Last First Snow by Max Gladstone Page B

happen.”
    â€œAccidents, by their nature, are stubbornly resistant to prevention. The same is not true of conscious threat. This demonstration may inconvenience our clients, but it is not relevant to my extracurricular work.”
    â€œWhat if I told you someone had been printing and distributing these leaflets throughout the Skittersill, for free, since before details of our work on the old wards became public? That no one knows who prints them, or what their angle might be?”
    Zack took the paper—a scythe-arc through the air, and it was gone. Her fingertips stung with the speed of its departure. The golem pressed the broadsheet flat and scanned its front page with lenses and knife-tipped fingers. The shield-face opened, revealing a forest of wires, lenses, and hydraulics. Eyepieces telescoped out for greater magnification, and secondary lenses rotated into place. “No further leads?”
    â€œNone.”
    A toneless hum was her only acknowledgment. No nods, of course, while Zack was so close to the paper. Without moving his head—it gimbaled gyroscopically—he took a binder from a low shelf beside the desk, fanned its pages by touch, and found a section that seemed to satisfy. Only then did he retract his eyes and close his face. “Here.” He offered her the binder.
    â€œGarabaldi Brothers Printing and Engraving.”
    â€œThe shop that composed this item. A family outfit in the Vale. Do you have other samples?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œUnfortunate. Unlikely the object of your inquiry would use a single printer. Combination of sources preserves supply, anonymity. Though anonymity requires effort. How much effort do you believe this person is likely to spare?”
    â€œI have no idea,” she said. “What do I owe you?”
    He offered her the broadsheet back. “Tell me what pattern emerges. May bear on my work.”
    â€œI will,” she said. “Zack.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat do you do, when you find an out-of-context problem?”
    He tilted his head to one side. “Depends.”
    â€œOn what?”
    â€œOn the threat’s form,” he said. “Threat is another word for change. Status quo ante is not preferable to all change. Consider the Iskari boy stopping the leaking dam with his finger—romantic image, but futile. If one is to play any other role, one must be open to drastic change. The world some large-scale changes would bring about may be preferable to the one we currently inhabit.”
    â€œHave you ever found such a preferable threat?”
    He gestured to the walls, to the net of possibilities. “If I had, would I be working here?”
    â€œThank you,” she said, and left, though he hadn’t answered her question.
    Behind, the golem bent once more to his work. The metal river ran through the metal forest, and a smoke dragon coiled against the ceiling.

 
    15
    Temoc worked out in the courtyard before dawn: weighted one-legged squats, handclap pull-ups and pushups, a back bridge held for a slow count of one hundred. When he was done he knelt facing east and drew his knife. He checked the black glass blade as he did every morning and found it sharp. The cutting edge was thin enough for light to shine through.
    â€œYou’re up early.”
    Mina wore a white terrycloth robe, and her feet were bare.
    â€œI couldn’t sleep,” he replied. “How long have you been watching?”
    â€œLong enough to get a good view,” she said with a smile he remembered from nights beneath a desert sky. “Meeting’s today?”
    He nodded. “The King in Red. Tan Batac. Both in our camp, to talk. It might even work.”
    â€œYou’re wearing your deep-thoughts face.”
    â€œYou always think that.”
    She walked to him, took his arm in her hand, and squeezed. “Tell me.”
    â€œCaleb.” He had not known what he would say until he spoke his son’s