Free The Havoc Machine by Steven Harper Page A

opened and Sofiya, still looking pale, gestured for them to enter. Thad obeyed with relief—facing this mysterious employer’s wrath felt suddenly preferable to standing alone with the boy.
    The chilly room beyond contained a bed, table, and a set of ladder-back chairs. On the table sat a box with a grill on one side and a wire trailing from the back. Several dials and buttons made a row beneath the grill.
    Because they weren’t moving, it took Thad a moment to see the spiders.
    Dozens and dozens of the them clung to the walls and ceiling. They took up every available inch of space. They ranged in size from ant to dachshund. Some had winding keys sticking out of their backs. Brass and iron claws gleamed. Their eyes glowed blue and red and green, and they were all pointed at Thad.
    Cold fear gripped Thad. He stood rooted to the spot a few steps into the room. The boy gasped and hid behind Thad. Even Dante fell silent. Thad couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The quiet menace of all those clawed machines was worse than an army of thugs.
    Sofiya coughed hard and gestured at Thad to take a chair. He swallowed hard and forced himself to obey while Sofiya twisted the dials on the box. Thad’s mouth was dry. The boy huddled behind Thad’s chair, trying to stay out of sight. The box squawked, gave a burst of static, then hummed softly. The spiders didn’t move, though their eyes never left Thad. The half dozen weapons he carried felt tiny and childish.
    “Mr. Sharpe?” The voice from the box was low and pleasant, almost grandfatherly. “Are you there?”
    Thad had to try twice before he could answer. “I am,” he said.
    “Good. The connection is excellent. Miss Ekk tells me you failed to do what I hired you to do. I am glad to hear the truth, but I’d like to hear your side of it, of course. We’re all friends here.”
    “Are we?” Thad said. “Who am I speaking to?”
    “Your employer, of course.” The voice was smooth as chocolate and carried no trace of an accent that Thad recognized. British was all he could make out, but he couldn’t pin down a region.
    Thad worked his jaw. “Are you a clockworker?”
    “I told you he is stubborn,” Sofiya put in.
    “You were quite correct, Miss Ekk. Mr. Sharpe, like you, I
take
from clockworkers.”
    “Take?”
    “I take their livelihoods, you take their lives. Really, we’re quite the same. We both have large collections, for example. What do you think of mine?”
    “It takes my breath away,” Thad said. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
    A low laugh. “Indeed. I am beyond such classifications, Mr. Sharpe.”
    “You
are
a clockworker, then. Only a clockworker talks that way.” The familiar anger and hatred tinged Thad’s world red.
    “You’re rather like a bulldog, Mr. Sharpe. I think I rather like you.”
    “Do you?” Thad said through gritted teeth. Right then, he wanted to smash the box and its stupid grill, even though he knew it would do nothing to the manwho manipulated it. Already his mind was running in a hundred directions, looking for weaknesses, searching for ideas. But clockworkers were highly intelligent, and Thad’s main strategy for dealing with them was to catch them by surprise, when their intelligence was of little use. This clockworker had taken plenty of time to plan. Thad needed more information before he could act. Best to keep himself under control and see what he could learn.
    “What is your name, please?” he said with forced politeness. “Since you do like me.”
    “Yes.” A bit of static came over the grill. “You may call me…Mr. Griffin.”
    “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Thad said. “I’d shake hands, but you seem to be out of sorts with that.”
    “Miss Ekk tells me you brought a mechanical child out of Havoc’s workshop with you,” Mr. Griffin said. “Is it here?”
    Thad found himself wanting to correct Mr. Griffin’s use of the word
it.
“Yes,” he said. “Can you say hello,