Alastair inserted the hypodermic into Doc's vein and drove the plunger home. He withdrew the needle and set it aside.
Doc gave one final twitch, then heaved a sigh and relaxed. His eyes closed. His breathing slowed and became more regular.
Alastair silently cursed the gods that had brought him here.
With the forests of Cretanis disappearing behind them, one of their number, a good friend, was dead. One had left his mind in the land of the gods and was now drugged into a stupor. The rest were numbed by grief. And if what their new ally had hinted at was true, they needed more strength for what lay ahead.
He drew shut the drapes over Doc's bunk on the Frog Prince and went forward. Turbulence made the footing unsteady.
The others were arrayed in the lounge—except for Noriko, who flew the plane on its westward course, and Jean-Pierre, whose body now lay in the cargo compartment under most of the ice from the galley.
Someone had thoughtfully set out Jean-Pierre's decanters of spirits and several glasses, most of which were now in use. Alastair took a clean one, poured it full of uisge, and sat down to glare at Caster Roundcap. "Now," he said. "Your story."
The solemn old man cleared his throat and, in a clear voice and lilting accent, began.
"Forty years ago, I met a man. His name was Theo MacAllister. An odd-looking fellow; he was bald. I asked him if it was from an accident and he said no, just a characteristic of his family. And he'd laugh as though it were a grim joke.
"He was an inventor. He made a pocket knife with a can-opener as one of the blades. Earned a fortune from it and some other devices. And he was a prophet."
Alastair stirred. "What did he prophesy?"
"He predicted the Colonial War between Castilia and the League of Ardree, a year before the first sign of trouble. He predicted the World Crisis decades before anyone else.
"And the most interesting thing was this: He was completely immune to iron poisoning." The old man waited for some show of surprise from the others; he saw none. That seemed to satisfy him. He nodded, patted down his pockets, and brought out a pipe and a pouch full of tobacco.
"Anyway . . . He was prone to fits of loneliness. One time when he was in his cups I helped him home. He told me where he was from. The grim world. Of course I did not believe him. I didn't believe there was a grim world, much less that he was one of her sons. But he was able to convince me. Such conviction in his stories, such truth in his predictions.
"I began to search for other signs of grimworlders. Theo's history gave me thoughts on what to look for. I found stories. I found living men and women, some of whom would admit to remembering the grim world. Some of them never did, but I could often see through their deceptions." He finished packing the bowl of his pipe, struck a match, puffed until he could draw smoke to his satisfaction.
"I am a historian, an arcanologist, by trade—my father's trade, and his mother's before him—and made the study of the grim world my hobby. From the clues I could draw from the grimworlders I met, I developed some theories about the two worlds."
"He's dead," Harris said.
Caster froze. The others did, too. The poor young man's mind wasn't even here. He had to be reliving the events on the hill, the death of the Acadian prince.
Harris continued, "Theo MacAllister. I remember him from the Changeling's lists. Angus Powrie killed him years ago."
"Oh, how sad." Caster shook his head. "I tried to track him down a few years ago and could not. His children said he'd vanished. I knew then something very bad was in the wind."
Alastair asked, "What theories?"
"I have little proof for any of this," Caster said. "A little evidence and a growing conviction based on things I've heard.
"First, I'm certain that there is a grim world. I think she is a sister to our fair world. Perhaps they were one world once, and developed into twins in their infancy.
"Second, I believe it is possible, though rare, to move from the grim world to here. By extension, it is likely that one can go the other way. I'd never heard of it being done . . . unless Angus Powrie's hints about Duncan Blackletter are true. I'd believe anything of Blackletter from the years I knew him."
Alastair gave him a hard look. "You're a friend of his?"
"Oh, no. Never that. When I knew him, he was just a quiet deviser, an old, retired student trying to reconstruct forgotten rituals, living in Novimagos. He saw my early papers on the grim world and wrote letters of praise. We corresponded, exchanged ideas . . . And then one day I heard he was dead, and learned that he deserved to be. A pity I find that the story of his death is erroneous."
"He was famous," Harris said. "How is it you didn't recognize his name?"
"He went by another one," Caster said. "He called himself Duncan MaqqRee."
Alastair swore. "Crass of him. To go by the name of his enemy."
Caster shrugged. "Where was I?"
"Moving from the grim world," Alastair said.
"Ah, yes. In my youth, when I could still travel most moons of the year and keep my health, I discovered that three sites resonated with the same devisement energy given off by the men and women of the grim world. After much study I concluded that these were actually the ends of bindings between the worlds—a sort of umbilical cord.
"Using globes and devisements of my own design, I set up similar links on a much smaller scale. Two worlds, represented by the globes, united by cords that let them share health, share strength, even share events."
Gabriela said, "Meaning that things happening on one globe might be duplicated on the other."
"Very good." Caster nodded approvingly. "Not an exact duplication, by any means. A dim reflection. The greater the event, the greater the likelihood that it would be reflected. I could dab a tiny bit of paint on one globe and nothing might happen to the other. But if I set a portion of one globe afire, a similar portion on the other would usually char.
"Over the years, I've done an immense amount of experimenting on my globes. Even today, they're still spinning in my town house, unless that Powrie person damaged them. By arduous trial and error, and examination of the three sites I've mentioned, I think I've discovered much about the relationships of the two worlds."
Alastair impatiently gestured for him to continue. Caster took a moment to formulate a perfect smoke ring; he puffed it up toward the ceiling. "I think these `umbilical cords' determine the way things people and objects make the transition from one world to the other.
"I've heard enough from the men and women I've interviewed to suspect that the grim world ranges ahead of us in the development of science . . . and lags far behind in the sophistication, and especially acceptance, of its devisements. I believe the cords ensure this. Grimworlders told me of advanced devices they had with them when they made the transition. What do you suppose happened to them when they reached the fair world?"
Gaby spoke again. "Twisted until they're useless."
"You've seen it, then. Yes, they're ruined. I think this is a prophylactic effect—protection for the fair world. I believe our world protects herself from scientific advances that still bear rough edges; she won't allow the passage of anything that could do her harm. Likewise, I think the properties of devices and devisements taken hither-thither would be ruined or diminished. In one world, the old ways are manifest. In the other, the ways of cold, unfettered science dominate.
"But what does get through—the people, I mean—I believe they have a disproportionate effect on the world they've come to. The men and women I talked to from the grim world spoke of this world feasting on them like leeches. The fairworlders drank in and adopted their language, their manners, their ideas. I think that every grimworlder who has come here has added much to our language and store of knowledge.
"I think, in short, that the two world-sisters march together, but the grim world is the vanguard—the first to challenge the unknown, the first to suffer the beatings of change. The fair world hangs back, remains safe and strong, and grants the benefits of her health and wisdom to her sister."
Alastair looked thoughtful. "I won't say that this doesn't make some sense, from what we've already learned. But what were the events at Adennum Complex all about?"
"Adennum is one of the three sites, of course. The other two are the Prophetess' Stone at Omphalia in Panelassion, and at Itzamnál, navel of the Sky Lizard and Earth Lizard in Aluxia. And the ritual you saw at the top of the hill at Adennum, enabled by that portable standing-stone circle made of wood, was nothing less than an effort to cut away the cord linking the two worlds."
"Was it successful?"
"Yes."
"What do you mean, yes?"
"Yes. It was successful." Caster sent another smoke ring at the ceiling. "The cord at Adennum went away. I could feel it. I'm sensitized to those specific emissions of power, after all.
"The goddesses bleed. And the other half of the expedition, led by Duncan Blackletter, was supposed to be doing the same exact thing at Omphalia at the same time. Their plan was to meet in Aluxia afterward and finish the ritual by cutting the third cord together."
Alastair looked among his companions. They seemed as troubled as he.
Caster continued, "Powrie said that these events could not be accomplished until all the men who'd made the transition from one world to the other were gone from at least one of the worlds. I assume that's been done." He saw Harris nod. "Well, then. I regret to say that my life's work has been correct and true. I have successfully identified some of the basic tenets that govern the way our world works. And I seem to have helped a very bad man use that knowledge to a very bad end."
Alastair said, "What end? With the cords cut, doesn't that mean travel between the two worlds will be impossible?"
The scholar shook his head. "Oh, no, Goodsir Kornbock. Travel was never dependent on the cords—else it could only be done from those three sites. No, only the constraints laid down by the goddesses are gone. Devisers who know how to move from one world to the other can carry whatever they wish with them. I can only assume that the fair world is unprepared for what the grim world can bring her . . . and vice versa."
Gaby looked even more glum. "Alastair, we've got things . . . guns, drugs, bombs you wouldn't believe. One bomb could destroy Neckerdam."
"The whole city?"
"All of it. One bomb could turn the whole island into burned slag and kill everybody there. Maybe Duncan can't get his hands on one; they're hard to get. But he can bring all sorts of things that will give us grief."
Alastair went white. He turned back to Caster. "If we stop Duncan in Aluxia, can we repair the cords?"
"If my model work is accurate—and so far, I must say, it has been absolutely correct—then you won't have to. Even if the third cord is cut, given time, all three will eventually regrow."
"So this only creates a brief period in which Duncan can act freely."
"No. The problem is this. In my experiments, once I'd cut the links between my globes, I was able to forge new ones. Links with different defining characteristics. Once they were in place, the old ones would not regrow. All I had to do first was make sure that neither globe was contaminated by a taint of the other."
Everyone turned to look at Harris and Gaby. Gaby glared back. "Boil that down into English. I mean Low Cretanis. You're saying that Duncan killed every fairworlder on the grim world so he could cut the links. And if he manages to finish off the grimworlders on the fair world, he can set up new ones."
"New ones with different characteristics. If he has the skill, he could, for instance, decide that every grimworlder who comes to the fair world ever after becomes devoted to him. And vice versa. An army of slaves in each world . . . slaves that the natives are unprepared to defeat. He could become a god."
Alastair stood. "If there's anything I hate," he said, "it's being in charge. I'm going up to tell all this to Noriko and make some talk-box calls. One to Panelassion to confirm that the second ceremony took place. Another to a friend of Doc's in Aluxia so we can have some allies in place before Duncan gets there.
"Joseph, keep an eye on Doc. Tell me if there's any change in his manner. Goodsir Roundcap, find yourself a bunk; this will be a long flight. Gaby, Harris, get what sleep you can." He shook his head as if, by denying it, he could undo everything that had happened in the last few bells. He headed forward.
Harris went aft. Gaby started to follow him, but Caster intercepted her. "Goodlady?"
"What is it?"
"You are one of them, aren't you?" Up close, he tried to take in every detail of her, saw the subtle signs of wrongness about her. "A grimworlder."
"Well . . . yes."
"I'd like to speak with you. At length. About your world. Your history."
She looked away, staring after the vanished Harris. After a long moment she met his gaze again. "I think I'd better not."
"Why?"
"Why do you think?"
"You think I might misuse what I learned."
"I think you might use what you learned. That's just as bad."
"A telling shot. We'll talk later." He watched her hurry after Harris.
Gaby paused outside Harris' bunk and called his name.
There was no answer. She heard slow, regular breathing from beyond his curtains.
Asleep already. He usually wasn't able to sleep so fast. He must have been exhausted by what he'd gone through. She cursed Caster Roundcap for delaying her. She went forward to her own bunk.
Harris heard her call his name. He waited, his eyes closed. Just go, he silently begged.
She did.
Now he knew, he finally understood, why she'd told him she didn't want him anymore.
Because he was a man of good intentions.
But good intentions didn't win fights. They didn't get things done. They didn't point toward the future. They didn't save Jean-Pierre's life. He'd let her down in every conceivable way.
He applauded her decision. Maybe she wouldn't take too long to find someone else. Someone who didn't screw up and get people killed. Someone like Alastair. Someone like Doc. It surprised him that he didn't want to smash the face of whomever she chose. He wished her well.
He heard Joseph set up a chair a few steps aft. Wood creaked, even over the roar of the engines, as the giant settled.
It was the last thing Harris heard before sleep claimed him.
He awoke feeling no different.
He climbed out of his bunk. Joseph, still sitting, looked at him. There was no censure in his expression.
But then, Joseph didn't have a whole lot of cause to be judgmental. Harris ignored him and went forward.
There was no one in the lounge. It was dark outside. He continued through the forward sleeping compartment and to the door into Jean-Pierre's cabin. He walked in and closed the door behind him, shutting the world away.
He found the sofa by touch and settled into it. Ahead, through the bubble of a window, there were stars above, gray nothingness beneath. The stars looked far too optimistic; he decided that the nothingness was right.
Someone settled onto the couch beside him. He jumped about a foot.
"It is I." Noriko's voice.
"Oh, Jesus. You scared me." He took a couple of deep breaths. "I'm sorry, Noriko. I didn't know you were in here."
"I was not asleep. You have not disturbed me."
"I came in here . . . I don't know. I kind of half expected him to be here. Maybe his ghost. Pouring whiskey for everybody and smart-assing as usual." He looked into the void of the sea. "Noriko, I killed him."
"Angus Powrie killed him."
"Yeah, but I could have stopped him. I just couldn't figure out how in time."
She leaned against him, resting her head against his shoulder. He was surprised by the closeness. He put his arm around her.
Her voice, when it came, was quiet, barely audible over the engines. "Jean-Pierre hunted Angus Powrie since he was a youth. He spent a fortune on investigators, on newsmen. They hounded Powrie all over the world. Powrie had to stay in hiding because of Jean-Pierre. When they found each other, one of them had to die. Harris, Jean-Pierre killed himself. He broke cover, he leaped upon his enemy instead of shooting him. He forgot in his anger that Powrie always incapacitates his victim with a blow to the groin. Powrie is expert at that attack; it is his favorite. Nothing you did could have saved Jean-Pierre. Nothing.
"But I will not lie to you. You did fail, in a way. You failed to make the best of Jean-Pierre's death by avenging him. Perhaps he will not be too angry with you."
"I hope not. I'd hate to have him chewing me out through eternity."
She chuckled.
"How well did you know him?"
"He was my husband."
"What?"
"We were married three years ago." He heard her sigh. "It was not a good idea. He had lost the fiancée his father had picked for him. She was frail and prone to fits of despondency as pureblood princesses tend to be, and she leaped from a high cliff, though Jean-Pierre tried to catch her. He and I had been friends, sometimes lovers, and he turned to me in his grief . . . and stayed with me in his passion.
"But afterward, nothing changed. He chose not to make plans for the future. Not of life, nor home, nor children. After a year we decided to look different ways. But he would not let me divorce him yet."
"Why not?"
"His father did not favor me as a match for the prince. Jean-Pierre took offense. He told me that one day they would pay me an immense bribe to cast him aside. He insisted that I accept. That way, he said, the insult would be avenged, and yet everyone would have what he wanted."
"That sounds like Jean-Pierre."
They rode on in silence for a while.
He asked, "Do you know if he liked me?"
"You did not know? Yes. He did. He liked the way you could talk to everyone. Ignoring rank. Ignoring concerns of light and dark and dusky. He liked it that you taught me."
"I wish I could go back and just tell him, JayPee, I'm glad you're my friend. And good-bye."
"I, too. Harris?"
"Yes?"
"You should worry less about whether people like you."
"Maybe."
"Not maybe. Yes." She sighed. "Promise me you will remember what I have asked."
"Okay."
Doc heard three clangs, the notes of a hammer on an anvil. They trailed off into the distance. He opened his eyes.
Joseph sat a few feet away, studying him. His face was as grave as ever, but there was some deeper sorrow in his eyes.
"Tell me," Doc said.
Joseph told him. When he was done, Doc was silent a long moment. "Joseph, when you said that death followed in my wake, you were right."
"I am sorry I ever said that."
"Why?"
"Because it was wrong. Death does not follow you. It is ahead of you, Doc, like a line of enemies. Ahead of you because you aim yourself at it. You and your allies hurl yourselves at it to keep it at bay. You pass through it. Inevitably, one of you is caught. But I hate to think what things would be like if no one hurled himself at that line."
Gaby woke feeling rested but, for once, not grateful for it. She'd prefer to sleep until the heaviness inside her went away.
She dressed in her new jeans—a little baggy, in the fashion of fair world men's clothes, but a reasonable fit—and went back to the lounge. No one else was there. The sky outside the windows was just lightening with dawn; the eastern faces of high clouds were striped with orange sunlight.
She sat in her usual place and stared at the talk-box.
Time to stop relying on other people for everything. She closed her eyes. She tried to reach out for that familiar loneliness she'd felt twice before.
Slowly, the engines' roar dwindled to nothingness. She felt a pressure grow behind her eyes and heard a static in her ears.
The static became voices. They blended and blurred into a mass of words. "Can't authorize the when it sets sail not before the equinox operator help so there we were married your sister instead and came out soaking wet set aside some forest lands cost you eighty libs mi espada se rompio forty is the best you can when will you come . . . " The pressure in her head grew greater but did not quite hurt.
She opened her eyes.
Her room. Walls of irregular stone, dark with age, no door or window allowing exit. An ornate rug, handwoven, on the floor. Her four-poster bed of dark wood with curtains of transparent silk in pastel blue. Her table. Her doll. The silvery mirror the height of a man on the far wall. The dress she wore, heavy but somehow not hot, not cumbersome. All hers.
Gabrielle's.
But she remembered Gaby, too. There was no conflict; the memories fit together like lovers' fingers intertwining. She smiled in sudden delight. She'd found her missing sister at last.
She listened for certain names, for specific voices. Eventually she found them.
"Goodsir Blackletter, we were attacked . . . -plete success. Goodsir Powrie has been to see a . . . left Siluston in that flying boat . . . dead, but Roundcap still lives . . . the storm cloud?"
She tried to make an eye open where she heard the voice, but there was no eye. They were speaking over a voice-only set. She could not hear any reply. She could not clear up the transmission; words went missing despite her best effort, and the pressure in her head increased. It distracted her, annoyed her.
"Gabrielle." Doc's voice. That eye she could open, and did. She saw the mirror brighten, her own reflection fade. Then, through it, she saw herself, dressed as Gaby; her eyes were closed. Doc was beside her, concern on his face.
"Gabrielle, you need to come out. I think you're hurting yourself."
"You can call me Gaby. I remember everything."
"Gaby, just come out now."
"I don't want to. I'm just getting it right."
"Do it."
"Not yet!" Anger flashed through her.
She heard a shattering noise. Doc disappeared.
She couldn't open that eye again. Uh-oh. She sighed, closed her eyes, and relaxed her hold on her surroundings. She felt them slip away. The floor rocked and she felt the sofa appear beneath her.
And the odd pressure inside her head resolved itself into pain, a solid steel spike of hurt driven deep into her brain. She cried out, clutched her head, tried to curl up into a ball. The pain wouldn't let go.
She felt Doc hold her and heard him speak her name, softly, insistently. Finally the spike of pain began to withdraw. "I'm all right, I'm all right," she said.
"You are not. You've dangerously extended yourself. I want you to promise me that you won't do that again unless I'm around."
She straightened in spite of the hurt. She looked him in the eye. "No."
His face registered surprise. "Well. Will you at least take it under advisement?"
In spite of the pain, she grinned. "That much I'll do."
Then she saw the talk-box.
It was ruined. The glass of the tube was scattered in tiny pieces on the floor before it; Gaby found pieces on her legs and in her lap. The electronic elements behind were blackened and melted. "What the hell happened to that?"
"I think you did."