The takeover of the Cathedral had sent shockwaves through the veins of Veridia, but while the priests wept over their altars, a different kind of predator was moving in the spice-scented fog of the Southern Quarter. The Merchant Kings of Solis were men of ledgers and gold, and they had realized far quicker than the priests that Priscilla Vane-Crest was no longer a customer—she was a monopoly.
Priscilla was in the high belfry, mapping the structural resonance of the tower, when Silas appeared. He wasn't whistling this time. His silver-handled revolvers were drawn, and his face was a mask of cold, focused fury.
"They took Jax," Silas said, the words falling like lead weights.
Priscilla's hand, which had been sketching a circuit diagram, went perfectly still. "Caspian Valerius?"
"He and his 'Spice-Wraiths.' They ambushed the supply line in the tunnels beneath the South Gate. They didn't want the sulfur, Priscilla. They wanted the boy who knows how to mix it."
Priscilla turned, her golden eyes flashing with a light more dangerous than any electric arc. Jax wasn't just a foreman; he was the heartbeat of her "Unseen." To touch him was to declare war on the factory itself.
"Caspian thinks he can negotiate," Silas continued, his voice dropping into a lethal register. "He sent a messenger. He wants the blueprints for the rifled barrels and the formula for the stabilized nitro-compounds in exchange for the boy's life."
"He doesn't want to negotiate, Silas. He wants to be me," Priscilla said. She walked to a heavy iron locker and pulled out a long, leather case. Inside lay her "Czar-Killer"—a high-velocity long-rifle with a brass-bound scope of her own design. "He thinks because he sells the ingredients, he understands the recipe. Let's show him the difference between a merchant and a master."
They didn't go to the South Gate. They went to the "Glass-House"—Caspian's opulent conservatory that hung over the city walls. From her vantage point on a nearby clock tower, Priscilla adjusted the brass dials on her scope. Through the glass, she could see Jax tied to a chair, his face bruised but his gaze defiant. Caspian Valerius stood over him, holding a hot iron rod.
"You have three minutes to write the ratios, boy," Caspian's voice drifted through a localized audio-receiver Alistair had built. "Or I start testing the conductivity of your skin."
Priscilla breathed out, her pulse slowing to a rhythmic, mechanical crawl. She adjusted for the windage of the marsh drafts.
"Silas, take the basement entry. Clear the Wraiths. I'll handle the King."
CRACK.
The sound of the long-rifle was a sharp, whip-like snap. A mile away, the iron rod in Caspian's hand shattered into a thousand molten splinters. He screamed, clutching his mangled fingers.
"That was the warning," Priscilla whispered into her transmitter, her voice booming through the hidden speakers Silas had planted in the conservatory earlier. "The next one goes through your ledger, Caspian. Release the boy."
Chaos erupted in the Glass-House. Silas burst through the floorboards, his revolvers singing a twin melody of lead. He moved like a shadow, a blur of velvet and silver, dropping the Spice-Wraiths before they could even draw their curved daggers.
Priscilla watched through the scope as Silas cut Jax's bonds. She saw Caspian scrambling for the exit, his face a mask of pure terror. She didn't fire again. She didn't need to.
"Jax," Priscilla said through the link. "Pick up the shattered iron. We're going to need it for the new turbine. And Silas? Leave Caspian alive. I want him to spend the rest of his life wondering which shadow holds my crosshairs."