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
Ahlers?” The baker said, “Why do you ask?” “I recently moved with my owners to New Amsterdam from The Hague,” Jax said. “Pastor Luuk Visser of the Nieuwe Kerk secured the family’s permission and subsequently asked me to deliver a package to Mr. Ahlers, whom he said owned a bakery on Bleecker Street. I hope you are he, sir, as I have been carrying this burden for some time.” Ahlers went behind the counter. He bent and reached for something. Jax prepared to flee, but the baker produced a box of
stuck with him. As in the children’s game, he was the hottest of hot potatoes. “Why is Marseilles closed?” he asked, quietly as his body’s construction would allow. They ignored his question. The other man, whom Jax gathered was a priest, glanced sidelong at Jax while saying, “I find this very suspicious.” Jax had the sense this fellow had been watching the search for the rogue mechanical and hoping to stay uninvolved. “Rogue Clakkers are exceptionally rare. The last to cross the border was
“I am truly sorry,” said Berenice, “but it must be done. If we are to survive, we must understand why you are free while that monster on the wall, that walking scythe, is beholden to your makers.” Panic accelerated the chittering Clakker language to the point Berenice could only just understand the sense of Lilith’s protests. But one thing came across clearly enough. Please. Please don’t revoke my freedom of choice. Please. Berenice took up a solvent gun. Twisting a tapered narrow nozzle onto
sent the artifact on its way to the New World. But they hadn’t, and he couldn’t. So now he was stuck with the damn thing. Rotten timing. Rotten enough to make the usual trust in God’s wisdom a bitter balm. Rotten enough to erode the faith of an already cynical priest. And now he was cut off, unable to get a message to Talleyrand, the French spymaster. News of the executions would eventually make it to the New World. But Talleyrand would lack details about who remained—and, worst of all, would
Although mere notes would pale in comparison to what else she intended to bring. It took a lot of rummaging through the wreckage of her laboratory before she found the last two epoxy balloons. These she carefully packed in excelsior. The inert mechanical soldier lay on a trestle table. Longchamp crossed himself before approaching it. He seemed warier of it now than he had during combat. She lifted the lamp overhead. The warm, yellow light played across its body to evince the oily, rainbow-hued