by Paige Orwin
The ghost stood not far down the aisle, his back turned.
Edmund stopped at a respectful distance.
Edmund let out a breath.
Istvan brushed a mostly-fleshed hand over his eyes, then his scarring.
The Department of Modern Technology and Such remained exactly where it belonged, which was a relief. Things staying fixed in their places was always good. There were only a few new cracks.
Edmund pushed the door open. “Hello?”
“Be right there,” replied Janet.
She was still here. Sometimes he wondered if the woman ever slept.
He stepped gingerly into the room, taking his hat off and turning it in his hands, trying to think about anything but what he was doing. What he’d done. The recent earthquake didn’t seem to have damaged any of the equipment, though dust coated the tops of some of the machines. The crack in the ceiling seemed wider. Golden web filaments drifted from its edges. He hoped, when it did give way, it wouldn’t be too little, too late.
Istvan followed him. He stood further away than usual.
Edmund told him.
The specter shook his head.
Finally, Janet Justice strolled out from behind one of the partitions, gliding over and around strewn cables and protruding shelves with an easy, weighted grace. She was tall for a woman, an inch or two over Istvan, and the grey in her hair glittered red and green, backlit by the clutter of her equipment. She glanced uncertainly at the reticent ghost, then nodded to Edmund. “So, the guest of honor finally shows. I was starting to worry.”
“It’s been a busy few days.”
Her eyes darted to Istvan again. “So I understand. Did Doctor Czernin tell you?”
“He told me enough.” Goats, plural. Amber, too, probably, and all the other trappings of belief, sincerity, and deliberation. Nothing would listen unless you were serious. “Have you figured out where it’s all going?”
She struck a key. A map appeared on the nearest screen.
Edmund shut his eyes. Of course. Of course it would be Providence. No way around it. No way out. There never was.
Run.
This was a problem Barrio Libertad could solve itself. They didn’t need him. They had the means, the motive, and the power, and no compunction against using it.
He’d seen too much of that kind of problem solving in ’45.
He nodded. It felt like someone else was doing it. “Thank you, Janet.”
“Sure,” she said. She raised her eyebrows. “Do I still not want to know what this is all about?”
“You don’t.”
He turned to leave with what he hoped was a suitably self-assured flick of the cape.
“We ought to tell the Magister,” said Istvan.
Edmund tripped over a cable, suddenly dizzy. Tell Mercedes? Tell her what? That he was the Hour Thief for a reason, and that he had forgotten about the conjunction? That meant he would have to explain that, and then explain the ramifications of that, and then explain how it worked, which meant he would be explaining what he had done. Remembering it.
Rituals of that sort weren’t meant to be remembered. Even the memories burned.
It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
“No,” he managed. “No, we’re not telling her.”
He was back in the hall. It was cracked. The walls were carved with foreign figures, the bodies and faces of deities, and covered with cracks. He backed away.
Wishful thinking, the idea that they looked like that. Human. Anything close to human.
His had come from the lake.
Ice gripped his shoulder. “Edmund.”
He realized he was sweating. Mind racing. Heart racing. Oil rising in his throat. The Navy, too, had seemed like a good idea at the time. Freshwater and saltwater weren’t the same. Any other service might have landed him back in Europe.
“I can’t tell her,” he said. “I can’t tell anyone.”
The grip tightened. “Edmund, she is our superior officer by any measure, you have already disobeyed her orders at least once, and this is a matter of dire import. If you can’t tell her, I will.”
Edmund swallowed, counting his breaths. He wished he’d never found that book. Never studied the only other immortal in written history. That way he wouldn’t know the price for sure.
It was always better not to know.
“Istvan, what if I’d done something terrible?”
The ghost regarded him a moment, not bothering to turn the ruined side of his face away. “You would be in good company.”
“Does that make it any better?”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“All right.”
Istvan stayed where he was until Edmund’s heart slowed to something more manageable. Then he drew back, fiddling with his wedding ring before hooking the offending thumb in his belt. “Now, will you tell the Magister or shall I?”
Edmund steadied himself. “No, this is my fault. You shouldn’t have to do more than you’ve already done.” He donned his hat. It helped, a little. It always did. “I’ll tell her.”
Janet pulled the door closed. It clicked.
* * *
Istvan stayed a step behind Edmund as they hurried past the last of the shelves and into the long lantern-lit hall with its alcoves. It was the proper thing to do, taking this to the Magister. It was what they ought to have done long ago. Whatever she was on about – whatever Edmund claimed she may or may not have done – she still held the title, and had steered the Twelfth Hour well enough for long enough to deserve it.
She had rescued Istvan from the Susurration, not Edmund.
The Susurration.
Istvan tried to drive that voice out of his head. Of course it wanted what it did. Of course it would do anything to get it. Trapped against its will in a horrid waste for years, laboring betrayed and unappreciated under constant threat of destruction – men broke under such circumstances, went to staring, went to fits. Why should it be any different for the Susurration? What better way to survive than ensure that it couldn’t be killed?
But... how?
Edmund had never explained by what means he learned his time magic. All Istvan knew was that the man had stolen a book, sometime before the Second World War, and done something awful. That was all.
Beyond that, it hadn’t mattered, really. Edmund was simply the Hour Thief. It was part of him, as much as the cape or the watch. Istvan had always considered it to be less terrible than what he himself did. It wasn’t nearly so final, or so direct, or bloody – it was wholly bloodless, in fact – and, after all, Edmund didn’t kill people, now did he?
Could he?
Had he?
Istvan tried to look at him without looking like he was looking at him. The man’s expression had fixed into a forced calm, even a bit of a smile, but nothing else about his presence supported it. His terror was wonderful.
It was still all his fault.
Istvan clasped his hands behind his back. “Why did you ask Miss Justice to attend to this conjunction business anyhow? Stars and planets? Sorcerous alignments? I know something of what her machines can do, but she isn’t a wizard, Edmund.”
“Exactly.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Edmund walked faster. “The less anyone knows about how it’s done, the better.”
They reached the Magister’s door. Edmund tapped the toe of his shoe against it, needlessly cautious as always. “Mercedes? It’s Edmund. I’m sorry, but something new has come up. It’s important.”
The door cracked open. Magister Hahn darted out of it, a messenger bag slung over her shoulder, and slammed it shut behind her back before Istvan could make out more than the smell of burning camphor. Her hand with its missing finger was bandaged and she looked exhaus
ted, as she had for days, not helped by her pressed but too-large jacket. Pens strained at her hair. “Gentlemen.”
“Mercedes,” said Edmund, flatly, as though he’d rehearsed it, “we have good reason to believe that the Susurration has learned my time theft ritual and will be enacting it less than two days from now.”
She stared at him.
“We thought you ought to know,” Istvan added, trying not to sound too prim about it.
The wild, apprehensive, doubtful churn of her presence roared into a storm of dread to match Edmund’s. “Mr Templeton, what’s your evidence for this?”
Edmund shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. “It wouldn’t be collecting sacrificial goats if it didn’t know what it was doing.”
Istvan choked. “Sacri–”
“It’s traditional.”
“You sacrificed a goat?”
“I was twenty-one.”
“This is worse than that bloody stupid horseshoe!”
“Istvan, no one’s going to mistake me for a nineteenth-century European peasant.”
“It’s ridiculous!”
“Better safe than sorry!”
“You’re a man of letters, for God’s sake! Don’t you know what you…” The Magister started forward. Istvan dodged out of her way before she could stride through him. “Magister?”
She adjusted the Twelfth Hour pin at her throat. “We’re picking up those Bernault devices.”
“We’re what?”
“Mr Templeton, are you familiar with Braunland Observatory?”
Edmund fell into place behind her. “Yes.”
She switched her bag to her other shoulder. Istvan wondered what was in it. “I want you to take me and the devices there.”
“May I ask why?”
“I’m sending a message to Barrio Libertad. I want at least one representative to meet me there – in person – and if Triskelion is working so closely with the fortress as it seems, I want the ear of whichever warlord they have contracted as well. The observatory is far enough away from the territories of all parties that it should be acceptable.” She grinned tightly. “I know you two aren’t much for politics, but in this case…”
“We’re for politics.”
“I thought so.”
Istvan trailed them both, feeling whatever satisfaction he’d gained from finally acknowledging the chain of command slipping away. “You’re giving them the Bernault devices.”
“They’ll make better use of them than we will.” Her pace had quickened; they were nearly a quarter of the way back down the hall now, just passing the alcove for 1930.
“You’re telling them about the ritual, too?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t do that,” said Edmund.
“Why not?”
“The weapon. Mercedes, if you tell them they have two days to stop this, they’ll stop it.”
She eyed the candles burning for 2015. “Mr Templeton, the last thing we need is another Hour Thief, and one without your scruples. I’d rather not risk what might happen if we don’t tell them.”
He fell silent.
“Doctor Czernin,” she continued, “notify your people that you won’t be available for the rest of today. Conferences like this require a certain kind of showing.”
Istvan rubbed at his wrists. Never mind that he would do that already. Never mind what had happened last time. Never mind how badly so many directives had twisted and tangled. He was what he was, and every casual word from that woman was an order clad in molten iron.
He found himself wishing for mortars. It would be so much simpler if there were a war on.
“Yes, Magister.”
* * *
It was afternoon when they finally had it all assembled. Representatives of the Twelfth Hour, Barrio Libertad, and Triskelion gathered peaceably together in one place for the first time. It was just past four. It wasn’t late.
The sky above the observatory’s crumbling dome blazed with stars.
“I guess this is it,” Edmund said.
“I suppose it is,” Istvan agreed.
They stood just outside, waiting for the last of the security detail to roll into place. They were in the mountains now, further to the west than he’d ever been able to fly without pain, Big East’s industrial cityscape giving way to ragged foothills and finally blasted and smoke-wreathed peaks, storms from Tornado Alley breaking over their stony backs. Beyond lay Triskelion, the nearest region broken into true warfare he had never visited.
He could almost hear the report of rifles, the clatter of wheels, the shouting of the supply trains hauling ammunition over snow-choked passes, the roar of emplacements echoing peak to peak to avalanching peak…
Oh, it wasn’t to be. For the best, he knew, but he did miss it, in that terrible guilty sense that one missed anything one oughtn’t.
Edmund sighed. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
Istvan realized he was sighing to himself as well, and stopped. “What? This is the Magister’s game now, as it ought to have been days ago: all you must do is speak when spoken to.”
“Not that.”
“You were a fine leader, Edmund, under the circumstances.”
“Not that, either.” The wizard swung his pocket watch in a circle before catching it. Stared at the distant city skyline. His affect churned, lidded but not hidden, grief and frustration and terror boiling like goulash. “Istvan, there was one time years ago – her name was Marianne – she’d moved on, but then so had I, mostly, and it’s somehow different when you know she’s alive. The letters just stopped coming, was all. That happened to a lot of fellows. But this… Istvan, how am I supposed to deal with this? Has anything like this ever happened to you?”
Grace. Bloody Grace.
Istvan glanced back at the observatory. A Triskelion mercenary stood guard at the door. Others formed a perimeter, idling on foot or at the guns of strangely baroque armored vehicles, machines wide enough that they had been forced to inch up the steep mountain roads one by one. The representatives were already inside. Grace Wu, in her peculiar guise as Barrio Libertad’s “state hero,” was among them, because of course she was.
“Dealing with a woman who doesn’t love you back, Edmund?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“Right. Sorry. This isn’t the time.” The wizard ran a finger over brass. “Forget I asked.”
Istvan cast one last wistful glance at the embattled mountains. “It should be starting soon,” he said, “We ought to go in.” He hesitated, then patted Edmund’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“I’m sure.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The mercenary at the door rested a hand on the pommel of his sabre, his voice with its indefinable accent blaring brassy and metallic. “Hour Thief. All fares well?”
“No toll yet,” the Hour Thief replied, “but thank you for asking.”
“Attend closely, and guard well your vengeful spirit.”
“I’m sure he’ll behave himself.”
Istvan, at his side, sighed.
They followed the man inside. A catwalk hung suspended over a sea of rusted mechanisms, enormous wheels and motors Edmund assumed were meant to position the equally enormous telescope that reared skyward in the center, a flaking hulk with broken mirrors. Clicks and mechanical chattering echoed from lifeless consoles. According to Janet, the place still published nightly reports on the state of the heavens: charting new phenomena no one could place, tracking constellations that never existed. The only light was foreign, rigged over a platform riddled with bolt holes where components had been removed. A circular table sat there now. Occupied.
Mercedes nodded at them from their section. She didn’t smile.
Edmund made his way across the room, Istvan close by his side, and focused on being the Hour Thief. Walk smooth and easy. Smile: faint, pleasant, and self-assured. Don’t look too long at any one person, e
xcept for effect. Stay tall. Stay calm. He could do this.
Don’t look too long.
To Mercedes’ right sat the contingent from Triskelion, a trio of armored figures in familiar style. The man in the center wore an elaborate breastplate, a crimson cape, and at least two greatcoats, his pauldrons a cascade of golden spikes. He still wore his helmet, as did his men: crested, skull-faced, a horsehair plume trailing off the back of his chair. A broadsword lay propped on the railing behind him. One of the warlords, no doubt.
Across from him, behind a redundant placard labeled “Barrio Libertad,” she waited.
She was, once again, Resistor Alpha. Cowled, goggled, and clad in that harness that strapped around her arms. Bright red and yellow. She wore the same copper circlet she had once placed on Edmund’s own head, when this had all begun. Only a few days ago. It felt like years.
No Diego. Evidently mortal deliberation was beneath his attention.
Mostly mortal.
Edmund hung his hat on his chair and sat down before he could somehow make a fool of himself. Istvan took up position beside the box of Bernault devices. No one present would want to go through him to get at them, or so Mercedes had reasoned. It didn’t hurt to be cautious.
The Triskelion warlord leaned forward. “So,” boomed the man to his left, raising a gauntleted fist, “this is the hero who harried the armies of the dread wizard lord Shokat Anoushak to their downfall. Hail, Hour Thief. The great and magnanimous Lord Kasimir hopes that your esteemed successor will demonstrate such courage at these deliberations.”
Edmund smiled politely. “I’m certain she will.”
Mercedes folded her hands, not quite hiding the bandages. “Thank you all for agreeing to attend, but our time is limited. It has come to my attention that the Susurration is preparing a ritual that will allow it to duplicate Mr Templeton’s abilities.”
Grace swore.
“It will be ready in less than two days,” Mercedes continued. “The seventh day of the seventh month, seven at night.”
“You could have said something earlier,” Grace snapped. “Eddie, if this thing was coming up, you should have said something.”