“Craftsmen coming for Seril, or Kos, or both of them. Kos can handle himself; Seril can’t—the part of Her that’s Herself, I mean, the conscious bit. She doesn’t have enough power. I wanted to make the Blacksuits help. It’s not easy. Turns out Justice wasn’t built to interfere with Craftwork. This will get bad. You should go.”

He capped his pen. “To save myself.”

“Fighting these bastards is my job. I don’t want you doing hero stuff on my part. Leave. Get safe.” It hurt to say. “Come back when it’s over.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You couldn’t fight the demons last night,” she said. “And you can’t fight what’s coming, either.”

“Worse than demons?”

“Bigger,” she said. “Craftsmen riding engines of war.”

“I’ll help.”

“You can’t swashbuckle this problem away. Unless you have some crazy secret vampire pirate god you haven’t told me about.”

He ran his nails over the leather cover of his book. “Tell me the problem.”

“Seril needs allies. No one will stick their neck out to help her. What’s it to you, anyway? You don’t care for gods or Craftsmen. Look out for yourself and keep clear of land, isn’t that the way you play it?”

“Usually.”

The deck between her feet had gone through more cycles of scuff and swab and polish and scuff than she cared to guess. “So what’s stopping you from leaving?”

“You,” he said.

She couldn’t answer that. Her face felt hot.

“If Seril dies,” he said, “and Justice remains, she’ll go back to the way she was before. You’ll lose yourself in the Suit. It’ll get you high again.”

“What’s your point?”

“Seril’s been good for this city. And for you.” He stared out over the water. “I know people who might help. I don’t like talking to them, but they’ll listen to me. And there will be a price.”

The ship’s sinews hung limp in the still night. “If you get hurt on my account, I’ll kill you.”

“Someone beat you to it.”

*   *   *

Airfield security was the usual pain: prick of the finger to draw blood, and a winding passage through three layers of wards all of which could be subverted in minutes by any half-blind idiot with a shred of determination. After security, at least the decor improved. Crystal chandeliers hung from high arches, and clockwork songbirds flitted from perch to perch while chrome raptors circled. Brass orchids grew amid hedges of real plants. Restaurants and coffee shops dotted the concourse, mostly caged shut; the ten fifteen to Dresediel Lex was the evening’s last flight and boarding now, as indicated by the glowworm sign upon which three of the fake songbirds perched. Tara led Shale up the marble stair to the gantry level.