The generator’s tank had been drained. Merit opened its cap and began to pour in the contents of the first can.

“I know these machines,” Fret said. “I know everything about circuits and currents, all of that. But you know what? Nobody’s ever explained to me what really happens inside the copper.”

Merit was too tired to pour neatly. The fuel slipped free, building streaks on the tank’s dirty red body.

Words flowed out of the youngster. “Sure, I studied negative charges, and the positives, and how they fly along the wire. And magnetism builds invisible clouds, fields or whatever you call them. But I had one teacher try to convince me that the world is full of lights that we can’t see, colors that our eyes can’t find, and invisible clouds that we’re never going to feel. He said that those colors are here all of the time. Even in the darkest night, those nothings are busy. That’s why we bury our wires inside these big sleeves. Because raw wire is full of noise, all of it senseless, and there’s no room left for even one of our voices.”

Fret was full of noise.

Drained, the first can felt weightless. There was no reason to use the second can. Their business would be finished soon, provided the generator worked and the line was intact, and provided they could contact Prima without delays or too many risks.

“Have you heard about these invisible lights?” Fret asked.

Setting down the empty can, Merit said, “Yes.”

A moment ago he was exceptionally tired, but the stink of fuel or simple nerves had done something to his head, clear thoughts on the move again.

“Maybe people should wear rubber around their heads,” the slayer thought, half-seriously. “Maybe our currents would flow better then.”

Fret left the hole, walking to the line’s endpoint—a wooden box wearing sawdust and one durable black receiver. Brandishing a small wrench and a heavy old screwdriver, he gave one mighty shrug. “Let’s give the generator its chance.”

The pull cord was on the other side of the chamber, and the quickest route was an easy jump over the hole in the floor. Merit felt light, almost relaxed, except he was neither. He was tired and so very sad at the same time, but those sensations had vanished. In the company of this young man, he felt renewed, and the illusion lasted until he was jumping over the opening in the floor—suspended above the oblivion, suddenly wondering if the exhausted legs had given him enough of a push.

They had.

But something was wrong, something that a piece of him understood before his conscious shriveled mind saw what was obvious.

“Sir,” said a tight, angry voice.

Merit blinked, staring at Fret’s furious expression.

“Stupid sir,” said the boy. “You just kicked my wrench out the damned hole.”

Zakk was watching the world with tiny eyes, with the tiny binoculars. He could see very little, but the view seemed to impress him nonetheless.

Meanwhile Divers and the other Seven saw enormous swaths of wilderness and busy air, and they felt nearly blind. Flocks of powerful wings flew fast under the canopy, avoiding enemy fire, and the airship fleet from the District of Districts was still in the remote distance—giant gasbags looking like a swarm of flies only now reaching the edge of the Corona District. But there had been no battles today. Each side seemed to be trying to avoid enraging the other. The great prize was still missing. Diamond was lost. The important souls were cursing beside the hanger, demanding answers that nobody could give, and a moment later, a lowly colonel came running on hands and feet.

He was a local man. Divers knew him.

“They’re sending us our new wing,” said the officer. “Everybody needs to be out of its way.”

Zakk appeared eager to run into the trees above the tarmac.

Divers knew better. The aircraft in question was a slip of darkness on the edge of what he could see, and there was ample time. She dropped both of her telescopes and then showed the officer her canines, each as long as the man’s tired arms.

The colonel summoned the courage not to back away.

Nothing happened. Nothing changed. Then without a word, Divers looked back into the hanger, into the gloom, noting that heavy wagons were rolling clear of the deepest bunkers, new weapons filling the cradles.

Yesterday meant little bombs and simple guns.

Somebody was getting ready for bigger battles today.

“Can we watch from above?” Zakk asked the colonel. “If we find a safe hole, I mean.”

The colonel usually ruled this facility, but not with so many generals underfoot. Lacking the authority to answer, he instantly told the child, “No.”

The Seven discussed the matter and took a vote.

There was no point in making trouble now, Divers agreed. Waving a telescope, she said, “We’ll go inside with our new friend.”

Zakk summoned a huge smile.

Inside the hanger, the soldiers were wrapping heavy ropes around one of the bombs, the streamlined iron body wearing a papio skull and poisonous spiders. Divers counted the bombs and then forced the eyes upwards one last time. As if holding binoculars, she set both of the giant telescopes against the vast eyes, making one final sweep before vanishing underground.

A sharp piece of sunlight was moving against the wilderness.

She saw the object, saw that it was spinning as it fell, and all of the Eight realized that this was a wrench. An enormous, rapid, and nearly useless discussion began, the voices trying to decide how someone’s prized tool might have been dropped.

The other Seven talked while Divers thought.

She never spoke.

And then Tritian said, “Look higher.”

What?

“In that pocket, that clearing,” said that shriveled twist of burning orange flesh. “Do you see what I see?”

EIGHT

Panoply Night wasn’t the largest airship in the Corona fleet. Its guns were minimal, the main engines underpowered, and wide-open throttles meant draining the tiny fuel tanks. Yet Panoply Night deserved to be the fleet’s flagship. Secondary engines gave it the grace of a thunderfly. There were enough quarters onboard to house an Archon’s staff, and there were call-lines waiting to be plugged into the world, plus several protected chambers where secrets could be discovered or discussed. But what made the ship most impressive, even unique, was the huge quantity of corona parts that went into its construction: bladders were stuffed inside bladders, layers keeping the hydrogen gas safe. Scales were fixed upon scales upon more scales, and the machine’s skeleton was corona bone secured with silk rope and black-ivy glues. And in the event of a midair battle, uniquely trained pilots would watch the world through the world’s most elaborate periscopes, making their ship bounce through the air like a crazed ball.

“All right, madam.”

Prima was standing beside a tiny window. Armored shutters were open, and she had no idea where she was. Mooring lines held Panoply in its hiding place, while a cluster of call-lines ran off into the canopy. A never-used receiver was held tight in one hand. Behind her waited the small desk that she claimed last evening, and the office that came with the desk, along with the young lieutenant who had already proved himself as being endearingly, gorgeously competent.

“He’s waiting, madam.”

Sondaw had been a commissioned officer for just nine days.

Pressing the receiver to her ear, Prima said, “Yes.”

A man asked, “Is this the Archon?”

She intended to say, “Yes,” again. But the static exploded, pops and whistles generated somewhere along the copper.

Then the static was gone, and from the sudden calm, the man asked, “Are you Prima?”

“I’m Prima. Merit?”

“Yes.”

Another surge of noise attacked the line. The call was coming from the District of Mists, but that wasn’t why the sound was so lousy. Sondaw had explained that the voice could be coming from anywhere, but the caller had an ally in the Mists, and at least two long lines had been stitched together.