by B.Y. Yan
dreams and back into mortal night. Before her arrival she was filled with many questions for him—too many, I assume, which might be answered in a single evening. But now that she has found somebody else altogether she was at an utter loss for words on how best to begin. Fortunately, he seemed to have made up his mind beforehand, and readily supplied for her deficiency.
“You have appeared at my summons,” he said to her in that strange, inhuman voice of rust and scraping iron, “And my messages reached you in the way I intended. You must be commended on your replies. No one else would have understood my intentions, but you read them well.”
Madine could only nod, and gulp. She was still working saliva into her mouth, which had gone suddenly dry ever since entering the cellar.
“Undoubtedly you thought you knew who I am,” he continued. “Or at least, you will remember your last meeting with the man whose sign I have made good use of in drawing you here to me. But what you do not know, or could not have guessed, is that I am no wandering, idle hand of your corrupt and decadent government, no Handyman to toil away at their business in the shadows. If anything, you may consider Bailey a hated enemy of mine, with whom we may still have business before all is said and done. He is to me what your own Lord Mandalin was to my predecessor twenty years ago, though you may rest assured that my reasons for approaching you in this manner are my own.”
Again, Madine nodded. She waited on him to tell her more.