The Interminables (10 page)

“Hm?”

“Shall I search for him?”

She took up her pen. “Do whatever you think is prudent, Doctor.”

“
Y
ou do
what you have to do,” he said. “You don't think about it.”

Lucy crossed her hands one over the other, pale fingers interlaced on dark wood. “You could have died, Edmund. There's no way of knowing for sure how soon a Bernault device will ignite after it's dropped.”

He shrugged. “I had time.”

“What does that mean?”

“It's language, Lucy. If your time isn't up, nothing can kill you. Would you believe me if I said I drowned in '45?”

She laughed an uncertain laugh. “Should I?”

“Believing is better than knowing in my business, Lucy. Magic holds all kinds of truths. Even ultimate truths, the kind men spend their lives chasing. There are books out there that can tell you how the universe really works, why we're here, what's the purpose of it all.” He raised an eyebrow. He'd taken his goggles off. He couldn't believe how easy it was to talk to her. Tell her even about the
Morrison
, about how he'd been trapped below decks, underwater, for hours after those Kamikaze attacks, the only man aboard unable to die. It wouldn't hurt, somehow, if she asked. He hadn't felt this good in years. Ages. “I'll tell you, Lucy – there's a reason so many wizards go mad. Belief is much, much safer than truth.”

“Then I'll believe you,” she said. She drew a nail across the surface of the table. “And I'll hope that you aren't one of the mad ones.”

“I try not to be,” he said.

“Is that a kind of Conceptual magic, living so long?”

He shook his head. “I said there were two kinds, remember? Conceptual magic has to do with what is, the essence of things. We're talking about the magic that comes from elsewhere. The other kind.”

“And what do you call that?”

He smiled. “‘The other kind.'”

“The kind I probably shouldn't have asked about, then?”

“Bingo.”

She searched his face, probably looking for lines that weren't there. They always did. “It must be strange,” she said. “Knowing all of these secrets but knowing that you can't really know them. Knowing there's answers and never asking. Deliberately staying in the dark. What kind of life is that?” A smile, small and maybe a bit sad. “I'm sorry, you must see it differently.”

“Don't be sorry.”

“After everything that's happened, I... I don't know. I'm still not sure what to make of all of this. Of magic. I know some people blame the cabals for the Wizard War, but you seem so... normal. Are all wizards like you?”

Edmund chuckled. He didn't chuckle often. “Not all of them.”

She leaned closer. Her eyes had flecks of green in them, like marble. “Only most?”

“Some.”

“Wizardry favors the witty and wise?”

“That's right, and I see you know your Indo-European roots.”

They were inches apart now. “Some,” she breathed. “What makes you different?”

“For one, I know when a place isn't suited for a lady of your caliber–” and then he stood beside her, holding out a hand as he had the day before, smiling as he continued, “–and what to do about it.”

She didn't jump this time, he noted. She learned fast. He'd already known she had nerve – approaching the Hour Thief with dangerous information about weapons of mass destruction required a measure of that – but speedy adaptation was something he could appreciate in a woman. Legs didn't hurt, either. She had great legs.

She laughed instead. “Do you?”

He helped her up. “I do.”

He offered her an elbow and she took it without hesitation, like she'd been expecting it, like it was normal and not an antique habit to be puzzled at. They strolled out of Charlie's together, arm in arm. If the bartender on duty thought anything of it, he didn't say a word.

Edmund reached for his pocket watch as they stepped outside. “Would you care for a short walk?” he asked.

“With you? Not at all.”

Some stealthy sleight-of-hand, a pocket watch retrieved, a snap –

– and they were ten miles distant, on the bluffs next to a red pagoda, overlooking a fishing village on the coast of the Atlantic. Wild lilies nodded in the wind.

“Beautiful day,” he sighed. He gazed deliberately out at the horizon, the Black Building spiraling up into wispy clouds. “Don't you think so?”

This time, she jumped. He grinned to himself.

He'd specialized in teleportation for three reasons, even though everyone had told him to stay away from the discipline: it was convenient, it synergized very well with a magic that operated between moments, and he knew he couldn't kill himself by accident.

But there were fringe benefits. Whisked away. Just like magic.

“I hope you don't mind seafood,” he continued, “The lobster catch has been–”

She grabbed at his face. His tie. Pulled him down, and…

...and then he couldn't remember. It must have been something he didn't want to remember. That happened sometimes, not wanting to remember.

He took his bearings. He was on the bluffs. He was sitting on a rock near the lilies. His tie was crooked.

A gorgeous woman sat beside him.

“You shouldn't have,” she said. “I haven't been invited to a picnic in ages.”

He blinked, feeling vaguely confused but not unpleasantly so. Lucy. Right. Time sure flew when you were having fun. “Well, I'm glad I had the right idea, then. You said you liked seafood, right?”

“I'm sitting next to the Hour Thief,” she said. “The food barely matters.”

“Nevertheless.” He straightened his tie. Then he stood, and offered her a hand up. “Take some time to walk down to the house with me, will you?”

“Of course,” she said.

T
he frostbitten patients
were still recovering. Mr Fillmore, stable. A warning to the staff – he wouldn't be available for a short time, he would be out of contact – and then Istvan departed the Twelfth Hour on silent wings. It was starting to rain again, which was odd for July, but the weather had never been the same since the Wizard War.

Oh, he hated rain.

He circled the Twelfth Hour once, rolled over, and shot into a climb. The sun above the cloud deck was high in the sky, a hard brilliance blazing in a deep blue-black, marking a time just after noon. Lunch.

Edmund had probably taken Lucy to lunch.

Istvan tilted into another roll, and dove. Westward, some fifteen degrees north, following the trail of power lines strung in snarled tangles on poles mostly upright. One of the Generator district's many plumes of steam sped towards him and he plunged through and past it, sweeping low over where he knew Charlie's lay.

No Edmund. If Lucy were there, she was undetectable, but surely no one could be that blank. That untroubled. Not all the time.

Istvan swung around, covering a half-mile and more with each wingbeat. Generator was one of the better-off regions, and Big East's medley of misery and terror was correspondingly thinner, mixed with the tang of ozone... but even then, Edmund's distinctive richness didn't stand out.

That left only a small scattering of other possibilities. Edmund was remarkable in many ways, but innovation wasn't one of them.

Istvan soared back eastward. Skimming past the pagoda on the hill was enough.

Edmund had gone home.

He'd gone home, and while Istvan couldn't make out any sign of Lucy, Edmund had no doubt taken her with him. He barely knew the woman! How could he... he'd never moved so quickly before, he would never...

He had standards, the idiot!

Istvan buzzed a trio of scuttling finned creatures on the beach. They squealed high-pitched gargling noises and dove back into the water. It didn't really make him feel better.

The Magister had suspicions. Serious suspicions. He had to look into it.

They were probably only there for lunch. Edmund had standards.

Istvan returned to the house, alighted on the roof, and swung down out of view of any of the windows. He crept around to the front door. He concentrated on not being there, on the expectation that if anyone glanced his way it was because they were peering beyond him. He was immaterial; there was nothing to see.

He set a hand on the dark wood of the door – nothing to see here, no one come to eavesdrop – and then stepped cautiously through it. Beldam the cat lay on the couch, tail switching. She turned green eyes on him as he approached.

He held a finger to his lips.

She hissed, jumped off the couch, and shot into the kitchen. Stupid animal.

“Oh, she's lovely,” said a woman's voice. “Is she yours?”

“She is,” Edmund confirmed. “That's Beldam.”

“Beldam,” repeated the woman. “Come here, Beldam.”

Cat claws scrabbled on tile.

Istvan crossed the living room as quietly as he could and peeked around the dividing wall into the kitchen.

A picnic basket, its cover thrown back, sat on the kitchen table, displaying a large paper box, a pair of boiled eggs, and a plastic bag containing half a wheel of cheese. Lucy sat in a chair next to it, stroking a grumpy-looking Beldam with slim fingers and cooing at her.

Edmund stood at the counter, pouring either tea or cider into glass jars. His hat was off. His goggles were off. His smile was softer and more relaxed than Istvan had seen in years. His affect was like polished wood, steady, solid, and smoothly rippled as it always was, but the usual worries were diluted.

Istvan frowned. No, not diluted. Smothered. As though they were wrapped in a thin film he couldn't detect. Lucy, as before, was blank. Empty. If he hadn't been facing her, listening to her, he wouldn't have known she was there at all.

Edmund capped off the jars and set them in the basket. “That should be it.” He swept the cover over them and picked the whole collection up with a smile. “You were saying about this wonderland of yours?”

“Oh,” said Lucy, “Yes, it's very peaceful. No panics. No emergencies. No Bernault devices. You've had your fill of explosions, I can tell.”

“All in the buffet line of duty,” said Edmund. He took Lucy's hand. “Though I wouldn't say no to a few hours' respite.”

She stood, dropping Beldam. “Only a few hours?”

“That's up to you, doll. How many would you like?”

Beldam looked at Istvan like this was all his fault and stalked under the table.

Istvan grimaced. He should have been encouraged, he knew – Edmund, after so long, honestly happy in company – but he wasn't. He could have been amused, but he wasn't that, either. Instead he felt physically ill.

“Edmund,” he said.

The other man's smile vanished.

Lucy leaned closer to him, stroking his hand. “You never mentioned company.”

“Wasn't worth mentioning,” Edmund replied. “I've been told I'm company enough by a number of very authoritative sources.” He regarded Istvan with the disdainful squint reserved for overeager servants or particularly noisy groups of starlings. “Remember what I said about ‘alone,' Istvan? Have some respect for the lady, will you?”

Istvan clasped his hands behind his back. Visible now, flickering hints of wire and bone. Trembling, in anticipation of pain or at the remembrance of his orders or at something else, he didn't know. “I don't think you ought to be doing this,” he said.

“What?”

“Seeing her.”

Lucy let out a little gasp of indignation. Or what sounded like indignation. There was no flavor, no texture, none of the acidity of repressed anger or the sweet florals of shock or any of the verdant dryness of dislike or dismay. Nothing. The woman was hollow, like deadwood.

Istvan rushed forward before she could interrupt. “Edmund, there's something wrong. I told you before, but–”

Edmund hitched the picnic basket into the crook of his elbow. “Istvan, are you planning to hate every woman I ever meet?”

“No!” Istvan realized he'd brought his hands forward and that they had become fleshless claws. He folded resurgent wings back into smoke. “No,” he repeated, thinking how stupid it was for a nonexistent heart to hammer. “It isn't that at all. She's… Edmund, she's blank! Empty! There's nothing to her and this entire business has been wholly unnatural!”

“Says the dead man walking.”

Istvan flinched. “Edmund–”

“No, you listen to me. Lucy is the one who gave us the information that led to those Bernault devices. Remember that? Remember how she risked her own safety to meet me, is still taking a risk now, and did all that work to find my house in the first place? Remember that box we locked up, all those weapons that won't be hurting anyone else?”

“Edmund, please–”

“She's never done anything but try to help, and this is how you repay her? How you repay us?”

Edmund stepped forward, radiating threat. The man's presence was larger than his frame, and Istvan had never understood how he could do that. He wasn't conceptual, not like Istvan, wasn't really the Man in Black, not here – but God, he could come close. The strange muting of his aspect was more pronounced now, a coating of lace and cobwebs, like he'd been propped in an attic. That was wrong. He was acting all wrong. The Magister was right to be so worried.

Istvan realized he'd stopped breathing and then remembered that he didn't.

Lucy draped an arm over Edmund's shoulder, a mannequin in motion. “Why don't we just go?” she misted into his ear. “We shouldn't have to listen to this.”

“You're right,” said Edmund, “we shouldn't.”

He reached for his pocket watch.

The kitchen window shattered.

Istvan whirled.

A figure in scarlet rocketed towards Edmund –

– who suddenly wasn't there, and Lucy wasn't, either, and they were both on the other side of the table, which had been tipped over while Istvan wasn't watching.

“Lucy,” called Edmund, “take a moment to–”

An armored fist slammed into the table. The wood cracked. Lucy toppled. Edmund wasn't there. He spun from the attacker's right, kicking her legs out from under her.

It was a her, Istvan could see now, shorter than he was and built with the arrogant strength of a boxer. She wore an outlandish cowl and goggled mask, circled by a band of dull copper. Strange jointed contraptions ran the length of both arms, sheathing shoulder to fist in gleaming yellow. Straps secured armor plating on her chest and back, marked with a jagged line: an insignia Istvan didn't recognize.

She was almost as fast as Edmund.

It had been perhaps two seconds.

The woman's back hit the floor. Beldam zipped past Istvan into the living room. Lucy struggled from the wreckage of the table, kicking off her heels, catching up her dress. Istvan was looking straight at her but it was like watching a phantom, a mirage, an empty space that dissolved into the bedlam around it. It wasn't right.

He realized he was staring, uselessly, and drew his knife.

The attacker rolled back to her feet. Sparks skittered across the floor.

Edmund still held the picnic basket. “Now, Miss, if you'll spare a few moments, I'm sure we can iron this out.”

“No deal,” the woman said.

She lunged. Edmund dodged. The basket wasn't so lucky.

It exploded in a flash of lightning. Arcs leapt for the metal of the stove, the refrigerator, the kitchen knives. Istvan covered his eyes. Something large soared through the air past him, followed by a crash. More glass falling.

Lucy ran. The figure in scarlet shot past, overtaking her in a flash and knocking her against one of the bookshelves with a sizzle. Unconscious.

Istvan gaped. “What on Earth are you–”

“Don't touch her,” came the response. Behind those orange goggles, the woman's eyes slanted in distinctly Oriental fashion.

He could taste her revulsion, and her scorn.

“What?”

She prodded at his bandolier. “Don't touch the nice lady.”

He stiffened. Odd costume. Odd abilities. A method of operation uncannily and depressingly familiar. That exasperating facade of brazen confidence, and misplaced dislike to boot... oh, Istvan wasn't in the mood for this at all. He only endured Edmund's tomfoolery because most of his “costume” was, at the very least, actual clothing.

He prodded her back, finger sinking through armor to bone. “She could be badly hurt and I, Miss Scarlet, am a doctor.” He stepped through her – a slithering rush of shock and wet – and knelt beside Lucy. “I don't understand the need of you people to bloody concuss everyone!”

The woman whirled around. “No, seriously, don't–”

He ignored her. He pressed a hand to Lucy's forehead.

Something thundered in his chest. Liquid rushed through his arteries, hot as molten iron. Half-remembered impulses fired across his nerves like lightning. Fingers shorter than his own clutched at nothing, rictus-tight. Pain shot through his head, the great-grandmother of all migraines, a sensation distressing and exhilarating all at once. He struggled to focus unfamiliar eyes.

“What?” His voice emerged a high-pitched yelp. Motion accompanied the sound, a wet buzzing, a constriction in his chest.

What was he… He hadn't meant to –

He flailed too-thin arms, wire tangling around flesh that wasn't his. A scarlet blur pinned him down with a leaden elbow, grabbing at one of his wrists. Lucy's wrists. Shackles blazed at the edge of his vision. Dust coated the back of his throat. Suffocating pale strands wrapped themselves about his brainstem. Calming, soothing.... There was no need to worry. It was all part of the plan. No reason to panic. No reason to fight. Didn't he want happiness? Didn't he want peace? An end to suffering?

Lucy's eyes blinked. Peace? He clenched a fist on the floor, feeling a spate of desperate laughter bubble in his lungs. Peace? For him?

Peace, for the War to End All Wars! Oh, it was absurd… impossible… It was–

Perspective tilted. The playing field shifted. Real gave way to hyperreal. It was larger there, more evident – a creeping mass of comfort and suggestion, rippling with stolen memories. A creature, glassy and amorphous. A yawning emptiness of sorrow. It coiled within her, tendrils reaching without her, no more native to her many layers of being than he was. Fragments of Lucy's life sparkled within its inner substance: chasing a younger brother around a table in the kitchens, playing at dice on a long night lit by fire, pulling off a helmet once the seals locked and the air cleared, glimmers of a beautiful young woman with eyes of green. Memories that whispered, branches in autumn.

Istvan drew his knife. The Conceptual. That's where they were. The realm of ideas, the perfect geometry of Plato, the plane of existence on which he was bound. Before, he had never been threatened by any other Conceptual anything – he hadn't even known that it was an avenue of attack, much less a place – but now the full weight of what he was churned at the distant edge of his awareness, a horizon just beyond reach.

Chains weighed down his every movement.

They were parchment, only parchment, but inked with words as binding as iron. Arabic calligraphy. Edmund had scribed them. The only Great War Istvan could call on here was the barbed wire that snaked through his bones.

That didn't change the fact that whatever this glassy creature was, it didn't belong here.

He stabbed it. Its substance clung like glue.

“You scorn my offer?” The voice was low and smooth, female, strongly accented with Lucy's American drawl. It sounded surprised.

“Yes.” He twisted the knife. No pain: evidently many-misted horrors that resided beyond the physical were acceptable targets for lethal force. Perhaps because he doubted it would be lethal. “Yes, I think I do.”