The bard grabbed Meri’s hand and shook it once. “All right, then. But I’m watching you.”

  “I’ve no doubt.” The lordling seemed amused by the idea.

  “This way.” Tarragon took Meri by the elbow. “Let’s go see the oracle.”

  “He fell into the gate,” Evanne said.

  “He’s an oracle. You’ll see.”

  Tarragon led the gaggle of Bigs⁠—

  Stop it. I’m Big now. It still didn’t feel right to think it. Her feet were huge! And her hands were ridiculous. But Evanne hadn’t said anything about her enormous dimensions, and Tarragon certainly didn’t want to bring it up, but there it was. I’m Big now.

  Tarragon led them to the top deck. Back behind the broken Skyforge, right above the engines. About where she expected was a collection of human debris, the deck painted in red in a wide area. Evanne gagged. “Merciful Three, what is this, love?”

  Love. I’m her love. Tarragon would have dimpled if the occasion were more appropriate. “This is the oracle.”

  They’d brought the Raven and Heser the Cheg up to speed on the trip up here, but the queen looked doubtful. “You’re saying this is the remains of a mythical man who’s lived aboard this ship for eight hundred years?”

  “He’s not mythical. He’s right there. Just… in pieces.” Tarragon glared at the deck, wishing she’d passed her exams, because she’d know better ways to explain it. “The oracle is magic. He is science. He can see everything and knows the answers to almost everything.”

  The lordling crouched near a piece of crooked sausage, lifting it for a better view. “This appears to be a finger.”

  Tarragon pointed up. “He went through the gate up there. Adjusting for air resistance he took about,” she hmm’d, “twelve minutes to get here.”

  The lordling dropped the finger with a moue of distaste, stood, and wiped his hand on his pants. “I’m no stranger to falling a long way. When I went through the demon gate the first time, it was a long way down. The slightest puff of wind can move you a long way off course. How’d he get back to where he started?”

  “I aimed,” came a feeble voice.

  “That’ll be his head,” Tarragon said. “We should try getting as many of the parts together as we can. Once they’re touching, the rest should take care of itself.”

  Evanne rummaged under a low wall, returning with the head. “How’s he talking without, you know, lungs?”

  “Magic,” wheezed the head. “Trust me, I’ve seen worse.”

  Morgan walked a slow circle around Evanne, observing the head while mindful of where she put her feet. “Could any man learn this trick of endless life?”

  “No.” The head was pretty banged up, part of the jaw caved in, but Tarragon could see where it had started healing. “Trust me, it’s a drag. You get to tell different people the same truths, age after age, and then watch as they ignore you, just like the ones before did.”

  “I’m not ignoring you.” Evanne put the head on the ground near something that looked like part of a ribcage. “I literally followed your instructions.”

  “You bitched the whole way,” the head complained.

  “Build a bridge and get over it,” the maybe-Vhemin said.

  “I’ve found a foot!” Heser exclaimed, holding his grisly trophy aloft.

  “Good work,” the oracle said. “Now let’s get the rest.”

  It took some time. Teeth were the hardest to find, but the lordling was surprisingly good at that. Tarragon said, “How are you so good at seeing the little things? Is it because of the fairy you knew?”

  He seemed sad. “No, and the loss is mine for meeting her too late in life. Seeing the little things? It’s a … gift, of sorts, although I didn’t think so when I met her,” he jabbed a finger at Evanne, “mother. Before I was a Holomancer, I was a⁠—”

  “Thief?” Morgan supplied.

  “Rogue and vagabond,” Heser supplied in a thoughtful tone.

  “Mama said you were a man who made the whole world fall on its ear.” Evanne arranged a toe near a foot. “No, wrong side.” She put the toe next to the other foot.

  “An illusionist,” Meri gritted. “To make a thing appear, one must know all its details. Right down to the last tooth.” He offered Tarragon an incisor.

  She didn’t take it. “Yuck. Who was the fairy?”

  “A goddess, really, but I didn’t know it. Cophine of the Summertime.” He gave a small, shy grin. “Yasmine Glittercone. She was a blue-feathered bird when we first met.”

  “Oh.” Tarragon felt her heart trip. “I met her, too.”

  “Odd.” The lordling didn’t spout impossible! or other nonsense, just took it in his stride. “I saw her die.”

  “Death is something that happens to other people, when you’re a god,” the oracle said.

  “No, it’s not. It’s real, and it’s horrible.” Meri put the incisor in the oracle’s mouth, perhaps to shut the old man up. “Yasmine is gone, oracle. Whatever Cophine brought back was a memory. Or a promise. I’m not sure which, but there is no parting the veil without paying the price.”

  “I’ve parted the veil,” Evanne said, then snapped her jaw shut.

  “Odd,” the lordling said again. “And what manner of witch are you?”

  “I’m a bard.” Evanne sounded both evasive and defensive.

  “You’re certainly good at hitting the beats with your guitar, hey?” No one laughed, and Meri sobered.

  “Does anyone know where my ring finger is?” The oracle sounded plaintive.

  “I’ve got it.” Heser bussed it over.

  “The veil is a place you go once, and never come back from, except at tremendous cost.” Meri sounded sad. “I’ve put a few people there myself, and still others I would have back from the edge. If there were a cheaper way…” He swivelled. “Why is that ghost following you around?”

  Evanne gawked. “You can see him?”

  “Of course I can see him.” He did something complicated with his hands, as if he were pulling together a cat’s cradle, but one made of great weight. After a grunt, there was a snap, and Hitch stood there, except … more blue. “Now everyone can.”

  Evanne’s eyes bugled. “How’d you do that? And don’t say,” she held up a warning finger, “it’s because you’re a Holomancer.”

  “Uh.” Meri tugged his ear, then turned to Hitch. “Hello, sir.”

  Hitch looked down at himself. “I’m … real.” The ghost looked as he always did, just a brighter shimmering blue, no hands, pale eyes, but Tarragon thought he looked solid. No longer air but ice instead.

  “You were always real. Now you’re corporeal. Hey? Hey?” They stared at Meri. “C’mon, that was a good one.”

  The ghost poked his own arm with a not-finger. “I don’t feel any different.”

  “You’re not. You just look different. Think of it like a snazzy new haircut.” The lordling paused. “Say. Is there a barber on this ship? They always talk sense when no one else does.”

  Tarragon led them to the baths. The ship was coming back to itself by dribs and drabs. One cafeteria now worked but only served oatmeal. The showers had full pressure but most blasted cold water only. It was one such she led the lordling to, because there would be few people to interrupt them.

  The room was large, as most were on Dancing in the Storm. The showers took up the bulkhead wall, with a long line of mirrors above sinks along the inner. Meri strode up to the wall as if he knew what he was doing and eyed the mirror. His voice took on a sonorous tone, full of mysticism and weight. “Mirror. Attend.”

  The mirror shimmered, his reflection getting ragged about the edges for a moment before it struck a different pose. Morgan gasped. “What manner of witchcraft is this? A seeming can steal one’s soul.”

  Heser strode beside Meri, his own reflection following his movements more predictably. “Is it magic?”

  “The results will be,” Meri’s reflection promised. It eyed Meri through the glass. “Been a while between visits, has it?”

  “I’ve been stuck in the demon realm.”

  “We’ll include some balm and a moisturising rub,” his reflection promised. “Anything else?”

  “I need to know what’s going on.” Meri leaned on the sink. “The love of my life is missing. Her dragon doesn’t fly the skies. This ship sails no waves of water. Demons once again escaped into the realm and division and strife haunts the hearts of all.”

  “You’ve about summed it up.” The reflection pointed at Morgan. “She is the deposed queen. He,” the finger tracked to Heser, “is the guard who follows heart not duty. That one,” the finger tracked to Evanne, who was sidling behind Tarragon, “shouldn’t be here, because she is not possible. And she,” it dragged the finger to Tarragon, “has been touched by the goddess.”

  “Nothing not already known. Spectre, tell me of the gate. The platforms above. The oracle. All of it.” Meri crossed his arms. “Leave nothing out, or we will leave without a haircut.”

  His reflection produced a slender comb and tapped its lips with it. “The gate is broken because the oracle went through it. The oracle can’t leave the ship, and when he did, it created a race condition. The ship misfired, altered the gate, switched to the demon realm, and pulled you here. The platforms still function, but you can’t get there from here. You’ll need another gate. There’s another functional gate to the north.”

  “We can’t use that one.” Tarragon sidled up to the mirror, her own reflection looking more worried than she thought it should. “If it’s by the Great Lake of Ank-Ahn, it’s deep in enemy territory. Assuming they’re still there.”

  “They’re still there,” her reflection said. “Many of Vehement Systems’ great works lie in ruins, but enough hearts of iron beat again. We cannot win, as the ship told you. Too many Artifices, all husbanded along from above by their weapons platforms. The ship’s magic stops us being seen by them, but if we get close enough to be seen with the naked eye, they will coordinate a strike.” She eyed Tarragon. “How about a fringe?”

  “If we get close, we die. Got it.” Meri frowned. “Why can’t we just tell our platforms to throw rocks?”

  “We’re down here. We need to be up there.” The oracle strode in, a remarkable trick for a man who’d been in pieces not twenty minutes past.

  “Right. So, we need to get close to use the gate, get up top, and toss our rocks on them. But if we get close, they’ll toss rocks on us instead.” Meri clenched his fists. “We must do it anyway.”

  “Are you mad?” Heser the Cheg’s reflection goggled.

  “I didn’t say that,” Heser protested. “Although the question seems fair.”

  Evanne spoke into the silence, her voice calm, even. “We must do it, because on the other side of the gate is⁠—”

  “Death,” Morgan whispered.

  “A horde of monsters,” her reflection agreed.

  “The Saviour of Ravenswall,” Evanne said. “And her dragon. The best swordswoman the world has ever seen, with Sway and Storm at her command.”

  “You don’t need to go.” Meri crossed his arms. “I can do it alone.”

  “You can’t,” the oracle said.

  “No, he probably can,” Morgan said. “He is a Holomancer. What he makes becomes real. None can stand against him.”

  “Do you want to tell her, or should I?” The oracle eyed the lordling.

  Tarragon felt her stomach sink. She saw the blank faces of her fellows, Morgan perplexed, Heser confused, and Evanne ready to demand answers. Their reflections, leaning in, waiting, wondering. Meri, looking downcast, but stubborn, and she understood. He was willing to do whatever, for his love. Just as she would, for Evanne. “I will go.”

  Evanne blinked. “What?”

  “I will go to the Great Lake of Ank-Ahn, where the Three were first made. I will travel light and be unseen. I was a spy. I am a spy. It will be easy.” The lie came out almost painlessly.

  Meri nodded, but slowly, because he saw the way she stood by Evanne, or how Evanne stood by Tarragon. Saw the way they looked at each other and was perhaps reminded of how he stood beside another lost soul trapped in the demon realm. “Then we go together.”

  “What’s going on?” Evanne held Tarragon’s elbow. “What are you saying?”

  “The Holomancer used his power and broke the rules.” The oracle didn’t sound smug, just tired. “His doom followed him but clearly did not find him. In this world, the Three still hunger for justice. If he uses his power, his doom will find him.”

  “I saw you make Hitch real,” Evanne said.

  “That’s not power.” The lordling looked away. “That’s nothing at all.”

  Chapter Seven

  So, they were all going. Evanne didn’t like it, but she didn’t not like it, either. I wanted revenge for Mama and Papa’s deaths, and now it’s within my grasp. It just feels … harder than before. The ancients ended everything and I’m following their path.

  She was hanging out in a workshop. It smelled of clean oil and metal dust. Nothing like the smith’s shanty in Imshir, where dirt lived in every nook and a five-minute visit left you with coal dust as a gown. No, this was pristine, gleaming, made by masters for their artists. Despite that, Tarragon seemed to be doing her level best to revert it to a more homely style. Tools were scattered about Hitch’s old armour, which lay like a metal corpse on a table. Evanne didn’t recognise most of the gizmos. There was a long bow to draw between, hello, I recognise this is a hammer, and whatever Tarragon used to repair the armour. Take the thingamabob over there. It looked like the letter C, and it glowed. When Evanne tried to touch it, it crackled a warning, so she left it alone.

  The armour was being repaired. The big rent in the chest plate was fixed, all shiny and new. It still looked dead, or perhaps awaiting life. The pieces had the feel of mere metal, not purpose, rhythm without rhyme. She picked up the helmet. It was light, not like metal at all, but when she rapped a fingernail against it, it tink’d as if it were steel. The visor was black glass. She ran her thumb over the material, feeling its slickness.

  She put it on. The world seemed cooler inside, but not black as the glass promised. Evanne could see better, as if someone had sketched an outline around everything, making the world pop. She took it off, hair a tumble, and puffed a breath. “This is hopeless.”

  “It’s not that bad.” Hitch sidled up. “It worked before.”

  “Tarragon doesn’t think she can fix it.”

  “Tarragon doesn’t think she can do a lot of things, but here she is, kicking ass and taking names.” Hitch turned pale not-eyes to the roof. “That almost sounded like a compliment. I take it all back.”

  “If I put it on, she doesn’t know what will happen.” Evanne returned the helmet to the bench. “It killed you.”

  “I had a rare form of cancer. Do you know how cancer works?” At Evanne’s no-doubt-blank look, he shook his head. “Neither do I, not really. But inside,” he tapped his chest, “things grow. Your body is overrun, constantly making tumours. You don’t know what a tumour is? Hmm.” He looked at the floor. “It’s something that shouldn’t be there. You know how you heal when you get cut? Imagine that, but all the time, even when you’re not cut. Your body keeps making new you and none of it dies when it should.”

  “So, they put you inside armour to kill you.”

  “To kill the tumour.” He put a not-hand over the chest plate. “As long as I was sick, I was fine. The armour would eat the sickness, and I’d make some more. The cancer would put it back.”

  “You were cured?”

  “There was nothing that would cure me.” He sighed. “The Vhemin regenerate. Your father is very hard to kill. So, we didn’t want to give them a weapon like this. It only works for humans.”

  “I’m not human. Not all the way.”

  “It’s probably a good time to start learning how to be one, then.” He leaned forward. “Only a human who is very sick, or very healthy indeed, can wear this. An impossible, wonderful human. You.”

  Evanne backed up a step. “I don’t think⁠—”

  “You don’t have to. Just put it on. It’ll do the rest.” He turned away. “At least, I think it did. I don’t really remember anymore.”

  “Maybe I should find Tarragon. See what she thinks.”

  “Spoken like a true human. Decision by committee! See, you’re getting the hang of it already.”

  Evanne found Tarragon on the top deck. Her wheat-pale hair streamed on the wind as she looked out over the grasslands below. Dancing in the Storm wasn’t moving fast. It couldn’t fly high, so made do by navigating around every small hill and wending through the valleys. Evanne shored up next to her by the railing. “Hello, love.”

  That earned her a tired smile. “Hello, yourself.”

  Evanne caught the twist of her lip, the cant of her eyes, and said, “I’m not staying here.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “You were going to.” Evanne leaned further over. “Where you go, so do I.”

  “I don’t know if I can keep you safe.”

  “A group of bloodthirsty assassins found the ship and tried to murder us all. The ship is literally the largest thing for klicks. It stands out. It’s the least safe place to be.” Evanne flicked a speck of dust off her sleeve. “I think if we leave, and make it known we’re leaving, the people who stay behind will be safer.”

  “Who are we leaving?” Tarragon looked back at the conning tower. “Everyone’s coming with us.”

  “Not everyone. There’s a village here now. People made it their place to live.” Evanne rubbed her face. “They can keep it, I guess.”

  “The Raven won’t agree.”

  “The Raven is also coming with us. She won’t be in a position to argue.” Evanne squinted. “Say. Isn’t that a bird?”

  That’s about the time everyone started screaming. There were plenty of villagers on deck, squaring things away, building new structures, and trying to setup a market square, for all there was to sell. They were the ones now running around, mostly in a circular panic, yelling things like get weapons and run for your lives.