The Mechanical (The Alchemy Wars)
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My name is Jax.
That is the name granted to me by my human masters.
I am a slave.
But I shall be free.
Set in a world that might have been, of mechanical men and alchemical dreams, the new novel from Ian Tregillis confirms his place as one of the most original new voices in speculative fiction.
PRAISE FOR IAN TREGILLIS
"A major new talent." George R.R. Martin
"Tremendous." Cory Doctorow
"Addictively brilliant." io9
"Exciting and intense." Publishers Weekly
"Eloquent and utterly compelling." Kirkus
barge passed the crash site. This stretch of the river smelled more like a fireplace than a waterway. The fireball and its debris had ignited a forest fire; it still smoldered in places. Smoke stung her eyes when the barge rowed into the wispy tendrils of fog clinging to the cold waters in the shadows of Fort Orange. The surrounding hills sloped downriver, and after another mile she could see the source of the haze. Most of the wreckage had been cleared by then, but flakes of ash still rode
investigator, a good servant of Adro, and Cenka tells me that you have a perfect memory.” “Still, sir.” “Eh?” “I’m still an investigator. Not with the police, sir, but I still take jobs.” “Excellent. Then it’s not so odd for me to seek your services?” “Well, no,” Adamat said, “but sir, this is Skyline Palace. There’s a dead Hielman in the Diamond Hall and…” He pointed at the stream of blood on the stairs. “Where’s the king?” Tamas tilted his head to the side. “He’s locked himself in the
short, sharp yelp emanated from the wall below. For the hundredth time that day she craned her aching neck at the clump of chemists and the unhappy corporal dangling alongside the Clakker. So did Sergeant Longchamp, who monitored things from beneath a sealskin poncho strung between two flagpoles and a battlement. He leaned on the broadside of a two-headed pickax, the diamond-hard tip at the base of its shaft wedged into the mortar between two stones. He took two seconds to assess the situation
happens, we had just turned our eyes in your direction. Somebody in the employ of the Schoonraads—a governess, I believe?—reported that you had acted strangely toward one of their mechanicals. She worried you might infect her charge with unorthodox views.” Visser grunted. “We should all be so lucky.” Bell pushed her plate aside. After pouring herself a second cup of coffee she crossed her arms and rested her elbows on the table. “So. Is it really ‘Father’?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “I
from her back. But she wasn’t unconscious, or perhaps the touch of his cold metal fingers roused her. She flinched, turned. Her eyes widened at the sight of the rogue Clakker crouched over her. “Fuck!” She scuttled backward, crab-crawling through cobwebs and pigeon droppings to get away from him. The gun barrel etched a trail in the dust, dragged in fits and starts by the rubber hose. “OurFatherwhoartinHeavenhallowedbethyname—” She retreated until the tank on her back knocked against the wall,