Winter Tide Page 26

  “Thank you for eavesdropping,” I told him.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Trumbull followed him in and settled on the couch. “Mr. Marsh seems to think we should speak without representatives of the government present. I’m listening.”

  As succinctly and unemotionally as I could, I laid out what Spector hadn’t quite suggested, and my reasons for thinking the risk worthwhile.

  Trumbull considered for a minute. At last she nodded. “I don’t like having those people here. Not only are they irritating me personally, but they also threaten to actively interfere with our work. I’ll come along, and help as I can in getting around their protections. I should be able to do considerably better when I’ve had time to prepare.” Her expression darkened. “But there is only so far I can risk myself. If things go badly, I won’t stick around to get captured again.”

  Caleb bared his teeth. “We’d expect nothing more, Great One.”

  She smiled back, amusement mixed with an odd sort of fondness. Of course she wouldn’t be offended. “Recursive exponent wards—could he mean fractal wards? There’s something that doesn’t come up often in this era. If they’ve developed an early variation, I ought to see it in any case.”

  “How do we handle that kind of ward?” I asked.

  “It depends on the specific equation used, but generally one creates a countering equation to camouflage oneself as a part of the ward.” She went into a more technical explanation that I didn’t follow even slightly. After a minute she interrupted herself, hissed through her teeth in exasperation. “Never mind. I’ll take care of that part. I have no idea how your species survives at this level of mathematical sophistication.”

  “We manage,” I said stiffly. Caleb was glaring at her, and I hurried on: “Aside from sophisticated and dangerous equations, what else can we expect to find? Not people, I hope, if we go late enough.”

  “Ordinary locked doors?” suggested Caleb.

  Audrey raised her hand. “I have bobby pins.”

  “That sounds helpful,” said Caleb. “Although I still have the keys from Deedee—let’s try those first.”

  I heard footsteps and held up my hand even as I recognized the echoing tap of Charlie’s cane. He came in a moment later and settled himself on a spare chair. He cocked his head at me and raised an eyebrow. Neko followed, and sat demurely with her tea.

  “We’re planning a break-in.” I sighed. “Another one.”

  “That will hopefully go better than the last?” asked Charlie. “No wonder Ron—Mr. Spector—and Miss Dawson left in such a vaguely explained hurry.”

  Trumbull looked at him a long moment. “Actually, you could be useful.”

  He bowed in his seat, eyes narrow, and doffed an imaginary hat. “I often think so.”

  “Some of the protections we might encounter—variations on those common in this era, I mean—are easier to get through if one individual remains outside, linked with those who enter. Your pre-existing connection would be ideal.”

  I watched him for concern, but he nodded. “Better than waiting around for the alarm to go off again.”

  “We should decide what we’re looking for,” said Audrey. “With this kind of thing, you want to get in and get out, not poke around and hope you find something important before someone pokes back.”

  “The missing books, for a start,” I said.

  “Assuming there are missing books,” said Neko.

  “There are,” said Trumbull. “The librarians wouldn’t have gone along with any charade on that count.”

  We talked further, but that was the gist of it. Get through ordinary locks, overcome whatever defenses Barlow’s team had created, find what we needed, and retreat. When we snuck into the library, I’d been nervous. Now, my mind was ablaze with fears: of capture, of threats to my friends, of a bullet in the back of my head—or worse, Caleb’s. And behind the fear of all the ways this could go wrong, fear of what could happen if we failed or did nothing.

  Innsmouth sacrificed fewer sons to the First World War than most towns, but I’d grown up knowing of its horrors. The weapons of the most recent conflict were worse. Now another war loomed, and whatever Barlow learned would be shared with the generals. The horrors would be no less if both sides made use of them. Still worse weapons might well be conceived by science. Those were beyond my control. But the magical ones, and Barlow’s role in creating them, I could perhaps do something to stop.

  CHAPTER 23

  We joined Spector for dinner at the faculty spa, where we talked of inconsequential things. I attended as well as I could to the conversation at Barlow’s table, but they were similarly discreet. Spector excused himself afterward, and Dawson did not appear on the path as was her usual wont.

  “Do you trust him?” Caleb murmured as we walked back to Trumbull’s place.

  “To do what?” The day had been relatively warm, and the glitter of renewed ice crusted the walks as night fell. I kept a careful eye on Charlie.

  “To keep backing us if we’re caught. This could be awfully convenient for him.”

  “Given that he’s sworn we’re trustworthy, it’s only convenient if we’re not caught.” I broke an icicle from a bush as we passed, let it transmute to the comfort of cold water against my tongue. “I think he’s a good man, or at least trying to be good. I think he has a sense of honor. I also think he’s being pulled in more directions than he’d like.” Charlie stumbled, and I jerked in response before I realized he’d caught himself. I hoped Spector would want to protect him, rather than get him out of the way as a potential embarrassment. I thought I knew the man well enough to expect the former, but frightened people do foolish things. “I think we need to do this for our own reasons, not just his.”

  Entirely superstitiously, we decided to leave at 1:30 a.m. rather than repeat our timing at the library. As before, we spent the evening together in meditation and preparation—save for Trumbull, who joined us only to help with the anchoring spell that would draw on our connection with Charlie. I felt Dawson dimly through the confluence, and hoped she would consider that connection a deniable sort of knowledge.

  The campus lay quiet as we set out. The students were past the rowdy exultation of their reunion, but not yet stressed enough by the semester’s workload to seek late-night outlets. Laughter drifted from distant dorms, but otherwise there was only the quiet crunch of feet over thin ice and the scrape of Charlie’s cane. Trumbull carried a small hand telescope and measuring instruments, intended as an excuse to dismiss casual queries.

  On our last visit to the administrative hall, I’d kept my eyes on the ground. The brick edifice was less gothic than the church and library, but still had a looming quality to it, pretending a more ancient vintage than it could actually lay claim to. The college arms were carved in stone blocks on either side of the door: keys crossed over a book, and the motto “QUOD REVELĒTUR OCCULTUM EST.” The words implied that the keys would open the book, but in the image they seemed rather to stand as guards, blocking the way.

  The building’s windows were all dark. The door, if not ancient, appeared as old as the university, a monument of oak planks and iron bands. The lock appeared promisingly old-fashioned as well. Caleb tried the handle with a shrug (it was indeed locked), then compared options on the key ring. In the distance, one of the university’s guard dogs barked. We stilled, but it did not come closer. Caleb only had to test three of the skeleton keys before one turned. Tumblers clicked softly and the door swung open, well-oiled. Charlie retreated with Trumbull’s scope in hand, promising to wait and assuring us that his coat and gloves kept him shielded from the cold.

  We stepped inside and locked the door behind us. Audrey flicked on a small flashlight. Its beam stabbed the dark hallway, making me flinch.

  “Can’t you get by without that?” asked Caleb.

  “Still can’t see in the dark. I’m sorry, I tried.”

  “All right,” I said, “but be careful. Once we’re in a room with wi
ndows, we don’t want to attract attention.”

  “Teach your grandma to suck eggs?”

  I thought of my grandmothers, and forbore response.

  Neither Trumbull nor my brother needed reminding of the way to Barlow’s office. We walked swiftly, though I winced at every echo of our footsteps. At the door, I knelt to peer through the crack underneath. All appeared dark save for a faint glimmer from windows beyond, and no sounds emerged to suggest someone working late by moonlight.

  Trumbull held her hand before the door, traced sigils as she murmured to herself. The words were old and strange, and folded in on themselves in ways that I could not entirely comprehend. After a moment I was no longer sure whether I heard or felt them. My skin, too, was made of words, or of numbers, endlessly and blindly twining around each other. They fed on each other’s tails, birthed new numbers in carnal equations. The draft from the door prickled against the in-curling geometries that I had become.

  “Try the lock,” she said.

  Caleb fumbled with the keys, but after a couple of tries found one that fit. Audrey turned off her flashlight. Caleb waited a moment to turn the handle while our eyes adjusted. The still-crawling numbers did not interfere with my vision, and whatever wards Trumbull had detected did not block our entry.

  Once I passed the threshold the strange sensations faded. All was much as we’d left it, save that the chairs to which they’d tied us had been restored to other locations. The sliver of waning moonlight limned everything with a sallow glow.

  I went immediately to their bookcase. Three years in the bookstore had given me a quick eye for changes to a shelf, but I saw no additions to the titles I’d noted before, and nothing that looked like it came from the library’s restricted section. It was all theoretical texts and modern math, mostly in English. I did note a few titles missing—perhaps taken to their hotel for late-night study. And it occurred to me now, in the midst of our trespass, that they might sensibly have done the same with stolen volumes.

  Across the room, Trumbull made a little huff of discovery. Joining her, I saw a notebook crowded with diagrams and equations and notes, written in English but marred by unfamiliar terminology.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Proof that they’re trying to learn the art of body switching—and making progress, in spite of some severe gaps in comprehension. There are ideas here, in their most recent notes, that strongly imply access to On the Sending Out of the Soul, but I doubt it would constitute proof to anyone not extremely well-versed in the literature.”

  “We should take it,” suggested Caleb. “Set them back in their studies. Though they’d still have the book.”

  Trumbull hefted the notes thoughtfully. “On the Sending Out of the Soul is an important work, but crude, as are most human works on the topic. There are key insights in these notes that they may not have duplicated elsewhere.” She flipped through. “They seem to have some concept of how to overcome geographic separation, though they aren’t quite there yet. Impressive. Human magic so often treats spatial distance as an inflexible barrier.”

  I looked at the notebook with renewed respect, as I might a venomous jellyfish. “It would make a difference, then, if we took this. They could use these ideas to start wars, or massacre millions.”

  “Most ideas can be used for that purpose by most sapients, given the opportunity.” She examined the notes again, eyes darting quickly over the pages. “So very frustrating. They’ve almost begun to reach true understanding on a technical level—but their comprehension of the art’s obligations is nil. Petty creatures.”

  “Then let’s relieve them of the burden.” Caleb held out his hand. His lips twitched. “It’ll make a fine addition to your collection, don’t you think?”

  She put the book firmly back on the pile. “Take it, and they’ll seek twice as hard for spies, and keep their hold on the library until they regain confidence in their understanding. Which could be a long time. We need the infestation removed from campus, not fully entrenched.”

  “We need them not to start another World War!” I said. Audrey shushed me frantically, and I held back further exclamation. Trumbull gave me a cool look. Of course, she knew precisely how many more such wars would be started, and the tallies of the dead. “I know we’re not likely to have world peace any time soon,” I said more quietly. “But I intend to do what I can.”

  “You may not,” she said firmly, “render this age’s best repository unusable. Not if you want your own people’s library preserved.”

  “I don’t want it enough to sacrifice millions of lives.” Half nauseated, half elated, I tried to reach for the book. I expected her to try and block me, but found myself simply unable to touch the notebook: as if it sat under still water, it wasn’t quite where I put my hand.

  Audrey stepped around us and, with a grimace of effort, picked it up. “This is not the Maltese Falcon,” she announced. I must have looked confused at her apparent non sequitur, for she added: “Got to take you guys to the Belvedere sometime—terrific second-run movies. This is not a one-of-a-kind artifact holding all their knowledge and power. They’re researchers—human researchers, who work in teams and worry about fires—they’re going to have notebooks full, and they won’t have brought them all to Miskatonic. We need to stop them, not steal one notebook.” She put it back on the pile.

  “Thank you, Miss Winslow,” said Trumbull.

  “Save it. Just because it isn’t Crowther Library versus more lives like my brother’s, don’t think I didn’t see you make that trade.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother,” I said, foolishly.

  “I don’t. Haven’t for about four years.”

  We stood awkwardly for a moment. Then Trumbull said, “Let’s see if we can find anything that is of use, and leave before someone catches us arguing.”

  “Suits me,” said Audrey stiffly.

  I put a hand on her wrist. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  I glanced back at Trumbull, now returned to her browsing. “It must drive her crazy that you can resist her. I don’t know how you do it.”

  Audrey shrugged. “She telegraphs. I know what someone trying to manipulate me looks like, and I don’t appreciate it. Especially when they’re so smug.”

  “I don’t like it either, and it doesn’t help.”

  She shrugged again. “Well, if it isn’t secret rock powers, maybe I can teach you something.”

  We searched the room. There were plenty of fascinating items—I examined the interrogation talismans at length, despite the discomfort—but nothing from the narrow range that either university administration or federal government might object to. I reluctantly classed the expedition as a failure, though if nothing else it helped us better understand our foe. If Audrey was right, we’d eventually need to confront them directly, and we’d need that understanding to have any chance of stopping them.

  I knew it was possible that we couldn’t stop them—that they would have their desired arts, and their wars to follow. Trumbull’s presence was a constant reminder that every human civilization, every earthly race, eventually reached some peril that could not be overcome.

  At last we regrouped. We surveyed Barlow’s domain, checked and checked again for signs that might tell of our entry. Trumbull renewed her counter-ward and, skins crawling with impossible numbers, we left.

  The moment I stepped into the hallway, I realized what I’d been missing. “Wait, I’ve figured it out!” Audrey shushed me, and I lowered my voice again. “I know where it is.”

  “Where what is?” said Caleb, and “Where?” asked Audrey. She turned on her light, but let it dangle, tracing little infinity signs on the floor.

  “The evidence.” I was already moving, and the others hurried to keep up with me. I struggled to turn my moment’s intuition into a logical explanation. “Of course they wouldn’t keep anything that could get them in trouble with the university in that office—everyone kn
ows they’re there; there are probably administrators in and out all day. But I think I know where they’d go to be more discreet.”

  “Oh, I follow,” said Audrey. In fact she ran ahead of me, swinging into the stairwell. I went after her, down concrete steps into the less public passages of the building’s underbelly. Trumbull and Caleb hurried behind.

  Here we found not well-polished floors but dust and cobwebs, bare bulbs of considerable vintage, doors with rusty hinges. In the back of my mind I felt Charlie noticing and echoing my excitement. And further still, the faint whisper of Sally’s heart and breath, racing as if in response to my own thoughts.

  Audrey and I halted together before the same door.

  “How do you know—” began Caleb. But I was already pushing it open.

  To reveal a room illumined by witchlight, etched with diagrams like a sea of interlocking gears—gears made of numbers that pulsed and twined like those Trumbull had placed on my skin. I wished I still had that protection, but already I walked toward the particular gear that called to me, still half-believing that it held precisely the thing I sought. I don’t like being manipulated, I thought, but it didn’t help. Audrey, likewise in thrall, stepped into a gear of her own.

  The strange call vanished as soon as I stood within. My head cleared, but invisible shackles held my legs. At the room’s shadowed edge, beyond the great sea of enmeshed equations, I saw that we were not alone. Barlow, his secretary Mary, and Peters were there—and alongside them, Sally and Jesse. All five stared at us with shocked expressions.

  Sally found her voice first. “Audrey? Miss Marsh? What are you doing here—I swear, I wasn’t breaking my promise, I just wanted to learn—please—”

  Mary slapped her across the cheek. “Be quiet. We need to find out what’s going on here, and we can’t afford panic. If the equation is bringing in people, something’s very wrong.”

  Jesse, who’d been kneeling at the diagram’s edge, stood slowly. “It’s not. Or at least not human people. Audrey, what did she do to you?”