Moriarty laughed. “You seem not to know your friend very well, Dr. Watson. Don’t you realize: Holmes will always cave in to a threat like that. He will always follow his heart’s dictates in the most immediate situation. You and I are thinkers. Planners. Holmes is a reactive creature. How unfortunate for him that I thought to bring a firearm, while all he brought was you: his pre-eminent emotional liability. Now, Warlock, I wish you to take three steps forward, place the box on the pathway, then walk back to where you are now.”
“Holmes. Really. Don’t,” I urged.
He gave me a helpless grimace. “I can’t let him shoot you, Watson.”
“Well good luck stopping him,” I pointed out. “This path is hardly a yard wide. We’ve got a sheer rock wall on one side, a fatal fall on the other, a crashing waterfall behind us, and an armed antagonist blocking our only path back to safety. He’s holding all the cards, I fear.”
“Not all of them, Watson.” Holmes turned from me, extended the box before him and began creeping cautiously towards Moriarty. He began lowering the box towards the path, but just before it touched, he yanked himself back upright, raised his left hand towards the sky and cried “Melf—”
He might have saved himself the trouble. Even as he’d begun to bend towards the path, Moriarty opened his grand fur coat to reveal a long white scabbard hanging from the belt of Mary’s dress. Just before Holmes cried out, Moriarty calmly said, “Hdjess, Melfrizoth.”
Instead of appearing in Holmes’s hand, the handle of his black and burning blade appeared in the sheath at Moriarty’s waist.
“Hey!” Holmes cried, staring at the magical scabbard Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein had used to bind Melfrizoth a year ago. “Where did you get that?”
“From a mutual friend of ours, who is more afraid of me than you,” said Moriarty.
My eyes went narrow. How was that not magic? I suppose it did have to do with an enchanted item, and Moriarty had said it would take this place a few days to drain the power from one. But… by God, it was so hard to puzzle this through without knowing—without feeling—the truths of magic that were available to the other two men. If only I had got a dose or so more of Xantharaxes, I might have known.
Moriarty then extended his own left hand and called, “Kullek!” His own soul-blade appeared.
I nearly giggled.
And sure, mine wasn’t much to write home about—a tiny sliver of bone. Yet—for a nemesis as terrible as James Moriarty, who had engineered such perfect and irresistible ruin over and over again—I had expected a bit more.
The damn thing looked like a butter knife. Slightly pointier, I suppose. Maybe the edge was sharper than average. You know, for really hard butter. But compared to the demon-killing, gold-cleaving, life-drinking horror Holmes could summon, Moriarty’s blade was risible.
Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can say: I should have expected it. It was, after all, the physical manifestation of Moriarty’s rage and hatred. And—though he did certainly have a capacity to do great harm—Moriarty was not a vengeful sort. Sure, he was preparing to kill everyone he’d ever met. But he didn’t hate them. He understood them too well to hate them. In fact, if his own plans should ever come to fruition (as I fear they will in a few days, as I write this) he is going to gain the ability to be them. He’s going to end existence in exchange for the possibility of moving forward and back through everything and everyone. Why would he hate anybody, when he looks forward to reliving their entire life?
Ugh. I just realized. He’s going to be me, some day. He’s going to ride along in my body, feeling everything I’ve ever felt. That means there will come a moment when he’s me, and I’m looking at Mary, thinking it’s Mary, when I’m really looking at him and… by God… the little bastard’s going to be laughing his head off.
Ahead of me on the path, Moriarty wiggled his funny little blade at us. Despite its comic appearance, Holmes seemed rather dismayed to see it.
“You know what I can do with this, Holmes! You’ve felt its touch before!” Moriarty cried. “I have you bested close up, and I have you ranged. Now, give me that box!”
With a look of apology, Holmes stepped forward a few paces, placed the Fasces box on the muddy path, and stepped back. Moriarty crept forward, cautiously. “Ves, Kullek,” he said, and the blade disappeared from his hand. Keeping his eyes on Holmes, he bent forward and snatched up his new treasure. He retreated a few steps back with a look of smug joy on his face. Well… on Mary’s face. There was something very male about the expression, somehow. It made me squirm a bit.
“You know…” he mused, “recent events have made it far too dangerous for me to open this box and confirm its contents. So I suppose I’ll just have to ask you, Holmes: is the Fasces in here?” He focused his razor-sharp gaze on my friend’s face.
Holmes gave a crow of triumph. “Ha! Knowing that you were likely to lay traps for me, I took the time to hide the—”
“Yes, it’s in there,” Moriarty decided.
“Damn!” Holmes muttered.
I sighed. “Poorly done, Holmes. The best thing you could have done was chuck it in the falls. He’s got what he wants. So now he shoots me.”
“Do I?” Moriarty said, in a lilting look-at-me-pretending-to-wonder-what-to-do voice. “I suppose I should. Providing, of course, I have everything I want.”
He let the Webley drift to the left. Then, without warning, squeezed the trigger and sent a bullet straight into Holmes’s hip. Holmes cried out and fell to the ground, clutching his wound. I grimaced. It looked like the shot had gone straight to bone—which is to say: it looked structural. Even if he stayed conscious, Holmes would be unable to use that leg. There was no way he was walking out of here.
Especially because Moriarty pointed the pistol at Holmes’s head, then directed his gaze to me.
“Now it is your turn, Dr. Watson,” he said. “I am very pleased to be holding one of the nine foci. But then again, it is only one of nine. Though I have not been at my best, of late, I know you’ve had contact with Adler. I know you’ve had a number of little adventures with magical creatures and items. That is to say, Dr. Watson, it is possible you know something regarding the whereabouts of the others. Tell me what you know and I’ll happily hold off shooting Holmes while we speak.”
He fixed me with his steel-cold eyes, watching me, appraising. I met his gaze, keeping mine as neutral as I could.
“No?” he said, after a moment. “Well… it is as I said. You and I are planners; you were not going to fall prey to the same spur-of-the-moment weakness Holmes displayed. There was just the chance you would have, you know. You’re a very devoted friend, after all.”
He continued to stare at me. I continued to stare back.
After a moment, he asked, “No bargaining, even?”
I gave a scornful snort. “Professor Moriarty, what bargain do you imagine that I imagine I might possess that would tempt you?”
“There are several.”
“No. There are none. Several present themselves, but I cannot square any of them with your own motivations, so far as I can discern them.”
“You could offer to take me to one of the other foci, so long as I kept you both safe until we got there.”
I shook my head. “Holmes is hardly fit to travel now; that must have occurred to you. Nor would you let him, for as soon as he clears this magic-deadened area, you know he could overpower you in an instant. But now, this is interesting: do you believe I am in possession of another one of the foci?”
“Not at all. I only assumed that even if you weren’t, it would occur to you to lie.”
“It did,” I admitted. “Yet, what should that accomplish? As I’ve just detailed, even if you believed it, you would not let the three of us walk out of here. More to the point, I’m not sure I could fool you. I see how you watch our faces when we talk. You’re looking for answers in our expressions and our bodies, not our words. I’m sure you must have one or two magical ways o
f knowing if somebody is telling the truth or not. It would seem you cannot use them here. But do you need them? You’re a very intelligent man, Professor, and let’s not forget you’ve got two and a half centuries’ experience reading people.”
“You’re not even going to try falsehood?” he scoffed.
“I thought I’d try just the opposite. I tell you in all honesty, I do know something of the other foci. And I ask you to be truthful with me. Tell me: which one do you most crave?”
I saw him give a little smile, wondering if he should play my game. After a moment he shrugged and said, “The greatest, of course. Do you know which it is?”
I nodded. “Hope.”
“Hope!” he confirmed, a heartfelt reverence creeping into his tone. “So strange and so potent a thing! Take a moment to think how many of the nine aspects are governing our actions right now! I have the benefit of force over you both, embodied by this revolver. I am applying a significant amount of fear to your decision-making. And to Holmes, I have added pain. Unity and love keep you from suggesting a bargain that saves you but not your friend, though I know you must be considering it. Yet the aspect upon which all hangs is hope. You hope to make it out of here alive. I hope to gain the knowledge I need to pursue my grand plan. This situation is primed to resolve in a very final way. Why does it delay? Because both sides of this debate are paralyzed by hope, Dr. Watson! We continue to balance on the head of a pin—and so we shall until one set of our hopes is either realized or broken. Isn’t it amazing? How subtle its touch; how absolute its grip!”
He wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t feel much hope now, but it guided my every decision. At that moment, I was doing nothing but keeping him talking, hoping an opportunity would present itself. But what opportunity? Honestly, the best option I could envision was to fling myself at him—to try and force him over the edge of the narrow path, into the chasm below. Yet, he was eighteen feet away with Holmes sprawled between us. In all likelihood, he’d have ample chance to blast me with my own pistol. And even if I reached him, what then? Would I be able to force him over before he shot me, stabbed me, or sidestepped enough that I went over without him? If so, I would perish as would Holmes. Even if I succeeded in slaying him, I would slay Mary in the same moment. And would Moriarty even die, or would that blue rune fly free of Mary like it had my Christmas goose, ready to haunt the next unfortunate? My hopes were all so tenuous. At my feet, Holmes looked up at me. Strange, to see him searching for hope, too. His expression was desperate. He studied my face, wondering if I had concocted any grand plan. I gave him a tiny little shake of the head to say, No, I have nothing.
On the path in front of me, Moriarty wondered, “So, Dr. Watson, is there anything you can pretend to tell me on the subject of hope?”
“I don’t need to pretend. The item you are looking for is a black iron tableau. It depicts a man and a woman, holding a child between them on their shoulders, in front of a little house.”
“How big is it?” Moriarty interjected. I wondered if the size was important to him for some reason. Did he really not know? Or was he testing me? Yes, that was the most likely. He was trying to rattle me, to see if I was lying.
“I don’t know,” I said, truthfully. “I have seen it drawn and heard it described, but I have never seen the item. Holmes met its previous owner, though—a man named Ezekiah Hopkins.”
“Its previous owner? What happened?” Moriarty demanded.
“The focus was stolen from him.”
“By whom?”
“He did not know.”
“When?”
“Some time before 1851, for by that year, he’d turned his efforts to prolonging his life in order to have enough time to get the focus back. He was a monster when we met him. Hopkins had learned to take souls to extend his lifespan.”
Moriarty scoffed. “A very imperfect solution. He’d never be alone again—never fully himself.”
“That seems to have been the case,” I admitted.
I paused to consider my situation. I certainly had captured Moriarty’s interest. But no opportunity had presented itself. I had no new avenue to bargain or to act. Indeed, a new risk was growing. Namely, that I must not only consider Mary, Holmes and myself. I must consider the rest of humanity, too. Assuming nothing could be done to help myself and my friends, should I not at least assure that I robbed Moriarty of every tool he could use to hurt others? It was a grim line of thinking, especially because I knew the best thing I could do to ensure it was to kill Holmes. The man was a treasure trove of knowledge and power and not bright enough to keep any of it from Moriarty. I knew I could not bring myself to hurt Holmes. No, it looked more and more like I must bull-rush Moriarty and try to force us both over the edge. My margin of victory was so slim, I could hardly expect to have any chance if I reserved the slightest effort from my charge. I must put everything into it. Drive us both over. To try and preserve myself was to lessen my chance of victory.
Moriarty must have known I was weighing my options—perhaps my pause was too long. He interrupted me.
“Enough. I believe you. You have dealt with me faithfully. Now listen to me, John Watson. Listen.” There was a strange, almost desperate urgency in his voice. “It is time to put aside love. It is even time—and what a dreadful risk it is, considering the item in my hand—to strike a blow against unity. Here is the only thread of hope I can see for you and I extend it willingly as I did once before: serve me. Two of my lieutenants are dead. You are a man of great intelligence, great resourcefulness. You have been an effective agent. Holmes must die. I cannot allow the only magical being who could defeat me to slip my trap. But you are no such threat. If you will use your gifts in my service, you may live.”
I shook my head. “You could never trust me,” I pointed out.
Moriarty gave a wry laugh. “No. I could. I would have to break you, that is all. I’d have to hurt you so badly you’d know you could never best me—so you’d fear to even try. I’ve done it many times before and I tell you, it works. I’d have you in such a state that if you ever thought I thought you had betrayed me, you’d take your own life, rather than let me get my hands on you again.”
“You’d torture me to make me loyal?” I asked, incredulous at how forthright he was being. And God help me, I think he was. Apparently, my good reason and my truth fulness had earned me some of the same, care of James Moriarty.
He nodded earnestly. “Yes. Yes, the lesson would be horrible. I cannot describe how much. And even with your history of injury and despondence, you cannot guess how much. Yet, you will come through it. And we both will profit from it.”
“I know your goal,” I told him. “If my sources are to be believed, you intend to sacrifice all reality, to gain omniscience and omnipresence. How could I help you, knowing it would result in my own destruction and the destruction of all I know?”
“Oh, you won’t mind that,” Moriarty scoffed. “Really, you underestimate how broken you’ll be.”
And do you know the horrible thing? I believed him. He was the expert, after all, and it seemed as if we were being wholly honest with each other. My options were narrowing. Yes, I thought, it must be an all-out rush. Was there any way to give myself an advantage? Could I distract him? Not by any conventional means, surely. His attention was razor-sharp and focused on me. Holmes could distract him, perhaps, but he was so close to me he had no chance of drawing Moriarty’s gaze all the way off me. And how could I signal him to make the effort, without giving away my intention?
Ah! But there was another way! If I couldn’t take Moriarty’s attention away from me, I could at least get him off balance. I could make him laugh. He was human, after all, and humans will always look for a way to break tension. The question was: did I have a joke that would surprise or amuse him enough?
I rather thought I did. And, in fact, he had inspired it only a few moments before.
Holmes was still looking up at me, searchingly. I wanted to tell him not to worry—that I
would handle this. But how could I? Despite my familiarity with Holmes and the physical distance to Moriarty, I could only assume that any communication Holmes had a chance of understanding would be decoded unerringly by the master manipulator we faced. I gave him only a squinty little nod—a gesture of assurance.
Which was ironic, considering Moriarty’s words at that moment.
“You will need to voluntarily opt in,” he said. “It cannot be a passive decision. Of course, I should make you kill Holmes. That’s a very active way and the guilt would bind you to me. But I know you’d refuse. And we can’t have you refuse. Argh, very well! I will kill Holmes. It is a mercy—and you cannot expect many from me. Let it stand as a token of how eager I am to work together. Here is what we will do: you must say, ‘All right, shoot him,’ and I will. I’ll then shoot you, as well. Only to injure you, you understand. An insurance against mischief until my men have come to help me remove you. Think nothing of it. Compared to what is coming, it will be—”
I interrupted him. “Professor Moriarty, I fear you have made a miscalculation.”
“What?” he said, visibly irked. “What miscalculation? In your character? In your devotion to Holmes? Now, now, Dr. Watson. Do not overestimate yourself.”
“No,” I said. “In your assumption that I am defenseless.”
“How?” he demanded.
“You have shown me that all that appears magical might not be. Emotion works in this place and before my very eyes, you summoned your soul-blade. What you failed to realize, Moriarty, is that you are not the only man who can…”
I then thrust back the tails of my coat, steeled my eyes, raised one hand to the heavens and cried, “Ossifer!”
I know I don’t cut a particularly dashing figure. I’m just not a strong-jawed, big-chested, blue-eyed, smashing sort of fellow. (Oh, sometimes… to be American, even for a minute…) Yet, I did my utmost to appear heroic and intimidating. It was my only chance. I needed contrast, you see. The joke relied upon contrast.
The Finality Problem Page 29
