The Interminables (34 page)

Edmund, still prone, reached for his hat. “Quasi-right,” he said.

“Yes,” Istvan echoed.

Grace wavered, uncertain, clasping and re-clasping her hands. Nervous, wary, horrified at the destruction... but no hatred, no anger. Sorrow, at what and who had been lost. Any positives, Istvan couldn't tell. She kicked at the earth. “Nice redecorating job, Doc.”

Istvan didn't care to look at it. He knew. Just as he knew that through it, the maimed and wounded stumbled.

Edmund hadn't saved all of them.

“Miss Wu,” Istvan said, patting the wizard's caped shoulder, “could you... could you help him back?”

She stared at him.

He passed a hand through Edmund's torso.

“Oh, right,” she said. “Sure.”

“Ow,” said Edmund, but there was no heart in it. He rubbed his side.

Grace crouched beside him. “You look terrible.”

“I feel terrible.”

“Can I get my tiara back or do you want to keep it?”

He gave it back.

Istvan left them, as Grace levered Edmund's bad arm over her shoulder – and then, after protest, his good arm instead. She would see him back safely. She still cared for him, after all, though their affair was over, and she was quite capable in her own way. It would be all right.

Istvan was a doctor, and he had work to do.

T
he first grey
always came as a shock. That was what they'd told him: his parents, his aunt and uncle.
You expect it
, they'd said,
but you never really expect it
. Edmund had believed them, but... well, he'd never expected it.

It wasn't supposed to happen. Not to him.

He turned his head, examining himself in his bathroom mirror. Cuts he could handle. Dirt came off. Chemical burns were worse, but as long as he didn't turn out like Istvan, he'd be fine – and, according to Istvan, they would heal. There was nothing wrong with him that wouldn't heal.

Nothing but the grey streak at his left temple.

He prodded it. It didn't feel any different, though he half-expected it to be brittle.

Yesterday, as soon as he could walk straight and while Istvan was away on that new battlefield, he'd made a beeline for the nearest overcrowded gang enclave. Before washing. Before anything else. Before he could spin into a flat panic.

More time stolen. Starting over from zero... with a loss.

He'd told himself that the toughs he'd jumped wouldn't miss just a few moments, but he knew that was a lie.

After that, and only after that, had he washed off the worst and slept the whole rest of the day and most of an exhausted, mostly dreamless night. Somehow. Now morning had come again – as mornings did – and he supposed that in addition to a new name plate his next five-year Twelfth Hour portrait would look different. Greyer.

Older.

A knock. “Edmund?”

“Door's open, Istvan. I'm not doing anything.”

The specter stepped through. His hat was off and folded; his belt and bandolier missing. He halted at Edmund's face in the mirror. “It doesn't look so bad, you know,” he said. He ran a hand through his own hair, grey on grey. “It's... distinguished, I think. It suits you.”

“It hasn't gotten worse. That's something.”

“As battle scars go, it could certainly have been worse.”

“I know.”

They regarded themselves, together. Edmund turned again to see the grey streak better in the light. He wouldn't dye it, he decided. Better to keep as a reminder. Time, for once, spent honestly.

Istvan traced the parallel ridges where his dueling scars had been. A caress, almost. His expression – what he could move, what wasn't twisted – was distant, not quite sad, and Edmund suddenly realized that the other man had lived a normal life for much longer than he ever had, absent magic and absent world wars, married and everything.

No wonder the Susurration had used that against him. He'd really had something... and Edmund barely knew more than her name.

“Did it hurt?” Istvan asked.

“No.”

“Did you know? Did you know it was happening?”

“I did.”

Istvan made as though to reply, then fell silent. “Oh,” he said after a moment.

Edmund frowned. “Istvan?”

The specter shook his head, dropping his hand back to his side. “The Magister wanted to meet with you. She's used what she can of the materials she brought, and among other things would like some assistance transferring more from her office. Her, ah, lighthouse, rather.”

Something small and dark shot into the bathroom and twined around one of Edmund's legs, hissing at Istvan. Beldam. Irate at the lack of attention – and food – over the last thirty hours, no doubt. Edmund bent down to scratch her ears, grateful for the interruption. “Is that all?”

“I don't know.” Istvan rubbed at his wrists. “You saw it, Edmund. What I did. What I… Well, she was rather hesitant to talk to me at all, and with the chains gone, I…”

Edmund nodded, trying not to think about any of what had transpired and not doing so well on that. Istvan, unchained. The Great War freed once again to inflict itself upon the world. A Conceptual maelstrom, past horrors churning, trapped in amber. “I'm sure we'll figure something out.”

Cat. The cat needed her bowl refilled. Do that, then go meet Mercedes.

He had time.

Edmund stood back up. One last look at the mirror – it couldn't be helped – and he started for the kitchen, Beldam zipping past with hair on end.

Istvan followed him.

“
S
o
,” said Mercedes, “I need you to chapter a new branch of the Twelfth Hour.”

Edmund choked on his Barrio Libertad coffee. “What?”

“After all that's happened?” demanded Istvan, stepping before him with a suddenness almost violent, “He hasn't hardly recovered! Do you know what that magic of his might have done to him, running wild like that? I don't! I think we ought to…to…” He trailed off, suddenly uncertain. “...Magister?”

Mercedes tossed another length of copper wire into her bag. “Expecting an order, Doctor?”

The specter backed away, worrying at his wrists.

“As I was saying,” she continued, “Someone has to keep an eye on Providence and I don't want it to be Barrio Libertad.”

Edmund finally found his voice again. “Mercedes…”

“There's no telling what that fortress will do, and you have a good idea what it can. I don't want another crisis before I've finished locking away my own mistakes.”

Edmund wiped at the cup before anything else could drip on the floor. He'd spilled coffee on the floor. If it really was coffee. Grace had called it coffee.

Mercedes zipped the bag shut and set it on her enormous inherited Magister's desk. She didn't look very rested; he supposed rebinding the Susurration was a good excuse for that. At least she was still missing only a single finger. “You're the Hour Thief, Mr Templeton. You have leadership experience, people listen to you, you're not likely to need replacing in the next few years, and you get on well with Barrio Libertad's liaison.”

He grimaced. “You had to use that word, didn't you?”

“Everyone knows you're back on duty, now, Mr Templeton. I suspect you'll find yourself with quite a flock once you start recruiting.”

“No. No, Mercedes, this is a bad–”

“This is what I should have done a long time ago.” She spread her arms, encompassing the room he'd once held himself. The shelves, the lanterns, the portrait of Magister Whitfield and the tentacle that held the man's hat for him, the open window in the alcove that led elsewhere. “You've always had this kind of stature, Mr Templeton, this kind of authority, whether you like it or not, and it's about time the Twelfth Hour puts you back to full use.”

Edmund swallowed, tearing his eyes away from the skull of Magister Jackson. In his day, he'd finally hung a tablecloth over that bookshelf to blunt the staring. “I haven't always.”

“You have for long enough that it doesn't matter, and you act it. Now, you'll have the title and the duties to match. How does Director sound?”

“Better than Magister.”

She chuckled darkly. “One can only hope.”

“I'm going with him,” said Istvan. “If you're going to lay all this on him, I can't very well let him do it alone.” He paused, then added, “Re-chain me if you like – and you ought, if you can – but at least grant me that.”

“That isn't an option,” she replied.

He reached for Edmund's arm. “But…”

“Rebinding you, Doctor, would be a task on the same order of magnitude as rebinding the Susurration, and I had the benefit of a preexisting anchor for that. I can't tell you where to go. I can't tell you what to do. If you decided to kill me right here, I wouldn't be able to stop you. Do what you like.” She cast a significant glance at Edmund's grey streak. “Any consequences are on Mr Templeton's head.”

Istvan followed her gaze.

Edmund fought the urge to put his hat back on. It wouldn't be right.

Finally, the specter looked away, clasping his hands behind his back. “I… I know what I am, Magister, and I know what I did, and necessity or coercion or not, that does make me responsible for the survivors, if nothing else. I'm sure Roberts and Miss Torres and, ah, Doctor Orlean and the rest will manage perfectly well day-to-day without me. They're all very accomplished, very skilled. Nerves of steel, most of them. I couldn't have asked for better help.”

She regarded him a moment, then nodded. “I would suggest you tell them that. In fact, Mr Templeton, why don't you go with him? I'll find you once I'm finished here.”

Edmund checked to make sure he hadn't spilled any more coffee. Director Templeton. All that responsibility. All that paperwork. He didn't know paperwork, not really. Not like that. He hadn't done any paperwork when he'd been Magister, and the rest was all Dewey Decimal and the Inexcusable Index.

“Who's going to look after the library?” he asked, faintly.

Mercedes picked up her phone. “I'm sure you'll find time.”

T
he door shut
and latched behind them with seven ratcheting clicks. Wrought-iron lanterns shone on old photographs. The Twelfth Hour's seven founders. 1895.

A middling year, as Istvan recalled. An election year. His practice had become a modest success, though not what he – or Franceska – had hoped. Well enough. Better than what would come later. Pietro had found another fossil fish that year, and Istvan remembered him chipping it out of its shard of rock with his own collection of “surgical instruments” while the two of them discussed Karl Lueger's grand plans for the city and the recent imprisonment of Oscar Wilde.

Be careful with that drill, Peti, you wouldn't want to kill the poor creature.

Kill it? Fish are my specialty, Pista. It won't feel a thing, I promise.

“Well,” said Edmund. He put his hands in his pockets, succeeding after two attempts. He'd donned his hat again and now it was tilted somewhat to the left in a vain attempt at hiding the grey. His aspect churned.

“You'll make a fine Director, I think,” Istvan tried.

Edmund shook his head. “You don't have to come with me, Istvan. Hell, you don't even have to stay here. You could leave.”

“I couldn't.”

“You could. You can go anywhere, now. How long has it been since you've seen Vienna?”

Istvan twisted at his wedding ring. He hadn't told him. They had hardly spoken of what had happened yesterday, either of them, much less described what they had seen. Vienna perched atop that monstrosity. Pietro dead on the Western Front. Shokat Anoushak. The rest.

Oh, the rest.

“Edmund?”

The wizard started briskly down the hall. “Never mind. You're right, we should get this over with. Mercedes won't want to be kept waiting.”

Istvan followed him. “No, Edmund, listen. Back there, at the fortress, after we jumped–”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does.” Istvan took a breath. As always, both necessary and not. He had to say something. “Edmund, I thought I'd lost you.”

The man tilted his hat further to the left.

“I thought you'd used every moment you had,” Istvan continued. “That there were so many to save, and that you were so determined, and that perhaps you had… perhaps you were…” He swallowed. “I know you aren't a coward, Edmund. I do. But… please tell me you aren't so brave as all that.”

Edmund stopped. “Istvan, you know where that time comes from.”

“And where did it go? Edmund, there are people who would have given their lives to do what you did. So many who would have lost theirs, if you hadn't.”

“Don't remind me.”

Istvan touched his shoulder before he could start off again. “Edmund, I'm not condoning the means, but this once… allow it to be a victory. Please.” He drew his fingers through the man's mauled arm, living blood rushing through his substance, tracing arteries along their courses. For the pain, of course. It wasn't yet healed.

For the pain.

He drew back. “I'm glad you didn't go to dust.”

Edmund worked the arm, his motions less stiff than they had been. “Same here.” He started back down the hall. He passed the alcove for 1940. He walked faster.

Istvan stared after him. A nervousness seeped from the man's presence, a wariness that hadn't been so overt in years. Bad memories. The past, recently made all too recent.

“I wouldn't,” he said. He caught up to Edmund, not looking at the pictures for 1945. “Edmund, whatever it is you saw, I would never.”

“Tell me one thing,” the wizard said as they passed 1970. “Are you any different? With the chains gone. Do you feel any different?”

“I don't know.”

“You're still Istvan, right?”

He thought of Pietro. He rubbed at his wrists, where no shackles burned. Edmund had never known him unchained. Never known him living. Never known him any other way.

Istvan. Edmund's Istvan.

“The very same.”

Edmund looked away. “Good,” he said. After a moment, he added, “I like Istvan.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.” The wizard swung his pocket watch around his hand. Caught it. Inspected the hourglass on its front… and then put it away. “You know,” he said, “if you stick around, you'll have to put up with Grace.”

“So will you.” Istvan hesitated, then elbowed his ribs. “Mr Director Templeton.”

Edmund sighed, but Istvan thought it a solid sort of word for a solid sort of man – a title that suited him, something to remind him of what good he'd done. Much better than Magister had ever been.

Better than “Hour Thief.”

They walked. The candles in the last alcove were still burning when they stopped to look them over. Istvan's photograph was still black-and-white.

He regarded it a moment.

“Your cheekbones are fine,” said Edmund.

“It isn't that.”

“No?”

Istvan tugged at a sleeve, recalling what had been. “Do you suppose,” he said, slowly, “that this year I could ask for my photograph to have colors on? It wouldn't take much, only a bit of watercolor, and it would be splendid.”