The Half-Made World (37 page)

“Their minds are broken. Some vital self-preserving part of the mechanism may be gone.”

“
Quite
impossible.”

“You seem shaken. Please, don’t imagine anyone thinks this is your fault.”

“Dr. Hamsa has already told me he considers it my fault.”

“Other than Dr. Hamsa. Please don’t let this discourage you from your studies.”

They held Daisy’s funeral the next afternoon. The House’s entire staff attended, all dressed in black. No one was sure what faith Daisy might have belonged to, if any; in the end, they sent her off with a plain wholesome Smiler ceremony. The Director, who was dressed all in black, save for his gold-rimmed spectacles and a dapper golden tie-pin, gave a long, long speech on the sadness of life, the inevitability of death, and the importance nevertheless of a positive attitude; and he praised Daisy’s simple love of music. Maggfrid began to bawl like a baby, and Liv had to lead him discreetly away.

—Say what you like about Daisy. She had good timing.

—Quickly, Creedmoor. While the staff are busy. We make our move.

—You don’t need to tell me twice.

He ran up to the second floor of the West Wing and called on the Kid.

Creedmoor had been working on the Kid for a while. Since their first card game together, in fact, after which Creedmoor had followed the boy as he limped back through the corridors snarling and cursing at nurses. He’d followed him all the way back to his room, and leaned in the doorway, saying, “Kid?”

The Kid lay back on his bed, reading a book. His lips were moving.

“Hey. Hey, Kid.”

“I got a name, old man.”

“Yeah, but you won’t tell anyone what it is.”

“I don’t want to talk to them.”

“Fair enough. My name’s John Cockle.”

“I know.”

“Well, that’s great.” And Creedmoor came into the room and sat down opposite the Kid. The Kid put down his book—a cheap lurid and entirely false account of scandalous sexual practices among the Hillfolk, told mostly in pictures. He regarded Creedmoor with an insolent glare, which Creedmoor found amusing.

“Fact is, you don’t have a name, Kid.”

“What are you talking about, old man?”

“Not here. Names don’t matter here. Here you’re just a number. An entry in a ledger. A patient. A victim. No one gives a shit what your name is, Kid.”

The Kid sneered. Creedmoor had to admit, it was a first-rate sneer. Admittedly, it was greatly aided by the scars in the Kid’s face, but even so. The boy had character. He must have been something special when he was a soldier.

—A wolf. He deserves better than to sit here with the sheep. He won’t get it, of course, but still.

“Get out of here, Cockle.”

“Make me get out.”

“If that damn
thing
weren’t watching, I would.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” He leaned forward and got close to the Kid’s face. “You couldn’t, and you know it. Maybe once when you were strong and whole. Not now.”

“What’s wrong with you, Cockle?”

He laughed, and stood up. “Nothing. Just saying. I know how you feel, Kid. Alone. Trapped. Nowhere to go. No hope. Well, a man should stand on his own two feet—no reference, Kid, to your unfortunate situation, I mean
figurative
feet. But a man should stand up on his own, and he should fight for himself, and he should go where he wants. Right? If I were your age, all over again, and I’d ended up here, I’d feel the same way you feel, you can bet on that, Kid. And maybe I did, once.”

And he got up and left before the Kid could reply.

They talked again the next night, and the next.
Robert
, the Kid said,
it’s Robert;
and Creedmoor told him that names sometimes had to be earned.

“I don’t want to end up like the rest of them. Letting that
thing
feed on me. I don’t want to rot here, Cockle.”

“Not Cockle. Creedmoor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Let me show you something, Kid.”

Creedmoor withdrew the weapon from his white overalls.

“This is
exactly
what you think it is, Kid.”

The Kid’s eyes were greedy, frightened, ashamed, proud, one after the other. He let the Kid trace Marmion’s silver inlays with his finger.

“Here’s real healing, Kid. Here’s what’s going to make you strong again.
Dangerous
again. I wasn’t much older than you when I was married to this beauty. Many of us were maimed when we took up the Gun. We
heal
. Think on it, Kid. Think on it.”

“Yes.”

“Think on it.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll need your help. But it’s work you’ll enjoy.”

—We like him, too, Creedmoor. He hates well. But we do not take cripples.

—Poor dumb kid.

—What if he gives us away?

—He won’t.

—He agreed too quickly.

—We’re quick to corrupt. We come into this world that way.

—What if he has second thoughts?

—Oh, you give our kind too much credit.

By the time of Daisy’s funeral, the Kid was as ready as he was ever going to be.

Maggfrid was inconsolably distraught. Apparently he’d taken a liking to Daisy; the funeral was too much for him. Liv sat with him in his room and made soothing noises while he sobbed. She brought down the
Child’s History
from her office and read him stories of battles, which sometimes cheered him up—not now. Eventually she drew water from the sink at the end of the corridor and measured out five drops of nerve tonic into the glass; that was enough to put Maggfrid swiftly and surely to sleep.

She consulted her ugly noisy golden pocket watch: the Director would be talking for a while yet. She had time to check on her patients. She had time to check on her experiments.

With the help of Renato, who was strong and handy with a saw, and could be trusted not to be squeamish, she had removed Daisy’s brain the night before the burial. What was being buried was an empty husk; everything that mattered of Daisy was pickling downstairs in a jar in Liv’s office. She was eager to study it further. She had already identified some unusual bruising in the thing’s folds. Poor Daisy—something might still be salvaged from her tragedy.

Liv left Maggfrid snoring and slumped mountainously on his narrow bed, and walked out into the silent corridors. She slipped the
Child’s History
into a pocket of the black jacket she’d borrowed for the funeral.

Unusually
silent. At first she put it down to the funereal mood of the day, but as she walked through the corridors and down the stairs—Maggfrid’s room was on the fourth floor—she began to feel uneasy. So many empty rooms. Where was everybody? They could not be walking in the gardens; perhaps they were all in one of the common rooms, but then would it be so quiet?

The legless blond boy in room 320—rolling his chair indecisively back and forth between window and door of his cell—shook his head and told her he didn’t know where anyone was. She left him be.

His neighbor was more forthcoming. “Downstairs, ma’am. Try downstairs.” He refused to say more—but that already was as much conversation as the man was capable of on any typical day, so she left him be.

She took the stairs down and stepped out into the second-floor corridors just in time to see John Cockle emerging from the General’s cell, leading the old man with him. Cockle had his arm around the General’s shoulder and was gently urging him forward on his unsteady legs. Cockle had a heavy kit bag slung over his shoulder. He met Liv’s gaze, and his eyes were terribly cold for a second; then he smiled. “Taking the old man for a walk, Doctor. Fresh air’s good for the lungs.”

There was a tension in the air that Liv did not understand.

“He’s not due for a walk, Mr. Cockle. We don’t want to strain him.”

The General smiled vaguely. Cockle’s own smile stiffened. Liv’s late husband Bernhardt had been a Professor of Natural History and an amateur taxidermist; Cockle’s smile was now like the glint of the glass eye of one of Bernhardt’s stuffed foxes.

“Please return him to his cell, Mr. Cockle.”

“Can you begrudge an old man fresh air and light, Dr. Alverhuysen? On this day, when we are reminded of death’s constant shadow, can you begrudge him that? He’s heavy to hold, though; will you help me with him?”

“I will not, Mr. Cockle. Please return him to his cell.”

“No, Doctor.”

“I will call for assistance.”

Cockle sighed theatrically. The next second—she did not see Cockle move at all—the General was slumped against the doorframe, and Cockle was pointing at her an implement that she realized—it was not immediately obvious to her—was a gun.

“Come here, please, Dr. Alverhusyen.”

She considered her options. She said no.

Cockle scowled.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Mr. Cockle. I suppose you’ve gone mad. But you can’t menace me with that thing. You
cannot
harm me. The Spirit of the House will not allow it.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, ma’am.”

She took a small step backwards. Cockle seemed to think for a second. Then he ran at her. He was terribly fast; he had crossed the length of the hallway and clamped his rough hand over her mouth almost before she could scream; but not quite.

—You should have killed her, Creedmoor. She has raised the alarm. Things will be bloodier now.

—A whim. I’m rather surprised myself, to be honest.

—Kill her now, then.

—No. I think not. She may be useful to us.