When introductions are made, never be first in the reception line. “First to curtsy, first forgot,” or so the saying goes.
—The Wifely Way by the Duchess K. A. Pell
Edith would later recount to captain and crew her initial impressions of the oft-speculated about and seldom seen summit of the Tower of Babel, and in so doing, she would discover just how firmly the scene had been embossed upon her memory. How did the air smell? Like geraniums and metal. What was the hour? It was just before sunrise, and the fog purpled with the light. You stole a mount, but why not any weapons? Because there was no need! There wasn’t any danger. It was just a barren roof.
Far from it, though the pinnacle did not reveal all its wonders at once. Had there been no fog, Edith would never have agreed to a quick look around. Had there been no fog, surely they would have fled.
She had to give Adam credit: He took his illusions seriously. To avoid detection, he insisted that they proceed on foot, despite how easily they would have been able to survey the summit from the bench of the wall-walker. He further insisted that the machine be parked below the lip of the edge, to disguise their means of arrival. This necessitated that they stand upon the bench back, scrabble over the grate of the engine, and pull themselves onto the rocky verge, a process that the spectacular height and one missing arm made quite harrowing.
Edith agreed to all of this and bit down on her impulse to patronize the youth for his exuberance. Why couldn’t she just enjoy his anticipation? Why must he suffer for her disillusionment? Reality would confront him soon enough, and it would be absolutely shameful of her to anticipate his disappointment with anything but remorse. She decided whatever happened, she would be supportive.
It would prove a difficult resolution to keep.
Beyond a narrow perimeter of unremarkable stone, the ground turned to metal plates that were fitted together as tightly as a weld. The metal resembled polished, toughened silver, but its luster was unfamiliar to Edith. Whatever the material, it apparently resisted the formation of rust, and perhaps the accumulation of spots. And dust. The ground was perfectly clean.
It was this inconsequential detail that tied the first knot in her gut. Shouldn’t there be a buildup of dust, bird droppings, and the silt left by rain? There was none.
She pondered this as they walked deeper into the clouds, their progress shuffling and tentative. Edith had begun to itemize all of the types of natural phenomenon that might clean a roof when the silver tree emerged from the fog.
It was as tall as a tulip poplar, the trunk perfectly round, and the branches few and high and half-veiled by the clouds. The wind shifted subtly, and the top of the tree came into clear view.
The blades of the turbine did not turn in the wind. In fact, the windmill they had taken for a tree did not stir at all.
Hurrying to its base, Adam grabbed the mirage before it could disappear. It was real. The pole was silver, recently polished, and perfectly reflective. He ran his hands over it, his heart shaking his chest. Amid his joyful scrutiny, a second gleaming surface at his foot caught his eye.
He looked down to discover that he stood upon a vein of gold, flat as a plank, but wandering as a stream. It forked with tributaries that split and switched across the steely floor.
At his side now, Edith gaped with him at the gilded sinews running into the fog and nearer the shrouded hub of the summit.
“I’ll be hanged,” Edith said, touching the silver post.
Adam, already on his hands and knees, felt for seams around the vein of gold. If he could just get his fingers under the lip of it, perhaps he could pull it up. Of course, that presumed the gold was plated or tiled rather than fused. “Help me,” Adam said. “How much weight can the walker carry?”
“No,” Edith murmured. “This is not good.” She peered into the fog.
“Why? How is this not the very definition of good?” Finding his fingernails too weak, he began rifling through his pack for some more useful tool. Why had he not thought to bring a chisel or a hammer? What good were an old book and a bedroll now?
“Because if the gold is real, that means—”
“Your hair is standing up,” Adam said, squinting up at her.
“We should get back on the rock.” She felt a tingling in her ears. “Now, Adam.” She pulled at him and was frustrated by how heavy he was. How she wished for her arm!
The plates beneath them began to knell softly, like a doorbell rung in an adjoining house. They froze, harkening to it.
“Sounds like marching,” Adam said.
“Run,” she whispered.
There are several disadvantages to fleeing through a mist near the edge of a cliff. One is that you’re never exactly certain where the edge is, and so it is difficult to convince your limbs to move with any alacrity. Another disadvantage is the effect that looking over your shoulder has on the internal compass: The more you look back, the more you get turned around.
So, they were all but immobilized by their disorientation when the first seething, blue bolt flew overhead. The lightning seemed to snag upon the fog and went fraying into sparks. Their skin tingled almost to burning, and Edith’s dark hair stood out like a lion’s mane.
Gripping each other with the grim conviction of drowning souls, they lurched helplessly under a second and third salvo of jagged light.
The men came at them directly, unflustered by the cloud. They wore uniforms of black rubber and red copper. Their shining conical helmets were slit at the mouth, the line curling up on one end in a stylized smirk. The lenses over their eyes stood out like a chameleon’s. Black galoshes and heavy aprons protected them from the electricity that still crackled from the tips of the wands in their hands. The thick wands were tethered to ornate packs on their backs, and these emitted a constant, dispassionate hum.
Attempting to shield Adam from the squad of eight, Edith put up her hand and said, “We are not armed. Don’t fire! Don’t fire!” even as the sparkling light at the tips of their wands began to bloom.
Adam pressed around to her side, determined not to be struck down while cowering, and said, “We haven’t taken anything. We just made a wrong turn. We’re lost.”
One of the sparking men stepped forward, and the coil around the barrel of his wand brightened with a fatal charge.
The foremost figure extended a glove-fattened hand and turned down his compatriot’s weapon. This apparent leader hung his own wand from a hook at his belt, put his hands to his head, and twisted the helmet free of its collar.
He was not much older than Adam but was his opposite in nearly every other way. His eyes were a light blue; his complexion was as pale as glue. His long hair and full beard were the color of fresh straw.
“Adam?” the handsome soldier said.
In the realm of pirates, no good ever came from being recognized publicly. Indeed, there were few sounds less pleasing to a pirate’s ear than his own name emerging from a stranger’s mouth. Still, Adam could think of no benefit to denying the fact.
“How do you know my name? Is this some sort of trick?”
“A trick?” the officer scoffed, tucking his helmet under his arm. The others in his troop began loosening their own helmets, their vigilance softening. “I was wondering the same thing.”
“Do you recognize me?” Edith asked, trying to discern the meaning of all this.
The blond officer surveyed her face briefly. “No. Perhaps you’re part of the later story.”
“Later story?” Adam said, but received no answer.
Now out of their helmets, the troop had begun an animated argument over what they should do with these trespassers. They seemed as surprised to have found Adam Boreas during their rounds as he was surprised to be recognized. Perhaps Adam and the one-armed woman were the bait of a sinister trap, which was already sprung. Perhaps there were more of them coming even now. Perhaps they should raise the general alarm. Perhaps they should shoot them both or jog one of them off the side to stir a confession from the other.
All the participants in this argument, both male and female, were similarly young and blond, and it was difficult for Adam and Edith to follow exactly who was on their side and who was arguing for their summary execution.
At last, the bearded officer, clearly the leader, had heard enough deliberation, and pronounced his decision. “We’ll take Adam back with us and put the woman down.”
“‘Put the woman down?’” Edith said with a murderous scowl. She took one step toward the blond sergeant. “Give me a sword, and I’ll show you how I put the woman down, you peach-faced toddler!”
“She’s very exciting,” the officer said to Adam with an unusual familiarity.
A young woman with silk-flat hair raised her wand again at Adam and said, “How do you know it’s him? How do you know it’s not an imposter?”
“A valid point. How about a test? Adam, what is your sister’s name?”
“Voleta. How did you know I have a sister?”
“Anyone could know that,” the young woman argued. “Ask him something only Adam would know.”
“All right.” The sergeant pondered this for a moment, then said, “What did your mother serve for your twelfth birthday?”
“Pheasant,” Adam said archly, though apparently his humor was wasted on the attending. The silk-haired woman sighted him with her wand. “Wait, wait, it was a joke.”
“Adam doesn’t tell jokes,” the same woman said. Adam thought her pretty, in a chilly sort of way. He wondered if everyone here was so aloof.
“It was a long time ago. I need a minute to think.” He pinched his lower lip and closed his eye.
“Oxtail soup,” he said, opening his eye as if he were emerging from a trance. “I remember, because the soup was bad or the meat was, and it upset my mother. She was a proud cook. She fumed the whole afternoon. And the next day she made the soup again, and made it perfectly.”
“That is correct,” the young woman said, dropping her weapon to her side.
“I know it’s correct. I was there. I am Adam Boreas,” he said, thumping his chest. It seemed a little absurd to be shouting his own name.
“There are some people who are going to want to meet you,” the officer said.
Adam was sure this was all a trick. They must’ve overheard Edith and him talking in the fog, or perhaps they knew the Sphinx and had availed themselves of his intelligence. It really didn’t matter how they knew what they did. The more pressing question was why were they pretending to know him? They must want something. He tried to think what qualities he possessed that they might lack. Finn Goll had recruited him because he had a trustworthy face and a flexible conscience, not to mention the leverage of his sister. Perhaps these lightning knights needed a ringer, or a foreigner to do some unsavory work they did not want to be associated with. Off the top of his head, he could imagine half a dozen scenarios where he, an outsider, might be of service to these odd natives.
The fact that they wanted something from him meant one thing for certain: He had a modicum of power in the relationship.
The same rubber suit that had made them appear large and imposing before, now, with the helmet removed, cast them as children who had gotten into their parents’ wardrobe. Adam felt unreasonably encouraged.
“You have to let my friend go,” Adam said. “I’ll come with you, but she goes free.”
The bearded officer, whose resting expression was apparently one of mild amusement, said, “We have to destroy your ship.”
“We didn’t come on a ship. We climbed.”
The sergeant directed one of his men to look for himself, and the fellow donned his helmet and scoured the fog with his telescopic eyes. He soon proclaimed the sky empty.
“Then she may go,” the sergeant said, but quickly raised a finger in condition. “With the understanding that if she ever comes back, she will be shot on sight.”
“Agreed. Could I have a moment to say goodbye?”
“Absolutely.”
“In private?”
“Absolutely not.”
Adam scowled but thought it too soon to be making strict demands. He turned to Edith. She had the wild, disbelieving expression of a soaked cat. “It’s really just as well,” he said. “I wanted an adventure, and now I’ve got one.”
“This isn’t an adventure, Adam. This is an arrest,” she said unhappily. She wanted to say more, to say that these people were obviously unbalanced and might be capable of any sort of dreadful thing. But it didn’t seem prudent. Still, there was one thing she felt she had to know. “What do you want me to tell her? I have to tell her something.”
When Edith later recounted the adventure, she would revise this portion of the story to spare the feelings she imagined Voleta would have. She would report Adam’s parting words to his sister as being, “I hope with all my heart that we see each other again in this life. I love you. Be good.”
What Adam actually said was, “Tell the little owl not to forget my birthday.”