Once, pravda was clear to me. By obeying my emperor, all was well. But what was simple is becoming complex. I can see no evil inside this grievously wounded man, only honor. And though no clockwork flutters beneath his throat, I can see the inevitable forces that led him here, through no fault of his own, fating him to die in the shadow of this crumbling wall.
I kneel and hold out my canteen to him.
The soldier regards me suspiciously, tries to move his arm but is too weak. His eyes close for a long moment. When they open they are wet and angry.
I push the canteen to his lips and give the dying man a last sip of water. As he drinks, it is as though I can feel the cool satisfaction of his quenched thirst. The mercy of the act has satisfied pravda just as well as vengeance ever did—justice from injustice, my adopted sovereign’s will be damned.
A new terrain of right and wrong is emerging, dizzying my senses.
Across the plain, I see the humped backs of fleeing war elephants and curled bodies of fallen men, the dust congealed with their blood. Fresh-cut pikes lay scattered across the main road. The sky is writhing with clouds of buzzing flies.
I stand, steadying myself against the wall. This shift in perspective washes over me like vertigo.
Raising my eyes, I see the British lads perched high, surveying the field with spyglasses. The boys are smiling, teeth filthy, faces covered in dust and soot. They are glad to be alive, proud of the slaughter they’ve inflicted. They see enemies and allies on the field of battle, but I can see only men.
Some are alive. Some are dead.
“Why do you do this?” I ask the dying man. “Are you crazy? Are you all crazy?”
At my feet, the man closes his eyes and his breathing slows. His chest falls and does not rise again. His power supply has extinguished itself in a seeping red puddle in the dirt. I place the canteen on his chest and leave it there, stepping out of the shadow of the wall and into the harsh sunlight.
For the king. For the glory of England. The cries of hollow-eyed young men have begun to ring false in my ears. I no longer quite understand their meaning.
“Hey,” I hear a call from above. “Man-eater!”
Craning my neck, hand falling to the hilt of my saber, I squint at the top of the wall. A small, round man stares down at me, a look of amusement on his face. His head is shaved, thin legs dangling over the side. A pair of ostentatiously embroidered golden sandals hang from his feet. In one hand, he holds a long, garishly carved tobacco pipe. Now, he nonchalantly goes about trying to light it.
“They are crazy, Man-eater,” says the round man, sucking on the pipe. “All of humankind is crazy. I should have thought you’d already know by now!”
29
SEATTLE, PRESENT
“So? Who is this?” I ask Batuo.
The curved relic hangs in my fingers, its surface echoing the candlelight of chandeliers mounted high above.
Batuo stares at the relic for a long moment, almost wistful. Finally, with visible effort, the old man tears his gaze away and lands it back on Peter, still unconscious. The tall man’s body has been repaired, his new skin baby smooth under clothing that’s been torn by shotgun pellets.
“That anima belongs to a powerful ruler,” says Batuo quietly. “Supremely knowledgeable. And older than time out of mind.”
Batuo looks back at me with clear, intense eyes. “You must understand that whoever holds that artifact is in great danger. Another avtomat seeks it. One who has also lived since before all reckoning and grown unfathomably strong.”
“Talus,” I say.
Batuo chuckles and shakes his head.
“This one is the master of Talus, and of many others. Her names are manifold, almost meaningless in their variety over the ages, but we knew her first as Leizu…the Worm Mother.”
“What does she want with this relic?” I ask.
“In all of this great existence, across the rise and fall of civilizations…there is only one whom she fears,” says Batuo. “The one you keep over your heart.”
If the blond monster in the motorcycle helmet is only a servant, then I definitely don’t want to meet his master. I rest a hand lightly on Peter’s shoulder. He feels warm, chest rising and falling, but his eyes are still closed.
“We have to wake him up. He knows what to do.”
“Peter’s anima…” Batuo trails off, taps his chest. “His relic, as you call it. Its power is nearly extinguished.”
“Let’s recharge him, then,” I urge.
With a wan smile, Batuo beckons me to follow. We walk below the curtain of disembodied arms and legs hanging from the catwalk. The fleshy limbs form a grotesque canopy over our heads, synthetic bones jutting from shoulders and hip joints. Each body part is labeled with a yellowed tag—its owner. Skin tones and musculature vary, and I recognize male and female limbs of various races and ages.
How many of these creatures did there used to be?
“All of this that you see is cosmetic,” calls Batuo, waving a hand. He runs his fingers across a row of dangling feet, leaving the legs swaying slightly. “We avtomat can change our skin, but not our souls. Each anima belongs to a unique vessel. Our bodies can evolve with new technology, but only slowly. Too much change and the form loses coherence. Over these past millennia we have become stronger and more humanlike, but the anima that we each carry is inviolate—ancient and beyond our understanding.”
Stooping instinctively, I pass beneath the body parts and follow Batuo through a tight archway. We enter a study hemmed in by ornately carved wood-paneled walls. The room is lit by a coral chandelier hanging over a floor layered in thick antique rugs. Every wall is lined with books and artifacts.
“You don’t know how you’re made?” I ask, incredulous. “But you’ve had a thousand years to study the science.”
Batuo slips behind a massive walnut desk, its legs carved into elephants that are rearing back to support the cluttered slab of wood. He props his elbows on top, the chair squeaking under his wide bottom.
“Science? This way of thinking is a construct of the last few centuries. Since antiquity, men have known only various forms of magick. The aqueducts of Rome were considered a natural magick, for example, the water wheels powered by hidden angels.”
Batuo laughs, continuing.
“This thing you call science was our gift to you, and a recent one.”
Wandering deeper into the room, I run my eyes over a gleaming multitude of artifacts that line the walls, marveling at the sheer age and quality of the swords, skulls, jewelry, paintings, busts, and countless strange curios.
I pause at what I thought was a sculpture. Instead, I see it is a crude face stitched from leather, mounted on a mannequin’s head. The eyes and mouth are missing, but I can see the outlines of features. Beside it, three more faces are mounted similarly, each more lifelike than the last—ever more realistic versions of the chubby Indian man sitting behind the desk, his perfectly humanlike face dotted with moles.