by Jim Butcher
Fortunately, I had access to Charity Carpenter, who had been patching up her husband and his idiot friends for years. So, in addition to my cast, I got stitches in several places, a painful shoulder relocation I didn’t know I needed, a bunch of bandages, a shoulder wrap, elbow wraps, wrist wraps, knee wraps, ankle wraps, a couple of two-gallon bags of ice for my knees, and Tiger Balm.
(Which not even the Winter Knight can ignore when it gets in a cut, it turns out, and which is one ingredient and a little will away from being an excellent ointment against fae glamour, if you can keep your eyes open. Seriously, that stuff is borderline magical off the shelf.)
By the time the needs of my body had been seen to as best as possible, I looked and felt like a mummy, wrapped and way too herbal scented, dried out and too stiff to move when I finally crashed into the bed in the Carpenters’ (original) guest room. They had some extras now. I think I slept for about a day. I remember eating ravenously a couple of times. And then I just lay there with my eyes closed for a long time, weeping silently. And I woke up holding a sleeping Maggie, with Mouse curled into his tiniest ball on the bottom two-thirds of the bed, on what I think was the second morning, and felt battered and exhausted and mostly human.
I made my daughter breakfast. And I did a lot of thinking.
Those first few days, when I moved around Chicago at all, I did it careful. Real careful. Like, having four full-grown werewolves with me or nearby at all times careful. I got out, got my bearings, and started moving.
Will and the Alphas came with me to the session of the first-ever Unseelie Accords Executive Ministry meeting. War with the Fomor had been declared by unanimous consent within the Accorded nations, and the Ministry was supposed to determine what to do about it, starting with dealing with the aftermath of the Battle of the Bean.
No one invited me to the Ministry meeting, in a private club in one of the gorgeous old stone buildings in Oldtown, so I did it myself. The place was hidden behind a web of veils and glamours so thick and intricate that it made me a little dizzy just sensing it. If I hadn’t known exactly where I was going and exactly what I was looking for, I’d have wandered right past the place.
When I came in, there was a waiting room where several people came to their feet—a Sidhe warrior from either Court, Miss Gard, a svartalf I didn’t recognize, and Freydis, who was covered with bumps and bruises and still-healing cuts and looked relaxed for the first time since I’d seen her.
“Easy, people,” I said. “I came to talk.”
They all eyed me warily, which was to say down the barrels of their guns. Except for Freydis, who kept reading her magazine and just looked amused.
Well. Granted I looked like ten miles of bad road in my battle-stained black leather duster. And my eyes were watery from the damned hurry-up Tiger Balm antiglamour ointment I’d whipped up to help find the place. And also I had four battle-hardened werewolves with me.
I guess I can see it.
I got out a cloth and wiped the ointment off my cheekbones, blinking more tears out of my eyes, while making uncomfortable noises. It’s difficult to be intimidating when you look ridiculous. By the time I was done and could see properly again, most of the guns were half-lowered.
“Gard,” I said. Whenever you’re facing a bunch of people, do whatever you can to face one person. It takes some of the psychological advantage of numbers away. “You know me. I need to speak to them.”
Gard lowered her weapon entirely, without holstering it. “The Ministry is meeting in closed session.”
I faced her and said, quietly and firmly, “I have earned the right to speak. By deed. Or none of us would be here.”
Gard stared at me for a long moment.
And the corner of her mouth twitched.
* * *
* * *
The Ministry had met in a ballroom big enough for a basketball game, its curtains drawn against any view from outside. The interior of the place had been filled with light so brilliant and omnipresent that shadows had nowhere to fall. There was no furniture in the place—just light and open flooring, and a circle of beings facing one another.
I closed the door behind me and limped forward into the light, squinting as my pupils got more of a workout than they’d had in a while. I suppose sunglasses would have defeated the point.
There were things out there that lived, and listened, in shadows.
I walked forward into shocked silence.
Marcone stood there, in his suit, looking unstained by recent events. Vadderung looked like an older, leaner version of approximately the same creature, a wolfhound standing beside a mastiff. Mab had adopted her corporate appearance for the meeting, apparently keeping in theme with the pair of them, and Etri’s sister, Evanna, had kept up the motif. Beside her, Lara Raith was as stunning in a white suit as she was in nothing at all, while Sarissa, the Summer Lady, had gone office casual in laconic defiance of the trend.
And the Archive stood there, slightly to one side, not quite part of the circle. She’d collected a number of cuts from flying bits of debris, probably, and her nose had been broken rather badly. Black rings had spread around the base of her eyes.
I walked around the circle to Mab’s right hand.
The Queen of Air and Darkness gave me a peeved look.
I stared back at her, willing her to get it.
And so help me, she just looked at me and did. Her expression became very serious, and she nodded firmly, once, twitching one finger and somehow conveying that I was to wait.
“Please pardon the disruption. Mistress Archive, continue the report.”
The Archive nodded once and flicked a hand at the air. There was a shimmer, and a television screen appeared there, a news report that I suppose had been inevitable, even if the ongoing loss of power meant that we hadn’t had the chance to see it yet.
It was helicopter footage, along Chicago’s waterfront. It showed the destruction in graphic detail. Basically the Bean reflected the lakeshore now, a wide swath of pulverized bits of former city. I could imagine the magazine covers. Or the thumbnail images. Whatever.
The chyron running at the bottom of the screen read: AFTERMATH OF MAJOR TERRORIST ATTACK IN CHICAGO. WIDESPREAD CHEMICAL WEAPONS AND POSSIBLE WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION USED. AS MANY AS 20,000 DEAD. PRESIDENT DECLARES STATE OF NATIONAL EMERGENCY.
Hell’s bells.
“In aggregate,” the Archive said, speaking with a little more Stallone than one would have expected out of a teenage girl, “the coverage of the event would strongly indicate that the mortal powers that be have decided to obfuscate.”
“Optimistic,” Vadderung murmured.
“Gaslighting eight million people?” Lara asked. “They’ve done that by breakfast each morning.” She glanced over at me and gave me a faintly quizzical look and a dip of her chin. “The military is controlling traffic in and out of the city. Power, communications, and humanitarian aid are funneled in through them. The official version of events will have a very large lead and a much louder voice than any truth tellers who may come along, and the disruptive effects of the Eye make it unlikely that any photographic or video evidence was obtained. Add in a fictional toxin which caused hallucinations, possibly long-term and recurring, in those exposed to it and they’ll be able to muddle things thoroughly.”
“Not within the city,” Marcone said. “They’re building a psychological wall around the place. That will unify those held prisoner by it in a way that would not otherwise be possible.”
“Meaning what, precisely?” Mab asked.
“Meaning that the human factor will be . . . greatly intensified, within the city,” Marcone said. “Uncertainty and insecurity will cause people to gravitate toward the security offered by group identity and support. People are, frankly, terrified. That’s going to cause them to cling to the veneer of normality. By day.” He shook his head. “By
night, expect them to acquire arms. Expect them to become wiser and more dangerous. Expect some of them to make bargains with the powers they’ve been exposed to. And expect others to hunt anything they perceive as supernatural through the streets in packs. And that’s a best-case scenario.”
My stomach twisted.
I mean, he was right. Everything he was saying was exactly accurate.
And yet . . . also wrong.
Yeah, darkness could make things really, really bad. Frightened people in large groups rarely acted wisely.
But sometimes that foolishness came out as kindness and compassion, when there was every reason to look out only for yourself. Sometimes it came out as irrational courage in the face of overwhelming terror. Sometimes our madness leads us to choices that make us better and nobler and kinder than we were before.
People like Marcone made me think that everything is falling apart.
But people like Michael, like Murphy, like the brave men and women who had fought and died in defiance of what must have seemed like the world’s ending, make me think that maybe we’re falling forward. Like a child learning to walk. Sometimes we lurch and stumble. Sometimes we fall. And each time we learn. But each time we have to make up our minds to get up again, to take the next step.
So that one day we can walk with our heads held high.
The fight for Chicago had gotten started when Ethniu attacked. But it was far from over.
“Baron?” Mab asked. “Can you maintain a functioning society within the city?”
“No one could,” Marcone replied. “However, I judge that, for now, the city will have a strong self-interest in maintaining its current power structure. That gives me what I believe is the most practical available leverage of the direction of events within it.”
“Do you have control or not?” Mab asked.
“Does a man in a canoe have control over the rapids?” Marcone replied.
“But you believe they can be navigated?” Mab clarified.
“To the limit of my foresight, yes. That makes no allowance for federal interests, however. My reach there is more limited.”
Mab contemplated the reply and then nodded. She considered Lara. “Can you nullify their involvement?”
Lara thought for a moment before answering. “On the political level, there’s more profit to be gained from engagement than nullification. On the practical level, however . . . there’s no way to keep the Librarians out entirely now.”
“A complication,” Vadderung said, in the wry tone of a man engaging in understatement.
Lara grimaced.
“Who are these Librarians?” Evanna asked.
“The Library of Congress, Special Collections Division,” Lara provided. “Also known as the Librum Bellum. Men in Black.”
“Government agents,” Evanna noted. “What danger do they pose?”
“They’re the eyes and ears,” Lara said. “They’re smart, skilled, dedicated, professional, they’ve got several centuries of collective knowledge through the Masons, and they will absolutely be coming to learn whatever they can. They are extremely dangerous.”
“Assuming they haven’t been here in the city all along,” Vadderung pointed out mildly. “Perhaps they’ve already identified each of us.”
Lara winced. “Optimist.”
Vadderung’s mouth twitched at a corner.
The Summer Lady cleared her throat and glanced at Mab, who nodded. Sarissa turned her gaze along the circle as she said, “Make whatever preparations you wish. But the truth is out. And spreading. All of these stratagems, from the mortal authorities or from us, can only delay that.”
“Sweet Summer child,” Lara murmured wryly.
Mab held up a slender hand as if to forestall bickering. “We must prepare for as many futures as possible, not merely the ones we prefer. If we can slow the mortals’ collective hand from striking until we have dealt with the Fomor, then it is worthwhile to attempt. If nothing else, it lets us focus upon a single foe at a time.”
I felt myself freeze for a moment at that.
Humanity.
A foe.
I glanced around. Yeah. No wonder there wasn’t a representative from the White Council here. Like it or not, they were pretty much the spokespeople for humanity at large, within the Accorded nations. A lot of wizards had family in the mortal world, close ties to it. Martha Liberty was still close with members of an extended clan of whom she was the founding matriarch, down in New Orleans, for example.
And . . . well, even I had Maggie. Friends. It mattered to me. The environment those people existed in, their society, it mattered to me.
Sarissa looked a little disturbed. But other than that, I realized that there was no one else in this room for whom that was true.
Stars and stones.
Ramirez hadn’t been wrong.
I was working with monsters.
But I wasn’t them.
I leaned forward slightly, as if preparing to take a step, and Mab said, “Ladies and gentlemen, my Knight requests audience. In light of his recent service to the Accorded nations, I believe it right and proper to grant it. Will anyone here gainsay me?”
Marcone suddenly looked more alert.
I gave him a little smile. I didn’t quite blow him a kiss. But I let him know it was coming.
“This should be interesting,” Vadderung murmured.
Mab turned to me and nodded, tilting her head in toward the center of the circle.
I shambled forward into it and felt the gazes of very dangerous people upon me.
And for the first time, I didn’t have any of the weight of the White Council backing me up.
It was just me. That was intimidating.
But it also meant that I had me on my side. And I liked the way that felt.
Don’t fight all of them, Harry, I thought. Fight one of them.
And I turned to Marcone.
“The Summer and Winter Courts care about balance,” I said. “And what the Accorded nations have done to Chicago has created a terrible imbalance. More than just the political and military consequences of our conflicts, we have violated the spirit of laws so old that they have never been written down. We were guests in Chicago. And we brought our troubles to their home.”
An uneasy ripple went through some of those in the circle: Vadderung, Mab, Evanna, and Sarissa all stirred uneasily.
Lara and Marcone took careful note of that.
“Choices have consequences that ripple out in all directions,” I said quietly. “And our choices have hurt the people of this city. We can’t possibly scramble to minimize the consequences to our lives without acknowledging the debt we have incurred by inflicting our conflict upon them.”
I met Marcone’s eyes. “Our world isn’t supposed to cross with theirs, for the most part. And in return, they mostly ignore us. Now you say that the mortals are going to be sending eyes and ears in. Well, maybe it’d be smart for them to see some things.”
“What do you suggest?” Marcone asked.
“The Accorded nations provide humanitarian aid and assistance,” I said.
That got a reaction from everyone, from Vadderung’s eyebrow lift to Evanna’s incredulous sputter.
“I’m not saying make open diplomatic contact,” I said. “I’m saying we act. We help. Indirectly, in secret. If they’re looking, they’ll see what you’re doing. Let them see us do what we can to balance the scales. Ethniu’s attack changed everything. It was too big, too loud. They’ve seen us. And we’d better show them from the get-go that we aren’t trying to murder them all. Because we made a bad first impression. And because it’s smart. And because it’s right.” I met Marcone’s eyes. “I called, and men and women of this city answered. They followed me. They fought. And I felt them die.”
Something flickered in Marcone’s
face.
His chin moved in the faintest vertical tilt of acknowledgment.
I dropped my voice to something that was just between me and Marcone. “We owe them more than just washing our hands of the mess. And you’re going to make a fortune rebuilding things anyway.”
Marcone’s eyes flickered with amusement, acknowledging the truth of my point.
“The Accords,” he said, carefully, “are not a charitable organization.”
“Nor are we beggars, unable to pay our debts,” Mab answered. “My Knight makes a fine point: Our fight did them harm. They had to choose to shed their blood in defense. Innocents were slain. Value lost. Specifics can be argued, but the direction of the debt is clear.” Her head swiveled to me. “What recompense do you recommend?”
“The money stuff, they’ve got insurance and things for. There are economic safety nets everywhere. It’s the people we need to take care of. Anyone injured in the attack, we pay for it. Whatever they need, healing of the body or mind. We pay to bury the dead. And we pay a weregild to the survivors of anyone slain. I don’t care if they find buried gold or get a mysterious winning lottery ticket or what, but we owe them a debt for something priceless. And we owe them the gesture of helping to make their future more secure after what we took from them. And there’s a man in this room who can get down everyone’s freaking chimneys every year if he has to, so don’t tell me that there isn’t power to make it happen.”
“These numbers are very large,” Mab noted.
“Our debt,” I said, “is larger. Ask any child of the men and women who died.”
Mab looked faintly troubled at the thought.
“The Accords,” she said, “provide for reparations to damaged parties. This business of guest-right disturbs me greatly and demands care and respect. Making right the damages wrought upon the mortals seems meet to me—with the understanding that we will apply the resources expended for such repayment to the debt of those ultimately responsible, namely, the Fomor, once our conflict with them has been resolved.”