Still, it is disconcerting to see her distracted by clouds.

  He was pulled by his reverie by Vertiline’s voice, calm, ready, and assessing. “There are many foes.”

  “This is why she is the High Justiciar,” Larochette said. “She sees past the sight of mortals.”

  Vertiline’s mouth quirked, perhaps daring itself to smile, and she pressed it flat. “I count a battalion’s strength before us. No weak and simple conscripts, these soldiers have well-maintained armour. The ballistae behind them could give us pause for thought.”

  Faust rumbled in agreement. “Five hundred souls against our five. While there are only three ballistae, I’m concerned by the Artifice. The ancient’s machines have ever been tricksy.”

  Amir sighed, coughed smoke, and smoothed back his hair. “You are concerned for a mere Artifice? I will remind you the High Justiciar’s child, a brat of mean years, managed to defeat one with Tarragon in the bowels of an ancient ship.” He checked himself. “I mean brat in the nicest way.”

  “She is a brat.” Vertiline seemed distracted. “But Faust is right. The Artifices are difficult to take on the edge of your blade. Leave that one to me.”

  “I don’t think we’ll need to.” Tarragon stood, still staring skyward, visoring her eyes with a hand.

  Amir felt like sighing again, but the movement was overdone. “You see something?”

  “Seeing’s the wrong word.” She looked at him, her eyes the luminous green of deep, still water. “In this world there are forces we aren’t meant to understand. My people, who you call the ancients, tapped deep. They mined the forbidden magics, married it to technology, and made marvels. Devices to tame starlight and fly, or weapons to raze cities. Even whole peoples were cast from rude clay to stand next to us. The very gods trembled, and were afraid.”

  Amir let his gaze slide sideways to Faust, mouthing what the fuck. The big man shrugged. Amir pointed behind him at the gates. “What does it have to do with that?”

  “There are ways of thinking at a…” Tarragon clenched her fingers in frustration. “The right words aren’t known to you. The best way to put it is your thoughts aren’t at the right scale. Always it is sword on sword, person against person. My people thought across ages and at the distance of the sun. They would not walk to the door and fight an Artifice. Oh, they could. The Three’s Wardens were put here to fight the impossible when we couldn’t. But always at the end of the rest of our tricks, when hope failed and darkness called.”

  “Mireille,” Vertiline breathed. “Geneve spoke of the last Knight Champion who stood against weapons thrown from the heavens. Her dragon, Rulbenen, kneeling at fate’s feet. Dying, so we could live.”

  “But are we living?” Tarragon’s voice was sad. “Or are we just dying, but slower? More miserable, sadder, and smaller?”

  “Umm.” Amir pursed his lips, thinking hard. “Is your heart not in this fight?”

  “It matters not,” a strange voice growled, which afforded Amir the opportunity to look away from the loss in Tarragon’s eyes. A man had rounded the wagon, fit-looking, perhaps thirty-five summers, a stout halberd held in a manner that suggested he knew how to use it and intended to.

  Behind him, adding some weight to a potential argument, was a group of twenty men and women, all with the same battle-ready look. Amir’s fingers touched his sheathed blade, reminding him of the weapon’s weight, how it would feel, and what the Light would need to do to take so many at once.

  “Hey now,” the man said, seeing his fingers. “Let us not get ahead of ourselves.”

  An urk came from behind Amir, and he turned to see another troop on the other side of the wagon. Less in number, but two massive Vhemin had Faust, one on each arm, and a woman stood behind him with a blade at his throat. Larochette was frozen, blade half drawn.

  Vertiline’s eyes blazed. “Strike him down, and you will all die.”

  “Maybe,” the man mused. “But he’ll still be dead. Come along, now.” He frowned. “What’s with her?”

  Amir followed the man’s gaze to Tarragon, who once again stared at the sky. Requiem was still safely in scabbard, the once-fairy seemingly unconcerned with the arrival of forty soldiers meaning harm. “Tarragon?”

  “They called me Tarragon Greyflight,” she whispered, words almost lost on the wind. “Grey, because I was mismade, malformed, not one thing or the other. I was supposed to be an engineer making devices that lifted us to the stars, not a spy or warrior.” She turned back to Amir. “He’s right, you know.”

  “What?” Amir glanced back at the enemy captain. The other man was clearly equally confused, readying his halberd and voice both.

  But Tarragon wasn’t done. “Then the gods took my wings, so I could no longer fly. I’m just Tarragon now. But they didn’t take my sight, and I can still see what they made. Have you not wondered why the cannons fire? There are no people left in this world who can make them work. Not like this, an endless fusillade of fire aimed at the clouds. This is a Vehement Systems fortress. And there is but one thing the ancient machines remember.”

  “Itikari,” Amir breathed.

  “He was right when he said it doesn’t matter. There are things coming that still think at the right scale.”

  The clouds tinted a dull red, then orange, moving to a brilliant yellow almost all at once. A lance of pure heavenly fire speared from the heavens, the clouds roiling aside in the wake of immense heat. The fire in the sky touched the doors of the keep, and they exploded in kindling and sand, melted iron, and screaming soldiers. Another lance fell, hammering the cannons, but a shimmer of blue-white bubbled about their position. Some kind of shield, Amir marvelled, and realised he was flat on his ass, knocked to the ground by the force of the god’s flame.

  The sky continued to spit fire, the cannons firing back, beams of fire and light tossed by the souls of giants long dead, their corpses continuing a lonely war. Amir screamed and wept, then was knocked flat, a man’s torso—no head, no arms, no legs, just the middle piece—landing atop him.

  He crawled, deaf, mute, trying to reach the Justiciar, or his fellow Knights, but there was no sign. The wagon’s shelter was no more, mere ash blown on fell wind, the gates ahead a ruin, the keep open, waiting.

  He felt a hand on his, and panicked, pulling away. Above, green eyes beneath wheat-pale hair. An arm stretched out to help. Tarragon, her lips moving, but he couldn’t hear. She pulled him upright, pointing toward the fortress. Blue-white shields bloomed over parts, keeping the interior safe. Her meaning was clear. We must get inside, or we die.

  He nodded, and she helped him, the pair shuffle-running toward the gate. Amir risked a glance back over his shoulder.

  There, shouldering the sky aside, was Dancing in the Storm, the last Itikari warship, coming to finish her fight. The sky fortress was ablaze, cannons raining fire, smoke billowing from her decks where the Vehement Systems weapons had found their mark. But she fought on, a warship eight hundred years dead, now crewed by the damned.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  When Meriwether poked his head over the mound of rubble, he saw efficiency in action. Row upon row of men and women, loading what looked like cannons with what didn’t look like shot. The cannons were long, elegant affairs, machined from pure crystal, eldritch inner mechanisms glowing with a lambent, heavy light. They pooled yellow luminosity like rain pooled water, a syrupy illumination that clung to the boots of the soldiers loading them.

  The soldiers were methodical, well-disciplined, and a mixture of human and Vhemin. They were intent on the task of schlepping perfect cylinders of what seemed like limestone or chalk from an orderly pile of munitions. The magazine stores were legion, enough fire power—assuming each chalky block was one shot—to blast ordnance at the heavens for weeks.

  He waited, watching as one crew opened a cannon’s side, the inner workings making the air shimmer with heat. They sealed it, then turned away, the cannon roaring at the sky. Meriwether glanced at Dancing in the Storm, which took the shot and kept on coming. When the ship shouldered through the clouds he’d been surprised, but only long enough to realise everyone else would be surprised too, and thus making it the perfect time to sabotage the cannons.

  The noise of the cannons wasn’t as loud as he expected, and the sound was … odd. Scatterguns were all might and muscle in one big bang. These cannons carried more build-up, similar to Ormeon’s wrath as she banked her fire in preparation for barbecue. The lance of fire at the sky pulled wind in its wake, tugging his hair and cloak.

  “How do we take on those?” Jade was at his left elbow.

  “Forget the guns. What about the people?” Amber was at his right, eyes wide, mouth doing a good gape.

  “Easy,” Meriwether lied. “See the magazine?”

  “The what?” Jade squinted.

  “The pile of cylinders.” At her nod, he turned away, hunkering down. “We get in there and set fire to the magazine. It’ll cause an explosion, destroy the cannons, and let Dancing on the Storm dock here.”

  “You say that like we don’t have to deal with the troops stationed there. I counted fifty men.” Amber rubbed his forehead.

  “It was closer to seventy, but the numbers aren’t the important thing.”

  “They’re not?”

  “No.” Meriwether glanced at the ship approaching steadily albeit slowly in the sky. “We need a distraction.” He frowned, then picked up a stone before turning back to the cannons, winding up, and tossing the pebble. It soared through the air and hit the shield, bounced, and fell to the ground. “We also need a way through that shield. That’s a more pressing problem.”

  “Shift change?” Jade scrubbed at her hair, silting dust and dirt. “They must need relief at some point. We wait until the troops arrive then steal in with them.”

  “Brilliant,” Amber said. “Only one small problem. Where do we get uniforms?”

  “We could go in as their prisoners,” she hazarded.

  “Now there are two more problems,” Amber said. “The first is that we would then be their prisoners, which will make setting the magazine alight difficult. The second is that is not a stockade. If we are prisoners⁠—”

  “I get it,” Jade said. “It’s a stupid idea.”

  “It has merit,” Meriwether said. “Not the prisoner part, but the bones are there. Entering alongside an expected cavalry would be the ticket.”

  “Hold,” said a woman, causing Meriwether to look up. Standing before him was a soldier, a sergeant by her bearing and Vhemin by her breeding. Behind the sergeant, five other Vhemin, all wearing armour, carrying spears, and looking angry.

  “Oh, shit,” Amber said.

  “Perfect.” Meriwether stood. “Captain, I wonder⁠—”

  “Sergeant,” the Vhemin corrected. “I work for a living.”

  “By your bearing I’d assumed… no matter.” Meriwether tied on a brilliant smile. “You couldn’t have arrived at a more perfect time.”

  “To arrest you?” the sergeant hazarded.

  “No, to get us into the magazine.” Meriwether beamed. “We are on special deployment from Wild Sur, looking to get an update on ammunition levels. The castle is concerned about the amount of ordnance expended at the enemy.”

  “Really.” The woman didn’t phrase it like a question.

  “Really,” he nodded. “The only real problem we’re faced with is a lack of⁠—”

  “The problem you’re faced with is that we were sent to check the ammunition levels.”

  “How extraordinary,” Meriwether said. “Imagine two teams being sent to do the same job. Well, that’s the military for you.”

  “Imagine,” she said, looking completely devoid of anything resembling a theatre of the mind.

  “Well, nothing for it but to progress together,” Meriwether said.

  “I tell you what,” the sergeant offered. “Let’s go back to command, get you thrown in the stockade, and then be about the business of interrogating you.”

  Meriwether held up a hand. “I’m not sure⁠—”

  A shape of silver-gold hurtled in front of him, the wind tugging his hair again, and the sergeant was gone. He wondered if he’d got turned about, or if the cannons misfired on his position, but there was no heat. One moment he was having a very reasonable conversation with the enemy, the next she was simply missing in action, leaving her spear to topple to the ground.

  Meriwether looked at it, as did the five soldiers behind where the sergeant was. He glanced at them. “Did you see that?”

  “’Ere,” one said, hefting his spear. “Let’s⁠—”

  And then he was gone too, but in the other direction. He took his spear with him though, leaving nothing but the memory of his bad diction. Meriwether looked after him, catching a glimpse of metal buoyed by an eddy of dust. “Merciful Three.” He glanced at the remaining soldiers. “Is this you?”

  “It’s not us,” said a large brute with a broken nose. “I thought it was you guys.” And then he was gone, a single boot left in the mud. It still had a leg in it.

  A woman said, “Fuck this,” turned, sighted, and threw her spear. There was a clang and then she vanished with a yell carried off into the distance.

  Amber sidled up to Meriwether. “What’s going on?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” Meriwether felt the wonder in his tone. “I’ve been in a demon realm for sixteen years. Saw a lot there. Nothing like metal wind that steals soldiers from the ground, leaving naught but a memory though.”

  “I don’t want to go,” one of the remaining two said, but he didn’t get his wish. This time, the ground was dappled with his blood.

  The last woman broke and ran. She made it about thirty metres, arms and legs pumping, head down, full sprint, armour clattering, the works. This time, Meriwether saw the approach of their saviour, a metal saint flying above the ground. It slammed into the running soldier, carrying her in its arms, and streaking past Meriwether. He spun, watching as both impacted the shield in a haze of blue-white fire.

  The soldier exploded into component parts that showered gore like a rapid and amateur vivisection, but the metal saint skidded across the top of the shield dome, metal scraping, sparks showering.

  “Hang about,” Jade said. “That’s Evanne’s armour. Isn’t she off somewhere else?”

  Meriwether realised his mouth was open, so he closed it. Evanne was atop the shield. Below her, troops rushed about, gathering weapons and forming a huddle beneath her. It all looked inexpert to Meriwether’s eye, but he supposed not many soldiers had to learn defence against a metal flying saint that stood atop a dome above them.

  The armour: now that was a marvel. Goldfire eyes above all, the metal fluid, almost a liquid as Evanne paced the dome. He could mark no seam in the suit, nothing at all like it appeared on the repair table. The Itikari stardrive on the back gave off waves of heat. Gold lines ran down its length. The shield continued to spark and glow at every step. Meriwether called out, “Stop moving. You’re just making it worse!”

  Evanne stared at him, or at least he hoped it was Evanne, but she had the same set of her shoulders, and he would wager a platinum solar the same jut of chin. But she stopped pacing, hands on hips. “Satisfied?”

  “Perfect,” he said, and she slipped through the dome, arms pinwheeling, to land in a melee circus below.

  “How surprisingly simple,” Meriwether breathed. “It appears all you must do is move very slowly to get through.”

  Inside the dome, soldiers piled atop Evanne. Spears were thrust. Shouting.

  Amber looked at Meriwether. “And why would we want to go in there?”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The castle interior was cool. And it was quiet, as if a blanket had dropped over the ruckus outside. Some magic was at work inside too; Amir’s footsteps made little noise and the squeak of leather and rattle of buckle were muted, as if the sounds came from the bottom of a deep well. The ceiling was high, with no visible pillars or bracing. That giant weight of stone above seemed to be suspended on the very air. Along the walls were many doors, the number difficult to count as the hall was perhaps a klick long.

  Amir and Tarragon walked side by side. There were no tracks hinting at where Vertiline might have gone. Amir feared the High Justiciar might be dead, but it wasn’t a great fear. His teacher had a deeply annoying habit of surviving things that should have killed her.

  This place gives me the shits. Amir looked to Tarragon, the warrior at his side alert, her eyes everywhere at once. “What is this place?”

  She gave him a glance, then slowed. “This is the chief operating offices of Vehement Systems.” At his blink, she offered, “It’s where all the bad people are.”

  “There is no one here.” Because, indeed, there was no memory of another person in the hall. Distance blurred detail at the far end, but Amir was certain no one stood ready to fight or welcome them.

  “They’re here,” she assured him. “This is the reception foyer. It’s not where the boss is.”

  “The reception what? Some kind of location to receive the guilty and judge innocence?

  She scrubbed wheat-pale hair, then huffed a sigh. “Things from my time are not like your time.”

  “This I know.”

  “We had … rules about how we killed people. An iron fist in a silken glove, hard men working from the shadows, grim women who taught fear through doubt.” She frowned at herself. “I don’t mean to imply those were their actual jobs. Like, no one interviewed to be a silken glove.”

  Amir blinked again, but slower this time. “What?”

  “The point is, you’d welcome people into your office, then take them out back and off them. This isn’t the back. This is the front.”

  “Why is it so quiet?”

  “No one likes a crying baby,” she said, perhaps more mysteriously than Amir felt the situation demanded. Light bloomed as a great ring set in the far wall glowed a sickly green, then climbed in colour to a steady, soft purple. Tarragon put a hand on Amir’s arm. “Hold.”