alive and scheming he took as a sign his token had worked.
He reread the note, crumpled it, flicked it into the fire. It burned.
CHAPTER
6
S ervitor.”
The human lieutenant pitched his voice so it wouldn’t carry through the muffling snowfall to the other sentries spread through the forest. His breath steamed, wreathing the naked boughs overhead.
The man gnawed on his thumbnail. Jax waited while the man chewed. After spitting a ragged crescent into the snow, he inspected his thumb, saying, “Tell me: How many agents have the Verderers placed among us?”
As Jax had hoped, the Frenchman’s escape had precipitated a crisis: He must have received assistance. Since the Clakkers were above reproach, the human officers suspected each other.
“I know nothing of the Verderers, sir.”
“Hmmm. I suppose so. But then again,” he mumbled, going to work on another fingernail, “they would have ordered you to say that, wouldn’t they?”
His fingernails did need a trim. But his teeth were a crude instrument compared with the emery boards used by the manicurists who attended Madam Schoonraad, whose husband had owned Jax prior to the accident that set him free. Dirt and otherfilth encrusted the lieutenant’s nails. It was remarkable how the man managed to get so dirty while surrounded by mechanicals to do everything for him. Then again, the empire’s reliance upon mechanical fighters had meant that for centuries the army and navy hadn’t worried about promoting the best and brightest.
Jax wondered if it might have triggered the hierarchical metageas related to human safety, had he still felt the sizzling agony of geasa. Ought he caution this fellow not to sicken himself, just for appearances’ sake?
Such were the considerations that consumed Jax night and day. Maintaining his disguise required ceaseless vigilance, leaving Jax steeped in endless contemplation of the most obscure minutiae in the calculus of compulsion. He’d outed himself as a rogue by disregarding that calculus for a split second, and almost died for the mistake.
“Sir, your hand—”
“I think the captain carries secret orders. I order you to tell me everything you have witnessed in his behavior that might support this.”
Oh, to hell with it. I’ve become too timid. We’re alone. This is my chance.
“The captain had nothing to do with the Frenchman’s escape,” Jax said. “I did it.”
The lieutenant frowned. Before the full import of the admission could percolate through his skull, Jax clamped his hand over the man’s face. The man tried to yell through his sealed mouth and nose, but Jax had caught him on the exhale so he had little breath to spare. The fellow tried to thrash, but his soft flesh, made softer still by its wrappings of thick woolen flannel, could not sway alchemical brass and resolute purpose. Jax took care not to crush the man’s skull or fracture his jaw. His flailing slowed into desultory waving of the arms.
As the man slid into unconsciousness, Jax said, “And I am not Glass.”
He carried the lieutenant away from the naked birch and laid him in the snow beneath the drooping boughs of a jack pine. The conifer would offer more protection from the snow until he awoke. Jax studied the officer’s coat, hat, and gloves. But what if it snowed all night?
Jax delayed his flight by a precious one hundred and seven seconds, which was how long it took him to gather a mound of snow and sculpt a suitable quinzhee. He dragged the unconscious man down the entrance ramp into the snow cave. The below-grade entrance would, Jax hoped, prevent the warmer interior air from seeping out.
Jax knew his compassion would not soften the humans’ views of a rogue mechanical. His pursuers in New Amsterdam had murdered an innocent woman to whom Jax had shown compassion, then blamed her death on the rampage of a malfunctioning machine. Perhaps they’d do something similar to this officer. But Jax’s conscience wouldn’t let an innocent
He reread the note, crumpled it, flicked it into the fire. It burned.
CHAPTER
6
S ervitor.”
The human lieutenant pitched his voice so it wouldn’t carry through the muffling snowfall to the other sentries spread through the forest. His breath steamed, wreathing the naked boughs overhead.
The man gnawed on his thumbnail. Jax waited while the man chewed. After spitting a ragged crescent into the snow, he inspected his thumb, saying, “Tell me: How many agents have the Verderers placed among us?”
As Jax had hoped, the Frenchman’s escape had precipitated a crisis: He must have received assistance. Since the Clakkers were above reproach, the human officers suspected each other.
“I know nothing of the Verderers, sir.”
“Hmmm. I suppose so. But then again,” he mumbled, going to work on another fingernail, “they would have ordered you to say that, wouldn’t they?”
His fingernails did need a trim. But his teeth were a crude instrument compared with the emery boards used by the manicurists who attended Madam Schoonraad, whose husband had owned Jax prior to the accident that set him free. Dirt and otherfilth encrusted the lieutenant’s nails. It was remarkable how the man managed to get so dirty while surrounded by mechanicals to do everything for him. Then again, the empire’s reliance upon mechanical fighters had meant that for centuries the army and navy hadn’t worried about promoting the best and brightest.
Jax wondered if it might have triggered the hierarchical metageas related to human safety, had he still felt the sizzling agony of geasa. Ought he caution this fellow not to sicken himself, just for appearances’ sake?
Such were the considerations that consumed Jax night and day. Maintaining his disguise required ceaseless vigilance, leaving Jax steeped in endless contemplation of the most obscure minutiae in the calculus of compulsion. He’d outed himself as a rogue by disregarding that calculus for a split second, and almost died for the mistake.
“Sir, your hand—”
“I think the captain carries secret orders. I order you to tell me everything you have witnessed in his behavior that might support this.”
Oh, to hell with it. I’ve become too timid. We’re alone. This is my chance.
“The captain had nothing to do with the Frenchman’s escape,” Jax said. “I did it.”
The lieutenant frowned. Before the full import of the admission could percolate through his skull, Jax clamped his hand over the man’s face. The man tried to yell through his sealed mouth and nose, but Jax had caught him on the exhale so he had little breath to spare. The fellow tried to thrash, but his soft flesh, made softer still by its wrappings of thick woolen flannel, could not sway alchemical brass and resolute purpose. Jax took care not to crush the man’s skull or fracture his jaw. His flailing slowed into desultory waving of the arms.
As the man slid into unconsciousness, Jax said, “And I am not Glass.”
He carried the lieutenant away from the naked birch and laid him in the snow beneath the drooping boughs of a jack pine. The conifer would offer more protection from the snow until he awoke. Jax studied the officer’s coat, hat, and gloves. But what if it snowed all night?
Jax delayed his flight by a precious one hundred and seven seconds, which was how long it took him to gather a mound of snow and sculpt a suitable quinzhee. He dragged the unconscious man down the entrance ramp into the snow cave. The below-grade entrance would, Jax hoped, prevent the warmer interior air from seeping out.
Jax knew his compassion would not soften the humans’ views of a rogue mechanical. His pursuers in New Amsterdam had murdered an innocent woman to whom Jax had shown compassion, then blamed her death on the rampage of a malfunctioning machine. Perhaps they’d do something similar to this officer. But Jax’s conscience wouldn’t let an innocent
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