The smuggler gave an utterly charming laugh and walked to a small bar by the sitting area. She moved like an athlete, every step fluid and graceful. Max now recalled why her face seemed so familiar—he had seen it many times on magazine covers and television. Madam Petra had been a very famous person in her former life. Unlike most humans, it was a life she seemed to remember, even as she carved out her own little empire in the new order. She now offered the goblins another drink. When they declined, she poured herself a glass of champagne.
“You want me to introduce you to my friends for twenty percent of an unknown sum?” She laughed again and sat down. “What a preposterous notion. I won’t even broach the subject with them for less than fifty.”
“Fifty is too much,” Toby countered. “Your friends will want their share as well.”
“Which is better? Fifty percent of something or one hundred percent of nothing?” she inquired, blinking innocently. “If you’re concerned with my friends’ share, then we can agree to a seventy percent commission and you let me worry about compensating them.”
“And what do we get for such generous terms?”
“Your gold will be mined, processed, and stamped into forms of your choosing without so much as disturbing the dust on your ancestors’ tombs. Your people can oversee the operation and we’ll even let you keep one of the machines once the business has concluded.”
“That sounds good,” piped up David enthusiastically. “But we would need proof such machines exist.”
“Oh, they exist. My friends really do design some marvelous things,” she replied, sipping her champagne. “And I can acquire just about anything they make. For example, look at this little prototype they’ve just concocted. Bring it here, Katarina.”
The smuggler’s daughter brought over a cylindrical tube. It looked like the sort of thing an architect might have used to carry his drawings, except that it was made of polished silver and engraved with runic symbols. Setting it on her mother’s desk, the girl unfastened a series of clasps and removed the top. Max leaned far over in his chair to peer inside the tube’s dark interior.
Something was peering back.
There was a scratching sound within, faint and metallic as though dozens of legs were pricking and tapping at the tube’s interior. Slowly, cautiously, a pair of long silvery antennae extended from the opening, flicking the air like buggy whips. An instant later, a three-foot centipede spilled forth and scuttled onto the desk.
At first, Max thought it was a machine. Its pincers resembled retracting steel hooks while its body segments were a metallic blue-gray with two ridges of tiny green lights that ran along the length of its back. But as Max looked closer, he noticed something very much like saliva moistening the creature’s maxillae, and its many semitranslucent legs seemed wholly organic. The creature was some sort of revolting hybrid of insect and machine, a Workshop abomination now splayed upon the smuggler’s desk. Toby was the first to find his voice.
“Is … is that demonic?” he wondered, his jaw hanging slack.
“Remarkable intuition,” said Madam Petra, removing a pair of slim spectacles from a compartment within the tube’s top and slipping them on. “How unusual for a goblin. My friends call this a pinlegs. And when I wear these glasses, it understands and obeys my thoughts. For example …”
In a heartbeat, the pinlegs leaped off the desk and clambered up Toby’s leg. Clinging to his chest, it spread its mandibles wide so that their razor tips were poised on either side of his throat.
“No sudden movements,” the smuggler warned. “Its bite is highly venomous.”
The smee was trembling like a leaf. “Wh-why do you threaten us?” he stammered.
Madam Petra shook her head. “Oh, I don’t threaten,” she laughed, allowing Katarina back on her lap. “Those who threaten are simply indecisive. We’re either partners or we’re not. And if we’re not, you die. But before we make that decision, my friend, we need to know who or what you really are. My eyes are only human, but this little pinlegs allows me to see what it sees. And it sees quite a lot.…”
Every muscle in Max’s body was tensed. He could have a knife to the smuggler’s throat before she could blink, but that might mean Toby’s death. Sitting absolutely still, he studied the woman—the tiny muscles at the corners of her mouth, the furrow of her brow, the dilation of her pupils. Cooper would have known her intentions before she did; Max hoped he could do the same. Long seconds passed while the smuggler appraised them. At last the pinlegs released Toby, its legs retreating down his chest as it turned and scuttled to the floor. The smee exhaled and mopped sweat from his gray-green brow.
“It appears you really are a goblin,” said Madam Petra politely. “But what are your friends, I wonder? They look strangely out of focus. Have a look, Katarina. You see things I don’t.”
The girl slipped the glasses onto her slender face while the pinlegs wove in and out of the goblins’ legs. Max remained still, ignoring the nauseating brush of its metallic body and clicking legs as it stopped and peered up at each, its mandibles aquiver.
“I still see goblins,” reported the girl. “They’re still there, but there’s something else flickering behind … flickering like your projector machine. It’s a boy, Mother! He has blond hair and he’s very pale. And … and he’s missing a hand!”
Madam Petra raised her eyebrows. For the very first time, Max saw a glint of fear in her cold green eyes. “And the other?” she asked, her voice taut.
“He’s a boy, too,” the girl whispered. “But a light is shining through him. He’s so bright I can hardly see his face. But it’s beautiful … like something in a dream.”
“I see,” said Madam Petra. “Katarina, my sweet, you are looking at David Menlo and Max McDaniels. They come from Rowan. Max is the very Bragha Rùn you cheered for in King Prusias’s Arena. Do you remember that day?”
The girl nodded, both frightened and fascinated as she stared at them. Removing the glasses from her daughter’s head, the smuggler folded them carefully and set them on the table.
“This is unexpected. If you intend violence, kindly leave my daughter out of it.”
“We intend nothing of the kind,” said David, dissipating their illusions and letting her see him plainly. “We’ve been told you’re a person worthy of great respect. I apologize for the disguise, but surely you understand our need for secrecy.”
“Why didn’t you announce yourselves to Dmitri?”
“Because we don’t trust him,” replied David. “Your servants inform on your activities to Prusias, as you know full well.”
“Ah,” said Madam Petra, tapping her chin as though searching her memory. “I see that Sir Alistair is more than the foolish little popinjay I’d taken him to be. And you’re quite a clever fellow, David Menlo, although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Do you see what he got me to do, Katarina?”
“He made you greedy,” observed the girl, scraping paint from her fingernails. “He made you boastful. You admitted you had friends at the Workshop and even showed him their new invention. Now he knows you still have friends there. He learned a lot from you, Mother.”
Madam Petra clucked her tongue. “Yes, he did,” she allowed. “They might not trust Dmitri, but I wonder why they trust us? With the price that’s on their heads, I could set up as a duchess. Think of that, Katarina—no more tedious affairs with smelly goblins or witches or penniless refugees. We’d be the richest women in the land!”
“I thought you said you didn’t threaten,” said Max, ignoring the woman’s playful smile.
She merely shrugged. “My boy, nine automatic weapons have been targeted upon you since you sat down. Is that a threat or merely a fact? I’ve seen how quick you are, Max, but I doubt your companions could even rise before they were cut to ribbons.”
“We aren’t here to quarrel with you,” interjected David. “We traveled a long way to speak with you in the hope that you can deliver a message to someone senior at the Workshop—p
referably Jesper Rasmussen.”
“Jesper’s irrelevant,” said Petra, dismissing the man with a wave. “He’s a figurehead. The chief engineers run the Workshop. Unless you count concessions, Jesper hasn’t made anything in decades. What is it you want from them?”
“I’m going to be as direct as I can,” said David, leaning forward and staring hard at her. “We believe Prusias means to attack Rowan even if we meet his demands. We believe the Workshop is developing something special for him—some sort of secret weapon. We want an alliance with the Workshop. If the Workshop cannot join with us, we want you to share whatever information you can about their activities and this weapon they’re developing. Is that direct enough?”
“Admirably so,” said the smuggler. “What you want is impossible, of course, but you did lay it out nice and neatly. And you have made me curious.… Why on earth would the Workshop jeopardize its existence and technologies to join with little Rowan on the eve of her destruction? What is possibly in it for them?”
“Freedom,” replied David simply. “A chance to help humanity and reunite with old friends. This might be their last chance to break free unless they intend to serve Prusias and his kind forever. Is that what they intend?”
“They intend to survive,” said Madam Petra frankly. “Even with Elias Bram’s return, an alliance with Rowan is the shortest path to their own destruction. Candidly, I’m amazed that Rowan would make such an absurd proposal, much less preach to others about helping humanity. While your Director was sipping tea and hiding behind her walls and treaties, the rest of civilization faded away. Do you remember what the world used to be like?”
“Of course.”
“No,” said Madam Petra, rising to pace before the broad window. “I mean do you remember? Not some foggy, pleasant haze about life before Astaroth, but how things really used to be? Do you remember governments and cities, skyscrapers and television … Elvis! Do you remember Elvis and Andy Warhol and Star Wars and satellites?”
“Yes,” said Max, realizing that almost anyone else would think the woman was raving mad. “And I remember Miles Davis. My dad used to listen to this album. And I remember you. My mother would buy any magazine with your picture on it; she said you had style.”
The smuggler gave a rueful smile and glanced at her daughter. “Katarina remembers, too. I wish she didn’t. We were living in Paris when they announced that the government had been dissolved. The authorities told us to paint Astaroth’s sign on every door and window, lest the Demon’s interrogators come knocking. You should have seen it—bankers, lawyers, doctors, and officials all weeping in the middle of the night and painting that terrible symbol on anything they could reach. And for most of them, it didn’t even matter. They were still sent to prisons or reeducation camps; they still died in plagues and fires or fell to whatever came scratching at their windows once the city really fell into chaos. The things I’ve witnessed …”
The woman fell silent at this and turned to gaze out at the placid gray lake.
“When my husband was dying, we used every contact and pulled every string to gain admittance to the Rowan field office. Niels had been bitten by a vye, you see. He was infected. Each day, his sanity ebbed and he became more dangerous. We had to tie him down … I couldn’t let Katarina near him. I begged your Agents for aid, but they had no more antidote and cited ‘other priorities.’ In the end, I had to kill Niels myself. So you can imagine I find it a little difficult—a little amusing—that Rowan should presume to make appeals based on duty to one’s fellow man. But your people did teach me a very valuable lesson—when things go dark, you look after your own and adapt as best you can.”
“I can’t argue with anything you’ve said,” replied David. “When Astaroth rose to power, the world was falling apart. Rowan couldn’t help one in a thousand who needed and deserved their help. But Piter’s Folly is an outlier, Madam Petra. Whatever free humanity exists is seeking shelter at Rowan—hundreds are arriving every day and the harbor towns and inland settlements are growing. Whether you love Rowan or despise it, our realm represents the best chance for humanity to survive and maintain some semblance of freedom. Surely the Workshop doesn’t want to play a role in its destruction.”
“Katarina,” said Madam Petra, leaving the window and smoothing her daughter’s hair. “Dmitri will be wondering why this meeting has run so long. I want you to go downstairs and ask the chefs to make you some lunch. If he pesters you, say that we’re discussing a possible gold-mine partnership. The Broadbrims are afraid of anyone else knowing their discovery and thus we don’t want to be disturbed. If he seems impatient, make him sit for a portrait. I want him occupied. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” replied the girl, slipping out the door and closing it firmly behind her.
Madam Petra turned back to her guests. “My sources tell me that there are over eight hundred thousand people living within your realm and almost ninety thousand sheltered within Rowan’s outer walls. How many of those can you muster to defend it? How many of those are old men and women, or children too young to heft a sword or stand a watch? Prusias has over twenty million subjects; his main army is nearly bigger than your entire population and there are no crones or quaking boys among its ranks. The King of Blys doesn’t need the Workshop to conquer Rowan; he just needs an excuse. And you gave him one when Bram destroyed Gràvenmuir.…”
“Perhaps Prusias is getting ahead of himself,” said David. “We passed the remnants of his forces on the road. It looked like Aamon is winning.”
Madam Petra gazed about the room, at its rich décor and strange luminescent paintings, before shrugging at David. “Does it look like I plan to flee from Aamon?”
“No,” said Max. “But the docks of Piter’s Folly are filled with others who aren’t as optimistic.”
“Of course they are,” laughed Petra, returning to her seat. “Who do you think is feeding the rumors? The only thing I like better than a frantic buyer is a desperate seller. The sheep are selling me their homes and property for a pittance. And when Prusias wins this war, they’ll come skulking to my door and buy them back at thrice the price. War doesn’t destroy fortunes; it makes them.”
“How do you sleep at night?” asked Max, incredulous at her callous pragmatism.
“Like a baby,” she purred, finishing her champagne. “It’s a hard world we live in. If others aren’t smart enough to play the game, it’s better that I have their chips.”
“What makes you so certain that Prusias will win?” asked David.
“Now, that’s valuable information,” replied Madam Petra, examining her nails. “What will you give me for it?”
“Some valuable information in return,” said David.
The smuggler flashed the very smile that had once charmed the world. “Oh, I like this,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Dazzle me, David Menlo. What little tidbit is worth Prusias’s big secret?”
David gestured toward Toby. “My friend here is not a goblin.”
Madam Petra blinked. Her smile faded. “Of course he is,” she scoffed. “I saw him through the pinlegs.”
“And the pinlegs was mistaken,” retorted David. “Allow me to present the illustrious smee. Toby, if you’d be so kind as to take your natural shape.”
A moment later, Madam Petra was staring at the smee’s mottled, yamlike body slouching in her expensive chair. The woman’s lip curled.
“Charmed,” said Toby, dipping his twisty head.
“Er … likewise,” she muttered, glancing quizzically at the creature before returning her attention to David. “And you think this is worth information about Prusias’s war machines?”
“Tut-tut,” chided David. “You’re not seeing the possibilities, my dear Madam Petra. Our associate just fooled your pinlegs. He—”
“Fooled the pinlegs,” she repeated, sitting up. “His aura wasn’t detected.…”
“Our particular talent,” declared Toby proudly. “I must confess I was somewhat please
d to see my companion’s illusion fall a smidgeon short of the smee standard. You see, many have tried to replicate—”
The smuggler cut him off with a pointed question. “Do you ever work on commission, my fine fellow?”
“I—I haven’t,” stammered the smee. “But I … well, I suppose we could arrange something. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner?” he added hopefully.
“Very well,” said Madam Petra, sitting back. “One interesting tidbit deserves another, and your friend is most interesting.” Once again she put on the spectacles and called the pinlegs over from where it had been lurking by the fireplace. It responded at once, clicking over the rugs and hardwood floors and climbing atop the desk like some hideous remote-controlled toy. Coming to rest by its tube, the creature settled down in a twitching, salivating jumble of legs, segments, and pincers. The smuggler gazed down at it.
“Prusias will win this war whenever he chooses,” she said softly. “His initial losses to Aamon and Rashaverak are merely drawing them in. Aamon has committed almost all of his forces to the eastern front and Rashaverak has done the same in the south. When the time is right, Prusias will send in his little pinlegs and victory will be his.”
“How is that going to defeat an army?” asked David, peering closely at the creature.
“I don’t know precisely,” replied Madam Petra. “My contacts gave me this prototype as a curiosity, but they said it isn’t ‘paired.’ I haven’t the slightest idea what that means, but my contact joked that if I ever see those little green lights flash red, I’d better run for the hills and never look back. Apparently, it has something to do with the demon that would normally be trapped inside it, but they gave no particulars. In any case, I hear that Prusias is amused by his enemies’ early victories; they’re allowing him to test the loyalty of his braymas and purge his own ranks of traitors. But whenever he chooses, this war will be brought to a swift conclusion. And once Queen Lilith sees the others’ fate, she will race to make a deal and cling to whatever lands and power she can. That will leave only Rowan. My advice is to submit to whatever terms Prusias demands and hope that he indulges Rowan as a vassal state.”
The Maelstrom Page 17