Keeler was already plunging to his death.

WITHIN THE HOUR, Nick had traded his place by the window for a view from the church roof. The a.s.signment remained the same: to untangle their precious equipment from the harness of the airman who by now was surely dead.

He'd asked for a rope, along with a small pocket knife. The fact that no one had agreed to a safety line for Keeler spoke volumes about just how expendable the prisoners were. Ropes and prisoners were a bad mix, to say nothing of blades. However, it was clear the airmen didn't have the patience for a third attempt, and that forced a change of rules. Nick was to keep trying until he got the prize-but he got his equipment and now he stood by the door to the rooftop.

"Don't think you're going to try anything," growled his guard. "I'm right here, and there's a man at the door on t'other side."

Nick simply nodded and held out his wrists. They'd had to remove the iron shackles from his feet to climb the narrow, winding steps that led all the way up there. Grudgingly, the guard produced a heavy key and rattled the locks, exposing Nick's chafed wrists to the blessed air. As the irons fell away with a clatter, Nick immediately felt a hundred pounds lighter, his perception as sharp as if a blindfold had been stripped away. He felt the first stirrings of his magic, weak from long exposure to the iron chains but still alive.

"Don't get any ideas," the guard warned. "There's nowhere to go."

He was right about that much. The roof doors were simply small access points for maintenance. There was little place to stand beyond the opening. The roof sloped on the right down to a narrow gutter, and over that edge, somewhere below, was what remained of Keeler. Nick decided right then he wasn't going to look down.

On the left was a sharp rise to the ridge. The spine of the roof was decorated with a long line of wrought metal decoration turned to verdigris. The roof itself was overlapping sheets of lead and copper that reflected back the warmth of the sun. Nick surveyed the roof dubiously. No wonder Keeler had trouble climbing-the slick metal offered few footholds, especially at that angle.

"Only a lizard would keep its grip up here," the guard mumbled. So far he hadn't put one booted foot outside the stairwell.

"I'm fine with heights," Nick replied.

The guard's only reply was the rattle of the rifle. Fool, thought Nick. With so many obstacles on the roof, it would be almost impossible to get a clean shot-unless the guard ventured onto the roof himself and, from the pallor of the man's face, that wasn't going to happen. Nick turned his attention to the task at hand, and threw the loop of his rope toward the metal filigree on the roof ridge above. On the third try, it caught.

Nick knew better than to trust his weight to the metalwork, but it might catch him if he slipped. Until the Jack had gone down, he had scoffed at things like safety lines, but that last fall had taught him caution. There had been too much time on the way down to think. So, hand over hand, he began the careful ascent of the roof, placing each foot firmly as he went. The wind ruffled the long tangle of his hair, carrying the clean scent of pine and meadow. For that moment, balanced between flight and falling, Nick was a prisoner no more.

As he reached the roofline, he could see for miles. Closest to them was the ruin of a monastery, the high arches supporting only half a roof. A little farther along there were pleasant houses with chickens scratching around the doors and gardens arranged in tidy rows. He saw the silver arc of a river, rolling fields, and a tousled blanket of trees. He spied a ribbon of railway tracks heading south, with crows circling above them in search of anything good to eat. Best of all, the sky opened up all around him-wide-open freedom that he'd lacked for almost a year. And there was birdsong-few had ventured near the great furnaces, but here they chattered with abandon.

Yes, that's the place!

You don't say?

Huge worms! The good ones!

I like a good worm. Better than grubs any day.

Birds weren't always profound, but at least they were cheerful. He balanced at the peak, unhooking the rope and lightly gripping the curling metalwork. He closed his eyes for a moment, tasting the breeze. He knew there were guards in the staircases and at the foot of the walls. Although airships couldn't maneuver easily near the forest of spires along the roof, there was a small zephyr-cla.s.s vessel patrolling the sky, watching his every move. Nevertheless, he could feel the potential magic in the air.

Athena. A pang of loss. .h.i.t him so hard he thought his chest might cave in. He'd kept her safe, but where he'd buried her was a mystery now. He would have to find out where the ship had gone down and retrace his journey-though now he knew better than to travel the roads alone.

And where was he now? He guessed north of London, but not so far as Sheffield. They were in the Scarlet King's territory, and his lands tended toward the northwest. And there were train tracks just over there. There would be a train, and a journey south, and then life again. He would find his crew and get Athena back, and then he would find a ship.

And Evelina. In a wave of dangerous vertigo, the memory of the nights he'd spent with her hit him like a broadside of twenty-pound shot. Nick's eyes snapped open. In a few seconds, his imagination had carried him into a future he had no idea how to reach. But the details didn't matter. Fate had given him a chance, and he wasn't going to waste it-because once he had his deva and his ship and his woman, he was going to have his revenge.

He savored that thought a moment, letting it melt on his tongue like a sweet. He wasn't a political man, but the Scarlet King had thrown down the gauntlet when he'd clapped Nick in chains. No one did that to the Indomitable Niccolo and lived to tell the tale.

But first things first. What was so important that men were being sacrificed to get it off this roof? He inched along, drawing parallel to the point where the airman had slid to a stop behind the tower. The man was half hidden in a tangle of propeller and harness, arms and legs sprawled like a carelessly tossed doll.

With one end of the rope wound around his waist, Nick worked his way down the roof, keeping the line tight. He took his time, not letting his sense of newfound freedom make him reckless. When he reached the twisted wreck of the personal flight device, he realized it had been a kind of winged propeller, held on by a shoulder harness and powered by a small engine that strapped about the waist. Nick was no maker, but experience told him winds would have been a problem. A strong gust had probably pushed the airman into the spires, fouling him between roof and tower. Dark Mother of Basilisks. The force of the whirling blades had cut the airman nearly in two.

Nick turned away a moment, appalled. Then he pulled out the pocket knife and began sawing through the straps of the harness. The leather gave way easily, and soon Nick was able to push the propeller a.s.sembly aside. It slithered off the roof, barely catching on the gutters before falling to the ground. A lone, ragged cheer wafted up. Someone was pleased that Nick was making progress.

Now that he could get close to the body, Nick began searching for whatever devices he could find. He hadn't been given much detail to work with and he wished Striker, his second in command, was there to help. The man knew machines. G.o.ds, what I'd give for one of his aether guns about now.

Nick ran his hand over the airman's b.l.o.o.d.y uniform, feeling the cold stickiness of gore. As he began to turn the body, bone and entrails showed through where the propeller had struck. The only thing that had kept the body in one piece was the engine strapped to the small of his back. It had been destroyed, but the steel casing had stopped the whirling blade. As Nick lifted the man's shoulder, he thought he saw what the men surrounding the church wanted back. There was an octagon of black metal at the front of the man's harness. Nick could just grasp it from edge to edge with one hand if he stretched his fingers wide. Bra.s.s rings secured it to the harness, and he quickly sliced through the straps holding it in place. Nick let the body sag back to the roof and examined the box. The cover was hinged at the bottom and latched at the top, and he quickly opened it. The inside of the cover was a mirror, and the face of the device was a map. Nick frowned at it, unsure at first what he was looking at. Then he flipped it around and viewed it as the airman would have seen it, reflected in the mirror as he opened the case midflight. It was a map of England with a compa.s.s in one corner. Useful enough, but what made it unique was a series of red arrows, all swiveled to point at a single location on the map. The river he could see was the Severn. London was but a few hours away by rail. Somehow this device knew exactly where he was.

Nick stared for a long moment. The map was painted on gla.s.s, and in the strong sunlight he could see the gears turning behind it, moving as he changed the angle of his body. Some of the workings at least had to be magnetic, but the nuances escaped him. Nevertheless, he could see why the device was important. It made independent flight a thousand times safer. As long as a soldier could read a basic map, he could find his destination.

Nick stuffed the device inside his coat. He knew he was raising the stakes by taking it, but he couldn't simply hand it back to the enemy. Then he sat on his haunches a moment, staring at the face of the young airman. He was painfully young, with the farm-fresh good looks that only came from a lifetime of early rising and milk warm from the cow. No doubt there would be a family wanting to bury him. It was the only thing they could do now for their young man. The thought of it made Nick cold inside.

He cut away the heavy motor and threw it to the ground as well. It landed with a crash in the middle of Keeler's bloodstain. At least his fellow prisoner's body had been hauled away. Then Nick ran the rope through what was left of the harness and rolled the body off the edge, bracing his own back against the tower and letting the rope out bit by bit. The airman's body drifted to the ground quickly, but not so fast that it suffered further damage. Then, when the men on the ground swarmed the dead, Nick scrambled to the roof ridge, all but forgotten-at least until the guards discovered the device was missing.

The two roof exits were guarded, and so was the perimeter of the grounds, but Nick had ideas. The main steeple housed the church bells; intricately cut openings all around the spire let out the call of the hours that Nick could hear all the way to the furnaces of Manufactory Three. The only problem was that the opening was nearly seven feet above the roofline.

He looked around for the zephyr making its lazy loop around the top of the church. It was approaching the north end of its patrol, and Nick had about thirty seconds to grab the bottom of the opening and haul himself inside before the lookout would spot him. He wasn't sure the men on the ground could see where he stood, but they were attending to their fallen comrade.

Nick grabbed the stone edge of the opening and heaved himself up. The one good thing about the brutish work he'd been doing was that he was strong through the arms and shoulders. In mere moments he had hauled himself inside. Below his feet were rows of bells attached to vast iron wheels, each one of the huge things ready to swing in a circle the moment the peal was rung. The sound alone would be enough to crack an intruder's skull. His stomach in his throat, Nick dropped to the narrow walkway and edged between them. On the far side, there was a ladder down to the platform where the bell ringers normally stood. He paused a moment, listening, the cool air inside the tower whispering against the metal of the bells.

Outside, songbirds were rejoicing. A fat bee zigzagged in one window and out another, oblivious to Nick's problems. It calmed his nerves. Song, flight, air, the freedom of rooftops-he was in his element. Nick took a breath, summoning his power. Then he began to walk, swift and silent. Where he stepped, no tracks appeared in the fine layer of dust.

Down the ladder, and then to another staircase. It corkscrewed down in pie-shaped slices of stone, the tower black but for a few tiny windows. Nick stayed close to the wall, going carefully until light from the floor below crept up to meet him. But there were voices along with that light. He stopped to listen.

"What do you mean, gone?" It was Rose's voice, m.u.f.fled by a closed door. He must have come inside to wait in comfort rather than stand out in the cool wind like everyone else.

"The prisoner took the compa.s.s, sir. I told you he was a thief." That was Nick's least favorite guard.

"d.a.m.n his eyes." A door just around the curve of the stairs opened. Nick could hear the creak of hinges and saw the splash of brighter sunlight across the stone floor. "Did you send for reinforcements?"

"More airmen are already here. They've been guarding the site since the crash."

"Good. Tell them to shoot to kill."

Nick swallowed. He'd expected no less, but the words still made his shoulders hunch. Then he heard the scuff of boots and something blocked the light.

"Don't go upstairs, you dolt," Rose snapped. "Look in the yard. That's where he'll be going."

The boots scuffed again, and the light came back. A moment later, he heard boots clumping down the stairs ahead of him. Rose sighed, and the door slammed shut, leaving Nick alone again. He remained utterly still while his heart thundered and his mind raced. If he was going to get out of this place, it wasn't going to be by these stairs. He went down the last few steps that led to Rose's door, then paused, thinking of the pocket knife. If it hadn't been a church, he might have taken a chance and turned the k.n.o.b-but instead, he moved past.

The next door opened into a room that might have been used by the choir, because it held a row of black robes on hooks. Nick grabbed one, pulling it over his filthy clothes. From there, he found the choir loft and, at the other end of that, a stairway to the main floor. But he wasn't sure that was a victory, for by then the entire church was crawling with airmen and guards.

Nick's insides turned to ash, a chill sweat trickling down his ribs. He was all too conscious of how he looked. A robe couldn't hide his face; his scruffy beard and lank hair only emphasized his dark features. He'd never known his parents, but everyone said he had the look of a Gypsy. In a place like this, he stood out like a wolf among sheep.

He didn't relish going underground-not so soon after finally feeling fresh air-but his best chance was to get to the crypt. He'd seen the monastery from the rooftop. He knew little about history, but he was almost certain the Benedictine monks kept to themselves rather than mixing with the world. That gave him an idea.

He started down the aisle, walking a measured pace with his head down, as if deep in contemplation. He walked silently, keeping his footsteps as light as the shadows and pleading with the darkness to hide him. To his right, niches held the tombs of wealthy merchants and celebrated knights, faithful dogs at their feet and marble ruffs framing pale faces, their hands folded in eternal prayer. To his left, pillars screened the aisle from the pews, their delicate fluting giving the illusion of a divide. High above, the pillars burst into fan vaults, like the exotic palms from a South Seas island enchanted into stone. Dead ahead, there was a double door. In two other large churches he knew, that spot led down to the crypt. Nick prayed this one held true to form. If nothing else, it was a reasonable place to hide.

But a pair of guards was coming directly toward him, one the same man who had removed his chains. Nick's hands instinctively fisted, as if refusing to be shackled again. As the guard lifted his eyes, Nick turned to his right, drawing farther into the shadows beside a sleeping crusader. Every muscle tensed as the guards walked right behind him, their feet loud in the vaulted hush. And then they stopped.

Nick was already in motion, hurtling toward the double doors. He was close now, only a dozen yards away, but he wasn't used to running anymore. He could hear their feet behind him as he banged through the door, desperation making his feet fast on the steps.

"d.a.m.nation! There's no light down here," one of them snapped.

Nick stumbled but leapt, landing clear of the steps. He crouched in the moldy, damp silence, hoping for the best. The other guard stopped, fumbling in his clothes. Nick could just see them in the light from the door above-a pair of backlit shapes patting their pockets for matches. He took the opportunity to creep into deeper shadow.

Then the second guard-Nick's special friend-drew out a chemical lantern, shook it, and twisted the shutter open. A lurid green glow surrounded the two men.

"Ugh, smells foul down here," said one. "Like something died."

"It's a crypt, you buffoon," grumbled the other.

"Do you suppose there are rats?"

"Only if they like very old leftovers."

Nick backed away, leaving them to b.u.mble about at the foot of the stairs. They inched forward, looking from side to side at the sarcophagi arranged in haphazard rows across the floor. There were vaulted arches here, too, but they were plain, the only ornament leering faces at the top of the pillars. It was clear from the tight shoulders and stiff walk of the guards that they didn't enjoy hunting through the graves. That was good. Jumpy men made mistakes.

Nick crouched behind a marble tomb, peering around the corner to watch his pursuers. As he had hoped, they were going deeper into the crypt, leaving the safety of the stairs behind. Nick looked around for weapons. There were plenty of stone swords and even a few real ones resting atop the graves, but nothing that looked like a match for a rifle. He was good with knives, but his pen knife was hardly up to the job. So instead Nick found a piece of fallen masonry the size of his fist. This was a back-to-basics moment. Then he rose and glided along the ancient marble floor, quiet as the dust.

He waited until they came to a narrow pa.s.sage, where one fell behind the other. Nick came up behind the shorter of the two men, clipping him behind the ear with the rock. He dropped like a sack of laundry. By the time the other one turned, Nick had vanished again.

From where he was crouching behind a pillar, he heard the low cursing of the guard. There was a note of fear in the mumbled words that Nick understood all too well. His own fingers were shaking, nerves wound to a screaming pitch of desperation. Nick clutched his weapon, the sharp edges digging into his fingers. He heard the awkward footfall as the guard stepped around his friend, and then hurried back toward the stairs-no doubt going for help.

Nick was up in a flash, and in three steps he was behind his foe. But this time the guard turned, drawing a pistol, not even bothering with the more awkward rifle. In half a second, the muzzle was in Nick's face. "You'll need more than a rock, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Nick let his eyes go wide with fear. At the same time, he planted a kick in the man's kneecap, just a little to the side to do maximum damage. The shock of it let Nick sweep the pistol aside and bash the man's temple, knocking him to the ground. The man fell against the edge of a sarcophagus, the force of it sending the weapon spinning away. Nick pounced on the man, grabbing his jacket and slamming him into the stone floor once, twice with all the ferocity of his pent-up fury.

The guard sagged, face slack. Nick's breath was coming in ragged gasps, each inhalation a tearing wheeze that was almost a sob. Slowly, painfully, he made himself let go before he reduced the man's skull to pulp.

Priorities. Nick grabbed the lantern, the pistol, and then searched both men for more weapons and ready cash. To his joy, he found a knife and almost a pound in coin between them. And then he stripped off the ridiculous robe and took the taller man's jacket. He ripped off the prison insignia and dropped it to the floor. Finally, he began hunting for a way out.

Nick found the tunnel to the ruined monastery almost at once, and bolted toward freedom.

September 27, 1889.

SOUTHBOUND TRAIN, GREEN LINE.

2:20 p.m. Friday.

NICK PRAYED THAT NO ONE WOULD NOTICE ONE MORE DIRTY, desperate stowaway hiding on the rusting boxcars. He had spent the night lying in wait for a southbound train, but now he was finally near his destination. He was by no means the only one who'd jumped aboard without paying, but he'd kept to himself. Guards wearing the green uniforms of Spicer Industries-the Green Queen's men-came through regularly, swinging batons like they were cricket bats. Two of the unwanted pa.s.sengers had been tossed to the rails.

Nick had crammed himself between the piles of crates of foodstuffs and the steel walls, smelling the vile mix of ash, grease, and the cloying scent of honey. Somewhere a container had broken, and the rail car was thick with flies. He was desperately hungry, but wouldn't risk giving himself away by breaking into the crates in search of dinner. After all, the trip wouldn't take more than half a day.

At least he had time to think-a good thing when one's life had been blown to pieces, and the retrieval of even one shard was bound to be a complex affair. But there were things he needed first-starting with a good place to hide. For that, London had no equal. He made his move when the train began to slow, making its way into Paddington Station at a rolling wheeze. Nick hit the ground, rolled, and vanished into the crowds. The first thing he wondered as he slipped through the familiar alleys was who among his a.s.sociates was still there, and whether or not they could be trusted. He'd been gone almost a year, and that was a long time in the game of survival.

Instinct told him to avoid any of his old haunts. The Saracen's Head tavern had already proven to be the target of the Gold King's spies, and any of the rooms he had rented had probably been taken over by others. After a moment's hesitation, he turned east, working his way toward Russell Square. There was a small handful of men he trusted enough to ask for help, but only one he knew who was even better at hiding than himself. Not even Nick knew the Schoolmaster's real name, but they'd shared risks in their short acquaintance. It was a mark of trust that the man had given Nick an address to use in case of emergency. Nick was reluctant to put himself in debt to the rebel, but if this wasn't an emergency, what was? And he had a delivery to make to the man anyway.

It was early afternoon, the sky a deep autumn blue. Nick stayed in the cool shadows, making himself invisible as he worked his way through the streets. A few yellow leaves crunched under his boots-a sound Nick had almost forgotten in the wasteland of the manufactory. But as beautiful as the natural world was, he found his gaze straying to the people pa.s.sing by-ordinary people chatting, laughing, and sitting in tea room windows eating platefuls of perfectly ordinary food. He'd almost forgotten all that, too. It was one thing to know that he'd lost a year of his life, quite another to feel it in the pit of his gut. The Scarlet King had sliced away a piece of him.

Before, he'd had a ship and crew. He'd had friends-Striker, Digby, and the others. He'd had his ship, and the deva who had taught him to use his power. And-after years of yearning-there had been Evelina. Against all odds, they had finally found a way to be together and then-then loss had burned him away until he was nothing but a husk of ash. He wanted her back-all of them, but especially her. Maybe after that, he would find himself again.

Fury curled inside, speeding his steps toward his destination. He knew the small rooming house was occupied by artists, which meant the rents were cheap and the landlady oblivious to the kind of visitors tramping up her stairs. A good thing, since Nick was too exhausted to scale the wall and climb through the window. In fact, he rather wanted someone to carry him the rest of the way. Not the mode for daring pirates, perhaps, but he'd had a long day.

He went through the tradesman's entrance and trudged up the back stairs to the second floor. The door he wanted stood slightly open, as if a servant hadn't quite pulled it tight. He pushed it open, wondering if the Schoolmaster even still lived there.

The sitting room that came into view was shabby, but bright and pleasant in a disorganized way. Papers, discarded clothes, and a guitar littered the sagging furniture. A huge, threadbare armchair faced the door, and in that chair sat the man Nick had come to see. He was tall and lean, about thirty, and he wore green-tinted eyegla.s.ses that all but hid a pair of shrewd blue eyes.

The Schoolmaster raised his eyes at the squeak of hinges, one hand reaching for the pistol half hidden in a stack of newspapers. Then he froze, his eyebrows lifting in almost comical surprise. "Captain Niccolo? We all thought you were dead!"

Nick stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him. A flash of his old pride brought a grin to his lips. "They didn't call me the Indomitable Niccolo for nothing."

The Schoolmaster's face crumpled into a grimace. "Oh, come now, you've been saving that line. G.o.ds, man, you look awful." And then he sprang to his feet, grasping Nick in a bear hug that nearly squashed the last breath from his body. The Schoolmaster laughed. "It's good to have you back. Where have you been, you old dog?"

The greeting was so warm, so normal, Nick had a momentary urge to weep. After feeling like the dead watching the living all the way there, he was suddenly folded back into the human race. "I've been in Manufactory Three."

The Schoolmaster fell back, stunned. A sober silence rang like a bell through the room. Then he ran a hand through his sandy, curling hair, as if he didn't know what else to do or say. "G.o.ds."

"I made it out," Nick offered.

Coming back to life, the Schoolmaster took Nick's arm, guiding him to a chair angled to the right of his own. Nick obeyed, although he wanted to point out that he needed rather more than a sit-down after months in the Scarlet King's h.e.l.l.

"No one has lived to tell a soul what goes on there," said the Schoolmaster. "Surely you know that. So how did you get out?" His look turned suspicious. "How did you get out?"

Nick understood. The Schoolmaster, as a rebel, had placed a lot of trust in him by giving him this location. There was every chance Nick had bargained for freedom with the Schoolmaster's life. "I swear on everything holy that no one knows I'm here. They didn't even know who I was in that pit of Hades."

"Good." But the Schoolmaster didn't relax.

"Give me a gla.s.s of brandy and I'll tell you everything."

The man's lips quirked. "I'll do better than that."

He pulled open the door and yelled down the stairs at the top of his lungs. "Mrs. Pennyfeather!"

There was a long pause, and then a shrill voice floated up from below. "What is it, scamp?"

"Be a love and give us a bit of a spread, will you? Bread, cheese, and meat and maybe a bit of that steak-and-kidney pie? And a jug of ale?"

There was grumbling from the bottom of the stairs, but it concluded-after a bit more boyish wheedling-in a.s.sent. Nick listened to the exchange with his eyes closed, the soft cushions of the chair urging him to sleep. Fatigue had him in its undertow, but he forced himself to rally as the Schoolmaster returned.

"Don't you have any guards?" Nick asked. "I could have walked right in here and shot you dead."

The Schoolmaster shrugged. "That only makes me more conspicuous. I do my best hiding in plain sight. Besides," he said with a smile, "you mustn't forget there's Mrs. Pennyfeather. Now." The Schoolmaster leaned on the arm of his chair, his chin in one hand. "Do tell. You promised to give me everything."

Nick pulled the device he'd taken from the fallen airman from beneath his coat. "The reason I got away was because I was sent to retrieve this."

He put the device on the small table that sat between their chairs. The Schoolmaster picked it up with obvious curiosity. "Why you?"