Heart of Veridon (The Burn Cycle) by Akers Tim

Author:Akers, Tim [Akers, Tim]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Steampunk
Publisher: Solaris Books
Published: 2011-07-09T16:00:00+00:00

I GOT EMILY’S laughter out of my head by walking. I stitched my way across the city, crossing bridges and riding carriages, climbing the gentle avenues that led up to higher terraces or descended to the city’s lower districts closer to the river, traveling randomly to lose the image of her stepping into the water, her dress falling away, hair loose as the water rose up her legs, the warm hum of the frictionlamp the only light on her skin.

I sighed and signaled for the busser to pull over. I was where I needed to be, where the guy I wanted to talk to was most likely to be found. I got out of the carriage, paid, and lost myself in the crowd. Plenty of crowd, even this time of night, here in the Three Bells. In other parts of the city, this many people on the street was usually the preamble to a riot. Three Bells, though, this is just what happened at night. Drinking, carousing, art. I used to be comfortable in this crowd.

The crowd slowed around the BlackIron Theater. The show was getting ready to start, and folks were trying to sneak in before the gate closed. I edged my way around the logjam until I was standing by the reserved gate. Reserve ticketholders arrived when they wanted to, sat where they wanted to. Trick was, reserve tickets couldn’t be bought. Something you had to be born into. I went up to the gate.

“Evening, sir,” said the well pressed guard behind the iron bars. He looked over my clothes with little respect. “This gate is for reserved seats. Main entrance is that way.”

“I’m familiar with the arrangement. I’ll be claiming the Burn seats this evening.”

“Ah. I don’t know that I’m acquainted with your claim, sir.”

“My claim? Should I bleed out a little nobility for you? Or are you unfamiliar with the Family Burn? We have a tower, don’t we, right over that goddamn hill. Would you like a tour of the grounds, perhaps, a short walk through the Deep Furnace? Would that suffice? Sir?”

The man had gone pleasantly white. “Ah, no, no. What I mean, sir, is that the Family Burn is here frequently. Just the other night. And, ah, I am… I know them all, sir.”

I tilted my chin, hooked my thumb in the loop on my holster in the traditional dueling stance of the Families, and stared him down.

“I am Jacob Hastings Burn, first son of Alexander, formerly of the Highship Fastidious.”

His face fell. He looked me over again, trying to decide if he could turn me down based on my history, my unsure place in the complicated world of obligation and honor that ruled among the Families.

“No weapons in the theater, sir?” It was a desperate try.

“Bullshit. Every father’s son in there has his iron. Don’t think to lock me out on that.”

He looked down, fiddled with the baubles on his cuffs, worried the corners of a program that he had picked up.

“So what’s the show, friend?” I asked.

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