Doc loosed the cables holding the rotorkite rotors in place while Noriko climbed into the cockpit. Ish gathered the rappelling ropes and drew them out of the way, but they were already beginning to withdraw from the hangar. Rain fell on them all through the open roof door.
Overhead was a vast gray expanse hovering below the cloud layer. It was a liftship—a huge vessel, easily two hundred paces from end to end, with the name Storm Cloud painted along its side. The ship slowly drifted eastward; in a few moments it would be clear enough for the rotorkite to lift off. Not far above the liftship was the solid mass of clouds Doc had studied earlier.
Doc understood the clouds now. They were not an attack; they’d been a screen for the liftship’s approach. He chided himself; he’d been prepared for another airplane fly-by and rocket launch, but not for a liftship invasion.
He popped open one of the rotorkite’s gullwing doors and climbed in, then dogged his door shut. Noriko spun up the rotors. Doc ignored the noise as Ish pounded on his door from outside.
“Checklist?” Noriko asked.
“No. Just take her up.”
Harris became aware of a dull roar as his hearing and consciousness returned. His chest felt constricted. He opened his eyes.
He dangled in the wind, the collar of his jeans jacket in Joseph’s grip. The giant, with his other hand, held onto the lowest wingtip of one of the ledge gargoyles.
There was a crater in Joseph’s back a foot deep and three feet in diameter. Opaque gray fluid poured out of it, something like clay barely diluted with water. The giant’s eyes were dull, nearly unseeing.
Far above him was the skyscraper-sized zeppelin-liftship.
Harris looked down. There was nothing between his feet and the sidewalk but a thousand feet of air.
“Harris.”
“Yes, Joseph.” He reached up and tried to get a grip on the clay man’s arm. It was slick with the fluid from his back. Joseph shook him and easily broke his grasp.
“I’m going to die, Harris. When I do, I will fall, and you will fall, and you will die too. But I want you to understand that I do not do this myself. I cannot stop myself.”
“I understand.” Harris tried to reach up for the ledge with the statues. His arm was a yard too short. He touched the face of the wall and could find no purchase. “Are you sure you can’t just tell Duncan to stuff himself? I’d really appreciate it.”
“No. My limbs do not move in a direction that disobeys him. Can you forgive me? Please, Harris.”
“Yes, Joseph. It’s not your fault.” He felt his throat tighten with grief for the pain Joseph was feeling.
“The explosion was propitious. It allows me to give you a few extra moments of life without disobeying Duncan. And it means I will not be able to harm Gaby.”
Harris heard a scrape from behind Joseph; he turned his head back to look.
A rope dangled behind Joseph, ten feet away. It brushed the statuary, stretching from the liftship above to somewhere below Harris. And it was moving, swaying toward him. “Just hold on as long as you can, Joseph.”
The rope swayed a yard closer. Harris looked up and saw the liftship’s propellers turning. The ship was moving, dragging the rope along with it.
Joseph began to droop. Harris saw that the damage to his back was worse than before—made deeper and rougher by water erosion, Joseph’s “bleeding.” Harris grimaced.
“I am losing strength, Harris.”
“How do you want to be remembered?” The rope edged closer. It almost touched Joseph. Another yard and it would be within Harris’ reach.
“It will do no good for me to tell you.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I would like to be remembered for having hurt no one. But that would be a lie.”
The rope slid to within inches of Harris’ hand. Joseph finally saw it. He looked puzzled.
Harris stretched, grabbed it, and dragged it to his right hand. With all his strength, he kicked away from the building face. The move pulled him free of Joseph’s grasp.
Harris swung out from the building, then back toward it, hitting the wall two full yards away from the giant. He managed to get his feet up and took the impact with his legs.
Joseph’s face twisted into a faint smile. “No, I was wrong. It will please me to be remembered for having failed in my last duty.”
He fell, leaving a stain of gray clay on the wall.
Harris watched him disappear. Something hard and bitter swelled in his throat, closing it.
He felt his feet lose contact with the wall; they were now half a foot away from the stone. He looked up.
The liftship was picking up speed, carrying its trailing ropes and Harris away from the Monarch Building.
Gaby woke up feeling tired but peaceful, as though the blast of knowledge through her had washed her clean.
She was in Gabrielle’s room. She tried to slide out and back into her body, but couldn’t.
That was surprising. It hadn’t happened since she’d first put the two halves of herself together. She felt a tug of fear and opened the eye in the communications room.
She saw herself slumped in her chair, her head lolled back, mouth slightly opened. Her eyes moved rapidly under closed lids. She didn’t look hurt.
She tried to switch to the eye into the laboratory, but it was gone.
Then memory returned of her unexpected swim in knowledge. She must have fallen into a veritable sea of information.
Data. Duncan must have brought a computer from the grim world. Hooked it into his communication grid here. She hadn’t been prepared to handle that amount of information.
Information—something about information she’d recently received was nagging at her. Names, dates . . . then she had it.
Essyllt Tathlumwright had said that Doc was born in 116 M.X.R. Gaby translated numbers in her head. That would have been Scholars’ Year 1303. More than a hundred and thirty years ago. Doc was older than even she had thought. She’d read accounts of purebloods who achieved incredible age.
That made him old enough—
She looked into her mirror, sought out a specific eye, and opened it. The face of Essyllt Tathlumwright appeared, looking startled. “Goodness,” the older woman said. “I don’t think I even had it switched on.”
“You must have,” Gaby said. “Pardon me for calling back so soon—”
“You’ve changed.”
“What?”
“Your clothes. You’ve changed. It’s very becoming.”
Gaby looked down at Gabrielle’s dress and smiled. “Thank you. There’s something I forgot to ask before. Did Desmond MaqqRee and his wife have any children?”
“Oh, yes.” Essyllt looked at a sheaf of notes on the table before her. “One, a son. Named—”
“Duncan?”
“That’s right.” Essyllt beamed approvingly. “Born One Thirty-Eight M.X.R. You’ve been doing your research, too.”
“Yes.” Gaby felt cold sickness crawl through her. She tried to keep it from showing. “I have to run, Essyllt.”
“Until later, then. Grace.” Essyllt faded away again.
What had it done to Doc to believe that he’d killed his own son twenty years ago? What would it do to him to have to kill him now?
Dangerous as Duncan was, she had to prevent that, for Doc’s sake. Gaby frantically looked for another eye.
His arms trembled from exhaustion, but Harris kept climbing. The gaping doors in the bottom of the gondola were not much farther above.
He had seen no one peering through that hole at him. He looked down and saw the skyscrapers of Neckerdam moving sedately below. This time there was no vertigo to bother him. So far, so good.