Lord Malakor’s face had gone beyond purple. It had turned the dark, mottled color of a bruised plum.
Hiss-chug! Hiss-chug! Hiss-chug!
The pressure gauge on his high-pressure brass canister was shaking in the red sector, the safety valve shrieking with a thin, nonstop jet of scalding steam that misted his ermine lapels. His watery old eyes bulged with manic, high-born hysteria as he gripped his quartz-capped walking cane with both withered hands.
“She threatens me!” Malakor screamed through his breathing mask, his voice spraying bloody foam against the brass mesh. “A gutter rat threatens a Peer of the Grand Synod! Rostov! Strike it again! Strike the third ringing! Crack the crystal lattice! If she won’t submit to state custody, shatter her arm on the floor!”
Advocate Rostov paused. He looked at the trembling chandelier overhead. He looked at Captain Thorne’s iron maul. He looked at the two thousand shouting citizens whose silhouettes were visible through the shattered western doors.
“My Lord,” Rostov stammered, his hand shaking wildly as he held the silver fork. “The sound load... The dampening runes are already overloaded—”
“Strike it, you coward!” Malakor shrieked, striking Rostov across the hip with his walking cane. “Strike it or I’ll have your name removed from the bar before the hour strikes!”
