Immortal Architects

by Paige Orwin

  That didn’t help it.

  The kraken made no sound, not once, as Istvan hacked it apart. It felt pain as its limbs fell away, but it didn’t seem anxious. It stared at him, reproachfully, as the light receded above them, and when it was over, Istvan only found himself floating beside its torn-up remnants feeling like his lungs were full of water (which they were) and like he was swimming in kraken blood, ink, and offal – which he was. That none of him was real or solid didn’t matter.

  It was, on the whole, the least satisfying thing he’d ever done.

  He slogged back to shore. Perhaps the beast would wash up, later, and someone would eat it. Perhaps he would be able to rid himself of the feeling of breathing blood, eventually. He hated things sloshing through him. He knew he hated it. Why had he gone after something underwater in the first place?

  The people at the bonfire – a man, a woman, and a young woman who might have been their daughter – stared at him as he stomped out of the surf.

  Istvan flicked water off his knife, hoping that the handle wouldn’t stain. Black might be acceptable, but not blue. Why did krakens bleed blue?

  “Did you…” the women began.

  Istvan sighed. “I killed a kraken, that’s all.”

  Silence. Nervous glances at the water.

  “Are they OK?” the man asked.

  The fishing fleet. Of course. They were looking to guide in the fishing fleet. That’s what the fire was for. “I saw some of the boats, earlier,” Istvan said. He sheathed his knife. “I… I’ll go check on them. I imagine they’ll be coming in soon.”

  He could do that, at least. That wasn’t underwater.

  “The kraken wasn’t doing anything,” he added, feeling somewhat guilty.

  The family didn’t seem to know what to make of that.

  “OK,” said the woman.

  Istvan chided himself. They were worried. The krakens had taken boats before. The storm would only get worse. Unlike Edmund, he couldn’t dally so long as he liked.

  He took off.

  * * *

  It wasn’t the most awkward afternoon Edmund had ever spent, but it was close. He and Kyra swept up the debris, righted fallen shelves, and tossed broken tourist knickknacks into one corner. The cracked window would need repair. Edmund found and put the heat on once it grew cold, and as darkness fell he encouraged Kyra to find a place to bunk.

  “What if they come again?” the kid asked.

  “You’ll be inside and they won’t find you,” Edmund replied, without much conviction. “Besides, you won’t be alone out here. I’m staying, too, remember?”

  Kyra cast a nervous glance at the windows. “They found me before.”

  “Maybe,” Edmund said. He leaned the broom in one corner. “Go find yourself a place, anyway. If something dives out of the sky, I’ll deal with it.”

  Kyra took his blankets and disappeared, and, moments later, Edmund heard the rumble of the elevator headed down to the generators. Great. It was obvious, in hindsight – the generators were built into the dam, not on top of it, and the place was naturally sturdier – but he’d have rather had Kyra well away from any machinery.

  Too late now.

  He cast a glance towards the windows himself, half-hoping to see Istvan, but of course the ghost hadn’t returned. He’d probably gone back to Triskelion. He wouldn’t be back. Edmund would have to do everything himself.

  He tried not to think about how well he’d handled the night before.

  First thing first: get through the rest of today, and into tomorrow. Then figure out what to do about this Toronto business and get back together with the team. He had a place, Mercedes had a plan, and they had to start work on it sooner rather than later. The weather would only hold up for so long.

  Kyra had mentioned monsters. The Twelfth Hour had its own monster. William. The Tyger. If he were really from up north, maybe he could be of some help figuring out how to reach–

  Something screamed.

  It was faint, distant, with an edge to it. Harsh. Metallic. For one terrible moment Edmund wondered if Kyra had already broken a generator.

  Then the fireball plummeted from overhead and slammed into the treeline.

  Edmund shut off all the lights. He shut off the heat. He let down the blinds, locked the door – for what good it would do – and bolted for the elevator. They were not staying here. Not tonight. Not with things falling from the sky. He’d served in the Pacific. He’d had enough of things falling from the sky.

  With Istvan on patrol, he might have felt better. Without Istvan…

  Without Istvan…

  Edmund spent a few moments to beat back sudden panic. All of forever. Really all of forever. That was a hell of a long time to be alone. He’d thought he’d resigned himself to that, and maybe he had, once, but…

  The elevator doors slid open. A chime sounded. He closed his eyes a moment, focusing on not breathing so hard, and then stepped out onto the upper catwalk. The generator room was cavernous, almost two stories high, with four churning generators evenly spaced across its length that made a hell of a racket. Not the best place to sleep, anyway. “Kyra,” he called, “change of plans.”

  The kid jumped up from below, hugging the blankets to his chest. “Did you see them?” he demanded, “Did you get them?”

  “I saw them. I don’t know what they’re doing and I don’t know if they know about you, but I need to ask you one question.”

  “Yeah?”

  Edmund hurried down the stairs, each step a crash on bare metal. “Can you hold it together for one night?”

  Kyra blinked at him. “I think so?”

  “That’s what that tiara is, right? That helps? Diego gave that to you?”

  The Conduit touched two fingers to the milky surface of the band around his head. It wasn’t glowing, now. That was probably good. “How did you know?”

  Edmund reached the bottom of the stairs, wondering if he was really hearing more crashing above or if it was just the generators. Or his imagination. “I… knew another Conduit. Now hold tight.” He fished out his pocket watch. “We’re going to my place.”

  “Wait, are we doing that teleport thing again, because–”

  Edmund snapped his watch shut. Archaic coordinates shifted to match, satisfying the compulsive neurosis of a creature outside of reality. The world dissolved and reformed itself into his living room. Beldam, back on the couch again, cast Kyra a wary eye.

  “OK,” Edmund said. He unclasped his cape. He tugged it off his shoulders, walked over to the hat rack, and hung it up. His hat went on top of it.

  OK. It would be OK.

  He straightened the hat on its peg.

  “You have a cat,” whispered Kyra.

  Edmund turned. “That’s Beldam.”

  The Conduit hadn’t moved from the middle of the room. He was still holding the rolled-up blanket. “Does it talk?” he asked.

  “No. She’s a cat.”

  “Oh.”

  Edmund waited a moment for further questions, but none came. Kyra wandered over to the couch as though hypnotized, put the blanket on the coffee table, and sat down next to Beldam, drawing up his knees. The cat flicked an ear at him but stayed put.

  “You OK?” Edmund asked.

  Kyra nodded, toppling slowly sideways onto the arm of the couch.

  Edmund glanced back to see what he might be staring at, but there was nothing there but the umbrella stand. “You sure?”

  Another nod.

  Well, it had been a busy day. For both of them. The kid would recover. Kids were tough. It would be fine. Kyra could sleep on the couch and then they’d figure out the rest tomorrow morning. The house would be fine. It could be warmer, but…

  Edmund went to the front window and pushed a curtain aside.

  Blizzard. In September. Right.

  He started towards the kitchen – and the thermostat. “Tell you what, Kyra. I’ll go make us some supper.”

  “You got a lot of books,�
� came the response.

  Edmund paused. “I’m a librarian.”

  “You can read all these?”

  “Most of them.”

  Kyra hugged his knees tighter, the hem of the dress from Barrio Libertad brushing the floor below him. “Can I pet the cat?”

  “If she’ll let you.”

  “’kay.”

  Edmund turned on the heat and busied himself in the kitchen. Potatoes it was. Potatoes it would probably be for a good long while, if winter had decided to come already. He’d have to check back at the Twelfth Hour and see if anyone needed a refresher on harvest and storage. He’d also have to check the cisterns, and…

  He dipped water out of its storage barrel and put it on to boil. “By the way,” he called into the living room, “we don’t have working plumbing. Don’t use the bathroom. If you need something, let me know, and I’ll show you where to find the outhouse.”

  “I’m OK,” said Kyra.

  “Well, when you’re not, tell me.” Edmund glanced out the kitchen window, barely able to make out where his makeshift water catchment and storage seemed to have already frozen over. This was going to be a long night. “I’m going to bring some things in.”

  It took almost two hours. The storm tore through his coat like he wasn’t wearing it. Snow had already piled a foot high in front of his door. Some of the pipe for the shower setup in the backyard would have to be repaired. The herb garden, set in its own box near the back hedge, was a complete loss. It had struggled from the start – much closer to the house itself, and nothing would grow – but he’d hoped the rosemary would live, even if nothing else took root. He hadn’t had time to take better care of it. Now that he did… too late.

  Once he was finished, he checked to see if the potatoes were boiling.

  “You’re done?” asked Kyra.

  Edmund held his hands over the stove. “For now.”

  He spent some time so he could feel his fingers again. No good working in a kitchen with stiff fingers.

  Footsteps fell on the kitchen tile. “How are you so fast? I didn’t even see you.”

  Edmund shook out his hands. “Magic.” The tongs hung in their place near the stove; he took them down, picked out the potatoes, and set them on the cutting board.

  Kyra came up beside him, pointing. “That,” he said. “Like that. Stuff don’t boil that fast. You have to wait for it.”

  “I do. You don’t.” Edmund got out a paring knife. “Go ahead and sit down.”

  “But–”

  “Magic, Kyra. It’s magic. I’ll explain later.” He started cutting up the potatoes. “Now go have a seat.”

  The Conduit retreated. The chair he pulled out was the one with its back to the front door. Istvan’s.

  Edmund tried to focus on the potatoes. The food that he’d spent some of his reserve time on, for no reason other than convenience. What would Istvan have thought? Not even a day, and already Edmund had fallen back into old habits. A moment here, a moment there, compressing minutes and hours between the time spent with company. Luxury spending. No need to keep anyone waiting. He had time. He always had time.

  He looked down at the knife in his hand, smeared with starch. His stomach twisted.

  He put the knife down. Think of something else.Plates. They needed plates. Plates, and forks, and something to drink, and there were plenty of other things to discuss that weren’t about him. They didn’t have to talk about him.

  Kyra didn’t have to know everything. He was just a kid. He was… he…

  Hm. That was a good place to start.

  “I have a question, if you don’t mind,” Edmund said as he set the food on the table. “What do I call you?”

  Kyra looked up from patting Beldam. “What?”

  “You were quick to insist on ‘she’ on the elevator. Is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Edmund laid out the forks. He hadn’t misheard, then. He’d wondered about that. “So… Kyra, the person I’m speaking to, right now – you’re a girl?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you always been this way?”

  Kyra looked at him strangely. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Well. That solved that mystery. “Never mind. I was just making sure.”

  Kyra nodded. “Thanks.”

  Edmund sat down and picked up his fork. He’d dealt with stranger things, and – as consequences of Shattering went, if that’s what this was – at least it was harmless enough. If it was something else… well, he wasn’t a doctor. No reason to start worrying until she started speaking in Scythian.

  “Why’d you only cut the stuff on my plate and not yours?” asked Kyra.

  “I was hungry.”

  * * *

  Istvan couldn’t help with frostbite. He’d never been able to help with frostbite. His presence only made it worse, chilling spirit in addition to flesh… but cold wasn’t the only cause of injury this night, and the rest he could do something about.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” said Roberts.

  “You oughtn’t have tried to pick up that entire cart,” said Istvan. “And you know that ice collects on that step.”

  Roberts shrugged.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Sorry.”

  There were hooks to pry out of flesh. Burns from ropes and flame hurled suddenly before the wind. Concussions, cracked bones, and sprained ankles from falls. No one had expected the storm to come on so fast. The rush to proof the town against it, and to bring the fleet home, had its risks. That the vast majority of injuries were beneath Istvan’s skill – as a surgeon, the best in the world – didn’t matter.

  He was a doctor. Even Kyra had said so.

  “Lucy still isn’t back,” Roberts said, doing his best to hold very still.

  Istvan put in the last few stitches above the man’s eyebrow. “I’m sure she’s telling everyone that I’m a god-king and attempting to incite armed rebellion.”

  “Sounds right.”

  “I expect the region to dissolve into bloody infighting within the week, and I’m wondering if I ought to go there, claim my title, and put a stop to it.” Istvan drew his knife and cut the thread, tying off a knot. “Then, perhaps, I’ll free all those slaves, give them amnesty, and conquer my way to Tornado Alley.”

  Roberts stared at him a long moment. Then he cracked a weak, lopsided smile. “Sure.”

  Istvan dropped the needle onto a nearby plate.

  The nurse’s smile faded. “Wait, are you serious?”

  “Roberts, I need you to avoid heavy lifting for the next week and then check back here. I’ll go put your information on file.”

  “Doctor–”

  Istvan grabbed the other man’s broad shoulders. “Don’t you dare worry about me, because I am far, far from the one who needs it!”

  Roberts, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “You went to Triskelion,” he said.

  “No heavy lifting,” Istvan repeated. “If you try anything else, I will know.”

  “Where’s Mr Templeton?”

  Edmund. Bloody Edmund. He was at Niagara, most likely. With Kyra. Reaping the benefits of the siege while, again, Istvan was stuck in the Twelfth Hour infirmary. Istvan was always stuck in the Twelfth Hour infirmary. In the first months of the Wizard War, its walls had been his only glimpse of a world beyond the Demon’s Chamber – and he’d been grateful for it. He’d been grateful for anything Edmund could spare.

  Istvan hadn’t chosen it. He hadn’t chosen any of it.

  Large hands settled roughly where Istvan’s shoulders would have been.

  “Go find Mr Templeton,” said Roberts.

  Istvan bristled. “Why?”

  “I know you. Go talk to him. You’ll only get angrier and angrier if you don’t, and no one wants to deal with that.”

  The man’s eyes were watering. The infirmary had gone very quiet.

  Istvan let go of him, leaving bloody handprints that faded. He was doing it again. He couldn’t�
� he wasn’t… it was never like this in the old days, when he had no one to hold him back, to… to return to, to…

  He backed up, wreathed in the thunder of distant guns.

  “I’ll put in my own information,” said Roberts – and, though his face remained impassive, and the worry was legitimate, disappointment and exasperation boiled below, the resentment of one who knew he shouldn’t speak his mind.

  Istvan fled.

  Nothing halted him at the infirmary’s double doors, and no one questioned him as he sped over their heads to the exit. It was early morning, the sun just rising. The storm still raged. If he were to navigate by the Black Building, he would have to climb above the clouds and hope that they weren’t deep enough to obscure its spire.

  He’d failed. He’d failed them all. If he couldn’t stay calm at the infirmary – if he couldn’t keep himself from yelling at Roberts, from lashing out at anything that moved, from being cruel, from not thinking… what kind of doctor was that? What kind of person was that?

  Roberts had lost a daughter. Roberts had compared Kyra to his own child, and vowed to do what he could for him even in the face of a decision he couldn’t change. Roberts knew what Istvan was – and still had the courage to speak to him, still worked alongside him, still expected better of him.

  Triskelion. You went to Triskelion.

  Istvan severed a tree branch as he took wing. It toppled into the snow with a crack and a thud: another innocent victim.

  * * *

  Statues.

  Flesh of stone. Skin of wax. No more mortal needs or frailties. Superhuman physicality: strength, endurance, toughness. Really all of forever, without taking anything from anyone to do it. An alternate route to immortality.

  Edmund stared at his ledger.

  He wanted to know more. He wanted to know how she’d done it. He wanted to know how much Shokat Anoushak had changed, and when, and how. Was it the process that made her inhuman, or was it time? Could it be staved off? If Kyra was right, would the reborn Shokat Anoushak be the same person?

  Was Kyra right?

  Could someone else replicate it? Could Edmund…