31

Still falling, you see somewhere else, a dingy cave full of ophidians, also surrounded by unfamiliar machines. You feel like you're falling, but you're just floating in air. They turn to look at you, their normally blank, dead-eyed faces betraying surprise. A huge man is strapped to a table, roaring with pain as the snake people operate on him. His eyes meet yours.

The ophidians whisper among themselves in several languages.

"The Crowned Serpent," one of them says in the River tongue.

Another: "Yes. Our masterpiece."

Then you hit the ground. It hurts, but nothing seems broken.

You feel dirt and mud. Thin pieces of paper flutter, but though there's wind, nothing seems able to banish the heavy, oppressive gray fog that shrouds everything. Sounds come to you as from a great distance: bells, shouts, faraway music.

You're in a city. An alley. Byzantium?

"That stupid woman. Oh, by all the Icons, what has Euphrasia done this time?"

A deep voice, speaking Koiné. Byzantium? You rise, head swimming, and—Stralchus!

He reaches for a pistol at his belt, his eyes shining, his bearded face split into a wide smile. Your belt holds nothing.

"Well," he says in that casually insane, conversational way he has, "here's one problem I can solve."