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Authors: Peter Smalley
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it. And just like that, I Saw. The world grew faint, not dark but somehow distant. As if to compensate, workings of the Art leaped out in blazing relief all over the Lenin . The warding runes set around the hull of the ship. The grim banes on the second-story bridge deck. The charms for fair winds and safe journeys near the bow and stern. And draping over it all, the ghostly aura of an Unknowing, pushing the eye away, away...
So that was how I missed the Lenin earlier.
It was a masterful display. No matter how much I tried not to be, I was impressed at the skill and power of whoever had spoken the runes for these workings. Almost as impressed as I was at just how easily my mouth recalled how to pronounce the Götterreden . I realized I was panting, suddenly feeling as if I had just sprinted four blocks in hot pursuit of a suspect. Then a fragment of memory came back to me, and I could have kicked myself. Growing winded was the most common side-effect of any working, I remembered belatedly. Especially if one were out of practice. Like me. No doubt Gerd would have tutted in Teutonic perfectionism at how easily winded I was - not to mention my atrocious accent - but the runes of Seeing had breathed true just the same. I shook my head again as I studied the workings set about the Lenin . Whoever did this work was all but Gerd's equal in mastery of the Art, and likely in sheer power. Perhaps more.
I thought on the taste of cognac then, and of Gerd. Whoever set those workings came from the same tradition that he had. There, on the lonely docks of the port, I missed him with a pang like a sudden kick to the sternum. What would he have done, were my old Master here?
Something wiser than I would at my very wisest, no doubt. And that wasn't very. With that thought heavy in my chest, I let the Sight go, adjusted the brim of my father’s fedora, and peered into the very real, very mundane, and very thick fog. Where was Malloy? I heard a sound off around the port side of the dock and went cautiously toward it. I rounded the bow just in time to catch sight of Malloy slow-stepping up the gangway and onto the deck. His service revolver was drawn, the point low. What was he doing? My breath caught at the idea of what those banes on the bridge deck might do to him. Stop his heart? Burst a blood vessel in his brain? Was that what had happened to Tommy?
I felt cold. The last thing I wanted to do was to board that ship. What I really wanted was to turn and run as fast as I could and not stop running until I found a nice, safe bottle to crawl inside of until the world forgot Maddie Sheehan was ever born. But Malloy was here because of me. In danger be cause of me. I had to stop him from ending up like Tommy: killed by something he could never understand, let alone protect himself from.
I don't remember walking up the gangway. I remember thinking what I was doing was the worst idea in the history of bad ideas. The ship moved gently on the tide beneath me. It was as if it were alive, breathing, inhaling the cold Seattle fog and exhaling pure malice. That malice entered my lungs like choking fumes, a black hand wrapped tight around my windpipe . Bad idea? Oh yeah. In spades.
The deck of the Lenin was coated with a few generations' worth of grey naval paint, yet still managed to feel gritty and pitted with Pacific saltwater. I cast my eyes about, trying to pierce the gloom. No luck. I saw nothing moving on the deck near me. I took a few steps, trying to move silently while looking in every direction at once. More nothing. Then I saw it: a dark opening where a hatch had been left open on the port side of the bridge deck’s first story.
Let me see. Dark doorway. Below deck. On a ship concealed by a master of the Art. Nope. No way I was going in there. No way in hell. Sorry Malloy. Your bad judgment doesn’t require me to follow suit. Not without backup. It was time to-
Blat. Blat . I felt more than heard the sharp, muffled impacts. It
So that was how I missed the Lenin earlier.
It was a masterful display. No matter how much I tried not to be, I was impressed at the skill and power of whoever had spoken the runes for these workings. Almost as impressed as I was at just how easily my mouth recalled how to pronounce the Götterreden . I realized I was panting, suddenly feeling as if I had just sprinted four blocks in hot pursuit of a suspect. Then a fragment of memory came back to me, and I could have kicked myself. Growing winded was the most common side-effect of any working, I remembered belatedly. Especially if one were out of practice. Like me. No doubt Gerd would have tutted in Teutonic perfectionism at how easily winded I was - not to mention my atrocious accent - but the runes of Seeing had breathed true just the same. I shook my head again as I studied the workings set about the Lenin . Whoever did this work was all but Gerd's equal in mastery of the Art, and likely in sheer power. Perhaps more.
I thought on the taste of cognac then, and of Gerd. Whoever set those workings came from the same tradition that he had. There, on the lonely docks of the port, I missed him with a pang like a sudden kick to the sternum. What would he have done, were my old Master here?
Something wiser than I would at my very wisest, no doubt. And that wasn't very. With that thought heavy in my chest, I let the Sight go, adjusted the brim of my father’s fedora, and peered into the very real, very mundane, and very thick fog. Where was Malloy? I heard a sound off around the port side of the dock and went cautiously toward it. I rounded the bow just in time to catch sight of Malloy slow-stepping up the gangway and onto the deck. His service revolver was drawn, the point low. What was he doing? My breath caught at the idea of what those banes on the bridge deck might do to him. Stop his heart? Burst a blood vessel in his brain? Was that what had happened to Tommy?
I felt cold. The last thing I wanted to do was to board that ship. What I really wanted was to turn and run as fast as I could and not stop running until I found a nice, safe bottle to crawl inside of until the world forgot Maddie Sheehan was ever born. But Malloy was here because of me. In danger be cause of me. I had to stop him from ending up like Tommy: killed by something he could never understand, let alone protect himself from.
I don't remember walking up the gangway. I remember thinking what I was doing was the worst idea in the history of bad ideas. The ship moved gently on the tide beneath me. It was as if it were alive, breathing, inhaling the cold Seattle fog and exhaling pure malice. That malice entered my lungs like choking fumes, a black hand wrapped tight around my windpipe . Bad idea? Oh yeah. In spades.
The deck of the Lenin was coated with a few generations' worth of grey naval paint, yet still managed to feel gritty and pitted with Pacific saltwater. I cast my eyes about, trying to pierce the gloom. No luck. I saw nothing moving on the deck near me. I took a few steps, trying to move silently while looking in every direction at once. More nothing. Then I saw it: a dark opening where a hatch had been left open on the port side of the bridge deck’s first story.
Let me see. Dark doorway. Below deck. On a ship concealed by a master of the Art. Nope. No way I was going in there. No way in hell. Sorry Malloy. Your bad judgment doesn’t require me to follow suit. Not without backup. It was time to-
Blat. Blat . I felt more than heard the sharp, muffled impacts. It
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