The Interminables (7 page)

“You're right,” Istvan admitted, begrudgingly.

Edmund shrugged. “You don't have to come along.”

“I bloody well will come along.”

“I appreciate the help.”

“You ought.” Istvan turned back to the sprawl of Big East, the stone that scraped through his sleeves. A whole metropolis consumed in its worries, and he was so desensitized to it that it did no good at all.

Edmund picked up the tin can again. “Listen, Istvan, I've dealt with this kind of thing before, and like her or not, Lucy seemed genuine. Not everyone is a buffet of suffering. Tomorrow will go over just fine.”

Istvan flicked a chip of stone off the wall and watched it tumble end over end to the root-cracked street twenty stories below. That's what they always said. Then someone cracked your codes, spotted your scouts, had artillery positioned where you weren't expecting, and invented armored cavalry.

“I've infirmary duty,” he said. “You know where to find me once you've decided to embark on this nonsense.”

Edmund nodded. “I was thinking we should arrive at Oxus early. Check the place over. Avoid any surprises.”

Istvan grimaced. “Edmund, you know I–”

“Hate stakeouts, I know.”

“And what will you be doing the rest of today, then?”

“I'm going to go home, draw some water, look for more canning jars, and then go on patrol.” The wizard shrugged, not quite looking at him. “I'm sorry we didn't hang around the memorial, I really am, but I couldn't let this go. You saw her, Istvan. Who knows what else she might know? This could be the start of a good thing.”

Istvan regarded him a moment. Smitten, he was, completely smitten, after a single meeting with a woman he knew nothing about.

Normally, at the memorial, they would have wandered a bit, contemplated, watched others go about their own remembrances, that sort of thing. They never talked about the battles themselves, of course – Edmund didn't want to remember and Istvan didn't remember terribly much – but simply being there for the day was enough.

Bloody Lucy. Bloody pie. What if it had been poisoned?

He swung himself up onto the wall. Edmund ducked the sudden snap of wings. Istvan wasn't sorry. “Tomorrow, then,” he said, fleshless, the words swirling through poison. “You'd best tell the Magister, so I'm not dragged back to duty when you need me most.” Edmund nodded. He'd taken a step backwards.

Istvan nodded, turned, and fell. A step into nothing, the Twelfth Hour's colonnade tilting dizzyingly around his head, the cracked streets and summer-green trees rushing up from below, wind whistling through the bullet holes in his uniform…

Edmund's presence flickered out. Gone. Vanished.

Istvan hadn't been able to detect Lucy's existence in the first place.

He pulled up just before he hit the pavement, spun over the green and its laborers, and shot off over the Atlantic at a velocity that would have torn him apart and shattered every window in a thousand-foot radius had he possessed any mass at all. New Haven fell away behind him, leaving only water. A lighthouse perched on a lonely rock. A container ship, part of its stern crushed.

The waves blurred together. Some memorial. Some anniversary.

Stakeout tomorrow. He hated stakeouts.

A tug at his ribcage. Istvan turned back.

“
O
h
, I bloody hate stakeouts.”

“You've made that very clear. Six times.”

“We've been here for hours.”

“That's the idea.”

Istvan leaned back against the cold metal of a roof beam, one leg swinging off the side. Oxus Station bustled below, as it had since that morning, forever ago. It was a great iron skeleton of a building, arched over the parallel lines of a river and one of the only unbroken stretches of train tracks left in Big East. Outside lay a displaced neighborhood of dusty alleys, sky-blue doors, and steel minarets. The ocean hadn't reached so far inland before, but the river led to it now, and postwar commerce, ever-inventive, had taken quick advantage.

A marketplace had sprung up in place of passenger annexes. Hopeful scavengers crouched over blankets spread with matches, batteries, knives, produce of uncertain quality, cans of propane, soap, underwear, and trinkets that were most assuredly magical or would protect someone from it. Chickens scratched in makeshift pens. A woman led a cow before a shouting crowd. Groups of armed guards stood at the entrances: Edmund had explained the situation, and they had reluctantly agreed to help keep watch. He was, after all, the Hour Thief, and it wasn't wise to refuse a wizard's request... especially when he had his “chained spirit” with him.

Hours and hours. The Triskelion mercenaries were due to arrive soon, yes – if they arrived at all – but Istvan had finished three rather complex embroidered floral embellishments in a single sitting and while the work did keep his hands busy, there was no danger to it. No excitement. He couldn't even jab himself with the needle.

A flotilla of fishing boats had come through in the early morning, and a barge carrying coal later on, but neither they nor the one train that had rattled past had carried mercenaries or incriminating crates. “Edmund,” Istvan sighed, “this Lucy woman never even told you how she learned of this rendezvous in the first place.”

Edmund crouched further along the same beam, watching the rush and clamor of a train being unloaded. He didn't turn his head. “Istvan, we've been over this.”

“Don't you think it's too convenient? No one simply knows things about two dozen superweapons loaded on trains.”

“After last time, I'm willing to risk a little convenience.”

“But what if she's working with the mercenaries? Or with this ‘Cameraman' the collector's gang were going on about? One meeting isn't enough to gauge motive.”

“We've been over this,” came the stubborn reply.

Istvan picked up his embroidery again and stitched in what might have been either a seed or a grenade. He wasn't sure. It didn't matter. Edmund still didn't seem nearly as depressed as usual for this time of year, which wasn't right, but… but how on Earth was Istvan supposed to point that out?
You know, Edmund, you seem happy. Is something the matter?

Something chimed, muffled and tinny.

Istvan paused. “Edmund, was that...?”

Edmund cursed below his breath and fished the device responsible out of his other jacket pocket. It was roughly the same size and shape as a pack of cards and combined the services of a clock, a calculator, a telephone, a radio, a camera, a film projector, a phonograph, a library, a dedicated staff of field researchers, an electric facsimile of the Delphic oracle, and a flashlight, but it was easier to call it a telephone. “Hello,” he said, still watching the station, “you've reached Edmund Templeton.” A pause. “Yes, Janet, I am aware that this is my personal number. What's the word?”

“Miss Justice?” Istvan asked.

Edmund waved a hand at him. “You don't say,” he said. “Thanks for keeping an eye out.”

Istvan frowned. Had Edmund asked her to watch for the mercenaries, as well? Could she corroborate their position through the station latticework?

“Yes,” Edmund said. He switched the phone to his other ear. “Yes, that would be wise.”

Istvan shook his head and let his attention drift. The crowds below tasted of annoyance and discomfort, and not a little nervousness, but that was only to be expected for travelers so far from home and in so harsh a country. The spellscars weren't far off. Nervousness alone did not a weapons-smuggling mercenary make.

Oh, what was keeping them?

“Don't worry,” said Edmund, “I have time. Whatever works best for you.”

A lorry appeared. It was a long, covered, military-type vehicle, belching black fumes, pulling in as close to the train as the crowds would allow it. Plenty of cargo space. The driver wasn't shutting off the engine.

Nervousness and fear, tempered by professional calm...

Istvan set his embroidery aside. “Edmund…”

The wizard followed his gaze. “Sorry to cut you off, but something's come up. I'll call you back.” He hung up, however that was done, and replaced the telephone with his pocket watch, crouching low on the beam. “Right,” he said. He adjusted his goggles.

“Just as planned?”

“I hope so.” Edmund touched the silver pin on his lapel. “Be careful. There are a lot of people down there, and some of them probably won't hear me.”

Istvan fought a grin. It was his job to draw fire away from the crowds, to encourage an evacuation, to capture a mercenary if possible. Oh, the screaming, the running, the uncoordinated panic... he shouldn't have been anticipating it so, but he was. Gunfire in the market-place: as good a reason to flee as any!

Of course, if a Bernault device or twenty went off, no amount of running would save anyone.

A trio of familiar figures stepped off the train. Triskelion mercenaries. Caped, spiked, armored in gold and crimson. One man carried a sabre. The others, rifles. All peered about the station with an air of suspicious professionalism, lights flicking behind dark visors. A crate rolled behind them, pulled on broad and silent wheels.

Istvan twirled his trench knife between his fingers, a motion unnaturally fluid for such a heavy blade. It was solid, unlike the rest of him, and if anything perhaps somewhat more than real: a relic just as bright and deadly as it had always been, fished from bloody snow long ago. It wasn't designed for throwing, but he could hit a man in the eye at twenty paces with it.

Ambush. He loved a good ambush.

His wrists tingled: a reminder of chains, and a warning. No unsanctioned killing. Not anymore.

He looked to Edmund.

The wizard drew a deep breath, fears rippling like red wine. “OK,” he said. He smiled that faint, transformative smile. “It's our time.”

Istvan winced.

The Hour Thief was already gone.

E
dmund appeared atop the truck
. “I don't suppose you have time to spare for me?”

The mercenaries whirled, bringing up sabers and reaching for grenades and readying strange rifles. On the attack. Implied affirmative. If they had time to kill him, they had time to spare for him, and that truth guided more than bullets his way.

“Thank you,” he said.

They fired at him. He ducked – just in time – and teleported again, reappearing behind the nearest man, sweeping his legs out from under him, and knocking the rifle out of the hands of his companion before either of them rediscovered where the Hour Thief had gone. The other rifle thundered. Sparks. Smoke. More than enough, but far too late: Edmund had all the time in the world, several moments of it stolen from the rifle's owner, and it simply wasn't his time to die.

A thrown gas grenade spun towards him. He caught it and hurled it into the back of the truck. Once was enough: they weren't catching him out with that trick again.

The toppled mercenary hit the floor with a rolling clatter.

A yell went up: marketgoers, scavengers, passengers, station-workers, entire families diving behind anything that looked solid, news rippling across the crowd with the crack of the gunshots. No more than a few moments, for them. Grace had argued that his magic might have something in common with special relativity, but like anything magical it was best not to think about the particulars. The Hour Thief simply had time. More time than anyone else.

That didn't mean he couldn't share it. He had more than enough in reserve, still, and could afford to give a little to a few hundred bystanders without worry. Just enough time doled out to, say, dodge a stray gunshot.

Edmund teleported atop the train, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Everyone unarmed take time to get away from this fight!”

Heads turned. Some of the scavengers tried to pick up their wares.

A skeletal apparition dropped from above. It unfurled an eighteen-foot wingspan.

“Run while you have a chance,” Istvan shouted, which was a particularly unfortunate thing to say with his accent.

Edmund hoped no one would get trampled.

He dodged another volley of gunfire and teleported next to the crate, spending a moment to examine it. A hundred pounds, maybe. Not small enough for one man to pick up comfortably but light enough for two to manage. It looked like wood, but there were no nails, no gaps, and no seams visible aside from what delineated a lid. The cart carrying it rode on thick shock-absorbent springs.

A sabre slashed at where he'd just been.

No more use of the rifles. That was good.

“That's the spirit,” he said.

The mercenary backpedaled.

A rush of cold and wire and tattered feathers hurtled over Edmund's shoulder like a missile. Istvan was forbidden to kill without order, but he had a way of cutting through idiot bravado that he hadn't learned in his surgical training.

“That's the spirit,” Edmund chuckled to himself, sheltering behind the crate. He rubbed a thumb across the open face of his pocket watch, crouching as low as he could. Just a moment longer to adjust for the odd cargo–

He snapped his watch.

A flock of paper cranes startled into flight. Wind tugged at his cape. He squinted against the afternoon sun. He was on the station roof, in a flattened area he'd scouted beforehand. The crate was there, too, safely beside him. Cart and all. He propped a brick beneath one of the wheels. So far, so good.

Another snap–

Fire poured into his lungs. He coughed, tried to draw a fresh breath, and choked on it, panic rising in his throat. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't breathe. Grenade. Tear gas. They'd gotten one off after all.

He fled into clearer air, almost tripping over his cape, reminding himself that the floor couldn't be tilting beneath him because Oxus Station was on solid ground. Only a gas grenade. Only a gas grenade. No water anywhere. He was the Hour Thief. He didn't have time for this. “Istvan!”

The clash of metal on metal rang through the mists. A distant booming thudded in his chest. Artillery, or at least the memory of it. The region where the crate had been, from the truck to the train, was a haze of white and sickly yellow-green. “Edmund!” laughed Istvan. It was a laugh Edmund recognized, with a shrill, off-kilter edge to it. Not a good sign, if this went on much longer. “They've got another bloody box, wouldn't you know it?”

Edmund wiped at his nose. “What?”

The engine beside him roared. The truck lurched forward. He twisted out of the way... and then heard the crash. Like wood splintering. Glass striking concrete. The bitter taste of tear gas in his throat and on his tongue went cold.

Glowing globes of blue flared within the fog.

Oh, hell.

Edmund gasped in a breath and dove for them. Four of them. Rolling in separate directions. Golden armor brushed past him, spiked shoulders just missing his face. His hat fell off. Heavy boots clomped past. Barked orders in the mists, muffled and foreign. A visor that glittered red. Wings rustled around him, a dry scraping of bone on bone, a call he couldn't make out. The gas stung his nostrils, burned his skin....

...and then he had all four Bernault devices in hand, wrapped in his cape, glowing. No sound. Ice to the touch. Brighter… and brighter…

Anywhere better than here.

He teleported straight up.

Ice crackled across his goggles. Air rushed out of his lungs. He dropped more than threw the devices, triggering the return teleport more out of instinct than conscious thought.

Concrete hit him in the back. Then the detonation of four smuggled superweapons hit the concrete.

He opened his eyes and uncovered his face only after the glass stopped falling.

A skeleton in an ancient uniform was leaning over him, translucent, vulture's wings folded like old letters. “Well,” it cackled, “that was exciting, wasn't it?”

Edmund covered the yelp with a cough. Istvan. Just Istvan.

The ghost reached for him, steadying a bloody hand on his shoulder, and the hammering of his heart slowed to something manageable. Pain and terror, drawn off and drained – as Istvan claimed – like wine.

“Right,” Edmund croaked. The roof looked to be in one piece. That was good. The glass crunched as he sat up. “What happened?”

Istvan let him go with a chuckle. “Oh, it was a dreadful shock, but no major casualties.” He waved at the few visible spectators just emerging from behind benches and pillars, then hooked a thumb in his belt. “Where did you send those devices, anyhow? Outer space?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, and the mercenaries are gone, of course. I do wish we could follow that teleport of theirs.”

“Would be nice.”

“You know,” Istvan continued, twirling his knife in that way he did when he was feeling just a bit too cheerful, “it was odd. I couldn't reach through their armor. I tried, believe me, but it was solid as anything. Do you suppose the Cameraman is responsible for that, too?”Edmund coughed again. He covered his mouth and realized that his nose was bleeding. A fair price to pay. “Maybe. The crate?”

“The crate?”

“The one on the roof? With… I don't know, sixteen Bernault devices in it?”