Dead of Veridon (27 page)

"Everything okay?" I whispered.

"We're buried in a room under the Manor Tomb, surrounded by the recently dead. Also, this guy has a shotgun, but he doesn't seem to feel like he needs it. So I imagine we're in some serious shit. Other than that? Yeah, everything's great."

"Oh, well. Okay then. Long as you're feeling okay."

"You two," Crane said. "Like old lovers. Come, come, gather close."

Crane led us to the Patron's final home. It was as I remembered, although a great number of the tubes that once led from under the head had been replaced with clear glass pipes. They were flowing with something that looked like storm clouds. Pure foetal metal. I had seen something like this once before, under the Church of the Algorithm, feeding a partially dissected angel.

"So, Patron," Crane chirped. "How are we feeling?"

The Patron was enclosed in a giant head, iron and cold. It rested against the floor of the bowl, splintered wood around the edge like it had been dropped from some height. The eyes were half-open, their lids hanging over glass panes that revealed the central tank of the Patron's prison. The liquid there, once bright and green, was murky and clouded with sediment. I caught a glimpse of the body, pale and bloated in the suspension. Dark veins stood out on the flesh, like black veins in snow. The Patron did not answer Crane's question. For all I knew he was already dead.

Ezekiel Crane walked around the Patron, running his hand along the iron cheekbone, until he reached the forehead. There was a scaffolding there, which Crane mounted until he was standing over the head. He sat on the edge of the scaffold like he was dangling his feet over a pier, then reached down and cycled open a door. The room filled with a smell like swamp water and illness. I didn't know if this was what was killing the Patron, or simply a symptom of his death.

"I assure you, the Patron is still with us," Crane said. "I am familiar with all sorts of death, Mr. Burn. The Patron's kind of dying is unique, I will admit, but he is still among the living. For now."

"Why do you think I care about that?" I said. "He and I have never been friends."

"No. But you have been allies. And you will be allies again. In name at least." Crane unslung the shotgun and rested the tip of the barrel on the edge of the hatch. "Besides, if he wasn't alive, I wouldn't have the opportunity to threaten him. And I do enjoy threatening my old friend Tomb."

"What is happening?" the Patron rumbled. His voice was like grinding stones. It shivered through my skeleton. Wilson took a step back. Tomb continued, "I know that boy. Alexander's son."

"There we go," Crane said cheerfully, prodding the water with the tip of the shotgun. "That's the Patron we all know and love."

"Is this your doing, Burn? Was it not enough to destroy the girl? Did you send this man to us? We trusted him to heal me, to make me new. Whatever darkness has passed between us, nothing is worth this torture. You mean to destroy my line, and I won't have it. We will stop you. Angela will stop you."

"As much as I am amused by the petty squabbling of the Council, I would like a little credit in this. You are not dying because of some power struggle in the Chamber Massif. You are dying because I am killing you. In my particular fashion."

"Why bother with him?" I asked. "I'm the one you want, aren't I?"

"You? While I have found it amusing to play with your good father, I have little interest in you. It was an accident that you survived the attack on the Fehn. And an accident that you found the mask, and my little messenger in the house." He lifted the dripping barrel of the shotgun and poked it at me. "No, things have not gone exactly according to my plan. But you are done interfering. And you may yet play your part."

"I'm curious about the, uh, little messenger," Wilson purred from behind my shoulder. "I have little interest in your motives, Mr. Crane. But I would like to know how that trick was accomplished."

"I imagine you would. You have something of the tinkerer in you, eh? Something of the Maker." He held a hand up and waved it around his head. "House lights, please."

The lights came up. I was unsure if he had help in the rafters, or something trickier. The hordes of cog-dead around us didn't seem like the type to turn on lights and bring you a drink when you asked for it. There were frictionlamps scattered around the room, and their lightning-tinged glow filled the bowl.

There were pipes, just like the ones we had seen in Crane's house, ringing the room. I knew what that feeling was in the air, now. Crane was broadcasting, either his consciousness, or something similar.

"Impressive, yes? I built this to heal the Patron. With the right tone, the right music, I can project a mind into the city. There are many willing vessels in Veridon. Well. Willing isn't the right word. Available, perhaps."

"This is where you were when we met you in your house," Wilson said. "I see. But how does it work?"

"Jacob may be able to tell you something about this. Tell me, Mr. Burn, do you remember much from your Academy days?"

"How can I forget? Best days of my life."

"I imagine they were the last good days of your life. You know, I've studied you. I don't think we're that different. My grudge might be older than yours, but the sources are the same. And look how we ended up. Anyway. The pilot of a zepliner is sealed into his ship, yes? And what happens to him when he's locked in to the prime chamber?"

"He takes on the consciousness of the ship. His mind moves through the zep, controls it. Feels through it."

"It's more than that. He becomes the ship. The device used to accomplish this is called the soul cog. I heard about your accident, two years ago. Such an interesting event. The pilot was murdered while he was sealed in, and his soul became trapped in the pipes. Nasty, don't you think?"

"He got us over the falls," I said. "He died trying to save the passengers and crew."

"Ah, but he failed. And you were the only survivor. You must feel very lucky. Anyway, the soul cog. Do you know where that technology came from?"

"Where everything comes from," Wilson answered for me. He could tell I was pretty pissed off about this whole thing. Didn't like being lectured. "From the Church of the Algorithm."

"I really expected more from you, anansi. Thought you had a better idea of the history of these things. No, that technology came from the Artificers Guild. The original Guild, the one they shut down."

The tension in the air cycled up a notch. It felt like there was an echo in my teeth, Crane's voice scratching through my skull.

"Who are you projecting this to?" I snapped. "I understand that you're trying to make some kind of statement. Toying with us as your petty little revenge scheme comes together. I don't like being toyed with."

"Oh, ho, ho. Jacob Burn has lost his patience. I'm sure we're all surprised by that." Crane poked the shotgun at me one last time, then settled back on the scaffolding and returned the weapon to pointing at the Patron's tank. "You'll sit and listen like the rest of the audience. I've waited long enough to have my say. I'll let you know when I'm done."

"You mentioned the Artificers Guild. I thought they were disbanded for interfering with the dead."

Crane grimaced at me, but returned his attention to Wilson. "The living and the dead. We dealt with the very stuff of life. Which is why I was able to convince the Family Tomb that I could perform a miracle here." He kicked his legs like a child. "And why I am able to kill the good Patron in such a unique fashion."

"You'll never kill me," the Patron groaned. "I cannot be killed."

"True. Whoever bound you to this tomb did an amazing job. But there will come a point where what you are doing can no longer really be called living, either."

"Whoever bound him. That was me," Wilson said. "Or my family. I believe I know you, Maker. And I can tell you that what you are doing, while elegant, will not work."

Crane's eyes went wide. The shotgun slipped, but he recovered it quickly enough.

"You know nothing of my work, bug! This is the work of a generation, of the finest Artificer alive. The final Artificer! I have formed this plan since my birth, and nothing you say is going to change that. I have struck a blow at the heart of Veridon! I will strike this city dead!"

"By killing the Patron of a dying house? By driving my father mad? Honestly?" I took a step forward, putting my boot on the enormous chin of the Tomb. "For all your talk about the history of Veridon, I don't think you have any damn idea how this city works. Others will step in. The city will change, sure. But nothing is going to end this place."

"Such a blunt child," Crane said. "This just isn't your game, Jacob. It's almost sad, watching you try to work it out." He turned to Wilson. "And you. Anansi. There were your kind among our number during the purge, but they left us. The Artificer's gift has left your people behind. I am the last Artificer in Veridon, as we were the first."

"The Guild still exists, idiot."

"An amputated child, kept for the amusement of the rich." Crane shouldered the shotgun and pointed angrily at me. "Their engram singers are a fragment of my glory. Don't insult my lineage by calling them Artificers."

"And that's what I was waiting for," I said, drawing iron and putting a shot into his chest before he could bring the shotgun back down. His chest shimmered and bled. He began to laugh.

"Oh, Jacob. Such" - he coughed - "such enthusiasm. But so much to learn. Here to save the Patron, but he's already dead. And look at what you've lost."

He fell to his knees, the shotgun clattering across the floor before it slid to a halt near my boot. As I watched, Crane's body shuffled and collapsed, his skin falling in fist-sized clumps onto the scaffolding. Each drop curled open and fluttered away, darkening as they flew. Crows. His whole body exploded into a murder of crows, clamoring as they swirled through the room before bursting out into the corridor and away.

The body that he left behind, now that the facade of his Artificer-formed possession was disrupted, was that of my father. The shot had gone through Alexander's chest, right into the heart. His eyes clouded as he fell.

My only hope was that he was dead before he saw me. Before he saw his son, and the revolver.

I
ALWAYS HAD
trouble separating the father I knew from the father I remembered. My childhood was filled with memories of this man, this giant. Lifting me over his head, howling with laughter. The smell of his leather coat as we hunched behind a longrifle on my first hunt, powder stains on his hands as he taught me to load the weapon; standing beside me when the first shot missed and I tried to reload as the boar charged, his steady voice talking me through the steps as my quavering hands spilled gunpowder all over the element, the muzzle. The bullet dropped from my fingers and as I scrambled in the dry leaves for it he took the shot, the tone in his voice never hinting at disappointment. Practice loading, he said, or hit with the first one next time.

This, compared with the shrunken failure who sat in his empty library, berating me for getting kicked out of the Academy. Throwing me out of his house. This man, who couldn't even talk to me without swearing. His every word laced with failure. Mine, and his. Our histories so thoroughly meshed, and nothing I could do was good enough, and nothing he could do would help that. The father I knew, who couldn't even look me in the eye, who wouldn't talk to his friends about me, who never answered their questions about where I was, what had become of me. The father who would pass me in the street without a second look.

And the father I remembered. Guiding me, strengthening me, pulling me up when I fell. Always careful to watch me fall, and show me why, and give me a boost on to the next thing. The pillar of strength in my childhood, and the pillar of disappointment as I became a man.

Now they were the same man. All I had was a father to remember, and never know again.

I
STOOD OVER
my father's body, trembling. The revolver was no longer in my hand. Whether I had dropped it, or thrown it away, I didn't know. Wilson stood beside me, his hand on my shoulder.

"Jacob," he said, his voice laced with sorrow. "We're going to have to fight our way out of here."

"You can't give me a minute to mourn?"

"Not when it'll get us killed, no." He tugged at the collar of my coat. "Now get up. Come on. You didn't even like the guy. Gods know he didn't like you."

'Get up' because I was on my knees now. Get up because there were tears in my eyes, and I was unarmed, and there was a room of shambling horrors at my back. Get up because the city was falling apart, and somehow that was my problem. Just get up.

"Still my father," I said, blinking tears away. "Still my dad."

"Then do something about it." Wilson was facing away from me now. "Soon enough, you won't be able to do anything at all."

I stood and lifted the shotgun that Crane had dropped. My father had dropped. It was a Regetta Model No. 5, manual feed magazine. By the weight and balance, all ten rounds of the magazine were full, lined up under the barrel like soldiers. I turned and slipped the safety clear.

"Okay," I said. "I'm ready."