had never really been a neighborhood, merely a collection of coal power plants, warehouses, and rail hubs. The plants produced power for much of the western half of Lower Proszawa, but its location had been chosen primarily to provide an endless source of heat and electricity for the armaments factory. However, when it switched to plazma power many years earlier, that left a surplus of coal in the district and more workers than it needed. Yet no one lost their job. The government kept the trains coming and let the coal pile up. They calculated that it was better to pay the workers than let them sit idle. And so the coal continued to grow. The coal continued to burn. And thus Machtviertel became a walled city within the city, ringed by a moat of filth.
Smoke from the coal towers blanketed the district in perpetual darkness. A thick crust of carbonous dust covered everything. Around the active buildings, workers left black footprints in their wake. By the warehouses where trains offloaded their cargo, there were great ebony dunes that turned to thick mud in the rain. Machtviertel had a hellish reputation in the city, partly for the environment, but also for its inhabitants. People lived in the older, disused power stations and warehouses. There was a saying in Lower Proszawa: “Those who live in Machtviertel are insane. But those who seek them out are madmen.”
It took Largo almost an hour to bicycle there. He stopped beside the largest of the abandoned power plants, commonly known as the Black Palace. When it had been built, the dynamos’ home was a showcase for Lower Proszawa’s strength and ingenuity. The smokestacks rose one hundred feet into the air and the stonework on the front of the plant had been carved into old mythological scenes. At the top, giants pulled iron from the ground and molded it with volcanic fire. Lower and at street level, smaller spirits and artisans molded the iron into metal towers and wires, spreading light and power to a darkened land. Now, however, the Black Palace was a crumbling ebony hulk of sooty stone and rusted beams in a bleak field of coarse weeds.
Largo chained his bicycle to the base of a collapsed light tower. A murder of crows huddled a few yards away. They lifted off at the sound of his chain on the steel, cawing and circling overhead, black bird-shaped holes against an obsidian sky. He looked up at the building, sure that if Herr Branca wasn’t trying to get his throat slit, then the delivery was his supervisor’s way of telling Largo that he’d been demoted to the point that he’d spend the rest of his days delivering God knew what to Lower Proszawa’s most desolate wastelands.
Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to visit High Proszawa’s plague pits. Perhaps I’ll even get hazard pay. Then I’ll be able to afford a new flat and Remy can visit me there as I die of every foul disease known to man.
The address on Largo’s parcel was for an office on the Black Palace’s fifth floor. He squeezed through a junk-filled gap where the towering front doors had once stood. The building was absolutely silent and as he climbed the stairs Largo began to wonder if the delivery was some kind of sick joke—the company sending him far into the outlands on a pointless trip to remind him that he was lucky to have a job at all. At each landing he became less scared, instead finding himself growing angrier at the idea that the trip might be for nothing. Maybe his fellow couriers were above him in the building, waiting for him to knock so they could all laugh in his face.
Andrzej would love that.
On the fifth floor, Largo found the office under a cracked skylight so caked with coal dust that the dim light that made it through a few open areas came down in gray shafts. He held the package under one of the light patches and read the address one last time. Yes, he was at the right door. But the building remained utterly silent. It was strange. In the worst hovels in Haxan Green, there were always sounds of life, even if it was just rats in the walls. The silence of the Black Palace was what Largo imagined being walled up in a tomb must be like.
He went to the office and raised his hand to knock, but instead pressed his ear to the door. No—there was a sound. Low and rhythmic. Not the sound of voices or people, but the steady sound of a machine. Now Largo’s nervousness returned and he missed having the knife under his coat. His options were limited, and a quick look around showed nothing he might use to defend himself. He either had to turn tail and run, losing his job—and almost certainly Remy—or he could knock. In the end, he had no choice.
He knocked.
Nothing happened for a moment. But when he listened again, the sound of the machine had stopped. Before he could lean back from the door it swung open suddenly. Largo jumped back in surprise. The man in the doorway was as tall as Andrzej, but much larger. He wore a filthy sleeveless undershirt that revealed bulging arms and a barrel chest. His black beard was going gray and his greasy hair was combed straight back from his forehead. But as massive as everything about him was, it was his eyes that caught Largo’s attention. They were yellow, as was his skin. Jaundice, he thought, and quickly tried to remember if he’d ever heard about yellowed skin having anything to do with the Drops. He didn’t get to think very long before the man spoke.
“Who are you?” he said in a deep, rasping voice. “I haven’t seen you in the Palace before.” The big man wiped sweat from his face with a green bandanna that hung loosely around his neck. His shirt was soaked through and there were large patches of glistening red on the front. To Largo he looked like a thief preparing stolen meat to sell on the black market. But who would run a butcher shop this far out, even if it is a crooked one?
Largo stood up straighter and held out the parcel. “I have a delivery for this address,” he said. The room behind the jaundiced man looked empty except for the angular shadow of something distinctly machinelike on the back wall.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not expecting anything,” he said. Turning, he shouted into the room, “Is anyone expecting a package?”
To Largo’s surprise, several voices answered at once, men and women. A woman’s voice said, “Who’s it from?”
The big man gestured at him. “Who’s it from?”
Largo said, “I’m sorry, but there’s no return address.”
Footsteps echoed as someone else came to the door. A woman said, “Let me see,” and pushed the big man out of the way.
Largo leaned forward when he saw her, surprised.
“Margit?” he said.
She froze and stared at him. Her voice was angry. “What the hell are you doing here? I told you I’d see you at lunch.”
“I know, I know. I’m here because of the parcel.” He held it up, as if it were all the explanation needed.
“You know this whelp?” said the jaundiced man.
Margit patted him on the arm. “It’s all right, Pietr. Largo is a friend from work.”
“One of your customers, I suppose? An addict?”
“No—shut up. Look at him. He just uses for fun, like a lot of people. Isn’t that right, Largo?”
“Yes,” he said quickly. “Just for fun.” But he was already feeling a chill from the lack of morphia.
“What’s he doing here?” said Pietr, menace creeping into his voice.
Margit took the parcel from Largo’s hands and looked it over. “This is the right
