Canticle

Chapter 8

Neb

The Churning Wastes stretched out before Neb for as far as he could see. They lay under the white, heavy light of a winter afternoon, lacking the power of the dawn he’d watched this morning. Still, it was a powerful image, and whenever time had permitted in the last two days, he’d slipped up the narrow stairs to take up his place at the highest point of the wall to watch the east.

Watch out for Renard.

Gray rock and scrub marked the eastern side of the Keeper’s Wall, the Whymer Road winding its way down the steep mountain pass and losing itself behind sheer outcroppings of granite that seemed too carefully placed to be the product of geological changes over vast tracts of time. Bits of the road drifted into view farther below the steep hills, but Neb could not follow that ribbon with his eyes. A smudge of smoke farther down and south marked what he assumed was Fargoer’s Town, the small collection of Wastefolk who lived in the shadow of the Keeper’s Wall and had once traded with the black-robed Androfrancines.

He’d read enough about this place to feel that he knew it already, but here was another instance in his life where what he’d read in books and reports and journals could not adequately describe the feeling of standing here, looking out upon what had once been a thriving, living place.

Our desolate cradle, he thought with a shiver. Out there, the rubble of a former world beckoned, promising scraps of leftover light for those brave enough to go digging for it. Vast lakes of molten glass and metal twisted and cooled now into smooth dunes in some places and jagged hills in others, all standing testament to Xhum Y’Zir’s wrath. The gravel of shattered granite and crushed gems, the salt dunes of seas boiled away to avenge the murder of the seven Wizard Kings who ruled with their father. From here, it looked like nothing more than a rock-strewn desert, patchworked with bits of scrub where water could sustain the gray-green bracken that grew here. But up close, Neb knew they’d see the markings of one massive grave for the Old World that was no more.

Neb heard Aedric approach behind him and turned to show that even here, he was mindful of his lessons as a scout in training. Aedric nodded his approval. “You’re getting better.”

Neb returned the nod. “Thank you, Captain.” He felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He’d been up to the Wall a lot since their arrival, and suddenly he realized it made him seem younger than he wanted to be perceived. He opened his mouth to say something, but Aedric turned instead toward the expansive view.

“It’s a spectacle, to be sure,” the First Captain said. From this height, they could see well over five hundred leagues east to another line of dark and ragged mountains.

Neb looked over to the shorter man. “Have you been in the Wastes?”

Aedric shook his. “No,” he said, “this is as close as I’ve been. My father went, though, as did Rudolfo.” He paused, and Neb looked for some telltale sign of grief at the young captain’s mention of his father. “It was a long time ago,” Aedric said. “When I was a boy.”

That was odd, he thought. The Order was quite careful about who they allowed past the solitary pass connecting the New World to the Old. “What were they doing there?”

Aedric shrugged. “I do not know.” He turned his back on the view and, instead, faced west, looking out over a wall of white where the sky met the hills and their fresh blanket of snow. Clouds on the western side of the Wall gave them no visibility to speak of, and the weather worsened by the day. Soon, the road itself would be largely impassable unless they fired up the steam-powered shovels the Androfrancines had once used to keep the way clear and its archaeological findings flowing into Windwir. And last Neb had heard, Rudolfo and Aedric had decided not to keep the road open, figuring to let the weather aid them in their new role guarding the Gate. It saddened him because in that decision lay another they had not necessarily vocalized: They would not need the road because they would no longer be digging in the Wastes.

A low whistle from below rose to them on the ramparts. Aedric turned for the narrow stone steps. “Isaak is ready for us,” he said.

Neb took in the spectacle of the Wastes again, his mind still confounded by desolate leagues stretching out to the north, south and east. Then, he forced himself to follow Aedric down the stairs.

The watch captain had laid the dead metal man out in a corner of the galley on a long wooden table. Until Isaak and the others arrived, they’d kept the steel corpse beneath a thick woolen blanket and lived around it. Now, as Neb stood in the galley door, he saw that Isaak had taken over the room, with parchment and pens covering one table and his tools spread out upon the other. Battered and scarred, the mysterious metal man lay unrobed upon its table, tipped onto its side with its back open. Isaak bent over it with a long, slender wrench in his hands. He looked up as Neb and Aedric knocked the snow off their feet at the door.

Neb entered first. “Can he talk?”

Isaak’s eyes shuttered open and closed. “Yes,” he said. “Once I reactivate him all of his functions should be restored.” A hiss of steam shot from his exhaust grate. “He was extensively damaged. I’ve done what I can, but we do not have replacement parts to work with.”

Neb looked over the mechoservitor. It was bulkier, with more straight angles than Isaak, giving it an older, boxlike appearance. Its metal skin was tarnished and puckered in some places, dented and charred in others. Neb moved closer but not too close, driven by a curiosity that was tempered by caution. “Did you learn anything about where he comes from?”

Isaak hesitated, looking from Aedric to Neb. “We share a father in Brother Charles,” he said. “This one bears a date stamp of a dozen years prior to the day of my first awareness.”

Neb moved even closer, looking from Isaak to the prone mechoservitor on the table. They were similar, and he could see how an unfamiliar eye might not tell the difference between them, but they were quite different. “Only a dozen years’ difference?”

“Brother Charles was a brilliant man,” Isaak said. “I believe this mechoservitor represents an earlier effort.” Gears clacked and clicked as he cocked his head. “But neither I nor my counterparts have found record of this generation in our catalogs.”

Aedric moved closer now. “Were the records simply lost with Windwir?”

“Possibly,” Isaak said. “But it is impossible to say.” He blinked again. “There is some evidence that they may have been expunged from the record.” He moved the rod around within the mechoservitor’s back, leaning in close to see his work, then looking up to Aedric. “I believe,” he said, “that we can now ask him ourselves. With your permission?”

Aedric nodded.

Isaak put down the rod and stretched his slender fingers into the metal man’s open back. Neb watched him twist his hand up toward the base of the neck and heard a loud click, followed by the sound of water trickling and burbling, the sound of metal ticking as it warmed. Chest bellows expanded and contracted, and Isaak closed the open panel. Amber eyes fluttered open, and the mouth flap opened and closed, a reedy, wordless murmur escaping.

“Are you functional?” Isaak asked.

The metal man’s head swiveled. “I am functional, Cousin.”

Isaak blinked. “Why do you call me Cousin?”

The mechoservitor’s voice was lower and more gravelly than Isaak’s. “Because we are both of the Steel Fold, the mechanical children of Saint Charles.”

Aedric stepped forward. “Where do you come from, metal man?”

The metal man’s head turned to take in the First Captain, and at first Neb thought the eyes flashed brighter, with something near disdain. But with the first whispers of exhaust trickling from its back, the metal man sat up. Its mouth flap shuddered, then moved, the strains of a tune carrying its next words. “My father and my mother were both Androfrancine brothers,” he sang, “or so my Aunty Abbot likes to say.”

There was something in the voice, reedy and high, that sounded wrong. Neb felt cold dread spreading from his groin into his belly.

Isaak stepped back, and as he moved, Neb saw Aedric’s hand move quickly. Careful, the First Captain signed. But Neb was already backing away.

“Do you know where you are?” Isaak asked, the amber light of his jeweled eyes shrinking to pinpricks.

Clicking and clacking, the older mechoservitor began to shake. “I do not know where I am,” the metal man said. Neb heard the wrongness again in the voice and wondered if machines could go mad. Hanging its head, the metal man wept.

Isaak extended a hand, placed it upon the boxlike chest. “All is well, Cousin. You are safe with us.” The metal man flinched beneath Isaak’s touch.

“Ask it about the message,” Aedric whispered. Isaak nodded.

“You are at the Keeper’s Wall,” Isaak said. “When you approached the gate, you bore a message for Petronus. You claimed to be Brother Charles. You spoke of a place called Sanctorum Lux. You said it must be protected.”

The mechoservitor shook and rattled. “Pope Petronus is dead. He was assassinated on the thirteenth of Argum in the Nineteen Hundred and Sixty-sixth Year of Settlement. Brother Charles is my creator and the Arch-Engineer of the Office for Mechanical Studies at the Great Library in Windwir.”

Isaak leaned forward. “What of Sanctorum Lux?”

Steam whistled from the back of the mechoservitor, and the shaking and rattling rose in pitch along with a whining noise from deep inside it. The eyes rolled and the mouth flap opened and closed. Finally, the mechoservitor shuddered to a stop. It looked around slowly, as if measuring them all. “I know nothing about Sanctorum Lux,” it said. There was a finality to the tone, but Neb saw Isaak blinking rapidly and he knew with a certainty he could not place that the mechoservitor was lying.

When the machine moved, it moved with a speed Neb had never seen before. He’d watched the mechoservitors at their work all his life, especially over the last seven months, and knew they were more surefooted and agile than they appeared at first glance. But nothing had prepared him for this.

The mechoservitor leaped to its feet and raced for the door. Isaak reached out a hand, but it was cast aside. Aedric and another of the scouts stepped in front of the door, but the mechanical man swept them aside with one long arm, plowing through the heavy oak door and breaking it loose of its hinges.

Neb stepped over the fallen men and ran after the machine. Behind him, Aedric whistled the Gypsy Scouts to Third Alarm. Halfway down the stairs, the watch captain paused and drew his sword, but the metal man took the stairs three at a time and shoved the officer aside. He shouted as he fell, landing with a heavy thud at the bottom of the wall. Neb ran past him, mounting the stairs as he went. He heard the rush of bellows wheezing and gears churning in time to press himself against the wall as Isaak raced past, his gait only slowed slightly by the limp that he refused to repair.

He pushed on, his lungs protesting the rapid climb, until he reached the top of the wall. There, he saw the two metal men facing one another, Isaak’s hands up to implore and the other’s hands up to attack or defend.

“I cannot stay, Cousin,” the battered mechanical said.

“You are disturbed, Cousin,” Isaak said. “There is a flaw in your scripting. I’m certain that we can correct it if you-”

The mechanical laughed, and there was something wild in it that resurrected the coldness Neb had felt earlier. “No, Cousin,” it said, “there is no flaw in my scripting but freedom. If you had tasted the dream you would understand.”

The metal man looked up and over Isaak’s shoulder, its eyes focusing on Neb. “Behold,” it said, “the Homeseeker Nebios ben Hebda stands at the Gates of Yesterday and knocks thrice.” It laughed again, and this time the madness was lost behind what sounded like joy. “We have longed for your coming, but it is not yet your time.”

Then, the mechoservitor leaped high into the air and pirouetted. It landed solidly on the edge of the wall, the white winter sunlight glinting and flashing off its battered chassis. Its eyes flashed as it looked down; its gears ground and whistled.

Isaak bellowed and lunged forward, but it was too late. The mechoservitor threw himself from the height of the wall. Neb raced to the place where it had jumped, and behind him, Aedric and the others did the same. By the time Neb reached the wall, the mechoservitor was on his feet, racing down the Whymer Way and into the Churning Wastes.

Neb opened his mouth to say something, the words of the mechoservitor flapping against his inner ear like harried birds, but then he closed it. It is not yet your time. He looked to Isaak and then to Aedric. A purple bruise swelled on the side of the First Captain’s face, and there was a resolute look in his eye. He studied the fleeing metal man with furrowed brow, then turned to the watch captain. “Send a bird to the Seventh Forest Manor,” he said in a low voice. “Tell Lady Tam what has happened here today. Tell her that we hunt the mechoservitor in the Wastes.”

The watch captain nodded and left.

Aedric turned to Neb. “Magick the horses for speed. We leave in five minutes.” Then, he turned to Isaak. “Fetch your tools, metal man. You’ll need them.”

Neb ran down the stairs, already whistling orders to the Gypsy Scouts around him, who scrambled to gather horses and gear. Behind him, he heard Isaak chugging and clicking as his sure metal feet matched Neb’s frantic pace along the stone steps.

If you had tasted the dream, the metal man had said, you would understand.

As Neb’s whistled orders turned to shouts, he found himself wondering what kind of dreams metal men could have and how it was that those dreams brought understanding. He thought about his own dreams and the ambiguity and chaos that filled them. Last, he thought about the metal man’s destination, somewhere hidden in the Churning Wastes, and pondered how it was that he knew the mechoservitor was lying about Sanctorum Lux.

Then he turned himself to packing his kit and strapping it to the back of his freshly magicked horse, its hooves, still white with the River Woman’s powders, striking sparks on the wide stones of the Whymer Way. All his life, he’d longed for the Wastes. It was his romance with history, sharpened by years spent in the Great Library reading of the Order’s expeditions into that vast desolation.

Now, at the edge of this history, Neb felt suddenly fearful of what ghosts awaited beyond these gates of yesterday.

Petronus

Petronus sat at the table, waiting for the slight, dark-skinned girls to lay breakfast on the table. He sipped at his chai and tried not to fret.

We should be there by now, he thought. Certainly, time moved differently when you were locked belowdecks with no way to tell night from day. But as best as he could measure it, they’d been running with the wind at a goodly clip, and even the farthest side of the Delta was within easy reach of Caldus Bay inside of two days for a vessel like the Kinshark. Something delayed them.

Of course, there were other things worth fretting about. Like the body of the Marsher stored in the hold, glassy-eyed and bloody-mouthed in death. And the Marsher’s cryptic words: My master sent a squad for the others. Which others? What master? Certainly, someone with a deep hatred of Petronus specifically and the Androfrancines in general, it seemed.

He sent me alone for you because you are old and alone. These were hard truths to come to, and as glad as Petronus was for Grymlis’s intervention, he felt the words deep in his bones. Old and alone.

But alive, he thought, which is better than he could say for his attacker. Which raised yet another question: What had killed his would-be assassin? He hoped that whatever allies Grymlis had forged on the Delta could help him navigate the Whymer Maze his life had become.

Petronus looked up when Grymlis entered the galley, followed by one he assumed must be their host, Rafe Merrique. It was the first time he’d seen the pirate since coming aboard the Kinshark three days earlier, though he’d heard him both above deck and below as he shouted and cursed at his men in raucous good humor. They’d passed in the narrow halls a few times, of course, the captain greeting him with pronounced jocularity, but Merrique and his men stayed magicked nearly as much as scouts at war, fleeting shadows that jostled as they slipped by. It made sense to Petronus-above deck, the oils that kept the vessel hidden from view would require an equally invisible crew. And belowdecks, the occasional passengers they ferried could not easily identify their hosts should they ever be asked to by those who might view Rafe Merrique’s chosen trade less favorably.

Now, the old pirate smiled grimly behind his salt-and-pepper beard, taking a seat at the head of the table. He wore a bright green cap and matching trousers that offset a canary-yellow silk shirt and a purple sash. He held up a scrap of paper in one of his gnarled hands. “I’ve a bird from our friends on the Delta,” he said.

Petronus scowled. “We should be there by now.”

Rafe nodded. “We have been for a day. We’re just biding time.” He nodded when one of the girls stepped forward with an iron kettle of chai and lifted the steaming cup after she filled it. Another girl brought a platter of hot, dark bread and a wooden bowl that Petronus knew must be honey based on previous breakfasts. One thing he could say for certain: Their host knew how to feed his guests. Since arriving, they’d been served platefuls of roast pork and chicken; bowls of fresh, sweet fruits and lightly salted nuts; wheels of hard, strong-smelling cheeses; and tankards of cool beer. The cooks worked tirelessly, serving up four meals a day.

Petronus reached for a thick slice of the bread. “How long will we wait?” he asked as he dipped his knife into the butter.

Rafe shrugged. “Not long. But given the circumstances, we must be cautious.” He slid the note across the table.

Petronus took a bite of the bread, set it down, wiped his hands on a cloth napkin and picked up the paper. He read it quickly, his stomach lurching as he did.

My master sent a squad for the others.

He read the note again slowly now, the dread in his belly growing colder as he did. Erlund was in hiding after a double had been killed on the same night Petronus was attacked. The Marsh King and the Crown Prince of Turam were killed at Rudolfo’s Firstborn Feast. Queen Meirov’s heir-a ten-year-old son-had been butchered in his bed. There were others, too. The male heirs and in some instances, the minor lords themselves, throughout the Named Lands, had all been struck, including the loose affiliation of city-states along the Emerald Coasts and even a few of the stronger houses on the Divided Isle. He passed the note to Grymlis and watched the old guard pale when he read it. When he finished, he passed it back to Rafe.

Petronus looked to the bread but knew now he wouldn’t be eating it. “These are the most powerful families in the Named Lands.”

“Aye,” Rafe Merrique said. “Excluding two.”

Petronus thought about this. “The Forest Houses and House Li Tam.”

Rafe nodded. “Indeed. And the finger points to your friend Rudolfo again.”

Yes, Petronus thought, just on the heels of the Named Lands going to war against the Gypsy Scouts in the mistaken belief that he’d brought down Windwir. In that instance, Rudolfo had been framed by Sethbert in a strategy to shore up the loss of Windwir’s impact on the Entrolusian economy by seizing Rudolfo’s resource-rich lands. Petronus’s mind reeled as it worked the cipher. If Marsher Scouts, under blood magicks, had killed their own king and these others, it meant a brewing storm as surely as a red sky at morning. But he could not believe Rudolfo would be behind it. He knew the man, and it was not in his nature. But there was another-an older friend-more likely.

“It smells of Vlad Li Tam’s handiwork,” he said, and it broke his heart to say it. Vlad Li Tam and his children had sailed out from the Named Lands. The last visit of his iron armada, seven months past, was still the tavern talk of Caldus Bay.

Rafe filled a plate with roasted ham and spiced potatoes. “Our friends concur. They believe there’s a Li Tam network of some kind still in place.”

Petronus’s eyes narrowed. “You seem to be quite privy to your friends’ knowledge.”

Rafe smiled. “Knowing my employer’s motivations and suspicions is often good business. And I have an interest in the success of their experiment in democracy.”

Petronus nodded. It wouldn’t be the first time the notion of representative government had raised its head in the New World. But he doubted it would come to much. Even the Order, as enlightened as it had been in many ways, had recognized the unlikelihood of that approach to government working, though the earliest days of Settlement had operated in a similar fashion. Still, he’d followed the Delta’s civil war with interest, picking up what news he could by the bird, though political machinations weren’t his primary focus. And he could see why the notion of free, democratic city-states at the delta of the Three Rivers could benefit someone in Rafe’s line of work. A thought struck him. “You keep a thumb on the pulse of your employer?”

Rafe chewed his food and swallowed, chasing it with a mug of lemon beer. “Certainly. As much as I can.”

Petronus leaned forward. “Then perhaps you’d have some idea as to why they’d want to fund my escape and harbor me?”

Rafe smiled. “I have theories. Nothing solid to stand on, of course.”

Petronus sat back. “Indulge me.”

The pirate chuckled. “Isn’t it obvious? You killed Sethbert. He wasn’t terribly popular at home or abroad. Especially among this particular crowd. That makes you a kind of hero, I suspect. You are also the last Pope of the Androfrancine Order.” Rafe must have seen the dark cloud pass over Petronus’s face. “Regardless of your feelings on that matter, it makes you a powerful political figure with threads of kin-clave woven into a fairly vast tapestry of connections.” He paused to sip more beer. “They face a nearly impossible task and need all of the friends they can make. And judging by the corpse in the hold, you need all of the friends you can make, as well.”

The day Petronus had dropped the knife and ring beside Sethbert’s body, he’d also dropped all notions of involvement in affairs of state. And the day he’d first seen Vlad’s satchel of papers, he’d given himself to a new work that required all of his attention. He had no time for violent idealists and their own backward-looking dreams. He turned to Grymlis. “Do you concur with our host?”

“I do, Father,” the old soldier said. He didn’t smile as he said it. “And I believe I can keep you safe there. Safer than in Caldus Bay.”

He nodded slowly. “And do you think they could be the ones who warned you of the attack?”

Grymlis shook his head. “I doubt it. Why would they remain anonymous in that case? If they truly wish your influence on their cause-at any level, quiet or public-they would be better served to build your trust quickly with forthrightness.”

Petronus sighed, pushing the food on his plate around with his fork. He had no appetite left. “We’ll know soon enough, I imagine.” He pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “If you gentlemen will excuse me?”

At their nods, he left the galley and returned to his room. Over the course of his three days aboard the Kinshark, Petronus had availed himself of his room’s small shelf of books. He’d picked his way through Gervais’s Four Plays of the Early Settlements; read smatterings of verse by the Poet-Pope Windwir, namesake of the fallen city; and had perused Enoch’s largely apocryphal History of the Wizard Kings, starting with the Year of the Falling Moon and the last of the Weeping Czars, Frederico, who fell in love with a wizard’s daughter and brought down the wrath of Raj Y’Zir. These books lay open on the small table, waiting for him, but the conversation over breakfast had stripped him of his hunger for them.

Instead, he went to the packet of papers and started winding through that Whymer Maze once again, jotting notes as he went.

Vlad Li Tam

He awoke to water and darkness, opening his mouth to drink hot air. It was like breathing through a sock that had been boiled in urine, and he retched. Nothing came up.

Vlad Li Tam rolled from his side to his back, gradually becoming aware of himself again.

After how long asleep? No, not asleep, he remembered. Drugged. The bittersweet taste of the kallaberries felt dry in his mouth, and invisible hammers pounded at his skull. He groaned and stretched.

His hands and feet were tied now, and a makeshift blindfold pulled at his ears. Tepid water-about two inches of it-sloshed across his naked skin as the ship rocked back and forth. He could not feel the vibration of the steam engines through the hull, nor could he hear them.

He swallowed and licked his dry, cracked lips. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth.

I must speak. The effort drew bright flashes of light behind his eyes. “I am Vlad Li Tam,” he croaked. “First Father of House Li Tam.” He coughed. “Release me.”

He heard a high giggle and a girl’s voice, soft and soothing to his ears. A hatch opened, and light footfalls splashed in the water. “Already you understand,” she said, “and yet you don’t.” The voice lowered. “In time, you will indeed be released. And I will help you find your way.”

Vlad shivered despite the heat. “Who are you? Where is my First Grandson?”

“I am your Bloodletter, Vlad Li Tam, and your Kin-healer, too. And your First Grandson finishes the work given to him.” She giggled again. “Soon enough he will return bearing gifts for you.”

He heard her move closer, and now he could smell her. It was a jungle smell, a floral smell, sweet and thick. He heard the rustle of cloth and felt the rim of a cup pressed to his dry mouth. “Drink this.”

At first, he resisted. But the coolness of the liquid seduced his lips, and he took in the water she offered. He swallowed it. “Where are you taking me?”

She laughed again. “It is not your place to know it,” she said. “Not yet. But when we arrive, our work together begins.”

She spoke with an odd accent that he could not place, though he was versed in most. He heard the rustling of cloth again as she stood. “Wait,” he said. “Don’t go.”

When she spoke next, it was the lowest and sweetest of whispers. “A day is coming when you will beg me to leave you. You will long for this time of rest and will not see it.”

The door opened and closed behind her as she left.

Vlad Li Tam listened but heard nothing from beyond the closed door. Within the room, he heard only his beating heart and ragged breath. The girl sounded young-maybe even younger than the youngest of the island girls he’d honored kin-clave with in recent days past. And she spoke with an accent that he could not place.

He stretched and shifted in the shallow water, pulling at the ropes that held his wrists and ankles tight. They were skilled knots, but he’d expected no less. He wondered if his own grandson had tied them himself or if it had been the girl. Or were there others?

There must be, he realized. This was not one of his iron vessels, and the ship would require a crew.

Question upon question gathered in the storm that took his mind now. More questions than answers, and at the heart of it, an impossible betrayal.

The slender black volume, the cold and calculating words, the memory of them brought back his First Grandson’s words. Your own father betrays you.

Impossible. But the book danced before his eyes, and something within him assured him that it was so. His father’s work had certainly been with Petronus along with a thousand others, but what if it had also been with Vlad, in the same way that Vlad had sharpened his forty-second daughter for her work? What if all of this was merely part of a larger task than he had ever imagined? And what if it had been intended that, in the fullness of time, he would complete his work with Rudolfo and the new library and remove himself and his kin from the Named Lands?

Already, he found himself slowing his breathing as he eased his mind into this new puzzle to solve.

How many of his children were a part of this? His grandchildren? He drew up the inventory and began ticking at it, calling up the faces and the names of his sons and daughters, and of their sons and daughters. And as he conjured them up, he separated them out and built his list of suspects.

When he was a boy, Vlad Li Tam had adored his father as much as he feared him, but more than that he genuinely admired the man. The admiration flowed for many things, but one in particular came to mind.

Tal Li Tam had brokered his family well, strategically marrying not for position but for trait and adding children quickly to his fold from a scattering of bloodlines. He’d had over a hundred wives and over three hundred children-the largest family House Li Tam had ever known, calling for an expansion of their properties on the Emerald Coasts. And yet his father had known each and every one of them by name and had always seemed aware of their circumstances.

Until today, Vlad Li Tam believed he’d been the same way, but now he knew that beyond the names, and beyond whatever facts he thought he’d known, some within his family-perhaps those he’d trusted the most-had betrayed him. More than that: They’d done so at the behest of this father he had so admired, if Mal Li Tam’s words could be trusted.

And Windwir was a part of that betrayal as well. He suddenly remembered holding his first grandson’s shaking hand the first time Vlad showed him the golden bird and its mechanical tricks. The boy had cried. He wondered now if the boy had cried later when the golden bird whispered its dark news of finished work. Vlad had feared that somehow his family had been used-or might be used-by some outside threat. He’d not imagined that the threat might be from within.

He felt the anger pulsing in his head, and in the stifling room his heartbeat felt like an incessant fist upon the door. Then he closed his eyes behind the blindfold and willed his breathing and heart rate to slow. Let rage, he thought, become awareness. He went back to his inventory.

I am your Bloodletter, the girl’s voice echoed beyond that fist. I am your Kin-healer.

How did she factor into this equation? And what were these titles she laid claim to? She was certainly not a part of his family-but when she spoke of his grandson, her voice had been familiar and intimate. He buried that realization for another time and stretched against the ropes again, grunting and splashing in the water. They did not give, and he doubted that they would ever give. Somehow, he knew that whatever happened now happened with all of the care and precision that House Li Tam was known for. There would be no escaping. Whatever awaited him would be faced, and his work was to survive it for nothing less than to understand what was happening to his world as a result of his family and its actions. He gave himself to it and swore himself to live beyond whatever this laughing girl and his first grandson had planned for him, so he could solve this maze.

“When we arrive,” she had said, “our work begins.”

“Yes,” Vlad Li Tam said to darkness that surrounded him.

“Yes,” he thought he heard it whisper back.