The metal man’s other words struck him. The song compels a response. He strained his ears to capture the melodic lines of the song. Yes, he thought. It does, but how could he know that?
He heard the clicking and clacking, the sounds of metal groaning, as the mechoservitor stood. “The moon rises,” the metal man said. “It is nearly time for your sleep cycle to commence, but our destination is nearby. Are you functional for running?”
Neb nodded, climbing to his feet. The song held him, compelled him to stay and to listen, to work its Whymer Maze of notes and find and offer whatever it called for. It summoned him, held him, would not release him. But he forced his attention away, shuddering at the force of that haunting music. He looked around again, noting his surroundings as best he could. Beside him, the metal man took those first long strides and broke into an easy run. Neb pulled a bit of the black root from his pouch and put it into his mouth.
Then he ran, too, away from that buried song that beckoned him. As he ran, the bitter juices from the root flooded his mouth, and his legs stretched as the air around him took on a buzzing quality. Behind him, the canticle called. He forced his eyes onto the metal man he followed.
At first, the song faded and he found his focus again, but it was short-lived.
When the moon rose, swollen and low as it filled the horizon, it cast a blue-green shine across the Churning Wastes. When its first light peeked over the jagged teeth of the eastern mountains, Neb thought the song, fading behind him, grew suddenly louder. It filled the night sky as if the moon itself sang them onward. The Old World had become, for him, an amphitheater filled with music as he and the metal man raced across its vast stage.
The sadness of the melody pulled tears from Neb’s eyes. The delight of it made him laugh out loud.
As the black root took hold and his legs caught him up to his metal companion, he realized that he was not alone in his response to the song.
The metal man ran laughing and weeping in complete abandon to the canticle beneath a pregnant moon that echoed and enhanced its strains.
Matching his stride to that of the Androfrancine machine, Nebios ben Hebda gave himself to the song and first felt its whispered call toward Home.
Rudolfo
Rudolfo paced his narrow cabin and waited for the longboat they’d sent to return with news.
The Kinshark finally lay at anchor after nearly a week of pursuit, magicked and nestled in a cove on the southern side of the island that the iron armada had eventually led them to. It lay south of the horn and well beyond the normal shipping routes, a day’s sailing into the haunted waters that were anathema to most New World sailors.
He’d seen the island from the deck earlier that day. It was large enough to boast craggy hills that stretched up from the jungle that blanketed it. And its white beaches were wide, inviting and deserted.
That is, until they reached the southern facing. There, they saw upper and lower docks with both iron and wooden vessels either tied off or anchored in the deep, natural harbor. Squatting above it, a massive building of white stone-built along a rocky ridge-reached up into the sky.
He’d watched silently at the rail as the ships they followed disembarked their cargo. He didn’t need to see his knuckles to know they were white from their grip as first the children and then the adults from House Li Tam shuffled down the gangways, tied to one another in a long string and herded by dark-robed men with short swords.
After, they had circled to the other side of the island and sent out their scouting party. Rudolfo sent his two Gypsy Scouts along with Rafe’s men and then gave himself to the arduous work of waiting. The scouts would assess what they were up against and bring back their report. After that came the decision as to what they actually could do. Rudolfo was skeptical-they were one wooden vessel against an iron fleet. Gods knew exactly what kind of military personnel augmented the small navy.
Perhaps, Rudolfo thought, they should have pushed on for Sanctorum Lux after all. At least that seemed a scenario with odds more in their favor. Certainly, Charles had advocated for that robustly for the first two days. But in the end, Rudolfo had told him-sharper than he wished to-that the hidden library would simply have to remain hidden a bit longer, until this present matter was addressed. The old Arch-Engineer had been sullen at first, but had gradually seen the wisdom in confirming just who now controlled Tam’s fleet of Androfrancine-designed vessels and what their plans might be for those iron ships and the people they carried away prisoner.
He heard a soft knock at his door and turned. “Yes?”
The door opened and Charles peeked in. “They’re back. We’re gathering in the galley.”
“Thank you, Charles. I will join you momentarily.”
With a nod, the old man pulled the door closed, and Rudolfo scooped up his green turban of office. He wound it about his head and fastened it in place with the clasp his mother had given him when he was a boy. Then, he tied his crimson sash around his hips and took up his scout knives.
When Rudolfo entered the galley he saw Rafe Merrique and Charles but no one else. Of course, fresh from the jungles, the scouts were still magicked. He could see the places where the chairs were pulled out and from time to time, a flagon lifted of its own accord.
He took a seat at the foot of the table, opposite Rafe. “What have we learned?”
Rafe’s first mate spoke first, and Rudolfo turned his head in the direction of the disembodied voice. The voice sounded heavy with something Rudolfo could not quite place. “The island is unoccupied save for the structure and the docks. They have a small garrison of soldiers-maybe a hundred strong judging from the size of the barracks. They’re well armed, bows and swords, but not particularly vigilant about keeping their watch. They appear to be mixed-some Marshers, some of Delta or Emerald Coast dialect. They spoke a unified subverbal that was unfamiliar to me.”
Rudolfo nodded, reaching for the carafe and sniffing the contents. Cherry wine was not one of his favorites, but it would suffice. He poured a glass. “How many ships?”
“Two schooners of a trim and line I do not recognize plus the ten Tam ships-all unmagicked at this point. The steel vessels are anchored and powered down. They patrol with the schooners-one pass per hour, more of a token watch, which suggests they do not expect visitors.”
Rafe nodded. “They’re far enough into the Ghosting Crests to keep most away.”
Rudolfo raised the glass to his lips and sipped the sweet, cool wine. “Gypsies, what saw you inside?”
Even his Gypsy Scout seemed restrained, subdued somehow. “It is accessible, General Rudolfo, from at least three unguarded points. Two windows and a door. We mapped a basement holding area and two floors above that. Third floor and anything beyond, we assume, is guarded more diligently.”
There was a pause, and Rudolfo did not need to see the man to know he felt uncomfortable with what he was about to share. “What else?” he said.
“There are pipes moving fluid from the upper floor-the domed structure-into some lower basement we were unable to reach. We think they’re cutting.”
Cutting. Rudolfo sucked in his breath at the word. “Why do you think they are cutting?”
The first mate spoke up now. “On account of the bodies, Lord.”
The Gypsy Scout continued. “They’ve been burying their dead in mass graves. Like Windwir. We estimate nearly a thousand, and the holding cells below are full to overflowing.”
Rudolfo stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “But where would they. ” He let the words trail off as the answer became apparent. House Li Tam was under the knife-their fleet forfeit. But he doubted very much it was the penitent torture of his own Physicians-those twisted Francines who looked to T’Erys Whym and his darker beliefs about human behavior. Blood magicks had returned to the Named Lands, and these were the old cuttings, the Old Ways. The path of Xhum Y’Zir and his seven sons. and the Wizard Kings that went before them.