Authors: Tim Pratt
“It would be stupid of me to turn down help in my current situation.” I’m crap at apologies—I spend a lot of time trying not to fuck things up, and when I do so anyway, admitting the mistake feels like rubbing sandpaper on a wound. But this was important, so I took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry I threw you out of the house. I was hurt and shocked and I didn’t understand what was going on. You saved my life, Trey, and I’m grateful. I know you had to do it, that letting me die if you can prevent it isn’t allowed by your programming, or whatever…but flying Charlie in to take care of me wasn’t something you
had
to do. It was just nice. So…”
I looked at him, and there was such hope in his face, I hated to crush it, but it would be infinitely crueler to lead him on. “On the subject of romance, though—we’re going to put that aside.” He exhaled, and his whole body seemed to deflate a little. The worst thing was, he didn’t even look surprised, just despondent, and I hurried through the rest. “As for being friends, though, that we can do. Something I hope you still
want
to do.” He nodded, and his posture changed—he straightened up a little, seeing a thread of hope he could grasp. “As your friend, I will do my damnedest not to give you any orders.” Something occurred to me. “Hey. What would happen if I ordered you not to obey my orders?”
He grimaced. “I’m not sure, but you know those cartoons where someone tells a robot a paradox and the robot starts to shoot sparks and its head spins around and then explodes? I’m guessing maybe something like that.”
“We’ll table that experiment, then.”
“Probably for the best. When you first got here, you said you had two problems. I’m the first one. What’s the other one?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m losing
huge
chunks of time.” I told him about the fugues, and he nodded, troubled but not apparently surprised.
“It must be the spoon, the cup—you used it to look into the future, like I suggested?”
“I did. The future’s…pretty ugly. I saw several versions, and none of them were all that cheerful.”
“You can tell me about it later, and we can figure out how to keep the worst ones from coming to pass.” He leaned forward and started to talk while gesturing with his hands. “What you should remember, though, is that magic has a cost—you’ve figured that out with the sword already. Sometimes it’s nothing big. Mr. Grace said a lot of magic just draws on your life energy and makes you tired, or eats up the vitamin C in your body so you have to guzzle gallons of orange juice, or you get eyestrain, or headaches, or nosebleeds, or maybe you don’t notice anything at all, but there’s a cumulative effect, and when it hits a certain threshold—boom, you sleep for three days straight. But for the big magics, messing with time, with health…the sword eats away at the far end of your life, borrowing against your future to pay for your present. The cup…looking into the future must take a toll, too. A bigger one than just glancing at the past.”
“Yeah, looking backward wasn’t so bad—some residual flashes of the world going black and white for a little while, but otherwise, no effects that I noticed. So you think seeing pieces of possible futures requires losing pieces of the present?”
“I’m no expert, but it fits what I understand of the kind of magic Grace mastered. With luck the time slips will wear off soon. If they don’t…it’s probably nothing finding the vessel won’t solve. Any hints from the visions about how to take on your father’s power? I was hoping…”
I shook my head. “Not really. Mostly I saw the Firstborn fucking with me. With us.” I gave him a brief rundown on what I’d seen, though I didn’t mention the futures where he’d seemingly died to save me—why give him any ideas?—and I left out the part where we apparently got married. Seemed kind of cruel to mention that, given the circumstances.
“So what do we do now?”
“Keep looking for the vessel—in the present. If I find that, I’ve got options.” I didn’t particularly want to be a sorcerer, but I wanted to be alive, and the former seemed like the surest way to ensure the latter.
“Okay. I’ll do everything I can to help, assuming I’m welcome in your house again.”
I might’ve blushed. “Yes. Of course. Sorry about the cookie jars. And the swarm of knives.”
“The swarm of knives really drove the point home, yeah. I’m glad you were willing to talk to me. I would’ve understood if you hadn’t wanted to.”
I shrugged. “A lot of romantic comedies annoy me because three-quarters of the time, the star-crossed lovers could uncross their stars if they’d only sit down and actually talk to each other instead of sitting around being pissed off about some misunderstanding. It’s a basic flaw in the genre, like the way a working cell phone could solve about ninety percent of horror movie plots.”
“So we’re in a romantic comedy, huh?” He brought out that old familiar grin again, almost up to full wattage.
“Hard to say. My life story lately’s got more horror movie elements than romance. Plus all the wizards, there’s definitely a fantasy thing going on. I think the best we can hope for is a romantic subplot in a thriller.”
“Character actors like me are happy for whatever role we can get, Bekah.”
“Come on. I’m not saying you’re second lead or anything, but you’re at least a supporting actor for sure.” I rose. “Come over tomorrow—crap, I mean, come over if you
want
to.” It was going to take time to make sure casual statements like that weren’t compulsions for him. “We’ll keep hunting around. Grace wanted me to have the vessel, he just got confused and forgot to tell me how to find it. It’s gotta be in the house somewhere.”
“Your wish is—ah, I mean, sure. I’ll come over after lunch?”
“It’s a date.” I sighed, flushing slightly. “Or whatever. Stupid language.” I showed myself to the door, because if I’d waited for him to come open it for me, we’d have been there, standing close together, me feeling his presence, smelling him, the moment of farewell pressing down on us, and while I am bold and resolute, I’ve got my limits, and didn’t want to risk it.
When I got home there were two people levitating about eight inches above my front porch. Without the broom or the watch, I was short on offensive weapons, so I sat in my car for a while considering my options. Up on the porch they were vulnerable to attacks from the house itself, and I wasn’t drunk or credulous this time, so I decided against turning around and driving away.
Besides, if they tried to kill me, I had the sword cane at my side. I’d gotten into the habit of carrying it around, for wildly obvious reasons. I had the bell in my pocket, too, even though I was pretty sure Trey wasn’t allowed to lie to me, except through omission—it hadn’t rung once in his apartment, which was a good sign.
I got out of the car and said, “Hi. You’re trespassing. Also levitating, but I’m more concerned about the trespassing.”
“Sister.” They spoke simultaneously, which is just as creepy in real life as it is in movies about children who’ve been taken over by aliens. Both figures were blond, with wide eyes, and they were dressed entirely in white. Either they were emitting faint light on their own merits, or just reflecting the hell out of my porch light. They drifted in my direction, then settled their bare feet down on the top step. They dimmed, which meant they’d definitely been producing light before.
Weird
. “We are the Trips.”
I remembered the Belly mentioning them—“the Drips”—and if he had contempt for them, maybe they weren’t so bad. I recognized them, too, from my most apocalyptic vision of the future. If there was some possible timeline where they fought against the Firstborn at my side, that was a good sign, too. “The Trips. As in triplets. I’ve seen your baby pictures, I think. But I’m only counting two of you.”
They stepped, in unison, down to the grass, then stood with their heads bowed. “That is why we are here. We were kidnapped. We—we mean—
part
of us was taken, by the Firstborn. She is holding us—
part
of us—captive. We…the missing piece…we cannot sense it, there is an emptiness where there should be fullness, we are
lost
—”
“Why? I mean, why would the Firstborn take one of you?”
“To make us serve. She wanted us to come here, and attack your mind. We are…good with minds. To tear you open, find out your secrets, leave you empty like a husk, except for a compulsion to renounce your claim.”
A fluttery chill started up in my gut. “You could do that?”
“We are good with minds,” they repeated.
Not so good with conversation, though, obviously. “So this is…what? A courtesy warning? Giving me a chance to renounce my claim voluntarily and leave my mind unscoured?”
They shook their heads. “Because we prefer to be left alone, the Firstborn thinks we are weak. But we are not. We will not serve her. We choose to align ourselves with you instead. Have you found the vessel? With our father’s power, you could easily…”
They trailed off when I shook my head, then exchanged a glance, which must have been pantomime for my benefit, since they obviously shared a brain. “Have you tried using the book to find the vessel?”
“Uh. Which book do you mean?”
They shared another glance. I tried to tell them apart, to look for some distinguishing features, but as far as I could tell they were identical. If I’d been pressed to say if they were male or female, I would have shrugged and said that was their business, and since their preferred pronouns seemed to be “we” or “they,” the uncertainty wasn’t likely to trip me up in conversation. (I went to art school. I’m not too hung up on gender-binary essentialism.)
“May we come in?” they said.
“Sure. Just tell me you mean me no harm.”
“We mean you no harm.”
My bell didn’t ring, so I went past them and unlocked the door. “So, mind control and levitation. What do you guys do for a living? Basic supervillainy?”
They didn’t laugh. A strike against them.
“We garden. We keep bees. Most of all, we keep to ourselves. We are a world, unto ourselves, complete. Until now. Until the sundering.”
I ushered them into the living room. Even when they walked, it was like they were floating. They sat on the best couch and I took the armchair. “I hate to ask, but, you said you can’t sense your, ah, missing third…are you sure they’re still alive? Or maybe, I don’t know, in a coma? Drugged by the Firstborn?”
“We can sense ourselves, even in the deepest sleep. As for death…we would know if part of us died. We do not sense death. We sense…abeyance. Our missing part is hidden from us, somehow, magically. This surprises us. We did not realize the Firstborn knew such magic.”
“Why not track down the Firstborn and blast her mind out of
her
ears? You’d be doing me a favor.”
“We are not creatures of violence. The most we do is make people forget us if they stumble upon our land, or gently guide hikers around our valley. We have no desire to cause pain. Nevertheless…we would take such action, to save ourselves. But we cannot find the Firstborn, either, though it is normally easy for us to locate those with whom we share blood. We do not understand how she is blocking us. But we thought, if you had father’s power—or at least, father’s book…”
“Again, which book? This house is full of books. Mostly bestsellers and pop science from the 1970s, at least in this room, but—”
They raised their arms and pointed to the shelf. At the blue book I’d found in the sanctum, of course.
“That thing? You know how to read it?”
They shook their heads. “If it is written in any language at all, it is a language that predates humanity. Perhaps it is even the first language, from which all other languages are said to descend? Father was never clear. But he used to read to us from that book, when he was young, when he visited us. He told us stories of lost cities, and pyramids, and crypts, and castles, and he took us to see them all.”
I took down the book and put it on the table between us. “Keep in mind I’m a mundane muggle type, guys. What’s the book good for, exactly?”
“Our father used the book to travel, and to locate people, places, and things he needed to find. You need only turn to the proper page, and you will be transported instantly to the thing you seek.”
“I’ve turned plenty of pages, and it’s never taken me anywhere.”
“In all things magical, intent matters, sister. Otherwise, to flip through the book would be to send yourself skipping through the universe at random. We do not believe each page is assigned to a particular location—the magic seems more dynamic, shifting, and contingent, as we recall, though we were very young.” A pause. “We do have very good memories.”
“I bet,” I mumbled. “So how do I do it? Straight-up bibliomancy? Think of what I want, and let the book fall open?”
“This is not divination, or at least, not
just
divination. We suggest you use the index.”
I flipped to the very back of the book…or tried to. There always seemed to be twenty or thirty more pages before the end, no matter how fast I tried to flip them, and even just lifting the back cover failed, as pages flopped open with it. “There’s a short story, isn’t there, about an infinite, incomprehensible book? I’m sure I read something in an English class…”
“
The Book of Sand
,” the Trips—or the Duos? the Dips?—said. “By Borges. Father was a great admirer of Borges, and he devised this book as an homage—he called it
The Book of Grace
. Father said he met Borges, once, while posing as the writer’s doppelganger. He wanted to give Borges a taste of magic, he said, as the author’s stories captured the ineffable vastness of true magic as no one else’s ever had.” They shrugged. “But unlike
The Book of Sand
,
The Book of Grace
has an index.”
“Guys, it doesn’t, I wish it
did
have one—”
Just like that, the book did have an index. The next page I turned revealed a neat double column of words, each entry followed by a page number. Some of those page numbers ran into the billions, and some were marked with exponential notation. The
A
s alone went on for…well, for as far as I could flip. The index included things like “Aaron’s aardvark” and “Anaheim Convention Center” and “Anne’s key chain” and “Ashes of Ambrose Bierce.”