The Distant Blade
The brass buckle of your waistcoat, a heavy and ornate thing forged in the smog-choked foundries of 1892, has just snapped off in your hand, the metal cooling rapidly against your palm like a dead bird, and you are standing in the vast, humming atrium of the Pneumatic Exchange, that cathedral of steam and copper where the air itself tastes of ozone and burnt sugar, and you are speaking to the...
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