by Paige Orwin
She started towards him.
He tried to retreat but could go no further without passing partway through the wall. “No need to kneel. Please.”
Another slam of gauntlet against breastplate. She turned to Edmund. “Hail, Director. Your unit awaits.”
Edmund winced. “Thank you, Lucy.”
Istvan wished he could regret saving someone’s life, just once. He hadn’t even known he was doing it. No one had known who she was, much less what she was, and the Susurration had only made things complicated, like it always did.
Although, assigning her to guard the Twelfth Hour’s emergency medical teams had admittedly resulted in those teams having both someone who could punch through doors and who had a tank available, which sometimes came in handy.
A clacking came from the far corner.
White fur; blue stripes; shoulders as high as a horse; a beast that bared canines as long as a man’s hand and coated in a fine layer of rime. Its massive body combined all the deadliest aspects of tiger and bear. Its mere presence caused the lacquer behind it to crack, the air to congeal, oxygen to thin and flee as though transported to the summit of the Himalayas.
It wore a screen and keyboard strapped to one arm.
William Blake, better known simply as the Tyger (both names Edmund claimed were some sort of joke on the beast’s part), finished tapping at the keyboard and turned the results to show the rest of the table. Green text floated onto the screen.
apologies for the weather
“You can’t help it none,” said Janet Justice, a heavyset black woman who, unlike Roberts, managed to look completely comfortable in a coat and mittens. Hers was the same voice as on the telephone earlier: as one of the Twelfth Hour’s technical experts, it often was. Long greying braids streamed down her back. She didn’t stand. She looked to Edmund. “Though I wouldn’t mind a larger venue.”
Edmund set the box on the table, shivering. “That’s what we’re here about. Where’s Vasquez?”
busy
“Right.”
Istvan glanced at Lucy, who didn’t seem to notice the cold at all. Her armor was probably heated somehow. Triskelion had its share of technological marvels, after all, and was the sort of place that would never spare them on its warriors.
The sort of place that he would like to but really oughtn’t visit.
Edmund pulled out the last remaining chair. He glanced at Istvan.
Istvan shrugged. “You’re the director of this venture.”
Edmund nodded: a fair point. He waited for the others to sit down – except Lucy, who adamantly refused – and then seated himself. He started pulling papers out of the box.
“Right,” he said, retrieving a notebook and a pen, “let’s get down to it. Mercedes has made it very clear that, one way or another, we need to show results by the end of the month.” He flipped the notebook open, deftly, and set it on the table. He wrote the date, the location, and “Opening Notes” on the first three lines in his neat, narrow, ruler-straight hand, the penmanship of a man who’d made a living writing out index cards.
The paper crackled. He smoothed it.
Then, though his breath misted in the chill air before him, he smiled. “Now, I know it’s been a while, so let’s hear anything you’ve come across before I go into details of how we’re going to do this.”
Istvan stared up at the chandelier. He didn’t want to be here. He was of no help here. They were unlikely to get anything done here.
He didn’t want to be here.
Edmund ought to have worn a coat. Too late for that now, but he ought have.
He had to be freezing half to death, and he looked it.
And yet those around the table – the team assigned to the man, the first team of any sort he’d led since the Wizard War – regarded him with the sort of automatic deference usually reserved for generals, presidents, kings; the sheer weight of his presence alone almost enough to clear any doubts about his long absence and his bureaucratic stalling.
He was doing it again. He was the Hour Thief, the elusive Man in Black who haunted the idle hours no matter how hard Istvan tried to forget both incidents, the only one who had ever come to visit him, the one who got away… and he was doing it again.
“What?” Edmund asked.
Istvan looked back to the chandelier, reminding himself that he hated needless paperwork and didn’t want to be here. “Carry on.”
Edmund should have remembered to bring a coat.
He was going to catch a cold.
* * *
“The magnanimous Lord Kasimir continues to extend the hand of friendship in return for a trifling day of aid,” boomed Lucy. She scythed a gauntleted hand across the table. Roberts jerked out of the way. “The passes of Triskelion yet rattle with the din of war – a din that our gracious lord would cease forever, given the might to quell it.”
“Thank you,” said Edmund, “but Istvan and I still aren’t interested in signing on as siege-breakers. With all due respect to Lord Kasimir, of course.”
Lucy’s helmet turned to Istvan.
The specter shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. He fiddled with his bandolier, twisting his fingers beneath empty ammunition loops.
Lucy bowed. That wasn’t her name, strictly speaking, but her real name involved a violent title that no one could keep straight and “Lucy” had ended up being easier for everyone. “Your river-fortress awaits, should you wish it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Edmund, resolving to do nothing of the sort. “Janet, you were saying?”
The computer expert shifted in her chair. Metallic green disc earrings lay on the table before her, having evidently grown too cold for comfort. “The Magnolia Group’s getting edgy about Barrio Libertad. Their dig has been our primary parts and pieces source since we hooked up with them, and now that the Barrio can replicate just about anything they can do, well… they don’t like that at all.”
Edmund nodded. “I can see that.”
“The last message I got said that they’d be willing to let us look over some of their prime gear if we set up somewhere near them.”
“How near?”
Janet shrugged.
Edmund shuffled through the stack before him until he came to the Magnolia Group folder. They were closer to Barrio Libertad than the Twelfth Hour, further inland, near the Wizard War memorial – they’d brought out some kind of beam cannon to help fell the beast, as he recalled, or maybe a repurposed engine. The spacecraft they occupied didn’t seem crashed so much as buried, and they were the ones who maintained the Twelfth Hour’s wireless and phone systems.
Nice enough people, though they seemed to come in only four or five varieties of the same mold. All more or less identical. All women, so far as he knew.
You could have worse neighbors.
“They don’t happen to have any particular site in mind, do they?” he asked.
“Nothing in particular.”
He rubbed at his eyes. “Of course.”
All the easy places to take had already been taken. Roberts had suggested following up with the Steel City but after that incident at Oxus Station, right next door, Edmund doubted they’d be amenable to it. Lucy had only Lord Kasimir’s offer, again. The Tyger…
Edmund sighed. He’d first met “William Blake” when the beast almost bit off his arm during a starvation-fueled killing spree some months ago. The Tyger was their first evidence that some of Shokat Anoushak’s monsters hadn’t just been people once: that they were still people. They could still think. They’d been forced to fight under geas. Which was a damn shame, and would have been something to rectify if only there were any survivors like him remaining in Big East. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for everyone else, there weren’t.
William wanted to set up shop far away, in another fracture zone if possible. He wanted to find more like himself, learn how they were created, maybe bring them back to who they had once been. He didn’t remember. If Vasque
z hadn’t given him that keyboard, no one would have ever known that he could think. It hadn’t been a popular decision to grant a monster a chance at atonement… but, well, no one could deny that he might be useful against his own kind.
He refused to consider Barrio Libertad the bigger threat. He had his sights set firmly on the strange “children” of Shokat Anoushak, no matter what Edmund said.
It seemed to be getting colder by the minute.
Edmund rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them somewhat. He really wished he’d brought his overcoat. Istvan seemed fine, but of course he would. The ghost was wearing a military greatcoat with elaborate trim now, and Edmund doubted he’d noticed.
One step at a time.
They’d figure it out.
By the end of the month, they’d have it figured out.
He let out a breath. It floated away in a pale cloud. He’d quit smoking almost two decades ago. “Right then,” he said, “this is why I’d like to come up with a new procedure for picking sites.” The notebook yet lay before him, lined with notes, and he flipped to a new page. “I’d prefer it to have at least the basics: a water supply, some proximity to somewhere we can bring in food, a solid roof. Friendly neighbors is a plus. Power is a plus.”
“We could bring in a generator,” said Roberts.
Edmund noted down what he’d just said, dotting each with a bullet point. “I’ll get to that.”
Istvan fidgeted. “It’s just the same as setting up a bivouac.”
“I’ll get to that.”
The specter leaned back against the wall, arms folded, sulking.
Edmund drew a dividing line across the paper. Istvan had brought up the same point multiple times over the last two months – he knew more about setting up field camps than anyone, he’d seen men survive in the worst places under the worst conditions, of course they would have to start with modest means, what did Edmund expect? – but this was a matter of politics.
They had to be far enough away from Barrio Libertad to escape the fortress’s smothering influence, but close enough to not look like they were worried about that. They had to have enough space to grow into. They had to have enough self-sufficiency not to rely on anyone who might resent them being there. They had to present a face of strength right out of the gate.
They couldn’t get this wrong.
Istvan had told him that he was making excuses.
“We’re going to start in a hundred-mile radius around Barrio Libertad,” Edmund began. “A preliminary survey. If we set up a master list first, then–”
His phone rang. It sounded like a submarine dive alarm. He’d never figured out how to change it.
“Excuse me.”
He fished it out of his pocket. The front was a glowing panel about the size of a pack of cigarettes, currently displaying Mercedes’ number.
Oh, boy.
He glanced around the table. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
Before anyone could argue, he stepped outside, closed the door, fiddled with the screen, then held the contraption to his ear. “Good morning, Mercedes, you’ve reached Edmund Templeton.”
“So I would hope,” came the acerbic reply.
“What’s going on?”
“Come to the office. Bring Dr Czernin, if he’s available.”
“Mercedes, I’m in the middle of–”
“This is urgent, Mr Templeton.”
Edmund eyed the door. He tugged it open a crack, cursing under his breath at the freezing metal handle. William, evidently, didn’t approve of this meeting at all. “Istvan?”
“What?”
“Are you available?”
A pause. “What for?”
Edmund switched the phone to his other ear. “He is.”
Mercedes paused. “He’s there now?”
“Yes, he is.”
“I see. I expect you both shortly.”
She hung up.
Edmund watched the phone screen reset to its standard configuration. If Mercedes was worried about wiretapping, this had to be something about Barrio Libertad. They were worse than the Russians.
So much for making progress.
He dropped the phone in his pocket and stepped back through the door.
Four sets of eyes and one visor looked at him expectantly.
“Meeting’s canceled,” Edmund sighed. He ran a hand through the grey in his hair. “Mercedes has something she wants done.”
Istvan perked up. “Does she?”
Edmund started stacking papers back in the box. So close. He’d been so close. “You don’t have to look so relieved.”
Chapter Five
“I’m aware of the demands of your current assignment,” said Magister Hahn.
“We’d just sat down.”
“Something has come up, Mr Templeton. Something of your caliber, which as I’m sure you both know, isn’t something I can ignore.”
“I’d like to know how I’m supposed to get anything off the ground if I can’t–”
The Magister leaned forward in her chair, clasping her hands together over one of her diagrams. The paper lanterns hanging above streaked red highlights across the scarred surface of her desk. “I’ve received a message from Landsea Cabal.”
Edmund quieted.
Istvan frowned, standing at an automatic parade rest. “The Tornado Alley wizards?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m not teaching my teleport,” said Edmund.
“That wasn’t what they asked.” She tapped a pen on the desk. “You’re aware of the storms they face, gentlemen? Inland hurricanes, hyper-cells, ‘razornadoes?’”
“I’ve heard of them,” Istvan said, cautiously. He considered bringing up what Grace had said – the prospect of Shattered in Tornado Alley, unreachable even by Barrio Libertad – but this didn’t sound like the Susurration’s work. Thank goodness.
The Magister nodded. “One has gone ‘smart.’”
Edmund raised his eyebrows. “Smart?”
“They’ve been tracking it for less than a day and it’s already changed course eight times.”
“Oh.”
Istvan waited for him to say something more, but the man remained silent, his aspect churning. Anger over being interrupted at an important meeting. Anger over a lost day of calm. Anger over being angry.
Worry over not enough time for it all.
Istvan clasped his hands more tightly behind his back.
What could the Magister want with this storm business? Fight it? It was wind; there was nothing there to fight. And all the way out there? Yes, it was unfortunate, but Tornado Alley was at least a thousand miles away. This was an enormous country. The Twelfth Hour didn’t claim close to all of it.
Besides, to reach Tornado Alley they would have to–
“I want you to intercept it,” said the Magister. “Today.”
Edmund’s jaw tightened.
Istvan’s heart dropped and leapt all at once. He swallowed. “In Tornado Alley, Magister?”
The Magister peered at him. “Where else? Besides, Doctor, I thought you would jump at the opportunity.”
“Ah…”
“How long has it been since you crossed our borders?”
He saw mountains. He could hear the clatter of wheels over rocky passes, the shouts of exhausted men. Platoons picked their way over rope bridges. Snow fell gently over the fallen – or not so gently, loosed by the crack and report of cannon, a great thundering rush of smothering death.
The peaks here had no snow… but he still saw it.
“Magister,” he tried to protest, but could go no further.
Triskelion. The mountains he would have to cross to reach Tornado Alley were home to the warring states of Triskelion. Lucy’s homeland. It fell just on the edge of Big East and reached into the spellscars, strongholds blasted into the most inhospitable parts of what had been Pennsylvania. Its people had come from some other history, cruel and poisoned, led by warlords that swiftly
subjugated everything they came across and then hired their men out to all comers in exchange for any advantage they could gain over their rivals. Even Barrio Libertad had made use of their services, hiring them to find dozens of palm-sized superweapons known as Bernault devices. They still did, for all he knew.
Istvan had fought Triskelion mercenaries. He had never fought their armies.
Oh, the mercenaries had been wonderful.
Barbed wire looped bright and bloody at his feet.
“Why do you want us out there?” asked Edmund. “Why now?”
The Magister clasped her hands together. “It’s time the Twelfth Hour took a more proactive role in affairs, Mr Templeton. We’ve been bunkered down too long. This could be the first step towards demonstrating that we’re more than a clearinghouse and artifact depot for a dozen petty city-states and skeleton crew of field agents.”
Edmund turned his hat in his hands, a measured, deliberate gesture. The knot at his jaw remained. “I thought we were.”
She smiled tightly. “Only because there’s nothing better.”
Istvan tried desperately not to think about which Triskelion warlord he ought to throw his hat in for. The only one he knew was Lord Kasimir, but it was always best to approach a war from all sides…
“I shall have to tell the emergency hospital I won’t be available,” he managed.
“Of course,” said the Magister.
Edmund stared at her a moment longer. Then he turned, stiffly. “We’ll give it our best. Come on, Istvan.”
Istvan snapped a salute.
He made it until just after the Magister’s door swung closed.
Then he turned and fell against the wall outside, head on an upraised arm. The wall was real. Solid. Something to distract from the wild thoughts – the improper thoughts – the gripping fever of it all – a war, a real war!
“Istvan?”
He shuddered. He beat a fist against the wood, bone and feathers flickering in and out of existence. “I can’t,” he said. “Edmund, I can’t.”
Edmund hung back. Of course he did. No need to risk it, no, not with what Istvan was. The Great War, unchained. “You can’t what?”
“Go.”
