They took the elevator to the lobby, a gilded box with a real human operator. As the boy cranked the door cage shut Dally snuck a glance at his new owner. Worry lines crowding between Lyle’s eyebrows made him look about fifty, but his mouth had a babyish pout. The house earring didn’t match that mouth; up close the blue and green enamel turned out to be a snarling dragon over water. The next time Dally glanced, the governor was staring right back at him. Dally almost flinched, fixed his eyes on the floor instead.

It was a relief to get out into the street, and walk straight into a blast of rain. Dally trailed along far back as he could, and when he thought the boss wasn’t looking tipped his head back to catch some water in his mouth. The cold helped, knocking some sense back into him.

Lyle had the biggest canticar Dally had ever seen. Crouched at the side of the road it took up two full spaces, even with all it’s feelers and legs folded in. Under a sheen of water its shell glowed blue and green, the same colours on the boss’s earring. Even the door handles on the sides of it’s ribcage were gilded, and embossed with fleur de lis. That was really something - bespoke chimery. As they got closer the car blinked up at them, with ink-blue eyes the size of trash can lids. It shuddered once and sprung the doors open.

Lyle clambered in, huffing, and sprawled out on one of the plush benches. Dally peered around the car’s bulk, hesitant. On a fancy one like this he was expecting rungs on the carapace, where a servant could hang on. There was nothing, though, except the narrow door to the driver’s cabin. On each of the car’s flanks there was one narrow platform, but both were taken already by matching homunculi. Their blank clay faces turned to look back as he stared. Rain had turned them sticky, softened their edges.

A soft sigh came from inside the car. “In here,” Lyle said, patted his thigh. “Come on.”

In there? Dally shook water off as much as he could, then hunched uncomfortably to clamber inside. The car sucked in it’s breath, sealing him in to a swampy heat. Lyle’s eyes followed Dally as he hesitated, then perched himself on the edge of the opposite seat. Maybe this was okay? It must have been; after a second, Lyle still hadn’t told him to get off and sit on the floor.

Still, Dally didn’t want to touch more of the leather. Or anything else. He crossed his arms across his still-bare chest, hunching over his knees. The inside of the car glittered worse than the office, and everything he looked at had a weird, sparkling intensity. The gold frames on the windows made the wet street outside look like a painting. The car’s ribs were carved in patterns where they crossed the ceiling, flexing with each gasping breath.

The floor bucked, as the car found it’s feet. While its many legs thrummed into action under them, Lyle rubbed at a smile on his mouth. “I’ve over-indulged this time, haven’t I?”

Dally glanced around, but there was no human to offer an opinion. To be safe he said nothing.

“Gita will be furious,” Lyle went on. “That’s your mistress, Gita. Lucky she’s an orphan, now, eh? No real point worrying what she thinks. It’s bizarre, how much you look like a man.”

A long pause, where Lyle just looked at him, expectant. Dally coughed. “Thanks, boss.”

“You don’t call me boss. You call me master.”

“Thank you, master.”

“You’re welcome. Pour me a Fearne, the bottle’s just there.”

Master. Dally hitched up the cabinet door Lyle was pointing at, hesitated at a row of bottles inside. There were a lot of them, clinking softly at the thunder of the car’s legs. Welp. Fearne was brandy, he thought, but there were a couple of brandy-looking ones. That left him staring dumbly at the labels, trying to remember what the Fearne County flag looked like.

Eventually Lyle sighed. “The one on the left. Of course you can’t read, can you?”

Dally took the bottle, not looking up. The back of his neck was heating up. “No, b- Master.”

“I suppose it’s hard to teach a thrall.” Lyle licked his lips. “What can you do?”

“Brick work,” he said, “some welding, pour concrete. Fight.’’ The glass was half full now. It’s smell filled the cabin, warm and biting at the same time. “This enough?”

“It’s a lot, actually.”

But Lyle seemed pleased as he took it, and smiled behind the rim of the glass as he leaned back. Like Dally’s dumb way of pouring liquor was cute.

“Get yourself one,” he said, suddenly. “Why not? You earned it last night.”

Dally’s fingers tightened on the neck of the bottle, half way through putting it back. He forced a smile, took another glass from the cabinet. Because it was cute he made it bigger than Lyle’s - screw it. After the first gulp his eyes watered, and he choked back a cough. Sugar and smoke seemed to bubble behind his eyeballs.

Lyle beamed. “It’s good stuff, do you like it?”

“Yeah,” Dally said, “yes.”

He tipped it back as fast as possible. The warm buzz helped - Dally could stare out the window, mostly ignore the eyes on him. Things got better when Lyle took a large file from a locker overhead. Soon he was reading and scribbling in it, distracted. A lot of times he looked up, though, watching Dally across the cabin. Sometimes he asked for another drink, mostly he just chewed on the end of his pencil, letting his eyes crawl all over.

An hour later, they were further than Dally had ever been from Ulster Proper. The day refused to break properly - just got darker and hazier under the storm, as major buildings were replaced by warehouse and factories. Soon they rubbed up against the river, and the car bounded north, towards the bridge.

The dim made Eyvald Bridge into a black iron skeleton braced against the clouds. There was muddy grass underneath as well as the river, but the field was almost full - heaped with city trash. The mounds of scrap cratered around small fires, and thrall silhouettes passed in and out of the light. Most shapes hunched like they were old, or branched with defect limbs. ‘Stray camp’ the wards called it.

In front of that dark mass of rubble the local county had thrown a twenty-foot fence topped with razor wire. Dally never knew there was a fence - when the wards talked about the camp it was always like the thralls in there were roaming around raping women, stealing babies from cradles. As they passed a female near the wire stopped picking trash and rose to watch the massive car. Her six eyes flashed in the lamp light, before she turned away.

Lyle’s weight landing next to him jolted Dally back into the cabin. Then Lyle’s arm snaked around his shoulders, heavy and sweaty under his damp wool coat. Dally stopped himself from moving, but couldn’t help the way his eyes snapped to his face.

“Easy,” Lyle said. “Don’t you worry about them.” He was leaning closer, breathing sour whisky. His fingers trailed along the back of Dally’s neck. “I’m going to look after you, your whole life.”

--

Homesteads replaced tenement houses outside, which eventually gave way to real woods. Dally stared to see so many trees, their shadows stretching away like clawed hands. The rain had turned to sleet.

Inside, things stayed exactly the same; gold, shiny and too hot. Lyle stared over the top of his files, lips moist from one glass of bourbon after another. He’d stopped offering any to Dally after the first, which was good and bad. There was nothing to take the edge off, now, but at least Lyle couldn’t watch him drink like it was a cute trick.

Finally the car leapt off the main road, skittered onto a long gravel drive. Behind a screen of pines there was a glimmer of light through crystal windows. This turned out to be a white stone manor, sprawling in the center of a vast lawn. As they pulled up the creepers on the facade writhed, stretching towards them. Honeysuckles and roses opened, their soft tendrils nosing in the rain. It was barely noon - was this place really far enough to be in Wesend?

Dally didn’t care. He lurched out of the car, snarling at a homunculus in his path. Wet ice settled on his arms and back, mercifully scouring away the heat of the cab. He was still trapped here, though. His toes curled on the wet gravel, as he rocked uncertainly in place.

More claymen gathered armfuls of the governor’s files and bags. Another took the arm of the man himself, lifting him flushed and swaying out of the car. The car curled up a little, brushing the door with it’s feelers. Then it sealed with a wet thunk and skittered off down the drive.

More flunkies were waiting at the front of the house. At the back were two thralls, blank—faced in and uniformed. Their braid-trimmed navy coats were slowly going black in the rain. In front of them a secretary-type huddled under a huge umbrella. Seeing Lyle she smoothed her blonde curls back into place, clicked down the last few stairs. Her powder was cracking around her worry lines.

“Governor,” she started, “Lyric corporate are here. Kellen Mayworth, and the other is Butler, I think he’s the head of Accounts? They say you asked for a meeting-”

“I’m busy.” Lyle was drifting to where Dally had paused, and waved a hand over his shoulder.

She hesitated, fingers twisting on the umbrella handle. “They’ve been waiting three hours.”

Lyle made a sound in his throat like he was going to spit on the drive. Instead he lunged towards Dally, gripped him by both shoulders. While Dally stood, rigid, Lyle stared up into his face. He blinked against the rain, mournful. “I’ll be back soon.” He gave Dally a little shake, that was probably meant to be reassuring. The motion shook Lyle more than Dally, though, so the governor had to lean on him to catch his balance.

When he was steady again he turned to the thralls at the door. “You two take him along to quarters,” he said, “and find him a uniform. A new one, mind you. Take good care of him.”

The female tipped her head. “Yes master.”

Lyle thumped Dally on the back before swerving away towards the house. As soon as he was gone Dally let out a breath, running a hand back through his hair.

As the two thralls lead him to a side door the male looked him up and down, measuring. Dally tried the same thing, and didn’t like what he saw. The other guy was maybe ten years older, but bulky and tall under the uniform. A row of needle spines down the back of his neck meant he was probably an extra-spiky son of a bitch when he changed form. Even as Dally watched, more barbs pressed up under the skin, making little tents on the back of his neck.

Before Dally could ask what the problem was, the spiney one leaned in to talk to the female, baring the edges of sharp teeth. “You take him,” he said. “And keep him the hell away from me.”

Dally watched him stalk away, crossed his arms against the cold. “What, is he a Seth Greenlees fan?”

“Nah,” the female said.

He waited, but nothing else came out. She was frowning, and eventually beckoned him down a narrow service corridor. “You really are that Harper guy, huh?” she said, “I saw your picture on the cover of Cage Report.”

“No kidding?”

“Everyone says you faked being messed up. Like a trick, to get closer.”

Dally scratched at the back of his neck, looking everywhere but her. “I didn’t have to fake it, believe me.” Now it was his turn to go quiet.

Finally the female reached over and thumped him hard on the shoulder. “I don’t even like the cage, okay?” She grinned. “Let’s get you some real clothes. And a razor…”

The concrete tunnel had no lights, no windows. The female strolled along, chattering loudly into Dally’s silence. Her name was Red, she told him, and this weather was super crappy. The humans weren’t going out, so they didn’t get to do anything but wait around the house. Everyone was pissed off. Probably Dally would be okay, though, being a fighter and all. What was it like in the car?

“Expensive,” Dally said.

She sounded younger, the more she talked. Maybe not even twenty. He saw now that she had no real scars, just a nick in one black eyebrow. Her skin was darker, like a northerner, so probably she was ‘exotic’ by the standards of this place. If it wasn’t for her defect, she would almost pass for human. Her hair didn’t cover it up enough; a scarlet disc in the center of her forehead. It was blank, except for a faint horizontal crease. An eyelid.

In a store room she started rummaging through cabinets, barely looking as she flung things back at him. Pretty soon she’d piled a bundle of cloth in his arms, all dark wool and gold braid. When he let it fall open he saw it was the same as hers, kind of military-looking, but it didn’t have numbers or any kind of company marks. It was just a replica, a monkey suit. The final touch was a fresh-mint saber, in a black enamel scabbard. When Dally buckled it on it thumped awkwardly against his leg. He had never touched a sword in his life.

“The hell am I meant to do with this?”

“Just wear it, try not to cut anyone.”

Red looked comfortable enough in the uniform, though. She sprawled lazy on the bench across from him, watching him dress. While he struggled with the clothes she yawned, sharp-toothed. Her clear inner eyelids narrowed to slits.

“You got the cuffs wrong, here-“

She turned the fabric over with her thumbs, careful, and after a second watching her he tried the other himself. For some reason his cheeks were hot. Probably the tie trapping blood in his head.

“Seems like a lot of trouble,” he muttered, “dressing me up. He really wants me to stand around the house between fights?”

“Fights.” She watched him sidelong, like she was trying to decide if this was a joke. “Ysa, he wants you to stand around permanently. You’re not gonna see the inside of a cage so long as he owns you.”

Now his fingers paused on the buttons, while he stared at nothing. “I’m not?” Dally struggled, yanked the cuff straight.

“The Gov bought you because he likes the look of you,” she said, hesitant. “He’ll want you to stay like that.”

It stopped him, while he thought about it. Dally already knew all that, yeah. He got it. But having her say it out loud was worse, somehow. Red reached to put a hand on his arm, but drew back when Dally looked at her.

She frowned. “You’ll be treated better here than some production house, alright? We have it good.” A pause, while she pretended to focus on his tie. “Anyway, he might not do more than look at you. He’s mostly loyal to Mistress Gita when he’s sober-”

Dally pulled away to straighten the tie himself. “Thanks for the help. You want to show me where to stand?”

“…Sure. Hey, Harper?”

He was already turning away. His hands ran down the sides of his jacket to try and shove in his pockets, which was how he found out they were fake. They were just flaps sewn on, like a costume.