The Failures

Book 1: WANDERLANDS

by Benjamin Liar

Genres: Epic Fantasy; Black Humor; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi; Humorous Fiction

Synopsis

From a debut voice comes a genre-breaking blend of apocalyptic sci-fi and epic fantasy about a scattered group of unlikely heroes traveling across their broken mechanical planet to stave off eternal darkness. A tightly-coiled puzzle of a thrill ride, The Failures launches The Wanderlands trilogy

Welcome to the Wanderlands.
A vast machine made for reasons unknown, the Wanderlands was broken long ago. First went the sky, splintering and cracking, and then very slowly, the whole machine—the whole world—began to go dark. 

Meet the Failures.
Following the summons of a strange dream, a scattering of adventurers, degenerates, and children find themselves drawn toward the same place: the vast underground Keep. They will discover there that they have been called for a purpose—and that purpose could be the destruction of everything they love. 

The end is nigh.
For below the Keep, imprisoned in the greatest cage ever built by magicians and gods, lies the buried Giant. It is the most powerful of its kind, and its purpose is the annihilation of all civilization. But any kind of power, no matter how terrible, is precious in the dimming Wanderlands, and those that crave it are making their moves. 

All machines can be broken, and the final cracks are spreading. It will take only the careless actions of two cheerful monsters to tip the Wanderlands towards an endless dark...or help it find its way back to the light.

Release date: July 2, 2024

Publisher: DAW

Print pages: 432

Sample

THE CONVOX

The Utility of Fire

“If we are truly just cogs, and part of some great machine, then it must run poorly indeed.”

—ALVAREZ, ‘ILLADIUM’

Something that is very much like a man makes his way down an old stone passageway, letting his fingers trail along the dusty wall. The thing that is not quite a man is ruggedly handsome, with pale-gray eyes and laugh lines at their corners. His clothes are travel-stained but of surpassingly fine make. His name—at the moment—is West.

He wears a weapon at his hip that he does not need, but appearances must be kept. There aren’t too many creatures in these lost and broken days that can hurt something like West, but his father had always said that something worth doing is worth doing well. He wears the weapon with flair, a dashing jut of hip that shows off the fine gold filigree and hand enameling.

West has been traveling for days through the darkness beneath the Mountain, that monstrous edifice, so large that civilizations have risen and fallen on its slopes. The Mountain is offensive to West; that something so magnificent, so huge in history and legend should find itself so fallen, lost, and trivial. But then, much the same thing could be said of the Wanderlands itself; much the same thing could be said of West.

He does not often entertain such thoughts, and it is a testament to his dreary surroundings that he is doing so now.

The worst thing about traveling to the Underlands is that there are no Doors here, no easy way to step from somewhere to somewhere else, no quick way to bypass the tedious business of walking. He had been forced to enter through the rift that had opened untold ages ago in the side of the Mountain, exposing the warren of long-black rooms and tunnels. Fortunately there was a backwater town called Cannoux nearby, and there had been a Door there. He is annoyed at this flagrant expense of his time, this pedestrian journeying, but an interesting invitation has been received.

And West is not the sort of creature who lets an interesting thing pass by.

Still, it is an unpleasant journey. He has the sense, and has had it for some days now, of descending into the black belly of a decaying beast. He has had the unclean sensation of climbing into a grave. West cannot in any sense be described as a sentimental person, but it is impossible to walk through these empty halls and passages without thinking about the thousands and millions of thinking beings that must have died here. Died huddled around failing lights, burning anything that would burn, praying to gods that didn’t care for a salvation that wouldn’t come.

West has been alive for a long time, but even he could not say how long the Underlands has been dead. Nor, even, how long it took to die. The Silver Age had been a finely crafted creature, and its corpse rotted slow.

There is a fire ahead; it is a thin flicker of light in a sea of shadows. A faint golden spark in a depthless black. West has sight beyond any mere man, however, and he perceives that the fire was built into a large open area and that the backdrop is a helical curve he cannot quite make out in the flickering light. He can see four figures at the fire, still little more than silhouettes. He makes sure his weapon is at the ready in case some braggadocio is required and, after some consideration, he adopts a jovial manner absorbed from a particularly charming acquaintance.

He scrapes his foot deliberately on the floor and sees one of the figures straighten to

 look at him. It is a clock-and-silver person, but this does not worry West. It takes all types, his father liked to say, especially in grim times.

“Hello, friends!” West calls, into the quiet of the firelit room. “Well met. And may I approach your fire?”

His voice echoes back from the gloom oddly, as if changed there, and the big room feels dusty and ancient. The space is bigger than he’d guessed; the fire is not bright enough to see how far it extends. There are vague silvery shapes scattered around, perhaps ancient sculptures or lightfixtures of some sort, but West ignores these. If there is any of the Silver here, the motive force that once powered these sculptures and gave the Underlands light, it is long gone now. These argent shapes describe a loose ring around a massive circular stairway that rises in a ponderous spiral up into the ceiling above. The fire is small against it, and the figures around the fire smaller still.

The tall mechanical figure stands and bows as West approaches and it, too, is bigger than he had thought, six span at least. It towers over the fire and the figures around it. The automata has a long flat-planed head and sharp, articulated joints. It is mostly white, a kind of glossy, flowing porcelain that gives the twin impressions of beauty and death. West recognizes the shape as that of a Jannissary, one of the old warmachines. The intelligence that lives in the body, however, is of another order. West knows this person, by reputation if not experience.

As West approaches the fire, the ancient automata nods its head, the language of its form conveying a sly smile.

“Hello, hello, and hello!” the automata says, giving West an ornate bow. Its voice is a reedy waver, a bellows-and-pump sound, rich and warm. “Welcome to our fire, my friend, and such comforts as it holds!”

West returns the bow, but much more shallowly. He looks around the others at the fire and judges them to be little threat at the moment. A young boy sits perched on chunk of stone to his left, and to his right is a large man reclining on a walking-couch. Next to him is a beautiful servant of no consequence. West returns his attention to the exquisite mechanical person. Fortunately, the proper mode of address is easy in this case. It is not always so with constructed creatures—or any folk for that matter. The tall machine is known to prefer a male honorific.

“Hello to you, Mr. Turpentine, it is an honor to finally make your acquaintance. I have heard much of your exploits down through the years, and it is rare that someone can match their own legend.” West hides a sneer; if Mr. Turpentine matched his legend, he would be drenched in still-warm blood and the shattered teeth of children.

Mr. Turpentine flashes

 a knowing little smile—he clearly caught the jibe. West is not used to the company of those clever enough to attend his humor, and will have to be more careful. It would not do to make enemies just yet. Turpentine does not seem offended, however. He spreads his long, articulated limbs in a gesture of deference, itself only vaguely mocking.

“And you as well, the legendary Lourde—ah! Forgive me, but you go by West, just now, I had forgotten. To think I might gain the acquaintance of such a large figure of history! You will forgive me, of course, if I betray my delight overmuch. Please! Be welcome. A few of us have gathered, but our circle is not complete, so we may waste some pleasant time in frivolities. Care you for some chûs, as I make our introductions?”

“There should never be a walker of the Wanderlands,” West agrees, “who turns away a cup of hospitable chûs. And especially not in such a dark and forbidding place.”

The fat man on the walking-couch shifts, restless. West gets the idea that he is usually the center of the conversation, and is unused to being talked around. West then makes a point of giving the others around the fire a longer scrutiny. Advantage must be taken whenever possible—another of his father’s truisms.

“Speaking of introductions, I fear to say the rest of our company are unknown to me.” West gives those around the fire a general bow, appropriate for new colleagues of uncertain station and allegiance. “As our kind host says, my name is West, and I am in all ways at your service.”

The man on the walking-couch clears his throat, unable to wait his turn.

“You can call me D’Alle,” he says, turning to West and giving him no bow at all, but a mere inclination of his head. “I have the honor of traditionally being called ‘Master,’ but I suppose we can dispense with the bells and whistles for these proceedings.”

His voice is rough but supercilious. He has dusty, almost blued skin that contrasts with his bright, garish robes and thick queue of raven hair. His eyes are of no particular color, but they glitter in the firelight. He accepts a small lozenge from the servant next to him and pops it expertly into his mouth. This is a man used to deference and accustomed to his comforts. West notes these things as a warrior might note lines of sight and good cover. He smiles and bows, far too deep. Giving them too much can be just as much of an insult as giving too little.

“D’Alle, then. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” West ignores the servant; it is plain that this person is so far beneath West’s station as to make acknowledgment painful for them both. D’Alle’s cantrait—the walking-couch—is a fine piece of work, a functioning remnant of the Silver Age, and he is amazed the man owns such a thing. It is a far more effective signal of his station than the ostentatious rings on his fingers.

“Master D’Alle,”

Mr. Turpentine says, fussing with an elegant ceramic pot at the fire, “hails from the grand empire of Cannoux, which resides on the lower slopes of the Mountain so far above us. Perhaps you noted its lights as you were making your way in.”

“I did indeed,” West agrees. “The fame of Cannoux spreads far, even in these sad days. It is said you are the prize jewel of the Mountain! It is an honor to meet a citizen of that great metropolis.”

The ample man who likes to be called Master preens at this, and West conceals a smile. Cannoux is no grand empire; it is a twilight civilization at best, barely clinging to life on the very edge of the known world. West had never heard of it before he passed into the breach that led him here.

“And of course,” Mr. Turpentine says, almost nonchalantly, “you would know the child, Gray.”

The long blades of Turpentine’s fingers uncurl toward the young boy who has been perched on a stone, looking into the flames. He is beautiful but motionless in a way that is very adult. West had paid him small attention other than to wonder what a child was doing in the company of Mr. Turpentine, but he looks closer now. The child has an odd coloration: almost pitch-black skin and bright golden eyes.

West frowns without knowing he does it; an unaccustomed slip. It takes all sorts, as they say, and in the Wanderlands it takes all shades and shapes. ‘The Mother Spits Color,’ as they say. The peoples of the Lands were made in every shape and combination of hue, and it is rarely a thing to notice or remark upon. But this particular combination . . . Or perhaps just those eyes.

West gets it, and feels himself pale.

“Not . . . that is not Primary Gray, of course?” West’s adopted, cheerful persona takes a blow—he is genuinely surprised, an emotion rare for him. The child raises his head slightly, looking at West, and there is a silent thing that passes between them, a wordless thing that only the Wise ever need convey: We are both old, but I am older.

The boy returns his disconcerting golden eyes to the fire, dismissing West from his attention. West is too shocked to bristle at the slight. Primary Gray! He would have bet a great deal that this child had been dead for two—or maybe three—ages of the world.

Pretending that the boy isn’t ignoring him, West gives him a careful and deferential 

 bow. He fixes his smile as best he can and turns it upon Mr. Turpentine.

“I do remember the legendary Primary Gray, of course,” West says, “though I met him long ago and Lands away. Still! Still. It is wonderful to meet you all, even under such conditions. Is our circle complete, then? I have a great desire to try your no-doubt excellent chûs, Mr. Turpentine. However, I know that to pour a session before all are present is, in some Lands, known as a bad omen.”

West finds himself adopting some of Mr. Turpentine’s flowery cadences of speech and decides that this is no bad thing. He has the sense that this meeting in darkness will require something of a melodramatic air, and even clock-and-silver folk are lulled by seeing themselves in a mirror.

“Alas,” Mr. Turpentine says, pulling the pot from the fire, “our circle is not quite complete. Still, there is no need to go thirsty! I would never dream of pouring to a broken ring in normal times, but I daresay we will be safe in this case. Any bad luck we could earn has been long since paid for, and in the Underlands, there are only corpses to care.”

Without waiting for either assent or dissent, Turpentine pours steaming liquid into cups as D’Alle coughs and the cantrait shuffles, restless. It forces the servant to move, startling West. He has forgotten they were there.

“While we wait,” D’Alle fumbles at delicacy, “why don’t we broach the topic of our meeting? I’ll confess to ignorance, and I’ll confess further that I don’t care for that sensation.”

“Information is the currency of the Wise,” West agrees, accepting a cup. D’Alle nods, fatuously, in no way understanding that for him to be considered one of the Wise is ludicrous to the point of insult.

“It is indeed,” Mr. Turpentine says, handing Gray a cup, which the boy sets aside. “And all thinking creatures should hew closely to that sort of wisdom. However, I fear that our true host is yet to arrive, and I daresay she would care little for my speaking out of turn.”

D’Alle grunts at this and accepts a cup of chûs from Mr. Turpentine. He sips it and grimaces. He covers the reaction, but Turpentine sees and stiffens. It is a small reaction, but West revises D’Alle’s life expectancy downward: Not a good one to slight, my friend. Not if the reality matches the reputation—which is as considerable as it is dark.

“As for who our host is, I confess to some curiosity myself,” West says, sipping his drink. “Considering the august company already gathered around this fire, I’d hardly be surprised to find it was one of the Nine themselves!”

Mr. Turpentine laughs, a reedy whistle. “Oh, wonders await, my good West! Friends of friends, companions fresh and worn, delightful newcomers, and, dare I say, a surprise or two.”

“Certainly no one more surprising than the legendary Mr. Turpentine,” West says, “and the incomparable Primary Gray. Two persons who cast long shadows across the Lands.”

“You set yourself too lowly, sir!” Mr. Turpentine cries, re-filling the pot and setting

it back into the fire. “You are by no means an insignificant figure yourself.”

West’s smile grows easy. He can sense the faint hint of an insult here, perhaps more in the machine’s tone than words. “You confuse me with my father, or perhaps my brothers and sisters. I myself am merely a servant of all, notorious only by proximity to greatness.”

“I’m sure your siblings would say the same.” Mr. Turpentine says, and for a moment, West’s smile freezes. Is the thing taunting him? But no, this servile monster wouldn’t dare, foul reputation or no. West chooses to laugh, a rumble that echoes around the room.

“My brothers and sisters have many fine qualities,” West says, “but an over-burden of humility has never been one of them.”

“Surely, the sons and daughters of Hunter Fine have no need for humility?”

The fucking thing is taunting him. West’s fingers flex. He imagines that he sees a smile on the immortal Primary Gray’s face, but—no. It is just firelight. And that’s all right; West is just here to learn what the point of this invitation—this meeting—truly is. Once he does, perhaps he’ll teach someone the dangers of sly manners.

“I’m sorry,” D’Alle says, squinting at West, “but did someone say Hunter Fine?”

It is clear D’Alle does not know who West is, but he knows that name. Mr. Turpentine is known only in certain unpleasant circles, and Primary Gray is more a legend these days, but Hunter Fine . . .

West feels that old stew of conflicting feelings, half pride and half bitterness, bite at the back of his throat.

“He was my father,” West says, reluctantly. “In a manner of speaking.”

He hears a chuckle from the murk beyond the fire and the scrape of someone shuffling towards them. West’s hand goes to his weapon, but Mr. Turpentine does not startle, nor seem alarmed. The voice—oddly familiar to West—chuckles again.

“I think what you mean,” the voice says, still in gloom, “is that after he killed himself, he stuffed all his worst qualities into you.”

West tenses, perhaps more than the insult itself calls for. There is something familiar in that voice, but he cannot immediately place it. In a life as long as his, this is a common sensation, but nevertheless alarm prickles his skin. A shambling figure enters the circle of firelight and falls into a seated position on one of the chunks of rock dragged there for that purpose. The voice belongs to a man,

nothing more or less. He is certainly not one of the Wise.

He looks quite bad. His clothes are barely rags, and old savage scars the color of ash and mulberry spiral across what can be seen of his chest. His right leg seems to have been broken and badly set; it has been fixed at an angle that looks uncomfortable at best. He is wearing no shoes; his toes are mangled and poorly aligned. When he yawns, West can see that several of his teeth have been splintered and left uncared for, sharp shards still housed in blackening gums. He looks like a broken dog. When he stops rubbing his eyes, West can see something is unsettling about them, something wrong, but in the firelight he cannot tell exactly what. The ill-treated man heaves a sigh as deep as the gloom around them and straightens up a little. He looks first at D’Alle, then at West.

“Hullo, Lourde,” he says, with an effort at cheer. “Or is it West, now? Hello, D’Alle! Fancy seeing you here. Mr. Turpentine, might I have some chûs before these two try to kill me?”

Mr. Turpentine titters, his long bladelike fingers covering his mouth. “Nothing like that will be permitted, Mr. Candle.”

“Just plain ‘Candle’ is fine,” the man says. “I lost my honorific years ago. Right around the same time I lost my honor. Eh, D’Alle?”

Suddenly the fat man on the walking-couch stiffens in recognition. Shock and rage crease his broad face, and a trembling finger raises. “You!”

“Me,” the broken man agrees. “You’ve gotten fatter, D’Alle. You shouldn’t let something else walk for you.”

The cantrait dances on its slender clockwork legs, reflecting D’Alle’s agitation. He is near apoplexy, his face red and flushed, his eyes staring.

“This . . . this is . . . Who allowed this creature into this meeting?”

“I will remind you all,” Mr. Turpentine says, “that we are guests and under something of a flag of truce. Old enmities must be set aside, gentlemen, if only for the span of this meeting. As difficult as it may be.”

West is still puzzled. There is something familiar about Candle.

Then he gets it. The face is the same, if bruised and broken, but the supreme arrogance that once animated it is gone. West should be happy about it, but he can’t be. He had wanted to be the one to wipe Candle’s arrogance away. He hasn’t seen this man in years. He would have laid good coin on his being dead twice over.

Candle has been watching West’s face, and now he grins. “There it is. Recognize me, eh? You might want to let your family know they can stop mourning.”

West stares at the damaged man. “How are you here? We thought you were dead.”

“Oh, I am. Dead as

shit.” Candle holds up his limp arms and waggles them. “Someone attached some strings and is dancing my corpse about.”

“My brother,” West says, “will have your head.”

“He is welcome to it.” Candle grins again, a ghastly sight. “If he can get it off my body.”

D’Alle growls, interrupting. “I swore that if I ever saw you again—”

“Oh, hush.” Candle waves his hand in a shooing gesture. “Both of you. Any revenge you ever wished upon me, consider it paid with interest. Even if you could get past Turpentine here, the worst you could do to me would be like gentle kisses compared to my morning routine. So calm down and enjoy the sight of me, brought so low. I’ll even allow you to leer.”

“This,” West says, turning to Mr. Turpentine, “had better not be our host.”

“Oh, no, dear West. I fear the days of Mr. Candle’s making grand plans are quite firmly in the past.”

Candle makes a face but doesn’t disagree. He accepts a cup of chûs from Mr. Turpentine, blows on it, and sips.

“This man”—D’Alle is calmer now, but far from easy—“is more dangerous than you know, and if you think he is done with plots, you are very mistaken. I have experienced his plots firsthand.”

Mr. Turpentine’s only comment is another titter.

“Well thank you, Master D’Alle,” Candle says, with mock courtesy. “I’m glad to have made such an impression. I’d nearly forgotten about you and your sad little Cannoux-Town. But Mr. Turpentine is all too correct—I am nothing but a tool these days, broken and re-broken until I fit the hand. I fear my days as a motive force in this world are done. I serve a new master now.”

“And who is your new master?” D’Alle says, his voice tight. “What dark force do you follow?”

“Oh, the darkest, D’Alle. But you’ll be re-acquainted soon enough. In the meantime, might I have more of this excellent chûs, Turpentine? I’m afraid I’ve quite drunk it up. This new master of mine isn’t much for supplying creature comforts, and it’s been a while since I’ve had anything sweet.”

“Certainly, Mr. Candle!” Mr. Turpentine has reverted to the honorific. If stories are true, Turpentine delights in the strictures of polite society, nearly as much as he enjoys committing horrors upon it. He sets about fussing with his pots again. Candle, for his part, seems lost in his own thoughts for a while. Eventually he straightens himself, which appears to take some effort, and looks around the fire. His strange eyes flicker in the light. He adopts a faux-grand tone and spreads his arms, highlighting crooked fingers.

“So! Here we are. An idiot, a fool, a psychopath, and a child-god,” Candle says. “I bet you wonder why.”

“Our host wished—” Mr. Turpentine says, but Candle waves him off.

“I wasn’t sent ahead for nothing, Turpentine. You know her; she wants us to get all the tedious exposition out of the way and not waste her precious time. Never fear that I betray our host, my friend. If you think my body is broken, just wait until you see my spirit.”

He spits into the fire, looks at his dirty hands, and looks around again with his unusual eyes. His words have the flavor of a prepared speech, but not one that is eagerly given. West is again amazed to see him fallen so low; he cannot imagine what has happened since he knew him.

Candle clears his throat, a rough sound.

“In any case, what are we doing here? What a motley crew! What possible purpose could this convocation of personalities—this Convox, if you will—serve? What opportunity, in all the Wanderlands, could bring us to meet here in the darkness, out past the edge of the world and deep beneath the skin of the Mountain? What force could cause us to congregate in this dead grave of a buried civilization?”

“You haven’t lost your flair for the dramatic,” West says, a little sour.

“Well, I shouldn’t.” Candle jerks his head at D’Alle. “I learned it from him.”

D’Alle shakes his head. “If I must listen to you speak, I’ll listen to as little of it as possible. Say what you mean to, boy.”

“You never were any fun, Master D’Alle,” Candle says. He looks around the fire again, then up at the big circular helix of the stone stairway, rising into shadows above them. He seems tempted, for a moment, as if he could run for it and escape. But he sighs and returns his attention to the assembled worthies.

“We’re here,” Candle says, “because far below us, so far below our feet that it would beggar a man’s imagination to consider, the most dangerous creature that ever existed lies bound, in the greatest prison built by the greatest magicians of the greatest age of the world. A demon that almost ended our world when it was full of light and life; one that, if it were to get free, would snuff out our existence as easily as I might snuff out a flame. I speak, of course, of the Giant, who lies even now restless beneath us.”

West snorts, incredulous. What nonsense is this? He shakes his head. If this is what he has been dragged across most of the known world to hear, he has wasted a trip.

“The Giant is dead,” he says, “and has been for a long time.”

Candle smiles, a ghastly sight with his broken teeth. His peculiar eyes glitter. “I disagree.”

West stands. He cannot believe that he has traveled so far for this! He decides to put an

end to this nonsense.

“The Giant—and let me be clear, for those less informed of us, the Giant once named Kindaedystrin, the deadliest creation that the Mother ever cursed us with, yes, that one—is dead. He has been dead for two ages of the world. There is certainly a prison below our feet. My father helped build it. But I did not come all this way, under such conditions, to entertain nightmares and fairy-stories. I am in a position to know, perhaps better than any person living, and I assure you—the Giant is long dead.”

Primary Gray, the ancient child, raises his golden eyes.

“No,” the boy says, quietly, “he is not.”

 

THE KILLERS

In The Beginning, An End

“A misspent youth can be recovered from. A glorious one can never be.”

—CORAZON LI, ‘REVELIS’

Sophie Vesachai was burning butterflies again.

They weren’t hard to catch. They swarmed around the balcony café where she stood smoking, leaning against the stone balustrade and watching the bustle of the Rue de Paladia below. The tiny mechanical creatures were attracted by the curls of smoke and scents that rose from the balcony café, the warm smells of roasted chûs and burning pepper. Sophie caught another, snapping her wrist in a practiced motion and snaring the small automata.

It fluttered in her hand, its tiny gears straining. It was a minute marvel, a miniature work of art. It had beautifully patterned wings and gearwork that was so fine and precise it could hardly be seen, even held up to the eye. Sophie drew a deep drag on her slot and blew smoke into the cage of her fingers, setting the little silver-made machine into frantic motion.

She wondered, idly, what purpose this little device had been made for. How old was it? How long had this device been fluttering around the Keep? She wondered, as she smoked and waited for the evening to come, if it had once been free in some other place and had, over the course of the slow millennia, found its way down through the endless leagues of rock and abandoned stone rooms above their heads, following the scent of chûs and burning pepper to find itself here.

Here, in a cage. Sophie considered this, studying the butterfly; but no. Not just any cage. It found itself in the grandest cage in the whole world. The Keep.

And the Rue de Paladia was the heart of the Keep, one of the biggest places in it. Though she would have resisted acknowledging such sentimentality, it was her favorite place in the whole world and had been since she was a little girl. The Rue was a winding boulevard paved with cunningly engraved stones that made intricate patterns when looked at from above. Long ago, someone had planted cherrywhistle and terra in huge pots along the center of the avenue, and when these bloomed, the Rue became a river of blue and orange fire. Flocking birds roosted everywhere in these tiny trees, and when one of the nearly-as-ubiquitous cats decided to pounce, the birds all took flight at once, filling the air above the Rue and scattering the butterflies.

It was a wide street, wider than most in the Keep, and whoever built it had expended unimaginable amounts of effort to make it lovely. Every surface was either patterned stone of nearly infinite variety, ancient woodwork delicately carved, or wrought metals the like of which no one living could still craft. It was a serpentine street, overlooked by stepped balconies that held cafés, restaurants, dancing parlors. There were even a few residences, high above and majestic, for those with the coin to afford them. The Rue was illuminated by huge columns of litstone, which glowed brightly during the day and dimmed down to a pleasing ember at night. Much more recently—but still a long time ago—huge, bronzed bowls of oil and char had been erected high above the street, and once the night-lights dimmed down, stilted technicians would make their way down the Rue, lighting the braziers and filling the street with a warm flickering fire-light.

Over all of this stood a sturdy ceiling of arched mosaic, tabs of colored glass that reflected the light in a shimmer during the daytime and sparkled at night—legend said that these were meant to evoke the long-forgotten sky, so far above. Sophie Vesachai wasn’t sure that she believed in the sky, though she had seen it once in a dream. The Keep was an immense cylinder of stone, hollowed and tunneled

through with too many rooms and halls and streets to count. But above it, past the Gap, was only more stone, and it, too, was tunneled and carved into long-dark rooms and halls and passageways; a whole vast dead civilization carved out of rock and hanging above their heads.

It might make a less jaded person shiver to think of, but just made Sophie flick ash from her slot onto the street below.

Sophie had been outside the walls of the Keep, which few could claim, and she’d seen for herself what lay above, past the Gap and beyond. It was easy to describe: Darkness. Past the bounds of the Keep there was little light, and if you pressed too far into the empty halls and rooms, you would find the true Dark, where the light failed.

And in that Dark, there were monsters.

Sophie shivered and scratched unconsciously at the scars on her arms. She examined the captive butterfly, still whirring against her fingers, and dragged on her slot. She was thinking about a certain young girl, a girl from a long time ago, who had no scars on her arms. A girl who used to dream of finding out where these butterflies came from, a girl who hadn’t yet acquired a famous name and a tar-black heart. She brought the little captive creature close.

She took another deep drag on her slot, the ember at the tip flaring, and held it to the struggling thing’s wings. The brightly stained paper caught fire, and she tossed the butterfly over the railing, watching it try to fly with burning wings. The flight traced a parabola of thin smoke in the still air above the Rue de Paladia, joining several others that were slowly unwinding in the quiet afternoon air. She watched it struggle, doomed to fail but too stupid to stop, until it landed on the street below. She heard a chuckle from behind her.

“My, my,” Hunker John said. “The Capitana is feeling bloody!”

She turned and gave him a wink. Bear looked up from the book he was reading and grimaced at the new trail of smoke, joining several others. Bear hated it when Sophie burned the little creatures. “Yeah, no shit.”

Hunker John did not have Bear’s delicate disposition, and shrugged. He went back to paring his already perfect nails with an enameled knife.

Sophie stifled a yawn—it was the late hours of the afternoon, the slow time before the revelries of the night kicked in. She flicked the remainder of her slot down onto the street below. She pulled another, scraped the tip alight against the stone balustrade, and sucked in a heavy draw of smoke. She expelled this into the quiet air, causing more mechanical butterflies to swarm above the café.

Gods above, she felt tired. She tried to remember the last time she’d had a decent night’s sleep, one not polished by drugs or drink or disposable love. A small scar cut across her lower lip and part of her chin, and it pulled when she took a drag on her slot.

She had other scars, too, a fine patterning that ran down her forearms. Nobody talked about those scars. If you knew what they were, you wouldn’t dare, and if you didn’t, she would have a fist in your mouth before you got the second word out.

Sophie Vesachai didn’t think about those scars, much. The only consistent part of her look was the long-sleeved jackets that she used to hide them. She supposed she wasn’t especially beautiful, at least by her standards of beauty, but some people would call her arresting. She had small, intense features, and the only concession towards ornament she ever made was a heavy dark paint around her eyes. These were a deep brown, almost black, and with the paint they gave the impression of a space into which everything fell and nothing returned. She wore her hair short, shapeless and dirty, and in her thirty-six years of banging around the Keep, had never had anybody complain.

She heard a viola tune-up, down-Rue, a sweet and lonesome sound that wound its way through the quiet bustle of the street below. It gave her a hollow feeling, adding a bleak undercurrent to her mood. If she had been a different sort of person, she could have looked inward and tried to discover the source of that feeling. But she wasn’t, so she took a drag on her slot and watched the shopkeeps on the street below start closing up their carts for the day. With a lazy snap of her wrist, she caught another butterfly.

“Wish you wouldn’t do that,” Bear grumbled, then shifted in his leaned-back chair, as if already regretting speaking. Sophie glanced back, amused. 

It was curious that her chief enforcer, the cheerfully violent and quite large Bear, was so protective of small things.

“Oh yeah?”

“It’s gonna bring the Practice up,” Bear said. She lifted an eyebrow. He scratched big fingers through his close-cropped and tightly curly dark hair, peppered with gray. Bear was a big man with boyishly good looks and a smoothly dark olive complexion, but the gray hair marked him as the oldest of the Killers. Of course, no one knew exactly how old he was.

One of the few rules the Killers had was that they didn’t talk about where they came from.

“The Practice Guard can suck a dick,” Sophie said finally, blowing smoke at the new butterfly in the cage of her hand.

“Yeah, well.” Bear settled back into his book. “Some of us have paper.”

Sophie raised her eyebrow again. “Like I don’t?”

Hunker John snorted, giving this comment the respect it deserved. Nobody in the Practice Guard was going to fuck with Sophie Vesachai and they all knew it. Every member of the Killers had lists of infractions as long as their arms, and Sophie’s was as long as Hunker John’s entire body. The truth of it, however, was that the unfortunate Practice Guard who tried to arrest Sophie Vesachai on anything but the Queen’s own orders would end up in lock themselves.

She studied the trapped automata in her hand. Maybe she’d let it go; maybe she’d go home and get some sleep; maybe she’d turn over a new leaf, stop drinking so much, and get into charity work. Her mouth twisted.

She closed her fist, the frail creature snapping into shards against her palm. Bear winced.

“We all go into the dark,” she told it. She brushed the still-twitching fragments over the side of the balustrade.

“Twins damn, Sophie.” Bear said, alarmed. “You are bloody today, aren’t you?”

“I’m something.” Sophie scrubbed her face with her hands, trying to wake up. She turned fully and considered her friends with a frown. Their gang was understaffed at the moment. “Where the fuck is Trik, anyway? We’ve got business to be about. I got somebody to meet about a job.”

“She’s out running some grift.” Hunker John yawned and tossed down his paring-knife. He sniffed at a half-warm cup of chûs, one of the many that littered their table, and instead popped a candied olive into his mouth. “Loves her grift, does our Trik.”

“She is a hustler,” Sophie allowed. She looked up at the mosaic arch overhead, thinking about old stone and inevitability.

Bear eyed her. “Speaking of grift—”

“Speaking of debauchery.” Hunker John made a show of stretching. “We getting into any trouble tonight, Capitana?”

Sophie brought her attention down from the stone overhead. She watched her friend sniff a cold cup of chûs and discard it in favor of something stronger. As she did sometimes, she took in the spectacle of Hunker John; there was no one else quite like him.

Hunker John was small, slender, delicate in a way that begged exploration. He was a grandiose fop, a layabout, a degenerate. He had a long face and twinkling almond eyes that accepted all, forgave all, winked at all. His wavy and brightly colored hair might have been sculpted by a genius of the form, and he offset this majestic coif with a little fake goatee that made him look like a stage

 villain. He was one of those fortunate androgynous individuals who provided prospective lovers a fascinating puzzle as to what might lay hidden underneath his perfectly ornate tunic; from all the tales Sophie had heard, by the time the interested party found out, they no longer cared.

“Well, Capitana?” Hunker lifted an eyebrow.

“I started this night with some fun in mind,” she said, finally, “and I mean to have my due.”

Hunker clapped, delighted, and Bear stifled a groan. Bear was a good soldier, though, and would follow her into any fight—or wild debauch—with little hesitation. Sophie saw movement behind him, a tall girl winding her way through the sleepy café towards them. Bear straightened up.

“Triks!” he called, pointing at Sophie, like a child calling tattle-tale. “Capitana is feeling bloody!”

“Oh, wonderful,” Trik growled, approaching the table. “I haven’t stopped drinking in a fucking week.”

Hunker John raised a glass of chûs. “Fasten your breeches up tight, dear Triks. We are in for a sinister road.”

“Dunno when a girl is supposed to goddamn sleep.” Trik made a great show of sighing, and settled herself carefully into a chair. She was tall and dark, with tattoos all over, and a great cloud of kinky black hair. A certain member of the Killers had confessed a desire to sink his hands into that hair, Sophie recalled. Bear still had all of his fingers, though, so presumably he had never attempted it. Trik didn’t like being touched. She looked up at Sophie, eyebrow raised.

“Well? What lunacy comes, Capitana?”

“First we need to collect Ben.” Sophie stifled a yawn, trying to rouse herself past her fatigue and into action. “And then I need to see a man about a job. And then . . . well, I propose we rampage through the Keep in a drug-and-booze-filled orgy of sex, violence, and madness until we find an answer for the unceasing and depthless darkness within.”

“Great,” Trik looked into a half-drunk cup and wrinkled her nose. “The usual, then?”

Bear tipped his chair back, getting into the spirit of the thing, and gave Sophie a passable grin. “Well? Killers Unite, I suppose.”

Sophie grinned back, all teeth. “Just so, Bear. Killers fucking Unite.”

• • •

The Killers made their way down the Rue de Paladia, preparing for revelry. Hunker John danced a little jig as he walked, excited about the prospect of debauchery, and upset the long walk of a Charm Chair. The graceful apparatus, more or less a loveseat on two long legs, picked

itself delicately around John, endeavoring not to upset its rider.

It was late afternoon sloping off into the evening, and the Rue wasn’t very busy. The bustle on the street was mostly the shopkeeps closing up their stores. Weaving in and out of the milling citizens and tall clockwork Charm Chairs were the Charboys high on their stilts, lighting the great bronze braziers above their heads.

One of the reasons Sophie liked the Rue de Paladia was that it put the variety and breadth of humankind on display as few other places in the Keep were able to. There were all sorts in the Underlands, it was said, and it was true. Light, dark, every shade between, every combination of eye and hair, every sex and variation thereof shopped and dined and drank and sang on the Rue de Paladia. And that was to say nothing of the clock-and-silver creatures; the Gallivants and Charm Chairs that made their way up and down the street, the spiderlike automata that maintained the mosaic far above, even the swarming clockwork butterflies.

One of the other reasons Sophie liked the Rue was that she came here enough that people knew to pretend they didn’t recognize her. Even artificial anonymity was enough for her. There were always exceptions, though; she saw a particularly bold kid scowling at her. She was feeling bloody, so she scowled back.

“Hey!” the boy called as the Killers passed. “Ma says you Sophie Vesachai!”

His mother, a solid woman who reminded Sophie of one of her aunts, turned red and tried to shush him, but Sophie just gave him a rude gesture. “Get off, squib.”

But the kid, belligerent, stuck out his jaw and shook his head. “Naw, you ain’t Sophie anyways. Sophie ain’t old!”

The child’s mother tried to apologize, but Sophie waved her off. She felt that a certain amount of belligerence should be rewarded in the young. She hadn’t had an over-helping of respect for her elders, either. “Yeah?” she said, stopping and fixing the kid with her best glare. “Don’t think so, squib? Maybe I let my Killers have some fun with you, eh?”

Bear, getting into the spirit of the thing, loomed over Sophie’s shoulder and put his hand on the hilt of his long knife. Hunker John did a passable imitation of a threatening leer. The child blinked, no doubt thinking of the darker parts of the stories he’d heard his whole young life, about Crazy Tom and Jubilee and Mad Vaas, of the long-gone Killers that figured so prominently in so many of those stories. Stories about a little girl named Sophie Vesachai and about how she had saved the world, a long time ago.

Sophie gave the kid a sharp grin. She didn’t much like those stories, but she did like scaring children.

“Yeah, well.” He screwed up his face. The kid had some spirit. “Yer still old.”

Sophie laughed,

straightened, and tossed him a lightweight coin. She ignored the mother’s embarrassed thanks and pointed her finger at the boy. “You best spend that on something your Ma won’t like, you hear me?”

The boy looked down at his newfound riches and nodded, eyes wide. Sophie turned to head back down-Rue, the Killers falling in line around her.

“You’re so good with the little ones.” Hunker John tipped an imaginary hat with his carved cane. “Surprised you don’t have some of your own.”

“Got too many kids already,” Sophie said lightly. “Greedy little fuckers too, always drinking all my booze and doing all my drugs.”

“Learned it from you, Capitana.” Trik picked a cherrywhistle blossom and tucked it into her cloud of dark hair. It matched a flower tattoo on her wrist that was crowded with many other arcane designs, mottled over her dark skin. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“Gotta meet Ben, near the Guardians. Think he’s bringing that new set of legs with him.”

Trik groaned.

“Jealousy.” Hunker John elbowed Bear.

“Fuck you, I’m not jealous,” Trik said. “I’m suspicious. It’s different.”

“Why would anybody be suspicious of New Girl?” Bear looked confused. “She’s sweet.”

“Oh, is she, Bear?” Trik glared at him. Bear blinked and held his hands up. Trik sniffed and looked back at Sophie. “C’mon, are you gonna make me say it?”

Sophie, who was pretty sure she knew what Trik was going to say, held her peace.

“Nobody is at all skeptical,” Trik said, in a lowered voice, “why a girl like that is hanging out with Ben?”

“Ahhh.” Hunker John clapped his hands. “Well, you put it like that, I agree. There must be a sinister motive at work. What do we think; is she a spy? Deep-cover Lurk? Assassin?”

“I just figured he was blackmailing her.” Bear tipped an imaginary hat at an elderly shopkeep who was sweeping her entryway. “Has her grandpa tied up in a storeroom somewhere.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Hunker agreed.

“New Girl’s not a spy, the Queen isn’t that obvious,” Sophie said. She saw the looming shapes of the Guardians up ahead. She paused, considering this, and laughed. “And who gives a shit if Ben’s girl is a Lurk? Can you imagine the poor Ministry bastard who has to read those reports?”

“Scandalous reading, I would imagine.” Bear said.

“A list of crimes 

committed,” Hunker John intoned in an officious manner, pretending to read from a scroll. “Five derogatory terms used in conjunction of the Queen’s good name. Ingestion of six unidentified substances—presumably highly illegal psychotropics. One fistfight with an enraged paramour. Another fistfight with said paramour’s husband. Two hundred and seven slots smoked. Three counts of petty larceny, and one encounter of a sexual nature—the paramour’s husband, under a bar-table.”

Trik had to laugh. “And that was just Sophie.”

“It was a slow night,” Sophie said. She turned and fixed her Killers with a hard eye. “You lot leave New Girl alone; Ben never gets any legs like that wrapped around him, and you assholes do just fine. Let him have his fun.”

“That apply to you as well, Capitana?” Hunker John asked, sly.

“Especially applies to me,” Sophie said, and then grinned. “I always had a weakness for beauty. It’s why I keep Bear around.”

“Yeah!” Bear pumped his fist. “See?”

“I thought that’s why you kept me around,” Hunker John said, pouting.

Sophie frowned at him. “I keep you as a cautionary tale, Hunk. A reminder to look in the Twins-damned mirror before I leave the rack.”

“Thank you. That’s been driving me nuts all day.” Trik turned to Hunker John. “What the fuck is that around your neck?”

“This,” Hunker John said, patting an improbably folded and very colorful cravat, “is what you all will be wearing in a few months. Mark my words.”

“Only if all the lights in the Keep go out.” Trik squinted at an imagined glare from his neck.

Sophie chuckled and scraped another slot to life as her friends bickered and walked. Just another late afternoon on the Rue de Paladia; just another slow evening with her Killers. She tried to relax into it. She spotted a heap of half-destroyed machinery, all covered with flowers and drawings, left abandoned in the street. It was a memorial of the Hot Halls War; one of the invading mechanisms that had proved too heavy or too difficult to remove or dismantle. These were scattered all over the Keep; Sophie tended to avoid them. But she saw two figures standing near this one.

“Oiy! Hey!” A sandy-haired man with kind eyes was waving; this was Ben. He was next to a woman who was so lovely she was hard to look directly at, like a bright light in a dark room. Ben grinned as they approached. “Hoy there, genteels.”

Ben was Sophie’s oldest friend; the last of the original Killers. He had a soft face and a mild demeanor, but Ben had been with her through more

trials and terrors than anyone else. He had followed Sophie into every dismal hell for twenty years now, though these days, the dismal hells were of the Killers’ own making, and built of empty cups of booze.

Ben slapped Hunker John on the back and punched Bear on the arm; Trik got a respectful nod. She wasn’t big on physical displays of affection. Or any sort of affection, Sophie supposed. Ben gestured at the girl next to him. “You reprobates remember Av—”

“We remember New Girl,” Bear cut in, severely. “How are you doing, New Girl?”

New Girl tossed her long blonde hair. “I’m good, Bear. How you doing, Trik?”

Bear nodded, approving. The asinine but, at this point, hallowed protocols of Sophie’s nicknames had been observed. Sophie let her eyes slide away from the girl; with those green eyes and that endless fall of light hair, she might have walked out of a broadly written fairy-story.

“Well?” Ben said, taking in Sophie’s mood at a glance. He knew Sophie better than anyone else. “What’s the plan, Capitana?”

“I’m thinking the Loche de Menthe.”

Bear gave a low whistle. “The Loche! You are feeling bloody.”

“I started this night with some fun in mind,” Sophie said, giving New Girl a wink. “I may be full of shit, but I rarely lie.”

• • •

The Guardians were huge, standing on low stone pedestals with their backs to each other, heads nearly scraping the mosaic arch far overhead. They were automata, ancient clock-and-silver things, but they hadn’t moved in a very long time. They could be mistaken for very complex, ornate statues, and Sophie supposed that’s what they were these days. Legend had it they had once served as Dominators, and could control the peoples of the Keep by sending them into deep sleep or murderous rage, but Sophie had never believed it. It was too bad the Guardians no longer had any purpose; they would have been useful in the Hot Halls War.

The Hot Halls War. Gods, she didn’t need to think about that tonight.

Sophie led her friends to the end of the Rue and the deplorable delights that lay in the direction of the Loche de Menthe. Her friends called her Capitana and followed her everywhere; it had been a long time since Sophie had bothered to wonder why. Perhaps it was her reputation, perhaps the role she had played in the Hot Halls War. Maybe she was just one of those poor bastards who were born to lead, and had nowhere to go. Her slot was down to the nub already—a sign of disquiet—and she flicked it with a trailing

arc of smoke, a similar parabola to the ones the burning butterflies had left.

The Rue narrowed at this end, forming a big arch that was winged with massive semicircular doors. These doors could move, ostensibly, but if they could be closed, Sophie had never heard of its being done. Like many things in the Keep, the knowledge of how to make the doors work was long lost. Even her estranged family, the Vesachai, despite being a caste of techno-priests, knew barely enough to keep the lights going. The Vesachai were the only ones in the Keep with the ability, training, and discipline to manipulate the motive force of the Keep, the Silver. But Sophie knew firsthand that there was much more about the world—and the Keep—than her family knew.

She thought of her father, her eager little brother, her beloved uncle. Thoughts of her brother especially pained her. Her father and uncle were grown; they had made their own choices. Lee, however . . . Gods, Lee had worshipped his older sister. Followed her around everywhere. She remembered bringing him down to the Rue to get fairy-ice and foisting him off on a friendly shopkeep to go adventure with the Killers. She’d never been much of a sister to Lee, as she recalled, and then with everything that happened . . .

Well, it didn’t matter. She was sure he was fine, a proper young Vesachai now, and she was sure he’d sneer at her just the same as the rest of them did. She pushed such thoughts away. Old news and old stories. They didn’t matter. She had fun in mind . . . and she meant to have her due.

She scraped another slot to life on the rippled metal of the Right Guardian’s foot as she passed it, resolving not to think about her fucking family tonight.

Bear, Trik, and Ben were arguing about which of the many illicit pleasures to be found in the Loche de Menthe they should start with, but she let them prattle. She looked New Girl over, partially because that was a pleasant thing to do and partially because of Trik’s suspicions. She loved Ben, but his charms were not usually obvious to a girl like that.

New Girl caught her looking and gave her a quick little wink.

Careful there, Sophie warned herself. She hadn’t been joking about that weakness for beauty, and she’d already stolen enough boys and girls from Ben. He was always cheerful about it, but Sophie intended he enjoy New Girl’s company as long as both of them cared for it. She owed Ben that much, at least.

They passed through the big doors that capped this end of the Rue and into the more pedestrian byway that led into other parts of the Keep. The by-way was high-ceilinged and very wide, though nothing like the grand open space above the Rue de Paladia, and the Killers made their way against a light flow of citizens headed to the Rue. Behind them, the Rue was gearing up for nighttime, and indeed, Sophie saw the great columns of brightly lit stone dim to their night-hues. She sidestepped a big Gallivant carrying a full load of well-dressed passengers, excited to treat themselves to a

a dinner on the Rue. The Gallivant’s big tea-cup silver eyes swiveled at her as she passed, and she could hear the faint sounds of rotting gearwork deep inside the thing. It made her sad; soon that rot would get bad enough that the thing would slow and stop, and the Keep would be graced with one more statue from another age littering its byways.

Mother above, she was melancholy tonight! She wondered for a moment where it was coming from, but self-reflection was for people who cared to improve. A Charm Chair was making its way toward them, carrying some rich fuck who could afford one. Sophie paid it little mind until it paused and swerved towards them.

She drew up short as the tall, spindly-legged construct slowed to a stop in front of her and knelt down. She heard the warm whirring of well-kept clock-and-silver machinery, and then a finely dressed aristocrat, saddled with a cravat almost as brightly colored as John’s, came into view.

“Sophie Vesachai?” the fop asked, peering at her. He had a high, supercilious voice, and the kind of face that made you want to stick something sharp into it. He glanced at, and then dismissed, the rest of her friends. It didn’t do much to endear him to Sophie. She took a moment, looking away, to drag on her slot. Eventually, she looked back at him.

“Yeah?”

“Ah! Well, just my luck,” the fop said. He didn’t actually say it with a sniff, but he might as well have. “Headed to dinner, and who do I stumble across? Two birds, one stone, and all that.”

“What can I do for you?” Sophie asked evenly, because there was an outside chance that this rich idiot wanted to hire the Killers for something interesting.

“I,” the aristocrat began, as if bestowing an extensive favor, “have a message for you. And considering the expense spared on it, I should think you’ll listen!”

Sophie squinted off into the distance and took another drag. Plainly, the fop did not enjoy being marginalized, which was why she did it. She blew some smoke in his direction. “Okay.”

He yawned, swaddled in the expensive fabrics that made up the comfortable seats of the Charm Chair. “Okay, well. Let me remember; I was to speak this verbatim. I had made a note, ah . . . and seem to have misplaced it. No matter.”

Sophie looked over her shoulder at Trik, who made a cutting motion across her throat, and Sophie was inclined to agree. She raised an eyebrow at

the rich bastard, giving him about ten seconds to say something interesting.

“I am to tell you, um. First, that ‘nothing that is about to happen is what it seems.’ And that you should not, ah . . .‘take the bait.’ Forgive me, I have no idea what any of this means.”

Sophie felt herself smiling. Take the bait? Nothing was as it seems? Ben looked as confused as she was. Was this a prank?

The fop found his note and his face cleared; he was happy now. “Ah! Yes. Second, I’m to tell you ‘not to trust the man that you call Bear.’ And, third—I must say that I truly don’t know what this means—I . . .”

“Hold up.” Sophie held up a hand, palm out. “Did you just say not to trust Bear?”

The fop frowned, looking up from his paper. “Ah, yes. Is that someone you know? Look, I’m just telling you what was told to me.”

Sophie studied Bear for a long moment, who was looking earnestly puzzled. She returned her attention to the aristocrat in the lowered Charm Chair with an expression that would have sent a smarter man in the opposite direction as fast as was humanly and mechanically possible.

“. . . some bullshit,” Trik said from behind her. The fop was too absorbed to notice any of this, however, and squinted at his paper.

“The third thing,” he said, plainly ready to be done with his errand, “is—”

“You know what? I don’t think I care to know. How about this: Get the fuck out of here, and tell whoever paid you to fuck with me, be it the Queen Jane, or Lord Crowe, or my father, or who the fuck ever, go tell them to fuck the fuck off. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Bear’s voice was a low scour. He had dropped his cheerful demeanor in that way that tended to make the blood run cold. “Why don’t you move out before you get hurt?”

The fop was clearly alarmed by their attitude, and the Charm Chair backed away a few span, responding to his alarm.

“Fine! Mother Above, fine. But I’m supposed to say—”

“I don’t give a shit,” Sophie said, flicking her slot into the man’s face. He swatted it away.

“I’m supposed to say that ‘the giant is still awake!’”

Sophie froze. The aristocrat rose up into the air, his cravat and alarmed expression disappearing from view with the graceful movement of the Charm Chair, and headed off towards the Rue de Paladia.

“A giant?” New Girl said, frowning. “What was that?”

“Some nonsense.” Hunker John waved his hand airily. “I’m sure it’s nothing to concern yourself with. Fools are always trying to pull our famous Capitana into their schemes.”

Ben, however, set his hand on Sophie’s arm. He knew those words as well as she did. Or, nearly those words. The way they had been spoken to Sophie, when they were children, went a little differently: The Giant Lies Still Awake.

“Ben,” Sophie spoke through numb lips, watching the Charm Chair duck under the great arch that led into the Rue de Paladia. “Have we ever taught these kids how to take down a Charm Chair?”

Ben’s face was pale, but he shook his head. “I don’t think so, Capitana.”

“We’re doing what, now?” Trik said. Sophie got herself together.

“We’re going to take down that Chair,” she snapped. “C’mon.”

She started moving, a slow lope that turned into a run. She heard Ben rallying the Killers behind her, explaining what they needed to do. Hunker John, sensing excitement coming, howled a war-cry into the evening air, and the Killers poured back down the passageway towards the Guardians.

As she ran, Sophie veered to her right and snatched up a short, dense piece of fakewood from a closing vendor stall, ignoring the woman’s protests. She smacked it into her palm; it should work. She glanced over her shoulder to see if her Killers were following, but of course they were.

“When I tell you,” Ben called loudly, “you have to haul backward. Got it?”

Bear, Trik, and Hunker ran ahead, catching up with the long-legged Charm Chair, matching its pace. Ben raced ahead and stopped, judging the distance, and gave Sophie a nod. She slowed a bit, ...