Sleep was a luxury few of them could afford, but he’d had to snatch some of it to clear his head. Rubbing at his eyes, he found some sense of alertness. Caine had often deprived him of sleep during his almost-militant training as a youth.

“Your enemies won’t wait for you to be well-rested, my lad.”

They certainly wouldn’t. And they’d proven to be much closer to home than he’d imagined. Didn’t they, Father?

At least the bastard had given him a good grounding for this war. He was already dressed, lacking only the protective leather body armor Blade had given him. Dragging it on, he exited the room, his wits sharpening with every second.

The room across the hallway was silent.

Pausing at her door, Leo listened. The sound of the duchess’s soft breathing assured him she was still there. The tension in his gut unwound just a little. Not that she could go anywhere, since he’d used a pair of manacles to bind her to the bed.

Just let her go. Stop this madness. There was no point to it, nothing beyond the halfhearted reasons he’d given to Honoria. The duchess knew only what the prince consort already suspected. Hardly cause to keep her here against her will like this…

But he turned away grimly, letting his hand fall as he made his way through the house. Letting her go would be the final sign of defeat. He would have nothing then, only memories of the man he’d once been.

War had been on their minds ever since he, Blade, Lynch, Will Carver, and Garrett Reed had first discussed overthrowing the prince consort. Months’ worth of preparations greeted him as he stalked through the dark streets toward the wall. Some of them he recognized as his own suggestions, and a small hint of pride burned in him. There was his mark upon the world, something that he could still call his own.

The wall was lightly manned, though he saw dozens of boots sprawled under blankets in nearby houses, men snatching sleep where they could. Along the top of the wall, Blade had fitted heavy cannons into the slots his men had created in months past. Each cannon was highly modified, prepared to fire scattered shot, which was one of the best ways to take down a metaljacket.

The automatons could splash liquid fire against the walls if they got close enough, and the heavy metal plates protected most of their clockwork inner organs from outside machinations, but their limbs were their weakness. Most of the metaljacket handlers wielded a stable of ten automatons with their high-frequency controllers. Trying to get one of the drones back on its feet once it was down, while wielding nine other automatons… That was a skill in itself.

Of course, all they had to do was get close enough to burn the rookeries. The Echelon’s blacksmiths had long since rediscovered the secrets of Greek fire, and the spitfire models were difficult to stop. If Morioch launched them at Blade, he and his people would be in serious trouble.

Leo nodded at passing men, his hands shoved in his pockets as he waited his turn for the iron ladder that was bolted to the wall. Some men nearby were using grappling guns to lift themselves swiftly to the top, something that would be necessary if the cry sounded and Morioch attacked.

Finally he reached the top. Silvery light glistened in the east, knotting up his stomach. He knew what Blade had said last night, but Morioch would soon be back to hear a final answer. All these men could die because of him.

“You look like ’ell.” Rip’s deep voice jolted Leo out of his distraction. The giant watched the gleaming horde below. He had a flask of blood in his hand and was nonchalantly sipping from it.

Leo leaned on the ramparts beside him. Two hundred metaljackets, if he wasn’t mistaken, with more of them coming in overnight. Gold plate gleamed at the back, identifying the spitfires. The rest were common automatons, the least valuable of the prince consort’s steel army.

“I’ve been better.” The tightly packed alleyways surrounding the rookery gave them a slight advantage. Morioch had flooded the streets he could see with metaljackets, but they’d be forced to attack the walls in narrow units.

“Blade’s ordered ’ouses pulled down in the streets out there to block the way,” Rip replied, offering him the flask. “That’s where ’e is now. They got to come at us from only one o’ three places now.”

Leo took a pull from the flask. Spiced blud-wein with something far more potent added. Christ. His dry throat rebelled, and he coughed and handed it back. “A clear sign he’s not going to surrender me.”

“That leech knows ’e ain’t.” Rip shrugged, his steel shoulder joint rippling with the movement. A cutaway leather jerkin hid his massive chest but revealed the biomechanical arm he’d refused to hide since his marriage to Esme. Fingerless leather gloves concealed his hands, gloves with razors cut into the back of them. A single punch could kill a man. “We ain’t ’idin’ our intentions none, and ’e’ll be mad as ’ops after last night.”

“He’ll come and put on a show.” Morioch always liked to perform. Leo pointed to a place in the square where the sun would hit, come dawn. “Probably there.”

Rip eyed the expanse. “Could ’it ’im from ’ere.”

“Won’t kill him. He’s a blue blood, and if I know him, he’ll be wearing heavily reinforced armor the likes of what he wore last night.”

Rip spat over the wall. “Ain’t no bricky lad. Got a streak o’ yellow wide as London Bridge.”

“He’s not here to fight. He’s here to crush you. There’s no honor gained in engaging an enemy that’s beneath you, and that’s how he sees this.” That’s how most of the Echelon saw the human classes, the mechs, and especially Blade. A mistake on their part, Leo had long thought, but then he’d always been considered a progressive. No matter how many times Caine had tried to force his views on him, Leo had never been able to conceal his curiosity.

Why crush the human classes beneath their heel? As far as he could see, it only stirred resentment. The colonies seemed to have some sort of system in place where their blue bloods worked side by side with the human classes. Why couldn’t England do that?

Why does a mechanical hand make a man less than human? Why should only the legitimate sons of highly ranked lords be gifted with the blood rites? Why them? Why not others?

A thousand whys over the years.

All those questions he’d asked himself. Plans he’d dreamed of. Changes to the way the Echelon controlled the country. Swept away in the ashes of a single day.