The knocking on the manhole cover stopped. Seconds later, the heavy iron lid groaned and slid aside, scraping against the stone pavement of the alleyway above. A shaft of pale moonlight cut through the gloom of the Sump, illuminating the floating dust motes.

  We waited, weapons ready. Rax had his heavy pistol leveled at the ladder. I gripped a heavy wrench, my knuckles white.

  A pair of polished black leather shoes appeared on the rungs. Then, trousers of fine grey wool with a razor-sharp crease. Then, a matching waistcoat and jacket. The figure descended with an eerie, silent grace, avoiding the dripping slime on the ladder rungs as if repelled by a magnetic field.

  When he reached the bottom, he didn't step into the muck. He paused, looking down at the inch-deep sludge with profound distaste. He pulled a pristine white linen handkerchief from his pocket and dropped it onto a dry patch of concrete. Only then did he step down, placing one foot firmly on the cloth.

  He turned to face us. He wore a mask made of white porcelain, shaped like a bird's beak, the kind plague doctors used centuries ago. But instead of herbs, the air around him smelled of lavender and expensive tobacco.

  "Gentlemen," his voice was muffled but smooth, like velvet wrapped around a dagger. "And lady. Please, lower the firearms. It's terribly rude to point things at a guest who brings gifts."

  Rax didn't lower his gun. "You're early, Silas. And you're loud."

  "I am punctual," Silas corrected, dusting an invisible speck of dirt from his sleeve. "And the noise was necessary. The City Guard has doubled their patrols. Stealth is no longer an option; speed is."

  He walked past Rax as if the gun didn't exist. He walked straight toward the Centurion. His eyes, hidden behind the dark glass lenses of the mask, swept over the machine. He looked at the welded patches on the knees. He looked at the bulbous Torque Converter housing. Finally, his gaze rested on The Riveter welded to the shoulder.

  "Ugly," Silas pronounced. "Crude. Brutish. Absolutely zero aesthetic value."

  He reached out a gloved hand and tapped the rough weld on the gravity hopper. Tink. "But," he turned to look at me, "undeniably effective. It suits you, Julian. You always did prefer function over form."

  I stepped forward. "You know me?"

  Silas reached into his jacket and pulled out a rolled-up parchment. He tossed it to me. I caught it. It was a wanted poster. My face—or a rough sketch of it—was centered under the word WANTED. Dead or Alive. Bounty: 15,000 Credits.

  "Congratulations," Silas drawled. "Your market value has appreciated significantly. The Magisterium is quite embarrassed about the warehouse incident. They've labeled you a 'Terrorist Artificer.' The bounty hunters are practically salivating."

  "Fifteen thousand," Amelia whispered, looking at the paper over my shoulder. "That's..."

  "Enough to buy a small airship," Silas finished. "Or a very nice tombstone."

  He walked over to a wooden crate that was covered in grease stains. He sighed, pulled out a second white linen cloth, spread it carefully over the wood, and sat down. He placed a leather satchel on his lap and opened it.

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  "But we are not here to discuss your death," Silas said. "We are here to discuss business."

  He pulled out a glass jar. Inside, dark brown beans gleamed with oil. He unscrewed the lid. The smell hit us like a physical blow. Rich, roasted, earthy coffee. Real coffee. Not chicory root. Not burnt grain.

  Then, he pulled out a loaf of bread. It wasn't the grey, rock-hard ration bread we were used to. It was white. Soft. The crust was golden brown and flaky.

  Amelia let out a small, involuntary sound. Her eyes were locked on the bread. We had been eating salted rat and moss soup for forty-eight hours. The scent of yeast and roasted beans was overwhelming. It smelled like civilization.

  "A gesture of goodwill," Silas said, pushing the items toward us. "Real Arabica from the Southern Isles. And milk bread from the Inner District bakery. Baked this morning."

  I looked at the food. My stomach growled violently, betraying my suspicion. "What do you want, Silas?" I asked, not reaching for the bread. "People like you don't give away charity."

  "Sharp," Silas nodded approvingly. "I want a service. A very specific service that only you—and that monstrosity behind you—can provide."

  He pulled a map from his satchel and spread it on the crate, pushing the coffee aside. It was a detailed schematic of the city's rail network. He pointed to a section of track that ran along the high viaducts bordering the Rust Yard.

  "The Iron Rail Line," Silas said. "Tomorrow night, at 0300 hours, an Imperial supply train will pass through Sector 4. It is heavily armored. It is guarded by Battle Mages."

  "You want us to rob a military train?" Rax scoffed. "You're insane. That's suicide."

  "Normally, yes," Silas agreed. "But this train is carrying something special. Car number seven is a vault on wheels. It is reinforced with enchanted mithril plating. Standard explosives won't scratch it. Magic bounces off it."

  He looked at the Centurion. "But physics? Physics does not bounce."

  He looked at me. "Inside that car is a shipment intended for the Arch-Mage's personal laboratory. High-purity Mana Crystals. And, more importantly for you... a crate of military-grade, variable-ratio precision gearboxes."

  My heart skipped a beat. Mana Crystals. The fuel Amelia needed to survive. Gearboxes. The transmission I needed to keep the Centurion from tearing itself apart.

  "Why us?" I asked. "You have mercenaries."

  "Mercenaries have swords and spells," Silas said dismissively. "They can't peel open a mithril-plated train car like a sardine can in under three minutes. You have a fifty-ton siege engine with a pneumatic spike driver. You are the can opener."

  "And the payment?"

  "You keep the gearboxes and half the crystals," Silas said. "I take the rest of the cargo. And, I will provide you with the access codes to the old smuggler's tunnels that lead out of the city. A way out. For good."

  The room went silent. Rax was shaking his head. "It's a trap, kid. The Guard will be swarming that track."

  I looked at the map. I looked at the Centurion, with its jury-rigged torque converter and welded armor. It was running on fumes. We had maybe twenty miles of range left before the fuel dust ran out. Without those crystals, we were dead anyway. Without that transmission, the mech would fail in the first real fight.

  I looked at Amelia. She was staring at the bread, but she wasn't reaching for it. She was waiting for me. She trusted me.

  I walked over to the crate. I picked up the jar of coffee. It was warm. "We do it," I said.

  "Julian!" Rax hissed.

  "We need the fuel, Rax," I said, turning to him. "And we need a way out. We can't live in a sewer forever."

  I turned back to Silas. "Half the crystals. The gears. And the codes. Up front."

  "Half upon completion," Silas corrected smoothly. "But I will give you the codes now. A show of faith." He slid a small data crystal across the table.

  He stood up, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers. He didn't offer a hand to shake. He knew better. "0300 hours. Don't be late. The train waits for no one."

  He turned and climbed the ladder, vanishing into the night as silently as he had arrived.

  I looked at the items he left behind. "Well," I said, picking up the loaf of white bread. It was soft, yielding under my fingers. I tore it in half and handed the bigger piece to Amelia. "Eat up. We have a train to catch."

  Amelia took the bread. She didn't eat it immediately. She held it to her nose and inhaled deeply, her eyes closing. A single tear leaked out. "It smells like butter," she whispered.

  I opened the coffee jar. The rich aroma filled the damp, rot-filled air of the Sump. "Rax," I said, looking at the old mechanic. "Fire up the stove. Let's make some real coffee."

  Rax looked at the map, then at the coffee, then at me. He sighed, a long, rattling sound. "You're going to get us all killed, kid," he grumbled, reaching for the kettle. "But at least we'll die awake."