The shriek of brass sirens sliced through the ballroom, scattering socialites like pigeons before an owl. Glass shattered across the parquet floor as terrified patrons shoved past velvet stanchions toward the carriage doors.
"The alarm was no accident," Gavriil murmured against Lenora’s ear, fingers clamping her wrist like an iron vise. "Listen to the rhythm. Three short pulses, one long. That is Krystof’s signature diversion chime. The rascal set the noise off himself."
Lenora lifted the hem of her lavender satin gown with her free hand, dodging a spilled tureen of turtle soup. Underneath the lace ruffles, Mishka poked his whiskered nose out from her sash, hissing at an overturned champagne bucket. "If it is an intentional diversion, why are we running toward the clockwork exhibition wing instead of the carriage courtyard?"
"Because our host posted six retainers by the carriage port," Gavriil said, weaving them through an arched colonnade lined with towering copper figures. "He knows what we came for."
Gas lamps flickered overhead, sputtering green as the ventilation flues closed in emergency lockdown. The air in the Grand Conservatory of Mechanisms grew thick with petroleum and cold grease. Around them stood dozens of brass mannequins—ornate cleaning attendants, mechanical footmen, and heavy scrub chassis outfitted with rotating steel discs and bronze knuckles, motionless on their pedestals.
Footsteps boomed behind them. Heavy leather boots against marble.
"Koslov!"
The master of the estate stepped through the double doors, flanked by three men in dark greatcoats. His formal cravat was crooked, his neck blotched red. In his right hand, a small nickel-plated detonator gleamed under the dying gaslights.
"Did you truly think your disgraced presence here went unnoticed?" the baron sneered, closing the distance slowly. "You dragged a country florist into high society to play thief? Pathetic. Even for a man who murdered his own best friend in the sky."
Gavriil stepped forward, his tall frame blotting out the henchmen. He stood rigid as an iron pillar between the threat and his wife.
"You replaced the high-pressure relief valve on the Comet's stern boiler with substandard brass from your foundry," Gavriil said, his voice flat, devoid of its former shaking self-loathing. It struck like a hammer on an anvil. "You knew Aleksy wouldn't test the alloy before the maiden flight because your stamp was on the forged certification."
The aristocrat laughed, an ugly rasp that ricocheted off the brass figures. "Of course I did! You were going to corner the trans-mountain freight lines. You were going to render my cargo fleets obsolete. Aleksy was a fool who believed in high ideals, and you were a dreamer who built kites for children. Business is warfare, Gavriil. Who will believe you? An eccentric hermit hiding among dead scrap? Your word is soot in this city."
"His word isn't the only thing speaking tonight, Baron," a crisp, cultured voice remarked from the shadows of an overhead maintenance catwalk.
Volkov snapped his head up.
Krystof stood leaning casually over the wrought-iron rail, brushing lint from his pristine black lapels. In his leather-gloved palm rested a blue ledger bound in iron wire, alongside three signed bills of lading bearing the family seal.
Beside the butler stood the captain of the Zhelezo City Watch, flanked by six armed riflemen whose bayonets glinted cold silver in the murk.
"Baron," the watch commander bellowed down into the hall, unfolding an official parchment with a crisp snap. "By order of the Grand Chancellery and the Ministry of Maritime Transport, you are under arrest for treasonous sabotage, conspiracy to commit mass homicide, and grand ledger fraud."
Color fled the baron's cheeks until skin matched the pale marble underfoot. His retainers flinched, edging clear of him, palms out and away from holsters.
"No," the nobleman hissed, mouth twisting in fury. "No! This is a fabrication! I built this city's rail lines! You can't touch me!"
The commander signaled his squad, who descended the spiral iron staircase with practiced, thudding steps.
Cornered against the brass mountings, the baron scowled, gaze locking on Lenora where she gripped the wool of Gavriil’s frock coat. Venom curled his lip.
"If I burn, Koslov, you won't leave with your pretty replacement bride!"
He slammed his thumb down on the nickel toggle.
A sharp hiss of pneumatic steam erupted from the supply pipes overhead. The factory scrubbing units—massive, three-hundred-pound steel frames designed for scouring blast furnaces—jerked awake with deafening clatter. Internal cams spun wildly into an unrestricted purge sequence.
Two of the nearest scouring chassis leaped off their stone bases, heavy bronze pistons flailing in blind circles, heavy scouring rotors spinning like circular saws.
One machine swung blindly toward the guards. The second, an iron construct with two whirling brass discs meant for stripping hull plates, pitched toward the nearest movement—Lenora.
"Lenora, down!" Gavriil spared no breath for calculation.
He abandoned all thought of retreat, lunging forward to haul her into his chest and drag her behind an overturned velvet banquette.
He took the blow with his back.
The spinning brass blade slammed across his collarbone with a hard crack. The wool tore through to skin and muscle. The impact threw him over Lenora, pinning her against the cushions.
She gasped, reaching upward, her hands clutching his face. "Gavriil!"
No cry escaped him. He braced his boots against the tiles, completely shielding her from flying brass fragments and hot cinders, his gray eyes blazing with stark, protective ferocity.
"I have you," he rasped, his breath hot against her forehead. "I will not let anything touch you."
A rifle cracked. A marksman's bullet severed the pneumatic feed pipe of the berserk construct. It seized, vented a white cloud, and tipped sideways onto the floor with a dull clatter.
Watchmen tackled the disgraced baron to the marble, silencing his protests as iron cuffs snapped shut around his wrists.
Silence descended over the ruined hall, broken only by the faint hiss of cooling pipes.
Lenora lay pinned under Gavriil's weight, ribs aching as warm crimson soaked through his shredded wool. His stare remained fixed on her face. A calloused thumb, rough from machine oil and metal turnings, traced her cheekbone to wipe away a smear of soot.
"You're hurt," Lenora whispered, her throat dry. "Gavriil, the wound—"
"Let it bleed," he murmured softly, his voice thick with a resolve she had never heard in him before. "I finally found something worth the scars."
From the torn collar, Mishka wriggled out, clamping the fugitive's dropped gold signet ring between his sharp teeth, though neither of them glanced down at the beast.
Slowly, Gavriil began to push himself upright, only to freeze as the heavy double doors at the far end of the conservatory were kicked open with a sickening crash, revealing four cloaked figures bearing military carbines with black iron insignia nobody recognized.