The Interminables (26 page)

The sky above the observatory's crumbling dome blazed with stars.

“I guess this is it,” Edmund said.

“I suppose it is,” Istvan agreed.

They stood just outside, waiting for the last of the security detail to roll into place. They were in the mountains now, further to the west than he'd ever been able to fly without pain, Big East's industrial cityscape giving way to ragged foothills and finally blasted and smoke-wreathed peaks, storms from Tornado Alley breaking over their stony backs. Beyond lay Triskelion, the nearest region broken into true warfare he had never visited.

He could almost hear the report of rifles, the clatter of wheels, the shouting of the supply trains hauling ammunition over snow-choked passes, the roar of emplacements echoing peak to peak to avalanching peak…

Oh, it wasn't to be. For the best, he knew, but he did miss it, in that terrible guilty sense that one missed anything one oughtn't.

Edmund sighed. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Istvan realized he was sighing to himself as well, and stopped. “What? This is the Magister's game now, as it ought to have been days ago: all you must do is speak when spoken to.”

“Not that.”

“You were a fine leader, Edmund, under the circumstances.”

“Not that, either.” The wizard swung his pocket watch in a circle before catching it. Stared at the distant city skyline. His affect churned, lidded but not hidden, grief and frustration and terror boiling like goulash. “Istvan, there was one time years ago – her name was Marianne – she'd moved on, but then so had I, mostly, and it's somehow different when you know she's alive. The letters just stopped coming, was all. That happened to a lot of fellows. But this… Istvan, how am I supposed to deal with this? Has anything like this ever happened to you?”

Grace. Bloody Grace.

Istvan glanced back at the observatory. A Triskelion mercenary stood guard at the door. Others formed a perimeter, idling on foot or at the guns of strangely baroque armored vehicles, machines wide enough that they had been forced to inch up the steep mountain roads one by one. The representatives were already inside. Grace Wu, in her peculiar guise as Barrio Libertad's “state hero,” was among them, because of course she was.

“Dealing with a woman who doesn't love you back, Edmund?”

“Yes.”

“I can't say that I have.”

“Right. Sorry. This isn't the time.” The wizard ran a finger over brass. “Forget I asked.”

Istvan cast one last wistful glance at the embattled mountains. “It should be starting soon,” he said, “We ought to go in.” He hesitated, then patted Edmund's shoulder. “Don't worry, I'm sure you'll manage.”

“I'm sure.”

T
he mercenary
at the door rested a hand on the pommel of his sabre, his voice with its indefinable accent blaring brassy and metallic. “Hour Thief. All fares well?”

“No toll yet,” the Hour Thief replied, “but thank you for asking.”

“Attend closely, and guard well your vengeful spirit.”

“I'm sure he'll behave himself.”

Istvan, at his side, sighed.

They followed the man inside. A catwalk hung suspended over a sea of rusted mechanisms, enormous wheels and motors Edmund assumed were meant to position the equally enormous telescope that reared skyward in the center, a flaking hulk with broken mirrors. Clicks and mechanical chattering echoed from lifeless consoles. According to Janet, the place still published nightly reports on the state of the heavens: charting new phenomena no one could place, tracking constellations that never existed. The only light was foreign, rigged over a platform riddled with bolt holes where components had been removed. A circular table sat there now. Occupied.

Mercedes nodded at them from their section. She didn't smile.

Edmund made his way across the room, Istvan close by his side, and focused on being the Hour Thief. Walk smooth and easy. Smile: faint, pleasant, and self-assured. Don't look too long at any one person, except for effect. Stay tall. Stay calm. He could do this.

Don't look too long.

To Mercedes' right sat the contingent from Triskelion, a trio of armored figures in familiar style. The man in the center wore an elaborate breastplate, a crimson cape, and at least two greatcoats, his pauldrons a cascade of golden spikes. He still wore his helmet, as did his men: crested, skull-faced, a horsehair plume trailing off the back of his chair. A broadsword lay propped on the railing behind him. One of the warlords, no doubt.

Across from him, behind a redundant placard labeled “Barrio Libertad,” she waited.

She was, once again, Resistor Alpha. Cowled, goggled, and clad in that harness that strapped around her arms. Bright red and yellow. She wore the same copper circlet she had once placed on Edmund's own head, when this had all begun. Only a few days ago. It felt like years.

No Diego. Evidently mortal deliberation was beneath his attention.

Mostly mortal.

Edmund hung his hat on his chair and sat down before he could somehow make a fool of himself. Istvan took up position beside the box of Bernault devices. No one present would want to go through him to get at them, or so Mercedes had reasoned. It didn't hurt to be cautious.

The Triskelion warlord leaned forward. “So,” boomed the man to his left, raising a gauntleted fist, “this is the hero who harried the armies of the dread wizard lord Shokat Anoushak to their downfall. Hail, Hour Thief. The great and magnanimous Lord Kasimir hopes that your esteemed successor will demonstrate such courage at these deliberations.”

Edmund smiled politely. “I'm certain she will.”

Mercedes folded her hands, not quite hiding the bandages. “Thank you all for agreeing to attend, but our time is limited. It has come to my attention that the Susurration is preparing a ritual that will allow it to duplicate Mr Templeton's abilities.”

Grace swore.

“It will be ready in less than two days,” Mercedes continued. “The seventh day of the seventh month, seven at night.”

“You could have said something earlier,” Grace snapped. “Eddie, if this thing was coming up, you should have said something.”

“You're right,” the Hour Thief said, “I should have. I forgot about it. I'm sorry.”

She swore again, dropping her head on a fist. “I should have known,” she muttered. “I should have.... God, I was so
stupid.
”

Lord Kasimir drummed his fingers on the table. “A dire predicament!” boomed his spokesman. “But my most intrigued and uncanny lord finds himself wondering, Resistor Alpha: could you not simply make use of your ultimate weapon? Surely ending the beast in flames would bring an end to these fears of sorcery?”

She looked up, eyes hard behind her goggles. “Most of us have problems with the idea of murdering several hundred thousand innocent people.”

“Is not more at stake?”

“There's this thing called ‘principle.' Ultimate weapon isn't on the table.”

“Barrio Libertad mounts impressive weaponry, and our forces are highly skilled. Given knowledge of the sorcery's location, perhaps a conventional bombardment would suffice?”

“Given the nature of the Susurration,” Mercedes said, “I doubt there will be only one ritual attempt. How many goats, Mr Templeton?”

He shook his head. Janet hadn't said. “Enough to notice.”

Lord Kasimir tapped a finger on his helmet chin-plate.

“Couldn't you counter it?” Istvan asked. “The magic. Barrio Libertad has Providence under interdiction, doesn't it? If it can counter teleporting, couldn't it–”

“That would be fine if Eddie hadn't teleported out of the fortress yesterday,” Grace said.

Istvan opened his mouth again. Closed it. He leaned on the box.

Edmund reminded himself to breathe. The elevator. The panic. He hadn't even thought about it. The spell was practically second nature now and he'd had other things on his mind afterward, like cleaning up the bathroom and confronting Mercedes and seeing to Istvan and dealing with the kind of deadly geopolitics he'd hoped he would never have to juggle again.

At least Grace hadn't mentioned the circumstances.

“Mine is different from Shokat Anoushak's,” he said. Then, because she didn't look convinced, “She left a significant body of work and spawned a host of imitators, but the majority of the known canon was developed piecemeal by single individuals desperate enough to have a go at breaking reality. They're all different.”

“Who developed yours, then? You?”

“Of course not.”

“And I guess the time-stealing thing isn't Anoushak's, either.”

“No. And it's
Sh
–”

“Which brings us to the matter at hand,” said Mercedes. She tapped a pen on the table. “Ms Wu, in return for seeing this ritual stopped, I'm prepared to loan you the use of my two best operatives, the Bernault devices we confiscated, and any other assistance you would care to accept.”

Grace set an elbow on the table. “I need an evacuation.”

“Excuse me?”

“Magister, while I'm glad we finally caught your attention, stopping this ritual thing isn't enough. Even a new set of Bernault devices doesn't solve things. It just puts us back to square one: us, the Susurration, and a lot of people caught in the middle.”

Mercedes' lips thinned. “I'm sorry, Ms Wu, but I can't pull a mass exodus out of my hat.”

“Yeah? I bet he can.”

Edmund realized Grace was pointing at him, took a moment to compose himself, and then kicked himself for proving her point. He wasn't even wearing his hat. He wasn't that kind of wizard. “No.”

Grace leaned forward. “You've got time to spare, Eddie. Think about it.”

“I am. That's too many people. I'd burn through everything I have before I got them all out.” He shook his head, hating himself for it. “I'm sorry. I can't.”

She sighed.

Edmund tried to look at the banks of old machinery behind her rather than at her. Coward. Thief. Even she had given up on him – and she didn't give up on anyone, not the Grace he remembered. Anything could be solved. Anyone could be saved. Seven years gone by or no, he should have known she'd seize on any opportunity to try.

He wished he still had her optimism.

He wished he wasn't so quick to take the coward's way out.

Mercedes turned a pen between her fingers. If she thought anything of the exchange, she wasn't showing it. “Returning to what is
feasible
, Ms Wu, I can offer you twenty Bernault devices. Given that, would you be able to weaken the Susurration's grip on the area long enough for the ritual sites to be properly dealt with?” She nodded to Edmund. “You have time for that much, I would think.”

Grace frowned. “Twenty?”

Lord Kasimir looked to the armored figure on his right.

“The four devices required for Site Two evaded detection,” came the reply, sounding subdued and tired even through the electronic filter. “My lord's subtlety remains unmatched.”

“They burst,” Istvan muttered.

“Sorry,” added Edmund. When the visored helmet turned to him, he shrugged. “Maybe you should invest in better crates.”

Grace tilted her head, as though she were listening to someone beside her. “I don't know how weak we can manage,” she said. “It would burn the Bernault devices out pretty quick and anyone going would have to wear a circlet, at the very least, which rules out the spook. Though... he might not need it.” She considered. “Hey, Eddie, if we sent–”

“No,” Edmund and Istvan both said at once.

“No,” Istvan repeated. He looked as though he'd just seen another ghost.

Grace looked between them oddly, but Edmund didn't care to explain. If Istvan wanted to talk about it, that was his prerogative; if he didn't, no one else should.

“You know,” she said, “if we got everyone out, we wouldn't be discussing this.”

Edmund closed his eyes. “I know.”

“The Susurration is using those people as a shield, don't you realize that? That's the only reason it's lasted this long. Get the people out of the way, and bam!” She slapped the table. “No Susurration, no ritual, no problem. Everybody wins.”

“Grace, believe me, I know!”

He couldn't. He couldn't risk it. None of that time was his and he hadn't earned it and he had no right to it, but he had it now, and giving up so much, even for a good cause, wasn't possible. He cared – boy, did he care, he
had
to care – but he couldn't do it. Not even to stop another Hour Thief.

He turned polished brass over and over in his pocket. He'd had the watch since the start. The hourglass engraving on its front had worn off once already.

Every second over that seven-year buffer was a second he wouldn't get back.

“You would simply kill it, then?” asked Istvan. There was a strange note in his voice Edmund couldn't quite pin down. “No warning? No chance at all to surrender?”

Grace rolled her eyes. “That's what an ultimate weapon is for, genius. I mean, I'm sorry there wouldn't be more pain and suffering, but–”

Istvan marched to the table. “You can't.”

Mercedes' pen cracked in half. She glanced down at it, blue ink staining her remaining fingers, then folded her hands as though nothing had happened. “Doctor, this isn't a traditional engagement.”

“Don't you bloody lecture me on the Geneva Conventions,” he snapped. “The Susurration is terrible, yes, and I would see it stopped as much as anyone, but it didn't choose what it is. It didn't even choose to
be
here. It has as much right to a fair trial as anyone – you can't sit about and plan to murder it like this.”

Everyone around the table stared at him.

Then Kasimir's spokesman leapt to his feet, pointing with a roar. “Remove this shrinking daisy of a peacemaker!”

The specter bristled. “A flower, am I?”

“That was the wrong metaphor,” Edmund said. “Wrong flower, too.”

“I could fight you all! I could put you all under the flowers in an instant, if I wanted!”

“Doctor Czernin,” warned Mercedes.

Grace stood, electricity crackling. “What is this? You're
sympathizing
with it now? You? Doctor Awful?” She looked to Edmund. “What happened? If he's compromised–”

“If he has no doughty spleen for what must be done, he has no place at the table of the stern and terrible Lord Kasimir!”

Edmund dodged the sudden flare of wings. Well. This was going downhill faster than a sled. This was the worst. What did Istvan mean, it hadn't chosen to be here? “If we could please–”

“Terrible?” Barbed wire snarled across the floor, rusted and stained. “Terrible?”

The observatory door crashed open.

One of Kasimir's mercenaries strolled across the catwalk, carrying a flat white box. “Jailer, betrayer, and beloved, all together,” he called. “I never received an invitation, but I'm sure you meant to send one. I forgive you. I will always forgive you, if you allow it. I've even brought you a pie.”

He lifted the lid.

“It's apple.”

“
H
and the traitor
!” Kasimir and his men leapt from their chairs, the latter drawing sabers and the former taking up the broadsword that lay against the railing, “The just and unwavering Lord Kasimir will not stand a forced turncoat in his ranks!”

Grace Wu was already charging.

Istvan threw himself before her – and ran into Edmund. Through Edmund. He hadn't seen the wizard move. A rush of warm and wet, bone scraping through bone, a nauseating doubling of organs where they didn't belong.... and shock. Utter shock. Istvan, what are you doing? Defending the Susurration? Seeking peaceful solutions? What's happened to you?

Istvan, the cold...

Istvan scrambled away. “I'm sorry! I'm sorry!”

“Wait,” called Edmund, “I want to know why it's–”

Grace bolted to the right. Edmund, indomitable, blurred to meet her, a mobile obstruction too quick to strike or bypass. The others stood, shouted, closed in – and the wizard stalled them all, shouting in return the need to listen. Oh, he was wonderful to watch. Wonderful.

Only Magister Hahn remained at the table, white-knuckled, a great wellspring of loathing and terror, remorse and regret. Perhaps the Susurration could be granted mercy after all. Perhaps reason, for once, would win out.

Magister Hahn.

Istvan bolted for the door.