Ish stared up at her. "Thank you," she said. "Next time I will know always to bring a sword to a gunfight."
Down at the landing, Doc shook off Alastair's restraining hand and got unsteadily to his feet. Ish turned to look. "Are you well? What now?"
Doc leaned against the wall. "We cover these stairs and wait for Athelstane's men to get to us with gas masks." His voice was weary; it looked as though he were having trouble focusing. "Then I want to see where those men came from."
* * *
Gunfire woke Fergus. He looked around.
Blackletter's gunmen lay in the corridor, dead or unconscious. The gunfire came from the laboratory. Fergus rose and looked in through the laboratory door.
Joseph, the clay man, looked liked a pincushion of the gods, so mottled was his skin with the craters and divots of gunfire. No longer could he be mistaken for a man even at this range. He chased Harris around the ruined lab, inconsiderately stepping on bound men as his path took him across them.
He carried a four-foot club, the leg of a lab table. He swung it, a fast, brutal attack. Harris struck the table leg with his hand, snapping it in the middle, sending half its length spinning across the room, but he continued to back away from his attacker.
Fergus forced his mind into some sort of working order. The old man had said Joseph was still his. This proved it. And with the evidence before him, Fergus doubted that any amount of gunfire would be enough to stop Joseph.
He turned to one of the grimworlders he'd killed and opened the man's backpack. Inside were several of the items and weapons he'd seen during his long night of questioning. And there was the one he wanted, the bomb-in-a-bag they called a satchel charge.
He pulled out the haversack full of explosives and drew the man's knife from its sheath. His fingertips tingled. It had to be made of steel. Stupid grimworlders.
He flipped open the sack and stared at the loops of cord fastened to its side. His mind was suddenly a blank. All night he'd surreptitiously watched as Costigan and Dominguez instructed Blackletter's men on the use of this equipment, and now he couldn't remember what they did to light the fuse.
Joseph tried to keep himself from thinking as he backed Harris up into one of the heavy metal barricades. If he thought, he might come up with tactics to use against his enemy. He didn't want to do that. He wanted to be stupid. To give Harris whatever advantage he could. Harris rolled back over the barricade and came up to his feet before Joseph could take advantage of his moment of awkwardness.
But Joseph kicked the barricade, throwing it and Harris to the floor with brutal force. He wished he hadn't thought of doing that.
He felt a sting in his back. He turned.
Fergus Bootblack stood there. His hands were empty. So was his face; there was no emotion there to prick at Joseph's guilt, to increase his sorrow.
"I have to smash you now, Fergus."
The mechanic just shrugged.
Joseph swatted him. He felt Fergus' upper arm break under the blow. The mechanic flew sideways, landing beside the door to the hall.
Joseph turned again. He pulled the metal barricade off Harris. The man's eyes were open but unfocused. Joseph picked him up and held him nearly at arm's length, as if the man were a steering wheel.
Joseph could feel the knife still protruding from his back. It felt heavier than it should. Something hung from it. No matter. "Harris," he said. "Wake up. I have to kill you now."
Harris came awake with the sickening realization that these would be his last moments on Earth.
Joseph held him almost gently. "I am going to break your neck," the giant said. "That way it will be over fast."
Harris kicked him in the head. Joseph's features deformed and then stretched back to normal.
Harris had the sudden impression of fire blooming behind Joseph. Then he was traveling backwards, the giant still clutching him. He saw clouds overhead and knew that he was falling.
He felt a sudden blow and the world spun away from him.
* * *
Duncan hissed in sudden vexation. Now his hangar unit was no longer answering him—unless cursing and moaning counted.
He'd failed. In part, at least; he'd wasted men. But it would still be a success if Joseph were able to kill Harris Greene, Gaby Donohue and the other grimworlders present.
He switched the talk-box dial. Captain Walbert's lean, bearded face came into view. "Captain!"
"Sir?"
"We're done. Take us away."
"Yes, sir."
Duncan saw relief in the captain's face. He switched off and frowned. The captain just did not show the proper enthusiasm. He'd actually had the nerve to protest hovering here and inviting retaliation from the Monarch Building. Of course it was dangerous—the Storm Cloud was a flying bomb. So was any hydrogen-filled liftship. But this job required nerve and toughness, which Walbert did not appear to possess. He'd have to be replaced.
Doc loosed the cables holding the rotorkite rotors in place while Noriko climbed into the cockpit. Ish gathered the rappelling ropes and drew them out of the way, but they were already beginning to withdraw from the hangar. Rain fell on them all through the open roof door.
Overhead was a vast gray expanse hovering below the cloud layer. It was a liftship—a huge vessel, easily two hundred paces from end to end, with the name Storm Cloud painted along its side. The ship slowly drifted eastward; in a few moments it would be clear enough for the rotorkite to lift off. Not far above the liftship was the solid mass of clouds Doc had studied earlier.
Doc understood the clouds now. They were not an attack; they'd been a screen for the liftship's approach. He chided himself; he'd been prepared for another airplane fly-by and rocket launch, but not for a liftship invasion.
He popped open one of the rotorkite's gullwing doors and climbed in, then dogged his door shut. Noriko spun up the rotors. Doc ignored the noise as Ish pounded on his door from outside.
"Checklist?" Noriko asked.
"No. Just take her up."
Harris became aware of a dull roar as his hearing and consciousness returned. His chest felt constricted. He opened his eyes.
He dangled in the wind, the collar of his jeans jacket in Joseph's grip. The giant, with his other hand, held onto the lowest wingtip of one of the ledge gargoyles.
There was a crater in Joseph's back a foot deep and three feet in diameter. Opaque gray fluid poured out of it, something like clay barely diluted with water. The giant's eyes were dull, nearly unseeing.
Far above him was the skyscraper-sized zeppelin-liftship.
Harris looked down. There was nothing between his feet and the sidewalk but a thousand feet of air.
"Harris."
"Yes, Joseph." He reached up and tried to get a grip on the clay man's arm. It was slick with the fluid from his back. Joseph shook him and easily broke his grasp.
"I'm going to die, Harris. When I do, I will fall, and you will fall, and you will die too. But I want you to understand that I do not do this myself. I cannot stop myself."
"I understand." Harris tried to reach up for the ledge with the statues. His arm was a yard too short. He touched the face of the wall and could find no purchase. "Are you sure you can't just tell Duncan to stuff himself? I'd really appreciate it."
"No. My limbs do not move in a direction that disobeys him. Can you forgive me? Please, Harris."
"Yes, Joseph. It's not your fault." He felt his throat tighten with grief for the pain Joseph was feeling.
"The explosion was propitious. It allows me to give you a few extra moments of life without disobeying Duncan. And it means I will not be able to harm Gaby."
Harris heard a scrape from behind Joseph; he turned his head back to look.
A rope dangled behind Joseph, ten feet away. It brushed the statuary, stretching from the liftship above to somewhere below Harris. And it was moving, swaying toward him. "Just hold on as long as you can, Joseph."
The rope swayed a yard closer. Harris looked up and saw the liftship's
propellers turning. The ship was moving, dragging the rope along with it.
Joseph began to droop. Harris saw that the damage to his back was worse than before—made deeper and rougher by water erosion, Joseph's "bleeding." Harris grimaced.
"I am losing strength, Harris."
"How do you want to be remembered?" The rope edged closer. It almost touched Joseph. Another yard and it would be within Harris' reach.
"It will do no good for me to tell you."
"Tell me anyway."
"I would like to be remembered for having hurt no one. But that would be a lie."
The rope slid to within inches of Harris' hand. Joseph finally saw it. He looked puzzled.
Harris stretched, grabbed it, and dragged it to his right hand. With all his strength, he kicked away from the building face. The move pulled him free of Joseph's grasp.
Harris swung out from the building, then back toward it, hitting the wall two full yards away from the giant. He managed to get his feet up and took the impact with his legs.
Joseph's face twisted into a faint smile. "No, I was wrong. It will please me to be remembered for having failed in my last duty."
He fell, leaving a stain of gray clay on the wall.
Harris watched him disappear. Something hard and bitter swelled in his throat, closing it.
He felt his feet lose contact with the wall; they were now half a foot away from the stone. He looked up.
The liftship was picking up speed, carrying its trailing ropes and Harris away from the Monarch Building.
Gaby woke up feeling tired but peaceful, as though the blast of knowledge through her had washed her clean.
She was in Gabrielle's room. She tried to slide out and back into her body, but couldn't.
That was surprising. It hadn't happened since she'd first put the two halves of herself together. She felt a tug of fear and opened the eye in the communications room.
She saw herself slumped in her chair, her head lolled back, mouth slightly opened. Her eyes moved rapidly under closed lids. She didn't look hurt.
She tried to switch to the eye into the laboratory, but it was gone.
Then memory returned of her unexpected swim in knowledge. She must have fallen into a veritable sea of information.
Data. Duncan must have brought a computer from the grim world. Hooked it into his communication grid here. She hadn't been prepared to handle that amount of information.
Information—something about information she'd recently received was nagging at her. Names, dates . . . then she had it.
Essyllt Tathlumwright had said that Doc was born in 116 M.X.R. Gaby translated numbers in her head. That would have been Scholars' Year 1303. More than a hundred and thirty years ago. Doc was older than even she had thought. She'd read accounts of purebloods who achieved incredible age.
That made him old enough—
She looked into her mirror, sought out a specific eye, and opened it. The face of Essyllt Tathlumwright appeared, looking startled. "Goodness," the older woman said. "I don't think I even had it switched on."
"You must have," Gaby said. "Pardon me for calling back so soon—"
"You've changed."
"What?"
"Your clothes. You've changed. It's very becoming."
Gaby looked down at Gabrielle's dress and smiled. "Thank you. There's something I forgot to ask before. Did Desmond MaqqRee and his wife have any children?"
"Oh, yes." Essyllt looked at a sheaf of notes on the table before her. "One, a son. Named—"
"Duncan?"
"That's right." Essyllt beamed approvingly. "Born One Thirty-Eight M.X.R. You've been doing your research, too."
"Yes." Gaby felt cold sickness crawl through her. She tried to keep it from showing. "I have to run, Essyllt."
"Until later, then. Grace." Essyllt faded away again.
What had it done to Doc to believe that he'd killed his own son twenty years ago? What would it do to him to have to kill him now?
Dangerous as Duncan was, she had to prevent that, for Doc's sake. Gaby frantically looked for another eye.
His arms trembled from exhaustion, but Harris kept climbing. The gaping doors in the bottom of the gondola were not much farther above.
He had seen no one peering through that hole at him. He looked down and saw the skyscrapers of Neckerdam moving sedately below. This time there was no vertigo to bother him. So far, so good.
The rotorkite approached the liftship from astern, rising above it. "We can't stand off and trade fire with it," Doc said. He thought about it for a bare second. "So drop me on top."
"You're insane," Noriko said. "Do you remember being so exhausted you could barely stand, less than a chime ago? You're drained."
"It wasn't as bad as the time in Cretanis. I promised less, it took less. And Duncan is tired, too. He had to have put everything he had into holding that cloud together for so long."
"But his men, his soldiers, aren't. They're fresh and have better guns than you. No."
Doc gave her a surprised look. "When did you become so contrary?"
She looked flustered, also unusual. "I'm simply not going to let you kill yourself so that you will think of me as a good, obedient associate."
"I won't kill myself," he said, keeping confidence in his voice. "Noriko, I have to deal with Duncan. No one else can; he's a Deviser. No one else has to. Get me to him. If we don't stop him now, he will be back."
He saw her expression of resignation. She kept the rotorkite on course and said nothing more.
Duncan heard the distant thup-thup-thup of a rotorkite. He switched to the cockpit view again.
Captain Walbert turned from the wheel to look at him. "Yes, sir."
"We have more trouble. Doc or some of his men have taken to the air."
"Yes, sir. I've already sent the men to the gun platform."
The liftship's gun opened up before Noriko anticipated it, when the rotorkite was still half a stad away. Doc winced as he heard and felt bullets rap against the fuselage. Immediately the pitch of the engines changed, climbed. Noriko veered, lost some altitude, then gained a little back. She began evasive maneuvers, making the aircraft a more difficult target.
She brought the rotorkite in from astern, so close beside the liftship's great vertical fin that Doc feared a sudden breeze would hurl them into it, so close to the liftship's skin that the man at the ship's tail lookout position ducked down into his niche as the rotorkite passed over.
She was so low, in fact, that the men on the armament platform, toward the bow, couldn't depress their guns far enough to hit her without endangering the liftship. Doc actually felt the rotorkite's landing gear hit the liftship's skin; the kite bounced a little higher and continued forward, just above the curve of the ship's skin, until they were halfway or more to the bow.
"Best do it now," Noriko said. "Hear the engine? We will not get another pass; I have to land."
Doc didn't dare open the gullwing door. He'd be fighting rotor wash and affecting the rotorkite's flight characteristics. He kicked the window out instead. He leaned out.
Five paces below was the skin of the liftship; the rotorkite's window, still in its frame, hit it and began bouncing down its curving slope. "A little closer, Noriko."
The rotorkite's talk-box popped. Gaby's voice: "Is anyone there?"
While Noriko slowly brought the rotorkite down, Doc leaned out further, drew out his clasp-knife, and pulled it open. He'd need to use it to anchor himself against falling, then cut his way through the skin. He pulled on a pair of gloves; liftship skeletons were made of steel, uncoated for reasons of weight, their crews wearing heavy uniforms and gloves as protection.
Noriko finally felt steady enough to thumb the button on the talk-box. "I'm here, Gaby. With Doc."
"Don't let him get anywhere near Duncan. Duncan's his son—"
Doc grimaced and leaped free. He hit the rubber-cloth surface of the liftship and bounced, rolling down the slope. On his second impact,
he managed to drive the knife into the ship's skin. He slid further downslope, cutting a rent three paces long in the skin; then he got his free hand into the tear and stopped sliding.
Wash from the rotors pushed at him as the rotorkite banked away. Noriko must have begun the maneuver as soon as she understood Gaby's statement. But it was too late. He was within striking distance of Duncan at long last.
As Harris got his hands on the lip of the bomb bay, his strength failed him. He hung there, legs wrapped around the trailing rope, and waited for his energy to come back.
It didn't.
He cursed. He'd just have to do the job without it.
Then Darig MacDuncan, the Changeling, stepped into view above and kicked him full in the head.
Sudden, shocking pain in his temple—Harris' right hand slipped and he rotated a half-turn, gripping the lip of the bomb bay floor with only his left. He frantically grabbed the rope with his right.
Just in time. Darig, smiling, stepped on the fingers of his left hand. The pain cost him his grip.
The sudden adrenaline was what he needed. He hauled on the rope for all he was worth, popped up over the lip of the floor, and grabbed Darig's ankle. He yanked. The Changeling fell, scrambling frantically as his legs stretched out over more than a thousand feet of air.
Harris grabbed the Changeling's belt and hauled. The Changeling, teeth bared, grabbed the sturdy base of a winch and didn't budge, so Harris used him for purchase. He pulled himself up atop the blond man and onto the metal floor beyond.
He put his back to the wall of this small metal cabin, next to a doorway hatch. "Give up, Darig." His words came out in gasps as he struggled to gain control of his breath. "Or I'll kick the hell out of you and you'll end up a big red smear on a Neckerdam street."
The Changeling glared. "I am not afraid of death, bug. But I will make it worth something." He grabbed Harris' leg and pushed off, rolling out through the hole.
Harris frantically gripped the lip of the hatch beside him. The Changeling's weight yanked at him, threatened to tear him free; the impact stretched him taut. Another second and he'd slide out the hole, paired with Darig in a skydive to death.
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