Sparks kindled along the worn tracks as the electric coach whisked Kritzinger and Dorothea across the ocean moat to the fortress's sister isle. Dorothea watched a company of soldiers perform group exercises on a vacant quadrangle, their commander barking orders at them. Another company jogged around the perimeter in tight formation. Several planes buzzed overhead, invisible to those below.

The electric coach took them past the courtyard and open hangers to the centre of the island, where they alighted outside an enormous, partially domed building with overlapping walls of corrugated iron. To Dorothea, it resembled an iron armadillo. She imagined that, had buildings faces, the expression on this one would be dark and brooding and more than a little foul-tempered.

Kritzinger led Dorothea through the front of the building, down a drab corridor of slate and cast iron panelling, deep into its charmless interior. The corridor ended abruptly at a large bronze wall, before which two Commission soldiers were sitting at a small table playing cards.

The men snapped to their feet, saluting Kritzinger as he approached. The typical attire of a Commission soldier consisted of a long, green, double-breasted trench coat with shoulder straps and a matching button-down bib. The coat was bound at the waist with a black belt, worn over green trousers that were tucked snugly into a pair of tall, black trench boots. Strapped to every chin was a pointed green helmet with the crest of the Commission emblazoned on the front.

At the end of the corridor was a wall-like, heavy door, strange to Dorothea's eyes. Its lofty dimensions were framed by a complicated profundity of cogs and levers, not unlike the workings of a watch.

"Gentlemen," Kritzinger said, gesturing at the large door, "if you would be so kind."

"Sir." One of the guards took a silver card covered in tiny holes from his pocket and inserted it into a slotted apparatus mounted alongside the door. A series of audible clicks was followed by movement as the mass of exposed clockwork mechanisms in the doorframe started to crank and turn, undoing bolts and seals. The hefty door slid open on hinges that groaned with the unfamiliar effort, and a wet earthen scent filled Dorothea's nose, reminding her of her garden, of home and her grandfather. It was like an unexpected hug from a parent or the solace of a familiar bed. The feeling crept up from her stomach to her throat, a palpable tickling sensation.

Beyond the door's thick threshold was a platform overlooking a cavernous expanse, as large and quiet as a cathedral. Fingers of light arched through a shuttered skylight and a giant ventilation fan turned slowly in the wall at the far end. However, nothing else inside compared to the wonder of what lay across the vault's floor.

It looked to be about fifteen feet long and made entirely of clay. Flat on its back, it had suffered many amputations – a severed arm rested on a workbench nearby, with three of its five fingers missing. Its legs stood propped up against one wall, and rectangular portions of its chest had been carved out in even slices, leaving little more than half of its hollow torso intact. Swirling lines were etched all over its body.

The giant's head had a hole for one eye and a slit for the other. A lateral opening for its mouth revealed a yawning darkness that suggested the head was as devoid of insides as the torso.

Kritzinger descended the platform stairs.

"Come down," he urged, as he approached the dissected giant. "I promise you there's nothing to fear."

Gingerly, Dorothea inched down until she stood at his side, leaving the two guards hovering on the platform above. She studied it curiously, trying to envision her reaction should she encounter such a creation, were it alive, and knew it would be fear. But the way it looked now, the lifeless oversized victim of some cruel surgery, Dorothea felt a strange sort of pity for the giant, an unaccountable sadness at the state it now found itself. She reached out and touched the symbol pressed into what remained of its chest, charily tracing its delineations with her fingertips.

"The emblem of the Order of Argil," Kritzinger said, in answer to her unspoken question. "You know the legend of the Golem City, yes?"

Dorothea nodded.

"My grandfather used to tell it to me. But that was just a story."

"We thought the same, until fate saw fit to suggest otherwise. Long ago, the original capital of Davishna was laid to waste by a great and terrible earthquake. Even after four centuries, excavating the site is a perilous thing, but there are people who persist, seeking lost treasures." Kritzinger nodded at the clay giant. "It was through them that we acquired this particular curio. Few know we have it. Fewer have seen it."

Startled, Dorothea stared at Kritzinger. Was he telling her that this creature was the legendary golem dating back centuries that she had heard so much about? Surely that was impossible.

"The legend was that the mystic took the golem back, once the war was over," she reminded him.

"What he took back was the spirit that had inhabited the golem, meaning the parchment on which its name was written. Without that, it was nothing but a lump of clay, a harmless memento the Davishnans lost centuries ago to the quake. It was only when this was discovered that the Commission realised the Golem City and the legend of the golem and the spirits that give them life might well be real."

As Kritzinger spoke, he stepped carefully around the golem, towards the far end of the room.

"And the evidence mounts," he continued, dramatically unveiling the very winged railcar that had whisked Dorothea and Turner through Yarnsford earlier that day, its serrated beak as sharp as ever, although its wheels looked a little worse for wear.

Kritzinger touched the corner of the cart.

"In my search for answers, I discovered that the spirits retain the knowledge of those who bring them into being. Since no human was involved in the construction of the Golem City, its whereabouts would only be known to its founder and the golem he commanded. It was with considerable difficulty that I found the name of that fabled mystic, his full name, thought lost to this world's turbulent history, contributing to the doubt of his very existence: Corrin Fermat Dovetail."

"Dovetail?"

"Now do you understand?" Kritzinger removed the parchment he had tucked into his pocket. "I believe the reason your grandfather had this, and why you have it now, is because Corrin Dovetail left a spirit to be passed on by his descendants."

"Why?"

"Maybe, so they could recover Corrin Dovetail's legacy, the day they deemed humanity read to receive it."

"My grandfather never told me any of this."

"If his passing was sudden, maybe he never had the chance."

Dorothea looked at him uncertainly. She remembered the events of the previous evening, but she still remained unsure as to who was and wasn't her enemy. Her eyes searched him. Could she trust him? Was he, as he professed, truly concerned with her welfare? Or was she merely the means to an end?

"It is not my intention to frighten you," Kritzinger said, "but there are others who know of you. I am unsure who they are, but they are willing to go to great lengths to take you from us. You saw proof of this last night. It is the Commission's desire to take this burden from your shoulders, as well as guard it from those who would misuse it. It is our wish also to keep you safe, if you will let us."

Dorothea appreciated the fact that, if what Kritzinger said was true, leaving the city in the Commission's hands was undoubtedly the right thing to do. She felt woefully inadequate to be a guardian of one of the world's greatest and potentially most dangerous treasures. However, doubt persisted. Clearly her grandfather must have felt her capable to keep it. Then again, she acknowledged, who else was there to leave it to but her?

"Is this where you draw your intelligence from, Kritzinger," asked a mordant voice, its deep timbre echoing throughout the vault. "The mouths of children? That would explain your enduring interest in tales of lost cities and magic."

Down from the platform stepped a man as tall as Kritzinger and so powerfully built as to make Travis Hullin appear slight by comparison. He had a square-shaped face, cropped black hair, and a trim beard as white as fresh winter snow that covered his long jaw. There was nothing kind or gentle looking about the man, particularly the scornful way he looked at Dorothea, his tone scathing. He wore a green, double-breasted army uniform decorated with an impressive parade of medals above his right breast pocket, beneath a heavy green overcoat with padded shoulders, heavily embroidered, with gold chains crossing his broad chest. Two other soldiers followed him into the vault, machine guns of polished silver slung over their cloaked backs.

"This is a high-security area, General Balsa," Kritzinger replied with barely concealed irritation. "Shouldn't your men be waiting outside?"

"I was about to ask the same about the adolescent."

The mutual disregard the two men bore each other blanketed the vault like sweltering storm clouds. Their grudging tolerance did not appear to be of their own choosing.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, General?" Kritzinger asked, drawing out the word 'pleasure' as if unwilling to be mistaken for being in any way sincere.

General Balsa bestowed on him a sharklike smile.

"This fortress is a major military installation of strong strategic value," he said, his eyes flickering over the contents of the vault. "I am here to assume command of it."

"The military has no jurisdiction here," asserted Kritzinger. "This is a private initiative under the direct oversight of the Secretariat."

"Of course, we are all beholden to the Secretariat," Balsa said. "It was they who requested I assume command."

Kritzinger hesitated.

"The Secretariat did?"

"They have grown concerned over how much they have invested in this project, and the gross lack of return you have provided them." The general spoke the words with relish.

"I have witnesses who can testify to the value of my work," Kritzinger protested. "What my people saw aboard the ship last night—"

The general gave a sharp bark, the closest he ever came to expressing amusement.

"I've heard the rumours. Do you really expect me to believe the testimony of a handful of battle-worn men with gas-blasted eyes concerning what they think they saw out on the ocean in the pitch of night?"

Kritzinger winced as Balsa planted a boot on the golem's clay arm, as if to crush it like an unsavoury insect.

"I applaud you for having been able to convince the Secretariat to believe that this was the golem that saved Davishna five hundred years ago. The invincible titan of legend," Balsa scoffed. He took a clay plate from the stack of excised parts, examined it cursorily, and then tossed it on the floor where it shattered into myriad countless pieces. "Personally, I have my doubts."

Kritzinger's face flushed an angry red.

"The Secretariat approached me," he said squarely, making an effort to control his rage at the man's deliberate disrespect. "Why do you challenge me on this?"

"You have become a joke, Kritzinger, a very bad joke, and, worse still, at the Commission's expense. All you have to show for your supposed efforts is a complete lack of results, an ever-growing list of expenses." Balsa waved his hand about. "And a room full of what I can only describe as some man's poor idea of art." Balsa looked at the cart in the corner and sneered. Balsa ran his hand over the cart in the corner and sneered. "His very poor idea of it." Using a handkerchief, he wiped the accumulated filth off each of his fingers. "Your reasoning is grounded in the worst kind of hearsay, and I have come to remedy the situation by putting an end to this absurd waste of wherewithal."

"Everything I have done has been in the interest of the Commission—"

"Really?" Balsa grabbed Dorothea by her chin and hauled her up onto her toes. His crushing grip brought tears to her eyes. She struggled to free herself, but this only prompted him to squeeze her jaw harder. The pain was excruciating.

"General, stop!" Kritzinger moved towards the general, one hand gripping his cane, but one of Balsa's men stepped between Kritzinger and the general, gun drawn, his eyes locked on Kritzinger. The other hovered somewhere behind Kritzinger, out of his field of vision.

"Tell me, Kritzinger," Balsa hissed, his face so close to Dorothea's that she could feel the heat emanating from it. "How do you serve the Commission by dragging this child here? Or must I cut her up like you did this monstrosity to find my answers?"

"There's no need for that," Kritzinger answered, holding up the parchment. "All the proof you need is right here."

Balsa released his hold on Dorothea, and she staggered, trembling from the assault, massaging her pain-filled jaw. She had never been handled in such a way in her life.

Balsa snatched the paper from Kritzinger's fingers and examined it sceptically.

Kritzinger stepped between Balsa and Dorothea, who looked up at him, confused by his concern for her welfare.

"What is this chicken scratch?"

"It is the heart of a golem. It is what gives it life."

"This is your proof?" Balsa snorted, albeit with an intrigued glint in his eye. "If you really believe that, then how about a demonstration? Something to inspire some much needed faith?" He jabbed the clay giant with his boot heel. "Resurrect this relic. Show me it can be done. Make me believe."

"I need a little more time," Kritzinger protested, alarmed, "in order to arrange a more fitting demonstration. Look at it – it's not even intact. It's in pieces."

"It is only out of curiosity that I extend to you this courtesy, Kritzinger. You will show me proof." A sly expression crept over his face. "Or would you rather I left you to the less than tender mercies of the Secretariat?"

"I merely meant that there are still many things about the golem we are uncertain of, let alone understand. Should such an attempt work and something go wrong—"

"Should such an attempt work," Balsa parroted, his speech rich with contempt, "you would have your much-needed proof, yes? And if something goes wrong, we'll see just how invincible your golem really is."

General Balsa's men cocked their machine guns.

Dorothea glanced between Kritzinger and the general in alarm before staring back down at the dissected clay form. Was Kritzinger right? Did the paper her grandfather entrusted to her to keep her safe really hold such power as to bring a clay sculpture to life? She felt her skin prickle in anticipation.

"There is no risk here, Kritzinger," the general sneered. "None, that is, other than the repercussions, should your theory turn out to be nonsense. I, for one, can't wait to get started."

Balsa turned to the two guards at attention on the platform above.

"Leave. Seal the door behind you." He jerked his thumb at the telephone by the door. "We'll call when we're finished."

They obediently retreated. One of the guards removed the card from the slot by the door and the hefty barrier swung closed, sealing Dorothea, Kritzinger, the general, and his two soldiers inside.

Leaning against the wall, Balsa watched, amused, as Kritzinger retrieved the paper from his pocket. He folded it back into its original compact shape and hesitated. With a quick, jerky motion, he inserted it into the golem's mouth and gingerly stepped back.

"Now," Kritzinger commanded, sounding uncomfortably like a carnival magician, "rise!"

Every eye in the room was fixed intently on the golem. Even Balsa had traded his sneer for a look of intense scrutiny. A minute passed but the golem remained motionless.

"Rise!" Kritzinger ordered, louder this time, a hint of desperation leaking into his voice.

Several minutes went by in silence as they stared at the inert creature. Balsa shook his head in feigned sympathy and gestured for his men to stand at ease.

Dorothea could sense Kritzinger's disappointment, even if she couldn't read it in his pale face.

"Well this is surely one for the annals of the esoteric," Balsa snorted. "Quick! A pen so I might write to the Secretariat to let them know they haven't been pissing their money away." Balsa's expression hardened. "What were you expecting? That the thing would sit up and point the way to the magic city? This isn't a fairy tale, Kritzinger. It's time to face reality."

"General, I think I might know what—"

"Enough."

"General, please—"

"Enough, Kritzinger!" roared Balsa. His bark made Dorothea wince. "You've had your chance. That senseless scrawl didn't make your relic any more special than the baked filth it's made of. The next time you want to bring something to life in a tub of clay, buy a flowerpot. In the meantime, I'm putting an end to this ridiculous farce. You, your people, and this facility are now under my command, until such time as you are all reassigned." Balsa turned to his men. "Take the girl to the under-cells."

"The under-cells are no place for a child," Kritzinger protested. "We have her quartered in a guest room in the south tower."

Balsa looked incredulous.

"She resisted being taken into custody, yet you afford her such luxury?"

"She's not a criminal, General, and I see no reason to start treating her as such."

Balsa gave Kritzinger a hard look. Kritzinger met his gaze without flinching.

"Fine," the general barked. "Take the girl back to her room for now. I'll decide what to do with her in the morning."