With deft fingers, Mikhail peeled the hard skin off the pronzat root, then dropped it in the muck and urine left in the “toilet.” He grabbed the mattress and tugged at it, hoping it was as frail as it looked. The sound of tearing fabric greeted his ears, and he continued pulling until he had a large wad of material which he dropped on the floor.

  Digging through his pockets, he unearthed a small coin, and, standing on tiptoes, reached up to the gaslamp and inserted the coin beneath the hood. The gaslamp housing was constructed out of uzhasgart, and the sides were filled with holes to let light through. Normally, they had glass panes around the yellow flame, but that wouldn’t do for a prison light. If he was right, however, only four catches held the hood shut…

  Click.

  Mikhail smiled and ran the coin around the rim, each satisfying click the sound of catches releasing. Seconds later, he had the hood off and retrieved the mattress fabric, which he lowered into the flame and waited for it to ignite. It took a minute for the damp material to catch. Perfect.

  Once it caught, he lit the mattress itself. As soon as the mattress started smouldering, he pulled his half-mask from its clip on his waist and fastened it over his nose. Smoke filled the small cell and poured out the door’s barred window.

  “Help,” Mikhail yelled, then coughed. “Help!” He picked up the bucket with the pronzat in it and stood beside the door, the bucket pointed towards it. In his right hand, he held the still burning swatch from the mattress. His timing needed to be flawless.

  Muffled voices, accompanied by pounding boots, echoed in the corridor outside the door.

  Mikhail dropped the swatch into the bucket, praying it’d stay alight as he buried himself in the shadows and smoke in the corner of the room, and waited.

  A key scraped in the lock, and the door swung open. The two guards, half-masks on, stepped into the room.

  Come on, work!

  One guard pivoted. His gaze fell on Mikhail, and a puzzled frown creased his brow.

  The bucket vibrated in Mikhail’s hands, and he braced himself.

  Bang!

  The bucket slammed into Mikhail’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him—though that was minor compared to the damage it inflicted upon the guards.

  Screams resounded throughout the cell as the hyperactive and thorny pronzat entangled the two men as it filled the cell.

  Manure and heat, a lethal combination.

  Mikhail dropped the bucket and staggered to the door, his eyes filling with tears and blurring his vision. His foot caught on the pronzat, and he tripped, sprawling face-first across the corridor. He yanked his boot, but the pronzat tightened around it, snagging on the leather. Panic welled in Mikhail’s chest as he fought the pronzat. The guards continued to scream as they wrestled with the thorns that lashed at their coats and entwined their limbs.

  The pronzat reached the burning mattress and burst into renewed growth.

  Angry yells approached. He’d run out of time.

  Mikhail grabbed the pronzat clinging to his boot. The long thorns pierced his gloves and dug into his hands. He whimpered as he pried the weed from his boot and yanked it free. Blood dampened his gloves as he ran. Ran for his life. Sovereign Sculptor, keep the guards distracted rescuing their comrades…

  He made it to the Market Hall and past the two men guarding the stairs before he heard more yelling behind him.

  “There he is!”

  Mikhail dared a look behind. Eight soldiers in the black coats of Voronin’s private army appeared at the head of the steps, each carrying a high-powered gas rifle. One paused and lifted his gas rifle.

  Mikhail’s eyes widened as he dived to the side.

  Bang!

  A bolt slammed into the ground beside him while the guards at the stairs also launched at him. He scrambled to his feet and ran.

  Twenty yards ahead, a group of women from the Fashion Guild stood talking animatedly. Mikhail headed straight for them. Adrenaline surged his body, and he begged his legs to move faster, wishing he’d continued the training Sergei had tortured him with during his younger years.

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  The Fashion Guilders turned to stare at him, puzzled frowns on their heavily made-up faces. They stood their ground, exactly as Mikhail expected—the world moved for fashion, after all.

  Without breaking pace, he plunged amongst them.

  Shrieks split the air as he pushed past one, sending her stumbling. Finally, they scattered.

  Just in time.

  Judging by the curses behind him, his pursuers had reached the expanding group of flustered women.

  He pushed on, his breath coming in ragged gasps. A stitch speared his floating ribs with every step, and his bloody hands throbbed. If he could reach the crowd at the front of the hall, he just might make it out of the steaming pile of muck he’d landed in.

  By some miracle, Mikhail reached the dense crowd and disappeared into it. He risked another glance over his shoulder. His pursuers were still a few yards away. The Fashion Guilders had brought him valuable space. Now, how the depths to escape?

  He glimpsed the steam cart ahead, still mercifully puffing out steam and smoke from its stack. Mikhail angled towards it.

  The crowd thinned, and he picked up speed. The stitch in his side felt like a knife being driven repeatedly into his ribs.

  Boots pounded behind him, growing nearer.

  He reached the steam cart and shouldered past a customer and vaulted into the cab.

  Now he had three seconds to work out how to drive the contraption. Two pedals on the floor. One wheel. A lever by his side. A confused vendor in the seat beside him. A yelling officer. Two angry guards. And eight furious soldiers.

  This could be worse.

  He yanked the lever, nothing happened.

  “Left pedal,” the vendor offered, dazed.

  “Thanks.” Mikhail planted his foot on the pedal as three soldiers leapt at the cart.

  The steam cart surged forwards, and Mikhail grabbed the wheel and jerked it left, sending the cart careening towards the extract stalls. Screams erupted as people dove clear of the rampaging deathtrap.

  Something thudded against the side of the cart. He looked back to see two black-clad soldiers clinging to the sidewall, faces set in grim determination.

  Mikhail spun the wheel right, his foot pressed to the floor. The steam cart tipped up on two wheels as it veered right and barrelled past the auto-picker.

  The steam cart vendor’s face went ashen, and he clutched the bench, hyperventilating.

  Mikhail’s lips curved into a grin as he straightened the wheel and the cart thumped to the ground. He needed one of these!

  Stalls whipped past, and furious cries rent the air.

  A gloved hand appeared over the sidewall to his left, and Mikhail lashed out with his elbow. The soldier grunted, and the hand disappeared. A moment later, a distant thud informed Mikhail the soldier no longer rode with them.

  Mikhail aimed for the Market Hall doors, and his stomach shrivelled up.

  The mechanical doors were swinging shut.

  “You might want to get out,” Mikhail said, casting a sideways glance at the vendor.

  The vendor stared at the fast approaching doors, back at Mikhail, then back at the doors—now only seconds away and no longer open enough to fit the steam cart.

  Mikhail tightened his grip on the wheel, sending fresh stabs of pain through his punctured hands. He ran his tongue over his lips and lined the steam cart up with the centre of the doors. Only three feet of rapidly diminishing air remained between them.

  This would probably hurt. A lot.

  The vendor screamed as he leapt clear of the rampaging cart.

  Mikhail climbed up and crouched on the bench, issued a quick prayer that the vendor would be all right—

  —and crashed into the doors.

  The impact wrenched the doors open another foot and brought the steam cart to a dead halt, catapulting Mikhail over the front.

  He smiled as he sailed through the narrow gap in the doors. Perfect aim, well done… Then he saw the ground rushing towards him.

  His smile vanished, and he whimpered.

  Mikhail hit the ground with his shoulder and rolled head over heels ten feet before landing on his back, staring up at the spinning sky and the concerned eyes of onlookers.

  Everything hurt. He pushed himself upright and gently fingered his scalp then sighed with relief. No blood. He’d avoided hitting his head—the Sovereign Sculptor was looking out for him today.

  Mikhail stood and faced the Guild, swaying. The steam cart blocked the doors and had most likely ripped them off their gears, jamming them for the moment.

  “I’m all right,” he said to the crowd, his half-mask muffling his slurred words as he pulled his hood up. I just need to throw up and sleep for a week. He staggered away from the Alchemist Guild and the crowd parted, probably too stunned to stop him or make sure he was all right. Suits me fine.

  The city stopped spinning after a dozen, uneven steps—though his limbs had started a riot, and were protesting the abuse he’d put them through. They could shut it. At least they weren’t broken.

  Mikhail further punished them by picking up the pace. The Alchemists would get the doors open soon… if they hadn’t already. He needed some distance between him and that place.

  He ducked into an alley and wove through the narrow, dark passageway. The depths had just broken loose, and he needed help. One name came instantly to mind.

  Klara.

  If she would even speak to him, that was.