The Maelstrom

~ 8 ~ Madam Petra and the Pinlegs

As the minutes ticked past, Max and David sat outside while the smee tried to bluff their way in to see the smuggler. The waiting was intolerable. Every so often, Max shifted uneasily in his chair and searched the many windows for any signs of activity within the huge yellow house. There were none—only the mocking reflections of the gray lake and the sun rising behind them.

“How long has he been in there?” Max muttered to David, mindful that they were undoubtedly being watched. It seemed ages since Toby had gone inside.

“Thirty minutes,” David whispered, sipping his wine. “Try to relax—Toby’s a professional.”

“In ten minutes, I’m going in.”

“You’ll spoil all our plans.”

“I’m not going to sit by while—”

Max broke off as the back door opened and several gardeners filed out. He craned his neck for a glimpse of Toby and exhaled as the smee emerged, a noticeable bounce to his step as he walked to the wagon with Dmitri and a pair of workers. After instructing them on which cargo to unload, Toby called out to his companions.

“Skeedle. Hrunta. Come. The Great Piter Lady has agreed to hear us.”

Although the secretary was smiling, the man’s eyes were spiteful. Max guessed that he either opposed his lady’s decision or had hoped to wring further bribes before their interview. He did not return their hasty bows as they stepped across the threshold and entered the smuggler’s house.

They followed the man through several exquisite rooms. Nightingales chirped from within gilded cages and flowers abounded: purple orchids, stargazer lilies, brilliant red tulips, and others so exotic and lush that they suggested an underlying magic or technology at work. After weeks of travel in the gray and wintry wild, the house’s color and warmth were almost disorienting.

They found the daughter back at work on her still life, loading her brush with paint as she studied the arrangement.

Dmitri cleared his throat. “Katarina, your mother would like you to sit in on the meeting.”

“I’m busy.”

“She insists,” said Dmitri, beckoning.

“Isn’t that your job?”

A vein throbbed in the man’s temple. “Your mother no doubt intends that you should someday replace me,” he said with a tight smile. “For the young lady to do so, she must learn the family business.”

“Very well,” the girl sighed, wiping her brush on a rag and plunking it into a jar of turpentine. Glaring at the goblins, she swept past them and ran up a grand staircase.

“My lady indulges her daughter,” remarked the secretary stiffly, leading them up the stairs where they passed yet more paintings and sculpture and palms in copper planters. As they climbed to the third floor, Max heard music playing, a tinny warbling like an old jazz recording. Reaching the third-floor landing, Dmitri led them down a long hallway that terminated at a conspicuously stout door. It was barely ajar, just enough to let the music and Katarina’s voice escape into the hall.

“Have their heads and be done!” the girl hissed. “I want to finish my painting.”

“I’ll not ask again,” replied a woman’s voice, gentle but unyielding.

A stamp of a foot and then silence.

Dmitri knocked delicately. “The goblins are here, Madam Petra,” he announced. “May I show them in?”

“Do.”

Max and David trailed after Toby into a paneled office whose far wall was lined with enormous windows that provided a panoramic view of the misty lake. Huge artworks dominated the other walls, abstract spatters of luminescent paint on black or red canvases. To the left was a long conference table, to the right a comfortable sitting area where Katarina was pouting by a colossal fireplace. Straight ahead was a small desk. Behind it stood the smuggler.

Madam Petra was the most striking woman Max had ever seen. She was younger than he’d imagined—midthirties, with porcelain-white skin and long auburn hair that fell in a braid to her waist. Her understated dress was in marked contrast to her ostentatious house: a simple black jacket, gray tweed pants, and black riding boots. She wore only one piece of jewelry, a diamond choker whose central stone must have been worth half of Piter’s Folly. Offering a polite smile, she gestured to three chairs across her desk before returning her attention to several documents. When Max and the others were seated, Dmitri pulled up a fourth.

“We will not be needing you, Dmitri,” said Madam Petra offhandedly, jotting something on the top paper. “Katarina will sit in for today.”

“My lady,” said the secretary, holding up his hands. “It is merely goblins—no doubt it would be better for Katarina to sit in with the Baron of Marrovia. That would be more educat—”

The smuggler glanced sharply up from her papers with eyes that flashed like emeralds. The man fell silent at once. When Madam Petra spoke, her voice was dangerously soft.

“As you say, we have several Broadbrims with us this morning. I value their clan greatly and am anxious to hear their proposal. And we must disagree; I think Katarina has much to learn from this meeting. For example, she has already seen you break a cardinal rule of our profession and compromise another client’s identity. Did you intend to impart such a clumsy lesson, Dmitri?”

The man turned ashen. It was clear that he craved Madam Petra’s approval on many levels.

“I—I apologize,” he stammered. “With your permission, I’ll take my leave.”

“Very good,” said Petra coolly. “Please tell the chefs that I’d like supper to be ready by eight—and no more fatty meats in pastries or boiling everything to shoe leather. Delicacy. Elegance. Subtlety. I know they object to Nestor, but ask him to lend a hand. I think he trained as a saucier.…”

Once the chastened secretary closed the door, Madam Petra turned to her daughter. “Katarina, come and sit by me.”

“I’m fine over here. Goblins stink.”

“I imagine they say the same of you. Come over here—I want your help.”

At this, Katarina dragged herself up from the chaise and came to sit on her mother’s lap. She was too old for such things—eleven or twelve—but the girl seemed an unusual combination of old and young, absent and present.

“How am I supposed to help?” she asked, blankly surrendering her cheek for a kiss.

“Well,” said Madam Petra, “we have a problem. And I know you like to solve problems.”

The girl nodded. Max glanced uneasily at David and Toby, but the two kept their attention on their hostess.

“Here’s our dilemma,” continued Madam Petra. “The kingdom is at war and Aamon’s armies are rampaging across the land. And here comes an unguarded, solitary goblin wagon braving the Ravenswood Spur with a pittance of goods and asking for a private audience. Mind you, the Broadbrims haven’t even sent anyone senior to conduct the business—just a junior trader and two others I’ve never met before. Now, they must have known I’d have their heads for such appalling insolence and yet … here they are. Why haven’t I taken their heads, sweet daughter?”

The girl frowned and stared at the three visitors. “They’re either crazy or something’s off,” she murmured. “Maybe they’re acting without their leader’s approval. Perhaps they’ve secretly brought something that we would find valuable—something they didn’t want Dmitri to know about. Of course, they might not be goblins at all; perhaps they’re imposters.”

“Hmm,” said Petra, considering her daughter’s analysis. “Each suggestion seems plausible. Be a dear and flip the record for us while we talk. While you’re at it, you might retrieve that marvelous little thing I showed you the other day.”

“I don’t want to touch that. It frightens me.”

“Do we always get to do what we want?”

“No, Mother.”

Easing her daughter off her lap, the smuggler turned her eyes on Toby as the smee cleared his throat.

“We hoped to speak alone, my lady,” he said, glancing at the girl. “Our proposal is sensitive. It would not do for this information to go beyond this room and, as you know, children are prone to talk.”

“Your proposal is safe with us,” replied Madam Petra, sounding bored. “Let’s have it, then.”

Toby edged forward in his seat and spoke as Katarina flipped the record and placed the needle at its edge. Music issued from the antique, pouring into the room from a polished horn that resembled an enormous silver flower. The recording evoked a powerful flood of memories; Scott McDaniels had often listened to this very album whenever he sat at the dining room table to do his taxes. Max blinked; it was such a strange image and triggered such a jarring, incongruous jumble of emotions. No wonder tyrants often outlawed music; it was a shortcut to the soul. Max wondered how Madam Petra managed to have such forgotten luxuries and realized it must have been a gift from the Workshop. The smee’s words snapped him from these thoughts.

“We have found gold down deep beneath our burial halls,” Toby explained. “Ullmach says it is a rich lode, the richest we have found for many generations. But we cannot reach it without disturbing our ancestors, a blasphemy Plümpka will not permit. He suggested that the Great Piter Lady might have friends with tools—machines—that could mine gold more carefully than picks and shovels and fire-rock.”

“And what would I get for introducing you to these friends?”

“Twenty percent of the gold.”

The smuggler gave an utterly charming laugh and walked to a small bar by the sitting area. She moved like an athlete, every step fluid and graceful. Max now recalled why her face seemed so familiar—he had seen it many times on magazine covers and television. Madam Petra had been a very famous person in her former life. Unlike most humans, it was a life she seemed to remember, even as she carved out her own little empire in the new order. She now offered the goblins another drink. When they declined, she poured herself a glass of champagne.

“You want me to introduce you to my friends for twenty percent of an unknown sum?” She laughed again and sat down. “What a preposterous notion. I won’t even broach the subject with them for less than fifty.”

“Fifty is too much,” Toby countered. “Your friends will want their share as well.”

“Which is better? Fifty percent of something or one hundred percent of nothing?” she inquired, blinking innocently. “If you’re concerned with my friends’ share, then we can agree to a seventy percent commission and you let me worry about compensating them.”

“And what do we get for such generous terms?”

“Your gold will be mined, processed, and stamped into forms of your choosing without so much as disturbing the dust on your ancestors’ tombs. Your people can oversee the operation and we’ll even let you keep one of the machines once the business has concluded.”

“That sounds good,” piped up David enthusiastically. “But we would need proof such machines exist.”

“Oh, they exist. My friends really do design some marvelous things,” she replied, sipping her champagne. “And I can acquire just about anything they make. For example, look at this little prototype they’ve just concocted. Bring it here, Katarina.”

The smuggler’s daughter brought over a cylindrical tube. It looked like the sort of thing an architect might have used to carry his drawings, except that it was made of polished silver and engraved with runic symbols. Setting it on her mother’s desk, the girl unfastened a series of clasps and removed the top. Max leaned far over in his chair to peer inside the tube’s dark interior.

Something was peering back.

There was a scratching sound within, faint and metallic as though dozens of legs were pricking and tapping at the tube’s interior. Slowly, cautiously, a pair of long silvery antennae extended from the opening, flicking the air like buggy whips. An instant later, a three-foot centipede spilled forth and scuttled onto the desk.

At first, Max thought it was a machine. Its pincers resembled retracting steel hooks while its body segments were a metallic blue-gray with two ridges of tiny green lights that ran along the length of its back. But as Max looked closer, he noticed something very much like saliva moistening the creature’s maxillae, and its many semitranslucent legs seemed wholly organic. The creature was some sort of revolting hybrid of insect and machine, a Workshop abomination now splayed upon the smuggler’s desk. Toby was the first to find his voice.

“Is … is that demonic?” he wondered, his jaw hanging slack.

“Remarkable intuition,” said Madam Petra, removing a pair of slim spectacles from a compartment within the tube’s top and slipping them on. “How unusual for a goblin. My friends call this a pinlegs. And when I wear these glasses, it understands and obeys my thoughts. For example …”

In a heartbeat, the pinlegs leaped off the desk and clambered up Toby’s leg. Clinging to his chest, it spread its mandibles wide so that their razor tips were poised on either side of his throat.

“No sudden movements,” the smuggler warned. “Its bite is highly venomous.”

The smee was trembling like a leaf. “Wh-why do you threaten us?” he stammered.

Madam Petra shook her head. “Oh, I don’t threaten,” she laughed, allowing Katarina back on her lap. “Those who threaten are simply indecisive. We’re either partners or we’re not. And if we’re not, you die. But before we make that decision, my friend, we need to know who or what you really are. My eyes are only human, but this little pinlegs allows me to see what it sees. And it sees quite a lot.…”

Every muscle in Max’s body was tensed. He could have a knife to the smuggler’s throat before she could blink, but that might mean Toby’s death. Sitting absolutely still, he studied the woman—the tiny muscles at the corners of her mouth, the furrow of her brow, the dilation of her pupils. Cooper would have known her intentions before she did; Max hoped he could do the same. Long seconds passed while the smuggler appraised them. At last the pinlegs released Toby, its legs retreating down his chest as it turned and scuttled to the floor. The smee exhaled and mopped sweat from his gray-green brow.

“It appears you really are a goblin,” said Madam Petra politely. “But what are your friends, I wonder? They look strangely out of focus. Have a look, Katarina. You see things I don’t.”

The girl slipped the glasses onto her slender face while the pinlegs wove in and out of the goblins’ legs. Max remained still, ignoring the nauseating brush of its metallic body and clicking legs as it stopped and peered up at each, its mandibles aquiver.

“I still see goblins,” reported the girl. “They’re still there, but there’s something else flickering behind … flickering like your projector machine. It’s a boy, Mother! He has blond hair and he’s very pale. And … and he’s missing a hand!”

Madam Petra raised her eyebrows. For the very first time, Max saw a glint of fear in her cold green eyes. “And the other?” she asked, her voice taut.

“He’s a boy, too,” the girl whispered. “But a light is shining through him. He’s so bright I can hardly see his face. But it’s beautiful … like something in a dream.”

“I see,” said Madam Petra. “Katarina, my sweet, you are looking at David Menlo and Max McDaniels. They come from Rowan. Max is the very Bragha Rùn you cheered for in King Prusias’s Arena. Do you remember that day?”

The girl nodded, both frightened and fascinated as she stared at them. Removing the glasses from her daughter’s head, the smuggler folded them carefully and set them on the table.

“This is unexpected. If you intend violence, kindly leave my daughter out of it.”

“We intend nothing of the kind,” said David, dissipating their illusions and letting her see him plainly. “We’ve been told you’re a person worthy of great respect. I apologize for the disguise, but surely you understand our need for secrecy.”

“Why didn’t you announce yourselves to Dmitri?”

“Because we don’t trust him,” replied David. “Your servants inform on your activities to Prusias, as you know full well.”

“Ah,” said Madam Petra, tapping her chin as though searching her memory. “I see that Sir Alistair is more than the foolish little popinjay I’d taken him to be. And you’re quite a clever fellow, David Menlo, although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Do you see what he got me to do, Katarina?”

“He made you greedy,” observed the girl, scraping paint from her fingernails. “He made you boastful. You admitted you had friends at the Workshop and even showed him their new invention. Now he knows you still have friends there. He learned a lot from you, Mother.”

Madam Petra clucked her tongue. “Yes, he did,” she allowed. “They might not trust Dmitri, but I wonder why they trust us? With the price that’s on their heads, I could set up as a duchess. Think of that, Katarina—no more tedious affairs with smelly goblins or witches or penniless refugees. We’d be the richest women in the land!”

“I thought you said you didn’t threaten,” said Max, ignoring the woman’s playful smile.

She merely shrugged. “My boy, nine automatic weapons have been targeted upon you since you sat down. Is that a threat or merely a fact? I’ve seen how quick you are, Max, but I doubt your companions could even rise before they were cut to ribbons.”

“We aren’t here to quarrel with you,” interjected David. “We traveled a long way to speak with you in the hope that you can deliver a message to someone senior at the Workshop—preferably Jesper Rasmussen.”

“Jesper’s irrelevant,” said Petra, dismissing the man with a wave. “He’s a figurehead. The chief engineers run the Workshop. Unless you count concessions, Jesper hasn’t made anything in decades. What is it you want from them?”

“I’m going to be as direct as I can,” said David, leaning forward and staring hard at her. “We believe Prusias means to attack Rowan even if we meet his demands. We believe the Workshop is developing something special for him—some sort of secret weapon. We want an alliance with the Workshop. If the Workshop cannot join with us, we want you to share whatever information you can about their activities and this weapon they’re developing. Is that direct enough?”

“Admirably so,” said the smuggler. “What you want is impossible, of course, but you did lay it out nice and neatly. And you have made me curious.… Why on earth would the Workshop jeopardize its existence and technologies to join with little Rowan on the eve of her destruction? What is possibly in it for them?”

“Freedom,” replied David simply. “A chance to help humanity and reunite with old friends. This might be their last chance to break free unless they intend to serve Prusias and his kind forever. Is that what they intend?”

“They intend to survive,” said Madam Petra frankly. “Even with Elias Bram’s return, an alliance with Rowan is the shortest path to their own destruction. Candidly, I’m amazed that Rowan would make such an absurd proposal, much less preach to others about helping humanity. While your Director was sipping tea and hiding behind her walls and treaties, the rest of civilization faded away. Do you remember what the world used to be like?”

“Of course.”

“No,” said Madam Petra, rising to pace before the broad window. “I mean do you remember? Not some foggy, pleasant haze about life before Astaroth, but how things really used to be? Do you remember governments and cities, skyscrapers and television … Elvis! Do you remember Elvis and Andy Warhol and Star Wars and satellites?”

“Yes,” said Max, realizing that almost anyone else would think the woman was raving mad. “And I remember Miles Davis. My dad used to listen to this album. And I remember you. My mother would buy any magazine with your picture on it; she said you had style.”

The smuggler gave a rueful smile and glanced at her daughter. “Katarina remembers, too. I wish she didn’t. We were living in Paris when they announced that the government had been dissolved. The authorities told us to paint Astaroth’s sign on every door and window, lest the Demon’s interrogators come knocking. You should have seen it—bankers, lawyers, doctors, and officials all weeping in the middle of the night and painting that terrible symbol on anything they could reach. And for most of them, it didn’t even matter. They were still sent to prisons or reeducation camps; they still died in plagues and fires or fell to whatever came scratching at their windows once the city really fell into chaos. The things I’ve witnessed …”

The woman fell silent at this and turned to gaze out at the placid gray lake.

“When my husband was dying, we used every contact and pulled every string to gain admittance to the Rowan field office. Niels had been bitten by a vye, you see. He was infected. Each day, his sanity ebbed and he became more dangerous. We had to tie him down … I couldn’t let Katarina near him. I begged your Agents for aid, but they had no more antidote and cited ‘other priorities.’ In the end, I had to kill Niels myself. So you can imagine I find it a little difficult—a little amusing—that Rowan should presume to make appeals based on duty to one’s fellow man. But your people did teach me a very valuable lesson—when things go dark, you look after your own and adapt as best you can.”

“I can’t argue with anything you’ve said,” replied David. “When Astaroth rose to power, the world was falling apart. Rowan couldn’t help one in a thousand who needed and deserved their help. But Piter’s Folly is an outlier, Madam Petra. Whatever free humanity exists is seeking shelter at Rowan—hundreds are arriving every day and the harbor towns and inland settlements are growing. Whether you love Rowan or despise it, our realm represents the best chance for humanity to survive and maintain some semblance of freedom. Surely the Workshop doesn’t want to play a role in its destruction.”

“Katarina,” said Madam Petra, leaving the window and smoothing her daughter’s hair. “Dmitri will be wondering why this meeting has run so long. I want you to go downstairs and ask the chefs to make you some lunch. If he pesters you, say that we’re discussing a possible gold-mine partnership. The Broadbrims are afraid of anyone else knowing their discovery and thus we don’t want to be disturbed. If he seems impatient, make him sit for a portrait. I want him occupied. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” replied the girl, slipping out the door and closing it firmly behind her.

Madam Petra turned back to her guests. “My sources tell me that there are over eight hundred thousand people living within your realm and almost ninety thousand sheltered within Rowan’s outer walls. How many of those can you muster to defend it? How many of those are old men and women, or children too young to heft a sword or stand a watch? Prusias has over twenty million subjects; his main army is nearly bigger than your entire population and there are no crones or quaking boys among its ranks. The King of Blys doesn’t need the Workshop to conquer Rowan; he just needs an excuse. And you gave him one when Bram destroyed Gràvenmuir.…”

“Perhaps Prusias is getting ahead of himself,” said David. “We passed the remnants of his forces on the road. It looked like Aamon is winning.”

Madam Petra gazed about the room, at its rich décor and strange luminescent paintings, before shrugging at David. “Does it look like I plan to flee from Aamon?”

“No,” said Max. “But the docks of Piter’s Folly are filled with others who aren’t as optimistic.”

“Of course they are,” laughed Petra, returning to her seat. “Who do you think is feeding the rumors? The only thing I like better than a frantic buyer is a desperate seller. The sheep are selling me their homes and property for a pittance. And when Prusias wins this war, they’ll come skulking to my door and buy them back at thrice the price. War doesn’t destroy fortunes; it makes them.”

“How do you sleep at night?” asked Max, incredulous at her callous pragmatism.

“Like a baby,” she purred, finishing her champagne. “It’s a hard world we live in. If others aren’t smart enough to play the game, it’s better that I have their chips.”

“What makes you so certain that Prusias will win?” asked David.

“Now, that’s valuable information,” replied Madam Petra, examining her nails. “What will you give me for it?”

“Some valuable information in return,” said David.

The smuggler flashed the very smile that had once charmed the world. “Oh, I like this,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Dazzle me, David Menlo. What little tidbit is worth Prusias’s big secret?”

David gestured toward Toby. “My friend here is not a goblin.”

Madam Petra blinked. Her smile faded. “Of course he is,” she scoffed. “I saw him through the pinlegs.”

“And the pinlegs was mistaken,” retorted David. “Allow me to present the illustrious smee. Toby, if you’d be so kind as to take your natural shape.”

A moment later, Madam Petra was staring at the smee’s mottled, yamlike body slouching in her expensive chair. The woman’s lip curled.

“Charmed,” said Toby, dipping his twisty head.

“Er … likewise,” she muttered, glancing quizzically at the creature before returning her attention to David. “And you think this is worth information about Prusias’s war machines?”

“Tut-tut,” chided David. “You’re not seeing the possibilities, my dear Madam Petra. Our associate just fooled your pinlegs. He—”

“Fooled the pinlegs,” she repeated, sitting up. “His aura wasn’t detected.…”

“Our particular talent,” declared Toby proudly. “I must confess I was somewhat pleased to see my companion’s illusion fall a smidgeon short of the smee standard. You see, many have tried to replicate—”

The smuggler cut him off with a pointed question. “Do you ever work on commission, my fine fellow?”

“I—I haven’t,” stammered the smee. “But I … well, I suppose we could arrange something. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner?” he added hopefully.

“Very well,” said Madam Petra, sitting back. “One interesting tidbit deserves another, and your friend is most interesting.” Once again she put on the spectacles and called the pinlegs over from where it had been lurking by the fireplace. It responded at once, clicking over the rugs and hardwood floors and climbing atop the desk like some hideous remote-controlled toy. Coming to rest by its tube, the creature settled down in a twitching, salivating jumble of legs, segments, and pincers. The smuggler gazed down at it.

“Prusias will win this war whenever he chooses,” she said softly. “His initial losses to Aamon and Rashaverak are merely drawing them in. Aamon has committed almost all of his forces to the eastern front and Rashaverak has done the same in the south. When the time is right, Prusias will send in his little pinlegs and victory will be his.”

“How is that going to defeat an army?” asked David, peering closely at the creature.

“I don’t know precisely,” replied Madam Petra. “My contacts gave me this prototype as a curiosity, but they said it isn’t ‘paired.’ I haven’t the slightest idea what that means, but my contact joked that if I ever see those little green lights flash red, I’d better run for the hills and never look back. Apparently, it has something to do with the demon that would normally be trapped inside it, but they gave no particulars. In any case, I hear that Prusias is amused by his enemies’ early victories; they’re allowing him to test the loyalty of his braymas and purge his own ranks of traitors. But whenever he chooses, this war will be brought to a swift conclusion. And once Queen Lilith sees the others’ fate, she will race to make a deal and cling to whatever lands and power she can. That will leave only Rowan. My advice is to submit to whatever terms Prusias demands and hope that he indulges Rowan as a vassal state.”

At her command, the pinlegs crawled back inside its tube, whereupon she closed and carefully fastened the lid.

“But the Workshop—” said Max.

“The Workshop cannot help you, dear,” interrupted Madam Petra, removing the glasses. “Without Prusias, they lose their technologies and they would never risk such an outcome. You’re trying to appeal to their sense of humanity, but do you understand that most of their population has never been above-ground? Most have never felt real sunlight or swum in the sea or even met anyone from ‘topside.’ From their perspective, we might as well live on a different planet. You want them to help save the world, but their world is a different one than ours. Furthermore, they recognize and understand something that you do not.”

“What’s that?” asked David.

“You cannot win,” replied Madam Petra matter-of-factly. She gestured at the huge paintings. “Do you know what these are?”

They gazed about at the enormous canvases and their strangely beautiful patterns and splatters of luminescent paint. Max shook his head.

“They’re demons,” said the smuggler, gazing up at each. “Or at least, the remains of demons. Minor ones, of course—gifts from a generous brayma following a médim. If you’ve ever attended such a gathering, you know the demons engage in three types of contests: alennya, amann, and ahülmm. The first two are pleasant enough—beautiful, violent, and familiar. But the ahülmm is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It’s a performance, gentlemen—the ritual suicide of one who sacrifices his life for the sake of entertaining the audience. As the demon recites its death poem, it spills its life and essence onto the canvas. The demon perishes, but the canvas remains behind as art. If the ahülmm’s performance is admirable, one can almost see the poem and hear the words in the painting. As you can imagine, such works are priceless.”

“And what does that have to do with Rowan’s fate?” asked Max.

“Sometimes a demon will perform ahülmm to honor a debt, but the vast majority are voluntary,” explained Madam Petra. “Think about that for a moment: an immortal spontaneously choosing to end its existence for the sake of an artistic gesture! I’ve seen a four-thousand-year-old rakshasa—a lord of immense standing and influence—perform ahülmm for no other reason than to surprise and entertain his guests. Do you really think you can win against such beings?”

She was smiling at them, sad and bemused as if they were already dead. From far off, they heard a bell ringing faintly in the town. The sound was harsh, a discordant clanging that caused Madam Petra to rise again from her chair and walk to a window along the southern wall. Brushing aside some drapes, she leaned close and gazed back toward the town.

“Good God,” she muttered. “The docks are on fire. Storehouses, too; all that bloody silk going up in flames. What the hell is going on?” Frowning, she strode over to the door and flung it open.

Smoke billowed into the room, thick and noxious. The door must have been soundproofed, for as soon as the smuggler opened it, Max heard shouts and commotion below—a frenzied din of footsteps and shattering glass as though a terrible struggle were taking place on the stairs and landings. Katarina’s voice sounded from the hallway, terrified beyond all reason as she screamed for her mother.

“Where are you?” the girl cried. “I can’t see!”

“Here!” exclaimed Madam Petra, racing into the hallway and snatching her daughter. The child’s hair was singed, her face streaked with soot and tears. Dashing up, Max took hold of the door, peering out into the hallway only to see it filled with oily smoke. There was an appalling crash and a gurgling shriek followed by the sound of rapid footsteps coming down the long hall. Through the smoke, Max glimpsed a hazy, man-shaped form running at the door. He slammed it shut, bracing it with his shoulder as automatic locking mechanisms slid into place. The door trembled as the intruder crashed against it.

“How strong is this?” asked Max, glancing at Madam Petra.

“It should withstand even a pulse grenade,” she said.

Max eyed it doubtfully as it gave a groan and a crack appeared above the frame.

“Is there another way out of here?”

But the smuggler didn’t answer; she had rushed back over to her desk and was pressing a number of hidden controls. As Max watched, the fireplace revolved away, revealing a spiral staircase hidden inside the chimney. Rushing to a small portrait, Madam Petra flung it aside and began working the combination to a hidden safe.

“Take Katarina!” she shouted, gesturing at the secret passage. “I’ll be right behind. I can’t leave my jewel—”

She broke off, coughing as smoke and hot ashes started pouring into the room from various vents. Several of the drapes began to catch fire. Katarina screamed as the door shook again. Plaster cracked and fell from the walls to shatter on the floor.

“Grab that!” Max yelled to David, pointing at the metal tube. Snatching up Toby, David hurried over to Madam Petra’s desk and scooped up the pinlegs. “Can you put out—”

The room erupted in machine-gun fire.

Hundreds of bullets sprayed the chairs where Max and the others had been sitting only seconds earlier, splintering the chairs and embedding themselves in the floor and walls. Several struck a metal sculpture and ricocheted about the room, shattering lamps and tearing canvases. At first Max thought they were under attack, but he realized the guns were part of the room’s defenses.

“The controls are malfunctioning!” yelled Petra. “Stay down!”

Max dropped flat to the floor as guns continued to belch forth a stream of bullets. Every second or two, he heard a lethal ping! as a bullet struck metal and ricocheted. Beside him the door trembled, groaning and shaking as their assailants tried to bludgeon their way in. Its reinforced frame was bending, warping inward and allowing great torrents of heat and smoke to pour in. It would not hold much longer.

The firing stopped as quickly as it had begun; they heard a staccato click-click-click as the hidden weapons ran out of ammunition. Max was up immediately, rushing over to Madam Petra, who had abandoned the safe to shield her daughter.

“The passage leads to the roof,” she gasped. “There’s a—”

Katrina shrieked as a grappling hook shattered a nearby window and snapped back to anchor in the sill. Max rushed over and peered down the window to see a hooded figure scaling the wall. Grabbing a bronze bust from a nearby pedestal, Max hurled it down. The heavy sculpture smashed into the attacker’s head with a sickening sound, sending him crashing down to the flagstones. Max wheeled to find his friends.

“David!” he shouted, but it was Toby who answered.

“Max, I need your help!”

Dashing across the room, Max found David sprawled unconscious at the base of Madam Petra’s desk. He’d been shot in the thigh and shoulder. At a glance, Max could tell that the shoulder wound was superficial, but the leg was bad. Blood pumped steadily from the wound, spreading over David’s hand where he’d pressed against it.

Max glanced at Toby. “Take the pinlegs and follow Petra out the fireplace,” he ordered. “If we don’t get out, you’re to get that thing to Ms. Richter. Do you understand?”

The smee understood perfectly. In an instant, he changed into a red-capped lutin that snatched up the pinlegs case and raced nimbly across the room to where Madam Petra and Katarina were already escaping up the secret passage. Swinging David onto his shoulder, Max stumbled after through the smoke.

But the staircase was already disappearing, its steps rotating away beneath the mantel as the fireplace revolved back into view. Cursing, Max hastened across, ducking low and scurrying as fast as he could with David. It was only twenty feet away, a dwindling gap no larger than a suitcase.

Panting, Max pulled up. It was no good. There was no way to dive or squeeze through without running the risk of being crushed to pulp between the sliding masonry. The door was on the verge of giving way. Setting David down, Max toppled a heavy bookcase and slid it in front of the door before bracing it with the metal sculpture. It might keep the intruders at bay for another minute, maybe two. Running to the grappling hook, he wrenched it out of the sill. Max leaned as far out of the broken window as he could, swinging the heavy grapple and letting it fly up and over the roof.

Twice the hook came clattering and careening back, but on the third toss, it held. Once he checked that the rope was secure, Max dashed back to retrieve his roommate. Slinging David’s arm around his neck, Max seized hold of the rope and hoisted the two of them up, up to the steep pitched roof. Once he’d navigated the overhang, Max flipped over and dug his heels into the slate tiles, pushing them up the steep incline while he pulled on the rope. From inside, he heard a crash. Smoke billowed out the window below; the door had given way. Gritting his teeth, Max cut away the excess rope and redoubled his efforts. He heard the smee’s voice above, yelling at Madam Petra to wait.

“We’re coming!” Max shouted.

Releasing the rope, he rolled onto his side, gripping David’s collar with one hand and feeling for a handhold with the other. Sliding over to an attic gable, he braced against it and pushed himself up to a crouch. Half dragging, half carrying David, he scrambled up the roof to its peak.

Just beyond the ridge was a landing pad, hidden from below by the house’s many gables. A hot-air balloon was floating there, straining at the tethers that anchored it. Shuffling and sliding down the roof’s back slope, Max took the last few steps at a run and grabbed hold of the balloon’s swaying basket.

Taking David from Max, Madam Petra helped the boy aboard. Max dove in afterward, almost landing on Toby as Madam Petra stood and swiftly cut the cables.

Slowly, the balloon caught the wind and drifted lazily, bumping several chimneys until it was finally free of the house and rose unfettered into the sky. Scrambling to his feet, Max gazed down at the dwindling landscape. Madam Petra’s house was an inferno, flames crackling from every window as a smoky pall settled. Skeedle’s poor mules had dragged the wagon down to the water’s edge and stood braying in the shallows while dark figures raced about the house’s perimeter. One caught sight of them and apparently called out to the others, for they all stopped what they were doing and watched as the balloon carried east over the enormous lake. Max turned his attention back to his injured friend.

David’s pants were sopped with blood, but the flow was diminishing. Feeling about, Max found the exit wound and breathed a sigh of relief; the bullet seemed to have passed through and to have missed both bone and artery. Unfortunately, however, David’s pack and all of their supplies were down in the wagon. Tearing strips of fabric from his tunic, Max bound David’s leg and shoulder to staunch the bleeding.

“How is he?” asked Toby anxiously.

“Okay for now, I think,” Max gasped, realizing his lungs were seared from all the smoke and superheated air. He felt David’s pulse and pushed his hair back from his eyes. His roommate was pale and breathing fitfully, but breathing nonetheless. “Let’s get him warm and keep his feet up. He might be in shock.”

“There are some blankets in that bag,” said Madam Petra, adjusting the burners. “Please put one on Katarina—she’s not dressed for the cold.”

Max glanced at the girl. She was crouched in the corner, huddled in the fetal position and staring dully ahead. Tears streaked her pretty face, pale channels through the soot. Toby retrieved two blankets from a small duffel and draped them over David and the girl. Neither stirred. As the balloon pitched and rocked on the breeze, the pinlegs tube rolled about the basket.

Max picked it up, running his hands over its polished case and inspecting the symbols etched about its periphery. Inside was a part of Prusias’s clicking, crawling war machine. If they could get the pinlegs back to Rowan, perhaps someone could make sense of its purpose and turn it to their advantage. If not, the mission was a failure. He gazed down at the gray waters, listened to the creak of the wicker basket and the low roar of the burners jetting hot air into the balloon. Already Piter’s Folly was far below and far behind—a dwindling trail of smoke in the vast expanse of lake.

Flexing his fingers, Max glanced down to see that his hand had been rubbed raw and bloody from the rope. Shaking his head, he wedged the pinlegs beneath the duffel.

“Your secretary,” he muttered. “He was the one who betrayed us?”

“It must have been,” replied Madam Petra. “I’ve suspected Dmitri for some time.”

But Katarina tried to speak. Closing her eyes, the child clutched at her throat and winced from the pain. She had been downstairs and Max guessed that her lungs were damaged worse than his. When she found her voice, it was barely audible over the wind.

“D-Dmitri’s dead,” she whispered. “They killed him. They killed everyone.”

“Who were they?” exclaimed Madam Petra, crouching beside her daughter. “Who attacked us?”

“Most wore masks,” the girl whispered. “I only saw one of their faces.”

“Who was it?” pressed her mother, clutching Katarina’s hand. “What did he look like?”

The girl pointed a shaky, soot-stained finger at Max.

“He looked just like him.”