by Paige Orwin
Change the subject. Sure.
“This is going to go in those pamphlets, isn’t it?” he asked.
“That, Mr Templeton, isn’t your problem. Grace Wu recalled with the boy last night.”
Grace.
Grace had refused to let him take her back to the fortress yesterday evening, and he wasn’t going to let her stay in his house, not ever again, after what she’d done. He’d offered somewhere on Yale campus, and she hadn’t taken that, either. Twelfth Hour or nothing. I’ll sleep on a chair, Eddie.
She’d been looking for nothing more than a chance to get close enough to the kid.
“Is Grace the one that broke the Demon’s Chamber?” he asked.
“Ask Dr Czernin.”
Edmund felt bile rising again. What had Istvan done?
“In fact,” Mercedes continued, “ask him how he expected his little escapade to reflect on the Twelfth Hour’s reputation. It will be appearing in those pamphlets, Mr Templeton, I’m sure of that.”
“I thought those weren’t my problem,” Edmund said.
“They would be,” she snapped, “if I could trust you.”
He stopped. His breath misted in the morning air.
How could she–
Edmund switched the phone to his other ear, trying to keep his voice level. “I never asked for this promotion, Mercedes. I’m not the one that–”
“You’re supposed to be the Hour Thief, Mr Templeton,” she interrupted. “The best we have to offer. Professional in your dealings, legendary in your exploits, charming and photogenic: a wizard to represent all wizards at a time we desperately need support. In the public imagination, you are the Twelfth Hour, far more than I, far more than anyone. But now – now that you have duties matching your ability, now that you have responsibility beyond yourself and your own recovery – what do they see, Mr Templeton?”
He clutched his pocket watch more tightly. “I was asked when I would be up for re-election, Mercedes.”
“And I would be thrilled to face you,” she responded. “If you could bear it.”
“I’m doing the best I can.”
“No. You’re not. You’re doing the same things you’ve always done, and that might have served you well, once, but that world ended eight years ago. If you don’t have time, Mr Templeton, go find it.”
“Mercedes, I am not–”
The line went dead.
Edmund threw the phone off the edge.
* * *
He immediately regretted it. He spent a moment to teleport, catch the contraption mid-air, and return to the edge of the bluff.
He shoved the phone in his pocket. More time, gone.
He had until noon to find a better option.
He had a sinking feeling that he wouldn’t.
* * *
Istvan stepped through the door at Charlie’s, mud and shrapnel spattering across the wood. An engine idled in the street behind him. He knew exactly where to look.
Edmund sat at his usual booth: far wall, opposite the piano, with a clear view of the door. He wore his full Hour Thief regalia, his arms crossed on the table. He stared down at his hat.
He didn’t look up at the thunder.
Istvan glanced at the bartender.
The old man shrugged, focusing on the sweep of a polishing rag across the keys of the antique register rather than meeting Istvan’s empty gaze. “Just came in and sat down. Hours ago. No requests.”
So, he wanted to be in fighting shape.
All for the better.
Istvan swept towards the booth. Poison dimmed the lights.
Edmund still didn’t look up. “I haven’t been to Triskelion before,” he said, voice flat. “I can’t teleport us without a lot of trouble.”
“I’ve an arrangement,” Istvan replied.
“How?” asked Edmund.
“Outside.”
Edmund didn’t reply. He exhaled a shaking breath.
Istvan offered him a hand. Phantom blood dripped onto the table.
Edmund put his hat on. Then he took the hand, or at least pantomimed it – oh, he knew his manners – and stood. The brim of his hat shadowed his eyes.
He regretted this already, Istvan knew. Just as Istvan himself would regret it later, as he always did.
But that was later.
Now… oh, the now was easier, and brighter, and so very promising of all that he’d denied himself for much too long. He was what he was. If that was all anyone wanted to see, let them see it – and run, or tremble, or follow in his wake, as they pleased. He didn’t care. Not anymore.
He wove between the tables, Edmund in tow.
The bartender again averted his eyes.
Lucy waited outside. Her baroque monstrosity of a tank idled behind her, billowing black smoke from slatted vents. As Istvan approached, she saluted, gauntlet crashing against breastplate, and dropped to a knee. “Hail, ravager of the pale beast, lord of the long war, ender of complacency. Your conveyance is ready. My Lord Kasimir awaits your mighty presence, and wishes to offer his sincerest thanks.”
Istvan chuckled. “Oh, we’ll see.”
Edmund said nothing.
Istvan skipped to the side of the vehicle, which had one of its hatches open, and peered inside. Not so different from the other tanks he’d known; the men of Triskelion were still human, after all. “Come on, then, Edmund, get in.”
“We’re driving,” said Edmund, more a statement of resignation than a question.
Lucy stood. “The gifts of He-Who-Watches-in-Walls are many and potent,” she said, slamming open another hatch, “and the most cunning Lord Kasimir has realized the full extent of their use. We make for the capital beacon.”
“The teleportation method they received from Barrio Libertad for their mercenary services,” explained Istvan. “You didn’t think they wouldn’t keep it?”
Edmund still stood some distance away with his hands in his pockets. “He-Who-Watches-in-Walls,” he repeated.
“It doesn’t matter what they call him,” said Istvan. “Get in.”
The wizard approached the vehicle, each step a trial, and reached for its chassis like he expected it to burn him. When it didn’t, he grasped the handles to either side and pulled himself through the hatch.
Istvan swung through after him. The claustrophobic interior boasted four seats at four positions, crowded between loading mechanisms, ammunition storage, turret supports, racks for rifles, and bins for rations. Switches and levers and cable housings and other protrusions threatened his head wherever he turned. All of the same basic design elements, in roughly the same configuration as the eight-man British contraption that had started it all in Istvan’s war.
Oh, he had gutted more of the Russian ones than he could count. It was like coming home, even if home now had computer screens on every surface and a place to boil tea and no longer tried to gas you to death with engine fumes.
Istvan seated himself in the commander’s chair and grinned at Edmund, who had gravitated, white-knuckled, towards the loader position and now stared fixedly out one of the machine-gun hatches. His hands shook. It was the close quarters, Istvan knew – Edmund had been a navy man, but it wasn’t so different – and so he leaned sideways to grasp Edmund’s shoulder, and draw off sweet panic.
“I’m sure it will be over soon,” he said. Then, inevitably: “Perhaps even by Christmas!”
“Stop it,” Edmund mumbled.
A chuckle burst in Istvan’s throat. “Christmas,” he repeated. Oh, it shouldn’t have been as funny as it was. They’d said it sincerely, once, before realizing that “home by Christmas” meant embarking on a multi-year campaign in more foreign countries than expected and perhaps not coming home after all. Not that anything ever changed. “That’s only a few months away, you know.”
The tank shook as Lucy took her place in the driver’s position, leaning far back under an array of periscopes. She no longer wore her spiked pauldrons. The crest of her helmet was missing, as was her cape
: likely detached and stowed somewhere. The rest of her armor stayed, and Istvan found himself wondering if perhaps the armies of Triskelion didn’t care so much after all about engine fumes venting into the crew compartment.
“Hold fast,” she ordered. She reached up to draw gauntleted fingers across a grooved panel, then pulled back a lever at her side.
The engine jumped from idle to a roar.
Edmund flinched. Istvan kept a grip on him. There was no getting out of this now – oh, no – not even through panic and visions, understandable as they might be. No retreating. No running. If Edmund felt like he was drowning again, well, he would simply have to drown.
Treads crunched below them. The whine of gearing filled the air. The tank shook.
“I can’t,” said Edmund, his voice a hoarse near-whisper. “Istvan, I can’t.”
He reached for his jacket pocket.
Oh, he was so predictable. Poor Edmund. He’d spent all this time trying to avoid this, and now it was all he had left. Of course he wanted to escape.
Istvan left his chair. He didn’t need to be buckled in, after all. He placed himself directly behind Edmund’s position, propped sideways and somewhat awkwardly against an ammunition compartment, and reached an arm around him in a half-embrace.
“It will be all right,” he said, kindly. He rested the wooden handle of his knife against the other man’s sternum. “I’m certain that it will be all right.”
Edmund froze. His heartbeat fluttered beneath Istvan’s fingers.
“After all,” Istvan reminded him, “you brought this on yourself.”
Lucy flipped a switch overhead. “The capital beacon has accepted our hail. Transit in two. Gird yourselves, and prepare for an audience.”
“We are well-girded,” Istvan called back. “Aren’t we, Edmund?”
The wizard simply trembled.
Istvan grinned to himself. Oh, this was a much better way to ride.
A clanging, distant and mechanical, swept up and towards them, and the hatches flashed with a light like that of an oncoming train.
Chapter Thirteen
Metal walls pressed in at him, jolting and clattering. The taste of oil bubbled in the back of his throat. It was impossible not to imagine waves outside, saltwater bursting through the hatches and pooling around his legs. The air was close, and stifling, and smog-choked.
Edmund shouldn’t have been able to stay where he was. The second that engine started, he should have succumbed to flat panic, no longer able to think straight, seeing things that happened a long time ago and fleeing as best he could. That was how it went. He knew his own weaknesses.
The weight of Istvan’s knife pressed against his chest.
Edmund stared at it, at his own distorted face reflected in a blade that pointed downwards and away. The hand that gripped it did so lightly, casually, bare phalanges smeared with blood, radiating a chill that sank into his heart and slowed it. The same cold stretched across his chest and shoulder, accompanied by the faintest pressure: Istvan’s arm, draped over him.
He should have been panicking. That he wasn’t, he knew, was Istvan’s doing.
It wasn’t a matter of comfort or solidarity – it was a matter of outright being denied what he should have been feeling. Not a presence so much as an absence. Istvan drank terror like wine. Istvan was undoubtedly enjoying this.
Edmund had brought it all on himself.
He stared down at the knife on his chest and tried not to think about the notches carved into its handle. Istvan must have given up on keeping track long ago.
“How much further?” the ghost called.
“The capital beacon lies a mere two ridges distant from mighty Lord Kasimir’s fortress,” replied Lucy. The electronic edge to her voice cut through the roar of the engine. “Expect disembarkation shortly.”
“Oh, good,” said Istvan. He squeezed Edmund’s shoulders tighter, which didn’t amount to much, and pounded the knife handle against Edmund’s sternum. “Not long now,” he said, his voice too close and too loud for comfort. “A little audience and fanfare, and then we’re on our way, hm? Oh, I haven’t seen a parade in ages!”
“Sure,” said Edmund.
“The parade is not for your viewing,” Lucy said.
Istvan leaned over. “Come now–”
“You are to be its centerpiece, and the guests of honor, by Lord Kasimir’s grace.”
A laugh. “That’s more the tune of it!”
Edmund closed his eyes, wondering if this was what one of the layers of Hell was like. Dante’s version of it was imaginative, but hardly authoritative, and any speculation on what lay beyond the bounds of existence was speculation alone – you couldn’t go there to see for yourself and come back with photographs.
You couldn’t come back. Even Istvan hadn’t ever really left.
“Edmund,” the ghost continued, “have you ever been in a parade before?”
“Y–”
“I have. All you must do is sit beside me and wave, and then it shall be over and we can be on to business. Oh,” he added, “I wonder if we might be attacked during it!”
“The cunning Lord Kasimir’s security is unparalleled,” said Lucy.
Istvan leered. “But not perfect?”
“I charge you not to raise such a question during the festivities.”
“Oh, of course not. But one can hope! Right, Edmund?”
“Mm,” said Edmund. He couldn’t feel his shoulder anymore; he wished Istvan would back off, but dreaded what would happen if he did.
He swallowed back oil.
The jolting slowed. The light filtering through the hatches grew steadily dimmer, and greyer. It smelled of smoke: the greasy, unfiltered, sooty smoke Edmund remembered from his early days, before anyone ever thought of environmental regulations.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” asked Istvan.
“I’d rather go home,” said Edmund.
“You will!” The ghost ruffled his hair. “Later.”
“Don’t do that.”
A pause; Istvan did stop, and drew back somewhat, but didn’t let him go. “Sorry.”
Edmund shook his head. “It’s fine.”
It wasn’t.
* * *
Triskelion! Home of armies!
Istvan leapt out of the tank hatch. A parade ground greeted him, poured concrete laid out with guiding grid-lines. Smoke billowed into the heavens from dismal factories along the perimeter. Two rows of guards in burnished golden armor stood at attention along the path to a soot-stained bunker complex dug into the rock, its walls slanted, a strange mirage-like shimmer hazing the air above it.
The mighty slopes of encircling mountains gleamed with snow. It seemed so pristine, from a distance. Istvan fancied he could hear the artillery fire.
Oh – no… that was only him.
He stepped out along the tank’s main gun as Lucy climbed out of her own, driver-side hatch. “Waiting for us?” he called to the guard.
As one, they dropped to a knee. The shout of two dozen men echoed across the grounds, indecipherable but enthusiastic.
Istvan clapped his hands together. He had never enjoyed so much reverence before. “Bravo!” he called. “We shall only be a moment!”
He hopped off the gun, landed easily, and skipped over to find Edmund leaning against the back of the tank, breathing hard. Istvan clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Come on, Edmund – they’re expecting us.”
“I know,” came the reply.
“Well, come on!”
Edmund looked up at him with the dull, hopeless expression of a man facing execution, and Istvan had to stop himself from ruffling his hair again. Oh, the wizard was wonderful. He didn’t want to be here at all, and yet he was here. He was regretting it already, just as Istvan would, later. His fears were deep, and rich, and utterly unique – so old, yet human – and in that frailty there was immense strength. Istvan loved him tremendously, and it was so difficult to stay angry at him even though he
bloody well deserved it.
It was only them, alone, now. No Grace or anyone else. Just Edmund, Istvan, the mercenaries, and the siege. It really was a fine day for a siege.
“We don’t have a choice,” said Edmund, as though trying to convince himself. He turned his hat around in his hands.
“Not at all,” said Istvan. He grinned, or perhaps he had already been grinning. “Besides, you need time, don’t you?”
Edmund sighed. He put his hat back on.
Istvan led the Hour Thief back towards Lucy and the waiting guard, feeling lighter than he had in years. Pietro would never have approved, of course. No, he would have run away in the other direction, not recognizing Istvan at all. So long ago. Things were different, now.
“Way!” called Lucy, and the guard fell back, bowing their heads. The path to Lord Kasimir’s compound lay open.
“I don’t suppose the parade is inside?” Istvan asked. “For fear of mortars?”
Lucy held up a fist; the blunt muzzles of cannons on the battlements swiveled away from their passage. She started towards the compound. Her cape swept behind her; her pauldrons re-attached to her shoulders. “Much celebration awaits your triumphant return,” she replied.
Istvan strolled after her. “Our return? That’s a bit backwards, isn’t it?”
“The most magnanimous Lord Kasimir offers you his blessing,” she replied, “and the honor of his presence.”
“Yes, well, the Lord of the Long War merits somewhat more than that, I should think,” Istvan said. He indicated the last of the guard as they passed them. “An accompanying procession, at least.”
Lucy came to a halt.
“What was the rest?” asked Istvan. “The rest of those titles?”
“Ravager of the pale beast,” the armored woman replied. She turned to regard the guards in their lines, still standing with heads bowed. “Ender of complacency.”
“We don’t need a procession,” muttered Edmund from behind them.
Istvan ignored him. “And?”
“Viewer of my last mask,” Lucy finished, somewhat reluctantly. She inclined her own head, setting a fist to her breastplate. “My sincerest apologies, Devil’s Doctor. If it is a procession that pleases you, a procession you shall have.”
