“So you knew my father,” he muttered. “Am I supposed to care?”
The man gestured at Hob’s coat. “You don’t wear that for warmth.”
Hob sniffed. “Why are you showing me this? What do you want?”
Mr. Burke looked intently at him. “I want you to come with me. The Fellowship needs people like you.”
“I don’t know anything about the Fellowship,” said Hob. “Besides, I’m needed here.”
“Why? To provide for your family? You’ll earn more in a few months with me than twenty years breaking your back in the mines.”
Mr. Burke produced a roll of solars wrapped in silver foil. Hob felt dizzy.
“How many are in that?” he asked hoarsely.
“Twenty. Come with me and they’re yours. Your mother could give up washing and buy a proper house. Can she do that if you stay?”
Hob considered. “How do you know I won’t just take the gold and ditch you?”
Burke shook his head. “Not your nature. Besides, I’m not just giving you money. I’m giving you a chance to join something far bigger than you can imagine.”
Hob laughed. “What’s that then?”
The man gestured at the chasm. “Open your eyes. Magic folk, the ‘Great Houses’ that run the empire—they’ve been spooning us lies, hobbling us so we can’t break free of their control.”
“You sound like Porridge.”
“The filmmaker? He’s heavy-handed, but he isn’t wrong. Most muir sleepwalk through life. Few know anything of our true history and scientific achievements. The Workshop has warehouses teeming with technology salvaged from before the Cataclysm, but it’s locked away, collecting dust because the Faeregines won’t let them reintroduce it. We can’t be trusted with such toys, you see—our benevolent empress know best. Most of us spend our entire lives as lost little sheep. Muir will always be in the dark so long as mehrùn rule Impyrium. We’re slaves in all but name.”
Hob lifted his chin. “We’re not slaves. I was invited to attend the Impyrial college.”
Mr. Burke looked as though he couldn’t believe Ulrich Doyle’s son could be so blind. “My boy, what do you think the Province exams are for?”
The question made Hob uneasy. “To find the best and brightest,” he answered. “The empire needs administrators.”
Mr. Burke chuckled at this. “Aye, that they do. Identify the most gifted muir—those most likely to pose a threat—and indoctrinate them while they’re young. Instead of fighting the system, they become a part of it while their positions maintain the illusion of opportunity. Rather ingenious, eh?”
Hob’s cheeks burned. His performance on those exams was a point of pride, a ready rebuttal to those that turned up their nose. Hobson Smythe might be a lowly miner, but he was also the brightest thirteen-year-old in the entire Northwest province. A broken plaque said so.
“I guess you think I’m one of those sheep,” he muttered.
Burke’s eyes blazed. “You don’t have to be! Come with me, Hob. Stay here and you’ll spend a dismal life wondering what might have been.”
Hob shook his head. “I can’t just leave. I don’t even know you.”
“But I know you,” said Mr. Burke gently. “I’ve visited Dusk four—no, five—times since you were born. Mostly as a trader, once as a magician.”
Hob’s mouth nearly fell open. “Salamandyr?”
Mr. Burke inclined his head. “In the flesh, although that disguise nearly proved my ruin. I’ll never steal a chicken again.”
Hob tried to smile. “My friend, Mole, still thinks you’re the real thing.”
But Mr. Burke did not appear to hear this. He leaned forward with an intense, serious expression. “Listen, Hob. I swore to your father that I’d check up on you if anything happened to him. I’ve kept that promise. He also wanted me to guarantee you a place in the Fellowship, but I couldn’t do that. We all have to prove ourselves worthy. Tonight, you did so.”
Rising to his feet, the man casually brushed snow from his pants. He betrayed no trace of any injury.
“I don’t understand,” said Hob. “This was all a test?”
“Not all,” Mr. Burke allowed. “Verifying this city’s existence is of immense importance. But my visit also gave me an opportunity to see what you’re made of. You have your father’s courage. Not many people would have risked their life to save a stranger.”
Hob was appalled. “But what if I hadn’t?” he exclaimed. “Or what if I’d missed? You were unarmed. The golem would have crushed you!”
From a hidden holster, Mr. Burke produced a second revolver. “I’m never unarmed. But I am out of time. The Cey-Atül Transcontinental is departing for the capital at noon and I need to be on that train. I’d like you to accompany me as my assistant.” He cocked his head. “What do you say, Hob? Are you ready to take up your father’s mantle?”
Hob stood silently in the frigid darkness, clutching the photograph and pondering this bizarre turn of events. He had so many questions for this man: questions about his father and the Fellowship, about the ancient city entombed beneath them. He almost laughed. How often had he raged against the injustice of his life and circumstances? He had never forgiven the Fates for giving him brains and then snatching away his opportunity to get out, to leave Dusk and make something of himself. But opportunity had returned to pluck at his sleeve. Hob glanced at the dark chasm. He did not have to mine ore; he could mine truth—truth about his father, the Faeregines, and the world they ruled. And he could support his mother and Anja in the bargain.
He blinked, realizing suddenly that it was snowing. How long had he been standing there? Mr. Burke looked inquisitively at him.
“Am I buying one train ticket or two?”
Hob exhaled. He knew what he wanted to say, but had no idea what was going to come out of his mouth. His reply was barely a whisper.
“Two.”
A grin broke out on Mr. Burke’s face. He gripped Hob’s arm. “Good lad. Your father would be proud. Let’s get moving. I’ve a motorcar waiting in Wulfast.”
Hob felt almost giddy as he ran to the sledge. The evening’s events and their ramifications swirled like flurries about his head. Minutes later, they were speeding down the mountain toward Dusk. No wolves were waiting at the bridge, which was fortunate for the wolves. In his present high spirits, Hob might have eaten them.
Forty minutes later, the realities of leaving had doused Hob’s euphoria. He sat on the idling sledge, gazing forlornly at the cottage’s dark windows.
“I’d only go in for a minute,” he said, hoping for a different answer.
“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Burke, not unkindly. “We’re already running late and mothers don’t give up their sons so easily. Leave the note and the money. I know it’s hard, but you’re doing them a kindness.”
Steeling himself, Hob scrawled a hasty message that he was off to make his fortune. Wrapping the letter around the roll of solars, he slipped them in the sack of dirty linens by the front door. His ma would find it when she woke.
She would miss him, of course, and curse him for not kissing her good-bye, but Freyka Nansook had grown up the daughter of a Hauja shaman. Hers were a practical people, tough and stoic to a fault. She’d shed a tear or two in private before breaking the news to little Anja. Then she’d consult Mother Howell on how best to manage the gold.
Ten years without work or worry. That’s worth a few tears.
Returning to the sledge, Hob eased it quietly down the alley behind the temple. He wanted to avoid the early risers.
Once they passed the mining depot, they had to descend a series of steep switchbacks until they reached paved roads. Edging round an overturned timber freight, Hob banked onto the pitted highway that led south toward Wulfast. He was barely conscious of his passenger, or the rosy dawn. His eyes were on the road, his heart back in Dusk.
True to Mr. Burke’s word, a motorcar awaited them in Wulfast. It was parked at a scrap lot on the city’s outskirts, a
wedge of polished black steel. Nearby, a group of vagrants warmed themselves by a small fire burning in an oil drum. As Hob brought the sledge to a stop, a uniformed driver exited the car, greeted Mr. Burke in a foreign tongue, and began loading his gear into the trunk. The man took almost no notice of Hob until Mr. Burke indicated he would be coming along. The driver merely nodded, glanced at Hob with a pair of watery blue eyes, and opened the back door for Mr. Burke.
Hob could not decide if the driver was being rude or professionally discreet. While he pondered this, one of the vagrants—a brutish man who reeked of drink—approached and tried to take the sledge. When Hob refused to give it up, Mr. Burke rolled down his window.
“It’s all right. He’s disposing of it for us. Get in.”
Leaving the sledge to its new owner, Hob hurried over to the door now being held open by the driver. He had never been in a motorcar before, had only seen one when the magistrate awarded him his plaque.
Hob climbed in, careful not to let his boots muddy the leather or lacquered wood. The air inside was warm and smelled faintly of cedar. Moments later, they were speeding south, leaving Wulfast’s soot-blackened buildings and refineries in their wake. Mr. Burke pulled off his gloves and settled low in his seat.
“I intend to sleep. I suggest you do the same.”
Hob tried to close his eyes, but sleep was utterly out of the question. Instead, he gazed out the window as the car’s powerful engine gobbled up the miles between Wulfast and Cey-Atül. They passed a few villages and towns, but the view was largely tundra and the dwindling Sentries curving toward the horizon. Now and then, Hob would pinch his palm. He felt like he was entering a different world.
This was confirmed when he beheld Cey-Atül. Its skyline jutted against the sky, ringed by a halo of haze and smoke that poured from factories on its outskirts. He saw tall buildings that reminded him of those beneath the Impyrial dig site. Empty freight cars glinted on a labyrinth of train tracks outside the city walls. These walls were much higher than the ones surrounding Wulfast. Bands of raiders plagued the Northwest and some numbered in the hundreds. Cities took precautions, but villages like Hob’s had limited resources. Dusk’s only defense was a wooden palisade.
But Cey-Atül was civilized. In addition to high walls and motorcars, it boasted a harbor teeming with ships, and an Impyrium flag that flew from the tallest tower, rippling above the Faeregine banner. Hob gaped at it, his breath fogging the window as the car approached a gated archway. Behind him, Mr. Burke stirred.
“Don’t stare,” he yawned. “You’ll look like a rube.”
Hob laughed. “I am a rube.”
But Hob leaned back as Impyrial Guardsmen waved them through the archway and directed them to a special lane free of the common carts and wagons clogging the commercial avenues. The lane funneled them toward a massive building with great stone columns and a statue of Mina I in aged bronze. Impyrium’s first empress was always depicted as a child—an angelic girl making a sign of benediction.
The first Faeregine. Nothing like that crone in Porridge’s film.
A large crowd of shabbily dressed people were gathered about the statue’s base and overflowed into the street, blocking their way. Many carried old suitcases or carpetbags. Some carried nothing at all. A guardsman was trying to herd them with little success. Mr. Burke told the driver to pull over.
“We’ll get out here,” he said. “Purchase fares for some of the poorer souls. Ten in steerage, three families in coach. Have my things sent aboard. Take care with that camera.”
Hob tried not to turn about and stare as he followed Mr. Burke toward what Hob now realized was the train station. Broad flights of steps led to the entrance, but Hob caught sight of an official waving at them from a door at street level. Mr. Burke was evidently a known and respected figure, for the official bowed and promptly led them down a series of narrow corridors so they could bypass the crowds. Ten minutes later they emerged from a private door onto a platform where one of the famous Transcontinentals was boarding.
Hob had never seen anything like it. The Transcontinental utterly dwarfed the freight trains littering the city’s outskirts. Its steam-hissing engine must have been fifty feet in diameter with a ring of giant floodlights set in its copper plating. Behind it were scores of triple-decker cars with oval windows and elegant scrollwork. Their escort took them to a forward car where a man in a crisp suit stood by a ramp. Pleasantries were exchanged, sums passed hands, and the suited man—their escort called him a concierge—led them into a luxurious cabin twice the size of Hob’s cottage.
Mr. Burke let the concierge take his coat. “Bring us brunch and the latest papers,” he said. “And send for the barber. The lad needs a haircut.”
Once the concierge withdrew, Mr. Burke sat on an elegant couch and began looking over some travel documents. Unsure what to do, Hob sat at a small dining table by the window. Throughout the station, swarms of hunched, spindly goblins were running about, shining lanterns beneath cars and making sure all was ready to depart. Many passengers were still boarding. Among the well-dressed crowd, Hob spied a hooded shape towering conspicuously above the rest. The figure turned, revealing a wolfish profile as it spoke to an elderly woman. Hob stood for a better view. Mr. Burke looked up from his papers.
“What are you gawking at?” he asked.
“A vye, I think.”
Mr. Burke returned to his reading. “You’ll still find them in the bigger cities. A hundred or so still live in the capital. Is it alone?”
“No,” said Hob. “It’s talking to a woman in black robes with orange cuffs.”
“Amber cuffs,” Mr. Burke corrected. “Sounds like a Promethean scholar. Unusual sight this far west. They rarely leave the Sacred Isle.”
“What are they?” asked Hob.
“Mystics,” said Mr. Burke. “They advise our beloved empress on all things magical.”
Hob gaped so openly he might have had rube tattooed on his forehead. He didn’t care. A vye and a mystic were standing right outside! The two were boarding the train now, locked in close conversation while an entourage of soldiers and officials followed them up the ramp. Hob sat back down and drummed his fingers.
“Another habit we shall have to break,” muttered Mr. Burke.
“Sorry. I can’t sit still. I’ve never been anywhere before.”
Mr. Burke tutted. “Nonsense. You’ve just been someplace rare and wonderful. Not five people have stood where we stood last night. Not for thousands of years.”
“I mean someplace with a name,” said Hob.
“But it has a name. Before the Cataclysm, it was called Vancouver.”
There was a knock at the cabin’s interior door. When Hob opened it, an elderly gentleman wished them good day and rolled in a barber’s chair along with a small cart. A minute later, Hob sat beneath a clean white cloth. Mr. Burke directed from his chair.
“Clean and neat. Side part.”
The barber nodded and poured a kettle of steaming water into a basin to wash Hob’s hair. The concierge returned, pushing another cart laden with covered dishes, a silver carafe, and several newspapers. The aroma of bacon filled the car.
The train sounded a long whistle, triggering a flurry of commotion outside. But Hob did not have to run or hurry. He sat in the comfortable barber’s chair and glimpsed Mr. Burke’s reflection in a gilded mirror.
Hob’s new employer did not even blink when the doors closed and the massive train eased into motion. He was wholly engrossed with an article on the front page of The Dryad, a popular penny rag. A faint smile appeared as his eyes traveled down a column. When he turned the page, Hob glimpsed the main headline:
PALACE KILLERS STILL AT LARGE
No arrests in attempted theft of Lirlander Seals.
Royal family “terrified” says court insider.
Hob glimpsed other headlines: rising wheat prices, the disappearance of rare creatures from Workshop’s biological exhibits, and the latest victory by Hellfyre,
an undefeated racehorse making a bid for the Impyrial Stakes.
He wanted to read more, but the barber tilted his chair back to wet his hair. Instead of a newspaper, Hob found himself gazing at a chandelier, its crystals clinking as the train eased slowly out of the station. Hob tried to keep his breathing steady. On the other side of this vast continent, Impyria awaited them: a city of sorcery, the heart of the empire, and home to the dreaded Faeregines.
CHAPTER 4
SUPPER WITH THE SPIDER
Excellence and contentment
are fundamentally incompatible.
—David Menlo, archmage (17 P.C.–72 A.C.)
Master Montague was an unpleasant person: ill-tempered, half-deaf, and uncommonly flatulent. The combination was unfortunate for, unlike her more mature classmates, Hazel could not keep from giggling. Whenever he noticed her silent contortions, the master would glare and demand to know what was so funny. It was a question that could not be answered. Not without driving the man into retirement.
And so Hazel sat in the back, near the radiator whose soft hissing drowned out the master’s lapses. It also drowned out his lectures, which often meant Hazel only had a foggy grasp of the day’s topic. Master Montague’s expertise was Muirlands history, geography, and political economy. Violet and Isabel might need to study such things, but Hazel found them torturous. She wasn’t going to be Divine Empress or conduct affairs of state; she was going to focus on magic. Instead of memorizing useless facts, she could have been learning Anatovsky’s Spectrum, or any one of the intriguing new spells Rascha promised to teach her this spring. Besides, how could she possibly concentrate on transportation networks after what happened last week?
Dr. Razael and Sergeant Beecher had been buried, Private Finch remained hospitalized, and Lord Faeregine had practically vanished. Hazel understood Uncle Basil’s reclusiveness. Despite interrogating scores of suspects, investigators had yet to arrest anyone for the crimes committed on New Year’s Day. While Hazel could not blame her uncle, she did miss him. Aside from Isabel, he was her favorite relative, and they often had Sunday brunch together. His secretary had canceled the last one, citing his lord’s “present condition.”
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