descended the steps to the road. To my utter astonishment, Thewflex raised a hand and yelled, “Cab!”
A two-wheeled vehicle came careening around a corner and drew to a halt in front of us. In design it was boxy and sloped from a wide base to a narrow and very high top upon which the driver was perched precariously. It was pulled by a cream-coloured beast, tubular in form, which ran along on multiple legs. The awful-looking monster had a thick knot of tails curling out from its rear—two of which were held by the driver like reins—while its pointed neckless front end was split by a massive mouth. There were at least twenty small eyes clustered irregularly above and below the long maw.
“What’s that hideous thing called?” I asked Thewflex.
“A hansom cab,” he answered, opening the vehicle’s door. “Hop in.”
“I meant the beast harnessed to it.”
“Ah. It’s a Kaljoor. Yes, indeed! Come along! All aboard!”
Rather clumsily, Thewflex hoisted himself into the cabin. I gave Clarissa a hand up and followed.
“Where to, guv’nor?” the driver called.
Thewflex leaned out of the window, looked up, and said, “The Temple of Magicians, and make it snappy!”
“Tell that to the Kaljoor, mate!” came the response.
Thewflex grunted, and as the hansom jerked into motion, he turned his goat mask toward Clarissa and said, “The Working Class have been singularly lippy of late. I can’t abide their backchat. One might almost think they consider themselves our betters because they’re assured a place in Phenadoor. I feel we Aristocrats are losing the respect that’s our due. For crying out loud, the idiots would be nothing without us! Nothing!”
My friend frowned and was on the point of asking a question when Thewflex directed our attention to the scene outside.
“Look at that, Miss Stark! Marvellous efficiency! Busy days! Busy days! Indeed so!”
He was referring to a large tract of land that had been forested when we’d entered the House of Lords but which had, while we were inside, been cleared and was now swarming with a dense crowd of Yatsill. As we passed alongside it, we saw a seemingly endless line of Ptall’kors arriving, all laden with stone blocks, having their cargo unloaded, then departing. Roads and alleyways already criss-crossed the area, and in the squares between them, large edifices of a vaguely Georgian style were being erected with astonishing speed.
“Incredible!” I whispered.
A tall, thin tower caught my attention. It was similar to the minarets I’d seen illustrated in books about Damascus and other Arabian cities, and I realised it was but one of a great many that dotted every level of New Yatsillat.
“It’s for the City Guard,” the baron said in answer to my query.
“A watchtower? What are you watching for? Why does the city require guards?”
“The Saviour’s Eyes are not always upon us,” he responded.
Before I could pursue the subject further, the hansom rocked around a corner, veered across the road, and, though having travelled only a short distance, came to a jolting halt.
“Temple of Magicians!” the driver announced.
Thewflex pushed the door open and heaved himself out. We followed and saw we’d arrived at a colonnade-fronted structure.
“Gee-up!” the driver said. The hansom rattled away.
“You forgot to pay him,” I noted.
“Pay?” Thewflex asked.
“Never mind. What do your Magicians do?”
“They have insight. Yes, indeed!”
“Into what?” Clarissa asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” Baron Thewflex replied. “I’m not a Magician.”
We entered the building and were met by a Yatsill wearing a crow’s-head mask and long yellow robes.
“Welcome, Baron Hammer Thewflex,” he said, with a bow. “Welcome, Clarissa Stark. I am pleased to see that you’ve received your eye protection. Welcome, Aiden Fleischer. Baron, thank you, and you may go about your business now. Miss Stark, Mr. Fleischer, this way, please.”
Thewflex nodded, saluted—the second Earthly gesture I’d seen him make—and departed.
We fell into step beside the Magician.
“I am Father Mordant Reverie,” he declared.
“What a name!” I blurted. “But Father? Are you a priest?”
“Priest, Magician, sorcerer, call me what you will, young fellow. The title makes no difference to the function.” The Yatsill regarded me curiously and emitted a small grunt. “Hmm! It’s a shame you weren’t also made an Aristocrat, Mr. Fleischer. As a mere Servant, your mind is closed to me, though your emotions play clearly across its surface. They are fascinatingly complex.”
“Closed?”
“Obscured. Inaccessible. It doesn’t shine with inventiveness like Miss Stark’s.”
“My apologies.”
My sarcasm went unnoticed. “Accepted,” Father Reverie replied. “What is this guilt you feel?”
“I’m sorry, Father, I don’t know what you mean.”
“You appear uncomfortable with yourself, as if you have done