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They passed a stable full of clockwork horses. One didn’t have a head, and a disgusted looking artificer had an arm jammed down the stump of the neck, rummaging around inside. “I confess,” said Learned Edmund, “I find such things…disturbing. They seem to contradict the natural order. At least with mules, one knows where one stands.” “Usually in mule droppings.” “Well, yes. Still.”
I would know you anywhere. I would recognize you at the bottom of a mineshaft on a moonless light, if I were deaf and blind.
“Politics,” she said. “It doesn’t make any sense. People do the stupidest shit and you want to scream that it’s against their own interests and you never know if they’re playing some deep game you don’t know about or if they’re really just that stupid. Right now, I think we’re having a war because we’ve already got a war, so we might as well keep it.”
“We’re living with decisions made by people so long dead we can’t even piss on their bones.”
They were under orders to wait, and were simply letting her stew in her own imagination while they did. “Joke’s on you, you bastards,” she muttered. “I’m an accountant. I don’t have an imagination.”
“When this is over, I am going to slap you so hard that your ancestors will apologize for you.”
