“But there’s something there, in these files—”
“Do you want me to make this decision for you?”
The pause seemed far longer than the mere five seconds that passed. Will was motionless.
Then: “I don’t need an entire file.” And Willam again became a creature of speed.
“The updates are completing . . . now.”
“I’m having Farside look at one file and pick out a section—”
“Guidestars are accepting normal traffic . . . Plenty to cover me . . .”
“—some part that isn’t just null symbols—”
“I’m in. Western Guidestar. Will, you look like a bonfire!”
“—and it should send me that—”
“Feeding it the worm . . . It took it. Shifting to Gee-Two . . .”
“—Commands accepted. Searching. Here it comes—”
New symbols began to accumulate: numbers, letters, in pairs. Willam watched, flexing and bending his fingers as if they pained him, as if even this brief pause in movement were unbearable. “I don’t recognize this . . .”
“Gee-Two took the worm.” Audible even above the unending hiss: two harsh huffs, as if the wizard were breathing heavily after some great exertion. “That was not easy . . .” The hiss rose, as if the invisible wave were attempting to finally crest and break.
Will raised his voice against the noise. “I’m losing you, sir!”
The small green star at the end of the short rod by the paper cone flickered colors, settled on red. Only the hiss continued.
Willam remained disturbed, but turned back to the blue symbols, transporting themselves from the other side of the world. He watched, his copper gaze narrow, shaking his head slightly in disbelief at each new line.
Something occurred to him. He caused a new page to appear, half-tucked behind the blue symbols from Farside; and another, and another. On their faces, letters and numbers flickered wildly, continuously. Will made a sound between his teeth, of frustration, but continued to watch.
Abruptly, a leather-bound book appeared, materializing from nothing on the surface of the desk.
Will startled back hugely. Of itself, the book opened in the middle; the pages riffled themselves, rapidly, moving toward the end, but never reaching it.
Willam recovered, cautiously leaned forward, put out one hand, and stopped the pages. He read what was written; apprehension turned to relief.
The red star turned green; the voice of the paper cone became human again. “Willam!”
“Here, sir. I lost you for a moment.”
“Yes. Atmospheric conditions.”
“The house just linked to Gee-Two. But it’s only receiving, not sending.”
“Mm. Everyone’s system is doing the same . . . Just re-establishing. All automatic.” The wizard sounded distracted, as if some other action were taking most of his attention. “There’s . . . I can’t . . . I can’t tell if anyone is trying to see you in real time. Too much traffic . . . I’m trying to watch your back, Will.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Mm. I may not be able to . . .”
The book vanished, replaced by a live, miniature dragon.
Will showed only utter confusion. He worked his lap board, created a fresh page of insubstantial light, puzzled over what he read there. “It looks like Jannik is running a detailed diagnostic on the dragons . . .” The creature vanished, replaced immediately by another, then another. Will ignored them. “And he’s relaying through the Eastern Guidestar to do it.”
“He needs the bandwidth. Stand by.”
Silence again, but for the hiss; the sound of night, the sound of emptiness.
“Will, access Gee-Two yourself. Something simple, low priority.”
Willam moved his hands across the lap board; on his right, the world’s image turned black, but for a few pale blue smears: starlight on water, on high clouds.
“Good. I can’t tell what you did, but I’ve identified the routing code for Jannik’s house—Wait.” The sequence of tiny dragons ceased. “Will, did something else just come through?”
Willam looked, nodded. “He’s reestablishing the dragon controller.”
“All right. Has your link with Farside held?”
“Yes . . . but. . Will gazed, shook his head helplessly. “But I don’t know what this is.”
“What do you have?” Willam began reading off the symbols. Corvus interrupted him. “Will, I don’t have your head for hex.”
“Sorry, sir.” Agitated now, Will cast about, could not find what he sought. Muttering annoyance, he recreated the white-outlined translator square. He plied it, shook his head, tossed the square aside. It floated, spinning slowly. “It’s not words or commands.”
“Can it have been encrypted?”
“I’ve been trying some decryptions. I’m not getting anything so far.”
“Stand by.” A pause, and some vague sounds from the wizard. “The traffic is easing. It’s a little harder to . . . keep a low profile . . . Will, the files you checked before showed repeating pairs? But Farside pulled out some sections of difference?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are the differences scattered throughout the file?”
“Yes . . .”
“Will, you’ve gone too far behind the interface. It’s an image.”
Will’s jaw dropped. He shut it with an audible snap. His hands moved, fast.
A heavy, ornate gilt picture frame appeared in the air before him. Will fairly spat in derision, but allowed it to stand.
Within the gilt frame, filling the upper quarter of the area: whiteness, and two small spots of black.
“What?” Willam seemed to address the frame. “That’s it?” The frame continued to fill.
Will stared, utterly dumbfounded, then threw out both hands, brought them in as if to tear at his hair, stopped himself. “I don’t understand!” he said. “I don’t even know what I’m looking at!”
“Describe it.” Willam did so, as the image in the frame grew:
Black spots, of various sizes, from small to tiny to mere flecks, seeming randomly distributed against the white. Some blots were sharp-edged, others fuzzy, as if seen with blurred vision. A few vague shapes in shades of gray: streamers, irregular blobs, hazy areas—
Corvus said: “Can it be a graph of some sort? A distribution?”
“I don’t know . . . It would have to be a very complex function. And it doesn’t have any axes marked.” The gilt frame emptied, began again. “I’ve got enough of a second one to try it. . .” Willam watched; then his face twisted in distress. “The same.”
—As much the same as two depictions of randomness could be. But however they differed from each other, they were of a type, that much was clear. And there seemed, too, a sort of grace to the arrangement, something calming and satisfying. A visual harmony, perhaps, almost comprehensible, odd and innocent, like a simple song in some half-familiar language.
Apparently, this was not lost on Willam. “Can they . . . can they be some sort of art? Because, they’re beautiful, but—no. No, because Kieran—” He tapped, checked the list presented to him in thin air—“Kieran made more than fifty of these, on this one night alone, and, and that’s when it all changed! And later—” Willam grasped at the air as if grasping for some answer—“Later, he showed Slado, or told him about it, and Slado killed him, and brought down Gee-Three—”
“Will, I just saw something routed to the house.”
Will glanced about, found the relevant page of light. “Um . . . Jannik asked for the house status.”
“Let’s hope your fix fooled him.”
“I’ve got enough for another image . . .” The frame emptied, filled again. Willam watched, uncomprehending, fascinated.
A faint sound, distant but clear:
A two-toned whistle.
Will sat up straight. “Sir—”
“Something else . . . A moment . . .”
“Sir—” The whistl
e came again.
“—Will, stand by!” Willam froze. Corvus said, “I captured something, a command string sent to the house, starting with—” He began reading out numbers and letters.
Will was on his feet. “That’s an override!” He reached right, pulled something from under the desk edge: papers, white, with blotches—
“I’ve diverted it, I’m holding it. But not for long, I’ll be noticed—”
Willam had his sack open; shoved the paper in, swept objects from the desk: the cards, the box, the thong-tied book.
“How much time do you need to get out?”
Will thrust the handwritten sheet into his shirt. “Sixty seconds.” He touched the board once; from above, a hum, a rattle.
“I can do that. Sixty seconds from your mark; say when. And good luck, Willam.”
But Will stopped short, hesitated a fraction of an instant; reached back down to the lap board, tapped a furiously rapid sequence, glanced up at the dark image of the world.
Across its face, scattered widely in the night: red symbols.
In a voice of near-panic: “Will, did you just ping my link?”
“I pinged everyone’s link, sir.”
“That was massively stupid!”
“It couldn’t make things any worse.”
“Get out. Get out now. You have sixty seconds. Good-bye.”
Will tore the speaking cone and rod from their attachments, threw them in the sack, slid himself straight across the face of the desk, through the light-letters, through the gilt-framed image, thumped to the floor, grabbed Rowan’s arm, and yanked her to her feet.
She staggered; the sudden touch of solid flesh was startling. He pulled her upright; he gripped her shoulder; he said, close to her face: “Run.”
20
They were out of the study, into the hall, to the stairs and then down them, with the house, ever helpful, lighting their path. At the bottom of the last flight, they stumbled through darkness, their eyesight still dazzled. In the foyer, they knocked over Jannik’s umbrella stand, left it lying on the floor.
At the portico, Bel’s hands found them. “No, not out in the street.” She pulled them aside. “It’s too open, he’s high up, he’ll see you.” There were dim shadows of roof edges, black against the street cobbles, shifting slowly, weirdly, as if the entire world were one great ship changing its course.
Bel pushed Rowan and Willam against the wall. They stood gasping as the light above brightened, then lowered itself behind the house.
Bel peered around the corner of the building. Then she punched Rowan’s arm. “Go.”
They dashed in the shield of the house’s huge shadow, across to the ruins in the next lot. They reached the half-wall they had hidden behind earlier, and crouched against the bricks in the dry weeds.
The place Rowan had flattened before was still there. She looked at it; it seemed unreal, inexplicable. “We forgot the lantern,” she said stupidly.
Willam said in a small voice, “It doesn’t matter. I can’t believe we’re alive.” He slid down the wall to sit on the ground. Rowan did the same. She blinked about. The streets were too bright, the shadows too dark. The grass felt strange under her hands, sensation distant and disconnected from sight. Everything around her, persons and objects, seemed mere colored light, empty, insubstantial: interface constructs.
Rowan lay her cheek against the bricks, focused on their roughness, their scent. Real. Solid. The fact seemed abstract. She found she had turned her face to press her lips against the bricks; a moment later, obeying some instinct she could not name, she tasted them.
“I’ve seen Christers kissing the ground when they get off a ship.”
She turned; Willam was regarding her, weakly amused. But when she did not reply immediately he became disturbed. “Rowan?” He reached out to her, but something, perhaps something in her eyes, made him stop. He remained, one hand half reaching, eyes wide. His white hair and pale skin seemed almost to glow in the heavy black shadows.
He had been working for Corvus. All this time, all along, he had been working for Corvus.
The steerswoman said, “I don’t think I know what’s real anymore.” She turned away from him. “Bel?”
The Outskirter was prone, spying past the tumbled edge of the wall. “That thing, that flying cart”—she raised her voice over a rising wind that rattled the branches of the trees and bushes—“it’s coming down in the garden.” Dust hissed into the street, the houses now lit from a freakishly low angle, as if a small white sun were sinking to earth. Noise thrummed in Rowan’s stomach, whined in her ears. The sound deepened, faded, but did not cease.
Rowan shifted forward awkwardly, trying to see what Bel saw. The Outskirter used one foot to shove her back. “Don’t let him spot you,” Bel hissed, “he killed you in the Dolphin.”
“Can he see you?” Will asked.
“Probably not. But I don’t think it matters. I’m not the only one looking.” Across the street, shutters were open a crack, showing candlelight, quickly snuffed; at another house, the street door opened slightly, with a pale face half-glimpsed beyond.
“He’s doing something with that cart, I can’t tell what,” Bel said. “He seems calm enough. It looks like you got away with it.”
“No, he knows something was up. He sent a spell,” Willam said. “He must think it worked. He thinks he’s killed the intruder.”
“Well, he’s fussing away like he hasn’t got a care in the world.”
The noise rose again and the wind picked up, gusting wildly. Bel tucked her head down from the flying leaves and dust.
White light brightened. The long shadows sharpened, then shortened. Rowan looked up.
Low overhead, then arcing up and rising: an oval shape with four legs, like the underbelly of a huge insect with a lantern, impossibly brilliant, in place of its head. Smaller lights showed on either side.
The steerswoman was beyond astonishment. Like ship’s lamps, she thought, distantly. Red for port; green for starboard.
The insect rose farther, became small, then tiny. The white light vanished abruptly, leaving only red and green, two colored stars that moved across the constellations, westward.
Willam reached past Rowan, tapped the Outskirter’s foot. “Bel?”
“He’s watching it go. I can see him, there’s a red lantern lit in the garden.” A pause. “Now he’s walking up the path to the back door . . . That’s it.” Bel climbed to her knees. “He’s gone into the house.”
Willam released a shaky breath. “We should get out of here—” He made to rise.
But Rowan put out one hand, caught his arm. He stopped. “Willam,” she said, uncertain, then suddenly urgent, “that last spell, that”—she recovered the term he had used—“that ‘override.’ ”
He was puzzled. “Yes . . .”
“Are you absolutely certain that it was Jannik who sent it?”
Will’s jaw dropped. “No . . .”
A soft whump; a huge crack; and wind, as sudden as a blow, and as brief. A thousand tiny objects struck the wall beside Rowan in a weird, chiming hail.
A moment of utterly empty silence, as if the world itself were stunned. Then a hiss and a growing roar, and crackles. Shadows jumped and writhed from flickering light.
Rowan stood slowly and backed away from the wall.
The windows of Jannik’s house had all burst outward. Smoke streamed from them, out and then straight up, vertical rivers of smoke, thick and black. Inside, light flailed wildly, red and yellow and white.
Willam was standing beside her, gaping at the sight. There were shouts in the distance, more shouts nearer, then many voices in the street.
Bel came to Rowan’s side. “Ow.” She was rubbing her face.
Will saw, grabbed and stopped her hands. “No, don’t touch it, stay still, keep your eyes closed.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the angry light from the house. “Rowan—give me your handkerchief.”
She pass
ed it to him, now frightened. “Will—”
“Wait, wait.” Seeming oblivious to all else, Willam brushed at Bel’s face with infinite patience and delicacy. Each pass left threads of blood behind. “We need water,” Will said.
They led Bel to East Well, pushing through the crowd now growing there, people gathering safely back from the heat of the wizard’s house. Men and women in nightclothes, or wrapped in blankets; barefoot near-naked children; three of the city guard; and voices all around.
Their former lookout was shouting, pulling and pushing at people, forcing them into order. A bucket line, Rowan realized.
Once again, a starry night in Donner; once again, a burning building, and a bucket line . . . At least this time, only a wizard had been harmed.
And Bel—
Willam was patting Bel’s face with the dampened handkerchief, rinsing, patting. Rowan said, “Will—”
“Stand by . . . ,” he said distractedly.
Working for Corvus. “Willam!”
Bel said: “Rowan, let him be, I think he knows what he’s doing.” The Outskirter’s aggrieved tone reassured Rowan immensely. “A lot of debris flew in my face, but I’m not in terrible agony. And I hope that handkerchief is clean,” she added to Willam.
“It’s better than glass getting in your eyes. Hold still.”
“Meaning it isn’t, I suppose.”
The bucket line had evolved into order, but the volunteers hesitated when a voice spoke up in an authoritative tone: “Hold back. The wizard’s house stands alone.” A blanket-wrapped figure moved through the crowd and drew near. “Let it burn down, I say.”
It was Irina. She caught Rowan’s eye, nodded.
“I thought you were out of town,” Rowan said, confused.
“Hmph. When a wizard sends for me, I am definitely not at home.” Irina turned away, adjusted the blanket more decorously about her night shift, and stood watching the fire, reflected flame glittering in her eyes.
But the bucket line did go to work, relaying water to the house across from Jannik’s and another nearby, where burning debris had settled on the roofs. The volunteers moved quickly, efficiently.
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