“He has spent most of his time in these trances to evade interacting with us,” Dr. Silk said.
More like he’s trying to preserve himself, Karigan thought. He appeared barely to breathe.
“Make him talk,” Dr. Silk ordered her.
“Make him?”
“Or our agreement is off, and I’ll find ways to make you reveal your ability.”
“I told you—”
“That it can’t be coerced. I grant it may make it more difficult, but I don’t believe you for one moment. I am humoring you, Miss G’ladheon, because it’s easier. Unless you humor me, your situation, and Mr. Harlowe’s, will only grow more difficult.”
So he would use Cade as leverage after all, to manipulate her. She could not say she was surprised. His honorable word was not worth much, and better she learn it now rather than later.
“Remember, if you please me,” Dr. Silk said, “I have the influence to make the coming days easier on Mr. Harlowe.”
His lack of honor did not defeat her. After all, she’d come to Gossham wanting to find Lhean, and here Dr. Silk had delivered her right to him. The rescuing part, however, was going to be harder, much harder, especially since the list now included Cade, Lorine, and Arhys. Not to mention herself. In the meantime, she must keep Dr. Silk happy.
She sighed. “I can guarantee nothing, but I will try.”
“That is all I ask.”
She pressed right up against the bars of the cage, her manacles ringing against the steel. “Lhean?” she said.
“Is that the creature’s name?” Dr. Silk asked, excitement behind his words.
She ignored him. “Lhean, it’s me, Karigan. Er, the Galadheon.”
Slowly his eyes opened, and they were the startling blue she remembered.
“A mien, Galadheon.” Then he rattled off a whole stream of words in Eletian.
“What did he say?” Dr. Silk asked.
“I—I don’t speak Eletian,” Karigan replied, but she had gotten the impression that Lhean had insulted the company she kept. “Lhean, could you speak in the common, please? Dr. Silk knows how we came to be here in his time.”
Lhean deigned to gaze at Dr. Silk with a baleful glare and then spat more Eletian at him. The language was always lyrical, more music than mere words that made the glassware on the shelves chime, but even Dr. Silk could not possibly mistake the strains of venom in Lhean’s speech. The effort appeared to tax him, and he struggled to remain sitting up.
“Lhean?”
“This place,” he said, finally speaking in the common, “is killing me.”
Karigan turned to Dr. Silk. “Have you not been caring for him? Have you been offering him any food and water?”
“We have, but he refuses food.” Dr. Silk shrugged. “He has taken some water.”
“Lhean,” Karigan said, “what can we do to help you?”
“Take me home.”
It was so plaintively said, and expressed all that Karigan felt as well. “I do not know the way.”
Dr. Silk chuckled. “We would not let you go even if you did.”
“This place is poison,” Lhean said.
“The etherea? It is . . .” She recollected the way it had been explained to her. “It is from Blackveil, filtered.”
“The air, the land, everything,” Lhean replied. “The mechanicals destroy etherea.”
“That’s not true,” Dr. Silk said. “There is plenty of—”
“Not outside this place,” Lhean snapped. “It is dead. And what you have here, poison.”
Lhean was just stating fact, Karigan knew, but she could sense anger building in Dr. Silk. She did not know what would happen if Dr. Silk erupted in fury. He may wish to keep Lhean “pristine” for the emperor, but that would not necessarily forestall some rash act.
“Chocolate,” she interjected. Both Dr. Silk and Lhean glanced at her in surprise. “Chocolate,” she repeated. “It . . . it has some sustaining quality for Eletians.”
Dr. Silk raised an eyebrow but did not argue. When he turned to order his guards to locate some chocolate, Karigan whispered so very low she herself could not hear it, knowing how keen Eletian hearing was. “I will try to find a way home,” she said. “I will need your help.”
Lhean nodded his understanding and touched his chest in the spot where the winged horse brooch rested on hers. “Thresholds,” he whispered, but said no more as Dr. Silk turned his attention back to them.
In short order, several varieties of chocolate were brought in on a rolling tray and presented to Lhean—fudge, solid bars of dark chocolate, truffles, lighter chocolates oozing with cordial, chocolate molded into soldiers, turtles, and gold-dusted leaves. There was even a pitcher of warm, thick sipping chocolate and a tiny mug to drink it from. All of this, but no Dragon Droppings. Lhean chose the solid bar of dark chocolate. The scent of all of it concentrated right in front of Karigan almost made her swoon, and she realized they had probably passed suppertime quite a while ago. She was starving. Dr. Silk did not invite her to try any of the chocolate.
Lhean was delicate in his eating, and Dr. Silk watched closely. “Yes,” he murmured. “I can see it helps. There is improvement in the colors around you.”
Lhean glanced sharply at him but said nothing.
“What prizes you both are,” Dr. Silk said, “and the emperor will reward me greatly.” He left instructions with the guards that the Eletian should be given chocolate whenever he desired, or any other food at his request, then with a gesture, his other guards grabbed Karigan and dragged her away.
She got in one last glimpse of Lhean who had risen to his feet to watch after her. Thresholds, he had said. He must believe she had the power to take them home. As she was jerked and jostled out into the corridor, she wished fervently he was right, but at the moment, her hope was flagging.
“I am done with you for now,” Dr. Silk told her, “and must attend to other matters.”
He simply discarded her and went on his way, leaving her with the guards who shoved her in the opposite direction. He’d better be keeping his word, she thought, and use his influence to help Cade, but he’d already shown himself to be untrustworthy. If he did not keep his word, she would show him no mercy.
POTENTIAL
The bluish haze was peaceful and healing. Cade felt as though he were floating, and the encounter in Webster Silk’s chambers only a nightmare. No gun, no wound. Unless he were dead, and this was what death was: all this peaceful floating.
A stab into his shoulder made him cry out, pain spidering along every nerve, the peace shattered. Cade realized he hadn’t had nightmares, he was living one.
“That’s right, Mr. Harlowe, let’s wake up.”
Cade shook his head. His vision was blurry at first, but then resolved into sharp, harsh lines. The portly man from Silk’s office, Mr. Starling, loomed in front of him, suitcoat off, sleeves rolled up. He wore an apron and gloves. The gloves glinted with metal knuckles. Mr. Starling seated himself before Cade. He appeared to have a plate of cakes and a teapot on a table beside him, along with a tray of shiny and sharp implements. Just beyond him stood a young man in blue robes.
Cade tried to move, but his wrists and ankles were cuffed to a chair, which, he discerned, was bolted to the floor. A single lamp hung overhead. There were no windows, and the rest of the Inquisitor’s room was left to the shadows and imagination.
“Very good,” Mr. Starling said. “Glad to have you back with us. It took a while, I must say, but Marcus here has brought you back.” He indicated the young man in robes. “He is not just a mender, Mr. Harlowe, but a true healer, and he stopped your bleeding and healed your shoulder.”
Like a viper, faster than could be believed of so stout a man, Starling’s hand struck out and jabbed where Cade had been shot. Once again the shocking pain burned through Cade’s body, and he c
ried out and jerked involuntarily. “Well, mostly healed,” Starling amended. “We didn’t remove the bullet. It makes for a very immediate point of contact, don’t you agree?” Without waiting for a reply, he popped a teacake into his mouth and chewed vigorously. “Must keep my strength up.” He patted his lips with a napkin and cleared his throat. “Now Marcus here is very good at fixing any damage I may inflict upon your body, but as I told you earlier, it is only so I can hurt you some more. Do you understand?”
When Cade did not respond, Mr. Starling sighed, then struck again, this time pinching the flesh around Cade’s wound and twisting it. Cade started to fade out from the pain.
“Do you understand?” Starling repeated.
Cade nodded.
“Soon I will have you saying, ‘Yes, Mr. Starling. Whatever you say, Mr. Starling.’ But, a nod will do for now.” The man chuckled, causing his belly to shake. “I could take you to a point where you beg me to hurt you. That you tell me you love me. I know it seems inconceivable now, but I am a master of my art. Isn’t it so, Marcus?”
“Yes, Mr. Starling.”
“See?” the Inquisitor asked, his voice full of mirth. “Even Marcus knows. He has seen me at work often enough. He has even been privileged to have experienced my touch first hand. You should be honored as well, Mr. Harlowe, that my superiors thought you important enough to leave you in my care. We are not here, however, just because I take great pleasure in my art, but for the glory of emperor and empire. The emperor requires that you answer certain questions about your traitorous actions in Mill City, and your purpose in coming to Gossham. That’s a rather brazen move, coming to the emperor’s very door, and I can’t believe you’ve done so just to recover some bratty child and her governess.”
Cade thought of Luke’s betrayal. “Didn’t Luke tell you everything?”
“He told us you intended to bring the uprising to Gossham, and yes, to rescue Professor Josston’s favorite little servant, but not why. Was she just some urchin plucked off the street to be raised by your generous mentor? Well, we shall have answers. Indeed, we shall. And I will tell you what, Mr. Harlowe: the more forthcoming you are, the easier it will go on you.” Starling popped another teacake into his mouth. Powdered sugar dusted his lips and the front of his apron.
“You are just going to kill me anyway.”
“True, true, but there is a difference between going to one’s death easily and without pain, and going to death after feeling as if all your bones were broken and rearranged, tendons severed, flesh grated, and parts of your body immolated and carved off. Trust me, I do know how to keep you alive and alert during these procedures. I also have a colleague who enjoys overseeing a good castration. Now mind, Marcus is good at what he does, but regrowing body parts does not work well. We’ve tried. The results are, well, grotesque. Intriguing for us, but not so much for the recipient.
“So, shall we begin? You do realize your little rebellion has failed, do you not? We know who a number of your accomplices are in Mill City, and they are being questioned, as well. However, I want names. Names of all your conspirators, including those who collaborated with Professor Josston.”
Cade thought of Jax and Mirriam and all the others, and wondered if they’d been found and arrested, or worse. It was all on him, the failure of the rebellion and whatever happened to the folk of Mill City. All his fault. He must not give up names of his accomplices in case they’d managed to remain undetected. It sounded noble as he thought about it, the protecting of his comrades, but the fact of the matter was that as a student of archeology, he had never faced anything like this before, and none of the professor’s training had prepared him to resist an Inquisitor. Back in the early days, when he’d been brought into the fold of the opposition by the professor, all such notions of personal sacrifice had been romantic and far off rather than anything real. He hadn’t considered what it actually felt like to be shot or tortured. A true Weapon, he knew, one who had been through all the proper conditioning, would know how to withstand torture.
Worse than worrying about what might happen to himself was what might happen to all those connected to him, especially Karigan. What did they plan for her?
“Mr. Harlowe,” the Inquisitor said in a voice of warning, “I am waiting. The names.”
“I don’t know any.”
Starling sighed dramatically and glanced over his shoulder. “Marcus, it appears we’re going to have to do this the hard way.” He turned his piercing eyes back on Cade. “Are you sure this is how you want it to be, young man? If not, give me the names.”
“I have no names to give you.”
Starling rose and paced in a slow amble before Cade, his hands clasped behind his back. Cade glanced apprehensively at the tray of sharp tools, wondering what was coming. It appeared not much as Starling continued to pace and mutter to himself. Cade settled in and waited, his thoughts once again turning to Karigan and what would become of her. He had led her into this trap. He—
Starling turned on his heel, pummeling Cade across the face, not once, not twice, but time and again, back and forth so hard Cade thought his head would snap off his neck. The metal studs embedded in the knuckles of Starling’s gloves raked his cheeks open. He was so stunned by the ferocity of the attack he couldn’t even seem to cry out.
It stopped. Cade struggled to catch his breath. Inhaled blood. He wanted to touch his face, for surely his flesh had been shredded to ribbons.
“That, Mr. Harlowe,” Starling said, “was just me warming up.”
Cade blinked, trying to clear his vision. Starling stood before him, hands on hips, his apron and sleeves sprayed with blood.
“I must admit some sentimentality for the old methods,” Starling said. “Some of my colleagues, well, they’ll use a mechanical to do the work, which is very precise, but lacking in artistry. Or, they’ll have an assistant exert themselves. Me? Well, this is my art, and I like doing it myself. No surrogates. I like the old tools, too.” He flexed his hands in the stained gloves. “Now, Mr. Harlowe, would you care to give me those names before I begin to work on you in earnest? If you do, Marcus will heal up what I’ve done so far, and we’ll get you some water or tea, anything you like. What do you say?”
It sounded so very reasonable. Just give the man a few names and avoid more beating. Maybe Cade could give him false names. He suspected, however, that Starling would know he was lying. Starling would know and punish him for the lie.
“I can see you are thinking it over, Mr. Harlowe. You are an intelligent man. A scholar even. By all accounts you did very well at university. The records show you succeeded at the uppermost levels in your courses and fieldwork.”
They had looked at his school records? Cade despaired of getting any lies past the Inquisitor.
“Perhaps some of your classmates were conspirators,” Starling continued. “Or maybe some of your other professors. You can give me names, and there will be no reason to further—”
He was interrupted by knocking, and a door creaked open somewhere behind Cade. It shed thin illumination across the floor.
“Yes? What is it?” Starling demanded. “Can’t you see I’m with a subject?”
“Sorry, sir,” came a reply from the direction of the light. “Dr. Silk would like a word with you.”
Starling’s surprise was obvious. “Dr. Silk? What does he want?”
“I don’t know, sir, but he’s outside waiting and quite insistent.”
“All right, all right. One moment.” The door closed, and Starling grumbled. “In the name of the empire. No one interrupts one of my sessions. Ever. Not even Dr. Silk. But alas, I must obey.” It was said as if he expected Cade to sympathize with him. “Butler!” he cried as he strode across the floor.
A mechanical apparatus rolled over on a trio of cast iron wheels. Instead of a spherical body like an Enforcer, its mechanisms, the whirring gears, wheels, belt
s and pulleys, were exposed. Cade had never seen the internal workings of an Enforcer, though he, Jax, and the others had dreamed of capturing one to learn what they could about the devices, but they’d scrapped one plan after another as too dangerous. The Enforcers and Starling’s “butler” were different, but they must be similar in essential ways. There was, however, no steamworks. Here in Gossham, a city brimming with etherea, the mechanicals would not require steam. Etherea engines were enough to power them, unlike mechanicals located in other parts of the empire.
Cade had never seen an etherea engine, so he could only guess that it had to do with what looked like an ordinary jug in the center of all the workings filled with muddy fluid, which was circulated through a snarl of piping, to various parts of the apparatus, with a pump that gasped and wheezed like a sickly old man.
Besides the wheels, the mechanical had a pair of appendages that scissored out toward Starling. Each had a claw on its end. Starling extended his hands and the claws tugged off his gloves. The mechanical butler then rolled away back into the darkness and out of sight.
Starling turned once more to Cade. “You must excuse this interruption, Mr. Harlowe, inconvenient as it is, but perhaps it will give you the opportunity to reflect and consider your options.” Then he turned to the mender. “And you, Marcus, are not to touch him. Understood? I will know if you do anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
Starling grunted, then left them, the door creaking open again and closing. Cade sat back, closed his eyes. The very air ate at the slashed skin of his face. His head still rang from the blows, and this was, Starling had said, only his warm-up.
“Mr. Harlowe?” His name was spoken barely above a whisper. He opened his eyes to see the mender hovering closer. “I am sorry,” he said.
“For what?” Cade’s voice was muffled by swollen lips.
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