"The new Gazette! Read all about it! Theft from the Order's warehouses, once again!"
The cry rose suddenly, slicing through the damp air, sharp as a blade dragged across stone. The voice came from a barefoot boy who darted between the stalls, clutching a bundle of papers tied with a dirty string to his chest. The sheets rustled faintly, like wet wings, and on the first of them the thick letters seemed still alive, barely dried, yet already smudged by the fine rain.
A few people gathered around him, their outstretched hands searching for cold coins. The change clinked in the boy's palms, and the sheets passed from hand to hand, leafed through hastily, still trembling with moisture.
The Cogs' Market seethed with agitation. The pavement, carved with deep grooves, reflected the glow of gas lanterns whose yellow flames danced unsteadily behind frosted glass. Heavy, damp brick walls loomed like reddish sentinels, while steaming trickles slid from slate rooftops. Chimneys spat out thick clouds, clinging to the lowered sky like a dome of smoke collapsing over the city.
Above the rooftops, massive zeppelins floated, tethered to tall iron masts like brass-and-canvas whales resting their bellies on the heavens. Their dark paint absorbed the light, while signal lamps flickered like captive fireflies. From time to time, a propeller cracked dryly, sending gusts of wind across the market like the murmur of a distant storm. Valves hissed, spilling white steam down into the streets in thin coils, as if a fog had been dragged from the heights.
The stalls huddled beneath tarps patched with wire and copper hooks. Some offered hard cheeses from the Frosted Hills, salted fish smoked over slow embers, and apples roasted until they turned to sweetness—all brought from the same cold, windswept land. Others were piled with scraps of brass and pipes torn from the Workshops of the Old Quarter, boxes of screws from the Metallurgic Docks, and recycled gas lamps from the Northern Hangars. The air smelled of salt, hot oil, and old smoke, mixed with the dampness of stone.
Among the people moved the dark silhouettes of the Order's guards. Silver emblems gleamed on their sleeves, and iron-reinforced boots struck the stone like hammers. Their faces were hidden beneath glossy masks, and the black boxes hanging from their chests whirred whenever they turned their sensors toward the crowd, as if discovering what each person concealed. The merchants lowered their eyes, pretending to fuss over their goods. Everyone knew the Order's questions never ended well.
I stopped at a textile stall where a woman was selling rolls of thick, waterproof cloth. She was tall and wiry, her skin scored with deep wrinkles like threads pulled across an old canvas. Yellow-white hair escaped a black headscarf, and her long fingers, knucklebones sharp and darkened with work, moved with a cold patience over the array of fabrics. From her pale brown eyes flickered a keen wariness, but her gaze slid off my face quickly, as if I hardly mattered.
"Get yourself something that won't let the rain through the seams, she said, lifting a roll of dark green cloth. Her voice was low and hoarse, used to the dust and smoke of the market."
I reached out and felt the waxed weave, stiff beneath my palm.
" How much?"
"For you, twenty-five, she said without hesitation."
"And for someone else?"
"Still twenty-five. I've no time for haggling, girl. If you want it cheap, go to the docks, where the cloth tears at the first rain."
She tossed out girl with a kind of tired irony, as if the word had been dulled by overuse. I laid the cloth back on the table, but the dark corner of the stall caught my eye. There lay a newspaper folded crookedly, its edges soaked soft with damp, the ink slightly smeared as if the rain had tried to wash it away. The headline burned like a prohibition sign: The Order's Warehouses, Robbed Again. But what sent my blood racing was the small notice nearly swallowed by the page's corner: The Order seeks new members. Mandatory presentation, Northern Docks. In three days.
The woman followed my gaze.
"You want the paper? she said, raising an eyebrow beneath the scarf. I'll give it to you for free. I can see you drink the letters faster than the ink dries."
I took it without protest.
"Thank you."
She shrugged and turned to a new customer. To her I was just a girl with muddy boots and eyes too curious for an ordinary market. But to me, that line had slid in like a cold key into a rusted lock.
I tucked the paper under my arm and lifted the heavy train of my dress so it wouldn't soak up more of the mud pooled between the cobbles. The black fabric, waxed at the hem, was already speckled with coal dust, and the warm breath of steam from the pipes made it cling to my ankles. My hair—light chestnut—had slipped from the metal pins I'd shoved in hastily, and now, rippled by the fine rain and the heavy vapor, it clung to my temples and nape. I felt the strands cold as wet ribbons against the heat of my skin. I crossed the slick pavement, the wet cobblestones glinting like scales under the yellow light of the gas lamps.
I turned down a narrow, dim side street where brick walls, gnawed by smoke and rain, rose heavy as if trying to crush the alley between them. The steep roofs, laid with blackened slate, leaned toward each other until they almost touched, and from the gutters dripped a turbid water mixed with soot. In that oppressive shadow stood the tavern.
The massive door, of dark wood, was banded with thick copper plates studded with heavy rivets. The iron handle, cold and worn by hundreds of hands, hung weighty, as if it too carried the burden of the years. Above it, a cracked wooden sign still bore traces of red letters, weathered by smoke and time. In the yellow glow of the gas lamps, the name could barely be made out, yet it still burned like a memory: The Brass Dragon.
In our city, taverns were christened after fire, steam, and metal. But the Brass Dragon wasn't just another dive. Here thieves mingled with mechanics, smugglers with zeppelin sailors, hired killers with failed poets who sold their verses for cups of rotgut.
I pushed the door and stepped inside.
A wave of heat enveloped me, dense as steam. The air was thick with pipe smoke, the broth of fish soup, and the harsh sting of liquor, layered over the heavy coal-smoke smoldering in the stoves. Gas lamps, locked in greenish globes of thick glass, cast unstable light across the walls, making the shadows tremble like living figures.
At the bar, Roderick wiped the counter with a rag stained by drink. His massive arms, bare to the shoulders, were inked with tattoos of cogs and chains. Dressed in a studded black vest and dockhand's heavy trousers, he looked built to hoist barrels or to toss ten drunkards out the door at once. His square jaw, coppery beard, and sharp gaze gave him the air of a dangerous man, but for those who earned his respect, his smile carried a surprising warmth.
The tables swarmed with mismatched figures: workers in overalls stained with oil and soot, zeppelin sailors with brass buttons and wide collars, dock-breakers with knotted fists and cheap pistols at their belts. Among them moved women in short dresses and corsets fastened with copper buckles, laughing loudly, hats adorned with copper feathers tilting rakishly. At their sides, men in frayed velvet jackets and polished boots poured drinks with hands trembling from exhaustion. However colorful the crowd, the city's mark clung to all of them: a film of dust, smoke, and resignation.
On stage, Kerrigan played his modified violin, its wire strings producing strange, staccato notes like valves under pressure. Clad in a rumpled white shirt and a black waistcoat with frayed hem, he seemed more a shadow than a musician. Dark brown hair fell across his brow, and the weariness in his eyes deepened every note.
In front of the stage, Maeve danced. Her short dress, a deep, almost electric blue, drew out the same fire in her eyes, making them seem to burn in the light. The glossy fabric lifted with every step, revealing a body strong and supple, hips rounded, waist cinched in a black corset. A small mole graced her chin, giving her a playful air even when her smile was cold as metal.
Her brass legs glimmered beneath the lamps' glow, though they hadn't always been that way. Two years ago Maeve had real legs – supple, lively, and her dance was different then – free, unburdened by metal. Then came the fire at the Eastern Docks, when a coal-dust depot exploded and flames devoured half the building. Many died there, but she survived at a terrible price.
A mechanic from the city's edge, famous for his reckless work, built her these new legs – polished brass with fine joints that chimed at every step. They were stronger than before, but never the same. Since then, her dance carried another weight, another intensity, as if each movement defied fate itself.
For the crowd, Maeve was the perfect spectacle: the blue dress, the mole on her chin, the flawless smile. But the coldness hidden behind that mask told another story. It said she didn't dance for them, but to remind herself she was still alive.
A group of sailors burst into cheers, smashing their mugs together. Someone whistled sharply, another clattered a coin onto the stage. Maeve didn't flinch; she lifted her chin and tightened her shoulders, as if she'd absorbed the noise into her dance.
"Come on, girl, keep it up! a man bellowed, his voice thickened by drink, sparking laughter around him."
Further back, a woman in a red shawl tossed a chunk of brass to the floor, its short clink swallowed by the clash of mugs. Some stood and applauded, others bent back to their drinks, indifferent. On stage, Maeve changed nothing. Her next step came just as steady, as though the entire hall were nothing but scenery.
The applause dwindled into the tavern's usual hum: mugs clinking, chairs scraping, rough laughter. Through the crowd slipped the twins. The girl, her red hair tied at the nape and her apron stained with wine, moved quickly – almost dancing between chairs. The boy, with the same green eyes and leather suspenders over his rolled-up shirt, kept pace just as fast.
"Beef for the fine craftsmen, the girl said, setting plates on the table with unexpected grace."
"And brandy to run down your throats faster than a screw in its thread, her brother added, dropping the mugs with a noisy thud."
The customers roared with laughter, and one, face red and hat pushed to the back of his head, lifted his glass.
"Only you two can serve supper with words better than the food itself!"
The girl blushed faintly but didn't slow her pace. After emptying her tray, she pulled up a chair at the edge of a table and sat for a moment, elbows resting on the back. She sighed, lifting her stained apron to wipe her brow. Her brother laid a hand on her shoulder, but another client called him and he hurried off. She lingered there, green eyes watching the crowd – part of it, yet somehow apart.
Her gaze landed suddenly on me. She rose and, with light steps, came to the table where I sat. I had chosen a seat far from the stage's commotion, in a corner where the noise softened and you could listen for what mattered. I had come with a clear purpose. Yet all that had happened so far – Kerrigan's music, Maeve's dance, the clink of coins, the mingling laughter and smoke – had caught me like a strange carousel. So fascinating, so beautiful, I almost forgot why I'd come.
"You sat where the light doesn't reach, the girl said, tugging a chair across from me. Do you like seeing without being seen?"
Her smile was conspiratorial, but her gaze probed sharper than I'd expect from a tavern girl.
There was something playful in her tone, but her eyes were keen, curious. I raised an eyebrow, letting silence speak for me. Around us, mugs thudded, laughter tangled with the violin's eerie notes, yet between us a hollow opened, as if the hall itself had retreated.
"I don't sit by the stage, I replied. There you only see what the show wants to reveal. From here… you catch what slips between shadows."
One corner of her mouth arched in a smile. Then I noticed the freckles scattered across her cheeks, like sparks left from another life.
"Then we're alike, she said, resting her chin in her palm. Newcomers always look straight into your eyes, but those who mean to stay learn to glance elsewhere."
"Newcomers? I asked, keeping my voice deliberately indifferent."
Her lips curved faintly, a barely-there smile.
"Me and my brother. They call us Lys and Corin. We've been here a few weeks, long enough to know where beer spills and where blood does. You don't seem like someone who came just for a drink."
"Maybe not, I answered softly."
I lowered my eyes to the greasy menu left on the table, its corners softened by too many hands and spilled mugs. The words, crooked and faded, still showed: fish soup, veal stew with vegetables, roasted goose, smoked pig's feet, goat cheese with herbs, apple pie with cinnamon, raspberry tarts, figs, blueberries, strawberries, and plum brandy. I traced a finger along the letters, as if weighing each choice more than it deserved. Truth was, I wasn't hungry, but I had to play the part of an ordinary customer.
"Bring me fish soup and bread. And a glass of water, if there is such a thing, I said, lifting my eyes to her."
Lys's gaze lit up briefly, surprised perhaps at the choice.
"Water? Here? You're braver than you looked, she said, letting a short giggle slip. But I'll see what I can do."
She rose, taking the menu, and in her green eyes a spark flickered again, as though that simple order had told her more about me than the whole conversation.
I remained alone at the table after Lys walked away, and the tavern's murmur settled over me again like a heavy blanket. From my pocket I pulled out the crumpled sheet, the newspaper I had taken from the market. My gaze slid over the lines, but the words tangled with the voices around me.
At a nearby table, a man with hands cracked from work burst out:
"They didn't catch the culprit, of course. They never will."
A short laugh erupted, but another, younger man leaned across the table and whispered:
"I heard this time they stole liquid azurite."
The words stung my skin. The paper had said nothing of that, only vague phrases about goods of strategic value.
I clenched the sheet between my fingers, but the conversations around me didn't stop, only now they broke into shards striking my ears. At the nearby table, the man with the cracked hands shoved his mug forward and cast me a sharp look, as if my very presence was a mistake.
"Not proper to talk about such things with a lady at the table, he muttered, spitting a froth's scrap onto the wood."
The younger one, cheeks flushed from brandy, hurried to agree, glancing at me only briefly before lowering his eyes to the damp wood.
"Yeah… not fit to say out loud."
I pushed the paper slowly and fixed them with a calm, cold voice:
"I'm not the kind who frightens easily. If you know something, speak."
The older man ran a knotted hand over his unshaven chin, staring long at me. Then he leaned across the table, his voice sinking to a hoarse murmur, barely hidden under the tavern's din:
"The Order's gathering recruits. Young, strong, desperate, it doesn't matter. They take them all at the Northern Docks. In three days."
The younger one cut in, whispering too:
"But it ain't like the hiring fairs, where you can leave if you don't like it. If you're not accepted, you don't come out. Not alive, not dead."
The older man shook his head, gulping his beer.
"That's what they all say. No one ever sees the ones who go in."
The younger pressed his palm to his mouth, as if to push his words back down.
"Or maybe it's just to scare folk…so the rest rush to enlist quicker."
A silence fell between us. From another table, sudden laughter rose, mingled with the violin's song and the clink of mugs, as if nothing had been said. But I still felt the weight of their words, like a knife balanced at my temple.
An old man behind me lifted his mug and drained it. When he set it down, his tired eyes fixed on me.
"You've got the guts to sit and listen, miss. But guts don't fill a stomach here."
I crumpled the paper again, shoving it into my pocket as if I wanted to crush the words with it. The men at the nearby table glanced at me sideways, then broke into a short laugh, scornful, empty of meaning, letting me burn alone beneath their eyes, as if my intrusion had been nothing but a cheap joke.
I drew a long breath. The air was heavy, thick as the city's smoke. I lifted my head, my chestnut hair, already loosened, tumbling in disarray over my shoulders. Damp from steam and rain, in places it had dried and curled into rebellious waves, almost curls. There was always someone to laugh, but I knew more than all these drunkards put together. I knew what the Order meant.
I knew because I had Gearholt, impossible to forget, even after five years. He had legs of titanium, jointed like giant hinges, and with every step the floor trembled under their weight. His jaw was bound in plates of metal, a strange hybrid of bone and steel, and when he spoke, words came out with a dull clink, as if iron itself struck the air. You could recognize him from a hundred paces, because when something displeased him, his hip let out a long creak like an ungreased wheel, a sound that slid into your bones and made you hold your breath, waiting for the outburst.
I see him even now, placing the pistol in my palm for the first time, cold and heavy, almost larger than my hand. Pushing me to keep my arm straight, his dark brown eyes fixed on me with sharp patience. And that harsh, metallic laugh when the recoil cut my wrist, but I hadn't dropped the weapon.
I never learned what happened to Gearholt. At first, I thought he'd come back. He had vanished before, for days at a time, returning with clothes stained in oil and the smell of smoke. So I waited. A day. Two. A week. But days bled into months, months into years. His workshop stayed empty, tools rusting on the dust-cloaked table, and at last I learned not to wait anymore.
In all that time I clung to whatever kept me alive. I hauled crates bigger than myself at the docks, I sewed until my fingers bled and still earned too little. I sold trinkets on the street, learned to lie without blinking, learned to keep silent when I must. It wasn't living, just survival, a smoldering struggle from one day to the next.
And now, in the Brass Dragon, they all looked at me as if I were a lost damsel, eyes too curious, steps too careful for such a place. But none of them knew what I hid under my heavy train: two gleaming pistols, tuned by Gearholt's hand, cold and sure, as alive as his memory. None of them would laugh so loud if they knew how quickly I could shoot the mugs from their hands.
A clatter of dishes pulled me from my thoughts. Lys appeared between the tables, tray balanced on her hip. She set before me a steaming bowl of thick fish soup, a slice of black bread, and a glass of water.
"Your order's here, she said, dropping the tray onto the table's edge. And water, just as you asked. Rarer than gold around here, you know."
I lifted my gaze to her and nodded.
"Thank you."
Lys dragged out a chair and sat for a few moments, her stained apron drawn tight over her knees. She sighed, straightened her back, and let her shoulders sag, grateful for a moment's rest.
"I don't know how you can choose water in a place like this, she said, gesturing toward the crowd drowning in mugs. Here people drink to forget, not to clear their thoughts."
I tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into the soup.
"Maybe I've nothing to forget."
Lys glanced at me sideways, a quick smile tugging her lips.
"Or maybe you've too much, and no courage to start with just one."
She brushed her hand across her forehead, but before she could add more, a shadow leaned over the table. Her brother appeared, grin hurried, eyes half-turned toward the customers calling him from the other end.
"So here you are, he muttered. Thought you'd hidden yourself again."
"I stole a moment's breath, Lys replied, lifting the tray from the table's edge."
He sighed, as if trying to appear stern, though his eyes betrayed his worry.
"Roderick will roar if he catches you sitting again. And I've no wish to hear him thunder through the whole tavern."
They both smiled briefly, with that silent complicity only twins seem to have. Then her brother hurried off, summoned by voices at the back.
Lys stayed beside me, tray clutched to her chest.
"See? Even he thinks I always need shoving forward."
She bit her lip, then added more quietly, almost shyly:
"Maybe you'll come back sometime… It doesn't hurt to have a friendly face in the hall. And if you've nowhere to work, Roderick takes on new hands now and then. Not the worst place to lose your nights."
I stayed silent, letting her words fade on their own between us. There was nothing to say. I raised the spoon, finished the soup down to the last wisp of steam, then pushed the bowl aside. Lys rose and slipped among the tables again, tray at her chest as if she didn't want to leave behind the slightest trace of weakness.
I stood slowly and crossed the room to the bar. Roderick was there, leaning both tattooed arms on the counter, watching the patrons like a wolf among sheep. I laid a few coins before him, and with a flick of his hand he made them vanish, as if they'd never been.
"You haven't been around in a while, he said, raising an eyebrow. His voice was thick, with a timbre that seemed to vibrate in the bar's wood."
"I've been working, I answered curtly."
A faint smile curved at the corner of his mouth.
"Working, you say… Gearholt would've scolded you for that. He always told you: slave work dulls the soul, and a dulled soul never shoots straight again."
I turned my eyes on him, cold.
"Gearholt's not here to keep count anymore."
For a moment, the bar seemed to hush around us. Roderick set aside his rag and looked straight at me, those dark eyes seeing more than I revealed. He tilted his head slightly and spoke, slow and heavy:
"Keep your own count, Val. The only debt you owe is not to fall."
I let a wry smile slip.
"Thanks for the wisdom, bar master. You almost convinced me to change my life."
Roderick let out a short snort, like a bear startled from hibernation.
"Change what you like, but here the door's open. If you've nowhere to go, you work for me as long as you need. You watch the tables, you sleep in the upstairs room, you eat enough not to faint. The Dragon's always been a refuge for our own. You know that."
I gave a short nod, then turned toward the hall and lifted a hand slightly, a discreet gesture, toward Maeve and Kerrigan. She answered with a smile sharp as a cut, he with a quick chime of the bow, never lifting his gaze from the strings.
The air was heavy with smoke and noise, yet for the first time in a long while, I didn't feel that hollow in my chest. Maybe it was time to stop wandering. Maybe two days here wouldn't swallow me whole. The thought bit me briefly, but I didn't turn back. I nodded toward Roderick.
"I'll take it. But only for two days."
Two days were all I needed to find what I sought. Or two days to dig my own grave. Either way, the choice was made.