Now she had it. This was a clockwork golem. The diagrams she'd seen had given them triangular heads and curved forearm and thigh tubes, but the ticking gave it away. Those fists didn't just punch. They opened up, revealing whirring saw blades that cut flesh and sawed bone. A useful and intimidating property in a bodyguard.
On the other hand, you never wanted to fight alongside such a device. Or against it in close quarters, if you were the one to drop it. Luma remembered the relevant passage.
"You have a clockwork bodyguard," Luma said.
Grobaras's features contorted in annoyance. Clearly he'd meant to intimidate her with the thing. By giving her a puzzle to chew on, he'd calmed her.
She pushed his irritation, moving closer to the golem. Its head tick-tick-swiveled, tracking her progress.
"You have it as a deterrent against close-up attacks. When dealt a decisive blow, a clockwork golem explodes. Red-hot shrapnel and flying blades fill the air. To get at you, attackers have to drop it—at which point it blows, and kills everyone nearby. Though I assume the others are meant to drag you out of the radius before that happens. If all goes according to plan, that is."
"Reading books doesn't make you clever, girl."
"You must also have a measure against missile fire, yes?"
Grobaras turned his back on her. He took a drink, popped an egg into his mouth, chewed it down, drank again, and faced her, his composure regained. Luma took the flustered reaction as confirmation.
"It's true," he said, "that I'm not much of an interrogator." He picked up a spoon and idly tapped it against his palm. "Khonderian would do a much better job of this. If you hadn't murdered him. You see ..." He patted his gut. "You wouldn't think it, but I've a weak stomach. Can't stand the sight of blood. After a heavy meal, especially."
"It would have gone better for you, girl, if you'd let yourself be intimidated. Save face, then reveal the truth. Now you'll still tell us, but at what cost?" He tapped the golem's torso; it rang hollow. "Will you break after he takes your right hand? Or both of them? With the legs, we might have to do it in sections. Take the feet first, then perhaps halfway up the calf ...I'm not a bloodthirsty man, but don't doubt my determination."
Voices rose in the hall outside. The lord-mayor's human bodyguards swarmed to the main entrance. Luma heard a muffled conversation at the door, which eventually opened. In swept Councilor Urtilia Scarnetti, whose grandson they'd rescued. Her small entourage included several other councilors and Iskola, who acknowledged Luma with a curt tilt of the head.
Luma found the lord-mayor's response surprisingly moderate. He corrected his posture, strolled to the desk, and picked up the wine bottle. A servant produced another glass, which Grobaras then filled to the halfway point. He held it out to Urtilia.
"I'll abstain," Urtilia said.
"Fair enough." Grobaras drained his glass, then the one he'd poured for her.
Urtilia held out a folded piece of vellum. A bureaucrat intervened, taking it from her and passing it to Grobaras, who glanced at it and let it drop to the floor.
"By order of the lord justice," Urtilia said.
"I can read, Urtilia," replied the lord-mayor.
"You've exceeded your authority. For years your bodyguard has encroached on the duties of the city watch. To think that you could seize a member of a great family, bypassing the Justice Court. We have rules in this city, Grobaras. Rules which will remain in effect long after your gout-ridden carcass pollutes a grave in the Cenotaph."
Grobaras smiled. "You continue to elevate our rhetorical discourse."
"Don't condescend to me, you fat bag of offal. If you've enough evidence against this woman to charge her with a crime, refer the case to the court. If not—and I gather you don't—release her posthaste."
Grobaras picked up the lobster tail and peeled a strip of meat from it. "We'll keep her, pending the filing. Given her family's stature, she'll be spared forcible questioning, until the lord justice approves the writ."
Urtilia Scarnetti twitched in disgust. "Long have you profited from disunity among the Council of Ushers. You wish to bring us together, Grobaras? Defy a direct order of the court. Then see what happens."
He stepped to her. "That supercilious look will fade when I prove that the Derexhi killed my chief bodyguard. Then you'll have to explain why you stood up for them."
Urtilia hesitated.
Iskola moved to her side. "His Honor has already conceded the point. My sister is free to go, correct? And when we have been cleared of this false suspicion, the lord-mayor will admit that anger blunted his judgment. A lapse we shall graciously forgive." She took Luma by the arm and led her from the lord-mayor's office.
Chapter Ten
Triodea
Arrus had been sitting on the grand staircase's lower steps, and jumped to his feet as Bhax and another of the servants hauled open the foyer doors. For a moment, Luma thought he might come down to wrap his arms around her. When he reached her, stopped short, and put his hands on hips, she saw the absurdity of her assumption.
"What are you smiling at?" he asked.
"I'm not," Luma answered, realizing that she was, a little. Trying not to smirk made it worse.
Iskola tried to steer her around him. "Let it rest, Arrus ..."
"Rest? We can hash this out here, or in the squad room, but we have to— Luma, what did you tell him?"
"Nothing."
"Did you genuinely say nothing, or did you banter with him and trip yourself up?"
"There was nothing to say. He thinks one of you ordered me to murder Khonderian, and that I did so, on behest of a client."
"So you didn't do as I told you."
"When we got there," said Iskola, "we found Grobaras on the verge of apoplexy. From that, I judge Luma's performance more than adequate. Now let her wash up."
Arrus paced. "So did you succeed in drawing him out?"
"Someone saw me following Khonderian," said Luma. "That's all he has."
"And how did you let yourself be seen?"
"Can't say," Luma shrugged. "It's tough enough doing a one-person tail and not having your target see you. I don't recall being made, but then I wouldn't, would I?"
"You're awfully impertinent, given the cost of this failure."
"Maybe compared to the threat of a golem sawing my limbs off, being second-guessed by you isn't so terrifying."
Arrus stopped pacing. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"The mouse has a point," Iskola said.
Arrus wheeled on her. "You're her defender now?"
"Arrus, calm yourself."
"I don't need to be defended," Luma blurted. "I didn't fail. An operation threw a wheel. Happens all the time. To each and every one of us. It's how you recover that counts. And I recovered fine."
"Don't shriek at us, Luma," Arrus said.
"No, I'm going to say this and you're going to listen. I resign as family scapegoat. No longer will I accept this."
"Accept what?"
"You know very well. I comported myself perfectly in there. Same as you would have. I even have a lead."
"A lead?" Arrus asked.
"This thing, it has something to do with golems."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know yet, I sense it ...the lord-mayor has a golem bodyguard, there's a golem uprising in Bridgeward ...it hasn't come together yet in my head, but it's all part of the same complex melody ..."
Arrus threw up his hands. "I'm sure that will hold up at the Justice Court. You hear the city sing to you ..."
Luma pointed at Iskola. "My magic is as real as hers. That's exactly what I mean. You're constantly denigrating me. All of you, but you more than everyone, Arrus. Because I let you. Well, this is my notice to the lot of you. Starting today, it stops."
Arrus turned to Iskola. "And I'm the one who has to calm himself?"
"Let's all of us pause for breath," Iskola responded. "This is what Grobaras wants. For us to turn on each other."
"Who hired us to track
Khonderian?" Luma asked her.
Iskola passed her outer cloak to Bhax, who bore it away to the garderobe. "As soon as it's possible, I'll tell you. You have my word."
Luma pursued her out of the foyer and into the ballroom. The floor squeaked under her feet. "That's not good enough."
"It will have to be," Iskola answered.
Luma grabbed her and pulled her around. "I'm the one they're fixing to stick up on the gibbet!"
Iskola pulled her arm away. "I'll talk to the client. It will take some persuading."
"I don't care what you tell the client."
"Certain of our patrons find you an uneasy presence."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're spooky. You lurk. You think the city talks to you."
"It does."
"And nobody likes a girl who can steal their thoughts."
Luma stormed up the steps, headed for her father's room. This time, Yandine was nowhere in sight. Silently she turned the latch and peeked in. Her father sat propped against the head of his bed, a ledger in his lap. With a jittering finger he followed its entries. If he'd heard the argument through his chamber's thick walls, he betrayed no sign of it.
She slipped inside. "Father," she said.
Randred's features lit up. "You're back," he said. His expression clouded. "They mistreated you."
Shaking her head, Luma sat on the mattress' edge and wrapped her arms around him. He smelled of camphor. "Iskola showed up with political reinforcements before that could happen."
"Then that unpaid mission I upbraided Iskola for has more than justified itself," he said. "I owe her an apology."
"I am grateful for it," Luma said.
Before she could go on, Randred insisted on knowing all that had happened: in the coach, at the prison, before Grobaras. Luma's efforts to quickly summarize events fell before his frequent interjections. She gave him every detail.
"We've won the merest respite," he said, when he had wrung it all from her. "Grobaras believes he has you. He has always disliked us, as he does any force in the city outside of his control. Only the true killer, delivered to him on a platter, will move him from his assumption. No one will do this for us."
"Indeed," Luma said.
"But you must confine yourself here and let the others take point. Anything you do might be construed as cause to seize you again. And then all the Urtilia Scarnettis in Magnimar won't save you from the torturer's slab."
"Father, Grobaras doesn't just want me. It's all of us. He kept asking whether it was you who ordered Khonderian's murder, or Iskola. Whichever of us goes out will be exposed."
"But you most of all, Mouse."
"We need someone who can sneak, who can pry open loose lips. Ontor can't do it alone."
"Then I'll pull in dirt-sorters from other squads." He clutched his side.
"You're unwell," she said.
"It's nothing."
She considered telling him that she knew. And she would, soon. One battle at a time, she told herself. "I would never question your authority, Father."
He gave her a wan smile. "Which means you're about to."
Luma clutched his hand. It was cold. "I've come to a decision. If I'm belittled around here, it's my doing. I'm a Derexhi, and an adult. Older than them. As capable as any of them. The only way to earn their respect is by standing up to them. Starting now."
"Starting with what?"
"Iskola wants me off the streets, too. I'll be defying that order. If it means defying yours, too ..."
Randred dropped the ledger to the floor and held her. "Belay what I just said. I was talking nonsense. I've been suffering a touch of the rheum and it's fuddled my head. Of course you must act. Whatever the others say. This is Magnimar. No one here will give you respect if you fear to seize it."
Luma broke the embrace. "It is also Derexhi House. Where the same maxim applies."
∗ ∗ ∗
Informing no one, Luma left early in the morning for the Triodea. She walked along the Avenue of Hours, where the warm winds of early spring came out to greet her. Gulls circled overhead; she felt their hunger and greed. Thinning clouds skidded through the sky, transforming it from gray to blue. In these signs—well, except for the gulls, gulls were a constant and didn't mean anything—she chose to find an omen. Her standing up for herself, and behaving like a woman instead of a girl, would be good for all. They would kick and complain; to adjust one's thinking is never pleasant or easy. When all the fuss was over, they would see the advantage in adding a full, equal partner to the squad. They would trust her better, and she, them. To fight without trust is to invite defeat.
As she trekked on, the sun rose higher. Traffic trickled on the avenue, then grew thicker. She passed ox-sellers, laborers, gilded carriages, bird-catchers, chimney sweeps, and a flag-draped cart carrying a troupe of traveling players. She ducked a wandering fortune-teller, warned a carter that a wheel was coming off, and stole a pickpocket's purse when he tried to take hers. Its contents she doled out to child beggars and blind men.
By the time the Avenue of Hours opened into the plaza housing the Triodea, the citysong had reached a peak, high and clear. Nowhere to Luma's senses was its sublimity purer than here. Mid-morning sun shone on the tripartite structure. It intensified on the long, white hangar of the Grand Stage and dulled on the gray surface of the adjoining concert hall. Bright-breasted birds gathered atop the reaching awning of the rooftop stage. The plaza, called the Starsilver, glittered beneath Luma's feet. In place of cobblestones, it was surfaced by tiles inlaid with pieces of reflective abalone shell. A well-scrubbed work crew took its unhurried time searching out broken tiles. When they found one in need of replacement, they gathered around in murmured colloquy. After prolonged contemplation, the crew leader nodded to an aide, who dipped a brush into a pot of soluble red paint, hunched down, and encircled the offending tile.
She strode over to them, greeting the crew captain by name: "Mordh!"
"Luma," he answered.
Luma passed around the last of the coins she'd taken from the pickpocket, which the tilemen pocketed without comment.
"Aren't you s'posed to be in the Hells?" Mordh asked.
"I like to think otherwise." She kept up with the crew as it resumed its hunt for faulty tiles. Luma spotted a cracked one before they did. They gathered around to peer at it. "You know a gnome named Noole? He frequents the performance halls. Fancies himself a poet."
"I never asked him his name," said Mordh, "but a fellow matching that description comes 'round now and again, to practice his quatrains on us."
"And cadge coins," added another of the tilemen, a tall man who wore his thinning hair close to the scalp.
"That too," said Mordh. "I prefer that to the verses."
"No," argued a gaunt third tileman, "the poems is good."
"Seen him lately?"
Mordh pointed across the plaza, to the doorway of one of the taverns installed in the Grand Stage's right flank. "Went in there an hour ago, thereabouts."
Luma left them with a wave of thanks. The gaunt tileman squatted to paint a red circle around the tile she'd pointed out. She wended her unobtrusive way through the plaza's sprawling foot traffic. At the tavern entrance, she held herself so that she seemed to be gazing up at the rooftop stage. In fact, she spotted Noole at a corner table, a flagon at his left elbow and a piece of vellum stretched out before him. He held his pen at an abstracted angle. She eased into the tavern.
The gnome spotted her and bolted. His table toppled, taking tankard, inkwell, pen, and poem with it. He dashed for the kitchen entrance. Luma followed. As she passed through the swinging doors, a jar hurtled at her head. She ducked; it hit the wall behind her, shattering. A cloud of flour puffed out from it. Now coated in white powder, Luma sprinted for Noole, who dove out a service door into the Grand Hall. The tavern's cook, swearing in the dwarven language, hurtled at her, waving his butcher's knife. She drew her sickle and smacked it out of his hand. The knife fl
ew end over end before splashing into a pot of hot oil. Scalding droplets rained on the cook; Luma was already through the door.
Noole fled with surprising speed through the concert hall's plush lobby. He'd knocked a lantern from its sconce; panicked servants rushed to douse its flames before they spread. Luma sped past them. Her hand thrust into her pouch of spell objects, now replenished. Each of the vial tops had its own distinct texture, allowing her to quickly find the one with the cricket leg. She reached into the citysong for the sound of the chirping, jumping bugs, and pilfered a touch of their magic.
Luma jumped, and the city propelled her into the air. She grazed the dripping crystals of the great hall's chandeliers, leaving them rocking and tinkling. Breathing deep, she braced for the coming landing.
Her outstretched feet struck Noole in the back. She rolled, hitting the pedestal of a statue to a long-dead contralto. She made her way up, watching Noole as he rose and drew a rapier. Her own weapon lay on the rug a few feet away; she'd dropped it to avoid cutting herself as she landed. Feigning dismay, she let him come at her midsection. The thin sword jabbed skillfully at her. With equal aplomb, she evaded the thrust. Continuing the motion, she snatched up her sickle and dove at her opponent. He kept her at bay with a feint of his blade. They circled one another, Luma leaving ghostings of flour wherever she stepped.
"I can't guess what you want with me," the gnome said, "but I want nothing to do with you."
"Drop your weapon and I'll explain," Luma answered.
He held it out as if ready to let it go, then lunged. The blade caught Luma on the side of the neck. It hurt, but she could tell the wound was only superficial. She swiped at his legs with her sickle; he hopped back with flamboyant ease. Adopting a perfect fencing stance, he waited for her to come at him.
His moves so far revealed one fighting style disguised as another. Noole added flourishes to what was, at its core, a cautious waiting game of precisely timed blows. He was waiting for Luma to make a mistake he could capitalize on. In this, and in his general deftness and quick reactions, he favored an approach to combat that was also Luma's. One patient, calculating scrapper faced another.
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