had slipped out the door and begun a hard sprint down the street.
Evie spun to face the Wandering Wallace, but he raised a hand. “There is no need to chase him. Things are well in hand.”
The Council’s faces were a mix of stunned expressions, jaws hanging loose, eyes wide.
Clapping his hands together before him, the Wandering Wallace began to explain how things were about to change in Philadelphia.
Chapter Seventeen
If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.
—Henry David Thoreau
Aboard the Artemesia
“Right then,” Jordan reported, swaying up and back on her feet where she stood, peering over the bowsprit and into the city far below. “The ship’s in good order,” she said more to herself than to Bran, Meggie, Maude, or Jeremiah, and more as a question than a statement— “Caleb and I shall join the others in the city.” She knelt before a very worried-looking Meggie. “I’ll be gone for a few hours.”
The child pouted, her eyes large and moist, her grip on Somebunny fierce. “I do not understand why I cannot go,” Meggie complained. “I have learned the same fighting moves that Stache taught the rest of you …”
Jordan nodded. “I know,” she said. “But I have a far more important job for you, dear one.”
Curiosity bloomed in the child’s face. “What?”
“A moment please, as I set things to accommodate my absence.” She stalked to the ship’s wheel, gave it a nudge to prove it was locked, adjusted the lever that controlled the position of the wings, and stood a moment, her eyes closing as her mind rolled in on itself and her thoughts became wind, not words.
The ship quivered beneath her feet in response and the cloud bank pulled in about them, thickening.
The stormlights on the corner posts glowed even more in contrast, casting a warm and steady glow across the glossy deck boards. Jordan nodded, seeing it was all well done, and leaned over Meggie who, with Somebunny at her side, had watched every movement the Conductor had made. “Will you watch my ship while I step away for a while?” Jordan asked, gently tweaking the child’s plump cheek.
Meggie nodded, a look of great seriousness coloring her doll-like features. “Of course,” she said. “I will watch her and take great care with her. And … If ever I need you—”
“Oh, I do not think that you will,” Jordan interrupted.
But Meggie shook her head. “If ever I need you—” she began again.
“All you need do is call,” Jordan assured, pointing back to the ship’s communications array and then tapping the thing she wore strapped to her wrist.
A thing Jack had devised to ease mobile communication over distances. It was heavy, but nearly as pretty as a bracelet.
Meggie nodded and Jordan tousled her hair, smiled at the ever-present Maude, and, going with Caleb to one of the lightships Jack had fixed, she stepped aboard.
Caleb started the craft, and Jordan wrapped her arms around his waist and smiled as they launched in the direction of destiny.
***
Philadelphia
The angry sounds of men and women on the march were music to Rowen’s ears. He saw the blaze of torches minutes later and looked at his friend, Kenneth Lorrington. “I expect this moment is best suited to your talents,” Rowen said.
Kenneth nodded and moved forward to address the crowd that had stopped, grumbling and pointing to the long line of mech soldiers. Mech soldiers stacked five deep.
“My good people,” Lorrington shouted, waving his hands for quiet. “We are gathered here to greet you as our brothers and sisters.”
“Brothers and sisters?” someone shouted. “You treat us like bastards, you rank-riddled skunks!”
Rowen winced at the words and rested his hand on his sword’s pommel.
“Not true, my dear friends …”
“Friends?” another voice called. “How are we friends when you built this city on our bent backs? On our sweat and struggles? Tell us how we are now friends!”
The bodies in the crowd shifted and the grumbling became louder. Angrier.
“Shite,” Rowen whispered. This was not going as planned. Or even well. And if Kenneth, who was known for his elo
quence, could not quell a murderous crowd and convince them to join their cause …
This called for drastic measures.
Like honesty.
Rowen stepped around him and gave a shout, “You are right!” he shouted. “You are absolutely and unequivocally correct! You have been stepped on, you have been used and abused, and it is because those of great rank do not respect or even understand the contribution of your work.”
The crowd quieted, torches hissing in the rain that had turned to a drizzle now, smoke trailing up from the flames. From the back of the mass of people someone said, “Who the hell is that? I’ve heard that voice afore …”
And, “Is that Rowen Burchette?”
“Damn my eyes—did they not catch him after he killed that prick, Lord Edwards?”
The volume of muttering rose.
“Damn fine service he did us, ridding us of that pompous ass,” someone else declared.
Another in the crowd turned on them, warning, “Treason—Lord Edwards was of rank! Burchette was caught dueling.”
“I heard he was drunk.”
Rowen sighed, but held his ground and widened his stance.
“I’ve drunk more’n me share with Rowen Burchette!” a deep-voiced man said with a laugh. “He’s a good man—for a ranking man!”
Rowen began to open his mouth and begin again—there were few better introductions when facing down such a crowd as that, but before he could get words out someone else had shouted, “I was there! He got into the duel because he was defending a Witch!”
The crowd grew so quiet the only noise Rowen heard was the pounding of his pulse in his ears.
He closed his eyes for half a heartbeat and, gathering his courage, squeaked out, “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said more firmly. “Yes, I defended the reputation of a dear friend. A dear friend accused of Witchery.”
The crowd was expressionless, waiting.
“And I would do it again!” he shouted. “For as much as you have been crushed beneath the heels of the Philadelphia Council, the slaves—African and Weather Witches both—have been used even more cruelly! They slave with no hope for a better life, with no rest but death itself! I have been to Holgate where the Conductors are Made. I have seen the scars marking their bodies and seen the pain in their eyes—the pain in their souls … And I know that, as much as your situation, must change! We must abolish not only slavery, but also the rank system! We must make Philadelphia as they once said, A city upon the Hill! We must abolish inequality—and that is why we are here tonight my friends, my brothers, because the change must start with us. Here. Now. We must be brave. We must rise up. We have a chance like no other. Now. But only if you join us! We can only succeed if we stand united!”
It was as if the crowd had stopped breathing and, his speech at an end, Rowen caught his breath, his eyes scanning the crowd for some sign of emotion, for some clue as to what they thought.
Kenneth had slunk back toward the mech army, watching as fiercely as Rowen did.
“How do we know we will win— How do we know you won’t screw us?” someone sneered, “Like the rest of your rank is wont to do?”
Rowen again began to speak, but he clapped his mouth shut, hearing the hum of a familiar engine in the cloud-pocked air above. He pointed, a smile dragging up the edges of his mouth.
The crowd turned its eyes to the sky, watching a small lightship descend.
Steering it was a much-scarred young man who Rowen had come to respect, if not quite fully trust. He was still too handsome to be fully trustworthy, he thought with a silent groan. But behind Caleb stood the most beautiful woman in the world.
Straddling the craft was Jordan of House Astraea.
She sparkled, her short hair standing up like a sparking crown of thorns, her fingers snapping out lines of lightning far superior to any fireworks display ever seen. A black lace mask covered the upper two thirds of her face but did nothing to cover her wild and shining beauty.
The craft circled the crowd, Jordan bending down over the small ship’s side to brush her fingers with the ones reaching up from the crowd for just a touch of her potent power.
The clouds trailed her like a dark and glittering bridal train, their edges deckled like fine lace. And she was all at once the most beautiful and most terrifying thing Rowen had ever seen.
That was how he again knew it was love he felt. Because only real love was as lovely and as terrifying—as awesome in the most truly traditional sense of the word—as what he felt at the sight of her.
And Rowen raised his fist into the air, feeling the ship zip nearby and, opening his fingers, he too felt the warm and promising brush of hers, and he shouted, “How do you know we shall not fail? Because we have the Stormbringer on our side!”
It started as a rumble, and Rowen caught his breath, the sound new to him as it grew in volume and became a roar.
Rowen stumbled back, his eyes searching the crowd and finding—acceptance? Enthusiasm. “Holy shite,” he said under his breath, realizing he’d stirred and inspired the crowd needed to carry them forward with mere words—words that focused them on the task at hand and made it inevitable that their cause would win the night.
And change the world.
Revolution was as difficult as he had feared.
But he would make it work.
Just as he readied the words he needed, the most beautiful and vexing of womankind spoke above the roar of the crowd, above the purr of the engine and the distant rumble of thunder, and proclaimed, “This man,” she pointed to Rowen, “defended my honor when no other would. This man searched for me, fought for me, believed in me when I could not believe in myself—when I was too broken to believe in anyone or anything. This man is my hero and tonight I will loan you my most handsome and steadfast hero and he and his men will lead us to victory! Tonight we will change the face of Philadelphia. We will begin down the hard road to true equality! Tonight we join as a family should! Tonight we band together with no rank to blind us from each other’s abilities and we march on the Council to support our forces there and our voices will be heard!”
And the roar of the crowd became deafening.
***
Philadelphia
The man burst in on them, his Council robes flowing, his face red and out of puff. “Lord Gregor,” he hissed between breaths, bending at the waist. “Come quickly—raise the troops … The Council … Rebellion …” He was wheezing now, words failing, so he pointed weakly toward the door.
Their city lights had gone out some time ago, but Gregor, being a clever military man, had maintained a few stormcells in reserve. Unruffled by it all, he mentioned it was all likely just the result of Councilman Loftkin having some sort of tantrum.
Again.
Lord Gregor Burchette got to his feet, his dining companion, Lord Morgan Astraea, rising as well. The two men exchanged a glance and said, “Rebellion?”
The Councilman nodded frantically.
“Hats and coats, I suppose,” Gregor snapped at a staff member.
“And canes,” Morgan added. “I have not known a rebellion where someone later did not regret a poor choice of clothing and accessories.”
“Indeed.”
Together they headed for the door, grabbing the items they requested as they rushed outside.
“Will you raise the guard?” Morgan asked.
Gregor shook his head. “You know as well as I do that rebellion is warranted. Frankly, we should have arranged it ourselves.”
“Rebellion is a young man’s game. Even prearranged rain makes my joints ache now,” Morgan muttered. “The thought of organizing a rebellion would send my back into spasms.”
Gregor seated his hat firmly on his head with a nod of agreement. They pulled themselves into a waiting carriage that was both well-guarded and well-horsed and, one of the few perks of being the city’s military leader, and therefore at the Council’s beck and call. Gregor smacked his cane’s head on the ceiling. �
�To the Council. And swiftly.” As the carriage took off, he looked at his friend of many years and smiled.
“Just who do you think is behind all this?” Morgan asked, peering out the carriage windows at the dark city beyond.
“I cannot be sure. But if it is well-planned and well-organized, I do hope our children have stepped up to take a part in it. Perhaps this is something they might excel at—something besides looking smashing and throwing lavish parties.”
“I have reason to believe there is hope that Jordan at least is involved. And you are correct. They have long needed something more suitable to spend their time doing,” Lord Morgan said. “The number of times I wasted good staff watching them sneak away into the Below … God. I do hope if they are involved they have arranged all this more carefully than their supposedly secret rendezvous.”
“Let us hope for that as well as their safety, regardless,” Gregor said.
“Amen,” came Morgan’s stalwart reply.
***
Philadelphia
In the Council’s chambers, the Wandering Wallace paced in a long, slow oval before the Councilmen’s table.
“I firmly believe it is in your best interest to do as I say,” the Wandering Wallace said.
“What?”
The Councilmen looked from one to the other, but then their eyes returned to their wives, well-dressed women standing unnaturally rigid, their faces turned straight ahead and slack—devoid of stress, fear, or pain—devoid of any expression at all.
“They will do whatever I tell them to—of this have no doubt. If I wish …” He made a dramatic flourish with one hand, ending the gesture pointing to the line of stoic women. “Ladies, your knives? Please produce them.”
Out from the folds of each lady’s gown she drew a gleaming dagger and held it lightly in her fingers, showing it as playfully as if displaying a recent acquisition of jewelry to a friend.
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