In the Bones, air and sea briefly united. The rains fell upwards; the clouds sunk below the mesa heights. The storm swallowed the land, and all danced to the Will that found her waters at last.

When the angel of oceans released her grip on the storm, the clouds emptied their reserves in a great sheet of water, dousing the land and leaving a rainbow across the wracked Bones.

Gabriel floated in the skies, inhaling the scent of fresh rains and redemption.

“You have chosen well, Lynne.”

Better to aid the world, a penitent traveler, than to sulk in Reverie. Eternity stretched ahead, long enough to pay even the heaviest toll.

Floating high, Gabriel considered once more the dangers of choice. Her wrath could have led her to embrace the Tempest without reserve; her guilt might have consigned her to a lifetime in boiling stone. If he left her to fall in battle, was he culpable? If she fell to a binding, should he set her free?

Dipping his wings in the salty mist, he considered the matter.

Lynne accepted her fate. Knowing nothing of my presence, she faced her own sin. This is a choice that can only be made when she stands alone. Would I undermine her by breaking the binding? Her sacrifice would be alleviated by an outside force; she would know freedom without its joy.

Or, to use an older strand of thinking:

Not very gratifying to make it home from first base just because the next guy up hit a home run.

It was good that she walked the world. For all her faults, Lynne was a woman of wonderful compassion. Even better yet that she should desire to face her consequences.

Gabriel was hardly wise, though he was certainly old. He could not rewind Time and play the alternatives. If he held any fragment of wisdom, it was in the gift of choice.

Mortal or angel, every living soul deserved the chance to carve their own story.

This was only possible when the greater angels practiced restraint and forbearance. Their every step carved channels in history. As such, they would simply have to strive to step lightly.

If his aspect showed him every crying child and every stranded sailor, he would have to endure. Yes, he could prevent that death. In that, he shared culpability for sins beyond measure.

But then again, were he to intercede, he would diminish the lessons for the soul of the sailor – lessons that would far outlast the pain of that last day.

Would that soul, having experience a brutal and lonely death, agree with his assessment? So far, no one had descended through the Black Gate to deliver a critique.

Ah, but how shocking the first descent is. No way to know where you will be born; no way to know how long you will stay. A leap of faith into a harsh, unforgiving place. Should I mock the ones who decide not to return? I cannot blame them if they prefer to dwell in Light.

Sometimes, adrift in the memories, he marveled and balked at the cruel necessity of Fortune. The madness of blind descent to humanity. The resulting mortal might be lame, stricken or mute; might die in a fall when they could barely walk; might be born into war and die in the same. Gabriel had held too many stillborn children in his hands to think even a brief visit free.

How often he played these arguments, cycling positions like a deck of cards. What new philosophy remained after all these thousands of years? God, death, and ethics: the origin, the ending, and the proper deportment of one’s self in between the two. The rest was window dressing.

Barred the Black Gate, blind to the call of heaven, an angel could only claim ethics as his own.

His inner critic laughed. Modesty from a rich man. You pretend to asceticism while sipping tea on your estate.

The Archangel let his mind freely wander, but his heart was firmly grounded.

Gabriel thought of Alisandra, a small, sweet child who cried when she stepped on a caterpillar.

He thought of a quasar, not far as stars measured distance, that would eventually devour this world. A hundred million years away, there would be a beautiful day of reckoning: raw destruction to bring ruin to little things.

He considered setting himself against that eruption just to save the house where his daughter was born.

Foolish old man. Would you stop erosion? Continental drift? Architecture and horticulture? Would you freeze all creation in that moment when you first held her in your arms?

Like he froze and damned his Alice.

A fool and his aspect, joined forever.

The easiest person to protect was and always would be himself.

Sighing, Gabriel abandoned his ruminations and shifted his attention to Malkuth. A mile below, a cerulean angel picked her way through the muck. She rippled and gleamed like sunlight through the shallows to his eyes, tropical currents wrapped in the shell of a woman.

He dove to meet her. Drawing close, he only belated perceived the smaller light hidden beneath her own. Young, brave, and branded, the mortal soul in the form of a child hummed with the ocean’s rhythm.

That brand gave him pause.

Ah, Lynne...is this wisdom?

Scowling, he careened to earth. Though he intended a soft landing, his impact blew a wave of thick mud outwards as he landed.

Walking softly was sometimes a challenge.

Lynne leaped back, threw her arm across the girl, and conjured her spear.

Despite his displeasure, Gabriel did not fault her for that caution.

“Gabriel,” the angel of oceans said cautiously. “How suspiciously well timed.”

Tucking his wings close, he displayed his open palms as a sign of peace. “I usually am.”

She must make her choices. She must accept the consequences. You would have left her to lay in binding or let her fall to madness. This, too, is her choice.

The child stared at the strange man with the giant, glowing wings in awe.

“Donovan has been dealt with. I have decided to gather an accord so that we might sentence him.”

The Archangel’s eyebrows jerked sky high. “An angel’s court?!” The Tempest suggested communal justice?! “…you realize that Mirielle will be included?”

“Yes,” she agreed, raising her chin in challenge. “An unfortunate necessity.”

New things stir in her waters…

There was rage still in her eyes, yes, but she held the child with gentleness.

Has she at last found her peace?

Gabriel acceded. “Then you may hold him until the accord can be gathered.”

Most likely after Alisandra finished playing with the election in Lumia.

Lynne visibly relaxed, banishing her spear and releasing her hold on the child. “As requested, your diary.”

The little girl held out the Archangel’s battered and sodden book.

“Thank you, Esmie,” he said, accepting the book with a grand bow.

“I didn’t tell him my name,” she pointed out. “Which god is he?”

“What is a god?” he asked her in turn.

“Oh, let’s not start that,” Lynne interjected. The angel of oceans rested a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder, her claim as obvious as the sun.

He let the worry show on his face. Is it the balance of love and rage to brand a child? Lynne, you know what sorrow this brings!

The angel of oceans offered an insouciant smile.

The deed is done. We will see what wisdom this path bears.

Gabriel let the matter drop and turned his attention to the mortal girl. “You shine bright and brilliant, Esmerelda, and I thank you for all your service.”

She frowned. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Would you like me to?”

“No.”

He chuckled. “A girl who knows what she wants.” Absently, he smacked his diary with a hand. The water fled; the ink crawled back into position; the binding snapped back to life. “Will you two return to Lumia now?”

Lynne grimaced. “I have made promises to the other gods. Promises I intend to honor.”

Might a seed long dormant reach for the heavens?

“Though dominion weighs heavily, Gabriel, I will not simply vanish and abandon my people.”

Might she be ready to carve her own path?

“The path you follow will lead beyond my protection,” he warned.

“Come now, I survived outside your wings before, did I not?” she teased.

He smiled without agreeing. Ah, Lynne…maybe in a hundred years we will speak on such matters.

Aloud, he said, “I would prefer if you continued to abide by the accord.”

Lynne laughed. “Live as mortals might? A Queen, perhaps!”

Gabriel planted a hand on his hip. “At the very least, try not to egg Mirielle on.”

The two of you share too much in common.

“I will let her play her games…within reason.”

“Thank you. One final request: I would ask that you continue to visit the estate. Alisandra has missed you.”

The angel of oceans blushed faintly. “She’s old enough to take care of herself now.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Arch—Gabriel…”

“Yes?” He waited patiently. Was she finally ready to speak on a matter long overdue?

Lynne abruptly changed the subject. “What has she done to pass the time while I have been out?”

“She and Sebastian are staying busy,” Gabriel said. “The election has Lumia in an uproar. Alisandra is quite taken with the whole fiasco. Shall I elaborate?”

“As long as you refrain from any musings on the nature of divinity.”

He laughed, falling into step beside the duo. There he could recount the glorious tales of his daughter’s accomplishments (faintly embellished by fatherly pride) while Esmie tried to snatch a pinion from his wings.

At her touch, the pinions dissolved into motes of light – a prize she could see but not hold.

She leaped forward, tumbling right through his wings without making contact. Still, she turned the scramble into a neat roll, bouncing to her feet and spreading her arms.

“Nice recovery,” Gabriel clapped.

The girl giggled, and the sound of her laughter sent ripples through Lynne’s own heart.

Let this be wisdom, he prayed, watching the girl’s brand dance. Let me be wrong once more.

***

A continent away, that same day, Lumia suffered the first of many riots.

Tensions had swelled in the weeks after the harbor attack. Mealy-mouthed representatives from the Conclave and the church vowed swift retribution, but the only culprits they offered were small time House witches. Almost a month later, six witches walked free on technicalities, four awaited trial, and two confessed to trivial crimes in exchange for leniency. Behind the scenes, the bureaucracy quietly swallowed the matter beneath official statements, pending investigations, and a great deal of bribery.

To make matters worse, the nobility exhibited their trademark sensitivity for the mood of the common man. A hundred dock workers laid in unlabeled rows, official identification still pending, and the Conclave announced a formal day of mourning…for Tabitha Lucite, a seventy-five-year-old Lady with terminal consumption from decades of smoking who died of a heart attack at the sudden, deafening explosion a mile away.

The papers roared, and Reed hadn’t even needed to pay for that one.

A hundred to one is the value of a man!

Conclave mourns a harpy while honest men rot under shrouds!

The last dregs of Harvest shriveled away, leading a legion of farmhands and other seasonal help to pour into town. Flush on silver, hungry for gossip, the men anticipated the season of respite and instead found that rent had nearly doubled from just the year prior. An honest wage in the fields bought little more than a tenement cot.

Facing bills precisely calibrated to bleed them to the last copper, the workers protested with vigor. They camped before the Cathedral of Fire and the Conclave, harassing the patrons on their way to service, and agitated for higher pay and more government assistance.

The election had awoken a beast in the minds of the people. All their grudges surfaced, and men spoke the words that they had withheld for years. The tinder was laid; only a spark was required.

It was anonymity that lit the fire. A flaming beer bottle flew from the safety of a dense crowd on that chill Solace morning, and the assailant ducked away from his deed before the brew hit the steps of the Cathedral. The bottle exploded, leaving no damage on the golden steps, but the constables responded with predictable belligerence against every man in reach.

So the riot began.

In a feat of remarkable timing, Guildsmaster Reed arrived on scene within ten minutes with a speech in his pocket and plenty of bodyguards, fully intent on reminding the assembled of the Conclave’s craven disregard. He too was furious, but he couldn’t fix this alone! When he was city manager, every last dead man would receive a burial fit for a Lord!

Unfortunately, Reed forgot that Father Lucas worked at the Cathedral.

A hasty pulpit was raised on the steps while angry men hurled stones and fruit from just beyond the constable’s straining line. Reed and Lucas mounted the bully pulpit together, and they preached very different messages.

One offered fiery justice, and the other counseled restraint. One highlighted the abuses of the nobility, and the other affirmed his belief in a country of laws and honor.

What could have been the focal point for Reed’s entire campaign instead became a choice. Did these men believe in Ruhum, or did they believe in Reed?

Word by hopeful word, Father Lucas calmed their fury. He assured them that he mourned as they mourned; he promised to bring this matter for a formal review; he swore to stand with them.

The first riot sputtered out, having accomplished nothing worse than light looting and fisticuffs.

Reed effusively praised the Father for such kind, calming words. He even hugged the man on stage!

Then he retreated to his car and vented a litany of curses. “Useless priest! A dog licking the arse of his House masters with his tail wagging! Witch! When are you going to fix him?!”

Lace waited in the front seat, hands on her lap. “You ordered me to wait until his backing Houses capitulated.”

“Don’t presume to tell me what I said!”

“Houses do not fall overnight,” she said patiently. “We have overwhelmed the Inquisition with a cornucopia of evidence. They are not staffed to field so many investigations at once. Against a House, the case must be ironclad. Be patient. The church smells blood; we must give them time to work up their appetite.”

“How many of your rivals have my men removed while I languish in the running? I hired you for victory, not so you could aggrandize your little cult!”

Lace ignored the accusation. Instead, she rattled off the various schemes and intrigues lodged against each House sponsoring another candidate. “…In summary, virtually every House suffers from either poor liquidity, the shadow of investigation, or threats of blackmail.”

“Virtually?” demanded the Guildsmaster, seeking any outlet for his rage.

“House Visage is impregnable. Mirielle herself must be a witch of some skill. Additionally, her House has the deepest coffers in Lumia. Direct opposition would be costly.” Lace swept imaginary dust from her skirts. “Thankfully, House Visage has signaled its neutrality. Lady Visage does not much care who wins the election.”

“Then that slut is also a fool. Who else?”

“House Mishkan. They boycott the Livery Guild, pay their bills promptly, and ward against every form of attack most witches can muster.”

Ah, here was a target small enough to properly crush. Reed leaned forward, cracking his knuckles. “And their House witch?”

“There are no known Mishkan witches.” She shrugged. “Certain irregularities in their birth and immigration documentation evince that they use a series of running names that stretch back centuries. If the documents were to be believed, their butler would be as old as the House itself. He skulks around town at night, poking his nose into every cranny, trying to play the Livery spy. Meanwhile, the nursemaid booked a ship to Wave’s Lament some months ago, but she has yet to appear on the custom registry there.”

Reed paused, considering. “Which ship?”

“The Cecille Gothic, I believe.”

The Guildsmaster had a good memory for disaster. That ship arrived in Wave’s Lament in tatters, victim of the first leviathan assault in living memory…

Speaking of disaster, how had Alisandra Mishkan survived that harbor incident? What reason had drawn her to the wharf at precisely that moment? Reed’s men kept very careful tabs on movements around the Inventors, and yet none had witnessed her arrival…

How convenient that one of Father Lucas’ most ardent supporters would show up.

The nursemaid could have been Mishkan’s connection to the witches down south. Or she could be the witch, now hiding in the mansion while the documentation said she was out of the country.

“You purged Donovan’s little helpers in the south?” Reed demanded.

Lace did not bother with feigned surprise that he knew about that. “Yes.”

“And the import market?”

“I am the only option left.”

Reed snorted. “For all the good that has done. I paid good gold for serpents that barely managed to flood a wharf-side tavern. I require more of you.”

Now the witch hesitated.

“Send the fancy cat,” he ordered.

“There is only the one, sir,” she clarified carefully. “We cannot guarantee that we will be able to recapture it afterwards, and the Inquisition will be very interested in the aftermath. If you will recall, I suggested saving the beast for the Con—”

“Do as I ordered, you useless harlot, or I will feed you to it myself!”

“Very well. What of the Inquisition after?”

“I can handle Inquisitors,” he scoffed. “When can I read Alisandra Mishkan’s obituary, woman? Put her in ink! If her witch turns up a conscience, make it a double feature. Am I clear?”

“Clear as crystal,” she reassured him, smile sweet and eyes cold. “I will need to obtain clippings of her hair or discarded linens.”

“And? Talk to Trent for details!” He waved an angry hand in dismissal.

The Redeemer witch slipped from the car, her expression schooled as any noble.

Slippery as a minx, that woman. I’m the one who paid for that fancy cat. She will use it when and how I say! He leaned into his cushions, scowling. Witches are a loathsome necessity at best.

She remained dependent on his money and support for now, though. Her little club would not last long in the tenements without his protection.

Right now, he had bigger problems.

Father Lucas has interrupted me for the last time.

“Thomas!”

“Yes, boss?” Thomas asked lazily.

The grunt’s tone was oddly self-satisfied and collected.

Did he strangle another hooker? He had best keep his personal pleasures in check!

“This priest has become meddlesome. To the Cecille manor!”

***

Two days later, another riot erupted in a manor town north of Mel. The House overseers disputed the Harvest pay on dispensation, already well overdue. They claimed unanticipated expenses during the season, and sad necessity required them to share the burden. Perhaps the lie would have sold if the overseers had not smirked through the explanation, but what were Guildless drifters supposed to do about it?

The laborers began by burning down the storehouses, chanting, “Unanticipated expenses!”

Constables arrived like an army with the evening, and the protestors were brutalized by cudgel and lash in a familiar story to any seasonal worker. Perhaps that was why one of them brought along a reporter armed with a state-of-the-art camera.

The two-copper papers ran a photo of a constable cracking a man’s skull on the front page.

Sympathetic rallies erupted in Lumia, the police marched the streets, and Guildsmaster Reed managed to give that speech after all. His papers waxed poetic about his grand oratory like smitten teenagers, and the noble Houses scoffed on high.

Throughout the turmoil, Oliver focused on his work. He could not control Lumia slowly spiraling out of its mind, and his vaunted infiltration of the Redeemers had proven useless. Lace no longer ran the sermons, and her reports on Mirielle came by mail.

The witch had a proper patron, and she discarded the Dreamer’s Den for new work. He could attend the séances, but they were run by her lackeys. No way that would bring the witch any closer to the hangman’s noose for what she had done outside his home.

Without personal contact, he did not know how to find the evidence to condemn her. In the end, this would probably become a matter for angels.

As an Inventor, at least, he could still matter.

Every morning, he woke from his cot, crossed his new warehouse, and woke Phi from her kiln. The phoenix fluttered around his laboratory, chirping at passing seagulls and occasionally scorching the pile of scrap metal in the corner. After dark, he let her free through the high window to hunt for food and enjoy the skies.

One night she returned with a fish three times her own size, roasted almost to ash. He still hadn’t quite figured out how she managed that one, but he gratefully accepted a chunk of flambéed fish from his new companion.

Slat by slat, the prototype of an airship grew across the warehouse floor. He toyed with the hull and the ballast, lost in the lullaby that always lurked in the back of his head. Weight, balance, and strength all warred across his equations, a stalemate of bolts and bladders. If he would only settle for revealing a thinly wrapped bomb, he could launch tomorrow! But to take control of those winds…

The maid entered his warehouse quietly, carrying his latest requisitions in two groaning sacks. These she abandoned with a clatter by the airship. “Please provide Lady Visage with a status update.”

“Sure. Where is she?” he murmured, bent over his latest schematic. Phi rested on his shoulder, regarding the maid with a strangely intense interest.

“Unlike some people, she cannot be in two places at once,” the maid replied.

Oliver glanced up. Was that supposed to be some joke?

“Your update?”

“Formal submission for the air sirens has been accepted. We don’t have enough Novian – the auto factory has the most ironclad first rights contract I’ve ever seen! – and so we’re using Ulyssian. Which means we’ll have to replace the things with every stiff wind. I told them: strong and lasting. They told me: quick and cheap. You can guess which won.”

This was it. Life as an Inventor. His bank account exceeded all his fantasies, and his parents sent weekly letters bursting with pride. His brothers begged him to return home for a commencement speech in Spring, and several girls from his village left very explicit offers of marriage. Even his ancillary work sparked interest. The Radio Guild representative was breathless with the possibilities of a daily weather forecast.

He was famous, and his only regular visitors were a strange maid and Tura. To the papers and the world, he was Inventor Oliver, a mercurial genius shrouded in mystery.

What a crock.

“You seem dissatisfied,” Thea noted.

“What?” He glanced at the requisitions. “No, these are the right materials.”

She tilted her head. “Curious.”

Phi warked protectively, and Oliver rubbed her crest.

Shrugging in mild disappointment, the maid began to clean.

Phi tracked the maid’s movements like a cat watching a snake.

“Phi seems nervous around you,” he commented.

“That is a reasonable reaction.”

A shiver ran up his spine. “Hells, woman. Did Mirielle send you to witch school or something? Or are all Livery servants this creepy?”

“Alas, I only impersonate the Livery. I do not sign to the Guild of gossips.”

Oliver dropped his pencil in shock. “You’re impersonating a Guildsman? How much is Mirielle paying you?! No, no, it doesn’t even matter. If the Guilds find out, they will kill you!”

“That would be a novel experience,” the maid said, dusting his books.

He paused, gears whirling in his head. His lullaby tried to interrupt the recognition slowly brewing, but he fought through the mist of distracting notes.

That mien, that confidence. He knew two women who exuded that air of regality: an angel and a demon. No normal person reacted to the threat of death with idle dusting.

A great many things snapped into place in his mind’s eye.

Thea patted her dress. “You have the appearance of an unpleasant conclusion.”

“Tell me that you’re just Mirielle’s spy.”

“I walk beside Mirielle,” she replied sincerely.

“Then why are you hovering around me so often?!”

“Because I walk beside any who ask.”

The lullaby in his mind skipped a note, and he suddenly recalled seeing Thea at the Inventor summits. Thea managing the projectors; Thea carrying notes and bags; Thea distributing tea and cakes.

He gripped his desk for balance and swore.

“I contain multitudes,” Thea admitted. “Does this shock you? Do you not consort with Mirielle and Alisandra? You have felt the former’s Music inside you and watched the latter dance on air.”

Stray thoughts and minor suspicions continued to bloom like fireworks in his mind. The lullaby attempted to stop them, but the song felt thin and distant now. Like too long in a warm bath, he no longer felt it swirl around him.

“This entire Inventor program is your idea.”

Mirielle is too flighty. Too sensual. Someone has to manage the paperwork and shove the peons along. Someone who can see through a hundred pairs of eyes.

“Novia came before us. As the Verdant drew inspiration from the Stormmother’s serpents, we drew inspiration from the Genius of Resting Dragon. I duplicated her program easily. Her genius proved elusive, however, and a softer touch was required.”

“How do you know these things?!”

“The secrets of Inventors and gods were taught to school children on Eden. If you wish to dispense with the ritual of ‘discovery’, I will mail copies here.”

The youth stumbled off his stool, reflexively signing the ward of fire. “Aure, no! My dreams are tangled enough as is!”

Phi bristled on his shoulder, swiftly beginning to glow a smoldering red.

Thankfully, Thea nodded. “Very well.”

Phi warked sharply and settled back, quite literally steaming.

“Thanks for accepting a refusal, I guess.” He was not sure his head could contain another lullaby.

“The pact must be sealed by both parties, or the host will reject implantation.”

Well, that sounds bad. “Instead of mailing books to me, why not distribute them to every schoolmarm?”

“Knowledge is not an unequivocal good. Consider the Stormmother.”

He soothed Phi with a gentle hand until she cooled to a comfortable temperature. “Then she’s a demon too?”

They’re all demons. Our gods are just fallen angels.

Thea nodded. “Perceived as divine, her words become immortal canon. She must now fight the weight of her own godhood. Humanity is not a passive recipient of the gifts given. They might choose to follow suboptimal paths if given a level field.”

“Suboptimal paths…”

His designs were a devil’s bargain: his honor sacrificed to improve the world. He could save many. What was the cost of dirt on his own hands? Did it matter if he was a pawn?

You are the wondrous martyr, whispered the music. Your suffering noble as the figure on the distant cliff.

But he wasn’t the martyr at all, was he?

He was an assembly line product, no different than a car.

“I see that this matter causes you distress,” the maid said. “However, we will need to leave shortly if we are to arrive on time for Tura’s demonstration.”

“Tura is one of your pawns too, isn’t he?”

“Economics is the art of receiving more than one invested. Both parties wish to gain, enabling trade.”

“What did he desire?”

“Ask him yourself. Or shall I let him know that you feel unwell?”

“I’ll go. Icy hells, I’ll go.” Better to see a movie than to dwell in the silence of his cavernous workshop.

Thea fetched the car, and they drove west in silence.

Protests bogged travel through the city center. Crowds of Guildsmen in heavy cloaks shook signs and torches at passing cars, shouting slurs and demands for the elites within.

“Is this mayhem a product of your program as well?” Oliver asked bitterly.

Thea paused, watching the protestors march across an intersection.

“What do you even hope to gain from this?”

The maid began to drive again.

Finally, Oliver sighed. “You don’t care what I think about you at all, do you?”

Thea glanced through the rear-view mirror. “We are going to make a better world, Oliver Oshton.”

“Give me a break,” he groused.

“The desire to positively influence the lives of your compatriots drove you to mutate your implantation. You would rather create an air warning system that saves a few hundred lives a year than master the skies for millions.”

He crossed his arms defensively.

“This is an admirable, if limited, perspective. Consider, however, the long-term picture. Harvest production has tripled in two generations. Ruhum alone produces enough food for every human being on this planet.” She continued to drive, threading a route towards the dark tenements. “This increase in productivity is useless, however, without the logistical means to transport grain to market.”

“You chose me as an Inventor because the harbor clogs like ducks in a row every Harvest?” Oliver asked incredulously.

“Logistical bottlenecks are the second greatest threat to the entire program.”

“…what is the first?”

“Human nature,” the demon replied.

She’s insane. They’re all insane!

“Hire more ships,” he challenged. “Mirielle can afford it.”

“Ages before your birth, the Stormmother forcibly reconfigured the ocean currents such that travel beyond her domain is nigh impossible. Consider the waters between here and Wave’s Lament to be a highway situated above a chasm. Naval trade along the northern waters would require vessels not yet Invented. You may not consider the wild tribes east of the Verdant, but they must eat like any other.”

Why did the wild tribes matter? They weren’t even blessed with gods…

“Under current conditions, trade to the east would have to proceed along land routes at such staggering losses that even House Visage would struggle to sustain the flow for more than a decade.”

“Then magic up more gold out of thin air!” he snapped in irritation.

“We operate under a compact of nonaggression with the angels which require that we utilize near-mortal means to achieve our aims. If we are to correct the imbalance, we must operate through mankind.”

“I can’t fix the world economy!” the youth protested.

“Then why are you still here?” challenged the demon.

Wondrous martyr, stained by demons so others may soar.

He flushed slowly.

No. I just wanted to join the cool club with all the best toys.

The lullaby offered no comforting counterpoint to that.

“Metal can fly, and men can reach the stars,” Thea recited. “Planets are stardust, and polio can be destroyed. Old age might become a memory, and a man’s words might travel the world in seconds. A hunk of rock hides the power of titans, and a handful of magnets can launch a man to freedom.”

Though they drove through crowded streets, they were alone in this car.

Thea spoke in a thousand voices from a sea of carved faces.

“I do not require airships to fly, Oliver Oshton, but mankind will. The sky will yield. Ruhum wheat will alleviate the starvation in the east; men will travel beyond their tiny homesteads to see other lands; the wounded will reach care in hours instead of weeks. Man will taste the clouds and wonder how much further his Will might ascend. So much waits beyond this.”

Alone as Oliver had never known, lonely travelers across a vast, vast sea of stars…running, racing, chasing the shadows of…

“Forge that better world, Oliver Oshton. One Invention at a time, destroy the pains of a life toiling in mud.”

They had arrived, though he could not remember when.

His maid parked outside a familiar farmer’s field. Workers hustled to pin a white tarp across the barn where Oliver once lived in poverty, and Livery servants hauled generators to power the projector now rattling on a wooden platform. A small band tuned their instruments on a neighboring platform, and a throng of curious commoners milled behind an impromptu fence.

Tura ran through the scene with frantic energy, his silken hair trailing him like a horse’s mane.

Oliver wiped the sweat from his brow, leery of the very ground beneath the tires. He knew what was required to build a true airship now. Knew both how and why.

Thea opened the passenger door. “If you would prefer a normal maid, one will arrive in the morning.”

Oliver fumbled for his hat. “N-no. If I dance with demons, I’d rather keep you in plain sight.”

“As you wish.”

She allowed him out and drove off.

Shivering, the young Inventor put the matters of angels, demons, Inventions and Redeemers away from a moment. This was a night for the common man.

Tura spotted him a moment later. The giddy Inventor yanked Oliver onto his personal viewing platform and swept his arms wide. “Look at these crowds, my boy. Listen to them chatter!”

Elevated, Oliver realized the crowd was far larger than he first thought. A thousand people milled in the field, and more appeared on wagons by the minute. They clustered around fires, tucked into their jackets, and waited for the show.

“Wow…”

“My largest noble showing was two dozen!” Tura exclaimed. “Oliver, my friend, this idea of yours is worth a dozen Inventions! Have we been targeting the wrong market this entire time?!”

We target those we are commanded to target…

The youth rubbed at his neck. “I just wanted to find you an audience with a touch of appreciation. Aren’t you sick of the ivory tower?”

Tura nodded. “Be glad you aren’t in the election, then. The reporters hound me like gnats on a cow.”

Oliver glanced about. “Where are they?” He couldn’t see more than a half dozen reporters scattered through the whole crowd.

“Knowing I was occupied with this endeavor, our dear friend the Guildsmaster saw fit to call Father Lucas and Alva to the Cathedral for a debate.”

That would explain the protests downtown. Funny how the most virulent protests seemed to follow the Guildsman like faithful hounds…

“To speak honestly, I have contemplated dropping out these last days,” Tura confessed. “The papers make their opinions clear for any fool to hear. To them, my accomplishments are dew. I am only a foreigner, here to usurp.”

More people streamed in, carrying picnic baskets and chattering amongst themselves. No protest signs, no shouting matches, and no fire bombs.

Oliver crossed his arms, considering the crowd and his friend both. Finally, he nodded. “Do what you think best, Tura.”

“Truly? Here I thought you would try to talk me out of it!”

“Maybe we have enough people trying to take command of our lives.”

That thought warmed his heart, right and true. The lullaby stilled, sulking in the back of his head.

“Why don’t we worry about it tomorrow?” Oliver suggested. “I can stop by first thing. Right now, didn’t you promise these people a show?”

Tura stared at him a long moment. Then the Whistler broke into a huge grin. “By the winds, you’re right! What’s the purpose of an Invention if it can’t make a crowd gasp in delight?!”

He motioned to the conductor, the band struck an opening note, and the crowd threw up a hearty cheer.

The spring returned to his step, Tura mounted the platform and bowed. His voice rose loud enough for the back, falling into the steady cadence of a circus maestro. “Comrades and countrymen, thank you for braving the cold night! Too long have we Inventors showcased our works for the Houses, ignoring the men and women who bleed to build our fair home, and for that I am profoundly sorry. Tonight, we rectify that mistake! The following show is at no charge, and any who claim a fee for attendance should be drummed out with a sharp stick to the backside!”

Several conmen in the crowd began dispensing quick apologies. Clearly, there had been a clerical error, and refunds were in order! It was an honest mistake, of course, no need for ill will, and would the good people see fit to stop pummeling an honest sir with their shoes?!

“But you have not assembled to hear political grandstanding. Consider me not as an election candidate this night, and I in turn will spare you the speeches! With no further ado, I present to you all a faithful recreation of the bloody and vicious chariot races held in honor of the Lord of Peaks! Marvel at the peril of the deadliest races in all the world! Relish the agony of defeat and bask in the thrill of victory! Straight from the ancient tales of desert lands, I give you The Chariots of Stone!”

The band began to play, and the projector whirred to life.