“Wast it thou, then, Mycroft, who trickedest the tracker system into registering this lovely creature as a dog?” Madame swatted at me gently with her fan, azure painted with a hunting hawk. “Thou shouldst have told me of that trick, I could have used it many times.”
I stroked Saladin through the bars, counting his injuries, and recognized around his throat the pinprick stab wounds of Madame’s mancatcher. The mancatcher may be the most medieval of inventions, a metal collar, spiked on the inside and mounted on a pole which, when thrust just right, locks around the enemy’s neck, as savage as a bear trap. Madame’s of course is not medieval but Enlightenment, gilt silver filigree with mother-of-pearl inlay, a birthday present from the King of Spain. I did not then know that Dominic had set a trap for Bridger, how he had murdered the imaginary friend ‘Redder,’ stolen Bridger’s backpack and captured three of the little soldiers, or how that bait had brought to Paris not the boy, but my beautiful monster. Still, I could envision the battle clearly, Dominic pacing in the shadows of the back stairs when Saladin lunges, all claws and teeth, tackling this rival predator who would dare target his prey. The two would match one another bite for bite, cracked rib for snapped ankle, snarling like lions until, in some opening, Madame snares the stranger with her mancatcher, as delicate as a violin bow in her hands. ? Dominic, ? she chides, reeling her captive high with a twist of the inlaid handle, ? thou art frightening the ladies with thy ruckus. Is this delightful monster thine? ?
? No, Madame. This is not the prey I was waiting for. You caught him, you may keep him. ?
So it would have gone, the many creatures of the house jeering through cracks and windows as the beast was dragged inside. Saladin does not whimper. Even here, blinded by gold and crystal, he had stayed as silent as a captured stag, but I could feel exhaustion in the arms which gripped me, like a drowning man clinging to life. ?What is this, Mycroft?? he asked in rasping Greek. ?It’s like another world.?
?I know.? I stroked him. Thirteen years my silence had bought him, thirteen more years free in our old illusion. How I had prayed this day might never come. ?Bridger?? I whispered close to his ear.
?Alive. Safe.?
My heart beat easier. ?And Tully Mardi? Please tell me you’ve killed Tully Mardi.?
Apology’s shudder half stifled his answer. ?No.?
Madame sighed down at us, white wig curls playing across her shoulders. “And here I thought I’d keep the new pup, but if they’re a pair I suppose I must give both to Jehovah.”
“No need, Madame,” Dominic counseled. “Keep the new one if you wish. I’m sure Ma?tre Jehovah would say Mycroft is enough for His needs.”
Her fan concealed her thoughts. “Perhaps.”
Even Dominic looks like a suppliant when he has to petition her for favors. ? Madame, may I speak with the pair privately for a moment? ?
? Certainly. ? She floated back, hovering like a summer butterfly just out of whisper range.
Dominic crouched over me, producing from a pocket a small tablet, on which he summoned a scanned handwritten page in hasty ink, one I knew as well as my own face in the mirror. “Thou shouldst be more careful with thy holy relics,” he warned. “Apollo’s Iliad in the hands of a child?”
My breath caught. “Where’s the original?”
“The boy stole it back, along with my hostages, leaving behind only the pitter-patter of extremely tiny feet. I’m curious, didst thou pick the name Bridger, or did the little soldiers?”
Fear mixed with prayers of thanks within me that the boy and men were safe. “Bridger chose it himself.”
“Thou knowest, Mycroft, when I heard the great Apollo Mojave had left behind an unfinished novel I didn’t expect it to be … how can one put this delicately?”
“Terrible?” I volunteered. “Apollo was one of the busiest vocateurs on the planet, they didn’t have time to master writing, too.”
“Apparently not. Tactics, military history, weapons technology, combat, not writing—that’s strange for a Utopian. Or is it?” He leaned almost close enough to lick my ear. “Thy mate here wore a fascinating pelt when he was taken.”
Saladin’s eyes caught mine, offering silently to strike out at this enemy who stood within claw’s reach, but I shook my head. “What are you going to do with it, Dominic? It’s not to your advantage to break Caesar’s heart right now.”
I hate Dominic’s smile. “Done is done.”
In the pause, I heard voices at the far end of the room, tense and familiar; we weren’t alone:
MASON: “This technology, there’s no denying it was designed for killing?”
Voltaire: “Among other things, Caesar.”
MASON: “Killing people.”
Voltaire: “It has lethal and nonlethal applications, Caesar.”
MASON: “And it’s not just one person’s work, there was industry behind this, science, many planners.”
Voltaire: “Yes, Caesar.”
MASON: “Many people were involved. A large conspiracy.”
Voltaire: “It is a prototype, Caesar. Most likely never intended for field use.”
MASON: “The theft was thirteen years ago—it’s held up well for a prototype.”
Voltaire: “It was made well.”
MASON: “Were others made?”
Voltaire: “If so, they have not been used.”
MASON: “You’re sure?”
Voltaire: “Yes, Caesar.”
MASON: “You know that, if it came out that a Hive had developed technology like this, the public backlash would be incalculable.”
Voltaire: “Likely so, Caesar.”
MASON: “Deadly technology.”
Voltaire: “Yes, Caesar.”
MASON: “Just like the Canner Device.”
Voltaire: “… The public might react similarly to the two, yes.”
MASON: “The two have the same purpose.”
Voltaire: “Likely not, Caesar. I only recovered the Traceshifter Artifact an hour ago, but it is already clear its powers are not intended for combat. It may be an assassin’s tool, or forged for some larger cursecraft: espionage, mass-scrying, surveillance.”
MASON: “This is worse than the Canner Device, then. This is for killing.”
Voltaire: “For war, Caesar. Offense and defense. If the Canner Device is an assassin’s tool, a saboteur’s, this is a soldier’s.”
“Give it back!” I screamed across the chamber. “Give it back! You don’t need it! The Utopians have already surrendered! They’ve given you two of their best as hostages! They won’t resist you, they can’t! Whatever you’ve asked of them they’ve given. You don’t need blackmail!”
Madame’s smile was enough to make Saladin shudder, but MASON was worse, storming toward us from the far side of the room with the coat in his arms, so the program in its Griffincloth transformed the Emperor’s gray Eighteenth-Century uniform to a different uniform, sleek modern panels of black and gray, with the Masonic sigil on the breast in porphyry purple, like old blood. “This was Apollo’s coat!” He thrust it forward, the computers making his hard hands bloodstained. “I’d know it anywhere.”
“Yes, Caesar, it’s Apollo’s.”
“You said you didn’t have it!” His limp was back, that limp that stays only in Caesar’s mind, and worse than I had ever seen.
“I didn’t have it, Caesar. Saladin di—”
His fist slammed my cheek against the bars hard enough to splash blood on Saladin’s cheek. “What was Apollo doing? There are more than twenty weapons inside this, a third of them lethal!” He let the coat fall open, so all could see the pockets and slots within, the glint of handles. “Do you have any idea how devastating this could be if it fell into the wrong hands? Did Apollo?”
I licked my blood from Saladin’s cheek without thinking. “Of course we did.”
Caesar was shaking. “I couldn’t protect the Utopians if this came out. No one could! Why? Why did Apollo make it?”
“I’m sure Apollo’s reasons were the best.”