The Half-Made World (9 page)

Creedmoor’s master’s name was Marmion. It hardly mattered, though; they were all much the same.

How numerous were the Guns? Creedmoor wasn’t sure. Some of them had several names, and some of them had no names at all, but went by the names of the particular Agents who carried them. They were immortal spirits, but their manifestation in this world was in the form of weapons of wood and metal and ivory and powder. Sometimes when their Agents died or their vessels were destroyed, they vanished from the world for decades, sulking in their Lodge; sometimes they came back at once, hungry for revenge. Some of them were carried by famous generals or warriors; others favored spies and blackmailers and murderers, and might never be known to history at all. Creedmoor’s best guess was that there were not fewer than three dozen, and probably not more than a hundred.

Before Creedmoor, Marmion had been borne by a con man called Smiling Joe Portis, who’d been arrested by men of the Line in Gibson City and dragged back to Harrow Cross to be hanged. In the last century, Marmion had been borne by a woman called Lenore Van Velde, aka Lenore the White, who’d stopped the advance of the Line over the Stow River by introducing plague rats into their encampments while posing as a cook. It was
possible
that Marmion had been borne by the legendary One-Eye Beck, who’d blown the bridge over the Tappan Gorge with a black-powder petard, sending the Archway Engine screaming back down to hell, from which it arose again two hundred years ago. That was all Creedmoor knew of his master’s history; presumably it went back a full four hundred years, to Founding and the first western settlements. And before that—before humans woke it and gave it form—before that Marmion slept in the earth. Or in fire. Or the stars. Or elsewhere entirely. It was hard to say.

The gods of the enemy were easier to count. Their straight and constant paths could be seen on maps. There were exactly thirty-eight Engines in the world.

His head spun in the smoke and he drowsed for a second. The crack and hiss of the fire began to sound like distant conversation. A voice in the back of his brain snapped him awake—

—Creedmoor! Listen.

Not his master—one of the others. The voice was the same but different. Which one was it? Belphegor? Barbas? Naamur? Gorgon?

—Creedmoor! We have work for you.

—Creedmoor! We have chosen you from among many.

—Creedmoor! You must go west, to the edge of the world.

And there were other voices beneath those, more distant, more alien—buzz and click and the off-kilter rhythm of gunfire. Part of the Guns was in the world, and they sang to each other across the continent in those distant echoes of violence. Part of them was always in their Lodge, which was—where? In the fires beneath the earth? In the dark beyond the stars? Creedmoor didn’t know.

The walls of old Josiah’s cabin were no longer visible. The room was made of smoke and fire and stink. Creedmoor didn’t understand or care to understand the metaphysics of it, but he was now in what might be called an anteroom to the Lodge itself, and it turned out that others were there waiting for him:

—Hello, Creedmoor. Have you been enjoying your retirement? No rest for the wicked, is there?

—You cowardly dog, Creedmoor, I thought you were dead. Dead or gone to No-Town. Have you been skirt-chasing while we were fighting?

—Hello, John. Sad news! The young bucks have forgotten you. You used to be a name to conjure with, but I mentioned you to a promising young fellow the other day and he said,
Who?
They have no respect, no manners.

Those were the voices of his peers, distantly refracted through the fire. His fellow Agents, scattered all across the continent, each one no doubt looking into their own smoking fires, each one accompanied by their own master. Jen of the Floating World; Abban the Lion; Dandy Fanshawe. It had been so long since he’d heard their voices. And there were others, again, clamoring behind them. Creedmoor recognized Hudnall the Younger, Kid Glove Kate, and Big Fane. He closed his eyes to clear his head and said,

—Are we all here? Such a rare gathering. I’m flattered.

Marmion answered:

—Many of us are here. You will go alone, but there will be others watching over you.

—Go where?

—On the edge of the world there is a hospital.

—Yes?

—West of here. North of Greenbank, northwest of Kloan. East of the world that is not yet made, and the far sea. It is called the House Dolorous.

—And?

—Quiet, Creedmoor. Listen. There is a man there. We believe there is a man there. We do not know. We have gathered rumors in dark places, and scryed, and sniffed out trails.

—They mean my spies gathered rumors. My girls. Don’t they always take the credit? The Guns are as bad as men, I swear.

That voice was Jen’s. Jen of the flaming hair, Jen of the Floating World. It had been six years since Creedmoor had seen Jen—six years since he’d last patronized her brothel, the Floating World, which hovered in the hills over Jasper City like a wonderful filthy dream—six years since he’d heard her red lips whisper secrets. She would be sitting now in her office in the Floating World, which was all jade and leather and mahogany and sensual curves; in fact, she would most likely be lying lazily on the sofa by the fireplace. He wondered if she was still beautiful. Could the Guns have kept her young? Would they? They must have. It was impossible to imagine her old.

The voice of the Guns:

—The House is a hospital for the wounded of the Great War. It is neutral—it takes those who fought in our service, and those who fought for the enemy. It takes the maimed, and it takes the mad.

—Commendable.

—It sickens us. Listen, Creedmoor: the House is defended.

—It’s only a hospital. It has guards?

—On the edge of the world, things are not yet settled. Unruly powers arise. Small gods. One of them protects the House.

—Some gulch-ghoul, some First Folk demon, some haunt of dry rivers? A poltergeist? A dust-devil with ideas above its station?

—It is strong, and old, and well-fed.

—Stronger than you?

—Listen, Creedmoor. The man we seek is there, in a hospital room. If our intelligence is accurate.

Jen interrupted, in tones of mock-outrage:

—My intelligence is
always
accurate.

Creedmoor said:

—Is it? Must have been someone else who sent me and Casca into that trap back in Nemiah in ’63. So who is this fellow?

—An old man. He was once a General, but now he is mad. The noise of the bombs of the Line shattered his mind. He does not know who he is, and nor do his doctors.

—Well?

—Well what? You do not need to know either. Bring him to us.

Secrets! Creedmoor could feel the Guns buzzing and preening. How they loved their secrets!

—They can be
so
dramatic, can’t they, darling?

That slow drawl was Dandy Fanshawe—the pomaded and silk-coated old Queen of Gibson City, who was so outrageous and self-indulgent that few ever suspected he was a first-class spy or that he had once killed over a dozen Linesmen with nothing but his ebony sword-stick and his own teeth. It had been Dandy Fanshawe who first recruited Creedmoor into the service of the Gun, back when Creedmoor had been young, and Fanshawe, well, not
young,
but not so scandalously old as he was now. They’d met in an opium den in Gibson City, and Fanshawe had been lying on silk cushions wreathed in smoke, with his jade-ringed hand idly draped on some young man’s thigh. His nails had been painted. He’d been ethereal, mysterious, behind clouds of smoke made nebulous by candlelight.
Darling boy!
Fanshawe had said.
We’ve had our eye on you for quite some time.
 . . .

Creedmoor remembered old days and smiled. He said:

—They certainly can, old friend.

—They’re such whispering secretive girls. They won’t even tell
me
. None of us are favored with their confidence.

Creedmoor instantly suspected that Fanshawe knew exactly what was going on, but he kept quiet, because a dozen metallic voices chorused:

—Enough.

Creedmoor shook his head. The smoke dizzied him. He could see nothing except a haze of gray, in which ghostly forms came and went like memories. He was suddenly angry. He said:

—An old mad General. An old enemy? One of our many, many old enemies. You want me to kill him? You want revenge? What’s the point?

—We want you to bring him to us. He is worth more than gold. You must not kill him. On no account must you kill him, or allow him to be killed. A frontal assault will not work. The Spirit of the House is powerful, and will permit no violence within its walls. It does violence in return to those who bring violence to it. If we attack, the General may be killed.

—Oh, dear! If murder won’t work, we are rather at a loss, aren’t we?

—Shut up, Creedmoor. We have chosen you because you are personable, Creedmoor, you are charming. Worm your way in, past the Spirit, past the defenses. Befriend them. Seek employment if necessary. You pass for an ordinary man.

—Like I’ve always said, Creedmoor, you’re no hero, but you’d make a good janitor.

—Ha! Fuck you, Lion.

That voice was Abban the Lion. Abban, like Creedmoor, had not been born in the West; but where Creedmoor came from damp and misty Lundroy and was prone to grumbling and joint aches, the dark and eagle-nosed Abban came from the sands of Dhrav and was passionate. He fancied himself a warrior, wore his dark hair long, dressed all in black, and sometimes went so far as to affect a sword. At this moment he was probably staring into a fire in a camp somewhere in some distant hills, surrounded by the bodies of enemies. He said:

—I’ll be behind you, Creedmoor. In the hills. Whether you want me or not. Watching. You won’t be alone.

Fanshawe’s voice again:

—So will I. Like old times, Creedmoor!

—Not sure I trust you behind me, Fanshawe.

—I’ve never heard
that
one before, darling, well done.

Jen said:

—I will not be joining you. I wish you gentlemen well at the ends of the earth. My spies will be working in your behalf back in Jasper City. Come find me at the Floating World when you’re done.

—You should travel more, Jen. You used to go everywhere. Tell me—are you still young?

She laughed. Abban spoke:

—Don’t think you can betray us, Creedmoor. Don’t think if you run away again, you will be forgiven.

—Fuck you, Lion.

A gray shape that swirled through the smoke looked remarkably like the blade of a curved sword swooping at Creedmoor’s head, and he ducked, and immediately felt foolish. He said:

—Listen. What’s this about? Why do we care about this old General? There’s no shortage of Generals in this world.

Marmion answered:

—He was caught by the bombs of the Line—the bombs of terrible noise, that shatter the mind with fear. His mind is gone. He will be one among many with minds like children, rotting away in the cells of the House Dolorous. They do not know who he is or what he is. There are secrets hidden in his mind.

—What secrets?

—Bring him to us.

—What secrets?

—What do you think, Creedmoor? A weapon. What else?

—A weapon.

—Yes.

—What kind of weapon?

—A thing of the First Folk. It could mean victory.

—An end to the War? Peace at last?

—Not peace. Victory.

—What weapon? What does it do? Who is he? Who was he? What have the Folk got to do with it?

—You know enough already. You are not trustworthy, Creedmoor. None of our servants are trustworthy. Bring him to us.

—Hmm. Fanshawe?

—Yes?

—Have the young bucks really forgotten my name?

—Afraid so, dear boy.

—Serve us well now and you will never be forgotten, Creedmoor.
Pay attention.
 . . .

They began to talk tactics, logistics. One voice interrupted another, and again. A disagreement on a point of precise timing emerged, and they began to squabble and snipe. The unity of the Guns never lasted long. Ambush and volley and countervolley of words . . .

The smoke thickened. Billows of it crossed the room back and forth like cavalry charges. Voices echoed and overlapped. What always unnerved Creedmoor was that though each voice was different, they were also the same. They sounded in his head and they sounded in
his voice,
with only a crude approximation of Abban’s accent or a mockery of Jen’s lilt or Fanshawe’s drawl or an echo of the thud and snarl of the Guns. It was horribly unpleasant, and enough to make a man wonder if he was mad.

When he threw open the door and let the smoke pour out, it was nearly morning, and Josiah was muttering in his sleep. Creedmoor walked away quickly before his master could decide the old man needed to be killed after all.

CHAPTER 5

SMILE THROUGH ADVERSITY

Dr. Lysvet Alverhuysen’s coach traveled west, through Koenigswald’s farmlands, and across the border into Sommerland, and along a high cliff road that looked over the vast gray Northern Ocean, and south across the moors, and up into the pines. Other travelers came and went—businessmen, widows, scholars, doctors, couriers, the idle rich on tour. Sometimes there was pleasant conversation; sometimes Maggfrid sat in deep silence and Liv read, or stared at the passing skies. Mail was picked up and dropped off. The coach bounced along the dirt roads that cut through the forests, narrow channels between dark walls of pine. A few logging towns and the occasional inn disrupted the green immensity. It got colder as they slowly gained altitude. They changed coaches twice, and both times Liv was convinced she was going to lose something vital from her luggage, though she couldn’t think what; already most of what she’d brought seemed unnecessary. She’d taken to wearing her hair down.