“The King’s Men are a group of thirteen independently licensed magicians favored by the King, who’s young, proud, and reckless. They believe magic is simply a tool, a natural force to be used however they please—not a gift from the gods to be treated with utmost care and respect.” He shook his head. “They are all blatant atheists, and they think they’re above the law—and for the most part, it seems, the King lets them do as they please. And of course Chatham does: without gods, there is no one above the King. He is blinded by their flattery.” He swigged on his wine—his eyes distant, as if he’d forgotten about Lena altogether. “To me, it stinks of Chaos.”

“Oh,” said Lena quietly, her mind racing and returning again to her butterfly. “What about his mechanical things?”

“Lord Chatham started creating his … his inventions perhaps twenty years ago. Illegally.” Emris’s voice was dripping with loathing. “He set up a business—a shop, really—offering magical services and curiosities to members of the public. The Holy Council was determined to shut it down. But Chatham, of course, had aristocratic connections. His services gained popularity among the nobility, and eventually the royalty. The King himself, who was but a child at the time, was infatuated with his creations. When he came of age, he awarded Chatham a royal license … and that’s how it all began.” Emris shook his head. “Now the King has thirteen magicians, taught and ‘licensed’ by Chatham, creating magical devices at his request.”

Lena blinked. “So … How do these devices work? Why are they so bad?” She resisted the urge to reach for her butterfly.

“Ordinary people want magical things,” Emris said. “Of course they do: people want whatever they can’t have, particularly beautiful and powerful things. But there’s a reason why the temples control magic so carefully, Lena. These magical devices aren’t safe—in fact, they’re a real threat. Essentially, the magician infuses each machine with a fragment of Chaos in order to bring it to life.”

“Really?” The butterfly hadn’t looked particularly dangerous or chaotic as it fluttered, lost, among the graves.

“I know—it’s unbelievable,” he said, mistaking her meaning. He looked genuinely outraged, warming further to his subject. “It’s the only way the creature can possibly act with some measure of independence—but for some reason, no one questions it. And he sells these things to ordinary people with no means of defending themselves if anything goes wrong. There have been stories … but somehow they never reach the newspapers.” His expression was truly thunderous. “And that’s only the beginning of it: ever since it started, his ‘Emporium’ has always been a front, really, for the dangerous private commissions he accepts from—well, not just the King, but anyone with the money to pay.”

Lena’s mouth felt dry. “What kind of commissions?”