The Hanged Man

by K. D. Edwards

  “We’ll find the kids,” I said. “We’ll find the Hanged Man. This is ending. Stay in touch.”

  I stalked away from them without seeing who fell in line. Only after I turned a corner in the direction of the hatch that led to the eating galleys did I sneak a quick look. I was happy to see that Lady Death and Lord Tower had joined the group, along with Ciaran and the others. There’d be even less chance now that Lord Judgment would get trigger happy.

  “Down there,” I said, pointing to the hatch. “Keep your Clarity active.”

  “These are emeralds,” Max said, staring at the green gemstone in his hands. “I think it’s an actual emerald. Do we get to keep these?”

  “Move,” Brand said, tapping the back of Max’s head, which was rather cheeky since I’d already seen him smiling appreciatively at his own gem.

  I shook my wrist, loosening my sabre. The warm metal slid into hilt form, comfortable in my palm. I covered the others while they went down the steep, narrow metal stairs.

  Lord Tower and Brand were last. Lord Tower blocked the path, and turned to stare at Brand. Brand got busy looking elsewhere.

  “Brandon,” the Tower said. “Let me be clear. I will cover for you, but this cancels out every favor, every debt, every shred of capital you’ve earned with me. Are we understood?”

  To my surprise, Brand only mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

  As Lord Tower turned to climb down the stairs, I yanked on Brand’s non-throwing arm. “What the hell?” I asked.

  “Okay, see,” Brand said, “if you look at it from a certain perspective, someone might think that it was my ankle Lord Hierophant accidentally tripped over.”

  I slapped a hand over my eyes.

  “But I didn’t push him,” Brand said seriously, as if this was a compelling point.

  “Godsdamnit. I’ll still take the win,” I said, and grabbed the overhead bar to guide myself down the steps.

  * * *

  There were all sorts of things to focus on downstairs.

  Lady Death had dropped her Clarity against my advice and was staring at the small chapel in the corner of the mess hall. Quinn and Addam were arguing. Ciaran was standing between them with a vial of clear liquid.

  “What are the risks associated with it?” Addam demanded. “Do you know? Or are you guessing?”

  “It’s the only way,” Quinn insisted.

  “What is?” I asked. Behind me, Brand clambered down the steps.

  “This will counter the medicine we’ve been preparing for Quinn,” Ciaran said.

  “The one that doesn’t work very well and makes him sick,” Max added, glaring at Addam.

  “And that is another discussion we will be having soon,” Addam said. “The only thing that makes me feel more awful about that is the fact that the truth was kept from me.”

  Quinn begged me with a look. “The antidote will help. I’ll see clearer. We don’t have time to search the ship.”

  “It’s Addam’s decision,” I said, and like a bastard, I knew exactly what I wanted Addam to decide, because I wasn’t sure what other corners we had time to cut.

  “Do you know if there are risks?” Addam asked Ciaran. “With absolute honesty?”

  “It will not harm him,” Ciaran said. “It will negate the influence of the medicine he’s been taking. The only risk is the risk we’ve always known— that Quinn’s gifts are too powerful for a normal mind. But Quinn is far from normal, and I mean that in the best way possible. I think we have been underestimating him.”

  “He’s a seer,” Lady Death said, shaking off the memories she’d been entranced by. She saw the look Lord Tower gave her, and spread her fingers with a shrug gesture. “I can be discreet. This is a matter for Rune’s court.”

  “Addam,” Quinn begged. “They are children.”

  Addam took the vial from Ciaran’s hand and held it out to Quinn.

  Quinn gave him a look of naked relief, unscrewed the top of the vial, and drank it in one long sip. His face immediately contorted, which just about sent Addam climbing the walls, until Quinn said, “Anise. Bleh.”

  Then blood began to trickle out of both nostrils, and Addam really started freaking out. “I’m fine,” Quinn said, putting a palm on Addam’s chest to keep him away. There was a look in his eye, an actual gleam, I’d never seen before.

  “I’m fine,” he repeated. “There’s just a . . . certain . . . rebound effect. It’s all so clear. And there’s no time. We’re going to get lost in it, as it is.” He looked around him with those surreally clear eyes. “So many paths. We don’t like that way, it wastes minutes . . . So much there and there, and Anna and Corrine are there, and close by, there, a fat spider in thick hemp thread, and I know exactly what that image means.” Quinn turned and faced toward the back of the ship, toward the big compartment past the galleys with the post office and general store. “Corbie. There. You always feel better when we find him first.”

  “Good gods,” Lady Death breathed. “He’s seeing probabilities. I haven’t been paying very close attention, have I?”

  The look on Addam’s face matched mine, a sort of fear that would quickly become an aggressive defense. But Lady Death laughed and patted a dark hand against Quinn’s cheek. “You’ve got a bright future ahead of you, kiddo. Let me know if Rune doesn’t treat you right.”

  “Thank you, but he does. Except when he tries to cook. He doesn’t understand what paprika is, and substitutes.” Quinn started to wipe the blood from under his nose, but Addam grabbed his hand and put a clean handkerchief in it. Quinn smiled at him, wiped away the blood with practiced strokes, and led us out of the galley.

  We walked through the compartments leading toward the store concourse. Lord Tower may have followed the same path I did, for all that the mix of old ruin and preserved death affected him. Lady Death wasn’t nearly as calm about it, nor, for that matter, Ciaran. As we walked through the room where I’d seen frantic sailors trying to hide from whatever stalked them, tears filled Ciaran’s eyes, and Lady Death gasped.

  “What is this?” she whispered.

  I forced Clarity on both her and Ciaran, but hesitated on locking it down. “You should keep the spell active. It gets worse,” I warned them.

  “How was there any question of a raid? How have we not acted sooner? If the human world saw this . . .” Lady Death shook her head. She pulled the emerald out of her pocket and closed her hand around it. As she spoke, I felt the stone in my own pocket turn into a pinpoint of heat. “This is Death. Nothing is at rest here. The psychic damage is . . . I’ve never seen worse. This vessel must be sanctified. I’ll need to partner with Lady Priestess. This is a matter between her court and mine now, and I will not brook opposition. We cannot sink this ship. Am I clear?”

  I quickly wrapped a hand around my own emerald. I heard Lord Hierophant start to speak in the open channel, but Lady World’s voice overrode his. “We’re seeing much the same up here,” she said. “I am in agreement. We own this disgrace—all of us. We will make amends. I strongly suggest, though, that if scuttling the ship is off the table, we find the Hanged Man, and fast.”

  “There’s still time,” Quinn whispered.

  “Ending transmission,” Lady Death said, and pocketed the stone

  “That way,” Quinn said, pointing. “Corbie is there, alone, in a barber’s chair. The hemp spider wanted to separate Corbie from Anna. He’s not sure which one is the principality.”

  Oh shit.

  And, again, as I sometimes did, I repeated in my head: Oh shit.

  I looked at Lord Tower, Lady Death, and Ciaran. They were staring at Quinn, though trying very hard not to show how much Quinn had struck their interest.

  But this Quinn—the Quinn who was very much in control of his ability—noticed. There was nothing absent-minded about his attention span now. He narrowed his eyes at the powerful men and woman in front of him and said, primly, “You will leave Anna alone. It will never end well if you interfere. It will give her an axe to grind, a
nd the only thing worse than the times she’s an angry Lady Sun are when she’s an angry Lady Tower.”

  And with that second and hopefully last oh shit bomb, he turned and headed toward the barber’s compartment. I hurried after him. On our way, we passed the small grated post office, and I took pains not to look at the closed safe inside it.

  The short corridor opened into a cramped stairwell landing ringed by the utility shops I’d seen earlier, including the barber. I ran a thumb along my gold ring, releasing Fire. It itched to fill my palms, but I held it at bay, ready to attack anything guarding Corbie.

  The barber shop had an actual door instead of a hatch, with a glass pane for a top panel. I saw, in the middle barber shop chair, a small huddled form. No one or nothing else.

  Quinn tried the door handle first, but it wouldn’t open. I was about to blast it off its hinges when Quinn tapped a sigil on his belt, and rotated his palm above the locking mechanism. The Opening spell released the lock with a click. Clever boy, our prophet.

  I flung the door open and rushed over to the chair. Only the shiny cap of black hair told me it was Corbie. He was entirely drawn into a tight, hurting ball.

  “Corbitant Dawncreek,” I said gently. “This is as far from an ice-cream shop as you can get. We’ll have to fix that soon.”

  I heard a snot-filled sniff, and Corbie raised his face.

  His expression was empty. He was dangerously in shock. Dried blood completely covered his jaw. He had a tooth in his palm, and I could see that he was missing at least two others from his now-silent smile.

  The rage that always lived inside me reared. It was an almost physical pain, like nails against flesh. But I had taken Lady Death’s lesson to heart. I would not have the world react to my power; I wanted the world to react to me.

  With that attempt at control came calm. My rage was washed clean into purpose. My anger was tempered by responsibilities. Reaction hardened into strategy—into every step I needed to take to end the Hanged Man’s life.

  Corbie blinked at me, recognition fighting to rise through the batting of trauma. He sniffed again and said, in a dazed voice, “I tried to put it back in, but it won’t stay. Will I always look like this? I’ll look so funny.”

  “No, honey,” I whispered, picking him up. I’m not sure I’d ever picked a child up in my life, and it was awkward, but I figured it was okay to be clumsy about things like this.

  The only thing that mattered was pulling him out of this room. Festeringly bad things had been done here, and they pushed at the edge of my spell. I forced Clarity over Corbie to keep him from seeing anything that would deepen his shock.

  He said, “I want Auntie Corinne.”

  “I’m going to her now,” I said, tightening my arms around him. His own small arms finally moved on their own and locked around my neck.

  I looked back at the party in the doorway. I calmly calculated the people gathered on the landing, and their use in my endgame. Lady Death or Ciaran. Strong and momentarily dispensable. I had no friendship yet with Lady Death, though. She would not willingly leave.

  “Ciaran, will you take him away from here?” I asked.

  “Didn’t I watch over the hostages last time?” Ciaran said with only the smallest bit of asperity. “I’m always missing the good bits.”

  “This is a precious request,” I said. “Please. He’s endured enough. Take him to his brother Layne, at New Saints.”

  Ciaran huffed and came forward, holding out his arms. I transferred Corbie to him, who made only a small noise. Ciaran looked down at the mop of hair, and closed his eyes. I felt a drowsy spark of power as a sigil spell released. Corbie sighed and said, “I smell strawberry.” Then his head sagged against Ciaran’s shoulder.

  “Sweet dreams, little one,” Ciaran said “Your part in this is done.”

  “You have a clear path if you go now. Right now, Ciaran,” Quinn said. “Hurry. It’s all about to start.”

  Ciaran, who’d known Quinn longer than I had, didn’t hesitate for a second. He swept away, vanishing into the concourse.

  “Wait a few seconds,” Quinn said in a shush. “The footsteps bring it, and we’ll need to distract its attention to keep it from going after Ciaran. Oh. There. Now you know something is coming. That shaves a few seconds off . . . Lady Death, will you ready Invisibility?”

  “How do you know—” Lady Death stopped herself from stating the obvious.

  “Why Invisibility?” Lord Tower asked.

  “So we don’t destroy the universe,” Quinn said. “Rune, you should go first. You already figured out a way to fight the monsters, and the boy already saw you. That’ll make sense soon.”

  “More icicle screams?” I asked him, pushing through the crowd.

  “Yes,” Quinn said. “Now. Go. Go, Rune!”

  I ran down the corridor toward the concourse, back the way we’d come. Just as I breached the larger room, a winter banshee came through an open hatchway in its bizarre, staggering float.

  My Fire rose to my hands. It was a spell that could power fantastic offensive abilities over the course of at least twenty minutes; and was truly devastating when expended in a single burst.

  I lifted my arm and threw the entire spell in a single jet of superheated flame. The banshee’s neck and vocal cords bubbled into liquid and hardened into char. The flames spread along its already-falling corpse, licking down the brown robes.

  Something went wrong.

  The world tipped into gray, as if my Clarity spell had died. In another moment, the colors returned, brightening into too-sharp distinction, an intense, aural migraine of reality.

  The banshee corpse was gone. The old wreckage was gone. Tables were upright, littered with scattered cards and dinner trays. In the corner of the room, a sailor was staring at me in horror. And in the hatchway leading back to the first galley’s chapel—

  I saw me. Me, but ghostly and insubstantial. I saw me, staring at me.

  Or me staring at what I thought was a sailor with a flamethrower.

  Quinn said something, and magic, like cold water, trickled from crown to toe. The lock of hair in front of my right eye vanished. My extended arm vanished. Invisibility removed me from normal eyesight.

  The ghostly image I’d seen of myself was gone. The sailor who’d watched flames bursting from my hand shook his head and covered his eyes, not sure what he’d seen. He’d been caught in a nightmare for a while, after all. He scrambled away from the corner and ran down a passageway, away from the monster hunting him.

  “This is real?” Lady Death asked. “We’ve truly passed through time?”

  “Why?” Lord Tower added. “What’s changed? This didn’t happen to me before. Rune?”

  “This is new,” I agreed.

  “The Hanged Man is doing something,” Quinn said. “I’m not sure what. He’s not on the ship anymore—not really. But whatever he’s doing is reacting badly with the time and stasis magic on the ship.”

  “He’s not here?” Lady Death repeated.

  “Sort of. Rune knows. He’s guessed where we were going since we set foot on the ship. I told you that you need to pay more attention to him. There’s a reason he’s virsa pulcrra.”

  That meant beautiful man in Atlantean, which made no sense unless it was related to a phenomenally irritating prophecy spoken over my crib. Nice of Quinn to leave a little confusion for me in a statement that confused everyone else entirely.

  Quinn added, in tone that sounded flagging and weary, “We need to move. Listen to Lord Tower’s warning now. He knows time magic best.”

  “An unfortunate phrasing,” Lord Tower said. “I’d stress my knowledge is only theoretical.”

  “Sorry,” Quinn said. “You still know more than I do. And you are about to warn us. But then we need to hurry. There are only a few tears in time that can take us home. And if we try to make our own, we may create a door that . . . other things can walk through.”

  I heard rustling, as if someone had moved positions.
“Nothing more,” Lord Tower said in a hushed voice. At first, I didn’t understand the emotion infusing the words, because I’d never, once, in my entire life, heard the Tower scared.

  Quinn said, “I know. I understand.”

  I did not like not knowing where people were standing, or the expressions on their face. So I jumped when Lord Tower said, from right next to me, “Listen closely. Time is essentially fixed. It is very, very difficult to create a paradox, but not impossible. We risk everything if we create one. Do not intervene. Do not interfere. These poor men are already dead. Remember that.”

  In the distance, someone screamed. And screamed again, although now longer, and with genuine injury. The sound ended with unnatural immediacy.

  “Jesus,” Brand breathed.

  “It’s okay,” Quinn said. “We won’t be here long, not if we find the right tear.”

  “Which way?” Lord Tower asked.

  “It’s hard to explain. We’ll be moving forward and backwards. Time doesn’t want us to be here. It’s already so broken. But go that way.”

  “Quinn,” I heard Addam say gently. “Are you pointing?”

  “Oh. Sorry, you can’t see that. We go portside, down the other side of the ship.”

  That was the direction I knew we’d head in. It also lay in the path of some of the ship’s worst massacres.

  Before we moved, someone released a sigil spell, and the noise around us—the metal aching of a ship at sea, the distant sounds of people running—faded. Lord Tower said, “We’re now silent to them, and unseen even to ourselves, but we remain physical. Be careful.”

  He had everyone line up in twos, with a hand on the shoulder of the person in front of them. We headed out along the portside of the ship, opposite the galleys we’d entered through. It was the original path Brand, Addam, and I had taken, during our first visit.

  Any confusion about what Quinn meant about moving backwards and forward was soon answered. Time leapt and jerked around us, each shift accompanied by a panicky second where our bodies moved in slow motion. We flitted along the narrative the Hanged Man had forced on the Declaration. The period of seagoing order before his arrival; the initial mystery of vanishing crew; the cat-and-mouse game as sailors were openly hunted; and the final hopeless stands.