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 doo
r 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.”
The blood drained from Madam Petra’s face. “Are you certain, love?”
Katarina nodded.
“Clones,” said Max quietly. “I fought one in Prusias’s Arena, but there are others.”
“Two others,” said the smuggler knowingly. “I saw them once at a reception. They’re the crown jewels of the Workshop’s genetics program. But the rumor is that things went amiss. The Workshop attempted modifications and something went wrong. The clones became too dangerous, impossible to control. Homicidal. They killed several engineers and destroyed half the creatures in the exotics museum. I’d heard the Workshop had given up and were trying to find a buyer. The Atropos must have acquired one—perhaps the pair.”
“So you know about the Atropos,” said Max.
“Of course I do,” replied Petra coolly. “There’s quite a price on your head, my dear. And if I’d had the good sense to alert someone as soon as I knew you were in my home, I might be sitting on a mountain of gold instead of fleeing from my burning house in this ridiculous balloon. You owe me a new estate, Max McDaniels.”
But Max’s mind was working too quickly to address her lost fortune. That Madam Petra could not be trusted was plainly evident; she had even greater incentive to betray him than before. He glanced at the pinlegs. It was imperative to transport the mysterious creature and David back to Rowan as soon as possible. David had mentioned another tunnel in Raikos, and they were drifting toward that eastern province, but he also considered Sir Alistair and Kolbyt’s warnings. Yuga might have reduced the area to a wasteland. David’s tunnel might not even exist anymore.
“What’s the date?” he wondered.
“December eighth,” replied Madam Petra. “Why?”
“Prusias expects an answer by solstice,” said Max. “That leaves just a few weeks. We’re relatively close to a place that might magic us to Rowan, but it’s near Yuga. What have you heard about her?”
“Aamon certainly gave her a wide berth,” replied Madam Petra. “His armies abandoned the Iron Road altogether and invaded Blys over open country. Supposedly she’s in Raikos, but whether she’s near Taros or Bholevna, I don’t know.”
At the mention of these cities, David stirred. Grimacing, he tried to sit up and fell back against the wicker basket. Despite the cold, his face was hot with fever.
“Bholevna,” he murmured weakly. “My pack …”
Max knelt by his friend and inspected the bandages, which were already damp with clotted blood.
“We left your pack in the wagon,” said Max. “It’s back at Piter’s Folly. What about Bholevna?”
“Tunnel …,” David whispered.
“The tunnel’s near Bholevna?”
David nodded and gestured weakly for Max to come closer. The boy’s bloodstained fingers plucked at Max’s sleeve, fumbling a
bout until they caught hold of his hand.
“Hold it tight,” David whispered.
Max did so, wrapping both of his warm hands around David’s cold one. The sorcerer’s lips twitched, mouthing silent words over and over. Max began to feel light-headed. His head swam as David slowly leeched energy from his body like some sort of vampire.
A sudden surge of energy departed Max, pumping through his fingertips like waters bursting from a dam. David’s hand seized up as though he’d touched an electrified fence. The boy’s legs kicked against the pinlegs case, harder and harder. Max tried to tear his hands away, but he was weakening rapidly.
“Pull him off!” he wheezed.
Instantly, Toby changed from a lutin to a chimpanzee. Max felt the primate’s powerful hands grip his and pry them from David’s. Baring his teeth like a wild animal, David kicked and struck out at Toby, thrashing about the balloon’s compartment as though possessed.
“What’s the matter with him?” shrieked Toby, pulling. “He’s—”
Max toppled heavily onto his side. The motion and the smee’s efforts finally broke the connection, and David collapsed back against the wicker basket, struggling for breath. Smoke rose off the sorcerer’s clothes as though they’d been thrust into an oven.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I—I should have known … my God!”
The boy lost consciousness, his nose whistling as it often did whenever he was deeply asleep. Madam Petra crept over to Max, crouching over him and peering at him closely.
“Are you all right?” she asked tentatively.
Max nodded blandly. His wits were wandering, but he was profoundly wary of betraying any weakness to the smuggler. The woman had just lost a fortune; should she deliver Max McDaniels and David Menlo to the Enemy, she might regain it tenfold. Gathering himself, Max stood on shaky legs.
“I’m fine,” he lied. “David used me to strengthen himself. It caught me by surprise.”