Clockwork Angels: The Novel by Kevin J. & Peart Anderson

felt giddy, exalted by the power of rhythm. The people around him cheered at the sheer spectacle, but Owen was deaf to all that.
    Suddenly the spell was broken as one of the Percussor’s drumsticks slipped out of its socket, striking the glass window of its case and cracking it from side to side. The unbalanced limb flailed in the air, and that one rogue motion upset the equilibrium of the entire hydraulic mechanism. The Percussor degenerated into a frightening chaos of uncontrolled motion and random noise.
    Dr. Russell ran to open the door of the glass case, ducking and dodging the thrashing machinery, and released the steam pressure through a valve in the machine’s core. Slowing, hissing, the articulated arms lowered, and the Percussor returned to rest.
    Wiping his sweaty brow with the red scarf, Dr. Russell remembered to set out his hat, so that people could toss in donations for the performance. Seeing what was expected of him, Owen threw one of his coins into the hat without looking at the denomination.
    As marvelous as the Percussor was, it could never hold a coldfire glow to his mental image of the Clockwork Angels.
    It took him all afternoon to make his way through the distractions to the heart of the city. There, the buildings were more massive, more impressive, with columns and luminous clock faces on every main arch, the honeybee symbol chiseled into foundation stones.
    Owen hoped he would be in time to see a performance of the Angels, but as he approached the mouth of the square, he saw a line of red-uniformed Regulators standing like forbidding statues. The Red Watch served as anchors and guards at important landmarks, stoic and unmovable.
    Not to be deterred after his long journey, Owen presented himself to the Watch captain at the barricade, smiling politely. “Excuse me, sir, but I’ve come to see the Clockwork Angels.”
    The Regulator captain continued to stare forward like a bird of prey intent on a distant hare; he did not look down at Owen. “Do you have a ticket?”
    “Not yet. How do I obtain one?”
    “You should have been issued a ticket.”
    “Is there a way I can just have a look at the square?” Owen asked.
    “No, it’s Tuesday.”
    “Should I come back tomorrow then?”
    “No.”
    Owen felt his urgency growing. “Can you tell me how I get a ticket? Please, sir?”
    “I’m not allowed to say. You should have been issued a ticket.”
    Owen tried to peer around the man to glimpse the square, but the Regulator captain puffed up his chest and closed ranks with the other red-uniformed men.
    Owen backed away, disappointed. Maybe this would take him longer than he expected, but he would find a way.

CHAPTER 6
     
    Spinning lights and faces Demon music and gypsy queens
     

     
    A fter dark, Owen had nowhere to go, nowhere to stay, nowhere to sleep. The Watchmaker might have a plan, but Owen didn’t have much of one.
    When he saw a sign for an inn, Owen inquired about lodgings and a meal, and the innkeeper was happy to take his money—most of it. The meal consisted of part of an unfortunately scrawny chicken and some overboiled turnips. His bed was hard, the sheets stiff and starched, but the room had its own alarm clock, and Owen was able to set the bell for just after sunrise. He was eager to see more of Crown City and didn’t want to waste time sleeping.
    Next morning, he left the inn with no regrets. On the street, he found a pie vendor, whose wares smelled delicious. Every golden pastry had been drizzled with honey. He paid with one of his small coins and reached for an apple tart out of habit, but stopped himself. Since he had already done so many unexpected things, he decided to try a raspberry tart. Why not take the risk? The flavor exploded in his mouth, sweet and rich, intensely juicy, full of tiny seeds. What a marvelous discovery! He wanted even more flavors for comparison, but he would work on that—one thing at a time. Everything had its place, and every place had its