The Hanged Man

by K. D. Edwards

  “Oh . . . I see. My lord. I’ll need to . . . check. The room is normally reserved for members of the Arcanum.”

  “When you say my lord, are you being polite and generic, or do you know who I am?”

  “Of course, Lord Sun.”

  I was heir to my father’s throne, and, someday, I was nominally guaranteed a spot on the Arcanum. But words like heir and nominally didn’t have the same ring as rich enough to own heavily guarded compounds. And I was not in the mood to split that hair. It had been too long a night, and there were too many problems bearing down on us.

  “Do as I say,” I told her.

  “I’ll make a call to my supervisor of c-course, Lord Sun.”

  “Don’t make a call. Provide an escort. Now.”

  I felt a presence appear at my shoulder. Felt the closeness of the Companion bond. “Cut her some slack, Lord Sun,” Brand said. “I’m kind of impressed she has the balls to say no. Doesn’t she know you have the Tower on speed dial? Let’s call him. Hey, ma’am, what’s your name?”

  The woman slapped her clipboard over her nametag. “Jonah, please escort Lord Sun and his party to the third floor. Lord Sun, I’ll have the third-floor supervisor provide you with any updates you require.”

  I stomped back over to Addam. Brand was a half-step behind me, breathing the word, “Easy.”

  “Mayan is right. We do use the Tower as an excuse. We need to stop name-dropping him like that.” I squeezed my eyes shut and grimaced, and took a breath. So much for Superhero Rune jumping from skyscraper to skyscraper. “Forget it. We need to talk, and we need privacy.”

  The private waiting room on the third floor was empty, and covered by a thick carpet. The sofas and chairs, the artwork, the lighting—like a fancy living room doused in sterile, antibacterial cleaning solution.

  Aunt Diana and Queenie corralled the kids in a corner. It was late enough—or early enough—to have all of them drowsing. Addam, Brand, and I, fighting our own sort of exhaustion, huddled in another corner of the room.

  “How much time do you think we have?” Brand asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, draining the last drop from my coffee cup. “Maybe not much. But even a few hours will make a difference right now. Layne needs medical attention, and we need to set guards on him. Move him, if possible.”

  “My team should be here within the next two or three hours,” Addam said. “They’re almost done searching the Dawncreeks’ residence.”

  “Have they found anything?” I asked.

  Addam frowned. “Yes. Several wards. Most likely eavesdropping devices, but we can’t rule out anything more malicious.”

  “So we need to operate as if the Hanged Man knows everything we discussed there,” I said in a resigned tone.

  “He’ll know we went to the Green Docks,” Brand pointed out.

  “The ship,” Addam added. “While we were at the Green Docks, we had Corinne researching the Declaration. If they’re tracking her computer use, or even overheard her phone call to Rune, they’ll suspect we were there. They’ll know about Sherman. They’ll know you found that ward-stone that Layne hid.”

  “What’s our exposure?” Brand asked. “How much trouble are we in for breaking into the biospheres or the ship?”

  I leaned back into the embroidered chair cushion. The spells that had provided my skin and muscles with extra endurance had finally burned out, and what wasn’t cramping and knotted was sore and tender.

  “We found Layne,” I finally said. “And we can testify where we found him, even if he’s not awake to testify himself. Custodial interference trumps breaking and entering. We just need to air our grievance to the right audience.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Brand said.

  “It was always heading in that direction. I can’t take on the Hanged Man directly. I need the Arcanum on my side.”

  “Will they take sides?” Brand asked.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? I have . . . thoughts. But I need more information. I need data points. I need Ciaran.”

  Ciaran was a principality I’d made deals with in the past. He knew something about everything, and while the information always had a crippling price tag, he’d never disappointed. On top of that, he’d gone out of his way to help us during the Rurik episode. I’d counted on him to have my back, and that meant something in a city where most people wore a target on theirs.

  “Ciaran,” Brand said. “Shit.”

  “Why shit? We like Ciaran now. Don’t we?”

  “He’s dramatic,” Brand said. “He fucking bleeds glitter.”

  “He helped us out a lot recently. And he likes Quinn.”

  On the other side of the room, Quinn was yawning and blinking awake from a nap. He heard me mention his name, beamed, and trotted over to make sure he wasn’t missing anything interesting.

  “Quinn,” I said. “We can trust Ciaran, can’t we?”

  “Oh, yes. Almost always. Except for those times he’s your archenemy, but when he is, his hair is always combed, which I don’t really understand, except that it’s properly scary, but he doesn’t really comb his hair now, so I think you can trust him.”

  “Translate,” Brand ordered Addam.

  “Yes,” Addam said. “We can trust him.”

  “So I need to see Ciaran,” I decided.

  “We’re going to Spain?” Quinn said excitedly. “I love Spain!”

  I sighed into my palms and massaged my gritty eyes. “Do you mean that sometimes he’s in Spain, or most of the times he’s in Spain?”

  “No. He’s really-really in Spain. He sent me a postcard.”

  “I am displeased,” I said. “And I’m not going to Spain.”

  Quinn pulled out his phone and started texting. “I’ll see if I can reach him. Oh! Maybe he’s already bought me a box of Miguelitos! He said he would buy me some on his way home, Addam!”

  “Perhaps focus, Quinn?” Addam asked in that patient and amused voice he usually used with Quinn, which was a nice change, though hopefully he hadn’t forgotten what I said about needing to punish the boys.

  Addam and Quinn moved off to the side. I watched them, while Brand watched me. When his regard became too heavy, I sighed at him. “I would like a Miguelito right now. It sounds like a tasty baked good. Speaking of baked goods, I like your man bun.”

  “You’re exhausted,” he said. “Are your sigils empty?”

  “Yes.”

  He closed his eyes. “Even Exodus?”

  “Yes. But I only blew one thing up. Well, two. Or maybe a few dozen if you count each window separately. Wait. Do we count people damage? Hopefully the scion had a healing sigil on him.”

  “Any chance the people to draw up the damage bills don’t know it’s you who ran amuck?”

  “First of all, I was running after the creature running amuck. And second, I’m not sure who noticed me, because all the people at the party were wearing masks.”

  “Forget I asked.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” I said.

  “Yes, I count people damage as a problem.”

  “No. About Mayan.”

  Brand’s face closed down. I don’t think it was a specific reaction, more just a default setting.

  “Mayan mentioned our plans,” I said. “And you didn’t look very happy about that.”

  “I don’t have any plans with Mayan.”

  “I know. But I can’t stop thinking about the our. Whenever he and the Tower are up to something, it’s never our plans, it’s his plans. Mayan never talks about the Tower like a we—their relationship isn’t wired that way. So it makes me wonder who we is, in this case.”

  Brand’s face remained shuttered.

  “Is this a bad subject?” I asked.

  “He . . .” Brand’s lips finally broke from a flat line, as if he’d tasted lemons. “Companions . . . talk. We’re connected. I think Mayan is making plans with other Companions, and he didn’t tell me about it, so don’t fucking ask.
”

  “I always thought you were joking whenever you mention a Companion guild.”

  “I am. But . . . Rune. Do . . .”

  He trailed off, which more or less cemented my interest in the subject. “Brand?”

  “Do you have any idea what it would do to me if you were hurt?”

  “Like . . . physically? The bond?”

  “No, Rune, not like physically. Physically I’d have a lot less fucking migraines. I’m saying what it would mean if I, as a Companion, lost my scion. Companions aren’t supposed to lose their scion. We stand in front. We take the bullet. To outlive your scion is . . . awful. Can we fucking change the subject?”

  A light flickered in the back of my head, and warmed to a steady glow. “Corinne lost Kevan. Corinne was trained by Mayan. Mayan takes Kevan’s murder personally.”

  Brand hesitated, and nodded. “I don’t think the Tower is the only one who wants to see the Hanged Man go down.”

  “But . . .” Now I was the one trailing off into ellipses. I’d never had to have a talk like this with Brand before. I didn’t think there was anything he kept from me. “It’s good to know this, Brand. This is useful.”

  “How is it useful? Mayan’s already made it clear he’s not dealing me into this hand.”

  We were interrupted by Quinn, who rejoined us with a huge smile. “He’ll talk to you.”

  “I need to see him, Quinn. I don’t trust phones for this sort of talk. How far is he from a portal?”

  “Not far. But he’ll see you now.”

  Brand started to ask Addam to translate again, but Addam held up a hand. “Dreamwalking. Ciaran can dreamwalk, remember? I can’t imagine a more private way to have a conversation. It’s a good idea, Rune. You just need to be asleep.”

  “I can’t fall asleep,” I said. “I just had coffee and jumped across tall buildings. I’m freaking wired. Do you have any sigil spells that may help?”

  Brand pulled his gun out of his holster, removed a cartridge from his belt, and slapped it into place. He aimed the gun at my leg and shot me.

  “What the hell, Brand!” I shouted. I looked down at the blue, feathered end of a dart. “You did that really quickly. It’s like you’ve been waiting for the chance.”

  Brand smiled.

  His smile went screwy, like a melted crayon drawing, and then the entire world was melting too. Dark edges flowed to a pinpoint, which snuffed altogether.

  In that peculiar way that dreams work, I became aware of myself halfway through a story with no beginning.

  There was a cold room carved from pale, peach marble. A giant map was etched on the ground, and lined up next to it were knee-high metal figures, not unlike the pawns of a chessboard.

  There was a woman. She was, if not beautiful, at least arresting. She had brown hair and a faint overbite, and her eyes simmered with power.

  “Where does the throne go, Matthias?” she asked.

  The boy looked up, worrying on his knuckle with a gap-toothed frown. He stumbled over to one of the metal figurines and picked it up.

  The woman clapped her hands together three times, a sharp and angry sound. “Not like that! Use your cantrips, Matthias.”

  “I can’t,” he said. “They just tip over.”

  “Because you are not trying hard enough.”

  “I am trying! But cantrips don’t work like that. They’re small things.”

  “There are no small magics, only small minds, only small willpower. The meanest cantrip, in the hands of an Arcana, can work miracles.”

  “I’m not an Arcana,” the boy whispered, scared.

  “And you never will be if you do not try,” she said, and slapped her hands together again for emphasis.

  The scene dissolved into darkness. The darkness pulsed, and grew bright in reverse. There was now sand under me. A foaming surf washed up to the edge of my boots. Slowly—brain cell by brain cell—true consciousness returned.

  “Apologies,” Ciaran said. He was standing next to me. “I overshot. Your ward must be nearby, sleeping. Such sad dreams he has.”

  “That was Lady Lovers,” I said slowly. “She thought Max had Arcana potential?”

  “Once. They had great hopes for him. His magic, sadly, never manifested.”

  “People are more than their magic,” I said, an edge to my voice.

  “As you say,” Ciaran apologized, but grinned.

  Principalities were sort of a freelance Arcana—all the power, without a formal court. Ciaran had been around for centuries, and had the smooth, plasticky skin caused by numerous rejuvenations at Lady Priestess’s rejuvenation center. He had blue hair, lips the color of a murder scene, and eyes that moved with sunlit ripples. He said, “Hello, Sun.”

  “Thanks for speaking with me.”

  “Indeed. Rumor says you’re taking on the Hanged Man. Chew carefully before you swallow, my friend. That’s quite a big bite.”

  “He’s after Max.”

  Ciaran stared at me a long moment, then sighed at the sea before us. The water was unfamiliar, and filled with red and blue blossoms. Something from his head and experiences; not mine.

  “We don’t have much time,” Ciaran said. “It’s difficult, doing this.”

  “I have questions. I need your help. We can settle the tab later, if that’s okay.”

  Ciaran laughed. “Oh we must be friends, if you’d write a blank check like that. Or your feet must be very close to the fire. Go on, then. Tick tock. Let’s see if I can provide you with some pieces for your puzzle.”

  If he expected me to meander into the conversation, he was wrong. I already knew what the puzzle looked like, and I already had my pieces—I just needed to know how to place them.

  “Okay,” I said. “Which Arcana does the Hanged Man have alliances with? Which Arcana have significant grievances with the Hanged Man? Which houses have provided the Hanged Man with marital alliances? What do you know of those marriages? Which Arcana are known to be good parents, and currently have minor children? Which Arcana have Companions, and which of those Arcana have a particularly close bond with their Companion? Which Arcana have taken a position on unconditional punishment for the use of forbidden magic? Which Arcana have vital investments in the human world?”

  Ciaran opened his mouth.

  “What do you know of his powers?” I said, bowling ahead. “Have you ever known him to engage in a duel? How did he win?”

  Ciaran raised an eyebrow at me. I nodded that I was done, for now. “Such questions, Sun. They’re bursting with information. It’s nearly a full exchange—I’ll be quite busy filing all these little tidbits away.”

  “Maybe, but as far as tidbits go, these will have a short shelf life. There aren’t many ways this thing between the Hanged Man and me can end.” Ciaran bent down and plucked a flower from the surf. I can’t remember ever smelling things in dreams before—I’m not sure I was actually smelling anything now—it was more like my brain told me I was smelling honeysuckle and salt.

  “The Hanged Man,” Ciaran said. “You haven’t met him yet.”

  “Not exactly. Glimpses.”

  “It wasn’t a question. You have not met him, because if you had, you wouldn’t ask about his powers. He’s not one to hide his light under a bushel. He wears his Aspect constantly. He assumes the appearance of death injuries. He has chronic blood poisoning, and his veins stand out like ugly red scratches. He reeks of power. You will not best him in a duel.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “He wears his Aspect constantly,” Ciaran repeated. “Do you have any idea how difficult that is? How long can you burn, when your Aspect is upon you? Rune, while it’s true that the Hanged Man surrounds himself with very few helper bees, you won’t take him one-on-one in a duel.”

  “If it comes to a duel, I won’t be alone,” I said. “That’s the entire point of this conversation. It’s why I need the answers to those questions.”

  “Brilliant,” Ciaran said. “Let’s begin.”

>   My eyes opened, which was more or less where movement began and ended. Whatever Brand had doped me with had cut my wiring. My limbs sagged into plump sofa cushions, refusing to budge at my half-hearted instruction. I decided to enjoy the painlessness while it lasted.

  Brand and Addam were talking animatedly on the other side of the room. Everyone except Corbie appeared to be asleep. Corbie had found some toy cars and stuffed dinosaurs somewhere, and was happily moving them around the carpet. He was at peace: his brother had been found, and the rest was just adult stuff.

  He made one of the dinosaurs pick up a car with its mouth. He made munching sounds. Then he lowered his voice and walked the second dinosaur over. “That’s wrong, Barry! Don’t do that! You need to shake the car first. If it squeaks, it means it has a creamy center.”

  I laughed, which was sort of a movement, and seemed to signal to my body that it was okay to jumpstart my nervous system.

  Brand came over and knelt by the sofa. “I’ve got a shot that’ll purge your system,” he said.

  “I bet you do, you freak. If that gun clears its holster, it will be war.”

  I groaned and sat up. My head was still stuffed with fresh cotton, which smoothed the edges of my ruthless thoughts. I was okay with that, too, if just for a little while. There were so many dominoes to set up. It made me tired just to think about it.

  “Give me a few minutes,” I said, as Addam came over. “I’ll catch you up, but I need to do something first.”

  I pulled out my phone, found what I needed, and started typing.

  Brand and Addam stayed quiet, but kept exchanging glances.

  After a few minutes I growled at the screen.

  “You’re making me nervous,” Brand said. “Is this going to be like that time you opened the Home app and unlocked our front doors?”

  “No. I just hate these self-righteous squiggly red lines. Why not just fix the spelling mistake? Why program mockery?”

  “Rune,” Addam said. “We are being very patient, and would like to know if you spoke with Ciaran.”

  “I did. And I think I have an idea.” I put my phone away. “Addam, it’s fairly well understood that the Moral Certainties owe me a few favors, right?”