“Don't say her name,” Vargas Hale growled.

  “Under the conditions my traitorous predecessor created with her departure, it takes even longer. The worms she released into the Archive have been hunted down and eradicated by my own creations, but the damage she did extends far beyond the Archive's memories. It's a single, massive mnemonic organ – a mile-wide brain if you will, and whole sections of it have been eaten away. They no longer connect to the other parts, and great gaps in its thinking make it useless. Here,” she said, “Listen to this.” Corina walked to a spiderweb cluster of pulsing nerves growing on the surface of the wall's flesh. She took a membranous, horn-shaped, cartilage funnel from a workbench, lifted it to the nexus on the wall, seated it in the conductive goo, and spoke into it. “Archive,” she said, “speak for Lord Vargas Hale a status report of the Northern factory farms.”

  The deep, clear voice that spoke through the cartilage horn said, “Fire-frogs and leopard-spot owls grow under the noble's cut-away cowl.”

  “Yes, yes. I know it's gone mad.”

  “The syn-wombs of our factory farms are all controlled through the Archive,” Mei Corina explained. “And they're completely offline. This – what you see before you here – this lab is the largest scale production facility we have right now. It only functions because I'm running everything here using the mnemonics in my wreath.”

  “Can you run the factory farms off your wreath, too?” Vargas Hale asked. “Can you replace the Archive – do its job?”

  “That,” she said, “would require severing all links between the farms and the Archive. Permanently. Even if the Archive is healed it won't be able to reconnect itself properly.”

  “Do it,” he said. “Sever the Archive from the farm systems and run them all from your Stitchlife's wreath. Produce the automata golems I need to take the Sugar Music city and its secrets. And quickly. If we're successful, then the Archive can rot beneath our feet for all I care.” Vargas Hale paused and smiled. “Unless of course, you can't do what I ask because you're only an apprentice and you're not skilled enough. Then, I might as well kill you and wait for the witches of the Coral Castle to send me someone useful.”

  Vargas Hale couldn't have been more wrong about his remaining Stitchlife's abilities.

  Even those who'd raised her, trained her, and sent her from Kitty Hawk's Coral Castle had no idea how talented she was. There was purpose in this. The Stitchlife Corina had learned early that knowledge concealed was more powerful that knowledge flaunted.

  Corina knew how to repair the Archive's mind so that it could grow Vargas Hale what he wanted, but she hadn't because she'd hoped Vargas Hale would give her the order he just had. She'd hoped he would ask her to run the syn-wombs of all the factory farms off the mnemonics in her own bone-shelled wreath because once the Archive was cut out of the process completely, she would be unsupervised in everything she did. She would be free to do what she wanted – to craft the special automata for the golems that Vargas Hale needed and to ad something else to it, too – something she'd already written in secret – something that would give her all the power she needed.

  Corina thought the legendary Kitty Hawk would be proud of her guile and resourcefulness.

  *****

  The merry Hales feasted on fine game from the woods of their enclave – pheasant, venison, and the giant, witch-writ boars that were a challenge to fell with only sword or spear. Cobb Hale pointed with his gilded goblet to the ones he'd killed himself. “That one didn't run. It turned and fought so I killed it quick and clean with lightning jab and heart-thrust saber-stab. But that one there,” he said as he pointed to the smallest, most roast-charred boar plattered before them, “That one with the wicked eyes... That one claimed it was a noble and begged me for mercy!”

  “And what family did the beast claim as its noble clan?” his sister Phoebe asked. She knew full well the answer. It was an old joke with their absent cousin Corin.

  “It claimed it was a Walton!”

  The rams that cracked their horns together along the enclave's mountain spine were tough meat, but they were on the table too, marinated in wine and aged to tenderness. Cobb pointed to one and said, “That 'noble' animal used guile in its attempts to avoid our feast as well!”

  “Was it a Walton, too?” cousin Tober asked.

  “It claimed to be a transformed Lee – a victim of Stitchlife treachery.”

  “Well, we can't eat a Lee,” Phoebe said, “not with our treaty of victory.”

  “Agreed, sister. But if you look closely there,” Cobb said as he gestured and the wine sloshed from his goblet, “There – at its hind-parts – you can see by the smallish cast that it must be a Southern Gentleman Schwartz!”

  “Ho, Southern Schwartz!” several cried in unison, and as they toasted the bighorn, their goblets spilled mirth.

  “So I killed it,” Cobb said with a smile and a nod. The abrupt and unapologetic ending to his story brought laughter and applause.

  Vargas Hale was proud of his first son, Cobb. The boy will make a good and strong patriarch, he thought. He'll probably be better liked than I am. When the laughter had settled enough to speak without competition, but the mirth still shone across the lips of his kin, Vargas Hale stood at the head of the table, raised his own goblet high, and said, “I toast my son's political wisdom. To know which animal is Walton, Lee, or small-balled, bighorn Schwartz will guide the family well after I pass!”

  They all laughed, cried, “Ho!” and drank when he did.

  “And I toast my strong and proud and merry Hales!”

  They drank to that, too.

  “And I toast our war party. Soon, we ride across the wooded wilds to take back what was stolen from us – what rightly belongs to the Hales!”

  “Ho!” they shouted together and drank.

  “Already, this witchery has grown a city to the North!” Vargas Hale's golden eyes could tell some of his bronze-skinned clan still doubted the verity of it. No matter, he thought. They'll believe it when they see it. “And when we take this city and its automata, then it will give us such power that all the animal beasts, all the Lees and Waltons, all the Holtzs and Southern Gentlemen Schwartzs will tremble before the mighty, merry Hales!”

  “Ho!” they cried, and gilded goblets raised up high among the Hales.

  Chapter Four

  The Closest Thing to a Friend

  Molly stood knee-deep in the bay. When she looked back to the gates, she saw nervous faces watching her from inside. There had been crabbers and fishermen and women repairing nets on the beach, but when Molly appeared in a streaking flash, they all left, and now, except for the mind-ghosts in her wreath, she was completely alone.

  “They all hate me now.”

  “They fear you,” the General said. “But it is your will that determines what happens in the Haunted City.”

  “And who else can you trust?” Fin Singh asked with a laugh. “Besides, it's better for a ruler to be feared than loved. Love can be so fickle.”

  Molly stayed outside the Haunted City's walls until night came. Then she used all her speed to run to the tower so fast that she was only a streak to the people in the marketplace and anyone else she passed. She heard a few frightened screams from those who'd spotted the witch-sped blur among them, but by the time anyone could call her names, she was inside her tower.

  The General woke her at dawn and told her there was something she needed to see. Without any warning, she was suddenly high above the wilds, and she inhaled sharply at the dizzying, warp-eyed view. “You're seeing through the eyes of a wasp,” the General said. “One of Vora's.” Below her was a road that led out of the treetops to cleared fields and a high wall that went on as far as the wasp could see. Molly could tell from the sheen that it was made of witch-bone, like her knife and the wreath. Beyond the wall were huge manor houses on the hills inside, and marching towards the gate was a column of riders.

  The Wasp dove steeply towards the ground, and Molly felt queasy when it pulled up, banked sharply and turned the horizon vertical. It flew along the witch-bone wall, leaned the earth on its side again, and pointed its eyes through the opening gates.

  The rider in front was atop a walking chariot. He held his flagged war-spear high and cried, “Ho, Hales, Ho!” as he led the column through the gates. Behind him Molly saw more four-legged chariots, cantering, hoof-footed wagons, and scores of eight-foot-tall, mounted nobles.

  “The Hales,” the General said. “Their strongest, witch-sped, noble fighters. Flapping-flagged spears, witch-bone breastplates, and sabers look to be the dress of the day. The Hales wear them so proudly.” Molly thought she heard disdain in his voice. “Behind them,” the General added, “are the Hale Guard.”

  A hundred white-helmets armed with long-barreled thorn-spitters and steel saber rode in a column behind the nobles on natural-born mounts that looked like ponies compared to the nobles' towering, motherless steeds.

  “And they're bringing golems,” the General said. Behind the Guard and the wagons, a trio of twenty-foot-tall, black giants rumbled the ground with their living, stone feet. “They're all coming here,” he said. “To take the city.”

  “How can I possibly stop them?” Molly asked. “There's so many.”

  “Sometimes,” the General said. “A well-placed bee-sting can stop a charging bull.”

  *****

  The men Juan Chang brought with him to the Haunted City were spread out across the South market singly to better conceal their association. Since the Hales' dog, Fin Singh had worn the red cloak and led the Hale Guard to burn and pillage countless villages and towns in the Populists' name, the people had no love left for the rebels. Juan Chang thought it would be better if they didn't know he and his men were among them.

  He adjusted his tricorn as he looked down at the stains the Long-Knives left. The little twin-horned demon had been a terror to behold. She'd moved as fast as any witch-sped noble, and her streaking, razor-edged wrath was just as brutal and fearsome.

  She showed her face and climbed atop one of the market's wooden-wheeled carts that waited to be filled with the fruits of the bay. The market's chatter-din went quiet as one-by-one the crowd saw her. Fear gave way to hate, and someone unseen in the back of the crowd threw a fish head at her. Another hurled a crab-shell. They began to jeer and shout at her and threw whatever garbage was at hand.

  “Murderer!” they shouted.

  “Demon-girl, begone!” they cried, “Leave us alone!”

  “Monster!”

  Juan Chang could see from her face that she didn't understand, but he did. She'd cut two dozen men to ribbons in front of them and shown them what happened if she was disobeyed. She hadn't told anyone what to do before or after that, but it didn't matter. They feared her now – far more than they'd ever feared the Long-Knives. And Fear turns to Hate.

  Every few seconds, she blurred and appeared again in a different position as she dodged what they hurled at her. “The nobles are coming,” she shouted. “Here. To this place. The Hales already ride North with a war party to take this city for their own.” The crowd's angry cries continued, and Juan Chang could barely hear her words over their insults. “You'll all be safer if you leave.” She stepped down from the wagon, and as the crowd parted wide to avoid her wrath, she walked out the city's South gate.

  Juan Chang made his decision in a flash. With two of his men, he exited the city behind her, walked around the walls, crossed the fields, and headed to their camp, hidden just inside the cover of the woods to the Northwest of the city.

  The horses were there. They were fed and rested and ready to ride. Juan Chang commanded the two men who'd followed him out of the Haunted City to ride North to the Hidden Gorge and bring his orders there.

  Then, he mounted his own steed and rode after the little demon.

  She was still climbing the hills to the West of the city when he broke out of the woods and saw her, tiny in the hillside grasses that waved around her waist. Juan Chang kicked his horse to a casual trot and climbed the hills in a gentle, diagonal line.

  Distant Molly dipped behind the curving bulge of a hill, and he lost sight of her. When he climbed to the hill's crest, he still couldn't see her, so he rode across to where he imagined her path would carry her. He waited there for longer than he thought he'd have to, and he feared he'd somehow lost her.

  *****

  At the General's advice, she avoided turning her head to look at the rider, but even out the corner of her eye it was obvious that he was following her. He hadn't gone to much trouble to disguise it, but the General said that didn't mean that she shouldn't be wary of him.

  Molly cut back across the hill under cover of a shelf where the soil had slipped away in the rains and she came to the top of the hill behind him. As she crept closer, the General favored simply eliminating him for simplicity's sake, and Molly didn't object.

  It was Fin Singh's smiling ghost that stayed her hand. “Hold, Molly,” he said as he appeared between her and the unaware rider. “Don't strike him down. This is no ordinary man. This is Juan Chang – leader of the Populist Musketeers.”

  “Is that good?” she asked in a whisper. “Does that mean he's a friend?”

  “He and his fight against the nobles. He's the enemy of your enemy,” Fin Singh said with a devil's grin, “and that's the closest thing you have to a friend.”

  Molly approached him as slowly and casually as the constructs told her to. He was dressed in leathers, and his saddle and bags were worn. He kept his long, gray-streaked, black hair tied back under a tricorn hat. Even under the brim's shadow, she could see how the sun and wind had weathered his face and left deep lines there. He squinted, trying to make sense of her. Molly noticed that he looked at her with curiosity, but without any twinge of fear.

  “My name is Sillman” he said.

  “No, it's not,” Molly said. Then she walked closer, held her hand up, and waited for him to pull her up on his horse.

  *****

  They rode South over the hills and the fields and into the wooded wilds with Molly bouncing as she held onto the saddle's horn in front of her. Except for Molly relaying what direction the ghosts told her they should go, neither of them spoke for hours – not until they'd forded a river, trotted down the cracked and overgrown, blackstone road deep into the woods and Juan Chang told her it was time to make camp.

  All that marked the ruins where they stopped was the way the moss and leaf-covered, crack-stone slabs blocked the growth of the forest in wide, man-made rectangles.

  Juan Chang reached into the saddlebags of his horse and offered her a cloth-wrapped, wax-sealed bundle the size of her fist. Inside was a mixture of salted meats, dried fruits, and nuts, all bound together with marrow-fat.

  “Pemmican,” he said as he unwrapped a bundle of his own and sank his teeth into it. “Keeps well, and you don't need a fire to cook it.” After a few more bites, he said, “I imagine you could catch anything that lives in these wilds – run it down and cut its throat with that little bone blade of yours.”

  Molly nodded. The pemmican wasn't as tasty as the rabbits she'd been living on.

  “But then we'd need a fire,” he said. “Unless... you eat your meat raw.” She shook her head. “No, of course you don't. You're not a monster, you're a little girl.” Molly nodded and smiled while she chewed. Everyone else thought she was a monster, and Molly wasn't sure they were wrong. “But, tell me, Molly,” he said. “How did you come to be so...”

  “So what?”

  “So,” he said, “Just so. How did you come to be as you are? Did someone make you like this? A witch? Is that her wreath you wear? Are there more like you?”

  “Like me?”

  “Yes. A blur to the eyes. Witch-sped, but not a noble. I saw you in the marketplace. I saw how fast you were. And,” he added in a somber tone, “I saw what you did to the Long-Knives.”

  Molly continued eating.

  Juan Chang rose from where he'd sat and pulled a blanket roll and a water-skin from his bags. He tossed a second blanket to land in front of Molly. Then he unrolled his and lay back on it to stare up at the leaves against the dusk sky. “If you want to rule, then people have to love you, not fear you.”

  “They hate me,” she said.

  “They fear you, Molly, but they need you. And not just for this fight. Not just to save that mysterious city of yours from the Hales, but for the larger fight – the fight against all the nobles.” Molly said nothing. “I've seen how fast you are, but what do you plan to do with all your speed when you find the approaching Hales you spoke of? There will be many Hales coming, I think, and all of them are witch-sped. Almost as fast as you. What can you do against so many?”

  Molly unrolled the blanket, lay back on it, and watched the breeze-lifted leaves against the sky's last light. “A well-placed bee-sting,” she said, “can stop an bull.”

  “General Jin Soo Hale,” Juan Chang said. “The Hero of Harpers Ferry.” Molly turned her head to see his surprise-widened eyes and heard the General's ghost laughing with pride.

  “Do you know the General, too?” she asked.

  “I've studied the great generals.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “From a stolen book. He died three hundred years ago.”

  The silence hung between them for a full minute as they chewed.

  “You said they need me,” Molly said, “but you mean they need me to kill for them.” Then, she rolled and pulled the blanket over her head and shut out the world. Through the rough wool, she heard Juan Chang's voice speak so softly that she wondered if he was talking to himself.