Part 31 (1/2)

”A lynch mob?”

”A war!” He said it cheerfully. ”I already sent messages to the other bridges and the watch commander about it. There hasn't been a war with Aflraun for more than two years. About time. No promotions in peacetime, no hazard pay, no overtime except on holidays and elections. No excitement. A war is good for morale, and they do say it's good for the economy, too. We ought to have a war at least once a year, right after the election.”

Morlock was doing something. He had put the jar behind him and he was kneeling on the midpoint of the bridge. With his right index finger he traced something-a letter, a rune, or something-on the cornerstone and leaped back.

The bridge between Morlock and the crowd of corpses fell away, dropping through the dark misty air to the dark water below. Morlock picked up the jar and leaped back again, and more fell away.

”Hey!” cried the war-loving guard beside me. I wasn't sure if he approved or not; I was having trouble understanding him in general.

Morlock uncapped the blue jar. I caught a glimpse of a large, distorted gray eye through the mouth of the thing. Then he turned the open end of the jar toward the other side of the broken bridge.

”Speak to them, Nimue,” Morlock was saying. ”They are you. They can't reach you unless they let those other bodies go. Speak to them, Nimue. Speak to yourself.”

A quavering voice uttering a language I didn't know came out of the uncapped jar. It seemed to be singing a kind of song. In a moment the song was taken up by the hoa.r.s.e, whistling voices of the corpses across the broken bridge.

A couple of the corpses shuffled forward and fell away into the misty darkness, splas.h.i.+ng in the water below.

”You must let the bodies go and cross over,” Morlock was whispering. ”You have no hope in that flesh; it is not yours. You must let it go and cross over to yourself.”

A few more bodies fell forward into the water. Then they all fell over where they stood.

In the misty gap between the two sides of the broken bridge, I saw some kind of shape. The shape itself had no color I could see, but it left strange imprints on the midair mist. Was it a spinning wheel? A monstrous head with hair coiling like snakes? A woman striding through a cloud? None of these things, I think, but something had left those corpses and was coming toward us though the middle of the dark air.

”I did not know the bridge fell away like that,” marvelled the helmeted blork standing next to me. ”Would've been handy a few years ago when they came at us with crank-driven siege breakers. That was the war I made Special Task Co-Leader.”

The s.h.i.+fting figure outlined in mist reached our side of the broken bridge. Morlock put down the jar and stepped back. A funnel of mist appeared above the jar, dissipated. Morlock waited a moment, then stepped forth and capped the jar.

”Doesn't she need air?” I asked him, stepping forward.

”No.” He tucked the jar under his arm and didn't seem to want to say any more.

So I tried to get him to say more. As we walked down to Narkundenside, the guard tagging along behind us, I asked, ”So will she die now? Is the antideath spell broken?”

”No,” he said. Then, maybe to forestall another question, he added, ”There is a third part of her: her core-self. If it is reunited with her sh.e.l.l and her impulse-cloud, she will be herself again.”

”Impulse-cloud?”

”Part of the mind under the mind. If it thinks, the thinking has little to do with words.”

”It looked like a ghost or something, when it was crossing over.”

Morlock nodded. ”An impulse-cloud that survives the death of a body may become a ghost.”

”A ghost.” I laughed. Morlock looked curiously at me and I explained, ”Give credit where it's due. Whisper Street was a perfect place to hide a ghost.”

”Yes. Except for the bodies.”

”The bodies?”

”The bodies missing from the graveyards. An impulse-cloud has a great hunger to be reunited with its body, and then it will settle for any body. Nimue was drawing body after body to her from the graveyards. That's how I found her.”

”And when you find her final part, her-”

”Core-self.”

”-her core, and she's reunified, what will happen then? Can she go on living?”

”The antideath spell will fail if she becomes unified, probably. That's why Merlin cut her up in the first place.”

”Why are you doing it, then? I thought you weren't a deviser of ... of comfortable deaths.”

He gave me a crooked smile. ”I foresee nothing comfortable about this death, from first to last.”

We were up with the others now at the Narkunden side of the broken bridge. They said nothing, but eyed the blue jar and listened solemnly. They probably knew more about it than I did; they must have talked about it when I wasn't around (physically or perhaps just mentally).

”That's no answer. You should be keeping her alive. She's your mother.”

Morlock lowered his head. I think his expression was pained or angry, but he's hard to read at the best of times and now it was getting on for full night. ”She's suffering,” he said after a moment. ”She is divided, not herself. How can I make you understand?”

”Is this what she wants?” Roble asked. ”This self-union?”

Morlock shrugged and spread the fingers of his free hand. ”She seems to. Of course, she is not sane. If she were, she would not be suffering this way.”

There was a silence for a moment and then the bridge guard said, ”I don't mean to interrupt, but the city government is going to want someone to pay for the bridge.”

”Have someone from the Guild of Pontifices stop by my residence. I'll pay them.”

”I don't know how much it'll cost-”

”It doesn't matter.”

The bridge guard took down Morlock's address to give to the guild. As Morlock was about to turn away, he reached out and grabbed the sleeve of Morlock's free arm. ”Listen, honorable sir,” he said.

”I'm listening.”

”How'd you know the bridge falls away like that? I worked as guard here twenty years, and my dad before that, and I never knew. I'll bet a month's bonus pay that no one who works here knows. How did you know the bridge could do that?”

”I built it.”

Different versions of the same smile appeared briefly on the face of my daughter, my brother, my two sons (my surviving sons). I felt it tugging at my own mouth. A proprietary pride. He was one of us, and he had done this thing.

He was one of us-and Stador had died because of that. He was one of us-and my remaining children and my brother had run past the snapping jaws of death because of that. He was one of us-and we were all in danger because of that.

And so I knew. I almost feel like I decided before-did I tell you about this? I guess I'm getting tired. But that was when I knew what I had to do. I had to do it. I felt terrible about it, and I still feel bad about it. I knew they would hate me for it, and I guess maybe they do hate me for it.

But, when the time was right, I was going to have to break that crooked coin and summon Merlin. Events would have to take their course. We were all in danger because Morlock was one of us, and that meant that he could not be, any more.

That night, after the crooked house was quiet at last, I stood outside in the street door, holding the crooked coin. I let the intent take shape, clear in my mind, and snapped the coin with my thumb and first two fingers.

The coin clicked as it broke, and then the pieces sagged, as if they were made of rotten flesh. I tossed them into the gutter and lost sight of them. By the time I looked up, Merlin and about twenty slippered thugs were already sneaking around the corner toward me.