Vladimir forced himself to continue, though the noise hurt his ears. At the prince's approach, a pair of huge doors swung open. Guardsmen appeared out of the darkness and a centurion with a plumed helmet raised a hand, squinting in lamplight. Nicholas leaned over, talking to the man. Then the guards parted and the gates rumbled back, big iron wheels squealing in greased metal tracks. The prince entered, head raised. Vladimir knew the young man was grinning in delight, pleased by the fruits of his labors.
Martina covered her ears and guardsmen ran to take her reins and help the Empress down. Nicholas dismounted, handing off his horse to a groom, quick brown eyes scanning the chaos in the foundry. Vladimir entered slowly-he hated the stifling heat and noise-and the massive doors rolled shut behind him. Dozens of sooty-faced men in leather aprons and metal-reinforced boots rammed the portal closed with a deep thud, then flooded past, returning to their tasks on the foundry floor.
The prince shouted above the din of hammers and the ringing sound of metal being shaped. Foremen hurried towards Maxian, appearing out of billowing smoke and steam, faces glistening with sweat. They carried padded wicker cages, fitted with long handles.
"Here are fresh hearts, newly caught!" Maxian called out, gesturing to the horse with the weighted nets. "Careful now! They're slippery and swift to fly!" Laughing, the prince peeled back the woolen quilts, letting light flood forth. Vladimir grimaced, holding up a hand to shade his eyes from the glare.
In the bright radiance, monstrous shapes appeared from close, smoky darkness in the long foundry hall. Massive, reptilian heads hung against the ceiling, suspended by linked chains. Empty eyes stared down, gaping in elongated wagon-sized skulls. Vladimir snarled up at the iron skeletons. His skin crawled, atavistic fear burning in his stomach. The wings were still bare of flesh, only arcing, skeletal struts of iron and copper. But even now men were laboring, sweat streaming from their bodies, muscles gleaming in the firelight, to fit sheets of iron scale to cavernous bodies. Cages of wood and iron that would, soon enough, hold the moon maids captive, carbuncle hearts bound in steel sinew.
"Come," Maxian shouted, gathering up Martina and Nicholas. He grinned at Vladimir. "Let's go inside, where we can think, hear and eat!"
"My lord," the Empress said, her face still flushed from the heat of the forges, "why do everything in such a remote location? It must be very expensive, building all this so far from the sea."
Vladimir pulled the heavy, padded door closed behind her. The roaring sound of molten iron spilling from the crucible shuttered down to a constant trembling in the floor. Martina sighed in relief, removing her cloak and tossing the heavy woolen garment on a low couch crowded with papyrus rolls, scraps of parchment and wooden-bound booklets. Carelessly, she cast aside her stole and sprawled in a canvas camp chair. Tables covered with more parchment, more papyrus, pots of ink, scattered goose quills and waxed tablets filled the room. For the past two weeks, the prince's entire attention had been devoted to the iron skeletons rising on the shop floor, while Martina immersed herself in every kind of ancient tome, searching relentlessly for any scrap of information that might identify their Persian enemy.
"I mean, you can't even barge all this iron and copper up the river now that it's gone dry. The road down to the coast must be crowded day and night with wagons-and the teamsters will be drinking from golden cups!"
Maxian moved the length of the room, tapping a series of glass sconces set into the walls. At his touch, there was flickering, hurried life within each receptacle and then a steadily brightening glow. "I am not worried about the expense," the prince said in an offhand way. "If we want to survive, we have to pay! The Persians won't just go disappear."
He paused before a large, angled table. A heavy sheet of copper covered the entire surface. An intricate diagram was etched on the metal with a fine, neat hand. Vladimir studied the plan during his idle moments-the picture was something like a bat, breastbone folded back, entrails exposed, wings spread wide. But this was huge, with the head and jaw of a reptile. Six of its children grew, iron scale by iron scale, in the vast work halls outside.
"The workers I needed were already here…" Maxian continued, running his hand across the smooth surface. Vladimir, watching the young man out of the corner of his eye, saw a pained look on the prince's face, a subtle tightening around his mouth. "The finest metalsmiths in the Empire, men and women skilled in making cunning devices, Lady Theodelinda's mills and metalworks, the jewelers and goldsmiths-everything we need. There is also a hidden benefit; we are far from the sea. Raiders cannot descend upon our workshops without warning."
"Raiders?" Martina fanned herself with a stiff sheet of parchment. Her face shone with sweat from only moments in the main hall. "We're in the heart of the Empire!"
Maxian looked over at the young woman, lips quirking into a cold half-smile. "These rebellious Greeks have a fleet… and their Persian allies have far-seeing eyes. Nothing is safe now, you know, with the bulwark of the East fallen. Even Rome herself might be attacked."
"Oh." Martina stared at the prince for a long moment, face reddening. He turned away, shaking his head at her foolishness. Her eyes brightened with tears. Vladimir turned away, touching Nicholas' shoulder. The Latin was stuffing his face with sausage rolls-laid out on one of the tables by the foundry cooks. Nick looked over his shoulder, nodded to the Walach and the two men quietly left. Vladimir scooped up a platter of roasted meat as he passed the table.
The Empress sat alone amid the mess, staring at the prince's back. He was bent over the diagram again. Fury sparked in narrowed moss-colored eyes. With a sharp movement, Martina stood up and snatched a scrap of dirty papyrus from between the pages of one of the books. Glancing down at the muddled diagram on the page, she wadded it up and tossed it behind the divan.
"Do you think I am a fool?" Martina said, picking up her stole and cloak. "Or your servant?"
"No," Maxian said, but his attention remained on the diagrams, brow furrowed in thought.
Martina's lip twitched into a scowl, and she pulled on the cloak. "Prince Maxian. Prince Maxian!"
"What?" He turned, surprised and irritated. One eyebrow raised questioningly, seeing her gather up a leather pouch of ink stone and quills and a small knife. "Where are you going?"
"I am going back to Rome," she said. The frosty tone in her voice finally seemed to touch the prince. "You've shown me some lovely things-I think I'll remember the softness of the oak gardener and the faerie lights in the stone ring for as long as I live-but you've no more need for me than for any tool you might find in your workshop!" She paused, glaring at Maxian. "When I started looking through these documents for you, it made me feel useful. I liked that…"
"Then stay!" The prince interrupted. "Nothing's changed about your work."
"True enough," she snapped. "I have been dutiful-I wade through oceans of rotting parchment and crumbling papyrus for you, searching for secrets that may not even exist-I serve as your lure for the wee folk, jeweled and ornamented-I keep track of the documents you forget, deal with the meetings you ignore. What better secretary could you have, than an Empress? Do you even realize I exist?"