With a motion smooth and certain as clockwork, she ran the blade across his throat in a precision that brought pressure but no pain. Bazanel raised his fore-talons and found blood gushing from his neck. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a bubbling wheeze. He fell to the floor, fighting to breathe.
Above him, Anza sucked in air as the gob of flaming oil burned through her buckskin. She placed her gloved fingers over the flame to squelch it.
On the far side of the table, the oil in the floor erupted. Anza strode toward it. Seconds later, a stack of Bazanel's notes fell into the center of the flames. Spots danced before his eyes as she tore a second lantern from the wall and poured its oil over the fire, trailing away to lead the flames to bookcases and shelves full of chemicals.
She ended near the bench where he'd been testing the gunpowder he'd already made. He could no longer keep his eyes open. He drifted into darkness as his blood pumped away. He heard the soft pad of Anza's moccasins walk through the blood that pooled before him.
Bazanel's greatest regret was that he wasn't going to be alive a moment from now. He was going to miss the grandest explosion ever to come from his laboratory.
Anza was well into the woods when the third explosion shook the earth. Ahead in the darkness, her horse whinnied loudly. The Golden Tower was simply gone, with only a cloud of reddish smoke billowing into the evening sky to give evidence that it had ever been there. Seconds later, chunks of gravel began to rain down. She took shelter behind the trunk of a large pine.
She looked down at the red and blistered skin a few inches below her left collarbone. The oil had burned through her buckskin in an almost perfect circle, though the edges of the buckskin were curled up like little teeth.
The teeth and the circle combined in the dim light to look like one of the toothy wheels in her father's clockwork animals. The burn would leave a scar in the shape of a cog right above her heart.
Her machine heart.
Were Bazanel's word's true? Had her father raised her only as a machine for killing? Growing up in the tavern, listening to the ceaseless, mindless chatter of the patrons, she'd realized that their heads must be full of words. While she understood words, she didn't often think with them. Instead, her thoughts were formed by movements. She lived in a world of ceaseless motion, and understood intimately her relationship to that motion. She was swift and sure enough to pluck an arrow from the air. Other people moved as if their bodies were puppets being pulled by the strings of their graceless thoughts. Her body and mind functioned as a single mechanism.
As the rain of gravel ceased, she headed deeper into the woods. She wanted to return to Dragon Forge, to warn her father that Thorny was a spy. However, it sounded as if the secret of gunpowder was carried by a lone messenger. A single scroll carried the formula. Perhaps there was still hope of protecting the secret. Her next destination would be the Dragon Palace. She grimaced as she thought of the hard ride before her, back to the very place she'd just left. Her butt was already sore enough.
She smiled. No machine would ever complain of the work before it. There was a human heart within her after all.
Jeremiah was too terrified to scream as the wind buffeted his body. He was wrapped up tightly inside a scratchy blanket that smelled like stale pee, tied securely with ropes. The sky-dragon who carried him, Vulpine, grunted from time to time as they flew. It sounded as if he were straining to remain in the air with Jeremiah's weight. With his face covered by the blanket, Jeremiah had no way of knowing how high they were. Having been raised in the mountains, he was used to high places, and had no fear of standing at the edge of a cliff to stare out over a valley. This was something far different, though. He imagined they must be high enough to touch the moon.
All his life, Jeremiah had heard that winged dragons could snatch up children. He used to have nightmares about it. Now, his nightmare was coming true. The dragon's long wings beat the air, carrying them ever higher. Despite being completely enwrapped, the cold air stabbed through the thin blanket, turning his skin to ice.
He had no way of measuring time, save for a slight brightening and darkening of the threadbare fabric before him as day passed into night, then brightened into day again. Three times, Vulpine stopped to rest for what felt like hours, but never once offered Jeremiah any food or water. Jeremiah remained still as a corpse the entire time, afraid that any movement might cause the dragon to attack him.
The fourth time they landed, something was different. Jeremiah was dropped to the ground roughly, but he paid little attention to the impact. He could hear voices. There was a delicious smell heavy in the air, like fish being cooked over coals.
"Sir," someone said. "Welcome back. How was your journey?"
"As delightful as I thought it would be, Sagen." Vulpine chuckled, a low sound that made Jeremiah shiver. "Rorg, as ever, is a font of invigorating conversation."
"Did he give you what you wanted?"
The blanket that held him was lifted by the ropes around his shoulders. He was set to his feet. Vulpine's claw snagged the rope for a second. With a grunt he jerked his claw free. The rope suddenly felt slack.
"He doesn't look like much," said Sagen.
"We'll fatten him up," said Vulpine. "He'll make a fine meal."
Jeremiah bit his lower lip to keep from crying out. Why would they want to eat him? He was nothing but bones!
Vulpine said, "Throw him in my tent for now. We'll clean him up later and put him in the meat pens."
Jeremiah thought he might faint.
"Sir?" said Sagen, sounding skeptical. "Your tent isn't terribly secure. What if he slipped free of his ropes? He might crawl out the back."
"Bah," Vulpine said dismissively. "Those ropes have held so far. He won't be going anywhere."
"I hope not, sir. Dragon Forge is only a few miles away. It's the stronghold of the human rebellion. If he reached it, we'd never get him back."
Jeremiah caught his breath. What human rebellion? If he could wriggle free… but, almost the instant he felt hope flickering, it was squashed again by Vulpine's voice.
"Even if this future meal did escape, how could he find the fortress? He doesn't even know where he is."
Jeremiah sagged as he contemplated this reality.
"But, sir," protested Sagen. "At night the foundries glow like a beacon. And by day, anyone could follow the smoke from the smokestacks."
Vulpine laughed. "You act like this is a dragon we're talking about. This is a muck-slave, not clever enough to slip out of his ropes, crawl under the tent flaps in the back, then search the sky for clues as to which direction he should run. You worry too much."
"Of course, sir," said the other dragon.
Jeremiah was lifted up by the rope around his hips. He was carried a few dozen yards, then tossed unceremoniously into a place where the sounds of voices and the smell of cooking were more muted. The ropes around his shoulder snapped completely as he hit the ground. He wriggled, freeing his head. He was inside a tent. It was dark, with only a few faint rays of light seeping through the flap that covered the door. He wriggled more. He was suddenly grateful he was skinny. He started kicking, and was free of the blanket in no time.
He looked around. The place was sparsely furnished; only a few cushions piled in the corner to serve as a bed. A small crate sat next to the cushions, and atop it sat a long knife in a sheath. He grabbed it and pulled the weapon out. He stood quietly and listened to the dragons just outside the tent. He crouched as they passed, and grabbed the blanket. It was so cold he could see his breath in front of him; despite the stench, he draped the blanket over his shoulders like a cloak.