chambers from their chests. Two of them worked together to open a fifth.
Three miserable-looking people sat behind the rail of the choir, flanked by a pair of vigilant reciprocators. The clockwork soldiers held their scalloped shields to form walls on either side of the captives, their halberds held ready in an unspoken threat to any who dared to leap the rail.
The prisoners wore the heavy leather aprons of mechaniks. Black grease highlighted their fingernails and smudged their faces. Two were men, one tall and bulky, the other lean with a pox-scarred face. The third was a woman whose muscular shoulders bore tattoos of gears and pistons.
“What have you done, Septimus?” Aurora had already apprehended the situation, but she wanted to hear the clockwork priest admit what he’d done.
“Numen, I used the confusion you inflicted on the Cygnaran camp to recover our lost comrades. In the process, my soldiers were able to recover all but two—”
“Whose soldiers?”
The prime enumerator’s voice box clicked off, the clockwork equivalent of a man’s biting his tongue. When the ambient hiss returned, Septimus said, “Convergence soldiers. Under your command, Numen.”
“And do I understand correctly that you sought to enlist my clockwork angels in this unauthorized mission?”
Once more, Septimus clicked off his voice modulator rather than speak in haste.
Enumerator Bogdan stepped forward. “The fault is mine, Numen. In relaying Prime Enumerator Septimus’ request, I may have expressed myself poorly. Any confusion is entirely my fault. I beg you to blame me, not the prime enumerator.”
There was more than enough blame for the two of them, Aurora thought. But she would not be fooled by this transparent effort to make a scapegoat of the lackey.
Aurora stepped past Bogdan, her sudden motion forcing him to retreat so quickly he almost tripped over his own robes. She looked down at the holy book. Septimus had left it open to an illustration of Ascendant Corben, patron of alchemy, arcana, and astronomy.
She wondered what Septimus was scheming. To Cyrissists, Corben was the most sympathetic of the ascendants. Many converts had come wearing medallions of Corben before exchanging them for tokens of the Maiden of Gears.
The twin gods Morrow and Thamar had been revered as Cyriss-inspired savants long before humans discovered the existence of the Maiden. Thus it was little surprise that many continued to worship Morrow even as they delved deeper into the equations of the perfect deity.
Aurora turned back to her bodyguard. “Take these prisoners to separate confinement in the village.”
“Numen, if you will permit me to explain,” began Septimus.
“You are here to direct the troops as I command,” said Aurora, “not to second-guess my decisions by taking prisoners without my orders.”
Septimus rose an inch on his silent pistons before bowing his head. “As you say, Numen.”
Aurora stepped close, whispering into his aural receptors. “And if your action prompts the enemy to attack before we have completed the geomantic realignment, it is you, not I, who shall have to answer to the iron mother.”
The clockwork priest bowed deeply as he skittered backward on crab-like legs.
Aurora turned to her guard. “Now take them. See that they are treated as humanely as the citizens of Calbeck. Let no one but me or one of my designated guards speak to them.”
The reciprocators stood aside at the approach of the clockwork angels. Wordless, the prisoners filed out of the choir box. A clanking piston set the rhythm of their shuffling pace.
The faces of the men were slack with fear and shock, but the woman could not tear her gaze from the automatons. She stared at the quiet action of their limbs, the steady glow of their lenses. There was no fear in her countenance, only awe and longing.
Aurora recognized that look.
When the woman stepped out from the choir, Aurora saw that her mechanikal leg was the source of the noise. She reappraised the rest of the woman.
Despite the strength of her arms and shoulders, the woman’s body was failing her in more ways than one. Her flat chest was proof that she had lost more than her leg, and she moved with a caution that suggested she suffered great pain in her joints. Judging by her greying hair and the lines around her eyes, Aurora guessed the woman was well into her sixties.
“Bring that one to me,” said Aurora.
Behind the alter, Bogdan whispered something to Septimus. Aurora turned to see the clockwork priest nodding his mechanikal head. As he saw her looking at him, Bogdan said, “I meant only to suggest you question that prisoner