by Paige Orwin
Edmund swallowed, tearing his eyes away from the skull of Magister Jackson. In his day, he’d finally hung a tablecloth over that bookshelf to blunt the staring. “I haven’t always.”
“You have for long enough that it doesn’t matter, and you act it. Now, you’ll have the title and the duties to match. How does Director sound?”
“Better than Magister.”
She chuckled darkly. “One can only hope.”
“I’m going with him,” said Istvan. “If you’re going to lay all this on him, I can’t very well let him do it alone.” He paused, then added, “Re-chain me if you like – and you ought, if you can – but at least grant me that.”
“That isn’t an option,” she replied.
He reached for Edmund’s arm. “But…”
“Rebinding you, Doctor, would be a task on the same order of magnitude as rebinding the Susurration, and I had the benefit of a preexisting anchor for that. I can’t tell you where to go. I can’t tell you what to do. If you decided to kill me right here, I wouldn’t be able to stop you. Do what you like.” She cast a significant glance at Edmund’s grey streak. “Any consequences are on Mr Templeton’s head.”
Istvan followed her gaze.
Edmund fought the urge to put his hat back on. It wouldn’t be right.
Finally, the specter looked away, clasping his hands behind his back. “I… I know what I am, Magister, and I know what I did, and necessity or coercion or not, that does make me responsible for the survivors, if nothing else. I’m sure Roberts and Miss Torres and, ah, Doctor Orlean and the rest will manage perfectly well day-to-day without me. They’re all very accomplished, very skilled. Nerves of steel, most of them. I couldn’t have asked for better help.”
She regarded him a moment, then nodded. “I would suggest you tell them that. In fact, Mr Templeton, why don’t you go with him? I’ll find you once I’m finished here.”
Edmund checked to make sure he hadn’t spilled any more coffee. Director Templeton. All that responsibility. All that paperwork. He didn’t know paperwork, not really. Not like that. He hadn’t done any paperwork when he’d been Magister, and the rest was all Dewey Decimal and the Inexcusable Index.
“Who’s going to look after the library?” he asked, faintly.
Mercedes picked up her phone. “I’m sure you’ll find time.”
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The door shut and latched behind them with seven ratcheting clicks. Wrought-iron lanterns shone on old photographs. The Twelfth Hour’s seven founders. 1895.
A middling year, as Istvan recalled. An election year. His practice had become a modest success, though not what he – or Franceska – had hoped. Well enough. Better than what would come later. Pietro had found another fossil fish that year, and Istvan remembered him chipping it out of its shard of rock with his own collection of “surgical instruments” while the two of them discussed Karl Lueger’s grand plans for the city and the recent imprisonment of Oscar Wilde.
Be careful with that drill, Peti, you wouldn’t want to kill the poor creature.
Kill it? Fish are my specialty, Pista. It won’t feel a thing, I promise.
“Well,” said Edmund. He put his hands in his pockets, succeeding after two attempts. He’d donned his hat again and now it was tilted somewhat to the left in a vain attempt at hiding the grey. His aspect churned.
“You’ll make a fine Director, I think,” Istvan tried.
Edmund shook his head. “You don’t have to come with me, Istvan. Hell, you don’t even have to stay here. You could leave.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You could. You can go anywhere, now. How long has it been since you’ve seen Vienna?”
Istvan twisted at his wedding ring. He hadn’t told him. They had hardly spoken of what had happened yesterday, either of them, much less described what they had seen. Vienna perched atop that monstrosity. Pietro dead on the Western Front. Shokat Anoushak. The rest.
Oh, the rest.
“Edmund?”
The wizard started briskly down the hall. “Never mind. You’re right, we should get this over with. Mercedes won’t want to be kept waiting.”
Istvan followed him. “No, Edmund, listen. Back there, at the fortress, after we jumped–”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” Istvan took a breath. As always, both necessary and not. He had to say something. “Edmund, I thought I’d lost you.”
The man tilted his hat further to the left.
“I thought you’d used every moment you had,” Istvan continued. “That there were so many to save, and that you were so determined, and that perhaps you had… perhaps you were…” He swallowed. “I know you aren’t a coward, Edmund. I do. But… please tell me you aren’t so brave as all that.”
Edmund stopped. “Istvan, you know where that time comes from.”
“And where did it go? Edmund, there are people who would have given their lives to do what you did. So many who would have lost theirs, if you hadn’t.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Istvan touched his shoulder before he could start off again. “Edmund, I’m not condoning the means, but this once… allow it to be a victory. Please.” He drew his fingers through the man’s mauled arm, living blood rushing through his substance, tracing arteries along their courses. For the pain, of course. It wasn’t yet healed.
For the pain.
He drew back. “I’m glad you didn’t go to dust.”
Edmund worked the arm, his motions less stiff than they had been. “Same here.” He started back down the hall. He passed the alcove for 1940. He walked faster.
Istvan stared after him. A nervousness seeped from the man’s presence, a wariness that hadn’t been so overt in years. Bad memories. The past, recently made all too recent.
“I wouldn’t,” he said. He caught up to Edmund, not looking at the pictures for 1945. “Edmund, whatever it is you saw, I would never.”
“Tell me one thing,” the wizard said as they passed 1970. “Are you any different? With the chains gone. Do you feel any different?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re still Istvan, right?”
He thought of Pietro. He rubbed at his wrists, where no shackles burned. Edmund had never known him unchained. Never known him living. Never known him any other way.
Istvan. Edmund’s Istvan.
“The very same.”
Edmund looked away. “Good,” he said. After a moment, he added, “I like Istvan.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.” The wizard swung his pocket watch around his hand. Caught it. Inspected the hourglass on its front… and then put it away. “You know,” he said, “if you stick around, you’ll have to put up with Grace.”
“So will you.” Istvan hesitated, then elbowed his ribs. “Mr Director Templeton.”
Edmund sighed, but Istvan thought it a solid sort of word for a solid sort of man – a title that suited him, something to remind him of what good he’d done. Much better than Magister had ever been.
Better than “Hour Thief.”
They walked. The candles in the last alcove were still burning when they stopped to look them over. Istvan’s photograph was still black-and-white.
He regarded it a moment.
“Your cheekbones are fine,” said Edmund.
“It isn’t that.”
“No?”
Istvan tugged at a sleeve, recalling what had been. “Do you suppose,” he said, slowly, “that this year I could ask for my photograph to have colors on? It wouldn’t take much, only a bit of watercolor, and it would be splendid.”
Edmund raised an eyebrow.
Istvan shrugged. “I never wore so much grey when I’d the option.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
A sigh. “You realize what you’re doing to me, right?”
Istvan glanced at him. There was a smile there, torn and scratched and tired but wry,
and genuine. The Man in Just Black. He chuckled. “Oh, you’ve a choice, you know.”
“I do,” said Edmund. He hesitated, then straightened his hat. “I suppose I do.”
They ambled into the library.
Acknowledgments
There were a number of people especially instrumental to The Interminables as it developed, some more directly than others. The original project grew out of a desire to preserve some of the characters developed by myself and friends in the MMORPG City of Heroes, which shut down in 2012 – the end product is very different, but credit goes where credit is due.
To my brother Hagen: thank you for donating what became the Susurration, Lord Kasimir, the entire country of Triskelion, and probably a full quarter of the plot to the cause. I have no idea how many hours we spent throwing ideas around, but they were well-spent.
To HairlessRN, whom I have never met in person: thank you for all the medical fact-checking advice, the insightful commentary, and the inspiration for this book's talking tiger/bear/blizzard.
To PropBob, whom I have never met in person: let's just say that Grace Wu wouldn't have been who she is without you.
To Warpshaper and Kusim, whom I have never met in person: thank you for all your help in early plot development and brainstorming. Tornado Alley still looms on the horizon.
To Flashtoo, whom I never met until two years ago and now we're together and you're watching me write this: you know what you've done.
Lastly, I would like to thank all involved parental and grand-parental units, other brothers (biological and bonus), the population of Targhee dorm (2013-14), the Virtue server, and, of course, the inestimable Mrs Zapatka, for their inspiration and support.
About the Author
Paige Orwin was born in Utah, to her great surprise. At the age of nine she arranged to rectify the situation. She now lives in Washington state, next to a public ferry terminal and a great deal of road construction, and has never regretted the decision. She is the proud owner of a BA in English and Spanish from the University of Idaho, which thus far has not proven terrifically useful for job prospects but she knew the risks of a humanities degree going in. She also survived the 8.8 Chilean earthquake in 2010, which occurred two days after her arrival in the country (being stubborn, she stayed an entire year anyway). She began writing The Interminables when her favorite video game, City of Heroes, was shut down in late 2012. Her partner-in-crime wants a cat. This, thus far, has not happened.
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paigeorwin.com • twitter.com/PaigeOrwin
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An Angry Robot paperback original 2016
Copyright © Paige Orwin 2016
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