by Paige Orwin
Whatever else you might be, Doctor…
He felt sick again. He stared down at his hands instead. Then he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his left sleeve. The burns on the underside of his arm were there, rough and taut and twisting – as he knew they did – up and across shoulder, chest, neck, face. A reminder of the one war he’d fought in life. How it really was. What it really did.
Franceska hadn’t recognized him. Pietro was dead.
Edmund rested his elbows on the window beside him. “Istvan?”
He rolled his sleeve back down, wanting to touch him again, to feel that blood burning beneath his skin, to remind him how precious it was and demand to know how he thought he could save all of those people by himself – Edmund, you mad, brave, selfish fool. He didn’t. “What dreadnought did you mean, back at the lighthouse?”
“It doesn’t matter until we know the fortress can play its part.”
Istvan tugged his cuff straight, brushing away fraying hems. The buttons had gone dull. He shined them. “Glory is all fine and well until you find yourself hung rotting on a wire, Edmund, do you understand?”
Edmund stared at the strings of lights as they flowed past. He was close, but so distant – again like he had divorced himself from himself, and someone else was speaking. “It won’t be like that,” he said. “I’m far too much of a coward for that.”
“How can you propose a plan like this and then claim to be a coward?”
“Leave it, will you?”
“If anything, this is precisely the opposite. This is… This is recklessness, Edmund, and you–”
“Leave it.”
The cable car came to a stop and he stepped out of it, cape fluttering.
Istvan called after him. “We don’t even know where that line goes!”
He didn’t stop.
* * *
The line of light led along deserted streets, narrow, vertiginous, hemmed in by mismatched sheets of corrugated steel. They passed a mural of white birds painted around someone’s door. Wind chimes twirled above their heads, hung from strings of globular lamps. It was as though the fortress purposefully led them away from the crowds, away from preparing citizen-defenders who might otherwise halt their work, whisper, stare.
Edmund tried not to look for ducks. Tried not to wonder where Mercedes may have been taken. Tried to follow the line to the letter, because it was something to follow, and tried not to think about what he would have to do to the man who followed him.
If this worked.
That was leadership, wasn’t it? Convincing people to trust you and then convincing yourself, when the day was done, that it wasn’t betrayal. That you did your best. That the candles were enough.
He walked. Istvan followed. They crossed a bridge and came to a domed structure, its doors propped open. The light darted up narrow stairs, glowing beneath the metal, and halted, pulsing. A stuttering command crackled somewhere inside, drowning out the quieter murmur of other voices. Five people? Six?
Istvan hesitated. “Edmund...”
The reply was automatic. “Don’t worry about it.”
He started up the steps –
– and Grace strode through the doorway. Her cowl was pulled down, her goggles dangling about her neck, her articulated harness whirring with each swing of her arms. She descended three steps and then halted, propping a fist on her hip without much conviction. “Eddie.”
“Grace,” said the Hour Thief, noting distantly that Istvan had drawn up beside him, “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but we might have an alternative to your superweapon.”
She blinked. “Now you come up with this?”
He nodded. There was a smile playing around his lips that seemed to have put itself there. Part of the act. Put people at ease. The Hour Thief was a charmer; everyone knew that.
Grace descended the rest of the stairs in a near slide. “I was just talking to the People’s Council about artillery strikes and mass kidnappings and militia defense – we don’t know if it has your teleport, either, we don’t know if it can raise more monsters, we don’t know anything anymore – and if you’ve got something better, I’m all ears.” She swung closer to him, voice dropped to a low mutter. “Diego’s reporting a pleasant teatime chat with your boss, Eddie; that was quick. Who’s running this operation?”
“She is.”
“Riiight.”
“Grace, if I am, we’re going to collapse two planes of reality together, evacuate everyone from Providence, and hurt the Susurration so badly Magister Hahn will be able to chain it down like she should have done years ago.”
She stepped back, incredulous. “On whose time?”
“Mine.”
“But you said–”
“I know what I said.” He realized he had retrieved his watch, and spun it around by its chain in the most nonchalant fashion he could. “It won’t kill me.”
He didn’t feel quite as concerned as he thought he should, and he chalked that up to the nature of the beast. He wasn’t going to execute this plan, the Hour Thief was. That was how the Conceptual realm worked. It took what you were and made it more so, and for better or worse, that’s exactly what the Hour Thief was.
That’s what he was for.
She stared at him. Then at Istvan, who crossed his arms and looked away. She mouthed something under her breath. “Eddie, when I asked about using your time, I didn’t mean all at once. We had the Bernault devices. I figured we could space it out, we could give you time to–”
He shook his head. “No. Never from allies.”
She smacked her forehead. “I mean, wait for you to pull it off in installments, or something. Eddie, there’s half a million people out there! You’re planning to get them all in one go? Alone?”
“Istvan’s coming, too,” he said.
The specter started. “I’m what?”
“Oh, that’s real helpful, I’m sure the dead guy’s got lots of time to spare.” Grace spun on her heel, throwing up her hands. “Eddie, this is…”
“This is what, Grace?”
“It’s just… this is you we’re talking about. You don’t do things like this.”
He maintained a brittle smile. “Things like what, Grace?”
She spun back around and jabbed his sternum. “Listen, if you’re still trying to get me back, pulling some kind of stupid sacrificial stunt isn’t the way to do it.”
“That’s precisely what I told him,” Istvan muttered.
“See? Even Doctor Awful agrees and we never agree on anything. And what do you mean he’s coming? Remember what happened at the conference?”
Edmund tried to push her hand away. “You don’t know the whole story.”
“He’s compromised! You can’t risk–”
Istvan caught her wrist. “Risk what?”
They both looked at Edmund.
He backed up a step. “I didn’t say this would be easy.”
“You haven’t said hardly anything,” said Istvan.
“You’ve said,” Edmund corrected him.
“He’s said what?” demanded Grace.
He was done. He was done with this now. He’d been done with this for eighty years.
“A double negative!” he shouted, “That was a double negative! ‘You haven’t said hardly anything’ should be ‘you’ve said hardly anything’ or it isn’t right, and I keep telling people things like this and they never listen and they should know better anyway! I’m doing the best I can!”
He jammed his watch back into his pocket. Faces peered from the doorway at the top of the stairs. He glared at them and they vanished.
“Really?” said Grace.
“Do you want a way out of this or not?”
She sighed.
Istvan crossed his arms again, rusted wire tangling around a nearby railing. “Edmund, I should like to know my part in this.”
Edmund lifted his goggles so he could run a hand across his face. “No, you don’t.”
“I
believe that I do.”
“No. Trust me, you don’t. Not until we’re sure that the fortress can come through.”
“Oh, we’re sure,” said Mercedes.
Well. That was that.
“Great,” he said woodenly.
Mercedes took the steps down from the domed structure two at a time. “Remarkable place. I hadn’t realized that its layout followed such familiar principles, though turned about and run through several additional dimensions than is usual. This architect isn’t a god, Mr Templeton, but there comes a point when the difference is in some ways academic.”
He frowned, well aware that said architect was listening. “What do you mean by that?”
“She means you need to read more science fiction,” said Grace, stepping around him. She propped her armored fists on her hips. “So, Magister Hahn. I’m told you had a change of heart and you’re running things here. What’s the plan?”
“That depends.”
“Depends on what?”
Mercedes grinned a tight grin. “According to Mr Diego Escarra Espinoza, this superweapon is nothing more than an abrupt end to the planar merger. Collapse two paradigms together, immediately cease any attempt to make them agree with each other, and watch them turn local truth into Swiss cheese.”
Grace goggled. “You understood him?”
“I summoned the Susurration. Of course I understood him.”
“But–”
Mercedes held up a finger. “He says that abrupt end is optional. He can mitigate it – monitor every corner of the merged plane and adjust as needed to maintain stability, if you can imagine – but he can’t weaken the Susurration for us. That weapon is all or nothing.”
“So…”
Mercedes nodded at Edmund. “That’s your flooded chessboard, Mr Templeton. Let’s see that dreadnought.”
Edmund pointed at Istvan.
* * *
Hazed. It was all hazed. So hard to concentrate.
“I can’t,” Istvan said.
The Magister turned a pen between her fingers. “Mr Templeton, we discussed this.”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Last night. Ash and lightning. I’m sure you both remember. While I still believe he could cover your evacuation, and I’m touched by your confidence in his abilities, the problem remains one of scale. Doctor Czernin would be impossibly outmatched.”
No inflection in Edmund’s voice. “I’m unchaining him.”
Devil’s Doctor. War to End All Wars.
Istvan backed away. To the railing. Partway through the railing, a fall beyond. “What?” – a house of bones bound by barbed wire, dancing to the pull of bloody strings –
“This is your plan?” demanded Grace. – chained for good cause –
“Out of the question,” said the Magister. – no future but the lonely thunder of guns –
“Mercedes,” said Edmund, “it’s what I have. It’s all we have.”
Do you think I’m afraid of you?
“Mr Templeton, do you realize what unchaining him while the physical and Conceptual are collapsed together will do?”
That honor falls to the one you love most.
“I do.”
Istvan fled.
* * *
Along the rail. Back across the bridge. Into the alleys.
Edmund raced alone, Grace and Mercedes left where they stood. There were walls now where there hadn’t been walls before, sudden turns and dead ends he didn’t remember. Something beneath the streets rumbled.
“Istvan,” he called, “Istvan, stop!”
The specter arrowed upward. An awning swung out to intercept him, striking one wing with a shockingly audible crack.
Solid. Just like the armor, before. What the hell was everything made out of?
Istvan spun sideways and slammed into a window. The mural of white birds scattered into clear sky. More awnings closed in overhead, roofing the alley in cheerful filtered reds and yellows.
Edmund caught up to him as he tumbled to street level in a confused heap. “Istvan?”
The ghost rolled onto his back, staring upwards through a canopy of his own broken feathers. “Those were thinking beasts,” he said.
“What?”
“During the Wizard War. Shokat Anoushak’s creatures. Slave soldiers, all of them.”
Edmund let out a breath. Great. “If that’s the case, you didn’t know it then.”
“You know it wouldn’t have mattered. I would have enjoyed it anyhow. I always do. You, of all men, ought to know that.” He shuddered. He was flickering again. “You, of all men.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Edmund, how can you ask this of me?”
There was a bench nearby. There hadn’t been before, but now there was. Edmund sat on it. A flock of painted white birds settled on a painted wire above him.
Fire to fight fire. Suffering to put an end to the end of suffering. I’m sorry, but all you can do is what you’ll hate and regret. That’s all you’re good for.
He didn’t have enough time for the evacuation, he knew. There was only one way to get more.
I’m sorry.
Edmund shut his eyes. “I need someone to cover my back and keep the Susurration occupied, and when it comes down to it, two powers can’t occupy the same metaphysical space. It’s like Mercedes said, and I hate to say it, but you are what you are. All it takes is one shot to trump peace, and you represent enough firepower to level Europe.”
Istvan mumbled something.
“Your war left survivors,” Edmund told him. “It won’t kill the Susurration and if I miss anyone – and I’m sure I will – they still stand a chance of coming out of it. We’ll be crippling. Badly, but only crippling, and then Mercedes can do what she needs to do.”
“I asked if you had any idea what you’re proposing.”
“It isn’t a proposal.”
A metallic rush: the specter staggered to his feet, barbed wire scraping phantom wounds into supposed brick and steel. “Edmund, you can’t.”
Edmund felt that familiar hollowness settle in his stomach. They had less than two days. They didn’t have time for this.
He was the Hour Thief, and even he didn’t have time for this.
“There’s no other way,” he said tightly, “This is it. This is all we can do before they pull out the band and the banners and end it just like you said they would.”
Istvan rounded on him. “Why are you trying to convince me? What have you to prove? I’ve no bloody choice in this and you know it! I never do! No one listens to Doctor Czernin, oh no, he’s no idea what he’s talking about, it’s perfectly fine and well to use the Great bloody War to assault what is literally a living embodiment of peace and happiness–”
“Istvan.”
“–that is perfectly moral and right, isn’t it, and damn whatever he gets up to afterward, unchained, free to do as he likes, just as he’s done for the last century of murder–”
“Istvan–”
“Edmund, have you ever seen half a horse dangling four months dead and twenty feet up in half a tree, and thought to yourself, ‘well, at least he’s holding up well’?”
“Istvan!”
“Oh, no, you’re far too good for that, you’re far too busy martyring yourself for the cause, you… you bloody, blinkered vampire.”
Edmund shot to his feet.
“Quiet.”
Istvan choked.
Mercedes strode up the street, the much taller Grace keeping pace on her left. A lone white bird flitted across the wall beside them, landing beside the ones perched on the wire above, preening its painted feathers, and then halting as though it had never moved.
“Doctor Czernin,” Mercedes said, waving further down the alley, “a moment?”
Istvan gaped. Coughed. Slashed his hands through the air before him, fingers clawed in frustration.
“I’d rather not make that an order, Doctor.”
The specter stomped away.
/>
“I’m not a vampire,” Edmund muttered. He glanced back at Istvan. “Grace, Mercedes, I’m sorry, but I knew he wouldn’t take it well. Please, let me explain.”
“We know,” said Grace.
Edmund sighed. “A little bird told you?”
“Actually, a huge robot fortress, but yeah.”
Mercedes waited until both muddied bootprints and loops of bloody wire had vanished, the booming of artillery faded to little more than a rush of wind. Then she looked to Edmund, one hand resting on the strap of her shoulder bag. “Mr Templeton, I would call your friend a dangerous man, but that would be doing the magnitude of what he is a disservice. It took eighty years for anyone to identify, track and capture him; nothing I would care to retrieve from the vault can destroy him; and the same force that drew Shokat Anoushak and her forces to their deaths has only managed to hurt his feelings. If this is our only option, it’s our only option, but I need to be very, very certain that cutting him loose isn’t a terrible, terrible idea.”
Edmund remembered fleeing down that riverbed, the last survivor for the first time in his long career. The knife that barely missed. Assisting in the capture of that same horror, years later, and watching it… him… Istvan freeze at the sight. You, he’d said. I’ve thought about you often. I remember you. The impossible soldier. I never miss, but I missed you.
Then they’d bound the dread Devil’s Doctor tight and left him shackled alone in the Demon’s Chamber, only an invitation to remember him by: if ever you’d care to drop by for coffee, Mr Templeton… we could have a lot to talk about.
Almost thirty years ago. Edmund had never known him when he wasn’t chained.
“I trust him,” he said.
She closed her eyes. “Mr Templeton, I hope you’re bearing in mind that I’d hate to be the Magister who lost the fine china.”
He fingered his pocket watch, not looking at Grace. “Don’t worry about it.”