Revenge of the Puppet Master (Tales of Iron and Smoke, #3) (eBook, ePUB)
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Through the hazy, lamp-lit streets of Grand Fortune City, a scruffy messenger boy gripped his hat tight to his head as he fled the ever-encroaching shadows behind him. His lungs filled with the cool, wet air that pushed the chimney smoke back down into the city streets, nearly blocking his view. He didn't need to see where he was going, anyway. He could have run these streets without eyes, and he knew if he didn't stay ahead of the shadows, he might just have to. Besides, it was his job. Henry was a messenger rascal for the Jackboot.If you were orphaned, or just plain poor, you might take a jo...
Through the hazy, lamp-lit streets of Grand Fortune City, a scruffy messenger boy gripped his hat tight to his head as he fled the ever-encroaching shadows behind him. His lungs filled with the cool, wet air that pushed the chimney smoke back down into the city streets, nearly blocking his view. He didn't need to see where he was going, anyway. He could have run these streets without eyes, and he knew if he didn't stay ahead of the shadows, he might just have to. Besides, it was his job. Henry was a messenger rascal for the Jackboot.
If you were orphaned, or just plain poor, you might take a job as a messenger rascal for the Jackboot, and you would be well-clothed and protected. Rascals were given the best food, the best water, the best lodging and most importantly, the best shoes for running. It was a good job that, for the most part, was fairly simple-get the message to the Jackboot as fast as you can and hope that he is pleased with your speed. Of course, no one dared block the path of a messenger rascal or thought to stop them mid-run out of fear they might incur the Jackboot's wrath. Maybe someone who'd gone completely mad would consider it. Someone with different rules, different thoughts. Something primal. Something rotten, perhaps.
He pushed himself harder, block after block, toward the Iron Weaver's warehouse. Toward the Jackboot. Toward safety. The only sounds echoing in his ears were that of his own shoes clapping hard beneath him and his heart pounding like a rapid-fire cannon in his small chest. Breathe! Don't forget to breathe! His breath was hot with fear, and the soles of his feet burned inside his shoes with every hard step. His suit jacket was slowing him down, holding him back. He needed to get rid of it, but he didn't want to let go of his new hat. Run faster, or die for a hat? He quickly let go of his hat as he turned hard down Station Street. Out of the corner of his eye he saw it roll off into the darkness, then he tore off his suit jacket and cast it aside. I'll get new ones! Yeah, new ones!
He ran harder. So hard, he thought his heart would explode in his chest. He wanted to look back and see if he was gaining ground, but he knew how costly the error of curiosity could be. Never look back! Never look back! The shadows from the streets lamps almost seemed to bow down to the smoke as, one by one, their lights were snuffed out behind him. Never look back! Never look back! He pushed himself harder as his thoughts drew back to the moments before he was given his message.
If you were orphaned, or just plain poor, you might take a job as a messenger rascal for the Jackboot, and you would be well-clothed and protected. Rascals were given the best food, the best water, the best lodging and most importantly, the best shoes for running. It was a good job that, for the most part, was fairly simple-get the message to the Jackboot as fast as you can and hope that he is pleased with your speed. Of course, no one dared block the path of a messenger rascal or thought to stop them mid-run out of fear they might incur the Jackboot's wrath. Maybe someone who'd gone completely mad would consider it. Someone with different rules, different thoughts. Something primal. Something rotten, perhaps.
He pushed himself harder, block after block, toward the Iron Weaver's warehouse. Toward the Jackboot. Toward safety. The only sounds echoing in his ears were that of his own shoes clapping hard beneath him and his heart pounding like a rapid-fire cannon in his small chest. Breathe! Don't forget to breathe! His breath was hot with fear, and the soles of his feet burned inside his shoes with every hard step. His suit jacket was slowing him down, holding him back. He needed to get rid of it, but he didn't want to let go of his new hat. Run faster, or die for a hat? He quickly let go of his hat as he turned hard down Station Street. Out of the corner of his eye he saw it roll off into the darkness, then he tore off his suit jacket and cast it aside. I'll get new ones! Yeah, new ones!
He ran harder. So hard, he thought his heart would explode in his chest. He wanted to look back and see if he was gaining ground, but he knew how costly the error of curiosity could be. Never look back! Never look back! The shadows from the streets lamps almost seemed to bow down to the smoke as, one by one, their lights were snuffed out behind him. Never look back! Never look back! He pushed himself harder as his thoughts drew back to the moments before he was given his message.
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