The Silenced Tale, стр. 95

“No, this is definitely not good!” Lucy replies. “Anything can go off by accident! We should ask them to put all their weapons away somewhere.”

“And when the Viceroy comes, and they’re separated from them?” Bevel challenges, and Lucy dithers.

“What’s going on?” the cosplayer breaks in, her chin wobbling and her eyes filling up with tears. “Why is this happening?”

“Oh, god. Someone needs to give a speech,” Lucy says. “One of those Inspirational General ones.”

“We-well, it wo-won’t be m-m-me!” Forsyth stutters, alarmed.

Elgar realizes that four sets of eyes—five, including the cosplayer—have fallen on him.

“Me?” he asks, mouth suddenly dry with apprehension.

“We owe them the truth, I think,” Lucy says. “Don’t we?”

“That the land of fairy tale and story books has come to life?” Kintyre asks.

“They deserve to know what we’re facing. Who we’re facing,” Lucy adds quietly. “They deserve to be prepared. So what’s happened to Ahbni won’t—” She cuts herself off, eyes still darting around the room, as if she can find the girl if she just looks hard enough, looks again.

“We kinda are,” the cosplayer replies, and gestures behind her, at the small knot of people who are also dressed up. Elgar stares at them for a moment, trying to decipher what she’s trying to get them to understand. In the end, it’s the two card players—Kora and Turtle—who make the jigsaw puzzle pieces of understanding slot into place. As the crowd in the room huddles together, it’s those two, who’ve had longer to come to grips with the idea of magic suddenly becoming real, who have collected together the group of costumed folks.

“Right, who’s got weapons’ experience?” Kora asks the group, and a few raise their hands. “Even if it’s just stage combat?” A few more hands go up.

“Weapons’ experience,” Bevel repeats, sounding bemused. “This is a rare thing?”

“Is there no militia? No standing army? No knights in the Overrealm?” Kintyre adds.

“Sort of,” Lucy says. “But it’s different. Civilians don’t need to defend their crops from raiding barbarians, or their daughters from untrustworthy lordlings. If any study a kind of martial art, like, um, shooting or grappling, then it’s a hobby, not a necessity.”

“If we have no army, then at least that one’s a natural general,” Kintyre says, pointing to Kora.

“Good thing, too,” Bevel agrees. “We can’t be everywhere at once.”

A very young boy dressed as a Magical Girl is looking up, seriously, into Kora’s face, gripping a wand that is sparking and spitting out a slowly falling stream of gold glitter that vanishes before it can accumulate on the hideous carpet. Turtle is marshaling everyone wearing any sort of uniform, checking their ray-guns and phasers and staff-weapons and rifles. Blue-shirted volunteers surround those who seem to have no protection, those not in costume.

“Who’s got magic?” Turtle calls, and several people put up their hands. “Anyone with cards or spellbooks?” A few more people make themselves known, including Ichiro. The Frenchman with the cane confers seriously with him, both of them pulling hard-bound game books from their bags to look something up.

“What are they doing?” Elgar asks, watching order form out of terrified chaos.

“What geeks do best,” Forsyth says, hand on Elgar’s shoulder, squeezing once. The spark of creative connection jumps between them, but it’s welcome this time. “Acting as a community. Come, shall we see what we can do to edify them?”

“You don’t think Kintyre and Bevel can . . . get him?” Elgar says slowly.

“This magical earthquake? This is just the Viceroy’s first foray. He’s trying to cause a panic. And people suddenly realizing that magic is actually a thing will definitely do that,” Lucy says with a firm head nod. “We’re all experienced enough to know that this can’t possibly be his endgame. Not yet. And we gotta make sure they know what might come after them if they need to defend themselves. Elgar, that speech?”

Elgar balks. “So, what, I just stand up on a chair, tell them that magic is real, and that we’re canceling the apocalypse? That wrath and ruin descend, but today will not be that day, and also, lend me your ears?” Lucy, at least, snorts at his lame attempt at a joke. “It takes days to craft a speech that good.”

“It’s not a speech speech. It’s an explanation. It’s a . . . a call to arms, perhaps,” Forsyth says.

“What, this crowd against the Viceroy?” Elgar asks, and it finally hits home what is happening with the group of cosplayers. They’re marshaling for war. “Oh, my god, no. He’ll tear through them like tissue paper.”

“And would you rather they sit here, ignorant and afraid?” Kintyre challenges.

“Better armed and aware, than not, even if they don’t believe us,” Lucy adds.

Elgar looks out over the crowd. One of the blue-shirted volunteers had taken over organizing the food and water, making sure that everyone is hydrated and fed. Most of the people who needed first aid are now bandaged. The wailing baby has stopped, preoccupied by a couple of cosplayers in skimpy metal bikinis shivering under coats lent to them by other people not so affected by the intense amount of air-conditioning the building is still apparently pumping out, despite being on the emergency generators.

As for Elgar, a day full of running, falling, tumbling, stress, more running, sneaking, and yet more running, is catching up to him all at once. He slumps into a chair. Everything aches, from his shoulder blades upward, and his scars itch.

“I wish I hadn’t left my pain meds upstairs,” Elgar moans.

“I’m sure someone has something,” Lucy dismisses. “Come on. Talk to them.”

“Why me?”

“Because they know who you are,” Forsyth presses. “Because they will listen to you.”

“I’m not sure what I should say to—” An explosion, followed by a loud, monstrous, echoing, bone-shaking roar interrupts Elgar. “Thank god.”

“Thank god?” Lucy screeches. “For an explosion?”

Elgar tries to be cheeky with his answer, even as he grabs hard onto the seat of the chair to keep from being rocked off his feet