Authors: Tim Akers
I knew instinctively. That was the Patron, or what was left of him. Not dying, but living in such a way that he couldn't really be called alive. Crane had eradicated the Family Tomb, their lineage, their place on the Council, and their holdings. All in one blow.
Trouble for later. I turned my face to the Church of the Algorithm, and hopped from the gatehouse down to the street below. Thirty feet, and I landed without a bruise. Pushed that into the back of my mind, and just ran.
Everything seemed brighter. Clouds still hung low and heavy across the city, but the frictionlamps that lined the streets burned sharp in my mind. I lost myself in the smooth effort of running, the cobblestone streets passing under my feet like a dream. I breathed, and the city breathed with me. Faces peered out at me from closed houses, eyes wide, as I rushed past. I thought about waving, to reassure them, but I wasn't sure that would help. Wasn't sure what I looked like. A madman running through the streets, faster than thought.
Valentine had given me a revolver. I had forgotten. As I crested the last terrace and began my descent to the Church, I unholstered the piece and checked the load. Looked good. There were additional rounds in my belt, shiny against the dark leather. Worry about their time in the river vanished under the all-consuming optimism of whatever was flowing through my veins. My clothes weren't wet. Why would my shells be damaged?
Why weren't my clothes wet? Never mind, just run. Run and run and run.
There was the Church. The engines had stopped, finally ground shut by whatever Camilla - or Crane - was doing deep below. The courtyard was clear, but there were Wrights standing at the gates. Wrights with guns. I adjusted my track to keep buildings between us, but they had already seen me. Signals were given. Rifles were raised. I grinned and ran on.
Ran faster, in fact. I was having trouble keeping up with my feet. Felt like something was running
through
me, some vast eye that was burning through my body. My grin had become stiff, my hands quaking from the presence of that terrible mind. The Wrights' first shots danced off the cobbles by my feet, off the walls, whistled high overhead. Warning shots, or poor aim. Rational Jacob would have ducked for cover and found a better way to approach. Rational Jacob would have tricked his way in, or given up and floated down the river. Rational Jacob would not smile and run straight at them. I was not Rational Jacob.
I came out of the street that opened onto the courtyard in front of the Church, dodging to one side as I hit the cobbles. There was a wagon, a supply wain that had been left there by its owner, prior to the curfew. I ducked behind it and kicked the stops out from its wheels. With a great, groaning heave, I set my shoulder against it and started it moving. Faster and faster, each time I shoved my shoulder into it. Once I had some speed I fluttered the brakes on the inside wheel and turned the wagon toward the gates. Slightly offset, so I would have cover for most of the approach. There was enough of an incline that I didn't have to give it much, once inertia took over. I drew my revolver and threw my arm around the edge, firing blindly. Bullets clattered at the wheels of the wagon, ricocheting up into the wood, or past my legs. Good shots, these Wrights. I put a hand on the corner of the wagon and kept pushing, accelerating toward the gate. Still grinning.
One of the Wrights got smart and maneuvered for position. I saw him scrambling between barrels, getting far enough to the side that the wagon was no longer between us. But line of sight goes both ways. I put a shot into his shoulder, and another into his leg, and then the hammer fell on an empty cylinder. Still running, I tossed the cylinder open and thumbed six fresh rounds into the slots. By the time I'd reloaded, I could see the wall of the Church gate over the top of the wagon.
Impact.
The wagon went sideways into the bars and smashed. Splinters went into my arm as I covered my face. I vaulted the wreckage of the wagon and kicked at the gate. It was already bent beyond its limits, and my boot struck the perfect spot. The right hand gate creaked and fell into the Church courtyard, rattling like a dropped saucer.
The second Wright stood up from where he had taken cover from the wreck, rifle at his shoulder. I put a shot into his chest even before he had the rifle clear. Good shots, these two, but poor at close tactics. Probably not a lot of cause for small-unit maneuvers inside the Church.
I dropped into the Church grounds and started walking toward the chapel's side door. These were wooden doors, cheap. A recent addition, bolted on as the Algorithm inside grew and swelled and new entrances were needed as old ones were choked shut by the engines of god. I was more careful now. Surely the crash would have been heard inside. They knew I was coming, or that someone was coming. There were a lot of windows looking down into the courtyard, but I didn't see any faces.
No way but the direct way. I rested my hand on the wrought iron handle of the door, breathing deeply. The iron was cold and my palms were sweating. Nothing to hear inside. Nothing to do but go at it. I pulled the door open and stepped inside.
The chamber was dark and cold. I had never been in here when the engines of the Algorithm weren't going. It made sense that the Engine would stop - the whole place ran on the angel's heart, and if Camilla had reclaimed that cog, then it should all shut down - but the lights should still be on. I walked forward carefully, keeping the pistol close to my hip, the other arm up to foil any attempts at disarming me. My boots were loud on the slate floor.
With just the light from the door, the gears and cogwork that crowded the chamber were reduced to spiny shadows. After a dozen steps I lost track of the clear path through the room. I bumped into a pillar bristling with machinery. The impact shifted some of the clockwork forward, setting off a series of clinking actions above me. I knelt down, in case someone with better vision heard me and looked this way. Not like I hadn't been silhouetted every step of the way. When I heard no other movement, I crept around the pillar, hand trailing along the ground.
They started by putting a boot down on that hand. I looked up at the crushing pain, just in time to see a boot swinging at the pistol in my other hand.
I was fast enough to deflect that, the boot just glancing off my forearm. I tried to stand, but my hand was trapped. Heavy, whoever it was. Another shadow stepped around the pillar and raised something long and heavy-looking over its head. I barreled into the body standing on my hand, crashing into a pair of legs and then something that felt like a pew. Behind me, the second shadow swung his weapon at the floor. A shower of sparks flowered in the darkness, and I could see that my assailants were robed, and large.
The guy I had bowled over grabbed me by the back of my neck and hugged me toward him, smothering my face against a chest that smelled like raw meat. Before I could bring the revolver around, he pinned that hand against the floor. I punched him twice with my injured left hand, right into the armpit. Probably hurt me more than him, but I was still riding whatever it was the Mother had done to me. Tried to stand, just in time to take a shot across my back from the second attacker. He over-reached his swing, but there was something sharp on the head of that club, like an ax or pick. Metal cut into my ribs as he pulled back to swing again. Enough screwing around.
I rolled toward my pinned gun hand, pulling the first attacker over me like a big, meaty blanket. The other guy had already swung; I heard the impact and the oaths when he realized he had his own guy. I squirmed until the revolver came free, then squeezed off two shots without worrying about where the barrel was pointed. The shots went wide, clanging loudly off the gearwork all around, but the muzzle flash did the job. With a smell of burned flesh, the guy on top of me jumped back. I lay an elbow against his neck and pushed him into his friend. They went down and I stood, emptying the cylinder into their dark shadows. The flash lit up the room like a lightning strike. Just two guys in robes, their eyes wide as the lead went home.
Still grinning. Really wishing I could do something about that. I felt hot all over, and there was a sheen of sweat across my brow, even though the room was cold. Freezing, even.
Lights started coming on in the hallways leading into the chamber. There was shouting, too, but that was coming from outside. Couldn't stay where I was, and I didn't want to go down either of the lit hallways. In the ambient light I was able to find a dark corridor. Good enough for me. Took the time to slot six more shots into the revolver, then jogged down the new corridor with one arm outstretched. Little chance I was going to surprise many more folks, not the way I was going.
This hall went up, which wasn't ideal. Getting caught was less ideal. I quickly found myself among the living quarters of the Wrights, all abandoned. Signs of struggle, blood on the walls, barricades that had been broken open. So his control of the Wrighthood was incomplete, or had been. Maybe Crane was stretching himself beyond his capacity. A lot of dead Fehn in the river for him to track, plus all the Wrights. Plus whatever he had going on with Camilla. She clearly thought she was the one in control, so maybe he was having to keep a low profile.
I came to a hallway lined with arched windows on both sides. It was a walkway between two parts of the building. The light was a relief, but it really wasn't much light. The skies outside were nearly night-dark, and rain was beating against the glass with heavy hands. Even in the miserable weather, a lazy spiral of crows orbited the Church. It seemed like more and more of the birds gathered with each passing minute. Was Crane using them as his eyes, or were these just soldiers, waiting for their orders? No telling. Not from in here, at least, and I had no desire to go out there and interrogate them. The whole lot of them seemed to be circling the lower terraces of the Church, the river-side of the building, where the Wrights kept their greenhouses. Almost like they were pointing to something, or waiting.
Or standing guard. I had seen him possess my father, but I hadn't seen the real Crane since he spotted us with his crows while Wilson and I were spying on him. If that had really been him. But he had to be somewhere, broadcasting his attention through these damn birds. For a while now, I had been assuming that he was holed up in some nondescript warehouse somewhere, locked into a crate or a vault or just hidden in plain sight. There was too much geography in Veridon to really do a thorough search, not with the kind of time we had. So I opted to head off his plans, rather than hunt down the man himself.
But what's to say that he wasn't in the Church somewhere? If he really meant to make a play for the angel, that would be a delicate operation. Maybe he needed to be on site? Camilla seemed pretty confident that they had captured Crane. And maybe they had, or at least he had allowed himself to be taken, so that he could be close when the next phase of his plan went down. Whatever that was.
I looked from the lazy cyclone of crows to the bulbous domes where I had left Wilson in Camilla's custody. Would he still be there? Different directions. I could get to both, but I had to pick which one to hit first. Save Wilson, kill Crane.
They seemed like the same thing, to my addled mind. That grin came back, stiff and tight. Shells clattered to the floor and I reloaded. Gotta be careful with my shots. Not many bright little shells left on my belt, and I had so many people to shoot. So many people to put down.
But first, Crane. Like I should have when we first met. Such trouble that would have saved.
M
OTTLED GRAY LIGHT
glimmered through the thick panes of the greenhouse, illuminating the room in a dull, pewter-like glow. There was no other light. Rows of wretched shrubbery huddled under the vaulted glass ceiling. It was cold in here, colder than the rest of the building. Like the glass panes were made of ice, sucking the warmth out of the damp, foggy air. Raised crosswalks ran between the plants, so that I was walking among their leaves. Below me was dirt and the creaking pipes of the irrigation system. Above me, beyond the greenhouse ceiling, the crows circled.
Crane was here, under guard. From the entrance to the greenhouse I could see four small fires at the center of the room, glimmering in their brass braziers. Crane stood in the middle of them, bound tightly in a tall cage, not much wider than his chest. His arms were bound to the bars, and his head was bolted into an iron box. Around him stood a dozen former Wrights, all of them showing signs of having changed into the cog-dead. These were presumably still under Camilla's control.
Logical Jacob would have dropped down among the trees and snuck up to the central platform. Taken them from below. But that grin was in place, and whatever fire the Mother Fehn had kindled in my blood was having no patience with stealth. I walked right down the center of the aisle, revolver in hand. Didn't take them long to see me. One waved and came to meet me halfway, leaving his brothers behind. It was a former Elder, his lips smeared in the stiff black gore of the cog-dead.
"Jacob Burn," he said. "We wondered if you would return. As poetic as your execution was, we began to doubt it would be sufficient to kill you off. Did the girl survive?"
"She did. Don't know where she is now, though."
"Of course. Why keep track of your ladies?" he said, smiling. When he was about ten feet away I raised the revolver and he stopped, hands up. "Calmly, Jacob. This is something we can talk through."
"I'm here to kill Crane, your master," I said. "So I don't really have time for talking."