“Do you?”
Honovi met his gaze, jaw set. “I think Daijal has craved power since cleaving itself from Ashion in their civil war. They’ve never respected borders.”
“Do you know the king expanded the collateral laws for banks as a wedding present to Prince Wesley and Princess Eimarille? The risk of debt bondage has broadened because of that change, and not just for Daijalan and Ashionen citizens. Those of other countries can be found liable as well and taken by debt collectors.”
“E’ridia won’t stand for that.”
“It would be an act of war if any clan attempted a rescue of one of their own. I think Daijal is hoping for a situation such as that.”
“You think they’d call for war?”
Blaine shrugged. “What would you do if you had that chance?”
Because Blaine could see it like parts of a machine, all the disparate pieces coming together in a slow-going build years in the making. Hindsight showed the blueprint now, and the Clockwork Brigade had its work cut out for it if Meleri’s cogs were going to break what Daijal was building.
Honovi leaned forward to kiss Blaine slow and sweet on the mouth before pulling him into a hug. Blaine let himself be held, curling into the warmth of a body he’d achingly missed over the long months they’d been separated.
“Your hair is still short,” Honovi murmured against the side of Blaine’s head.
“It’s considered fashionable here.” Blaine reached around and tugged on Honovi’s braid. “I miss what you cut. When this is over, when I can come home, I’ll grow it out again.”
Honovi didn’t say anything, just held him tight. Blaine closed his eyes against the glow of the gas lamp, content to stay in his husband’s arms for as long as he could.
Ten
SOREN
Calhames was a city built for heat, birthed from desert sands that crept up from the Wastelands on the warm winds. It sat on cracked earth scorched by the summer sun, fed by the Tahir River flowing from the eastern hill country. Settled far from the coastal swamps on the east coast and the small rainforest along the western shore of Solaria, Calhames was a capital that rarely felt cold.
Soren always regretted that state of affairs, especially with the way his field leathers stuck to his skin. One of these days, he would be assigned to a cold, northerly border, where he’d have to worry about staying warm rather than staying cool.
The steam train’s horn sounded loudly, smoke billowing away from the chimney and over the carriages as it sped down the tracks. Soren had caught passage up in Karnak after crossing the Solarian border rather than taking the slower route over the road. He wasn’t on border duty for this trip but traveling in his capacity to deliver the biannual border report to the Imperial throne.
That meant an extra stipend for travel expenditures, as governing bodies never appreciated late reports. What it didn’t mean was comfortable seats.
Soren shifted on the hard wooden bench at the back of the train carriage. His third-class ticket meant a packed carriage with every available seat taken save the one beside him on the bench. Normally, Soren would be grateful for the extra legroom, but it had come about only because the woman who’d been assigned it had refused to sit by him.
His status as a warden was apparent in his clothes and his weapons. His velocycle was stored in the cargo carriage, the cost for that more than his ticket, but one the wardens’ governor had been willing to pay.
Soren rested his head against the window, soot from the chimney having speckled the glass on the outside, turning the world speeding past into a haze. Calhames was easy enough to make out as the train approached the station on the outskirts of Solaria’s capital. The vaulted roofs of the city’s buildings arched beyond the top of the wall, interspaced here and there with large domes belonging to Star Order temples and government buildings.
The closer the train got to the station, the higher the wall became in the sky, until it obscured most traces of the city. Then the tiled, vaulted roof of the station replaced the sky as the steam train slowed to a stop at its platform.
The sudden bustle of people leaving their seats had Soren remaining in his until the crowd had mostly exited the train carriage. He finally stood, hauling down his small travel bag that carried his poison antidote kit, pertinent paperwork, and extra ammunition for his pistols. The poison short sword hadn’t left his back, and he rolled his shoulders to readjust the weight after sitting in a cramped space for so long.
Soren exited the train carriage and made his way against the crowd for the cargo carriage. After showing his paperwork to the platform supervisor and porters offloading luggage, Soren was allowed to haul himself inside and retrieve his velocycle, wheeling it out of its locked cage and onto the platform.
The crowd cleared a path for Soren after a few shouts from himself and passing station personnel. He exited the station through the gate meant for cargo, queueing up behind a porter pushing a motorized cart overflowing with luggage to get through customs.
Soren wheeled his velocycle into the sunlight once he was cleared, squinting against the brightness, the heat of midday an almost oppressive thing. He took a moment to get his gear settled and pull on his helmet and goggles before slinging a leg over the seat. He started the engine and pointed the velocycle down the road for the city gates, driving at a slow pace in the lane designated for vehicles.
He drove through a short tunnel that spanned the width of the wall before emerging onto a street teeming with motor carriages and pedestrians. The gate to Calhames’ north train station was a busy intersection, and it took a bit of maneuvering for Soren to leave it all behind.
The warm breeze smelled of exhaust and a city packed to the brim with people. Calhames was a capital, which meant its outward growth over the centuries could be counted in the many defensive walls ringing its ever-expanding borders. Soren knew the route to the warden resupply station, but that wasn’t where he was headed today.
The Imperial Senate, the Imperial palace, and other bureaucratic buildings that kept the country chugging along were located at the very center of Calhames, inside its first and oldest defensive wall. Soren had to get through nearly a dozen checkpoints to reach it, because the Houses were ever wary of attacks, and none more so than the one that currently sat upon the Imperial throne.
Soren’s status as a warden was enough to get him to the gates of the Imperial palace but not inside. The medallion that hung around his neck, tucked out of sight beneath his shirt and leather waistcoat, was a heavy weight that Soren didn’t want to rely on.
