Granite Platform Nine was an eight-hundred-foot slab of ancient stone suspended over five miles of empty air.
Moored along its outer edge were thirty-foot sky-skiffs, cloud-carriages with white-gold spokes, and ornate floating pavilions of the high nobility.
The air smelled of burning ambergris incense, crushed spirit herbs, and the sharp, metal tang of high-tier defensive arrays.
Then came the clockwork putter.
PUTT-PUTT-PUTT.
The Mobile Workstation Mark Four drifted over the granite rim with all the majesty of an iron anvil dropping into a koi pond.
Its fan blades blew mist across the stone pavers. It scattered three dozen white spirit-cranes lounging near the reception pavilion.
The four heavy rubber-tired caster wheels touched down on the granite with a dull thump, rolled forward six paces. Then he came to a neat halt directly in front of the main passenger slip.
