Shadows cover Dawrtaine, and Eratosthenes has to pierce through their blockade to rejoin the guardians hovering above the city. There, Mary waits alongside Jawad and Reem.

“All’s well?” Mary asks.

“As well as can be, given the circumstances,” Eratosthenes says. “Hallon has rendezvoused with the Standing Goat’s residents. I only wish we’d realized sooner the nature of the Scholar’s involvement.”

Reem snorts. “The man’s as greedy as a goat giving sour milk.”

“He’s no worse than the Councils,” Jawad says.

“That’s the problem,” Reem says, shaking her head.

“But for him to be an agent of the shadows complicates things,” Mary says. “We’re outnumbered in both the material and spirit worlds.”

“Atu is with us,” Jawad says. “At least somewhat.”

Mary sighs. “And my coven is on emergency notice. The pathways have been laid, and they’ll come when they’re called.”

“We few are the line, and we must hold,” Eratosthenes says. “That’s all there is to it. The people depend on us, whether they know it or not.”

The flux of energies running through the city shifts, and the shadows shimmer with anticipation. From the east, a ripple of a change is coming. Unfortunately, it’s nothing good.

“The airfleet,” Eratosthenes says.

Nine dirigibles approach and take positions over the city. They bring the total number of aircraft to twenty-two. The shadows on the ground are giddy, as are the ones clinging to the dirigibles. Both sides are being manipulated. Both sides were brought against the other.

“The shadows expected this,” Mary says.

“Pushed for it, they did,” Jawad says.

Signal lights flash between the dirigibles. The gun ports on the new arrivals open to join their brethren in spitting death at the tiny lives on the ground. They’d barely begun when dozens of rockets rise into the air, like a field of black flowers blooming. Smoke and flame trail behind as they’re fired from the quiet buildings, the ones away from the fighting. The Silent have been waiting for this moment to ambush the air fleet.

Crump crump. Crump crump. The rockets tear through the armor surrounding the fuselages. They pierce the outer baffles of helium to hit the inner cores full of hydrogen. The sky lights with the resulting explosions. A second wave of rockets lifts into the air. The dirigibles are struck again. Fuselages twist and burn. The sky is on fire, while people fall to their deaths.

Jawad wonders aloud. “Is there nothing we can do?”

“They have made their choices,” Mary says. “The fighting will continue until they choose to stop. Until they choose peace with each other.”

Reem says, “The Councils will be desperate now.”

“The Calamity is getting closer,” Eratosthenes says. “I can smell it. The time for us to make our move is coming.”

The Silent make use of the now-clear skies to continue their offensive against the Army and Civil Order Corps. Through the afternoon, the people’s fear, hatred, and ignorance drives them to hack and shoot and strangle each other; not recognizing the humanity of the people they kill. The guardians witness the destruction and offer prayers of solace. The gods are quiet in response. Only Atu whispers back in sadness. “The children have not learned.”

A squad of Silent would intersect with Hallon’s group, but the guardians weave their influence together to overpower the shadows and nudge the squad onto another route. Eratosthenes looks east again, frowning. Another dirigible approaches. Massive, this one is four times larger than the others, with a flat rectangular gas bag surrounded by smaller spherical ones. Under the fuselage is a metal frame with cannons attached. Inside the frame are men in armor. He has seen them before—in Milo’s dreams, in the visits to Groud’s Factory and Metalworks. Though there, they didn’t have machine guns attached to their arms. The ingenuity of people to make war truly knows no bounds.

“Milo will be so disappointed,” Mary says.

###

A feeling of danger slithers up from Hallon’s belly. She gestures for the others to stop.

“What’s wrong?” Karam asks.

“Not sure,” Hallon says, “but it’s close.”

The street ahead is blocked by a smoking truck, the smell of burning rubber filling the air. Music floats down from the fourth story of the building beside them. It sounds similar to a cello, but more wavering, like a woman crying. Whatever is the source of the feeling, it’s not obvious.

They’re on their way to the Barmaki estate, from which Lady Barmaki will warn the Councils of the Scholar’s plan. The estate has a telephone with a direct line to the Prime Minister’s office, as well as a bunker sealed against gas attacks. Apparently, the House of Barmaki has a checkered history and believes in being prepared.

Will it be enough? Hallon’s not sure. From the way the dirigibles were ambushed, it’s clear the Scholar is thinking several steps ahead of the government forces. She doubts that he’d launch this plan unless he was sure he’d win, with or without the Councils’ intervention.

“I’ll scout ahead,” Karam says.

The boy has been a handful—not convinced that the Scholar’s plan is wrong, but willing to wait and see if they can stop the poison gas from being used at all. Hallon grabs his shoulder before he can leave. “Best stay with us.” She doesn’t believe he’d run off to warn the Scholar, but she wants him close by, just in case. Besides, Hallon can’t shake the sense of dread growing inside her.

“Mama, we should get to cover,” Dana says.

Lady Barmaki frowns. “The longer we delay, the more time the Scholar has to carry out his plan.”

“We should go after the Scholar directly,” Safi says.

“That’s too dangerous,” Rahima says. “We’ve already decided that.”

“If we’re going to stop the gas from being used,” Karam says, “against either Gloop or Untainted, then we have to keep moving.”

“I agree,” the General says. “There is danger in hesitation.”

“Then we keep going,” Hallon says. “Carefully. With our eyes and ears open for danger.”

“You mean for something like that,” Rashid says, pointing up.

A shadow crawls under them—cast from above by a war dirigible the length of a city block, bristling with guns. The feeling in Hallon’s belly pitches towards outright alarm. “Inside now!” She urges them up the nearest ramp. The door is locked, but the Red Nabil puts his shoulder into it. Bang! The door buckles. Bang! The lock breaks, and the door smashes open. The children are picked up and carried inside. Hallon drags the General along, his eyes locked on the monstrous dirigible.

Their little group fills the entry way with everyone talking at once.

“What was that?”

“Did you see how big it was?”

“Those guns!”

The General ignores the commotion and heads straight for the ramp leading up.

Hallon follows him. “Where are you going?”

He answers over his shoulder. “To get a better view.”

“Do you recognize it?” Hallon asks.

“I do not,” the General says. “That is what frightens me.”

No one wants to be left behind, and the rest of their troop follows. The doors of the apartments are all tightly shut, except for the door to the roof, which is ajar. Hallon keeps the General from opening it further until the feeling in her belly eases. It doesn’t go away completely, but the sense of immediate danger passes.

On the roof, an old woman stands beside a basket, hanging sheets on a line. She’s short and round and as wrinkled as a raisin. The dirigible must’ve passed right over her. Only fifty yards away, it still fills the horizon. The old woman cranes around to see who opened the door.

Wahid shoulders past the gaping Hallon. “Missus, it’s not safe. Let’s go inside.”

The old woman pins a sheet to the line. “The sheets need airing.”

“The fleet has been shooting at the roof tops,” Wahid says.

“The sheets are musty,” the old woman says, undaunted.

Wahid looks at a loss, then he reaches into the basket for a handful of pins. Safi and Nabil hurry to join him, working as quickly as they can to get the sheets on the line. The Barmakis stay behind with Rahima.

The General walks towards the roof’s edge, staring at the dirigible. “It can’t be.”

“What—” but before Hallon can finish, bombs fall, two by two, from the frame under the dirigible. She dives for cover. “Get down!”

Everyone drops—everyone except for the General and the old woman still pinning sheets to the line—but the air doesn’t shatter with the sound of explosions. The earth doesn’t rattle. Nothing happens at all.

“Tsk,” the old lady says. “All this fuss.”

Hallon picks herself up to see suits of armor hopping from building to building like clockwork fleas. They leap with a spray of fire from the engines on their backs. On their arms are machine guns, which they use on figures on the ground. Rat tat tat. Rata tat tat. She’s never seen anything like it. Not in six hundred years.

“There were rumors,” the General says, “but I did not believe them.”

“Are there people inside?” Hallon asks.

“There are, but the suits make them stronger and faster. More so even than a Blessed Red.”

The sheets are finally all hung on the line, and Wahid offers his arm to the old woman to help her down the ramp. She invites them to tea, but Lady Barmaki declines on their behalf. After the old woman leaves, everyone waits for the General to explain.

“There is a section of the Ministry of Civil Order called Special Responses,” he says after collecting his thoughts. “Their mission is to prepare for an uprising among the Gloop. You may say that this is the Civil Order’s mission, and indeed that is true, but Special Responses is different. They are specifically tasked with dealing with the Blessed Reds and Hidden. To find ways to outfight them. The powered suits are a project that languished for years—I did not expect to see them working in my lifetime.” The General shakes his head. “I am afraid that I underestimated our friend Milo.”

Hallon slaps her forehead. “His secret project.”

The General nods. “I am not certain, but the pieces fit the puzzle. It would not be unusual for Civil Order to use the Gloop against each other. In fact, they prefer it.”

“Milo is going to be sick when hears what they’ve done with his work,” Hallon says.

“For Civil Order to show their hand like this, they must be desperate,” the General says.

“The air fleet was the Army’s best attempt to contain the fighting,” Lady Barmaki says. “All that’s left are the border troops, which will take days to arrive.”

“First, they will strip the surrounding bases of their defenses to shore up the troops in the city,” the General says.

“That’s exactly what the Scholar wants,” Hallon says. “Neither the Army or Civil Order is aware that the Siloxin is the real target.”

“Correct,” the General says.

“We have less time than we thought,” Hallon says. “We’ll have to split up. One group goes to warn the Councils, while the other stops the Scholar directly.”

Lady Barmaki coughs. “If the military can’t stop the Silent’s advance, what makes you think we can? It would be better to stick with the original plan.”

Hallon quirks her head, studying Lady Barmaki. “The Scholar’s been preparing for this uprising for years. If I were in his place, my soldiers would already be lying in wait and ready to attack those bases. Meanwhile, how long would it take for the Councils to act? Would they even believe us? Remember, this is all based on the word of a gutter Blue from No Town.”

Lady Barmaki studies Hallon in turn. “There are those who would trust the word of a Barmaki.”

“I won’t stop you,” Hallon says, “but you can’t stop me either.”

“But how will you go? Even if you manage to find a car, there’s still the fighting in the streets. It’s impossible.”

The fear in Hallon’s belly won’t go away, but that won’t stop her. “Then we’ll just have to fly.”