by Paige Orwin
“That was only a few flyers, and Harbor wasn’t–”
“You found allies with a stake in it, and an army to staff it. You have your first recruit, a teacher for her, and a successful trial-by-fire.”
Edmund’s eyes flew open. Oh, hell.
Istvan looked like he’d been caught in headlights. “Magister, you just said that we were abandoning Niagara.”
Mercedes smiled, tightly. “That’s the line.”
Istvan just stared at her.
Edmund turned his hat in his hands. She wasn’t giving up her idea. Instead of a second headquarters, the Twelfth Hour would gain a place far out of the way, hidden from prying eyes: somewhere to put Conduits, cultists, monsters, and everyone else who caused problems. A prison. A factory for new wizards, founded on the simple principle of expediency. The Twelfth Hour didn’t have enough new ones in training and never would if they didn’t make changes.
He couldn’t imagine what she’d bargained for such a deal. What did Barrio Libertad gain from it? What was the Twelfth Hour going to lose?
“I won’t do it,” said Istvan. He crossed his arms. “I’m not manning some sort of secret outpost.”
“Consider it a trial,” Mercedes replied. “If you successfully build a functioning community here, it won’t stay secret. You will have oversight. You’ll have support from both the Twelfth Hour and Barrio Libertad. Holding Niagara has become a point of common interest, believe it or not.” She raised an eyebrow. “Or would you prefer that we appoint your friend Lucy?”
“Goodness, no! She would turn it into a labor camp!” The ghost glanced around, as though checking to be sure that Lucy wasn’t present, and then continued, “there must be someone else. What about Grace Wu? She said that she’s resigning from her post, why couldn’t she–”
Mercedes remain unmoved. “Will your army listen to Ms Wu, Doctor?”
Istvan’s scarred face twisted. He fiddled with his bandolier.
“Will they?”
“…no,” the ghost conceded.
Edmund sighed. He considered protesting, himself, but in the end he knew it wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t up to him, now. “If I’m not needed here,” he said, “I’ll head home.”
Mercedes glanced at him. “Don’t expect to stay at New Haven, Mr Templeton.”
He halted. He’d always lived in New Haven. He’d lived in New Haven for his entire adult life, since the Second World War, since he’d graduated from college. Over seventy years. “Excuse me?”
“You’re under investigation,” she repeated. She pointed her pen at him, seeming very small in her camp chair. “You won’t be staying in New Haven. You’re free to pack what you like, but I expect you to be based out of Niagara for the foreseeable future.”
“You’re taking my house,” he said.
“It’s for your own protection.”
Edmund curled his hands into fists. He didn’t need protection, and she knew it. “Are you taking my cat, too?”
She gave him a look. Barrio Libertad’s orb swiveled in his direction.
“You’re not taking my cat,” he muttered.
Why was everything his fault? Why was he the one to lose it all? He’d made bad decisions, sure. He wasn’t going to argue that. He deserved what he got, but there had to be a limit. Mercedes wasn’t stripping anyone else of their house, was she?
He glanced at Istvan.
The ghost didn’t meet his eyes. “You know that I always enjoyed visiting.”
Istvan didn’t have a house. Right.
Edmund put both hands in his pockets, not feeling any better. It was the worst thing, being angry and having no one to point a finger at but himself. What was he supposed to do now?
“I’ll go pack, then,” he said, “before a mob breaks down my door.”
He strode for the tent flap.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Istvan chased after him. They had to talk about what had happened. They had to repair things, somehow: there was too much else at stake, too many other people affected, to allow Edmund to carry on like he was.
Unfortunately, Edmund was much faster, and he had a head start. He could teleport without his pocket watch. Istvan could only fly.
So he did. He knew where the man was going.
Kyra remained with Grace Wu. Asleep again. Gathering her strength. She would be fine, for now, if “fine” included a bullet wound that might not ever heal fully. Perhaps she would be awake when Istvan returned, and responsibility for Niagara might somehow fall to someone else in his absence.
He sped over the spellscars and their nauseating fluidity, landscapes that blurred. Edmund couldn’t be left alone. Oh, he was worst when he was alone.
The spellscars gave way. Foothills. Forests. The grey blocks and ragged streets of the outskirts – a stretch of mismatched, crumbling skyscrapers – steam from the Generator District – and then New Haven, and the stone mountain of the Twelfth Hour, and the Black Building sharp across the bay.
Istvan dove. Over the snowy streets trundled Barrio Libertad’s machines, making repairs and ferrying crates. He swung through Edmund’s patched kitchen window. “Edmund–”
A box crashed to the floor. “If you can’t help pack, get out.”
The living room. Istvan hurried past the table. “Edmund, I’m glad that you’re speaking again. I was terribly worried. I’m sorry, and I wish that it never happened, but we have to…”
The wizard stood before his bookshelves, cape thrown off, hat missing, hair disheveled, and Beldam the cat twined around one leg. The box lay before him, dropped on its side. Books lay stacked on every surface, partially sorted, hundreds of them. Istvan hadn’t realized he owned quite so many.
“Hell,” Edmund muttered.
Istvan edged into the living room. Beldam shot away with a hiss. “I’m, ah, sure you’ll be able to move them.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Istvan waited, but Edmund said nothing more. He just stood there, one hand in a jacket pocket, looking down at his books.
Oh, there was no other way.
“Why did you go to find Shokat Anoushak?” Istvan asked.
Edmund shook his head.
“We had a plan,” Istvan continued. “We were counting on you. I thought we were going to do better, after the night before, and…” He swallowed. “Edmund, I don’t know what to think. We’ve always been… we’re close friends. I trusted you.”
The wizard knelt down to right the box. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have.”
“I don’t like not trusting you.”
“I’m a thief. It’s in the handle.”
Istvan stepped over a pile of books. “Edmund–”
“I knew this was coming,” the wizard replied. “I hoped I’d last longer. I’ve had nightmares about this, Istvan. What she said to me. The cult. I would have stayed. I’ve lived long enough, and that’s it – it’s over. It’s all over.”
He started methodically stacking books again.
Istvan thought of Kyra, who had torn apart Shokat Anoushak alone, with one arm, after being shot, imprisoned, shouted at, disbelieved, dismissed, and mocked – all by allies. She wasn’t even supposed to be who she was. He’d told her so. He still didn’t understand her. He still wished she weren’t so inconvenient.
“This isn’t about you,” Istvan said.
Edmund dropped a book in the box. “Don’t give me that.”
“You can’t go and do whatever you like. Neither of us can. Don’t you realize that if anyone gets hurt, it isn’t us? It’s never us!”
The wizard picked up another book, anger and old fears mixing into a familiar and not unpleasant spice. “It isn’t,” he finally agreed. “It’s never us. And you know what that means?” He stood, finally facing Istvan. “It means I’m the only one left. Every time. Always.” He let the book drop. “You know that better than anyone.”
The Ukraine, all those years ago. Edmund the sole survivor of ten. Istvan’s fault. Oh, he knew. He’d never forget.
>
“What about the people that died?” Istvan asked.
Edmund looked away. “I’m not arguing this with you.”
Istvan reached for his shoulder. The other man flinched.
Too soon.
Istvan backed off. “It may not be fair,” he said, “but that’s how it is. We’re powerful, Edmund. You’re powerful. Immensely so, even if it doesn’t always seem it. Think of Harbor – it can crush people without noticing, and we’re just the same. We have to watch our step. It’s easier if you listen.”
Edmund pushed aside a stack of books and sat on the couch.
“To the screaming,” Istvan added, wondering if he were taking the metaphor too far.
“Yes. I get it.”
Istvan wished he could sit next to him. Instead, he remained at some distance, twisting at his wedding ring. “Edmund–”
“Why do you keep coming back?” the wizard asked. He dropped his head in his hands, rubbing at his eyes. “I can’t be trusted. You said so yourself. I’m the one that put Kyra in chains. I helped put you in chains. I sold you out to Shokat Anoushak. They’re calling me racist. They’re taking my house. Why bother with me, all this time?”
Thirty years. Injustice for injustice. It had been easier when they could ignore it: pretend that they were on equal ground, that Edmund hadn’t held Istvan’s chains once before and still held every authority over the one he claimed to be his best friend.
It was different, now.
“I love you,” Istvan said. “That’s why. I’ve loved you for years, even though you’re aggravating and I’ve often wished that I didn’t.” He crossed his arms, reflecting how stupid it was to feel as though his stomach fluttered. He was a ghost. He didn’t have one. “And, before you ask, yes, I do mean it in every sense.”
Edmund didn’t move for a long moment. “Ah,” he finally managed.
Istvan waited a moment longer, then turned. “I expect you want me to leave, now. That’s all right – I can’t help you pack, anyhow. I only… I wanted you to know.”
Why, he couldn’t imagine. He oughtn’t have. This was Kyra’s fault, somehow. Deviance. It was rubbing off. He only wanted to show Edmund–
To convince him–
Oh, this had been a mistake.
“I hope we can remain friends,” Istvan added, awkwardly. There were books everywhere. He had to make it through the books to escape. Why did anyone need so many books?
“Wait,” called Edmund.
Istvan did, halting near the kitchen, hating himself. He shouldn’t have said anything. He’d stayed quiet all this time, and now it was ruined.
The wizard came up beside him, threading the maze with ease. “Istvan,” he said, “whatever you did behind closed doors is your business.”
Polite. Measured. Acknowledging the truth, and shuffling it away. Of course. Istvan had known him far too long to hope. He hadn’t expected anything else.
The fluttering was gone.
Edmund sighed. “All I can say is it explains some things. I’m not letting what we had – have – go because of something like this. And… I’m sorry.”
Istvan looked at him. Hazel eyes, always tired. Trim sideburns. A shock of grey at his left temple. Slim and graceful, brilliant with language, so often callous and stubborn. Always thirty-five, at a cost.
“If you ever side with Shokat Anoushak again,” Istvan told him, “I will kill you.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Edmund.
They stood, a moment, beside each other. It felt like revenge.
Now that the other man knew, it would always remain in the back of his mind: reframing Istvan, casting him in a new and unflattering light, raising questions he wouldn’t dare ask. He would look away; bite his tongue. Try again to trust Istvan just the same as before.
Try to trust a war; a war that loved him. It couldn’t be done.
But he would have to think about it.
Edmund ran a hand across his face. “Look, I’ll… I have to pack. None of this is going to move itself.”
“I’m sorry for what I did,” Istvan said, thinking guiltily of that last confrontation before Shokat Anoushak. “I knew no other way to stop you.”
“Just save a place for me, all right?” asked Edmund.
“Always.”The return trip to Niagara seemed much shorter.
Istvan found Kyra on the edge of the dam’s artificial lake, near one of the guard towers left over from Kasimir’s occupation. Grace Wu was with her. Marat’s mockery crouched over them, the matte-black angles of its strange flattened body sheltering them from the rain. A bright patterned blanket lay on the ground. A guard stood watch. The whole formed a pavilion, of sorts.
Atop the tower, the rain turned to hail: the Tyger waited there, inspecting the encampment and taking notes. Marat’s lights floated around him. Triskelion’s recently liberated slave force labored just across the water, felling trees for palisades.
Istvan landed far enough away to not be startling.
“You don’t have to stay here,” Grace was saying. “After what they did to you, I’d take off, too.”
“It’s close to the glacier, though,” Kyra replied.
“Kid, have you ever lived in a glacier before? I’d do it. It might be cool.” A pause. “Might be cool…? No?”
“You already used that one,” said Kyra.
“But seriously,” Grace continued, “you’d have to careful or you’d freeze to death.”
Istvan skirted the water’s edge, walking towards them. “Kyra. How are you feeling?”
Kyra sat up. Or, rather, tried to. After a moment, she laid back on the blanket, wincing. “Hi, Doctor Czernin. I’m OK.”
“Thought I heard some familiar gunfire,” said Grace. She sat to the other Conduit’s left, legs crossed, gauntlets laid beside her. One of her duffel bags formed a sort of back-rest. “You should have another look at her arm, Doc.”
Istvan let wings and poison dissipate. The sound of distant artillery faded. He looked up at Marat’s mockery. The beast peered down at him with lit headlights – they always seemed to glow, day or night – and emitted a grinding rumble.
Istvan hoped that was a positive sign. He looked to Kyra. “I’ve spoken to Magister Hahn and I should like a word with you. I’ll check your arm, as well.” He waited for Grace to excuse herself. When she didn’t move, he added, “Miss Wu, if you don’t mind?”
Grace eyed the laborers, then the guard.
“It’s OK,” said Kyra.
The older Conduit sighed. “Fine.” She pulled herself up. “I’ll just go chat with some of your press-gangers, ask after their families. Maybe see how bulletproof I am.”
Istvan winced. “I’ve ordered them to–”
“Yeah, I know. That’s great. Which reminds me, I meant to give you this.” Grace unzipped the duffel bag and pulled a length of cloth out of it. “I got it back from Barrio Libertad before they burned it.”
His embroidery. With the field of flowers, and the house. The one he’d made in the Demon’s Chamber, while waiting for Kyra to wake.
He took it. “Thank you.”
Grace shut the bag again and strolled off.
“What is it?” asked Kyra.
Istvan checked for damage – no threads were loose, it didn’t seem stained – and then knelt beside her, handing it over. “I meant this to be yours. I suppose it was… lost in transport.”
She hitched herself up, laying it out on the blanket to inspect. She was back in civilian clothes, now; armor with spikes on was, unsurprisingly, far too uncomfortable to rest in for long. He didn’t know how Lucy’s people did it.
“I’m going to have a look at your arm,” he said.
“OK.”
He traced the wound. The Triskelion medic had done a fair job. Nothing seemed infected, and any contaminants from Toronto had been washed away. But that damaged nerve… oh, it was another matter. It would need work.
“You made this?” asked Kyra.
“I did.”
“You got all the different flowers right. I know these – look at the petals.”
Istvan tried not to think of the Demon’s Chamber. It was broken, now. No one else would be put in it ever again. “Kyra,” he began, “the Magister expects you to stay here. Niagara is to be a joint facility between the Twelfth Hour and Barrio Libertad. A training site, of sorts. She thinks of you as our first recruit. I’ve been put in charge – the army listens to me, and…”
The Conduit put the embroidery down.
“…you don’t have to stay,” said Istvan.
She drew her knees up. She looked better after some sleep, but she would need much more time to recover. There was still dust in her hair. “You got the shape right,” she said. “Not just a cartoon flower. You put in the structure.”
Istvan sat down near her. “I’ve seen a great deal of poppies, Kyra.”
She set the embroidery down. “I don’t get you,” she muttered.
“I’ll tell you whatever you would like to know,” he said, and he meant it. After what he’d told Edmund, everything else was easy.
Kyra set her jaw. She flicked an ant off the blanket, pulled off her headband, and stuffed it under Grace’s duffel bag. “Am I human?”
He frowned. “Pardon?”
“She said she made me. Shokat Anoushak. She said I’m some kind of prison-breaker, something she did on purpose. Ms Wu keeps saying I’m like her, but what if I ain’t? Even the stuff I remember weren’t never real, or mine. Some of it, anyway. Most of it.” She rubbed at her bandaged arm. “I ain’t a robot or something, am I? It’s real blood, right?”
“It seems real to me,” Istvan said, somewhat baffled. Shokat Anoushak had been made of stone. Most of her creations weren’t truly living. Yes, some were flesh and blood, like the Tyger, but they had been human, before, and…
And…
Istvan sat back. Did they always have to be monstrous? Did the changes have to be physical, or could someone like William be made, who seemed normal yet carried a blizzard with them? How would Shokat Anoushak have done that while fixed to a stone?
“Yeah,” said Kyra. She lay back again, pulling at the duffel bag to make a serviceable pillow. “You get it.”
