“Makharov,” Lali breathed, the name a noxious fume in her mouth. She stared at the schematic, the ink lines on the parchment suddenly more menacing than any automaton. Niko nodded, his expression grim. “The same. And this conduit isn’t just some back-channel power line. It’s too well-shielded, too high capacity. It’s designed to siphon, Lali. A significant amount of pressurized vapor, directly from this estate, straight into his.” Lali’s mind raced, a dozen possibilities spiraling into a knot. “Is Kordian aware of it?” “Hard to say. His own systems are so complex, so redundant, he might overlook a subtle bleed. Or he might know and simply not care, lost in his own projects.” Niko leaned back, rubbing his temples. “Either way, it’s a vulnerability. And it tells us Makharov isn’t just interested in Sturua’s patents. He’s actively undermining him, right under his nose.” Their clandestine meeting in the chilled cellar was cut short by the insistent chiming of a clockwork bell from upstairs – a shrill, demanding sound that vibrated through the stone. “Sounds like our time is up,” Lali muttered, shoving the schematic back into Niko’s satchel. “No doubt a summons to perform my wifely duties. And to endure Kordian’s glacial displeasure.” She was right. A spindly, multi-limbed servant, its brass frame gleaming under the gas lamps, waited at the top of the cellar stairs. “Mistress Vashadze,” it whirred, its voice a series of metallic clicks. “Lord Sturua requests your presence in the solarium. A guest has arrived.” A guest. Lali’s inner cynic gave a dark chuckle. Just what she needed: another variable in this already volatile equation. She smoothed her borrowed gown, a delicate thing of cream lace that felt entirely too fragile for the manor’s robust gloom. The solarium, usually a haven of glass and exotic plants, was now a stage set for an unwelcome drama. Kordian stood by a massive Orrery, its intricate gears slowly revolving, his back to the room. Facing him, a man of medium height, with a slicked-back mane of dark hair and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, held a crystal goblet. His tailored tunic, a rich sapphire blue, gleamed with polished brass toggles. This had to be Irakli Makharov. “Ah, Nana, my dear, there you are,” Irakli purred, his gaze sweeping over Lali with an unnerving thoroughness. “I hope I haven’t interrupted your preparations for the evening. Kordian, you keep her hidden away too well.” Kordian turned, his obsidian eyes locking onto Lali for a fraction of a second, a silent command to perform. He offered no greeting, no introduction, merely a tight nod. Lali forced a warm, gentle smile, the kind Nana perfected. “Guildmaster Makharov, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I apologize for my delay.” Her voice was lighter, softer, tinged with a delicate shyness that felt like a foreign object in her throat. “The manor is so… vast. One could get lost in its wonders.” Irakli’s smile widened, revealing a flash of gold tooth. “Indeed, my dear. And I must say, marriage seems to agree with you. You possess a certain… luminescence now. A new vibrancy.” His eyes narrowed just a fraction. “Though I confess, the last time I saw you, you were a touch more… reserved. A budding scholar, I recall. Always with your nose in a book of engineering schematics, or dismantling some clockwork trinket.” Lali’s stomach clenched. He remembered Nana’s exact hobbies. This man wasn’t just oily; he was observant. “Oh, Guildmaster Makharov,” she chirped, trying to infuse her voice with a touch of Nana’s self-deprecating sweetness. “Kordian’s genius is simply so inspiring. It makes one want to understand the world anew. Though I confess, my true talents lie more in… appreciating beauty, rather than dissecting it.” She gestured vaguely at a clockwork griffon perched on a walnut pedestal. Kordian’s jawline tightened almost imperceptibly, a muscle working beneath his skin. Lali wondered if he found her performance convincing, or simply infuriating. She didn’t dare look at him for confirmation. Irakli chuckled, a low, resonant sound. “A poet, then, rather than a mechanic. How delightful. Perhaps a gift is in order, to celebrate this beautiful transformation.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, intricately carved wooden box. It was a puzzle, its surface etched with swirling, interlocking mechanisms, each piece a tiny marvel of precision Artifice. The seam lines faintly wept blue hydraulic oil. The breath caught dry in Lali's throat. This was it. The real Nana adored these. She could solve them in minutes, her fingers dancing over the hidden catches. Lali, however, had the mechanical aptitude of a brick. “Oh, Master Makharov, you shouldn’t have,” she managed, her smile feeling brittle. She extended her hands, but a tremor threatened to betray her. She couldn’t touch it, couldn’t let him see her fumble. “Nonsense, my dear,” Irakli insisted, pressing the box into her reluctant hands. It felt impossibly heavy. “A true mechanist's challenge. I recall you could unlock even the most complex of these within moments. I was hoping you might favor us with a demonstration.” His eyes, dark and knowing, held hers. Lali’s mind raced. A headache. A sudden, delicate malady. “Oh!” she gasped, a small, pained sound. She pressed a hand to her temple, her brow furrowing. “Forgive me, Guildmaster Makharov. But the… the change in the air, perhaps? Or the excitement of the day.” She swayed faintly, just enough to be convincing, but not enough to draw genuine concern. “A sudden, splitting ache has taken hold. I fear I wouldn’t do your magnificent puzzle justice tonight.” She managed a weak, apologetic smile. “Perhaps in the morning, when my senses are clearer.” Irakli’s expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “Of course, my dear. I understand. The Sturua Manor can be… overwhelming, at times.” He took the box from her, his touch lingering on her fingers for a beat too long. “Rest well.” Dinner was a torturous affair. Lali picked at the exquisitely prepared food, maintaining her Nana facade while her mind spun with the implications of Irakli’s probing. Kordian, for his part, remained largely silent, answering Irakli’s pointed questions about Guild politics and pneumatic-flow regulation with terse, clipped sentences that revealed nothing. He watched Lali, occasionally, a brief, assessing glance that made her skin prickle. After the meal, as the servants cleared the dining hall, Lali excused herself to ‘freshen up,’ needing a moment to breathe. When she returned, she found Irakli no longer with Kordian. Her gaze swept the opulent reception rooms, searching. She found him in a quiet alcove, near a display of antique chronometers. He was leaning in conspiratorially, talking to Niko. Niko looked up, lifting his chin as he met Lali’s gaze. A silent alarm bell rang in her head. Irakli, sensing her presence, straightened, his smile back in place, but there was an unsettling possessiveness in the way he stood near Niko. “Ah, Mistress Vashadze,” Irakli said, his voice smooth as silk. “I was just having a most enlightening conversation with the boy. He has quite the head for numbers, wouldn’t you agree? I was just offering him a… small opportunity. A chance to work on some of my own projects. Projects that could truly utilize his talents, unlike… well, unlike some of the more… stagnant ventures in the Guild.” His gaze flickered towards the distant study where Kordian was likely poring over his diagrams. Niko, ever the actor, offered a polite, somewhat bewildered smile. “Guildmaster Makharov is very kind. He was just discussing the finer points of temporal displacement, something I find fascinating, if a little beyond my current understanding.” Lali’s fury coiled tight in her gut. He was trying to poach her brother, to turn him against Kordian, against her. She stepped forward, her gentle Nana persona cracking around the edges. “Niko is quite content here, Master Makharov. He is assisting me with… cataloging the manor’s extensive library.” Before Irakli could respond, a low, dangerous voice cut through the air, emanating from the shadowed archway of the main hall. Kordian stood there, his silhouette framed by the flickering gaslight, his scarred face a mask of cold fury. His voice, usually a measured rumble, was now a predatory whisper that seemed to chill the very marrow in Lali’s bones. “Makharov. Step away from the boy.”

An Unwelcome Guest