The Interminables (31 page)

“You did what you thought was best.”

Edmund sniffed. “Never should have let myself fall in love with her. Knew this would happen. I... Istvan, I knew this would happen. Always does. They always leave, they always…” He blinked, a rapid flutter, and reached for another napkin. This one ripped, too. “Stupid. Istvan, I'm so stupid. I'll never be with anyone, not really, not ever. Should act like it. Don't deserve it. Should've... should've given up a long time ago.”

Istvan swallowed back an old ache of his own. “Edmund…”

“You're lucky. You were married. You did that. You just... you did that. You found someone and you kept her. You got to know what that was like, and… and I... I'll never…” The wizard dropped his hat, elbow slewing through the pile of napkins, and buried his head back in his sleeves. “Never should've tried,” he croaked between shudders, “I never, never should've tried…”

A chair scraped across the floor. Istvan glanced back through his yet-upraised wing. The revelers were leaving, pushing glasses away and abandoning gifts of makeshift currencies, notes of contracted service in exchange, and an odd brass lantern on the table. Those who couldn't walk quite straight leaned on those who could.

What time was it, after all? The building had no clocks.

Istvan slid out of the booth, allowing muddied feathers to dissipate. Edmund stayed where he was, head down, wet napkins fluttering off the table. Istvan set newly-fleshed hands on the man's shoulders as they shook. “Come on,” he sighed, “Let's get you home.”

Edmund mumbled something unintelligible.

“I know you can get us there – I've seen you do it very nearly in your sleep. Come on, get up.” He held on to him as the wizard slouched out of the booth, trying a few times to find his top hat and then perching it precariously on his head, swaying. “That's right.”

“Have to get my watch,” said Edmund. He fumbled for his pocket, leaning heavily into Istvan's side.

“Wait. Wait, no, Edmund, you can't…”

The bartender peered over the counter at the thud.

Istvan crouched down, putting up a wing again. Good Lord. “Oh, Edmund,” he chuckled even as he cringed at his lack of substance, “you know that doesn't work.”

Edmund blinked fuzzily at the ceiling. “Huh,” he said. After another moment of consideration, he added, “Huh.”

Istvan followed the gold chain into the wizard's right pocket and found his watch, then handed it to him. His fingers were slack; Istvan folded them safely around it, clasping Edmund's hand in both of his. “There you are.”

“Thanks.”

Istvan waited until he was sure the man had a good grip on it, then let go. The device stayed put. He shook his head. “You'll have to get yourself to bed, I'm afraid.”

Edmund inspected the brass casing, prying it open with some effort and holding it up from his spot on the floor. “I'm a big boy.”

“I know.”

“Stay... stay with me?”

“I will.”

Edmund wiped at his nose. “Oh, good.”

He snapped his watch.

H
e made it to bed
. He even managed to sleep.

Then Shokat Anoushak came for him. The Kamikazes. The watcher in the deep, black and oily, the water that drowned everyone but him. Last survivor. No one left.

Alone, forever.

His fault.

Run
–

When he woke, thrashing, Istvan was there. Just like he'd promised. Just like he'd been there, all those times before. Someone to stop the shaking. Someone to stanch the terror.

Someone to be there, like he'd promised. The only friend a sinner could keep.

“I'm going crazy,” Edmund told him, face-down in his pillow, unable to stop the tears and angry that he couldn't and tired of it all but unable to end it, and most of all grateful for the dark, “I'm going to hurt people, Istvan. I already hurt people. I'm going to be like her.”

The specter sat beside him, a faint translucence, his presence alone a chill that numbed. Too close for comfort, perhaps… but close enough for comfort. “You aren't going crazy.”

“You know what they call it now, Istvan, officially. Post-Traumatic Stress
Disorder
. That means crazy.”

“That only means you need help sometimes, Edmund, and that's why I'm here. I won't let you go crazy, I promise.” A hand rested on his back. Achingly cold but familiar, a faint memory of living pressure. “You won't be like her.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

A few minutes more – softly-spoken reassurances repeated in that accent like Dracula's, maybe, but too trusted to be threatening, almost musical in its cadence – and Edmund drifted back to sleep. Good old Istvan. War itself. Already dead. Not even Edmund's curse, dogging him now and forever, could harm Istvan.

He'd come for him.

He'd come for him, after everything.

T
he cure
to gin was a glass of gin.

That was a fact. That had been a fact for seventy years.

Istvan insisted on pitching in as well – “I know you like to torment yourself, Edmund, but we do need you as capable as possible” – and Edmund gave up and let him. An end to pain and dizziness wasn't really the end to pain and dizziness, just a delay, but a delay was all he could ask. He could collapse later. He probably would.

Grace wasn't ever going to forgive him.

He didn't dare spend any time for recovery. He'd need that time later. He'd need as much time as he'd taken.

He realized he was staring at a breakfast plate and finished off whatever was on it. Food, of some sort. Istvan had insisted.

“Istvan?”

The specter looked up from prodding at Edmund's phone. He didn't look much better than Edmund felt, but his scarring never helped with that and at least there weren't any bloodstains or bullet holes. “Hm?”

“Istvan, please tell me this plan is a good idea.”

Istvan looked back at the phone. “It's, ah…”

Edmund stood. Picked up his plate. Walked a few steps and retrieved a dipper from the bucket next to the sink. “You don't have to be honest.”

“Ah.” Istvan folded his hands on the table. “Well, then, in that case, I think it's a splendid idea, putting all those people on the same field as the Susurration, using up all your time to help them run away, and then cutting my chains so the Great War itself can blow peace and happiness to tiny pieces for the Magister to collect.” He went back to tapping at the screen. “Absolutely a good idea. The best.”

Edmund put his plate away. He'd washed it, hadn't he?

He checked.

He had.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Of course.” Istvan fiddled with the phone a moment longer, then stood. “Now, come on. I've sent a message to the Magister, I think, but I'm not certain it went through.” He handed the device to Edmund. “We ought to be at the fortress as soon as we can.”

Edmund glanced at it.
Recovered
, it said,
on our way presently stop

He never had understood the appeal of sending what amounted to fortune cookie messages when you could simply call, but Istvan, all things considered, had caught on shockingly quickly. “Right.”

Be at the fortress. Be what he needed to be, do what he needed to do, and don't panic. Grace would never forgive him even more if he panicked.

His head didn't hurt but he knew it should have.

He dropped the phone in his pocket, wiping wet hands on his jacket. “We need to stop at the Twelfth Hour for some things first. I left them in Mercedes' office. Knew I'd be out most of the night.”

Out patrolling. Laid out. Out of his mind.

Years, stolen.

How can you sleep at night?

Istvan nodded. He knew what Edmund meant – he had to, after so long – but he didn't mention it. Didn't dwell on it. Didn't treat him like he was broken, or weak, or not trying hard enough. In less urgent times, he would always leave Edmund to his misery when he requested it. “Come on, then.”

Edmund retrieved his hat and cape.

They went.

T
he fortress roof
was closing when they arrived. Barrio Libertad had a roof, it seemed – and it moved into place with a deep, groaning, almost naval rumble, immense wheels rolling on their rails with shattering bongs and crashes. The folded steel sails along the walls weren't folded any longer: they rose and turned and swung across one another, ignoring the wind that rattled against their broad sides, splitting the sky into bright triangles and the city below into sweeping columns of light and shadow.

The walkways trembled.

Edmund tensed. Istvan set a hand on his shoulder.

The man's next breath came easier.

Istvan sought the guiding line that had always appeared before, but there was no sign of it. The inhabitants of the fortress bustled behind spiked railings, stringing last-minute perimeters and taking down hanging laundry, vague figures in the place's choking emotional haze. Murals displayed maps and instructions. Emplacements fabricated who-knew-where nodded from balconies, blunt muzzles swiveled to point down at the central plaza. Istvan had to wonder if the adobe down there could handle the weight of fire pointed at it.

Yesterday, Grace Wu had mentioned in passing that if they failed, the epitaphs for all the casualties would be stenciled on the exterior walls. That seemed proper. Names and dates, all in their places. A paragraph or so for the unknown. Speeches. Monuments. Promises to remember.

Poor compensation, yes, but it was something.

“This is a good idea,” murmured Edmund. He rifled through the satchel he carried, checking for what he had put into it at the Twelfth Hour: a silver knife, iron filings, notes and instructions from Magister Hahn, ink mixed with ash. The first time he had managed with less, but this task was different. Cutting the chains, not rewriting them.

He had said something vague and noncommittal when Istvan asked about the ash.

“It's what we have,” said Istvan. A readied fire team watched from a nearby balcony, the shadow of a sail creeping towards them over bridges and gardens. He nodded at them. “They wouldn't stop us, you know.”

Edmund let the satchel be. “What wouldn't?”

“The defenses. If the Susurration refuses to surrender, Edmund, if this doesn't work – or if it does work, too well. You know what the creature can do. What we can do.” He touched the handle of the knife sheathed at his side. “I've thought about this, Edmund. Those people are preparing for
us
.”

“It won't come to that,” Edmund said. He sounded like he wished the idea had never come up.

Istvan shrugged. He tossed the fire team a salute. He wondered what their names were.

They waved back, hesitantly.

The last columns of sun shrank, slivered, and streaked upwards across the walls. Fleeting. Fleeing. Then the roof thundered shut. Spotlights pierced the echoes, blazing to life one after the other in a blinding ring around the perimeter.

Edmund reeled, sagging onto the nearest rail. Istvan did what he could.

The last spotlight lit as the last vestiges of sound faded.

Footsteps marched along the walkway towards them. Golden boots, golden pauldrons, a crimson cape and spikes. The masked helmet was no skull-faced visage: that was unique to Triskelion warlords, as far as Istvan could tell. This one was slitted, and blank.

Edmund squinted. “Istvan, I haven't seen a blue line anywhere, have you?”

“Perhaps this time we merit an escort,” Istvan replied, stepping before him to meet the mercenary himself, just in case. “Pageantry before the storm.”

“I'm not made of glass,” Edmund grumbled.

Istvan stayed where he was.

The mercenary halted two sabre-lengths away from them and slammed a fist on his breastplate. “Hail, Hour Thief, wizard-general of the last war.”

“Thanks,” gritted Edmund.

The mercenary dropped to a knee. “Hail, Doctor Czernin, butcher of dragons, to whom I owe my true life and my revenging gauntlet.”

Istvan blinked. “Ah…”

The mercenary pulled off his helmet.

Her
helmet.

“I,” proclaimed Lucy, “am Second-Among-Twenty, Banner-Bearer, the Crashing Blade Who Casts the Slain Against the Rocks, and I grant you here the right and honor to look upon the last of my masks. I am myself, once again and truly, thanks to your intercession.” She bowed, setting her helmet against the walkway. “My might is your might, should you have need of it.”

Istvan opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Are you quite certain you're in fighting trim?” he asked. “You were terribly thin to be swinging a sword about.”

“I will regain my strength once I have regained my honor,” she boomed.

“Of course.”

“Follow. I will show you to our council.”

She replaced her helmet on her head, stood, and marched away.

“I'm still amazed this kind of thing doesn't bother you.” Edmund said, faintly.

Istvan shrugged. He wasn't sure why it didn't, himself, save that he could recount the exploits of a number of female soldiers of his war from automatic memory and had met enough others (overt and not) that it was somehow no longer as remarkable as it ought to have been.

A Triskelion mercenary. That made their involvement in this affair rather more personal than he'd thought.

He caught up with Lucy – Lucy? – as she led them across a bridge that might have been familiar. “Why were you permitted to remain alive?” he asked. “What happened to the smiler at the conference? Wasn't he shot?”

“Our alliance with this place spared his life and sanity,” she replied. “We brought him here, and here he remains, awaiting his recovery from memory's maze.”

“I see.”

“Our great lord moved quickly to secure assistance once the true magnitude of this threat became clear... or so I have heard. Some years are lost to me.” The helmet turned, blank visor just visible over her armored shoulder. “I sought to thank you at the summit, Doctor, but fate brought us another path. Another of Shokat Anoushak's great horrors for your trophy hall. Your fourth, is it not?”

He frowned. “Fourth?”

“The pennant-backed serpent of the obelisk that laid waste to the southern shores? The crocodile of bridges, its star-towers lying dead across the bay?”

“How would you know–”

“The storm-wrought scourge of dread Chicago! They say you felled it after eight hours of single combat! That you hacked its skull from its shoulders and it fell like thunder and lo, there it remains!”

Well, that wasn't all
quite
true, but...

Edmund muttered to himself.

Istvan glanced back at him, unsure whether to feel flattered or unnerved by the attention. “Did you say something?”

Edmund shook his head. “No, no. You two are perfect for each other.”

T
hey approached
the domed building from the night before, this time ascending its narrow stairway with no interruptions. It led to a balcony, crowded with spectators who fell back before Lucy's spiked presence, drawn sword, and amplified voice.

“Make way! Make way!”

Edmund put on a smile and followed, trying not to look to either side. Trying to focus on the cold presence of Istvan behind him, on the round steel table that emerged into view below, on the painted circle of hands that marked the dome above. Were those concertina lines on the walls?

The Hour Thief
, the crowd murmured,
It's the Hour Thief.
He doesn't look so good, does he?
I saw him with his arm all bound up on the Fourth.
How does he figure he can save everyone by himself?

He's not by himself. Don't get too close. If that ghost walks through you, you die.

“Silence amongst the rabble!” Lucy commanded. She elbowed aside someone in a long patched overcoat who didn't move fast enough. The voices hushed.

“Our apologies,” Istvan muttered.

Lucy bullied her way through the last of the crowd and ushered the two of them down a spiral staircase. There were a lot of people seated at the table Edmund didn't recognize. Mostly people – the hummingbird seemed to have a seat to itself, and he wasn't sure what the creature three seats over was (though it, too, had feathers, he thought). Six men, three women. Maybe two of them from different Earths or futures or pasts. Barrio Libertad's governing council?

The skull-helmeted Lord Kasimir was familiar, at least, accompanied by the man who spoke for him.

Mercedes sat two seats away from Grace. “Good morning, gentlemen.” Her hair was up, her oversized jacket as pressed as it ever looked, her sharp, pockmarked face somehow wistful. She wore a messenger bag slung over one shoulder, packed full of supplies for her own task: beads and glass shards and drawing materials, a Greek mathematics text, her telephone, stripped wire, and a number of other, stranger things. “Slept well, I trust?”

“Sit,” commanded Lucy.

Edmund found himself prodded into the empty chair next to Grace. He tried to decide how he felt about that and then decided it was better not to. He set his satchel down. “Morning, Mercedes.”

“Eddie,” said Grace. She was Resistor Alpha just as he was the Hour Thief. She wrinkled her nose as he sat. “You've been drinking.”

“Just one this morning.”

“Yeah, right. You hang this whole one-man miracle plan on yourself and then you go out and get hammered. Bravo.”

“I'll manage,” he said. He held his own hands down to keep them from shaking. She wouldn't forgive him. “I'm sorry,” he added.

“At least you made it,” she muttered.

It wasn't forgiveness. It didn't always feel right, being right.

All dead. All dead.

murmured Istvan.

Lucy slammed a fist on her breastplate and withdrew, joining the other mercenary standing behind Lord Kasimir and falling into parade rest.

Edmund dropped his head in his hands. Too loud. Everything was too loud.

Edmund winched his head back into position. Someone had started talking. One of the people he didn't know. How many smilers would he be able to rescue, did he think? What did the Hour Thief think? Did he have a number?

Istvan nudged him.

“All of them,” the Hour Thief said. He smiled. “I'll be giving it my damnedest, anyway.”

Whispering in the balcony.

“Did you have to put it that way?” hissed Grace.