Read Online The Half-Made World by Felix Gilman - Free Book Online

because a dozen metallic voices chorused:
    —Enough.
    Creedmoor shook his head. The smoke dizzied him. He could see nothing except a haze of gray, in which ghostly forms came and went like memories. He was suddenly angry. He said:
    —An old mad General. An old enemy? One of our many, many old enemies. You want me to kill him? You want revenge? What’s the point?
    —We want you to bring him to us. He is worth more than gold. You must not kill him. On no account must you kill him, or allow him to be killed. A frontal assault will not work. The Spirit of the House is powerful, and will permit no violence within its walls. It does violence in return to those who bring violence to it. If we attack, the General may be killed.
    —Oh, dear! If murder won’t work, we are rather at a loss, aren’t we?
    —Shut up, Creedmoor. We have chosen you because you are personable, Creedmoor, you are charming. Worm your way in, past the Spirit, past the defenses. Befriend them. Seek employment if necessary. You pass for an ordinary man.
    —Like I’ve always said, Creedmoor, you’re no hero, but you’d make a good janitor.
    —Ha! Fuck you, Lion.
    That voice was Abban the Lion. Abban, like Creedmoor, had not been born in the West; but where Creedmoor came from damp and misty Lundroy and was prone to grumbling and joint aches, the dark and eagle-nosed Abban came from the sands of Dhrav and was passionate. He fancied himself a warrior, wore his dark hair long, dressed all in black, and sometimes went so far as to affect a sword. At this moment he was probably staring into a fire in a camp somewhere in some distant hills, surrounded by the bodies of enemies. He said:
    —I’ll be behind you, Creedmoor. In the hills. Whether you want me or not. Watching. You won’t be alone.
    Fanshawe’s voice again:
    —So will I. Like old times, Creedmoor!
    —Not sure I trust you behind me, Fanshawe.
    —I’ve never heard that one before, darling, well done.
    Jen said:
    —I will not be joining you. I wish you gentlemen well at the ends of the earth. My spies will be working in your behalf back in Jasper City. Come find me at the Floating World when you’re done.
    —You should travel more, Jen. You used to go everywhere. Tell me—are you still young?
    She laughed. Abban spoke:
    —Don’t think you can betray us, Creedmoor. Don’t think if you run away again, you will be forgiven.
    —Fuck you, Lion.
    A gray shape that swirled through the smoke looked remarkably like the blade of a curved sword swooping at Creedmoor’s head, and he ducked, and immediately felt foolish. He said:
    —Listen. What’s this about? Why do we care about this old General? There’s no shortage of Generals in this world.
    Marmion answered:
    —He was caught by the bombs of the Line—the bombs of terrible noise, that shatter the mind with fear. His mind is gone. He will be one among many with minds like children, rotting away in the cells of the House Dolorous. They do not know who he is or what he is. There are secrets hidden in his mind.
    —What secrets?
    —Bring him to us.
    —What secrets?
    —What do you think, Creedmoor? A weapon. What else?
    —A weapon.
    —Yes.
    —What kind of weapon?
    —A thing of the First Folk. It could mean victory.
    —An end to the War? Peace at last?
    —Not peace. Victory.
    —What weapon? What does it do? Who is he? Who was he? What have the Folk got to do with it?
    —You know enough already. You are not trustworthy, Creedmoor. None of our servants are trustworthy. Bring him to us.
    —Hmm. Fanshawe?
    —Yes?
    —Have the young bucks really forgotten my name?
    —Afraid so, dear boy.
    —Serve us well now and you will never be forgotten, Creedmoor. Pay attention.  . . .
    They began to talk tactics, logistics. One voice interrupted another, and again. A disagreement on a point of precise timing emerged, and they began to squabble and snipe. The unity of the Guns never lasted long. Ambush and volley and countervolley of words