Free Ticker by Lisa Mantchev Page B

whomI was speaking, I hastily downgraded my enthusiasm by adding, “If ostentatious. Hardly inconspicuous, either. Certainly not made for stealth.”
    “The fog helps.” Marcus’s mouth quirked, though with irritation or amusement I couldn’t be certain. “When people can’t see the hand waving before their face, they don’t look to the sky.”
    “Aren’t you afraid of crashing into the Carillon Bell Tower?” Dedicated to the city’s founders, it was Bazalgate’s tallest landmark and the most impressive.
    “There are a thousand and one instruments in here, at least half of them navigational.”
    “Naturally.” I would have traded my eyeteeth for just five minutes at the controls.
    Though I couldn’t have leaned forward more than an inch, Marcus noticed. “Perhaps another time, when I’m quite certain my insurance premiums are up to date.”
    Any rejoinder I might have made evaporated with the clouds as the Flying Fortress came into view. Sunlight glinted off white columns and sleek glass architecture. Smaller satellite buildings clustered around a singularly imposing main structure, like chicks to a mother hen. Under it all, turbines produced the necessary amount of thrust to keep everything aloft. I hadn’t any idea what the power source might be, nor could I fathom how Marcus’s engineers achieved a nearly clean burn, but the utter lack of emissions meant that the air around the Fortress was cold water sipped from a crystal goblet, a far cry from Bazalgate’s soot-smudged tankard. I adjusted my goggles and leaned as far out of the SkyDart as my lap belt allowed.
    “Miss Farthing, please sit back so I might land without distraction,” Marcus requested as we cruised nearer to the landing platform. Blinking red lanterns lit the circle’s perimeter, thoughthe sun subdued their brilliance. At night or in inclement weather, however, they’d be a veritable beacon of hope.
    Marcus landed us with a gentle bump, no more than the basket of a hot-air balloon touching down in a grassy field. I remembered with a jolt that this was no mere pleasure jaunt, and all the fears I’d been holding at bay rushed back to weigh me down. Fumbling with the sack of cards, I released my belt and was halfway out of my seat before Marcus cut the engine.
    “You have an Eidolachometer machine here, so we can read these?” I asked.
    “I’ve sent for one.” Determined to maintain some semblance of authority, Marcus tossed his goggles onto a seat, opened the door of the speeder, and leapt down. “Allow me.”
    Before he could unfold the filigree stairs, I gathered my skirts in one hand, vaulted over the railing, and landed next to him. Reaching back inside, I extracted the bag of cards and hoisted them over my shoulder. “Lead the way.”
    “Patience is a virtue, Miss Farthing.” He turned on his heel and headed for a waiting elevator.
    There was no way of asking him to hurry without explaining why, so, for once, I remained silent. The interior of the elevator was a capsule of elegance, with brass rails, etched mirrors, and thick Bhaskarian carpeting. Marcus operated the various levers with the same quiet assurance that he’d demonstrated in the SkyDart. A pulley system activated, and we glided downward. There was no floor indicator; it was only by counting off the seconds that I knew we’d descended at least three stories below the landing platform by the time the doors slid open.
    The hall beyond was decorated with potted palm trees, jewel-toned rugs, and an extensive collection of curios alongside tattered leather-bound books, rolled maps, and globes of polishedstone. Overhead, a system of bands and wheels rotated dozens of woven-straw fans. Formally dressed soldiers saluted as we passed. Plainly clad servitors carried silver trays set with message cylinders, ledgers, and other missives of importance. When the foot traffic cleared, a young woman sat in a chair opposite the elevator.
    “There you are, Legatus.” Though