Winter Tide Page 22

  I fell back into my chair, strength draining from my shoulders.

  “Are you all right?” asked Caleb. His voice dropped, and I barely caught the next words. “You sounded like Mom.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered. I bent over my book, biting the inside of my lip. I would not cry; Peters might come back. Examining the section of the book that Trumbull had found so easily, I discovered a series of defensive counterspells with varying strength and specificity.

  Trumbull nodded at the page. “Barlow’s people do seem to carry quite a range of those little talismans. Fragile things.”

  I read, and regained a little of my equilibrium. Time passed, and eventually Trumbull stood and stretched.

  “‘Advanced’ Calculus calls,” she informed us. She gathered up her notes. “If that illiterate wants to sit in again, I’m going to break his mind into such fragments that the asylum will spend years piecing them back together.”

  Spector frowned, obviously trying to decide whether she was serious. At last he smiled—a little forced—and said: “First, they will take you in for questioning again, and I will not be in a position to retrieve you. Second, I will make you fill out all the associated paperwork.”

  She blinked, then smiled—not forced. “As you say.” She gave a little half-bow. “I’ll spare him.”

  After she left, Spector tapped my shoulder. “Walk with me?”

  I stood, but glanced back at Audrey. “Are you certain you don’t need to get back to Hall? I’m glad to have you, but surely they’ll miss you.”

  She tapped the trials of J. Pyre. “I need to be here right now. You’re all going over to Hall tomorrow, right?” Spector nodded. “I’ll get a ride then. I’ll plead hysteria over Leroy’s injury, if I need to explain myself.” She added more gently: “There’s a sandwich shop at the corner of High and West that does good business with the townies—not as overrun by boys as the cafeterias on campus. If the gate isn’t awful and you two are going for a walk anyway, do you mind picking up lunch?”

  Grateful to do something more useful than wander the campus again, I agreed readily—though the thought of passing the gate still made my stomach clench. Better to go than be imprisoned by my own fear.

  The air was clear today, the walks swept and salted.

  We walked a ways before Spector spoke. “The Yith…”

  “What of them?”

  “What can you tell me?” he asked. “More than the little I’ve learned already?”

  I shrugged uncomfortably. “They are an ancient race—perhaps the oldest literate civilization in existence. Perhaps the first. They’ve lived through the span of at least two worlds before Earth, likely many more. They cast their minds between bodies and between times, sometimes temporarily as individuals to learn and record, sometimes permanently en masse to survive. Over the course of Earth’s existence, four species serve as their faces. And in each of those times, they record and preserve the history of our world—of every species that lives and dies here.” I paused, angry again. “Except for the species that will never live out their span, because the Yith take it from them. When they’ve just discovered agriculture and are beginning to imagine cities, the entire species wakes one day in the distant past, in alien bodies, facing whatever threat the Yith deemed impossible to survive.”

  Spector swallowed visibly. “That’s vile.”

  “It is. And yet the eight and more species whose memories they preserve cannot bear the idea of going unrecorded and forgotten. Without the Yith, all of Earth would be lost, including the eldermost and the hy-lameae and the ck’chk’ck and the avolorafuno. So for that boon, we offer our respect.”

  “Appeasement?” he asked wryly.

  “My people will be the only humans ever to overlap with one of their civilizations. Even if we wished to fight them, I doubt we’d do better than we have against our fellow men.”

  He winced at that. “What about Trumbull?”

  “The actual Professor Trumbull will be restored to her body in four or five years, with half-lost memories of the Archives: of recording her life story, exploring the cities of the Jurassic, and conversing with the best minds from six billion years of solar history.”

  “Ah. That part sounds … not as vile.” He sighed and looked away. “This is probably a stupid question, but in your judgment, are they a threat to national security?”

  I stopped walking, blinked, tried to consider the question. Instead the absurdity overtook me and I bent gasping with laughter.

  “I said it was a stupid question.”

  “I know,” I managed. It took me another minute to regain control. “I’m sorry. It’s just … national security? The Yith don’t interfere with the rise and fall of species, save the ones they take for their own survival. Their only interest in atomic war would be recording the arguments leading up to it before getting out of the way. This weekend is probably the first time Trumbull has considered the existence of the United States beyond the way you’d think about, I don’t know, Atlantis or the Byzantine Empire.” Spector probably didn’t know the history of Atlantis, but I let it pass. “The Yith have the power to bring down worlds, but they handle violent conflict by not existing in the place and time where it occurs. They’re not a threat to your precious state.”

  He rubbed his temples. “I suppose that’s a good thing. I still don’t know how to write my report on them.”

  I put my hand on his arm, and he jerked in surprise. “I would strongly recommend not writing that report. The only way I can imagine them becoming a threat to national security is if the government impedes their ability to record this era.”

  He made a noncommittal noise and looked deeply uncomfortable.

  “The universe is full of powerful things that could crush us with a thought,” I said. “Often we survive by remaining unobtrusive and inoffensive.”

  “Yes,” he said. “But the powerful take notice, and take offense, on their own terms. Better to insist on one’s right to exist.”

  I thought of Peters, and the notice he’d already taken of me and my people. But we were nearing the gate, where two buzz-cut men in dark suits stood grimly on either side. They weren’t stopping people today, merely watching. I kept my head high. Spector nodded as we strolled through, and they nodded back.

  “Taking your irregular for a walk?” one asked. His tone made me stiffen, but Spector smiled easily.

  “You can let George know we went to pick up lunch. It’ll liven up your report, I’m sure.” When we’d gone a block further, his expression soured. “Idiots, trained by badly behaved monkeys. ‘Hello, we’re the government, we’re here to make you horribly uncomfortable. Why won’t you answer our questions?’”

  “I, ah, overheard them talking the other day. About their plans.” I hoped those plans might be enough for him to act on, even if Peters’s attempt at intimidation was not.

  He grimaced. “Badly behaved monkeys, yes. All right, what did they say?”

  “Nothing that could be interpreted without a great deal of context, if that reassures you.” Minded of their example, I checked around us: no one was in earshot, nor were there any obvious places for an eavesdropper to hide. “But with context, it sounded like they’re more interested in learning to steal bodies than in finding out who’s already done so.”

  “That does not reassure me.”

  We reached the sandwich place. A cheerful awning labeled it Jake’s, and the tantalizing scent of fresh-carved meat and pickles seeped through the door. We stood by the window, made no move to enter.

  “Mr. Spector,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I’m still worried about what Russia might do with the art, however little my love for the American government. But as you do love them, you can’t want them to claim such a power.”

  He put a hand against the cool glass. “And as you still despise them, you can’t want it either.”

  Though his own behavior had softened my opinion somewhat, I couldn’t deny the accusation.

/>   At my silence, he asked, “Is it a difficult trick?”

  “I don’t know it personally, but I’m told not—merely rare. Miskatonic may make even commonplace books of magic hard to access, but it’s not the only place they’re kept. If your colleagues look for this thing, they’ll eventually find it.” A thought occurred to me, and I added: “But didn’t you say they prefer to develop their own methods, free of ‘ancient superstition’?”

  “A principle they follow whenever it’s convenient. Usually they find some minor new twist, and claim it in the name of invention. What they won’t do is ask you why something’s done a certain way, or whether their change looks like a good idea.”

  We went into the shop, waited in line with clean-suited boys and laborers on lunch break, women with babies and kids counting dimes.

  In Innsmouth, at the butcher shop or the grocer’s, I once believed I knew the future of everyone around me. The same people would surround me as I grew, would live with me later among the throng in the deep ocean. The insurmountable age gap between child and storekeeper would dwindle until we could hardly remember which of us was older.

  These people had no such illusion of security. I would probably never see them again. Or one might turn around and say some mad thing, and like Audrey become an unexpected and intimate part of my life. Part of my burden of mourning.

  I couldn’t even imagine that I knew their future. In the morning papers, in the tension that drove Spector and Barlow in opposing directions, I heard murmurs of apocalyptic fear. I could be confident, as they could not, that life would last long on this world. Even men of the air had history yet unformed. The Yith, as the elders complained, were ever stingy with specific timelines, and history told us they had good reason for that. But there were empires named that had yet to rise. Little comfort to be found there: they could rise tomorrow and fall to the great bombs in a scant few years—or could rise long after humanity again dwindled to a thousand individuals huddling around a river mouth.

  Endless disasters might overtake the short-lived people to whom I’d bound myself. Plagues and famines, mind-destroying magics, careless or uncaring powers, vast rocks hurtling unseen through the dark. And the little choices, made by people with a little power, that could unravel lives.

  A young man laughed, flirting with the woman behind the counter. She moved aside and began preparing his meal: picking the best of the sliced ham, piling it with care, slicing cheese to his nodded approval. I forced my attention to the little island of order, and thought on whether I might, in the face of power and foolishness, make any such refuge of my own.

  CHAPTER 20

  Dinner at the spa was a tense affair, during which we all affected relaxation. Barlow dined with the rest of his team. He greeted us affably, every word glinting obsidian. At intervals throughout the meal one or another of his people found an excuse to wander over, ask a question of Spector, inquire about the progress of our studies. It was a relief to put aside our plates and go out into the cold, uncrowded night. Spector headed for the guest dorm, while the rest of us went on with Trumbull.

  As Trumbull unlocked her door, Dawson slipped up beside Caleb. Trumbull gave her an amused look. “You’ll want the study again tonight?” she asked me.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “This is what comes of having guests.” But she acquiesced. Neko took out a notebook and settled to her chosen secretarial duties, and we of the confluence went upstairs. Once the door was shut, Dawson dangled a ring of keys for Caleb.

  “You got it!” he cried. He grabbed her waist and swooped her into a somewhat improper kiss. She shrieked, but returned the embrace in full. When he set her down, though, she pulled away as if burned and eyed the rest of us with trepidation.

  Charlie had looked away, blushing. Audrey’s mouth had thinned, but she shook it off. “Boy, you two are cute! What’s the occasion?”

  “Library keys,” said Caleb simply.

  My lips parted. “Caleb, you didn’t ask her to—but is it safe—and where are we going to—”

  He put up a hand to forestall my sputtering. “For now, let’s just look. To know what we’re dealing with, how big the collection really is. We can plan more from there.”

  “And it’ll be safe,” said Dawson, “if we go at the right time.” She squatted to examine the palimpsest slate, not meeting any eyes. “The library closes at midnight. Watchmen check in during their rounds, but there’s no regular guard—hasn’t been a break-in in over twenty years. I’d say 2:30 or so’s a good time to slip inside. Should be okay as long as you resist waving flashlights around near windows.”

  “We see in the dark,” Caleb told her smugly. It was a slight exaggeration, but the moon wasn’t yet new, the night was clear, and we’d manage.

  “I don’t,” said Charlie. He hefted his cane, frowning. “You’d better do this without me—be careful.”

  I could see that he wondered whether it was a good idea at all, and I felt much the same. But I could also tell that the others wouldn’t be dissuaded, nor did I wish to waste whatever sacrifice Dawson had made for this opportunity.

  And I was grateful for those excuses: my heart sped at the thought of standing unimpeded among our treasure. “Can you see in the dark?” I asked Audrey.

  “Not that I ever noticed. But I’m pretty good at not bumping into things unless I mean to.”

  It was well before midnight, and our burglary required minimal planning. Instead—after making sure she understood what she was getting into—we brought Dawson more formally into the confluence.

  There were no great revelations in her blood. If anyone was startled to find it much like Charlie’s, they kept it to themselves. Afterward, she leaned against Caleb’s shoulder. There was something in our connection that transcended propriety. In the afterglow of the ritual my companions felt solid and sure and safe—and while I knew it for illusion, I also knew it concealed more truth than the seductive lies of our first summoning.

  “You got pretty blood,” she told him.

  A blush crept over his sallow features. “So do you.”

  “That’s a new one,” said Audrey. “Most guys stick to saying nice things about your outsides.”

  I forbore from sharing some of the more salacious stories of the Mad Ones. “That’s never been an issue for me,” I said, keeping my voice light.

  Audrey gave me a piercing look. “You have your own way of looking right. It’s different when you know what it means.”

  I forbore, too, from pointing out that men of my own kind—had I agemates other than my brother—would need no such deeper understanding to find me alluring. Or that I’d begun to fantasize about such men, even as I struggled to call up the urges that would let me return their imagined affections. Jealousy of Caleb under the circumstances went beyond unseemly.

  We talked of other, easier things. I told Dawson more of the principles behind the Inner Sea, Charlie and Caleb and even Audrey adding explanation as they were able. I wondered whether Spector would notice Charlie’s continued absence.

  I stifled a few yawns, but when the time came to go I felt wide awake. Audrey poked my arm.

  “Have you actually done anything like this before? Illegal, I mean?”

  Prayed. Snuck food beyond my ration from the camp mess hall. Drawn letters in dirt for Caleb, though we’d had no texts to show their importance. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

  “Just try not to look like you’re skulking.”

  I gave her my mother’s best irritated look, and she faltered.

  “That’ll do,” she said.

  “You may be the sneakiest person here, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t manage.”

  “She’s the sneakiest?” asked Dawson.

  We walked out into the night, doing our best not to skulk. Dawson wore a wool coat with a fine, large hood; the rest of us bundled up as well, and I didn’t think the unusual mix of our party would be noticeable in the sliver of dim moonlight. Charlie provi
ded a good excuse should anyone recognize us: we dropped him at the guest dorm on our way.

  Crowther Library loomed in silhouette, more obviously a fortress than in daylight hours. Crenellations and ornate towers stretched above bare oak branches. Windows glinted like eyes. The walls looked ancient, malignant, made smug by the hoard of knowledge cloistered within.

  I shook my head sharply: I needed to be fully awake and sensible. But I didn’t feel caught in the paranoia that sometimes strikes on the boundary of sleep. Instead I felt the alertness that comes in the presence of a feral shark. If seeing the library as a living foe helped me do what was required, so be it.

  Dawson led us away from the imposing front entrance to an ordinary steel door in one of the distant wings. The key turned easily, letting us into a cool, plaster-walled corridor shadowed by emergency lighting. There could be no excuse for our presence now. But even straining, I heard no sound other than our own breath and footsteps, and the mindless whisper of ducts and pipes.

  Dawson promised that she knew the way: she’d explored every corner of the labyrinthine building as Skinner’s research needs (and her own, covered by his) demanded. While she hadn’t previously been in after hours, she’d taken advantage of connections among the staff to gain access to less public areas. We stayed out of the common sections, keeping to back halls and storerooms. I did my best not to let unease shape my gait.

  We came at last to the dusty heart of the restricted stacks. Dawson’s key ring gave us passage through further, older locks, into rows upon rows of plain hardwood shelves. These were filled with antiquarian books, ragged journals, even a few cased scrolls. Endplates coded their contents as long strings of numbers, but more comprehensible handwritten notations appended them: Orne Bequest, Derleth Collection, University-Sponsored Expedition Records 1890–1915, Eibon copies—reserved by Prof. Peaslee. At one end of the room, caged in glass, the library’s original copy of the Necronomicon lay closed on its stand. I drifted closer—not too close, for it was guarded not only by locks, but by complex signs and diagrams and what I suspected was a pressure sensor in the pedestal beneath. The book itself was one of the impressive seventeenth-century editions, bound in ornately etched black leather with silver-edged pages, and doubtless illuminated by hand.