The Hanged Man

by K. D. Edwards

The Moral Certainties was the common name for the alliance between Lady Justice, Lord Strength, Lady Tolerance, and the Hermit. They had all figured heavily in the events of the summer.

  “You do not need to call in a favor. I have offered help.”

  “What I’m trying to say is that it’s plausible that I called in those favors for the assistance your security team is providing. It means the use of your guards doesn’t have the impression of an alliance.”

  “And an open alliance with me is a bad thing,” Addam said, his Russian accent rising to ice the T’s and D’s.

  “For you, maybe. Not me. Knowing you is one of the best parts of my life. But where I’m going, your mother may not want you to follow. That’s a boundary I need to respect.”

  It was an oddly unguarded response, and he understood that, because his anger flowed into surprise.

  “I know what I have to do,” I told both of them. “And it’s important, at this point, to . . . play it close to the vest.”

  “Uh-huh,” Brand said.

  “Just for a while,” I said.

  Brand stared for a few beats. “I’ve got this idea in my head. You saying, ‘Golly, look at this lovely cliff. What a pretty view. Oh no! I accidentally pushed you off it!’”

  “Sort of, only I’ll make sure we stick the landing.”

  Brand closed his eyes. He kept his thoughts to himself, but in his brain, I had no doubt he was filling the swear jar like it was a slot machine.

  A woman ran into the room. Her hair was slipping out of a blue surgical cap. “Your lady friend just pulled a knife on the doctor!”

  I gave a quick look at Corbie, who had dropped his dinosaur with wide eyes. Queenie was shaking herself awake next to a sleeping Diana. She said, “I’ll watch them!”

  Adrenaline burned away the last bit of drugged fogginess as Brand, Addam, and I sprinted through the hallway. The nurse barely kept the lead as she led us through a sterile maze of corridors and doors. She swiped a card in front of the trauma unit. As soon as it swung open, we didn’t need her anymore, because Corinne’s shouts were cutting through the air.

  She stood in front of Layne’s bed in a recovery suite, legs braced, combat knife in hand. A doctor had squeezed himself into a corner, trying to defuse the situation by waving his hands around helplessly.

  “Corinne,” I said, clear and calm.

  “They’re trying to use antibiotics on him,” she said.

  “Corinne, lower your weapon.”

  “They—”

  “He is mine to protect,” I snapped. “He is sworn to me now. Disarm!”

  Corinne let her hand fall. In the middle of her unnaturally aged face, her eyes were clear and white and filling with tears.

  I faced the doctor. “You are unaware of the boy’s abilities.”

  “My lord?”

  “Immolation. A very particular form of necromancy. You are apparently unaware of it.”

  “N-no, my lord, it’s in his chart. But it was my medical opinion that—”

  “Your medical opinion? You are an expert on this necromantic discipline? That’s very impressive. It’s so rare.”

  “Not an expert, Lord Sun, but—”

  “But what? The boy lived this long by feeding off his infection. He will continue to grow stronger, at an accelerated rate, by feeding off those infections. I’m surprised Corinne didn’t instruct you to limit your attention to the care of his wounds, and not the infection.”

  “The surgeon who operated on him did just that. But now that he is in recovery—”

  “Now what?” He opened his mouth to speak again, so I slashed the air with my hand, startling him. “I’ve had to cut you off three times now. There won’t be a fourth.”

  The healer’s mouth snapped shut.

  “Treat the injuries,” I said. “Stop the bleeding. Respect his native magics. Am I clear?”

  He nodded.

  “Leave us.”

  He scrambled out the room’s glass ICU doors.

  Corinne waited all of three seconds before fixing her glower on me.

  “If you challenge my authority in the presence of others, you weaken me,” I said. “You jeopardize my ability to protect your children. You were a Companion long enough to understand that.”

  Her glower broke into tics. She wiped at her eyes and turned her back to me, staring down at the thin, pale body on the hospital bed.

  I went around to the other side and looked at Layne. He had been very beautiful in the photographs that Corinne had showed me, but it was a different person in this bed. His magic may have saved him, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. His skin hung on wasted muscles. His fingernails were yellow with jaundice.

  “Has he regained consciousness yet?” I asked gently.

  Corinne shook her head.

  “There is no better care in the city. Between their efforts, and his abilities, he will survive. He’ll survive, Corinne.”

  “What happens when the Hanged Man comes after him?” she asked on a shaking inhale.

  I didn’t insult her with bravado. I took the time to word my response carefully. “There’s always the chance that Layne knows something unexpected—something that may implicate the Hanged Man in other crimes. But, more likely, the threat Layne poses involves the manner of his injuries. Since we found Layne at Sathorn Unique, the Hanged Man is already culpable. It would be exceptionally risky for the Hanged Man to strike against Layne now, for so little benefit.”

  “Plus,” Brand said. “Rune’s done everything he can to make himself the target. It’s one of his favorite fucking moves.”

  Addam put a hand near Corinne’s arm, close without actually touching. “It has been a very long night. Let’s find some food. Rune and Brand will stay with Layne.”

  “I can’t leave,” she said, shaking her head. A single tear scattered down her cheek.

  “Just for a little while. The children need to see you. Corbie was awake when the nurse came for us.”

  “Oh, gods,” Corinne said, and laughed into her palm. “There’s a good chance he’s already running through the hallway, kicking orderlies in the shin and shouting my name. Okay. Okay, just for a few minutes.”

  On her way out the door, she hesitated and looked at me. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. It lay between us on the hospital bed. I nodded at her, she nodded back, and Addam escorted her away.

  Brand and I stood watch over Layne. Or at least that was the plan. I took one of the chairs, sat down, and the next thing I knew Brand was shaking my shoulder.

  I rubbed my eyes. “You let me fall asleep.”

  “You’re exhausted.”

  “I know. Someone shot me with a tranquilizer.”

  “You need to fucking let that go,” Brand said.

  “Admit you enjoyed it. Just a little.”

  “You act like wanting to shoot you is a secret. I’ve practically painted murals of it on my wall. It’s the closest I can think of to an off switch when you’re about to do something fucking stupid. And we don’t have time for this: one of the hospital people wants to talk to you.”

  My eyes moved to the bed. Layne lay there, unmoving. None of the monitors were making bad sounds. My eyes tracked the door, where a man stood just past the threshold, massaging his hands nervously.

  I got up without groaning, and went over to him.

  The man had a shock of carrot-colored hair, and a shiny, pale face that reminded me of shock victims. “Lord Sun,” he stammered.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We have an expert. On immolation magic? We’ve consulted him, and I’m afraid . . . My lord, I’m afraid I have very bad news. I’m so sorry. Our expert thought you might want a briefing, before we speak with the immediate family. I’m sorry.”

  That was the thing about dominoes. A change in wind could knock them over before you’d barely set up a single line. I closed my eyes, rubbed them again, and nodded at him. “Brand,” I said. “Will you watch Layne? Is Addam’s team here yet
?”

  “Most of them are en route,” Brand said. In a lower voice, he added, “We’ll need to decide if Layne stays here, or if we move him. He’s been admitted under an alias, but the hospital staff has his real identification. It’s not secure.”

  “Okay. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  I followed the man—doctor or administrator, I’m not sure which— through the older wing of New Saints, the parts original to North Brother Island. Images—echoes of the deep psychic residue—flickered in and out of my vision. Until the battleship, New Saints had been one of the few places where that happened unprompted.

  “Is there anything you can tell me?” I asked, as the man walked obliviously through a ghostly woman with a frazzled mop of hair and an armful of laundry.

  “I cannot, my lord. I only know that they’ve learned something about the boy’s condition, and you’ll need to make a . . . difficult decision.”

  The translucent ripples thickened as we approached an elevator. A handful of ghosts—burn victims; corseted nurses; men in old-fashioned strait jackets—stared plaintively at the doors. If I remembered correctly, the elevator led to the higher floors of a recent hospital addition, beyond the hallowed ground of the original floor plan.

  Inside, the man put a key into the panel, and took us directly to the fifth floor. A long corridor of modern offices ended in a closed door. The air smelled like expensive wood and fresh paint. All of the offices were closed; I glanced at my watch and saw that we were advancing on dawn. It was a small thing, but I looked forward to morning, when the oblivious daytime crowds would at least offer the illusion of normalcy.

  The man gestured to the door at the end of the corridor, bowed deeply, and backtracked at a nervous pace just half a second short of a jog.

  Without knocking, I entered the room.

  A man stood at the window, framed by a graying sky filled with vanishing stars. We were facing the western side of the city, where the vertical skyscraper lines collapsed into a horizontal sprawl of residential neighborhoods.

  I saw the man’s face first as a reflection: elegant Asian features, marred by deep, fresh, festering claw marks.

  “Hello, little brother,” Lord Hanged Man said, and turned to face me.

  THE HANGED MAN

  Ciaran had warned me, but the difference was still startling, like the gap between a photo of fire and its actual heat.

  The Hanged Man wore the face of a handsome dead man, its body brutalized by something like an animal attack. Beneath the graphic gouged wounds, his lips were bloodless.

  He studied my discomfort and gave me a pale, septic smile.

  I closed my eyes and lowered my head, drawing my thoughts into me. The very worst thing that could happen—the thing that would end me—would be triggered by panic. Brand. My panic, through our bond, would be a red and blistering emotion. Brand would feel it and run to my defense, and the Hanged Man would kill him. So instead I thought of the aftermath. I thought of Brand killed, leaving me alone forever. The grief of that was white and cold, and covered the bond between us in a slick layer of ice. He would think I was getting bad news. He already knew as much.

  When I opened my eyes, the Hanged Man had tilted his head to the side, studying me. “What was that?”

  “Something a man like you would never, ever understand,” I said softly.

  The Hanged Man smoothed the front of his shirt and stepped away from the window. He wore black. A black silk shirt, a black over-the-shoulder cape, black trousers. It was a sharp contrast to the raw wounds on his face, and the blood poisoning that darkened the veins along his neck.

  “You’ll want to keep this pleasant, Rune Sun,” the Hanged Man said. “I’m the aggrieved party, after all. You owe me an ifrit.”

  “It’s not a great loss. He did an awful job at burying all those bodies for you.”

  The torn, mauled lips stretched into a wider smile. “You have no idea what you saw.”

  “I know exactly what I saw.”

  He laughed. A dribble of gelatinous blood escaped a cut on his chin, which he dabbed. “Oh, child. You are so young. I forget what that’s like— that shiny, freshly scrubbed sense of entitlement and self-righteousness.” “Lord Hanged Man,” I said patiently. Very patiently. Very formally. The tightrope in front of me was made of razor wire. “You and I both know I have what I need to make cause against you. Abandon all efforts against me and mine, and this will go away.”

  “It’s refreshing to see that your attackers left you with your balls. The news reports from the night your throne fell were rather vague on that score. Maybe you’ll have what it takes to be an Arcana after all.”

  Now I smiled at him.

  He stared for a few moments, then shook his head. “I’ve walked this earth for centuries, little brother. Let me share one of the greatest lessons you would learn, if you have the opportunity to live as long. The morality of killing is situational. It is a human fabrication. Nations, for instance, kill all the time. All through history. For wounded pride. For oil reserves. For a half mile of dirt. They and their kings look at their people—who don’t know luxury, or decent medical care, or consistent food supply—and say, An offense to me is an offense to you.’ Not unlike what you just said. And then the people scramble onto the chessboard and die like pawns. They take the bullets and cannon-fire and sword blades, all to satisfy the scratched egos of their leaders. So why pick a fight with me, Rune Sun? What do you care about the bodies I’ve buried? Is it really in the best interest of your people?”

  The tightrope snapped. I couldn’t help myself. I said, “Are you fucking serious?”

  He folded his hands along the back of a conference room chair. “I am.” “For the love of gods. This is the reason I avoid most scions and Arcana. Nothing is straightforward with you. It’s exhausting. It’s fucking exhausting trying to determine what your point is. I mean, what? What is your real lesson here? Do you want me to think you’re nuanced? Complicated? Like me? You’re not. You’re a bad man. And I care about the bodies you’ve buried or may ever bury because two of them are mine. I’m not making this offer again. Desist all attention on me and mine, and I’ll desist my attention on you.”

  “I promise you, Rune. I won’t focus on you for long. I have wedding plans to make, after all.”

  At that moment, the gray morning tripped into dawn. Orange light, sliding from an unseen sunrise, colored the room. The Hanged Man’s dark eyes began to glow, and he tilted his head back in relish.

  The voice that came from him was different—brittle and hard. He said, “I fought my brother over a woman, and he buried me in the snow.” The Hanged Man’s injuries smoothed into unmarked copper skin, and then the skin paled into the bluish tint of a frozen man.

  Power pulsed from his body—the drumming presence of an Atlantean Aspect at full force.

  He smiled at my unsettled expression. “You see now. I am not something you have faced before. Do you have any idea how much stronger I am? Who are you, to threaten me with consequences? Greater men and women have tried.”

  “I think we’re done. This will get us nowhere.”

  I turned to leave, heart pounding, and the Hanged Man lifted a hand. The wood paneling—of the door behind me, of the wall it was attached too—cracked and split. Vines sprouted and wove a web, covered in thorns as large as carpenter nails.

  “Come here first,” he whispered. “Come see this.”

  My sigils were empty. I could call on my Aspect, or transmute my sabre. I did not think I would win in a fair fight, though; and I had very few ways of cheating.

  He laughed at my stubborn stillness. “When I’m ready to hurt you, you’ll know. Peace, little brother. Come see this.” He went to the window and tapped on the glass.

  I moved closer, my legs stiff and cramping.

  The Hanged Man pursed his frostbitten lips and breathed on the glass. The surface fogged with thin arteries of ice. He wiped a perfect circle with the side of his hand and said,
“Look. Right there. A step to your right, maybe? The angle is everything.”

  I did as he said, and stared through the circle he made. I don’t know what I was supposed to see: we faced many blocks of residential areas, near the northwest of town.

  As I watched, a pinpoint of yellow flared. An explosion.

  “Such a dangerous world we live in,” the Hanged Man said. “Thank goodness the Dawncreeks are here with you. That’s their neighborhood, I believe. Do they have issues with gas leaks, perhaps?”

  No. My brain had trouble catching and holding a thought, a stuttering car engine. No. No no no no.

  “As I said, thank goodness they’re here with you,” the Hanged Man said.

  I stared at his cold, smug smile. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know, or he wouldn’t have done something so phenomenally stupid. Something so phenomenally aggressive against another court.

  “They are,” I said. Addam. His men. Oh, Addam, I brought you into this.

  I wanted to hurt the Hanged Man. I wanted him to know how closely he had veered to a black hole, how far he was past the point where he could ever return. “There’s one thing I can’t stop thinking about,” I whispered.

  “Which is?”

  “Did you ever find the sailor who hid in the mailroom safe? Or did he suffocate in there? You should check, the next time you time-walk back to masturbate over the ship’s slaughter.”

  Lord Hanged Man’s frozen lips curled in a slow smile. “Perhaps . . . Perhaps I’m ready to hurt you after all.”

  I had a half-second’s notice. He didn’t touch the noose around his neck; but I felt the magic release from it. The power of the mass sigil surrounded me like a vise.

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even blink. My mind was locked inside a mess of dead-ended nerve impulses.

  “The body is a miracle,” Lord Hanged Man said. “Its ability to operate on a conscious and unconscious level is nothing short of divine. Have you ever stopped to think how much it does without explicit command? You don’t tell your heart to beat, nor your eyes to blink. And breathing. Imagine if it were an entirely deliberate choice. An action entirely dependent on conscious thought.”