The Mask And The Master: Book Two of Mechanized Wizardry

Book Two of Mechanized Wizardry

By Ben Rovik

Published at Smashwords.com

Copyright © Ben Rovik 2012

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Table of Contents

Maps

Prologue

Part One: The Voice Of The Masses

Chapter One: New Beginnings

Chapter Two: On The Hunt

Chapter Three: Mister Leader

Chapter Four: Fireside

Chapter Five: The Pretenders Will Fall

Chapter Six: The Feastday Hero

Chapter Seven: Going Public

Chapter Eight: The Golden Caravan

Chapter Nine: Petronaut Non Grata

Chapter Ten: The Consultant

Chapter Eleven: At The Gates

Chapter Twelve: Vanguard

Chapter Thirteen: Royal Reassignment

Chapter Fourteen: Hot Potato

Chapter Fifteen: Last Words

Chapter Sixteen: Cakewalk

Chapter Seventeen: The Battle Of Two Forks

Part Two: The Path To The Master

Chapter One: The Road Ahead

Chapter Two: Fort Campos

Chapter Three: The Wounded

Chapter Four: Greatsight

Chapter Five: Yough’s Verdict

Chapter Six: Two Sermons

Chapter Seven: Post

Chapter Eight: Borne By The Current

Chapter Nine: Sundown

Chapter Ten: Captives

Chapter Eleven: The War In The Woods

Chapter Twelve: One Cell For Another

Chapter Thirteen: The Audience

Chapter Fourteen: Columbine’s Army

Chapter Fifteen: A Mouthful

Chapter Sixteen: Collaborators

Chapter Seventeen: Word On A Wing

Chapter Eighteen: The Warlord’s Valley

Chapter Nineteen: Fresh Eyes

Chapter Twenty: The Siege And The Civics

Epilogue

About The Author

Other Petronaut Tales

Sample from The Fate Of The Faithful: Book Three of Mechanized Wizardry

Maps

Prologue

The cucumbers were enormous for this early in the summer. Hanah reached a gloved hand through the leaves and pulled a jade-dark gourd off the vine, marveling at the sight of it. The soil was warm here, a kilometer removed from the keep, and the rains had been kind so far. She placed the cucumber gently atop the others in the bushel and wiped away the sweat on her face. Her silver bangs were wet against her forehead, peeking out from underneath her wide-brimmed hat. She tucked them back out of sight and leaned in closer to the bush.

Dame Hanah, the soldier began again. She raised a hand. His boots shuffled in the dirt as he returned to attention, a few meters behind her.

I am aware, yeoman, she said in a slow, soft voice, that our visitors are anxious to know what we will do next. I’m aware that the garrison, yourself included, is anxious to know what we will do next. Would you believe that I’m just as anxious as all of you are for our master to make a decision?

Through the disciplined silence behind her, it was clear the young yeoman did not. Hanah stifled a smile as she gently dislodged a pair of summer beetles from a well-chewed leaf. Believe it or not, I’m actually quite perturbed, she murmured, watching the beetles fly.

Ma’am. The young man struggled for the proper words for his message. How brittle he must think I am, she thought, amused. He was so solicitous in his desire to avoid giving offense that it bordered on the offensive. That was, if she’d been inclined to take offense at anything anymore. After everything else she’d experienced in life, the haphazard words of a soldier weren’t likely to move her one way or the other.

He finally spoke. The visitors from Svargath simply want some reassurance. The stewards are having difficulty, uh, quieting them, in the hall. And, uh— since you seem to be at liberty, your presence could—

Do you know, I never thought these would grow? She looked over her shoulder at him, and he stiffened. He had a pointed jaw and close-cropped black hair, and his leathers fit him well. Hanah took him in with her hazel eyes, letting a hand rest on the mostly-full bushel of cucumbers. I didn’t plant a single seed, that first year, she whispered, remembering. It was all I could do to pull out the rocks, till the earth, spread the nourishing minerals and let them sink in. For two years after that, only a handful of plants survived the weather or the pests long enough to put out flowers, let alone crops. But every year, I persevered. And now? Well, yeoman—

There was a rush of air, and the young soldier barely got his hand to his face in time to catch the long green projectile. He looked past the vegetable to see Hanah lowering her throwing arm, a twinkle in her eye. I hope you like cucumbers, she said.

He nodded his thanks, eyes darting this way and that. Ma’am? Will you, uh—

"I will not come to see our visitors from Svargath, because I have nothing to say to them. I will not come to see them because every visit they make to our keep increases the chance of detection and endangers us all. I will not come to see them because they were not invited to come, and I don’t wish to encourage bad manners. Finally, I will not come see them, because I am busy with the cucumbers.

But, yeoman, Dame Hanah said, straightening herself up, "since you’re so eager to please, you may say this to our friends from the east. As soon as our master has made a decision regarding the options I have proposed, they will be the first to know."

Ma’am, uh—to paraphrase—they’re finding it difficult to stay patient.

We failed to kill the Princess of Delia last week, Hanah sighed, pulling off her work gloves. She massaged the arthritic joints of her right hand, wincing as her thumbs kneaded her bones. I don’t need to tell you that our master took that news rather hard.

Yes, Ma’am, the young man said quietly, his eyes flicking to the ground. Cicadas buzzed in the trees nearby, their calls rising and falling in raspy waves.

The cause continues, yeoman, Hanah said, her voice low and firm. And there are many fruitful paths still open to us—especially if we remain patient. As soon as our master has made a decision regarding the options I have proposed, they will be the first to know.

Ma’am. The young man bowed, recognizing the dismissal in her tone. He turned on his heel and began the walk along the beaten track of grass back to the keep, and the small knot of angry foreigners who would continue to make his day unpleasant. Hanah watched him go with her hands clasped together at her waist. It was hard for the young to be patient, especially in the face of struggle and setback. But she knew, with certainty that went right down to her old bones, that their plans would bear fruit if they persevered.

She looked down at the heaping bushel, and the long rows of ripe cucumbers yet to be picked throughout the garden. Her eyes unfocused as she imagined the spires of Delia, the gleaming white walls of the royal palace, and a little girl sitting on a throne ten sizes too big for her. Sometimes, the question isn’t whether or not the crops will grow, she thought grimly, but whether you’re ready to harvest the things you’ve sown.

With a soft grunt as she stooped over the bushes again, Hanah went back to work.

Part One

The Voice of the Masses

"Your words are as a storm

Where lightning strikes the highest place

And flood-tides dredge the lows.

None of those who hear are spared the pain..."

A Hundred Days of Water, Duronico, 780.

Chapter One

New Beginnings

Horace Lundin was not crying.

Obviously not, he scoffed, setting the great hatbox-shaped canister on his new workbench. The metal disks inside clattered against each other like cheap cymbals, noisy despite the padding. If I were crying, it would be because there were some reason to cry. And because there’s not, then, obviously, I’m not crying. It’s not like I’m the kind of person who has emotional responses at the drop of a hat without any—

Are you all right?

Of course, Lundin said, swiping his eyes fiercely with the back of his hand. He turned to the tall, dark-skinned man and cleared his throat. Just a few more packages to bring in, he said, tapping the canister with forced heartiness.

The man reached out and touched Lundin’s arm absently, his brown fingers giving a gentle squeeze. Glad you’re joining us, Horace, he said with a smile, of sorts. Lundin had seen that smile from almost everyone today; warm, but perfunctory, as if ‘make Horace Lundin feel welcome’ was just one more item on a mental to-do list. One look at the other man’s flickering eyes convinced Lundin he was already thinking about his next task long before the smile faded from his face.

You’re getting one of the biggest spaces here, the man said, removing his hand. Lundin brushed his hands against his stomach as he looked around, shaking his head in disbelief all over again. The immaculate workroom assigned to him, just one tech out of dozens here, was nearly the size of the Recon squad’s entire second-floor workshop, which the four of them had shared—

Had shared. Lundin swallowed, closing down that line of thought. Lucky me, he said.

The Board of Governors has reached a verdict on reassignment, in light of the new royal priorities and the testimony presented today by—

—need a hand getting your workspace arranged, just call out. Otherwise, see you in the morning, the man was saying, heading for the door.

Lundin blinked as the memory flashed past his eyes. He shook himself back to the present and raised a hand in farewell. Thanks... Martin?

Martext, the other man corrected flatly. Martext Goolsby gave his long black hair a little toss, placing an errant lock back behind his ear where it belonged, and adjusted his glasses. Everybody here had glasses, Lundin had noticed, in the same squished trapezoidal frames. Why would they choose to order lenses in such an odd, narrow shape? The frames had to cost a fortune, and for optometry purposes, getting the appropriate curvature on a thin trapezoid of glass sounded like a lens crafter’s nightmare. Vertical peripheral vision would be curtailed too, relative to normal circular lenses. Odd-looking; more expensive; less functional; and yet everybody has them. Lundin’s heart sank as he gestured self-effacingly at the well-groomed tech. Spheres help me, I work with trendy people.

Horace! a jovial voice rang out. Lundin turned just as a hand started pawing his shoulder. There was, apparently, another entrance to his workroom, and his new superior had just used it to sneak up on him. Lundin tried not to squirm as Dame Dionne beamed into his face, her eyes disappearing behind her high, puffy cheeks (and her trapezoidal glasses). She slapped him on the back as the big finish to her full-contact welcome, and he gasped; he was sure he’d find the indentations from her rings still visible in his flesh when he got home later tonight. Our newest technician, Dionne crowed proudly. Martext, have you met Horace?

Oh yes, Dame Dionne. What a pleasure.

An absolute pleasure, she agreed. We’re all just thrilled to have you joining the Civics. Are you looking forward to shaking things up for your new squad?

Ha ha, Lundin said, baring his teeth in a smile. Nothing else came to mind.

Ha ha! Dionne jumped in, saving the moment with a full-throated laugh. She pressed her fingertips against Lundin’s arm. Does everybody touch everybody here? Lundin thought, trying again to stand still. Do I have to touch people too?

Well, we couldn’t be happier that you’re working with us now. Listen, Horace, Dionne began, slipping an arm across his shoulders and turning him away from the workbench. Martext swept out the door, his long hair swishing across his back as he made a beeline for the next task on his agenda. Dame Dionne clenched her fingers around Lundin’s far bicep and pressed her arm along the length of his back, giving him a one-armed hug. Her tone became low and serious. "How are you?"

He cleared his throat. Sorry?

I know that hearing with the Board of Governors last week must have been hard for you.

When the heir to the Throne takes personal interest in a project, changes must be made—

Lundin shrugged, his shoulders tight against his body from the force of her hug. No, no. It’s all professional. It’s the best decision.

How long were you with the Recon squad?

Going on three years.

Dionne frowned and nodded with profound understanding. You get attached to people in three years.

—and, in light of the interpersonal and disciplinary issues raised in testimony, it is clear that reassignment would be advisable even without the royal—

Oh, I don’t know, Lundin said, eyes downcast.

You went through a lot together, especially in the last month. From LaMontina’s death on sounds like it was a whirlwind for you.

We worked together, but, you know, that’s what Petronauts are here to do. To work. Doesn’t really matter where, does it?

She looked at him. Does it?

—are therefore in the happy position to solve two problems with one single action; the reassignment of junior technician Horace Lundin from the Reconnaissance squad to the Civil Improvement and Development squad, effective—

Nope, Lundin shook his head. His eyes definitely were not watering.

Dame Dionne gently released him and stood in front of him, forcing him to look at her. She took off her trapezoidal glasses in a calm, easy motion and brushed a wisp of blonde hair out of her face with the back of her hand. The only people who take off their glasses for emphasis are people who only wear glasses so they can take them off for emphasis, Lundin thought uncharitably. Her vision didn’t seem remotely affected as her blue eyes crinkled away into a smile again.

I’m glad you’re looking at this so professionally, she said. I know some ‘nauts have unhealthy attitudes about us here on the Civic squad because we don’t ever go into the field.

No, Lundin protested.

It’s all right, Horace! I hear the jokes too. She looked over her shoulder, then grinned wickedly. What’s the war-cry of a Civic rushing into battle?

Lundin knew exactly what the war-cry of a Civic rushing into battle was, but tilted his head inquisitively. Dame Dionne raised an imaginary ream of papers over her head and put on a fearsome face. Fill these out in triplicate! she roared.

She laughed. He laughed. Please leave, he tried desperately to project into her mind as she touched his chest with her fingers, throwing her head back with laughter. Finally, the waves of her mirth died down, and he cooled down his own forced guffaws at just the right rate to trail off a beat later than she did.

Don’t let any of the other squads know, she said, wiping her eyes and putting her glasses back on, but I’d hazard a guess that Civics have more fun than any other ‘nauts in Delia.

Anything’s possible, Horace nodded, swallowing.

And I want you to have fun here, Horace. I know you’re a professional, and that you’ll be getting attention from the Regents themselves from time to time on your magic project. After all, Petronauts are here to work, she said with a mock-serious face. But I hope that once you’ve been with us for a while, you won’t see your fellow Civics just as people to work with. She put both hands on his upper arms and squeezed again. He looked down into her blue eyes, wide and shining beneath the frames. You’ll see us as your family, she whispered.

Please leave!

Thanks, Dame Dionne, thanks, I feel—I feel so welcome. Really, Lundin said, one hand reaching up to awkwardly pat her on the wrist.

Oh, good! she said, brightly. She let go of his arms and turned to go. If you need any help setting up today, don’t hesitate to ask. Can you be settled in by tomorrow morning? I’d love to bring your team in for a full briefing as soon as possible so you can put us in the loop on this wizardry project of yours.

Yes. Wonderful. I’ll look forward to putting you in the loop.

She stopped in the doorway, one hand high on the frame, and looked back at him. I’ll look forward to you putting me in the loop, Dame Dionne said, a smile playing across the edges of her mouth. As she walked away, her manicured fingers lingered on the doorframe, trailing behind her body until the hand, too, went out of sight.

Lundin stared after her. He leaned back against the high work table, wracking his brain for loop-based double entendres he might have unwittingly stumbled into. His brain came up empty. I don’t understand Civics, he whispered aloud.

You’ll get used to us, Martext said, standing in the other doorway with another box from the Recon workshop. Lundin leapt up.

Thank you. I’m, uh—just put it there, I’ll get the rest. Thank you, Martext.

Horace, the man said, quietly, inclining his head. He dusted off his hands and glided out of the room again.

Lundin looked up to the high ceiling as beams of cheery sunlight shone down through the skylights. He looked out across the long array of drills and lathes and machining equipment Dame Dionne had assigned to his exclusive use on his high-profile royal project. He ran his palm over the smooth, freshly sanded worktable in front of him, and thought back to the pockmarked slabs of wood they’d called tables at the old workshop, and the cluttered wall of well-worn tools, and the musty old shutters that were such a pain to open the place stayed shady as a cave almost year-round, and the rickety stools they’d sat on as they shared beers at the end of work. Sir Mathias, his huge hands enveloping his stein, shaking his head at Lundin and grinning; Samanthi, snorting happily into her mug before she hurled invective at him; and Sir Kelley—

Sir Kelley, do you have anything more to add?

Kelley looked out at Lundin from the stand, his green eyes flat and unblinking. I believe I’ve made my case, he said, with just a hint of triumph.

Lundin fished through his satchel until he came across the flask. Samanthi had given it to him a year ago, the fine steel hand-etched with an image of a wet rooster she found amusing for reasons she refused to explain. Its current contents had been a gift from Sir Mathias. Lundin stood, listening to the brandy swirling in the flask as his fingertips traced the lines of the design.

To new beginnings, he whispered. The brandy stung on its way down.

Chapter Two

On The Hunt

In Summation, the Board of Governors finds that:

One: being a Petronaut project that has attracted the direct interest of her Royal Highness, Princess Naomi Elizabeth Galidate Haberstorm, Heir to the Delian Throne, the Mechanized Wizardry line of research should be pursued with all appropriate resources and speed;

Two: inasmuch as the Reconnaissance squad has a mission of field service, not research, and lacks the designated resources and equipment to carry out the Mechanized Wizardry project to the satisfaction of this body, the project must be transferred to the Civil Improvement and Development squad with all prudent haste;

Three: being that Reconnaissance technicians Samanthi Elena and Horace Lundin conceived of the Mechanized Wizardry project and have unique and non-transferrable knowledge of its progress to date, one or both of them must travel with the project to provide continuity of research;

Four: whereas Samanthi Elena is the senior technician for the Reconnaissance squad and receives consistently favorable performance assessments from Sirs Kelley and Mathias, junior technician Horace Lundin has a thoroughly, perhaps irredeemably sullied disciplinary record with the squad, having committed infractions against his superiors ranging from the impulsive to the flagrantly malicious, e.g. using an untested technology to cast a magic spell on Sir Kelley for purposes of mental control, as we heard Sir Kelley describe in testimony;

Five: while expulsion from the Petronauts of Delia would normally be an appropriate disciplinary action for such acts of insubordination to his knighted superiors as Horace Lundin has committed, and testimony from Sir Kelley proves that retaining him in the Reconnaissance squad is untenable, his knowledge and vision vis-a-vis the Mechanized Wizardry project are instrumental to its successful progress;

We, the Board of Governors of the Petronauts of Delia, are therefore in the happy position to solve two problems with one single action; the reassignment of junior technician Horace Lundin from the Reconnaissance squad to the Civil Improvement and Development squad, effective the twelfth day of Joon, in this year 876.

The Mechanized Wizardry project will thrive with one of its founders spearheading research in an appropriately staffed and equipped setting; and, in the absence of Mr. Lundin and the interpersonal friction he caused, the Reconnaissance squad will henceforth enjoy smoother functioning and higher morale...

I hate you, Samanthi grumbled.

The Snoop hissed back a steady stream of static in response. Samanthi rapped her knuckles on the domed lid of the cylindrical machine, exhaling through her teeth. She turned the pickup knob up higher and adjusted the noise-cancellation sliders, trying to get a handle on the chaotic torrent of sound. But the static from the surveillance machine only got louder. She pulled the listening trumpet away from her head, scowling.

Is it working? the hapless field agent whispered, her freckled face worried as she look over her shoulder at Samanthi. The Delian agent was holding the Snoop’s ear awkwardly in both hands, pointing it towards the targets as directed. The ear was almost a meter wide and looked like a butterfly impaled in a collector’s box, with a long pin—an antenna— extending perpendicular from its center. The round-tipped antenna drew sound towards itself voraciously, and the two great swooping curves of the ear helped funnel sound from the target through the pin. The captured sound travelled along the thick cord connecting the ear to the Snoop, where it was processed, filtered, and piped to Samanthi through the listening trumpet. The effect was like listening with her ear to a door, where the door was upwards of three hundred meters away.

The effect right now, however, was like sticking her ear in a nest of baby snakes. Samanthi fiddled with the connections between the ear and the Snoop, and from the Snoop to her trumpet. No visible problems anywhere. No, agent, it’s not working, Samanthi said, choking back the more biting response that had come to the tip of her tongue. This poor woman’s not a Petronaut, she thought. I’ve gotta keep my damn language clean. It’s not her fault she’s useless.

She wiped her forehead, cursing the heat instead. Most of the year, the Tarmic Woods were lush, temperate, and tranquil. The huge forest covered nearly half of the Anthic Thrust, from west of Kess to the foothills of the Flinthock Mountains at the peninsula’s eastern edge. But in late Joon, overcast skies and oppressive, muggy heat were the norm. Between her constant perspiration and the sputtering, sporadic rain they’d endured since leaving Delia four days ago, Samanthi felt like she’d never lose the slimy, amphibious film that had become the new normal for her skin. As she pulled open a too-small access panel to inspect the snarl of wiring inside the Snoop, she felt acutely that this forested ridge was one of the last places in the world she wanted to be. She didn’t even care what the small knot of suspicious men and women at the bottom of the steep hill were talking about anymore. The targets could walk away this instant for all she cared, service to the crown be damned. The only thing keeping her focused was her ingrained Petronaut imperative; when faced with a malfunctioning machine, she had to fix it. Samanthi Elena could no more walk away from the broken Snoop than she could drink only half a beer.

You’ve been at this for ten minutes, Sir Mathias whispered next to her as she worked, his voice muffled through the visor of his helmet. Kelley was off to the side, arms crossed over his breastplate, impassive in his black Recon armor.

Because it’s broken. Sorry if that offends you, she snapped.

We need to act now, Sir Kelley interrupted, as Mathias raised a huge hand to placate her. She struggled to keep her voice quiet.

Well, it’s not working now! This is going to take time.

Too late, Sir Kelley said. Agent? Set down the ear, please. We’ll need to advance on the targets.

The field agent shot a quick glance at Samanthi. She spread her fingers wide across the metal dome and leaned heavily on top of the Snoop, staring down into the loamy earth and clenching her teeth. She let the listening trumpet drop with deliberate carelessness, and it thumped into the grass. She held out her hand to the timid agent, who passed her the ear. Samanthi grimaced as she held its weight with one whipcord-strong arm, flicking the row of power switches down on the far side of the Snoop. The background hiss of static through the trumpet died away. She looked into Sir Mathias’ imposing visor. Ten minutes is as long as I get for any problem, huh? she muttered.

You did good, senior tech, he said quietly, handing her the fallen trumpet. She looked away.

Sir Kelley, the agent whispered, adjusting her mottled skullcap as she moved to the Petronaut’s side. She brushed a cobweb out of her freckled face. Won’t advancing on the targets increase the chance they’ll detect us and escape?

Just like relying on bad equipment increases the chance they end their meeting and we learn nothing. Alert the Aerial and the rest of your team, he ordered.

The agent bobbed her head and dashed away through the underbrush, making no more sound than a deer. Sir Kelley swiveled his wrists, shaking his firing tubes clear. Senior tech, he said, his flat voice carrying softly through the trees. Activate the Communicator and monitor any transmissions coming out of the target site. Report immediately on any broadcast they make through the ether, no matter the content.

Sir, Samanthi said tightly, unplugging the cords from the Snoop in fierce yanks.

She watched Mathias and Kelley slink down the hillside, unnaturally quiet in their thick armor. Only the faintest whine of motors was audible as they disappeared from her view down the steep ridge. She finished coiling the coarse cable and set it in its padded case. Samanthi stopped for a moment, her brown eyes far away.

‘Senior tech this,’ and ‘senior tech that,’ as if we still had a junior...

Samanthi Elena was definitely not crying as she slammed the lid of the case shut.

Sir Mathias hung back, moving his feet carefully among the ferns and fallen twigs. He took momentary cover behind a wide-leafed rhododendron, its blossoms vibrantly pink this time of year, and watched Sir Kelley creep his way further down the hill towards their targets. He could see three men and two women in low conversation, with another man hanging back as a guard, a long musket ready in his hands. Pistols and swords were visible on every hip. Bird-watchers they are not, he thought, muscles tensed to spring at the first sign of their detection.

Approaching this group felt like a mistake. It was common knowledge that the long kilometers of forest between Delia and Kess, its neighbor city-state to the north, were full of smugglers and brigands. The overworked guards at the sawmills and the furriers who found their traps prematurely emptied could attest to that. Some criminal bands traced their heritage back to the Warlord years, claiming they were the elite remants of this army or the descendants of that conqueror, with grandiose mythologies that only inflated as those dark days on the Anthic Thrust receded further into legend. Most of them, however, were just gangs of hardscrabble drifters doing business on the wrong side of the law.

The black market trade in Kessian wine and art for Delian cloth and technology was a costly nuisance for the city-states, depriving them of a small fortune in tariff income every year. But patrolling every centimeter of the Tarmic Woods would have required an enormous armed police presence, and much more cooperation than the two coolly tolerant nations could typically muster. So small-scale criminals who were cautious with how they fenced their goods on either end of the trade route were largely ignored.

Just like we should be ignoring this scruffy gang, Sir Mathias thought, slinking as quietly as he could to the next tree. The odds that these individuals know anything we need are tiny. And if we had Abby along to run the numbers, that’s exactly what she’d tell us. But Mathias knew as well as Kelley did that the Regents were desperate for information, and that in their eyes any lead—no matter how tenuous—was worth pursuing. More than two weeks after the magical attack on Princess Naomi, Delia was no closer to knowing who was behind it, or why.

The wizard Jilmaq had been more than willing to talk (and plead, and rant, and weep) to questioners on a variety of topics, but his desperate testimony only proved how little he knew about the plot. By contrast, the traitorous steward Davic Volman spoke barely a word after his confessions on the feastday. He had stolen her Highness’ braid, recruited Jilmaq to the cause with a pouch of coins, and killed a serving-boy for coming too close to the truth; but as for his motives, his accomplices, or any other traitorous acts performed in a lifetime of service to the Crown, absolutely nothing was known. The heartbroken old man carried his silence to the grave, since Princess Naomi categorically forbade the Regents from having Volman tortured. Five decades of tireless, faithful service to the Haberstorm family had earned him the right to face his execution with some dignity, she argued. The four Regents raised an uproar, but she’d remained unmovable. Ignoring the whims of a child princess was one thing, but openly defying an heir who had completed the First Ordeals—especially if the heir went to the press with news of the Regents’ disobedience—was a much graver risk. So they relented, and the heir and her council watched, one gray morning, as a firing squad took Volman’s life behind the gatehouse in a moment of private violence, away from jeering crowds and stone-throwing patriots. The best potential source the investigation had was buried in an unmarked grave in the royal hunting grounds.

A bird warbled overhead as Sir Mathias pressed his broad back against a tree. He exhaled through his teeth, his warm breath filling his helmet. There’s one other person our questioners should bring down to the dungeons, he thought grimly. The four—well, three—members of the Reconnaissance squad were the only people in Delia who even suspected that the royal sorceror Ouste had been a part of the plot. Lundin and Samanthi were convinced that she’d set up phony magical trappings on the feastday, intending to let the Princess die while going through the motions of an arcane defense. Only some hasty magic from the squawk box had charmed Ouste into doing the right thing and Warding off Jilmaq’s spell.

Mathias believed his techs completely; but Ouste was incredibly popular, since, as far as the rest of Delia knew, she had saved Princess Naomi’s life. Convincing them that the sorcerer had only protected their Heir because she’d been under the influence of a sing-song spell of friendship cast by a squawk box in a linen closet would not go well, the squad had decided. So Ouste was untouchable, for now, which brought the investigation back to an empty slate.

While information about the plot in the Palace was hard to come by, there was also the matter of the thugs and the Petronaut who’d been guarding Jilmaq in Drabelhelm district. Dame Miri and Sir Sigurd had barely survived their ambush. Sir Mathias repressed a shudder, imagining himself going up against a band of killers like that with nothing but flimsy, glitzy show armor to rely on. Ever since the feastday, the low-level insults the Parade squad typically had to deal with from other ‘nauts—lightweights, dabblers, and loafers came to mind—had fallen silent. He suspected that the sniping would stay away long after Miri and Sigurd’s wounds healed.

The sole surviving thug had been hauled to the palace dungeon for interrogation. He was a highwayman with a few murders to his name on the winding roads between Delia and Kess. He was also apolitical, and, the questioners quickly decided, completely ignorant of the larger importance of the guard mission he’d been paid handsomely to undertake. Any hope for meaningful intelligence would come from the dead ‘naut’s body, which had been hastily whisked away to Workshop Row before the public or the press got sight of it.

The Petronaut’s face had been destroyed by Sir Sigurd’s fireworks, which made identifying her impossible. Her suit, however, told a fuller story. The ranine coils in the legs were ingeniously pressurized, following a design that could launch a ‘naut faster and higher than Delian models at the expense of reliability. The techs estimated that the suit’s coils would likely need serious maintenance or replacement after only forty jumps; a completely unacceptable lifespan, by Delian standards. The extendable claws were cunningly crafted, but took up valuable forearm space that most suit designs saved for a projectile weapon. The blank-faced mask was wood, the run-of-the-mill sort any costumer could make. Its varnish was an unfamiliar compound, toughening it significantly against slashes and impacts by its unfamiliar varnish. Dame Miri and Sir Sigurd had described a sinister yellow glow emanating from the eye sockets, but the flash disk’s detonation inside the mask had removed any traces of the machinery that created it. There was no way to even hypothesize what had created the glow, or what its function was.

Even more head-scratching came from studying the breastplate, boots, and gauntlets, which were made of an incredibly tough, woven, non-metallic compound the technicians couldn’t identify. Some experimental Delian designs had tried going away from steel in ‘naut armor, turning to ceramics or even layers of dense fabric in efforts to strike a new balance between protective power and mobility. But they’d never deployed any designs like that on the battlefield, not trusting them to adequately protect Delia’s ‘nauts. Protection seemed almost an afterthought for the foreign ‘naut, whose woven armor was full of seams to slip a knife into and left critical regions like the neck exposed. What was more, while Delian Petronauts had full body-suits which mechanically augmented their muscles and joints from head-to-toe, the only meaningful machinery in the foreigner’s suit was in the boots, with their ranine coils, and (presumably) the mask. This meant that her power needs were miniscule compared to even the lightest Delian suit, and the fuel bladder in the small of her back was correspondingly a fraction of the size. She was more vulnerable, and her suit lacked the profusion of equipment Delia’s gadgetheads crammed into each suit of armor; but she was tough, light, agile, and could keep fighting for years on a single barrel of ‘tum.

The conclusions were inescapable. For the first time since the city’s founding, someone outside Delia was building ‘nauts that could stand toe-to-toe against what Workshop Row could produce. For the Board of Governors, knowing that someone else on the Thrust had erased Delia’s technological edge was crisis enough. The fact that that same someone was willing to deploy ‘nauts on Delia’s streets to kill her citizens and threaten her crown elevated it into a nightmare.

And so, here we are, Mathias thought, his arm raised to cover Sir Kelley as the senior ‘naut sank into a crouch behind a fallen tree, forty meters away. Chasing random smugglers in the woods, on the off chance that they know who’s been supplying tech to a shadowy workshop that’s a decade ahead of the best ‘naut construction we’ve seen from Kess, Svargath, or the Halcyon Territories. What an efficient use of our time.

He shook his head clear. Useful or not, this was the mission the Board and the Army had assigned them to, at Lady Ceres’ direction; and anything was better than sitting at home and waiting for Delia’s enemies to attack them again.

Sir Kelley was intently listening to the knot of smugglers, his head cocked and his armored body absolutely still. The men and women were too far away for Sir Mathias to make out their low conversation, but Kelley had closed the distance enough that a single enhanced leap from his hiding place would land him right in their midst. If they were saying anything of interest, hopefully Kelley was picking it up.

One of the smugglers stabbed his finger towards the ground, leaning in closer to the woman he was speaking to. As the man moved his arm, a long metal cuff slid down his wrist. Mathias frowned, tilting his head for a better view. It covered more than half of his forearm, but hung loosely, like a bracelet. The thin man unconsciously pushed it back towards his elbow with his other hand, continuing to speak and paying no attention to the ill-fitting accessory. Strange thing to be wearing, out here in the forest. It looked so awkward Mathias had trouble believing it was decorative, but what practical purpose could a too-big bracer on only one arm serve?

The woman moved to a bundle on the ground and untied it with a sharp yank. Craning his neck, Mathias caught a glimpse of gleaming black fur underneath the oilcloth. Judging by the height, there were maybe three dozen pelts in the stack. A heavyset man was arranging another cloth on the ground as she rifled through the poached skins. The thin man with the cuff crossed his arms over his chest, visibly impatient. The woman lifted about a third of the skins from the stack, holding them away from her body, and set them into the other cloth. As the heavyset man tied up the new bundle, the woman put her hands on her hips and barked something to the whole group. ...want to kill yourselves, then go ahead! came drifting up the hill to Mathias.

The thin man closed the distance with the woman, his finger in her face. Every hand went to a weapon as the rest of the smugglers eyed each other. Far from being a unified group, it was clearly two against four now. The woman and the heavyset man wanted their cut of the furs, and the others weren’t inclined to give it to them. The heavyset man had a nervous hand on each of the pistols in his belt as he stood behind the woman, carefully watching as the guard let his musket drift towards the pair. The thin man gestured angrily at the smaller bundle of furs, then pointed south with one long finger. Mathias unconsciously drew closer to his tree as the man’s finger pointed essentially right past him, but none of the smugglers even looked up.

The woman raised her palm. ... to Delia? Now? her voice rose, as she looked the thin man and his three cohorts in the eye, one at a time. She dipped her head and rocked back on her heels with mock casualness, and her mouth moved through a slow series of words.

It must have been an insult—and a good one—because suddenly the air was bristling with guns and swords, and the heavyset man was frantically trying to cover four enemies with two weapons. Spheres, Sir Mathias thought, shifting his weight. These idiots are going to kill each other before we learn anything! The arguing man and woman squared off against each other impassively. He extended his arm past her, pointing at the furs with an air of finality. His metal cuff slid out of place again, jangling down at the base of his wrist. With a lazy motion, she lifted a gloved hand from her hip and flicked the metal bracer, hard, with the backs of her fingers. There was a metallic impact, then a brief chattering sound—

And three claws ratcheted out of the cuff.

Just like the blades on that ‘naut in Drabelhelm! Mathias’ eyes went wide, his body tensing up. This band of thugs just became a thousand times more interesting.

He shot a quick glance across the hillside to Sir Kelley, who was looking right back at him, his body language reading the same anticipation. Kelley pointed to the