Venera cursed under her breath. Margit had managed to corral all of her friends—no, not all. Where was Eilen? She glanced around the roof, not seeing her among the other newly freed Lirisians. Maybe she was downstairs fighting the fires; that was probably it…
Her eye was drawn despite herself to a huddled figure lying on the roof. Freed of life, Eilen was difficult to recognize; her clothes were no longer clothes but some odd drapes of cloth covering a shape whose limbs weren’t bent in any human pose. She stared straight up, her face a blank under the burnt wound in her forehead.
“Oh no…” Venera ran to her and knelt. She reached out, hesitated, then looked up at Margit.
Smoke roiled behind the former botanist of Liris. She smiled triumphantly. “Always wanted an excuse to do that,” she said. “And I’d love an excuse to do the same to these.” Her pistol waved at the prisoners behind her. “But that’s not going to happen, is it? Because you’re going to…” She seemed to lose the thread of what she was saying, staring off into the distance for a few seconds. Then, starting, she looked at Venera again and said, “Going to give me the key to Candesce.”
Venera glanced behind her. None of the army staff who knew about the key were here. Neither was Guinevera nor Pamela Anseratte. There was no one to prevent her from making such a deal.
Margit barked a surprised laugh. “Is this your solution? You thought to do a trade, did you?” Jacoby Sarto had stepped into view, paces behind Venera. Margit was sneering at him with undisguised contempt.
“That man-shaped thing might have been valuable once, but not anymore. It’s not worth the least of these fools.” She flipped up the pistol and fired; instantly hundreds of weapons rose across the roof, hammers cocking, men straining. Venera’s heart was thudding painfully in her chest; she raised a hand, lowered it slowly. Gratefully, she saw the council soldiers obey her gesture and relax slightly.
She ventured a look behind her. Jacoby Sarto was staring down at a hole in the rooftop, right between his feet. His face was dark with anger, but his shoulders were slumped in defeat. He had nothing now, and he knew it.
“Your choice is clear, oh would-be queen of Candesce,” shouted Margit over the shuddering of the wind. “You can keep your trophy, and maybe even use it again if you can evade us. Maybe these soldiers will follow you all the way to Candesce, though I doubt it. But go ahead: all you have to do is give the order and they’ll fire. I’ll be dead—and so will your friends. But you can walk away with your trinket.
“Or,” she said with relish, “you can hand it to me now. Then I’ll let your friends go—well, all save one, maybe. I need some guarantee that you won’t have us shot on our way up to the docks. But I promise I’ll let the last one go when we get there. Sacrus keeps its promises.”
Venera played for time. “And who’s going to use the key when you get to Candesce? Not you.”
Margit shrugged. “They are wise, those that made me and healed me after you…” Her brows knit as though she were trying to remember something. “You… Those that made me—yes, those ones, not this one and his former cronies,” she nodded to Sarto. “No, Sacrus underwent a… change of government… some weeks ago. People with a far better understanding of what the key represents, and who we might bargain with using it are in charge now. Their glory shall extend beyond merely cowing the principalities with some show of force from the Sun of Suns. The bargain they’ve struck… the forces they’ve struck it with… well, suffice it to say, Virga itself will be our toy when they’re done.”
An ugly suspicion was forming in Venera’s mind. “Do these forces have a name? Maybe—Artificial Nature?”
Margit shrugged again, looking pleased. “A lady doesn’t tell.” Then her expression hardened. She extended her hand. “Hand it over. Now. We have a lot to do, and you’re wasting my time.”
The rooftop trembled under Venera’s feet. Past the pall of smoke, Spyre itself shimmered like a dissolving dream.
She’d almost had the power she needed, power to take revenge against the Pilot of Slipstream for the death of her husband. Enough wealth to set herself up somewhere in independence. Maybe she was even growing past the need for vengeance. It was possible she could have stayed here with her newfound friends, maybe in the mansion of Buridan in Lesser Spyre. Such possibilities had trembled just out of reach ever since her arrival among these baroque, ancient, and inward-turned people. It had all been within her grasp.
And Margit was right: she could still turn away. The key was hers and with it, untold power and riches if she chose to exercise it. True, she would have to move immediately to secure her own safety, else the council would try to take it from her. But she was sure she could do that, with Sarto’s help and Bryce’s. Maybe Spyre would survive, if they spun its rotation down in time and repaired it under lesser gravity. She could still have Buridan, her place on the council, and power. All she had to do was give up the prisoners who stood watching her now.
The Venera Fanning who had woken in Garth Diamandis’s bed those scant weeks ago could have done that.
She reached slowly into her jacket and brought out the slim white wand that had caused so much grief—and doubtless would be the cause of much more. Step by step she closed the distance between herself and Margit’s outstretched hand. Venera raised her hand and Margit leaned forward, but Venera would not look her in the eye.
Selene Diamandis put her foot in Margit’s lower back and pushed.
As the former botanist sprawled onto Venera, bringing them both down, Selene pulled her own pistol and aimed it at the face of the man whose gun was touching Garth’s ear. “Father, jump!” she cried.
Margit snarled and punched Venera in the chin. The explosion of pain was nothing compared to the spasms she usually got there so Venera didn’t even blink. She grabbed Margit’s wrist and the two rolled over and away from the platform.
“Lower your guns,” Selene was shouting. Venera caught a confused glimpse of men and women stepping out of the way as she and Margit tumbled to the edge of the roof by the courtyard. Nobody moved to help her—if anyone laid a hand on either her or Margit, everyone would start shooting.
Margit elbowed Venera in the face and her head snapped back. She had an upside-down view of the courtyard below; it was an inferno.
“That red looks good on the trees, don’t you think?” Margit muttered. She struck Venera again. Dazed, Venera couldn’t recover fast enough and suddenly found Margit standing over her, pistol aimed at her.
“The key,” she said, “or you die.”
A shadow flickered from overhead. Margit glanced up, said, “What—” and then Moss collided with her and the two of them sailed off the roof. In the blink of an eye they were gone, disappearing silently into the smoke.
No one spoke. On her knees, gazing into the fire, Venera realized that she was waiting like everyone else for the end: a scream, a crash, or some other evidence that Margit and Moss had landed. It didn’t come. There was only the dry crackle of the flames. Someone coughed and the spell was broken. Venera took a proffered arm and stood up.
It was Samson Odess who had helped her to her feet. A short distance away Garth Diamandis was hugging his daughter fiercely as the remaining Sacrus troops climbed down from the platform. The building was swaying, its stones cracking and grinding now. The whole landscape of Spyre was transforming as trees fell and buildings quivered on the verge of collapse. Soldiers and officers of both sides looked at one another in wonder and terror. Their alliances suddenly didn’t matter.
Odess pointed to the grandly spinning town-wheels miles overhead. “Come on,” he said. “Lesser Spyre will survive when the world comes apart. It’ll all fall away from the town-wheels.”