The Skill of Our Hands--A Novel

by Steven Brust

  “Jimmy.”

  Jimmy ignored Oskar, and folded Ren into his arms. “We’ll get him back,” he promised.

  “If one more person tells me that, I’m going to stop believing it.”

  Jimmy chuckled. “Believe whatever you need to.” He spared Oskar a brief “I dare you to open your mouth” look, and nodded to the woman next to Ren. “Hello, Jane. I’m Jimmy. Thank you, dear, for all you’ve done. This came as such a shock, I’m afraid we may not have all been on our best behavior.”

  “It’s fine,” Jane said.

  “Jimmy,” said Ren, her voice just above a whisper, recalling Jimmy to the real reason he’d endured hours in unforgiving chairs drinking mediocre wine. “Things are really fucked up, Jimmy. You know what Oskar was proposing?”

  He glanced a warning at Oskar, then nodded to Ren.

  “And you get why I don’t want to do that?”

  Among the possible replies were, of course I get it because I have more empathy than a rock, and, yes I get it because I’m not Oskar. Jimmy settled for nodding.

  “Look, Jimmy,” said Oskar. “I think we should talk about this. I don’t see why there is a prob—”

  “Oskar,” Jimmy said. “Shut the fuck up.”

  Oskar stopped, looking shocked. Jimmy had never said such a thing to him before, and maybe he shouldn’t have this time, but he was having a lot of trouble controlling his temper just then and, in any case, it shut Oskar up.

  Jimmy took Ren’s shoulders and looked into her eyes until he saw the tears start to rise in them. “Take some time, my dear, pull yourself together,” Jimmy suggested gently. “Then the four of us will sit at the table and drink Phil’s execrable coffee and talk about everything. The one luxury we have is time.”

  Jimmy’s gamble paid off. Instead of bursting into tears at the execrable coffee, Ren smiled bravely, and nodded. Jimmy glared at Oskar, but it had finally gotten through to him that now was not the time to speak, and a few minutes later they were seated at the table, Jimmy with a cup of coffee before him that wasn’t all that bad, really. He said, “Jane, pardon me, please. I have to tell these two something. I promise you, if you’re lost and want me to, I’ll fill you in shortly.”

  “It’s okay,” Jane said. “I’ll finish stretching.” She left her coffee on the table and went back into the living room.

  Jimmy covered Ren’s free hand with one of his and turned first to Oskar and then back to Ren. “Kate is recruiting for Phil’s stub,” he said.

  Oskar frowned. “She didn’t tell me.”

  “She didn’t tell anyone,” Jimmy said. “I just this instant found out. She gave her cell number to a patient at a hospital where she does not work.”

  “Then you should—” Oskar began.

  “Let her continue, with Ren’s permission. Kate knows what she’s doing,” Jimmy told Ren. “And she understands love better, I think, than any of us.”

  Oskar shook his head. “What does that have to do with it? What we need—”

  “That’s fine,” Ren told Jimmy. “But I want to titan,” she said, not looking up from his hand over hers. “Oskar and Irina agree.”

  “Really?” Jimmy managed to keep most of the shock from his voice. He glanced at Oskar, who shrugged.

  * * *

  I can see now that Ren cleverly played Irina and me against each other to win our assent. But it wasn’t such an outlandish idea anyway. Titans don’t get to pick a stubbed Incrementalist’s new Second, they simply conduct the ritual that spikes the stub into the Second, and then shepherd the subsequent transition. That part’s mostly watching and waiting, listening and explaining. Sure, it’s best to be well-rested and emotionally stable when you undertake work as intense as the spiking ritual, but none of us exactly qualified on that front, and I wouldn’t have liked to be the one to keep Ren away from the newly incarnated Phil anyway, so might as well let her do the work as well as keep the vigil.

  —Oskar

  * * *

  Ren squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. “We need a plan,” she said. “I want us to make a plan now.”

  “All right,” Jimmy said. Planning is a kind of time travel, and he could see Ren needed to get away.

  “It’d be better if Irina were here,” said Oskar. “Or, rather, I wish she weren’t here, but since she’s here, I wish she were here.”

  “You sound like Phil,” said Jimmy with a chuckle.

  The sudden tears in Ren’s eyes told him she’d noticed it too, and he gave her hand a squeeze. She blinked them back impatiently.

  AUGUST, 1856

  “WHERE’S THE REST OF HIM?”

  I went into the Garden, brought myself to the peach tree, and there was a note, just where I’d hoped it would be.

  Carter: You got lucky. It turns out that Brown is the son of Owen Brown. I don’t know if you remember the name, but Clara meddled with Owen some years ago to get a couple of colleges started in Ohio. Looking at special moments, I think it’s a good bet to say John Brown’s switches would include coffee with chicory (smell), the hymn “All For Jesus,” the hymn “Thy Bountiful Care,” and poppy seed cake with honey (taste). I’ve taken the seeds for the two hymns, words and music, and the recipe, and made them the grotesque facing due north above my front gate. Luck with your work.

  —Jimmy

  Good, then. I had something to work with. I opened my eyes and let the Garden dissolve, then stood, brushed myself off, and started back toward Lawrence.

  NINE

  A State of Insurrection

  By the time Irina reached the Roy Laos Transit Center, got off one bus and onto another one back to the intersection where Phil had died, she was pissing mad. Those kids with their Oreos and her beer belonged in school. She didn’t care if it was Saturday. And that kid with the knife, Santi, who’d put her back on the bus, he had to be one of Phil’s foot soldiers. So, yeah. Maybe Jack had been telling the truth and Phil had been shot by some anti-immigration, nationalist wingnut. A white guy. Maybe a white guy in athletic clothes and a tight haircut. So maybe the cops weren’t looking, but Irina was, and what had she seen? A white guy. She stepped off the bus into the morbid asphalt glare, and strode straight for the Crazy Horse Saloon. Fifty-fifty odds, and it would be cooler than the Laundromat, and not smell like lint.

  * * *

  Irina was being reckless, but I have to admire her courage. She was trying to find Phil’s killer. She was working hard to understand. Her motive was guilt and her methods were bullshit, but she was out there doing something while the rest of us were still talking about what to do. Of course if she’d talked more before she started doing months ago, before she started countermeddling, trying to get Phil arrested, he might not have gotten shot in the first place. Might not have. He’d been being pretty reckless himself, and at least Irina knew she was gambling.

  —Oskar

  * * *

  “Shit.” Santi’s voice was a low whistle in the bar’s darkness.

  Irina hesitated, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

  “What you doing off your bus?”

  “Miss me?” She vamped.

  “Oh hell no.” Santi took Irina by the arm and turned toward the door, but she leaned into him and purred his name.

  “Get on the bus,” he commanded.

  “You knew a friend of mine,” Irina said.

  “Didn’t. Get on the bus.”

  “I have money.”

  “Then buy a car.”

  “I’ll pay you to talk to me.”

  Santi moved Irina out to the street. Knowing his eyes had been longer in the dark than hers, Irina took the momentary advantage to soften her new, slim body against his. “He was my friend, Santi. I just want to know how he died.”

  The sound he made was almost a grunt. “I’m not talking to you about that.”

  “Anything else then? Come on, baby, tell me something.”

  Santi scanned the intersection; and something in him shifted. “You’re not supposed to
be here.”

  “I’ll leave if you come with me.”

  “Fuck. What is it with you?”

  “I just want to talk.”

  “Fuck.”

  If Irina hadn’t had half an eye on the alley already watching for the red-haired sportswear vigilante she’d seen earlier, she might have lost Santi, he rounded the corner that fast. Irina trotted after him, trying not to grin. Watching the way he kept space between all his fingers, and between his arms and his bandy chest, walking fast, his body low and compact, Irina revised her estimate of Santi’s age downward to maybe seventeen. High school age. He wasn’t done growing yet, but already made of gristle. He gave no indication he knew Irina was following him, but she doubted he’d ever been followed and not known.

  Santi threaded the alley like his mama’s kitchen and rounded the corner, stepping easily over a hole where the road and sidewalk missed each other. He swung himself between the rails and through the front door of a small branch library. Irina followed. The curvy blond librarian in tight red gingham glanced up, saw Santi—his tattoos and prison teeth—and went back to rubbing the spines of books against a metal plate. She was as familiar with him as he was with the walk between the Crazy Horse and the library.

  Irina trailed Santi past the audiobooks, and the movies on DVD and VHS, and barely kept from falling into him when he turned into the reference stacks and stopped short. “Christ, you’re an ignorant bitch.” The knife was in his hand again and pressed against her.

  “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

  “Why the fuck’d you come back here?”

  “I told you. I want to talk.”

  “Well you can’t.”

  “Well I am.”

  Santi’s balled fist came up by his ear. “Fuck!” He took a step at Irina, and she braced for the blow.

  “Santiago,” she cooed.

  He scrubbed his hand across the bristly top of his head in frustration. Irina kept her voice low and tried a new tack. “I know you don’t want anyone to see us talking; I’m not trying to get you in trouble. I’m on your side. If Phil was your friend too, if you were involved in something…”

  Santi glowered and shook his head, derision mixing with his anger.

  “Were you working with my friend, Santi?”

  “Fuck.” He looked ready to climb the stacks and jump out of the skylight to get away from her.

  “You’re feeling trapped,” she suggested.

  “Fuck yeah,” he exploded. “You fucking trapped me.”

  “How did I trap you, Santi?”

  “Stop using my name, Irina.”

  “How did I trap you?”

  “You won’t fucking leave.”

  “Why is that your problem?”

  “God damn, you’re stupid.”

  “Okay, why is that your problem?”

  Santi’s nails scratched Irina’s chest as he grabbed a wad of her coat into his fist. His lips twisted, inches from hers. “You’re no cop.”

  “No.”

  His grip on her clothes loosened slightly.

  “Is that what you thought?” she asked.

  He shrugged, and it let some more of the anger out of his shoulders.

  “I can see why you’d think that,” Irina said, working the fraction of an opening she’d stumbled onto. “I show up wanting to talk to you, asking questions about Phil, or did he go by Chuck?”

  Santi shrugged.

  “Of course you thought that. Probably thought I was offering you a plea deal just now?”

  He nodded fractionally and released her.

  “But you’re right, I’m not a cop, Santi.” She caught herself. “Sorry.” She gave him her best sheepish smile, and it earned her a half-cracked grin. “The guy who got shot yesterday was my friend, that’s all.”

  The smile vanished with a flash of gold and a shimmer of guilt. Irina kept her smile girlish and sweet. “I have no business playing CSI, do I?”

  Nothing.

  “I’m no good at this detective stuff, right?”

  He shook his head, but the anger was fading.

  “But you really do want me out of here, don’t you?”

  Santi didn’t smile, but he made a rueful space between Irina’s kidney and his blade. “You’re not safe around here.”

  “Why do you care if I’m safe?” The tears in her voice surprised even Irina.

  “I don’t. Kelly do.” Santi put the knife away.

  “Is Kelly the redheaded man I saw earlier?”

  Santi’s face softened and understanding washed over Irina. Santi wasn’t a foot soldier; he was a mercenary. He obeyed.

  “He had you shoot Phil.”

  “Fuck.” Santi threw a punch, and Irina blacked out.

  * * *

  Jimmy knew his own eyes were close to overflowing, but he kept them steadily on Ren. “I’m very sorry, ma chère, but getting Phil back is the one piece of this we can take our time with. It’s much more pressing that we learn what happened—who shot Phil and why—and that we take steps to protect Jane and her husband and anyone else who might be in danger.”

  “I don’t agree,” Oskar said.

  “Really?” Jimmy regarded Oskar with interest.

  “No.” Oskar’s sculptural jaw was set. “I think we’re all in danger until we get Phil spiked back into a new Second.”

  Jimmy nodded. “Matsu thinks the same.”

  A hint of distaste curled Oskar’s lip. “What do you know that I don’t?”

  “He posted on the forum,” Jimmy said.

  “Does he have a reason or did he just sense a great disturbance in the Force?”

  “Oskar,” said Jimmy.

  “What does he say?”

  “He says he’s sensing a pattern that indicates it’s urgent to get Phil back, but he doesn’t understand why.”

  Oskar scowled. “That’s pretty much how I feel.”

  * * *

  If you had been watching, would you have noticed this? That I said “I feel” instead of “I think” or “I’ve observed”? It should have been our first clue. Jimmy should have noticed. Hell, I should have noticed, but he was the only one not yet affected.

  —O

  * * *

  “I want him back as quickly as—” Ren’s hand covered her mouth as soon as the words had escaped. Jimmy obliged, pretending he hadn’t heard her, and was gratified to see Oskar do the same.

  “I’ll speak to Matsu,” Jimmy promised. “As for making plans, Kate is already working on a recruit. Irina seems to have taken point on investigating the shooting. Oskar, you might be a second set of eyes.”

  Oskar scowled again, but Jimmy went on unperturbed. “Murder always takes two lives. Whoever staked his soul on the belief that Phil was better dead needs to be meddled into turning himself in.”

  “Or taking himself out,” Oskar muttered.

  “I’ll follow up on other avenues Phil was investigating, if Ren, you’ll—”

  “I know,” she said. “Sam.”

  “Jane and Sam,” Jimmy agreed. “You’ve already built up some trust.”

  Ren nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” Jimmy said.

  “No, you’re right,” Ren said. “It’s important that whatever happened doesn’t blow back on them.”

  “That’s what I don’t get,” said Oskar. “Why should it?”

  “Because Phil and Ren were looking into something odd going on at Sam’s high school, and now Phil is dead, and until we know who killed him, we can’t rule out physical danger to Sam.”

  “And Jane—” Ren said, but her voice cracked.

  “Jane has been given a great deal of very strange information about us that she needs to process and she’s also been made aware that Sam is involved in something beyond his teaching duties,” Jimmy took over smoothly. “And that puts them both in emotional danger.”

  “Jane said we should recruit Sam,” Ren said.

  Jimmy gave her knee a comforting squeeze. “They need
your help, Ren.”

  “I know. I—” Ren started, but stopped as Jane brought herself to the middle of the kitchen and put her hands on her hips, glaring at Oskar.

  “I’ve been thinking this over.”

  Oskar waited. Jimmy thought it wise of him.

  “Ren says you don’t do anything bad to people. But what if—” Jane stopped. “What?” she asked Jimmy.

  Sometimes Jimmy wished not everything he felt manifested so obviously on his person.

  * * *

  Takamatsu felt the calm wash over him, and looked at the rocks of his Garden; each one special and unique, but working together to create beauty. He studied them, entered them, let them enter him; the pattern in which all other patterns in the Garden were reflected.

  * * *

  With how things ended up for Matsu, I’m going to try to put into words the way grazing works if you’re what we call a Pattern Shaman, and your name is Takamatsu. I replayed this seed twenty-seven times trying to get it right, but Matsu’s memories aren’t verbal. He doesn’t tell himself stories the way we all do. He just experiences. He sees and feels and hears, and he thinks, but he doesn’t do it in words. I’ve done my best.

  —O

  * * *

  It begins with abstractions, symbols, metaphors. They dance in front of you, and you watch the dance until you become aware that you are predicting the next steps. There is the Dragon ducking under the arm of War, with Wisdom moving back and forth as if to keep them from touching. Over here is Love, dancing by herself, but in time to the same music. And there is the empty space where the Pivot used to be, and everyone is dancing around it.