The aftermath of the battle on the Anchor Platform smelled of burned phosphorus, high-pressure oil, and the copper tang of spilled blood.
Grand Inquisitor Malakor didn’t die on the dark rock floorboards.
He was an aristocrat of the High Spires, and men of his caste possessed escape indemnities that ordinary mortals couldn’t understand. As the bookbinders secured the leftover Praetors, two surviving void-court shock-divers surfaced in the salt water at the edge of the platform, fired an obscuring smoke canister of high-pressure quicksilver vapor, hauled their half-conscious master into an armored diving bell. Then they cut the moorings.
The diving bell plunged into the underground drainage channels, escaping toward the deep sea-channels of the Southern Coast.
Lord Ren didn’t pursue them.
The Ash Emperor stood over the abandoned air-powered dread-heavy steel crossbow, his broadsword resting point-down between his boots. He inspected the massive bronze war-engine with cold, skilled eye. The burst high-pressure cylinders, the bent bronze harpoon shaft, the shattered hard dark metal gears.
“The weapon is stopped,” Lord Ren said, turning his head toward the lower platform. “Master Corin! Bring your men forward. Strip the bronze fittings and the high-pulling steel cables. We’ll use the iron carriage to reinforce the outer edge of the chain bridge.”
