smooth flat green. It was packed with people listening to a speech that was being delivered from a bunting-draped platform at the far end.
Hembry locked the wings out flat and glided down over the crowd. Running to the back of the Cockatrice, he fumbled with some canvas ties, unfurling a long hand-lettered banner:
“HANG BABCOCK! HANG THE WHISKEY-RING SCOUNDRELS! JUSTICE FOR ALL!!!”
Cackling to himself, he returned to the pilot’s seat.
“Now let’s really get their attention,” he said. “Hang on!”
He pushed a button. The Cockatrice opened its beak and let out an ear-splitting shriek. The people on the green looked up, scattered, parasols and top hats parting like a fluffy and overdecorated Red Sea. By the time the Cockatrice had swooped back around, the center of the green had cleared. The Cockatrice touched down gently, sleek snake’s tail curling neatly around its long body.
Hembry’s face was triumphant as he popped his head out of the passenger’s compartment, punching a fist in the air.
“Death to tyrants!” he hollered. “Hang the crooks!”
The crowds, which had clustered on either side of the green, were silent. Then there was the sound of a lone cheer. The cry was taken up by dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of people. A huge roar of approval swept over the crowd, punctuated by whoops and whistles. On the distant podium, the man who had been delivering his speech goggled at them, his dark brow unhappily furrowed.
“President Ulysses S. Grant.” Stanton gestured toward the faraway notable. “Congratulations, Hembry. I’d say you’re the only man ever to spit in a president’s eye from five hundred feet away.”
All around the Cockatrice, the crowd pressed in.
Emily was already halfway out of the passenger compartment when she saw that Stanton wasn’t following her. He was speaking to Rose, looking down seriously into her flushed and eager face. The girl beamed up at him, her eyes liquid with adoration.
“… You know, more than anyone, how important this is,” he said as he handed her the glass jar with the uchawi pod in it. She trembled as she took it from him, but once it was in her hands she clutched it to her chest savagely, knuckles white.
“Good girl,” Stanton said. “Hold on to it tight. When the police arrive, you tell them to summon special officers from the Warlock division to take a Manipulator into custody. You don’t let that jar out of your hands until they do. Can you remember that?”
Rose nodded.
“I’ll see to it, I promise.” Rose’s voice was husky. “You can count on me, Mr. Stanton.”
Emily took Stanton’s good arm somewhat impatiently.
“Come on,” she said, pulling him away. “Let’s go find the man we’ve come three thousand miles to see.”
* * *
They were hard-pressed to wade through the throng; people were smothering them with pats on the back and congratulations. But as they made their way farther back they came to a place in the crowd where no one had seen them emerge from the Cockatrice and so were able to move more quickly.
“And here I was getting lectured about farm girls falling in love with me!” Emily muttered as she jogged to keep up with Stanton’s long strides.
“Our timing couldn’t be better,” Stanton said. “The President is scheduled to open each of the pavilions individually after his speech, which means Professor Mirabilis must be waiting for his arrival at the Mantic Pavilion. So all we have to do”—Stanton slid a map out of the back pocket of a man who was rushing past them to get closer to the Cockatrice—“is find it.”
“Disgraceful!” Emily whispered, casting a guilty glance backward. Stanton unfolded the map as they walked.
“Mantic Pavilion.” Stanton pointed up a wide flagstone boulevard lined with ornate gas streetlamps. “There.”
Emily slowed to a halt, awestruck, gaping.
In the dazzling midday sunlight, the Mantic Pavilion gleamed, a fantasy of gold leaf and red paint and black enameled latticework. It was an eye-popping vision, an exotic grotto of power and majesty. The roof, cobalt tiled, put the springtime sky to shame. The roof pillars had ends carved like spitting dragons. Trees of red orchids in huge, glossy black pots lined the way to the two tall doors.
“Yes, it’s designed to make you feel that way.” Stanton placed a finger under her chin to close her mouth. “I think it’s pretty tawdry myself, but there’s no accounting for taste.”
They entered through the tall doors, which were carved of ebony and bound with brass. They strode into the darkness of the cool main hall, the click of