He sought Bryony out—she was playing cards with a red-headed friend and the dashing young Duchess Briarfield. Her position as courtesan had broadened her social horizons more than her unacknowledged birth, to be seen in such exalted company.
“Come dance with me,” said Rafe, abrupt, black-humored, needing desperately the company of someone who knew him as more than an amusing and useful piece of furniture.
Bryony threw down a card with a gesture almost like throwing down a gauntlet. “Royal, rack and ruin. My win, I believe.”
The redhead groaned, the Duchess cried, “Oh, you’ve had Selene’s own luck all night. Do go away and dance with the young man, Bryony, then I may actually have a chance to win!”
Bryony fanned out her gilt-edged cards on the green velvet table and gave her hand to Rafe. He helped her out of the chair and led her on to the floor. They faced each other, her hand on his shoulder, his at her waist.
“What’s bitten you, Rafe?” Bryony took the first steps. Rafe recalled himself and took the lead.
“I think I’ve forgotten how to enjoy myself.” Rafe took Bryony in a slow stately twirl, trying to feel pleasure—any pleasure—at being on the dance floor once again. He remembered the blood and flame, the sweat and scorching of the firedancing. Compared to that, this was slow and tame.
What was he doing at a party while Blackstone burned down rival cities, antimachinists disrupted Oakhaven’s internal affairs, and there was the Tors Lumena still to be found? Isabella, he was sure, was out working. If only he could… what? Join her? And leave his duties here? The thought was uncomfortable, like a trickle of cold water down his back.
“You missed a step,” commented Bryony. Rafe tried to focus on the music, but all he heard was the pounding of drums and felt waves of heat press against his face.
To distract himself, he said, “You look well, Bryony.” Her dress was simple but elegant, the earrings in her lobes and the pendant around her neck understated. Bryony had no share in the legacy of embroidered sleeves and bodices and fancy jewelry amassed by generations of Grenfeld women. Their brother’s wife had received all of that. New dresses tended to be cut in clean straight lines, to avoid waste of fabric.
Bryony nodded. “Yes, I’ve found another employer.” Her dark blue eyes narrowed, gauging his reaction.
“Anyone I know?” Rafe forced his tone to be light.
“He prefers our relationship to be private for the time being. I-I hope to have good news to share with you soon, Rafe.”
Who was this mysterious patron? Was Bryony hopeful that he would marry her?
“Bryony,” he began, awkward, wondering what an affectionate younger brother should say to this.
She flashed him a merry smile. “I know what you’re thinking, Rafe! No my expectations are quite different. In fact—” A loud boom interrupted her. The floor trembled and Bryony stumbled into Rafe. He steadied her as platters clattered to the floor, women screamed, and Lady Brightmoon’s exquisite chandelier rained hot wax and glass teardrops. The lights—gas, not mage-made—flickered.
“Excuse me, Bryony.” Rafe left his sister sitting on a sofa along with many wide-eyed matrons and crossed the room. He threw open the great glass doors and stepped out onto the veranda. The night was dark. All the streetlamps were off.
Behind Rafe, a crowd of nobles spilled out from the house and onto the veranda and balconies above. No one had thought to fetch their overcoats. The ladies were still in their shoulder-baring finery, the men bareheaded and in dancing jackets. As one, they faced the commotion, listening with eerie silence to distant cries of alarm.
Lady Brightmoon fluttered up to him, wringing her gloved hands. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she murmured. “Is it a
fire
?” Her voice dropped to a whisper on that fearful word.
Footsteps rang on the street. A moment later, a figure rushed up the steps and came to a stop by the simple expedient of falling to his knees. Lady Brightmoon and the others standing with her recoiled from the burnt smell coming off him.
Rafe stepped forward and put a hand on the other’s heaving shoulder. “Quick, man. What’s happened?”
“The antimachinists,” gasped the man. “There were too many… and we too few… pushed us out… took over… they’ve blown up the compressor station!” Gasps followed his pronouncement. The man winced as Rafe unconsciously tightened his fingers. He let go at once.
“Roland must know immediately,” said Rafe. “Lady Brightmoon, can you spare a speedy servant?”
“Y-yes.” Lady Brightmoon straightened.
“Good. Get this man some water. There must be a few ministers about. Let them know.”
“What about you?” gasped Lady Brightmoon.
The screams were louder, and now they could clearly hear panicked voices crying, “Fire! Fire!” A bell clamored—a fire bell. The brigade would not be long.
“I’m going to see what’s going on there,” said Rafe grimly. “You should be prepared to evacuate.”
“Leave my house? But surely…”
“Fire makes no distinction between the noble and common. It would just as easily turn your house to rubble as it would a tailor’s. Someone lend me a scarf?” A silent young lady handed him hers. Rafe dipped it into a nearby fountain and wrung it out. With that, Rafe jogged away, towards the source of terror and confusion.
All the lights were out. Bodies hurtled into him, ricocheted off, stumbled over their own feet and each other. Handcarts trundled, men carried children on their backs, carts and trolleys went whizzing by. It was Ironheart all over again, and once again he was going the wrong way.
But this was Oakhaven, a better-planned, better-equipped city, his own home. The guards would be out in full force, and the fire brigade. The machines would be here soon, crawling up from their subterranean homes, hauling water tanks and bags of sand, some with nozzles that sprayed foam to smother the fire. Rafe tied the scarf around his nose and mouth and plunged towards where the city burned an unhealthy red.
The only part of the station above ground had been a one-storey building, kept padlocked and surrounded by a chain link fence with spikes twisted into the metal to discourage trespassers. The gate was now torn open and hanging loose; the building itself was engulfed in flames. A wide space around it kept the fire from jumping to other buildings for now, but Rafe had no doubt that the fire beneath raged hotter and fiercer, and it would soon move along the power lines, gaining more fury with every furnace and oil and gas reservoir it met along the way, melting steel, weakening the hidden supports that held up the whole city.
Dark figures ran back and forth in futile frenzy, silhouettes outlined in flame. Some heaved bucketfuls of water at the fire. It was like fighting off an army with a pair of sugar tongs.
Rafe grabbed the nearest fellow by the arm. ‘What happened? How did they get in here? What happened to the security?”
“I dunno, sir,” said the man hoarsely. “Our guard showed up at quarter strength; we figured they were up to something big some other part of town. The antimachinists must’ve gotten every one they had to pull this off.”
The Circle Line trap
, thought Rafe, heart sinking.
The antimachinists must’ve found out about it, and struck where they knew we wouldn’t be watching.
“What about the hoses?” he asked.
“Burned. The shed was the first to go.” Hoses and other fire-fighting equipment were usually stored in a nearby shed for emergencies like this.
Come on, Roland, where are those nozzle-noses? Is the Machine sleeping?
Clang, clang, clang! Shouts of hope, people jumping out of the way. The fire brigade was here, a large box-like vehicle, exhaling steam, driven by a grim-faced man who stood at the wheel and the lever, wrenching, twisting, and turning. Men leapt down before the vehicle even came to a stop.
Hoses snaked through the air, and landed with thumps, one, two, three, four, every one that they had managed to cram onto the fire-cart. One fell at Rafe’s feet. He snatched up an end, dragged it to the nearest hydrant, jammed it onto the pipe inside.
“Ready?” He looked at the two men holding the other end. They gave him a thumbs up. Rafe twisted the lever. Pipes groaned, water grumbled deep underground, Rafe held his breath. If the water pipes had been damaged…
Water shot out of the hose, leaping for the fire. A ragged cheer went up. More gurgling and rumbling, then hissing as all the other hoses were trained on the fire. Soon, a solid curtain of water was falling on the burning building, beating back the flames. Rafe and some of the others grabbed sand bags from the fire-cart, and beat at the tiny sullen fires left behind when their monstrous mother retreated. It felt good to thump the fires out of existence.
The ground trembled. Comforting vibrations hummed in Rafe’s bones, machine chatter filled his ears. The nozzle-noses were here, coming through their underground ways. They would keep the fires below at bay, while sand and sweat and water took care of the ones above.
And if he kept beat-beat-beating, he wouldn’t have to think about the one he suspected had tipped the antimachinists off.
Rafe, covered in soot, his clothes reeking of chemicals and scorched fabric, burst into Tristan’s bedchamber.
“Wha…?” Tristan sat up far too quickly for one who had been supposedly sound asleep. His eyes, wide and fearful, held no trace of slumber.
Rafe crossed the bedchamber in a few quick strides and grabbed Tristan’s shoulders. “Tell me that you are not the one who warned the antimachinists.”
“What?” Tristan’s jaw hung open in shock. “Why would I…? Besides, they do have a point… ow!” Rafe’s fingers bit deeply into his flesh, and Tristan tried uselessly pry them loose. “Let me go, Rafe! At once! Where are my guards?”
Rafe shook him, just hard enough to get Tristan’s attention. “The Shelland compressor station was attacked tonight. Blown up. Three people dead, dozens frightened and displaced. Five houses fire-and-smoke damaged, not to mention how many districts have lost power for who knows how long. No heat, no light, no industry. Selene! They’ll be perishing with the cold.” His gaze bored into Tristan’s frightened blue eyes. “Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“I-I didn’t,” stammered Tristan.
Rafe let him go and stood back. Tristan rubbed his shoulders, face contorted into a grimace of pain.
“Get dressed,” said Rafe. “You’re going out to survey the damage.”
“Did my father…?” began Tristan.
“No.
I
am saying so. It’s about time you saw the other side of the coin.”
Tristan opened his mouth, glanced at Rafe’s ferocious soot-covered aspect, then thought better of it. “I’ll be right there.” He put his feet on his floor and disappeared behind the dressing screen.
A moment later, his muffled voice said, “Rafe? I’m sorry about this.” He sounded sincere.
Rafe said nothing.
“I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Rafe did not believe him.
I
T HAD BEEN ALL
too easy to shadow Tristan, so easy that Rafe wondered why none of the youths who comprised the Prince’s Guard had uncovered his activities and put an end to his excursions weeks ago. All the veterans—the former soldiers, the seasoned watchmen—had been pulled out to help elsewhere in the city, leaving the prince in the guardianship of younger sons supposedly eager for glory in the royal family’s service.
Except service was a lot less glory and a lot more inconvenience and boredom. Tristan had no trouble dismissing the pair of gold-sashed swaggering youths who comprised his escort. They went off to a bar across the street, while Tristan slipped into the foundry where he was supposed to be learning about molds. Rafe circled the building and placed himself near the back entrance, half-turned away from the door, face buried in a newssheet. Not long after, Tristan, divested of his fancy coat and dressed in a plain jersey, sidled out, looked around uneasily, and trotted off. Rafe waited a bit, then pushed away from the wall, and, tucking the newssheet under his arm, strolled after Tristan.
They were in the Iron District, a confusion of smithies, foundries, and machine repair shops under Shimmer-made lamps mounted on tall posts, flooding the twisted streets with a harsh white light. The pounding of metal upon metal was a constant cacophony in Rafe’s ears. Smiths in leather aprons and rolled-up sleeves worked outside their shops. Tinkerers had laid their wares of metal goods in makeshift stalls. Rafe, in a coarse coat and filthy shirt, had no trouble blending in. With all the people and the shops spilling wares and work halfway into the street, it was easy to duck out of sight every time Tristan looked over his shoulder—which was not very often. The prince seemed to be in a great hurry.
Tristan stopped between a dealer of scrap iron and a small machines repair shop. Rafe pretended to be very interested in the brass pots and pans hanging on ropes across the street; he tilted a particularly large pot this way and that, ostensibly seeking defects, in reality watching a miniature Tristan going into a narrow alley and through a door. Rafe glanced around to make sure no one was looking at him, then froze. Another customer was employing the same trick to keep an eye on the same door. Rafe looked around carefully, seeing another man nonchalantly leaning against the wall, reading a newssheet that was three days old.
Antimachinist guards?
Then the fellow reading the newssheet ran his fingers through his hair. His fingers made small gestures—hand signals Rafe recognized.
Call for backup. We’re going in.
The other customer abandoned all interest in the pots and pans, and disappeared down a side-alley.
Flames! A raid on the antimachinists’ hideout and that fool Tristan would have to be there at the same time.
Rafe put down his makeshift mirror and crossed the street. He looked into the dealer’s—a small man in spectacles was climbing up and down ladders, taking inventory—and then at the machine repair shop. A pair of muscular youths drank tea, while all about them broken typewriters, lamps, and heaters sat in sad heaps, completely ignored.