The girl called Looby (but not to her face) was on a quest for mech. Of course success meant the sweet jangle of dollarydoos in the purse after selling the junk in Melba, but there were easier ways to live. She did it because she enjoyed the hunt, scouring the wilderness and overgrown battlefields east of Melbourne.

Today, the hunt for mech meant a hunt for a certain liarbird.

Looby quietly picked her way through the bush, stalking her prey while ever cautious of detection. This wasn’t a hotbed of bushranger activity like up north, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Falling into the clutches of a murderous outlaw was the last thing the girl wanted.

That morning she’d heard a liarbird’s song, a faint and very curious call that intrigued her. She’d been tracking it ever since, as the sun rose and the heat grew oppressive. She paused again to listen, and sip from her canteen.

“Come on, you little dibber dabber…” Looby muttered. She tried to draw it out with her best whistles—a teakettle, a train’s steam trumpet—a trick she’d learned to challenge the bird into responding. Her persistence paid off: the liarbird replied, with the sound of an axe biting into timber.

She challenged it again, creeping closer. Not to be outdone, the liarbird responded, with bird calls and the clopping of a horse at a gallop.

“That’s right, my pretty…” Looby whispered, advancing on her prey. “Keep on…”

So it went. Looby scratched her skeeter bites and worried a tic she’d found in her thick hair, moving ever closer to her quarry. Then the undergrowth rustled, not twenty yards away, and the liarbird raised its fantastic plumage.

“Gotcha!” Looby noted the trees around it and strode forward. As she did, the bird produced the curious sound that had caught her attention: a horse’s whinny, but strangely mechanical, with the wheeze of a compressor beneath it.

Looby considered capturing the liarbird for its prized plumage. It seemed unfair, though, to repay the bird’s clue with death. Looby strode towards the bird, sending it hopping away, and began the search.

The birds were territorial, the males challenging each other with songs and seducing their mates with lavish feathery displays. Looby spiraled out from where she’d sighted it, knowing that whatever it had heard must have been within earshot.

And they have very good hearing, she reminded herself. A mile? More?

The spiral she tramped grew larger, the day stifling, and Looby pessimistic. The she stumbled, caught herself, and glanced down. What she took at first to be a root enshadowed by the overarching trees resolved into a weathered boot.

The boot contained a foot, the foot was attached to a leg, and the leg disappeared under the long midnight blue coat of a Dragoon. He lay on his back, his face and opened gut ravaged for a season by the dingoes and birds and other hungry creatures.

When young, Looby had seen the freshly dead, lying in the streets of Melbourne and across the surrounding battlefields. She swallowed, automatically breathing through her mouth, but found that the months had mostly carried off the stench of decay. Looby studied the corpse.

He was an officer, clearly. She gathered what salable items she could retrieve from the body with the minimum disturbance and stashed them into her ruck: a sturdy leather belt, a handsome pouch of the kind couriers bore, and a black-handled dagger. His munition pouch held a tin of cartridges and minie balls, though there was no gun nearby. She followed his outstretched arm and caught a gleam in the grass beyond.

“Yes!” The bess was a short-barreled variety favored by cavalry, but unusual. The stock had the coils and gauge of a tingler. She stuffed the weapon into her rucksack and was ready to take her loot back home when she spied a glimmer of black metal emerge from a large hummock of vines and brush.

With the excitement of her discovery, Looby had all but forgotten the liarbird’s curious song: the sound of a mech she’d never before encountered. She approached cautiously until she could pick out the shape, then rushed over and fell to her knees, tearing away the vegetation to expose gleaming black hindquarters. The torso had been covered from withers to croup with a rough blanket, wrapped and tied. She exposed the great metal head, handsomely sculpted, gleaming black metal.

A steel stallion.

She estimated the mech’s withers would be as tall as her. Looby cleared the legs and discovered one foreleg shattered.

Rocking back on her heels, Looby considered her find. She’d heard of such things: the powerful, fast mounts of British officers. Only one reason came to mind for wrapping a mech in a blanket, though. She squinted up at the bright sun, considering, With a tug, she ripped the rotted material and tossed it aside.

Looby sought out a bit of shade in which to wait.

*     *     *
A low chuff woke Looby from her sun-drenched doze. She slipped her knife from its sheath reflexively, glancing around without moving from her cover. The sound came again, accompanied by a twitch of the mech’s ebony head. Looby scrambled over and ran a hand over the sharply sculpted features. The empty sockets flickered, like fire-lit smoke, then resolved into recognizable eyes.

Looby had some experience with recovered mech.

“You are mine,” she said, emphasizing each word. “Per the Battleground Salvage Act of ’59.”

Its recovery began from the head. The brow furrowed, the nostrils widened, and the lips drew back. The mechanical horse whinnied.

“Hello, child,” it said in a deep voice.

Looby started back. “You talk?”

“How perceptive…”

“I know something about how mech works, but I never heard one talk.”

She’d seen pieces of mech guns and carriages and prowlers strewn over battlefields: levers and cables and things that made your fingers buzz if you touched them; and she knew they mostly fed on sunlight, like the tinglers. But they were just clockwork.

The warhorse tried to raise its head but fell back into the grass.

“When?” it asked.

“It’s eighteen sixty-four.”

“What of the rebellion?” it asked. “Who…”

“Won?” Looby laughed. “Does anybody ever win? We drove out you Pommie buggers—the war for independence was won,” she replied. “The Australian Federation was victorious.”

“And America?”

“The Rebs lost. Our gold isn’t gonna fund British wars anymore.”

The mech tried to lift its head again.

“Best not try to stand—you’ve got a crook pin.”

“I am designed to survive—”

“No, you don’t!” Looby re-covered the massive body, dragging the torn blanket across its back and laying deadfall down as well.

“What are you doing, child?”

“Making you a deal, horsie,” she replied, without pausing in her labor. Lastly, she drug over a heavy branch and tossed it unceremoniously across the well-hidden form. Satisfied, Looby sat on the warhorse’s shoulder with a grunt and began finger-combing the months of leaves and dust from its wiry mane.

“I’m gonna take off your bad leg and get it fixed—at great expense to me, understand. And you’re gonna stay here, hidden, and stop your whining.” She banged his hollow-sounding skull to emphasize each word. “Got that?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re mine—”

“I am the property of the Third Royal Dragoons, designation Heavy Cavalry, as of July thirteenth, eighteen—”

Looby pointed at the desiccated corpse. “—and you lost your rider back there, making you salvage. So you’ve gotta mind the Salvage Act. You’re mine.”

The warhorse rolled an eye towards the ground, straining to see itself, then eased back into the grass. “Understood.”

“And the only way I’ll move you is on your own four legs. So, the deal is, I get you patched up, and we’ll ride into the West.”

“I don’t think you’ve thought this through, child.”

Looby glowered down at the mech. “Let me worry about that, horsie. You just lay low here. And my name is Louisa O’Leary; Miss, I’m from Melbourne—well, Melba neighborhood—and I’m almost seventeen, so you can stop calling me child.”

“My name is Edward, if you please,” said the warhorse in precisely articulated English. “And why do you wish to ride west?”

“I’ve got people there, or so I’ve been told. My mother’s Koori.”

“Blacks, like the slaves in America.”

“No! My people were here first, and the whitefellas took the land! The Blacks in the States were kidnapped and brought there; or their parents were.”

Looby rummaged in her ruck and extracted several tools. “Now shut up, relax, and let me detach this leg.” With that, she set to work at the joint above the damage.

“I’ve had plenty of luck taking your kind apart. See this?” She waved a wrench. “Custom-made by my pal Lucky. He’ll mend your pin, good as new.”

“There.” She hefted the shattered foreleg up for the warhorse to see, then shoved it into her rucksack.

Looby stood and lifted the bag with some difficulty. “If you make noise, attract attention, get the liarbird singin’ again, you won’t get this back. Understand? So just stay quiet and I’ll return in a few days.”

The stallion eyed its truncated leg, then twisted its head to consider Looby. “They won’t let you keep me, Louisa.”

“Just let me worry about that. What they don’t know about they can’t nick, can they?”

*     *     *
The blacksmith laid down his tongs and ran a muscled forearm over his streaming brow. Iluka, or ‘Lucky’ as the whitefellas called him, was the closest thing to a friend that Looby could claim. More importantly, since they’d met in the devastated neighborhood of Melba, he’d taught her about her mother’s people, the lessons to be learned from dreaming, the creation stories she had never known. Looby pretended not to care, but she never cut him off, either.

Lucky stepped out of the smithy and sought a bit of shade in the court beyond before speaking.

“So…you were out in the bush and found a talking horse.”

“It’s mech, not a real horse, silly, but yeah.”

“Sure; and its name is Edward, and you want me to fix its leg.”

Looby hauled the limb out of her bag and dumped it onto the workbench with a crash. “Yup.”

The young man’s serious expression dissolved into laughter, teeth brilliant in his dark face, startling a real horse in the stable across the way.

“Good one. Like the time you thought there was a Pommie hidin’ in your cellar?”

Looby snapped, “I did find a talking warhorse!”

“You’re mad, girl. First, there’s no talkin’ mech. I’ve been inside ’em plenty, and there’s nothing but gears and pulleys wrapped in sun-grabbin’ skin. No talkin’ parts.”

“Well, you’ve not been inside this one, ha’ ye?”

The conversation was cut short by Jenkins’s arrival. The merchant, landowner, and City Council member came through the stable, eclipsing the doorway, and lumbered towards them.

“Why aren’t you fixing that busted spring on my buggy, boy? Instead of chatting this one up.” He and Looby exchanged glances of mutual disdain.

“Miss O’Leary,” he said, with a smirk.

“Lord High a’ Mighty Jenkins.” She made an exaggerated curtsy, loosing a fart at the nadir.

Jenkins grimaced. “Disgusting. Don’t you have some thieving to do?”

“Salvage, per the Battleground—”

“Of course. Robbing the dead, more like.”

He confronted Lucky. “When?” What Jenkins lacked in strength he made up for in sheer bulk.

“Next in my queue, sir,” Lucky replied.

Looby noticed that the blacksmith had stepped between the unwelcome visitor and the bench where the mech leg lay. Now Lucky casually picked up a ten-pound hammer lying nearby and slapped it into his palm.

“As soon as we’re done chattin’ I’ll get back to work. Looby here was just leavin’ anyway.”

Jenkins nodded at the smithy and turned to go. “No-account Looby,” he muttered with a parting scowl at the young woman, then wallowed out the gate to the street.

She glared at him, ready to snap back, but Lucky frowned a warning.

“Pay him no mind,” he said. “Let’s talk about this job.”

Lucky picked up the foreleg and examined the damage. “This is high-quality steel. Gonna take some skilled labor—this piece has to bear a lot of weight.”

He nodded at the bulging ruck she clutched. “What did you bring me?”

Lucky acted as the go-between for selling the salvaged items Looby came upon, taking a fair ten percent for his trouble. Before they’d met, Looby had found herself, a girl in her teens, at the mercy of strangers who were at the least unscrupulous, and often abusive.

“I’ve been asking after solictors, for Pa, but they’re expensive.”

Looby pulled out several handfuls of finds.

“This won’t do it.” Lucky showed little interest in the belt, buckles, and regimental insignia, lingered over the dagger, but grunted appreciatively at the boots, well-made of English leather and cared for (until their owner’s demise). He paused in thought over the courier’s pouch.

“What was inside?”

Looby shrugged. “Nothin’ but a letter—love letter, I suppose, all flutterin’ hearts—plus a kerchief, smoking gear, like that. Not much.”

The smithy fixed her with his so-calm gaze. “Funny sort of courier, not carryin’ anything. No dispatches, no messages…”

“I swear!” she said.

“See the letter?”

Looby fetched it out of her pocket. “At least, I think it’s a love letter,” she mumbled.

Lucky wiped his hands on his stained apron, accepted the paper square, and unfolded it carefully, squinting in the bright sun.

“Lt. Reginald Wilks-Shaw…” He read, a smile growing.

“What?”

“Some love letter—it’s from his mother.”

Looby looked away.

“Should have paid more attention in school,” the smithy said.

“I had four whole years of it before the war, and that was enough!”

Lucky sighed and resumed reading. “Mum’s fine; little sister is fine, had her coming-out; his sweetheart misses him—”

“See!” Looby said, triumphant.

“—and she’d appreciate a letter.”

Lucky refolded the sheet and handed it back. “You should pass that along to the Post Office, or the Reconciliation Commission.”

“Sure.”

“His family would want to know. Think on it; if you were wondering about your kin—”

“Well, I’m not, am I!” she shot back. “Ma’s run off, Pa’s in prison, and it’s all lies!”

Looby looked ready to burst into tears, but set her face and demanded, “Are you going to fix it?”

“This isn’t just a buggy axle or a fireplace poker. I’ll have to replace each of them cables across the joint, with similar salvage.” Lucky fixed her again with his calm gaze.

“High quality steel…and there’s a horse-sized load of it? You sure you don’t want to scrap the whole thing? Probably a half-ton of metal, plus the gadgets inside—”

“No!” Looby glared at him. “Will you fix it, or not?”

“There’s still the matter of payment. What are you holdin’ back?”

Looby’s fingers grazed the black metal foreleg and again imagined herself astride the tall stallion. Perhaps she should dress in black—

“Well?”

“There’s somethin’ else,” she said. “I’ve got it hid, safe.”

*     *     *
Looby had taken a squat in the impromptu community of Melba, a downtown Melbourne rooming house barely standing after the British shelling, still habitable, but only to the most desperate of tenants. She led Lucky up the rickety back stairs (an explosion had shorn away the front of the building) and into her room. The smells of cooking and hard living crowded in from the adjacent apartments. He hesitated in the doorway as she went to hands and knees in a corner.

“C’mon then,” Looby said. “Shut the door, I won’t bite.”

The young man stepped in and pushed the door closed, with some difficulty. “Frame’s sprung,” he remarked.

“Yeah, artillery will do that.” With a grunt, she pulled the dresser aside and lifted a plank beneath it, then withdrew a long object wrapped in rags. She pulled them away to reveal the bess.

Lucky’s eyes went wide, and he accepted the gun with the reverence of a holy relic.

“This here—” he stroked the top “—is an Enfield short-barrel, like the Brits sold to the Confederacy. But this over-under configuration—this down here’s a tingler!”

“I know that,” Looby said, nonetheless impressed by his knowledge of the gun.

“It’s like two weapons in one—lethal and non-lethal. The Rebs sure didn’t get these!”

“You want it?” Looby asked. “Fix my horse’s leg, and no gossiping about any of this while you’re boozin’.”

Lucky’s broad nose flared as his eyes creased in anger. “I ain’t a drunk! And anyway—” he inverted the bess and pointed to the base of its stock “—it needs a power pack, else the tingler’s useless.”

Looby examined the socket, cursing herself for not searching more thoroughly.

“So do you have it?” he asked.

“Sure,” she lied. “In a safe place—another safe place, I mean. When I see the leg’s ready, I’ll fetch it.”

Lucky pursed his lips but did not challenge her.

“Alrighty.” He handed back the weapon. “Hold it until then, and don’t flash it around. You don’t want to get caught with this—it’s illegal to sell salvaged weapons.”

“This ain’t a sale,” replied Looby, “it’s a trade.”

“Sure.” The smithy planted his hands on his hips. His eyes wandered over her meager belongings: a billy for cooking, mismatched plates and cutlery, piles of unsold debris. “So, this is your life.”

“What of it?”

“Nothing.” He looked away, shaking his head, but paused in the doorway and turned on her.

“No! This ain’t right, Louisa—your Pa in prison, you livin’ like a shag on a rock. You deserve better, a nice life.”

Looby colored under her sunburn. “What? Marry some old squatter who wore out his last wife, needs a replacement to raise his sheep and brats? That your notion of better?”

“No, I—” He stammered and stopped.

“What, then?”

Lucky threw up his hands. “Nothin’! Never mind.”

“I stay here ’cause nobody cares who I am! Nobody callin’ me Looby and spittin’ when they do!”

He whirled and pounded heavily down the wooden stairs. “You could use a wash, you know—and clean clothes!” he shouted.

Looby watched until he disappeared into the sluggish river of drunks and slatterns wandering through her neighborhood.

*     *     *
Edward’s great round eye flickered and brightened. “Where’s my leg?”

“Ain’t ready. Questions first.”

“I am at your service—as I have nothing better to do.” His head moved, mere centimeters. “But I need a charge.”

“As long as you keep talking.” She pulled the tattered blanket and foliage from his back. “Anybody come by?”

“Of course not.”

“Where are the papers, the dispatches?”

“Excuse me?”

“The courier’s pouch was empty. Where were his messages?”

“How would I know? I’m just a horsie.”

“Where were you going?”

“We were fleeing.”

“You and…Wilks-Shaw.”

“Reginald, yes.”

“Where’s the power pack for his tingler, then?”

The warhorse made no reply.

“Well, I made a deal to fix your leg. If I can’t offer that fancy gun of his, you’re not gonna get your leg back.”

Edward chuffed. “It is a flat backpack. Reginald wore it when he fell.”

Looby walked back to the corpse. The brush she’d covered it with had been disturbed, and the body was further ravaged. Fingers clamped on her nose, Looby nudged it over with her booted foot, revealing a black square strapped to his back. She gingerly tugged at the straps, unsuccessfully, then harder, nearly dislocating a desiccated shoulder. The pack came free and Looby hefted it, vigorously beating away the blood-encrusted dirt and debris.

“Thanks,” she said, and slipped it on.

“There’s something else I need,” said Edward. “Nothing special.”

“What’s that?”

“Paraffin oil,” he replied. “Two or three quarts.”

“Imported oil? Isn’t that stuff expensive?”

“Look under Reginald’s shirt.”

Looby squatted by the body, glad it was on its face. She pulled the shirt, stiff with blood, out of the trousers. Flat against the man’s back lay a stained leather money belt. Looby peeled the blood-soaked belt away from the blackened flesh, hefted it, then eagerly tore it open to reveal a cache of gleaming sovereigns. She whistled.

“For my oil,” the warhorse said. “And Louisa…”

Edward waited until the girl looked up from her coin-counting.

“Hmm?”

“Use some of it for yourself—new clothes, a haircut…a bath…”

“What business is it of yours?”

“If you’re to be my rider, you must look the part.”

The image of a rider in black, tall on a gleaming black steed, grew in her mind.

“Yeah. You’ll get your oil—if I can find it.” She closed the pouch, buried it deep in her ruck, and drew out the Enfield over-and-under. She lifted the power pack, studied its cable, and plugged it into the stock. The gauge twitched and moved up.

“Perfect!”

“Careful,” warned Edward. “That discharge can damage mech.”

“That’s why they made it, right? Stun man or machine.” She swung the barrel to point at the warhorse. “So, last question: you and Reginald were mates? Got along?”

“Certainly; a real camaraderie.”

“So, he’d have no reason to shoot you, eh?”

Edward was silent.

“Like maybe he was hurt, and you were just gonna trot off and leave him?”

The black eye smoldered red. “Never.”

“Could have stunned you. Seems like Reggie didn’t want you getting up again.”

Edward stared at her a moment, then said, “Don’t forget my oil.”

*     *     *
“You go scavenging way out here?” Lucky, sweating profusely, trailed after his guide, burdened by his tools and supplies.

Looby made no reply, having tired of the blacksmith’s whinging during the morning’s trek.

“Usually camp overnight instead of out-and-back in one day,” she replied.

“That’s a new look for you,” he remarked.

“You mean, cleaned up?” She glowered at him. “Sod off.”

Looby secretly gloated over the new jodhpurs, knee boots, and blouse. She hadn’t styled her hair, but it was trimmed of tangles and washed. It had dried into natural tight curls, blue-black, now tucked under her last indulgence, a cabbage-palm hat.

When they reached the warhorse, Edward lifted its black head and stared at the new face.

“Edward, this is Lucky.” Looby paused, waiting for a response, then continued, “Lucky—I mean, Iluka—this is Edward.”

The blacksmith waited, eyebrows raised.

“Say hello, Edward.”

The warhorse merely snorted and lay back down.

Looby said, “Guess he’s not going to talk to you.”

“Shy, huh.” Lucky took off his pack and dumped its contents out next to the mech with a clatter. He lifted the repaired foreleg, turning it side to side.

“See?” said Looby. “All better.”

Lucky flexed the joint, testing the action of the intricate artificial tendons. He aligned it with the shoulder and set about re-attaching it.

Looby paced the area, keeping an eye out for intruders. Lucky had, in her opinion, made far too much noise on the walk.

“There.” Lucky sat back and considered his work. “Now or never. Think we can get him onto—”

The blacksmith stumbled back as the mech rolled onto its breastbone. The forelegs folded beneath, the mech swung back its great head, straightened its legs, and lifted its breast from the grass and into the air.

“Crikey!” the blacksmith exclaimed, as the warhorse threw its head forward and reared up to its full height. “He’s a big ’un...”

Edward shivered, tossed its head, and whinnied. The mech took a tentative step on the recently repaired leg, and then another.

Looby moved to intercept it. “Now remember our deal, Edward…”

The great head dipped towards hers.

“That’s right—you’re a smart one—you haven’t got your oil! But first…I didn’t see your tack lying around last visit, so I had to make do.”

Looby shook out a saddle blanket with leather straps, which she tossed high over the stallion’s back with a little hop, then cinched around its belly.

“You were built with a saddle shape and pommel, so…” she slipped a halter over the mech’s head, handing the reins to Lucky.

“Now, that oil…” She lifted out two tins. “This wasn’t cheap.”

“That’s not good for lubrication,” Lucky said, sniffing as she opened a can.

“Well, it’s what Edward wants,” she retorted, “and that’s the deal.”

The warhorse opened its mouth and tilted its head towards her, revealing a filler leading down its throat.

“See? Now, where’s that funnel?”

Lucky handed it over, shaking his head. “I dunno…”

Looby aligned the cone with the opening and began pouring the liquid.

“Hold still now,” she muttered, and drained the can’s pungent contents.

“More?”

Edward nodded.

Lucky opened the second can and passed it over.

“Got a grip on them reins?” Looby asked in a low voice.

Lucky nodded.

Looby repeated the operation, tapping the can to drain the last of it. She stepped back.

“Are we good?”

The mech nodded.

“Time for a ride, then,” Looby said. “Feel up for it?”

Edward whinnied and stamped its repaired foot.

“Both of us?” Lucky asked. “Not too much for you?”

The warhorse snorted with what Looby suspected was derision.

“Great,” Lucky said, reaching up. “I’ll—”

“Not likely!” Looby grabbed the reins from him and reached high to grasp the pommel. “I ride in front—you can sit behind me.”

Lucky grinned. “Sure.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Looby said. “Give me a boost.”

He linked his fingers and she set her left foot in them, swinging her right leg over as the smithy heaved her up. Looby squealed in pleasure and said, “This is high!”

Lucky slung his pack up and willingly accepted her assist, settling in behind her.

Looby squirmed a bit, unused to the familiarity, and said, “Let’s go, horsie.”

*     *     *
The ride back was as exhilarating as Looby had dreamed. Despite Lucky’s fretting, they walked, then cantered, then galloped. The party backtracked to the Yarra River, then followed it southwest.

Coming from Hobson Bay, the British warships had sailed up the river into the center of the city, bombarding it. The desperate defenders had relied upon their ingenuity and several small fire ships to overcome the attackers; now, the burnt-out hulks of the British frigates lay aground.

By late afternoon, the trio had reached the outskirts of Melbourne, where they tarried until sundown. Taking some of the lesser streets recently cleared of debris, they dismounted and led the warhorse to the smithy. Cloaked in the twilight gloom, the mech could be mistaken for an animal. They concealed the warhorse for the night in the stable there.

“I’d stay here,” said Looby, “but I got to make a stop at home before we go to Court in the morning.”

“Court?” asked Lucky.

“To get what’s mine.”

“We’re heading to the Court like this?” Lucky asked.

“Not quite,” Looby replied. With that, she left for her Melba squat.

At daybreak Looby returned with a bulging ruck. Lucky sat waiting in the stable by Edward. He looked up.

“Still not talking.” He stood. “But I can almost figure it out, how to make mech talk.”

“Never mind.” She passed the ruck to Lucky as she inspected Edward. “We have to go.”

He peered inside. “Louisa! Why have you got the gun—”

“Shh!” She heaved herself back into the saddle.

“Shall I store it in the smithy?”

“Give it here!” Looby waved for her sack, and Lucky reluctantly passed it up before climbing on behind her.

“Told you,” she said, “I’m gonna get back what’s mine.”

Aside from street urchins scrabbling about the rubble that had been the bustling riverfront, there were none to mark their passing. In daylight, the massive warhorse was unmistakably mech, and would draw attention, but the revelation was inevitable. They headed north, away from the destruction, towards the complex of the Supreme Court and gaol, which had escaped serious damage in the Battle of Melbourne.

“Now wait,” said Lucky, “you’re not plannin’ some sort of gaolbreak?”

Before she could answer, the warhorse turned and headed off the direct route she had chosen.

“Hey! Edward!” Looby cried. “Stop—whoa, horsie!”

“What’s it doin’?”

“Don’t bellow in my ear!” she said over her shoulder, then bent to the mech’s ear.

“Edward, I want to go to Court…”

She trailed off, noting their destination: the makeshift City Hall. The warhorse stopped before the municipal offices that occupied a requisitioned three-story hotel.

“Why are we here?” Lucky asked.

Just then Jenkins rounded the far corner, on his way to his office, and stopped short upon seeing them. After a flicker of surprise, his expression became guarded.

“What are you doing here?” the councilor demanded in a low menacing voice.

The question would not have been surprising, save for the fact that he addressed not the riders, but their mount.

Looby suddenly saw the pattern. “You know why.”

“That thing is dangerous,” Jenkins declared, wagging a fat finger at Edward.

“You would know, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s not to be trusted!”

Lucky, behind her, asked, “What does he mean?”

But Looby could see it all, now: her father, in gaol, at Jenkins’s insistence; the councilor’s recognition of the warhorse; the empty pouch. “Because you made a deal, didn’t you?”

She fumbled in her ruck and gripped the stock of the Enfield she had loaded the night before. Lucky, seeing what she was about, caught her wrist in an iron grip.

“Don’t!” he whispered. “Shoot him and you’ll swing for sure!”

He released her as a tremor went through the mech warhorse. The riders felt it through their thighs, a vibration in Edward’s torso, building.

Lucky said, “What’s that shakin’?”

“Better ’fess up, Lord High Councilor,” she continued, “’cause the mech knows, too.”

“You can’t threaten me. What are you? Nothing!” Jenkins laughed. “Half-Shelah, half-boong—”

The riders were nearly unbalanced as the warhorse reared, tossed its head, and snorted. With a cough, it sprayed an acrid liquid that drenched the bureaucrat. A clicking noise came from the metal muzzle, which in moments began to glow. Edward’s great head turned to the side.

“What the Devil!” Jenkins spluttered.

The warhorse inhaled through its dilated nostrils. A gout of orange flame erupted from its mouth with a roar, missing Jenkins by a mere foot. As suddenly as it appeared the flames vanished, leaving only a burnt stench in the air to fill the shocked silence.

Lucky gasped. “Crickey—the bugger breathes fire.”

“Hey Jenkins—anything to say?” asked Looby. “The horsie has a mind to toast you, and I doubt I could stop it.”

Edward stamped and chuffed, the orange glow simmering around its muzzle. Jenkins frantically shook his arms, trying to rid himself of the oil that coated him.

“You’ll go up like a martyr in old Rome,” Looby promised. “You really should talk.”

Jenkins, eyes wide, raised his eyes to the girl. “I helped the Brits—I shared how we laid mines in the Yarra, the safe route.”

“And my father?” demanded Looby, clutching the pommel to stifle her rage.

“Innocent. I…planted papers in his kit.” He backed away, towards the building entrance.

“Why would you do this?”

“To incriminate him, of course.” He smiled as he reached the shelter of the stone building. “No one will believe you, girl—you’ll join your father in gaol for threatening me!”

Jenkins turned to seek the safety of the offices—and ran straight into the Mayor.

The latter was literally the immovable object in Melbourne politics: six foot six, just shy of fifteen stone, and never reluctant to throw his weight around to influence, support, and defend his people.

“Careful, Councilor.” His appraising glance traveled from Jenkins to the warhorse. “Quite the prize you’ve got there, Miss…”

“O’Leary, sir; Louisa O’Leary.”

The Mayor nodded, wrapping an expansive arm around the Councilor’s shoulders. “You reek, sir.”

“Confession is good for the soul, Mr. Jenkins,” said Looby.

“Shut up, you…Looby.” The councilman said to the Mayor. “I never—”

“Don’t bother, sir,” said the Mayor. “I heard everything.”

He considered the girl. “What did he call you? Looby…O’Lubaigh? Child of the traitor?”

The Mayor turned on the councilor, grim-faced. “This injustice ends now.”

Several assistants had drifted out, drawn by the flaming demonstration. “Hold him for questioning—the charge is treason,” the Mayor ordered, “and call the Chief Constable. I will be seeking an audience with the High Justice concerning a case of false imprisonment.”

Jenkins was removed to await justice.

“Your friend can mind your mech while we confer with the Court, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.” Louisa was glad that Edward had suggested some personal grooming. “And thank you.”

“The Federation needs young people who believe in the pursuit of justice; it’s why we fought this war.” He nodded at Lucky. “Justice for all.”

*     *     *
The reunion was joyous but short-lived. “Pa wants to work with the new Parliament, for the Federation,” Louisa explained, heaving a set of saddlebags high to clear Edward’s back.

“And you’re just leavin’?” Lucky asked.

“He’d just want me to wear dresses and go to school.”

“It wouldn’t hurt…”

“I guess not.” Looby cinched the straps of her gear and straightened her hat, searching for words. “It’s the stuff and nonsense that comes along with it.”

“So, this wasn’t about getting your life with your Pa back.”

“No; I reckon it wasn’t. I’ll be back, but I’ve got sights to see…people to find.”

He kicked at the dust. “You got your water? Your grub? Your—”

She said, “You’re disappointed I’m leaving.”

The blacksmith swallowed. “Yeah. I’ll miss you.”

Louisa grinned. “I’d be a lousy homemaker, always runnin’ off to the bush.”

She stepped forward and embraced him, to his surprise.

“Those stories you told me; the places you talked about—I have to see for myself. Perhaps my mother is out there.”

Louisa released him. “Besides, horsie here has to stay out of sight for a while.”

Lucky stepped around to face the mech.

“That was a neat trick, breathin’ fire.” He ran a hand around the cold metal muzzle.

The warhorse nodded its great head. “It was, wasn’t it?”

Lucky jerked his hand away. “You do talk!” He gawped at Edward. “How?”

The mech snorted with a compressor wheeze. “Can you explain how you talk?” He gave his wiry mane a shake. “If you call that the King’s speech.”

Louisa joined her friend and addressed the warhorse. “No more King—or Queen.”

“You know,” she continued, “I’ve been thinking…about that empty pouch. A smart horsie like you…”

“Yes?” Edward prompted.

“Reginald wasn’t the courier; you were.”

Edward bent a knee in a fair parody of a bow. “At your service.”

“And Jenkins shot your officer, then used his gun on you.”

“To stop me from sharing any secrets. One in particular—the identity of the traitor inside the rebel—”

“Federation,” Lucky corrected.

“—organization. Fortunately, his only shot missed my head. Two shots would have spoiled the lie.”

“And you couldn’t run for help.”

“Precisely. We talked, Reginald and I, before he died, and I made a promise, that his murderer would be brought to justice.”

Edward cocked his head at Lucky. “Fine work, on my leg, Master Blacksmith.”

Lucky frowned. “I ain’t a Master yet. And the owner will probably sell off the shop. Then I’ll be out.”

“It’s not fair!” Louisa said.

“About that,” the warhorse said. “One last secret. Reginald was the paymaster for the informants. We were on our way to his treasure chest when Jenkins attacked.”

“Treasure?”

“More than enough to buy your shop, I believe.” Edward nodded to the distance. “Beyond where you found me, another mile or so. Look for the tallest mountain ash; nearby is a dead tree with a trunk split by lightning. It’s buried there.”

Lucky was speechless. Louisa clapped him on the back. “Master Iluka …"

Edward turned his darkly glowing eye on her. “Where shall we go, rider?”