The Maelstrom

  “It’s just refreshing to know someone like that,” David continued dreamily, swinging his legs up onto the ottoman. “Someone who’s always cheerful, always willing to laugh or listen.”

  “She’s a good friend,” Max agreed, thumping his armrest. “A real steady item.”

  It was David’s turn to blush. Blinking rapidly, he opened his mouth, but evidently words failed him and he merely stared at the fire in mortified silence.

  “We agreed to keep it a secret,” he finally whispered.

  “But why?” said Max gleefully. “Love should be shouted from the rooftops! I think it’s great that Toby helped you sort through your special feelings.…”

  David moaned, slouching ever lower until his eyes were level with his knees. “Who else knows?”

  “Just Sarah and Lucia,” replied Max. “And the Tattler gossip columnist …”

  “You are a very witty person.”

  “I am very witty,” Max agreed, rising from his chair to stretch. “Not everyone can come up with these little gems and also make a battalion work. It’s not enough to focus on each platoon or even a whole company; all the pieces have to fit together perfectly. If they don’t, you’ll have a weakness, and if you have a weakness—”

  “Shhh!”

  “You’re much too sensitive.”

  “No,” said David, waving him off. “Be quiet—I need to think.”

  And think he did, curling into a ball and staring ahead with a preoccupied air that Max knew all too well. The sorcerer glanced occasionally at the pinlegs and then back at the fire, as though they were two separate equations he was trying to reconcile. At length, he got up and began to pace. Max knew he would be late for Bob’s supper, but he could not leave. David seemed poised on the cusp of something truly momentous. Twenty minutes passed before he finally stopped and stared at Max with an expression of profound wonder.

  “You’re a genius.”

  “I could have told you that in half the time.”

  “No,” said David, pacing again. “It’s what you said about all the pieces having to fit together perfectly.” He absently made to knit his fingers together, recalled that he had but one hand, and abandoned the demonstration. It did not diminish his enthusiasm. “The Workshop has somehow split the soul of an imp and embedded one half in a pinlegs and the other in a dreadnought. That’s what allows the pinlegs to instantly summon its other half.”

  “Okay,” said Max, trying to follow where David was going.

  “We’ve been totally focused on trying to identify the pinlegs’ vulnerabilities so we can prevent it from summoning its dreadnought. But as we’re learning—and as Dr. Bechel confirmed—there are a million safeguards to prevent anyone from sabotaging it. As an individual component, it’s almost impossible to crack. But what happens after it’s summoned its dreadnought and the pieces are put together?”

  “Everything gets destroyed,” said Max.

  “True,” David allowed. “And it’s a terrifying prospect, but I wonder if the dreadnought is actually more vulnerable than the pinlegs. Not physically, of course, but … Well, how does a soul function once it’s been split in half and is then reunited? Is it really whole and seamless, or is it compromised in some way?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Neither do I,” said David excitedly, grabbing the startled pinlegs from its apparent slumber. “But it’s promising. Come with me to Founder’s Hall. I have to speak with Ms. Richter!”

  “But Bob’s making dinner—”

  “Leftovers are delicious!” cried David, hurrying up the steps. Flinging open the door, he rushed out, clutching the hideous pinlegs to his chest as though it were his firstborn.

  David was wheezing by the time they reached Founder’s Hall. It was as crowded as ever and David was half stumbling as he wove through the many analysts and scholars and domovoi. A shriek went up as someone spotted the pinlegs and a path soon opened. Barging through the crowds clustered around the Director, David plopped the pinlegs right on her table.

  “I need to borrow all the Promethean Scholars,” he gasped. “Right away!”

  Ms. Richter merely stared at the revolting creature splayed before her. She had not flinched or even blinked at its sudden appearance, but when its long antennae brushed her chin, she spoke with unnerving calm.

  “David Menlo, be so good as to explain why I should not have you pilloried.”

  “Can we speak in private?”

  “Will this thing be joining us?”

  David nodded, coughing hoarsely as he scooped the pinlegs up. The Director rose, muttered an apology to the rest, and stepped into the adjoining conference room. She glanced up at Max as he followed them inside and shut the door.

  “McDaniels,” she observed. “I believe we already had your review. I hope you rewarded your battalion for a job well done.”

  “They have the next two days off,” he replied. “They need it.”

  “Good,” she said. “Hard work should be rewarded. Now, what has David Menlo in such a state of excitement that he’s determined to startle me into cardiac arrest?”

  Catching his breath, David summarized their difficulties with the pinlegs and his theory that the dreadnoughts might present a different sort of opportunity.

  “The dreadnoughts are huge,” he said. “But it’s just an imp’s mind and soul that’s controlling it. I’m sure they’d rather use a more powerful demon, but it’s probably much more difficult to split their soul in two. I think—and it’s just a theory at this stage—that it might be possible for us to take control of a dreadnought by possessing the imp inside it.”

  “You’d need the imp’s truename,” reflected Ms. Richter.

  “You would if its spirit is intact,” replied David. “But these spirits have been damaged; they’ve been torn in two and the halves reunited. Perhaps they’re weaker in some way.”

  Glancing at the pinlegs, Ms. Richter considered David’s words.

  “So what is it that you need from me?” she said. “And be very specific. I have no uncommitted resources. Anything you request must be taken from something else.”

  “I understand,” said David. “I’m asking for all the Promethean Scholars for the next two weeks.”

  Ms. Richter shook her head. “David,” she replied. “The latest intelligence estimates that Prusias’s main fleet will be here in two weeks. Meanwhile, the Promethean Scholars are working on a dozen initiatives that I know have value. Your pinlegs project is the most critical, but there’s been no real progress in over a month. I realize that you’re excited about this new theory, but it’s still in its infancy and may well come up empty. I simply cannot redirect all of Rowan’s best minds to help you research your hypothesis at the expense of everything else they’re doing. It’s too big a gamble at the eleventh hour unless you can prove to me that Prusias’s force is more than two weeks away. Have you been able to use your observatory for scrying?”

  “No,” David admitted, pacing once again and looking irritated. “Scrying hasn’t worked at all since the demons went to war with one another. I think the Book of Thoth is behind it; otherwise I might be able to break the spell.”

  “So you think Astaroth is causing it?” asked Max.

  “No,” replied David. “I think Prusias is causing it—creating his own fog of war to blind his enemies. Don’t forget that Prusias has a page from the Book embedded in his cane. I think that would be enough.”

  “So you can’t tell me when Prusias’s armada will arrive,” said Ms. Richter pointedly.

  David shook his head.

  “If that’s the case, then I have no choice but to rely on intelligence reports,” she said. “And my most reliable sources say that Prusias is due here sooner than we could wish. So let’s negotiate.”

  The pair went back and forth in rapid succession, making offers and counteroffers until Ms. Richter finally agreed to let David have three Promethean Scholars along with four spiritwracks of his choice.

&nbs
p; “Names?” she asked, retrieving a slim notebook.

  “Smythe, Oliveiro, Wen, and Olshansky.”

  “Done,” she muttered, jotting them down. “Now, you must excuse—” She broke off as someone started knocking furiously upon the door. Raising an eyebrow, Ms. Richter strode over to the door where she found Ms. Kraken looking like she’d seen a ghost.

  “Come outside, Gabrielle,” hissed the aged teacher. “Something’s happening!”

  Suspicious at this urgent intrusion, Max touched his ring, but it was cool. Glancing uneasily at one another, Max and David followed the Director back into Founder’s Hall. The huge room was eerily silent. All eyes were fixed on the wall that displayed the Florentine spypaper. A dozen glowspheres were converging at a section whose larger, unencrypted sheets were used to correspond with distant Rowan settlements. One sphere settled above a sheet marked for Grayhaven. Another halted at Sphinx Point while others slowly came to rest by Blackrock, Fellowship, North Spit, South Spit, Cold Harbor, Anvil … every coastal township within two hundred miles. All of the spheres began to pulse, their collective radiance filling the hall with a sickly yellow light. Max heard gasps as the messages started to appear. Ms. Richter called for silence, walking briskly through the crowd with Ms. Kraken, Max, and David trailing in her wake.

  Even from a distance, Max could read the messages. They appeared simultaneously, and each contained but two words scrawled in heavy black ink.

  SAVE US!

  Quickly scanning the other parchments, Max found the sheet for Glenharrow and saw that it and most of those for the inland settlements were still blank. Just as Ms. Richter was about to speak, drips and smears of black ink appeared like pattering raindrops to muddy and obscure the pleas from the coastal towns. Recognizable patterns soon emerged, as though fingers were dragging through the wet ink and tracing a common design: three circles set between opposing sheaves of wheat.

  It was the seal of Prusias.

  “That’s impossible,” muttered Ms. Richter. “Alistair insisted that they wouldn’t land for at least two weeks. They’re supposed to be in the middle of the ocean!”

  Flipping open a portfolio where she kept highly classified correspondence, the Director riffled through several pages of spypaper before removing one and reading it through her decrypting lens. From where Max stood, its grisly message was perfectly clear.

  ALISTAIR DIED BADLY

  As Ms. Richter crumpled the sheet, Old Tom’s bell began to toll in deafening peals that shook the very hall. The Enemy had been sighted.

  When Old Tom’s ringing ceased, Ms. Richter strode to the head of Founder’s Hall and raised her arms for silence. Her voice was admirably calm.

  “The Enemy is here,” she announced, surveying the room. “Rowan needs us and I know she will not be disappointed. Each face I see fills me with that confidence. There is no time for long speeches or debate. I will say only this. Rowan is not merely our home; it is a haven for all humanity. Prusias is strong, but I remind you that Rowan has stood for nearly four hundred years and has never been more prepared to meet such a foe. He has underestimated our strength and our resolve, and he will pay dearly for it. Do your duty and may God be with you. Sol Invictus.”

  Everyone present responded in kind before setting out for his or her assignments. A surreal energy permeated the hall—brisk professionalism tempered by fear and excitement. There was no wasted discussion, no cries of anguish or despair, and no evident panic. Striding to her table to retrieve her most critical papers, Ms. Richter glanced at David.

  “I’ll send who I can, but don’t wait for them,” she said sharply. “Can you look to see if ships are landing? We may need you to do what you can there.”

  Clutching the pinlegs, David nodded and hurried out, joining the rapid exodus of Agents and Mystics.

  Ms. Richter’s eyes snapped to Max. “You are the Hound of Rowan,” she said. “You are our champion, and Prusias fears you like nothing else upon this earth. Do not forget that.”

  Before Max could even respond, the Director was already engaged in other matters. He hurried out of Founder’s Hall as Old Tom sounded the alarm anew.

  It was pandemonium in the Manse’s corridors, a crush of people hurrying out to their stations or rushing to the dormitories to retrieve some needed item or weapon. Max also needed to retrieve something, but it was not in his room. Squeezing past a cluster of anxious-looking students, he crossed the foyer and spilled out with the others into the clear, cold night.

  YaYa was already waiting by the fountain, humans streaming past her like floodwaters parting at a great rock. The ki-rin’s eyes were glowing, her breath pluming from her nostrils in white billows. Hurrying down the steps, Max slid a foot into a stirrup and swung high up into the saddle.

  “We have to go to the smithy!” he shouted, straining to be heard over Old Tom’s clanging and the incredible din as thousands hurried across the quad. At the slightest pressure from Max’s knee, YaYa wheeled and lumbered heavily toward the township.

  The ki-rin could do no more than walk as they swam against a tide of people. It was fifteen minutes of impatient agonizing until they could get through the Sanctuary tunnel and YaYa could manage a lumbering trot. A great heat was coming off the ki-rin, and periodically she shivered as though growing feverish.

  At last they arrived at the smithing shop owned by the brothers Aurvangr and Ginnarr. The upper windows were dark and shuttered, but Max saw a gleam of light peeping from beneath the door. Swinging out of his saddle, he ran up the front steps and knocked urgently. Something crashed within and he heard someone curse before another angry voice cried out, “Closed!”

  “It’s Max McDaniels!”

  The door opened and Max looked down to see the dvergar—a dusky, dwarflike creature with pale eyes and beard—half dressed in armor of overlapping scales.

  “It’s in the workroom,” muttered Aurvangr, waving Max toward the back. “By the quenching tubs. Not pretty yet, but it works. There’s something else on the table. We decided your need is greater. Close the door behind you. We’re due at Westgate.”

  Ducking inside, Max hurried into the back room where the dvergar kept their forge and anvil. Max found what he was looking for propped against the wall next to a trio of water barrels. It was a spear shaft some seven feet long, fashioned of roughened steel and devised so that Max could use it with the gae bolga. He’d commissioned it from the brothers after his first day supervising the battalion from atop YaYa. The gae bolga’s limited reach was poorly suited for mounted combat and was impractical to wield on a horse, much less a ki-rin standing eight feet at her shoulder.

  Keeping the blade sheathed, Max pressed its pommel to the top of the spear shaft. Like a ravenous snake, the shaft swallowed up the hilt, clamping tight at the cross-guard so that the short sword was transformed into a long-bladed spear. Hefting it, Max tested its weight and balance before turning to the object folded neatly on the neighboring table. It was an exquisite corselet of fine gray mail, the very armor Max had bartered to the dvergar in exchange for the Ormenheid. The shirt had once belonged to Antonio de Lorca, Max’s predecessor in the Red Branch, and no ordinary weapon could pierce it. Quickly, Max stripped off his tunic and hauberk, swapping the heavy, cumbersome rings for a garment more supple than linen. Pulling the tunic back over his head, Max checked that Lugh’s brooch was in place, took up the gae bolga, and hurried out of the shop.

  As YaYa picked her way through the winding lanes back to the main avenue, Max witnessed the very best and worst of humanity. Many companies of troops and militia were hurrying to their posts, but there also were brawls, untold looters, and some who chose to greet Prusias’s arrival with doomed, drunken revelry. Rounding a corner, Max stopped as he saw a half-dozen Trench Rats carousing with a group that had broken into the Pot and Kettle and were rolling its wine barrels up the cellar ramp to break them open in the street. Upon seeing their commander, one promptly retched while the others snapped to some semblance of blear
y, blinking attention.

  Max glared down at them. “It’s a thirty-minute march to Trench Nineteen from here. If you’re not there in twenty, I’m going to find each and every one of you.”

  “We were on leave,” said the one, sullenly wiping his mouth. “You got no right to judge!”

  “When does leave give you the right to loot and steal?” Max growled. “Stay and sit in your filth. You’re discharged. Rip off his patch.”

  The man’s companions did so, tearing the patch off his shoulder while he swore and protested. Seconds later, the other five were running as fast as they could toward the Sanctuary tunnel and their distant post.

  “Bravo, bravo!” called a voice from the restaurant’s elevated porch.

  Madam Petra was lounging between the industrialist and Katarina. She was sipping a glass of wine without an apparent care in the world. Around her neck, she wore the coppery torque made from Nick’s quills.

  “Oh, don’t worry about us,” she said, swirling her wine. “We’re not looters. We paid for our drinks. You look very dashing, by the way.”

  “Going to sit things out here?” said Max, gazing at the smuggler with unfeigned disgust.

  “Yes, I am,” she said, smiling sweetly. “That’s the nice thing about having friends on both sides. You don’t really care who wins.”

  “You think Prusias will just leave you be?”

  “I don’t see why not.” She shrugged, stroking her daughter’s hair. “I’ve been invited to many parties at the royal palace. Why should he be angry with a Rowan hostage? In any case, I hope the Zenuvian iron serves you well. You certainly paid for the privilege.”

  Max stared hard at the woman. “You had better pray that we win,” he said quietly. “Because if Rowan falls, there will be no one left to forgive you. And if that happens, you’ll have to live with this shame forever.”

  “Well, I’ve heard that good wine can drown sorrow and shame,” she replied lightly, checking the bottle’s label. “And if that fails, I’m sure this torque can buy whatever forgiveness I might require. Run along now and keep us safe.”