The Gilded Lily was not a place for people who counted copper coins.
It was a monstrosity of crystal and white marble, perched on the edge of the High City's central plaza like a wedding cake made of stone. Gas lamps burned even during the day, casting a warm, artificial glow on the patrons who stepped out of their polished carriages.
The air smelled of roasted duck, expensive perfume, and old money.
Aamon pulled the rattling, hissing Thorne Legal carriage up to the curb. It looked like a bruised beetle amidst a parade of swans.
The vehicle shuddered violently as he engaged the handbrake. A cloud of gray steam vented from the undercarriage, curling around the pristine boots of the valet who had stepped forward to open the door.
The valet, a man whose chin was held so high he was practically inspecting the sky, looked down at the steam with profound offense.
"Deliveries are in the rear," the valet intoned, his voice dripping with disdain.
Aamon ignored him. He hopped out of the driver's seat, adjusting his coat. He walked around to the passenger door and opened it with a flourish that mocked the valet's stiffness.
"We have arrived, sir," Aamon said.
Julian Thorne stepped out. To his credit, he managed to do it with dignity, despite the fact that he had to step over a puddle of oil leaking from his own vehicle. He clutched his briefcase tight, his knuckles white.
"Thank you, Aamon," Julian said, his voice tight. He looked at the restaurant, then at the valet, then at the line of expensive carriages.
He gave out a long sigh and asked "Do I look desperate?"
"You look like a man of focus, sir," Aamon lied effortlessly.
"Right. Focus. The client is Mr. Sterling. Textile magnate. If I get this retainer, we replace the boiler. If I don't... well..."
Julian took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and marched toward the entrance. Aamon followed a step behind, playing the role of the dutiful shadow.
They entered the foyer. It was a cavern of mirrors and gold leaf. The maître d' stood behind a podium of mahogany, guarding the dining room like Cerberus.
"Reservation for Thorne," Julian said.
The maître d' ran a finger down the ledger. He paused. He frowned. He looked at Julian with a mixture of pity and amusement.
"Ah, Mr. Thorne. Yes. Mr. Sterling is already seated. He is... currently engaged."
"Engaged?" Julian frowned. "I'm five minutes early."
"Indeed. Please, this way."
They were led through the dining room. It was a sea of clinking silverware and hushed conversations about the price of this and that.
Aamon spotted the table before Julian did. It was by the window, bathed in the best light.
A large, red-faced man—presumably Mr. Sterling—was laughing heartily, a glass of wine in his hand. But he wasn't alone.
Sitting opposite him, leaning back with the casual arrogance of a predator who has already eaten, was a man in a suit so white it hurt the eyes.
"Julian!" The man called out, spotting them. He didn't stand up. "You made it! We were just discussing the inefficiencies of the Gray District courts."
Julian froze. "Cassius. What are you doing here? This is a private meeting."
"Mr. Sterling and I go way back," Cassius grinned, showing perfect, expensive teeth. "I saw him on the ledger and thought I'd say hello. Turns out, he has some fascinating concerns about liability clauses. Concerns I was just clearing up."
Mr. Sterling looked between the two lawyers. He didn't look like a man caught in a trap; he looked like a man enjoying a bidding war.
"Mr. Thorne," Sterling grunted. "Sit down. Cassius here tells me your firm is... quaint. A one-man operation?"
"We are boutique," Julian corrected, taking his seat stiffly. "We offer personalized attention that the big firms can't match."
"Personalized," Cassius echoed, taking a sip of wine. "Is that what you call it? I saw your carriage outside, Julian. Is that a Mark IV? My gardener drives a Mark IV. To haul manure."
Mr. Sterling chuckled.
Julian's ears turned red. "My vehicle is irrelevant to my understanding of Patent Law, Cassius."
"Is it?" Cassius leaned forward. "A lawyer who can't afford a proper engine implies a lawyer who doesn't win cases. Perception is reality, old friend."
Aamon stood silently by the coat rack, watching. He saw the hands of his new boss shaking under the table. He saw the client's respect evaporating with every word Cassius spoke.
This wasn't a meeting. It was an execution.
"I'll wait with the carriage, sir," Aamon said quietly.
Julian didn't look up. He just nodded, looking defeated.
Outside, the air was cooler.
Aamon stood on the curb, leaning against a gas lamp. He watched the valet park a sleek, midnight-blue carriage right in front of the entrance. It was a masterpiece of engineering—a Silver-Stream 900. Chrome plating, brass accents, and a pressure engine that purred like a kitten.
It belonged to Cassius. Obviously.
The man had been running his big mouth about it as he stepped out.
The valet hopped out, dusted off the seat, and sneered at Aamon before walking back to his post.
Aamon waited.
He waited until the valet was busy opening the door for an elderly lady. He waited until the street traffic surged, creating a wall of noise.
Then, he moved.
He didn't run. He didn't look suspicious. He walked toward Cassius's carriage with the appreciation of a mechanic admiring a fine machine. He ran a hand along the polished fender.
'Beautiful,' Aamon thought. 'Dual exhaust. High-compression boiler. Very expensive.'
He knelt down, pretending to tie his shoe near the rear axel.
His hand slipped into his pocket and came out with a small, adjustable wrench. It was a reflex; in the Lower City, you never left home without a tool.
He located the Overpressure Release Valve.
On a high-end model like this, the valve was designed to vent excess steam silently beneath the chassis to avoid frightening the horses or staining the pavement. It was a safety feature.
Aamon carefully fitted the wrench to the nut holding the valve seal.
'Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey.'
He gave it a quarter turn.
Hiss.
A tiny wisp of steam escaped.
'Too much.'
He tightened it back an eighth of a turn. The hiss stopped. The seal was now holding on by a thread. It would hold while the engine was idling. But the moment the driver engaged the throttle—the moment the pressure spiked to move the heavy vehicle—the valve would blow.
And because this was a Silver-Stream, the emergency vent wasn't just steam. It flushed the carbon buildup from the boiler to clean the system.
Aamon pocketed the wrench, stood up, and finished "admiring" the car.
He walked back to his own rust-bucket and leaned against the hood, crossing his arms.
He checked his watch.
Ten minutes later, the doors of the Gilded Lily opened.
Cassius walked out first. He looked radiant. He was shaking Mr. Sterling's hand vigorously.
"You won't regret it, sir," Cassius boomed. "My firm will have the contracts ready by noon."
"Good man," Sterling said, clapping Cassius on the shoulder. "I like a man who appreciates quality."
Behind them, Julian emerged. He looked smaller than before. He was clutching his briefcase like it contained the ashes of his career. He looked pale, exhausted, and utterly beaten.
Cassius turned to Julian, flashing that shark-like grin.
"Don't take it too hard, Julian. The small cases need lawyers too. Someone has to defend the bread thieves, right?"
"Goodbye, Cassius," Julian muttered, walking toward Aamon.
"Wait, watch this!" Cassius called out. "Let me show you how a real winner leaves the scene."
Cassius strode toward his midnight-blue carriage. The valet rushed to open the door. Cassius waved him off, opting to drive himself to impress the client. He hopped into the driver's seat, settling into the white leather.
He looked at Mr. Sterling, who was watching from the stairs.
"Engine start," Cassius commanded.
The Silver-Stream roared to life. It sounded powerful, a deep baritone rumble.
"See you in court, Julian!"
Cassius slammed his foot on the accelerator.
The boiler pressure spiked. The needle on the dashboard redlined. The loose nut on the release valve gave up the ghost.
KER-CHUNK.
PFFFFFFFFFFFFT!
It sounded like a giant tearing a bedsheet.
A jet of pressurized steam, mixed with gallons of concentrated, oily black soot from the boiler's cleaning cycle, blasted out of the release valve.
But because of the loose seal, it didn't vent down. It sprayed up.
It hit the curved fender and ricocheted directly into the open driver's cabin.
The pristine white suit turned black in a microsecond.
Cassius gagged, blinded by the sudden cloud of oily smog. He slammed on the brakes, sending the carriage skidding sideways. He stumbled out of the door, coughing, looking like a chimney sweep who had fallen down a mine shaft.
The silence on the street was absolute.
Then, Mr. Sterling started laughing. It wasn't a polite chuckle. It was a belly laugh that shook his frame.
"Quality!" Sterling wheezed, pointing at the soot-covered lawyer. "You call that quality, Cassius?"
Cassius wiped his eyes, smearing the grease across his face. He looked at his ruined car, his ruined suit, and the laughing client. His face turned a color that might have been red, if it wasn't covered in black sludge.
Julian stood frozen by his own car. His mouth hung slightly open.
Aamon opened the passenger door of the Thorne Legal carriage.
"We should go, sir," Aamon said, his voice flat. "Traffic is building up."
Julian blinked. He looked at Aamon. He looked at Cassius wailing at the valet.
A spark of life returned to Julian's eyes.
He climbed into the car.
"Yes. Yes, quite right, Aamon. Very busy schedule."
Aamon climbed into the driver's seat. He cranked the engine. It coughed, wheezed, and rattled.
Chug... Chug... Roar.
It was the ugliest sound in the world, but right now, it sounded like victory.
Aamon pulled away from the curb, leaving the Gilded Lily and the blackened Cassius behind in a cloud of 'normal' exhaust.
The drive back to the Gray District was quiet for a long time.
Julian sat in the back, staring out the window. He wasn't reading his notes. He wasn't panicking.
"Aamon," Julian said over the roar of the engine.
"Yes, sir?"
"The Silver-Stream possesses a redundant safety valve system. It is statistically impossible for a catastrophic seal failure to occur on a stationary idle."
"Is that so, sir? Mechanics are notoriously unpredictable."
"Indeed." Julian paused. "I noticed you were admiring his vehicle earlier."
"I have an appreciation for fine engineering, sir."
Julian turned to look through the partition. Aamon caught his eye in the rearview mirror. For the first time, the young lawyer wasn't looking at him like an employee. He was looking at him like a co-conspirator.
A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of Julian's mouth.
"Remind me to give you a raise, Aamon. When I have money of course."
"I'll add it to the ledger, sir."
They reached the office as the sun began to dip below the factory smokestacks in the distance. The golden light of the High City was fading, replaced by the encroaching gray of evening.
They parked the beast in the alley. Elara was waiting at the back door. She took one look at Julian—defeated but weirdly grinning—and raised an eyebrow.
"We didn't get the client," Julian announced, handing her his briefcase.
"I assumed not," Elara said. "But you look... happy?"
"Let's just say the competition burned out," Julian said. "Have a good night. See you guys tomorrow."
"Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, Miss Elara."
Aamon tipped his imaginary hat and turned toward the street.
The commute home was a descent.
Literally and metaphorically.
As Aamon walked away from the Gray District, the pavement turned to cobblestone, then to cracked dirt. The gas lamps became fewer and farther between. The smell of lavender was replaced by the stinging scent of sulfur and rot.
He descended the Great Stair.
With every step down, the temperature dropped. The "Heat Shield" of the High City didn't extend this far. The chill of the coming night seeped into his bones, bypassing the thin fabric of his suit.
He removed his cravat and stuffed it into his pocket. He unbuttoned his waistcoat. He messed up his hair.
By the time he reached the bottom, Aamon the Clerk was gone. Aamon the Slum Rat had returned.
The Lower City was alive in the worst way. Shadows moved in the alleyways. The distant sound of steam whistles signaled the end of the day shift at the foundries. Men with hollow eyes sat on stoops, drinking spirits that smelled like turpentine.
Aamon kept his head down. He walked with his hands in his pockets, clutching his wrench.
He was tired. The adrenaline of the prank on Cassius had faded, leaving a hollow ache in his stomach. He hadn't eaten since the porridge that morning.
He turned the corner onto Ricket Street.
Silas's shop was at the end of the block, squeezed between a boarding house and a boarded-up bakery. Usually, the yellow light of the shop window was a beacon.
Tonight, the shop was dark.
Aamon frowned. Silas never closed early. Silas would sell a clock to a ghost at midnight if the ghost had coin.
Aamon quickened his pace.
He reached the door. The "Open" sign was flipped to "Closed."
He tried the handle. It was unlocked.
Aamon froze. Silas was paranoid. He had three locks on this door, and he checked them every hour. An unlocked door in the Lower City was an invitation to be robbed, or worse.
Aamon pushed the door open. The bell above the frame didn't ring. someone had muffled the clapper with a rag.