LEGACY RISING Read Online Free PDF

her arms tightly crossed was Dyna Logan, media personality, unmoving and unspeaking in an elaborately feathered hat.
    I should’ve figured, Legacy thought. Liam was always first and foremost an employee. Wish he didn’t have to be here to hear this, but oh well.
                  She scanned for Dax, too; this was the kind of thing he might care about, but she couldn’t see him. Of course, the room was full of people, most of them seated, but it didn’t look like he was here. If anyone could recognize Dax from a glimpse of his shoulder or the back of his head, it was her.
    Trying her best to be subtle, Legacy crept toward an open seat in the back and took it.
                  “Number thirty-six,” the hawk-nosed gent from the screening tent called. Now he was stationed behind some other official table, off to the left of the duke’s podium.
                  Number thirty-six? They must’ve started early. Legacy’s brow knit with disapproval at the deception. Either that, or lots of people mysteriously left after standing in line for hours just for the chance to do this.
                  Number Thirty-Six was a man, middle-aged, somewhere in the nebula of Mr. and Mrs. Legacy’s generation. He was also, unlike Mr. and Mrs. Legacy, impeccably dressed in a stream-lined, silken tuxedo, pearlescent gray slacks, new spats, and top hat. He stood, and only then did he pull the top hat from off his dark, thinning hair. Legacy couldn’t see his face, but she was willing to bet that he wore a slight, sagging smile to perfectly mirror the duke’s. That was how it went, she’d heard. They were all alike up at the top.
    But when the man spoke, his nervous tone and lack of etiquette seemed to belie the generalization. “Excuse me, Mr. Duke— I mean, Duke Taliko of Icarus, sir,” the man quickly amended, bowing slightly as his gloves nervously inched along the brim of his top hat.
                  The duke and his hawk-nosed assistant made eye contact, and something passed between them: a series of imperceptible nods, validating that this was, in fact, Number Thirty-Six, and his question had been pre-approved, its answer pre-written and likely folded neatly on the podium.
                  “I have a question regarding the availability and origin of a certain fine product, and I’m sorry if this seems . . . minor, but I’ve asked everyone of knowledge I feel may help, and I am afraid no one has the answer.”
                  Duke Taliko offered his withered, obliging smile. “Yes, go on.”
                  “Well, I came across an item of great worth and have found myself a touch fascinated,” Number Thirty-Six confessed. He giggled nervously, then cut his own laugh short. “I’ve been led to believe that it is one of a kind; however, the proprietor of an antiques outlet in Celestine seemed to recognize that to which I was referring. He said he had seen it before, too, and in truth, the thing is—the thing—”
                  The hawk-nosed assistant was making a gesture to hurry it along. Number Thirty-Six cleared his throat.
                  “The item is composed of a most delicate material which yet seemed durable, and with which I have been able to patch holes and clean wounds,” he went on quickly. “I apologize again. My question to you, Duke Taliko, in short, is this: are you aware of a fabric known as spider’s silk, and if so, is it possible that we may incorporate it into our textiles production?”
                  “Ah,” the duke replied thoughtfully. “The silk. Yes, I am aware of that fabric, but, in truth, it cannot be produced in our current situation. Though that in and of itself is a small shame, the city will continue to labor toward greatness. Our textiles industry is the strongest seen yet in the history of Icarus.”
                  “But—the