The Silenced Tale, стр. 98
Is it because they’re in the midst of doing exactly what Elgar has written Bevel for—to support Kintyre, to protect the innocent, to cross swords with evil? Like Forsyth, who is most content when he is behaving as a spymaster, who is most himself when in the pursuit of information, is Bevel most himself when in mortal peril? Or is it that he is fighting beside his trothed? His husband?
Kintyre comes sliding around the side of the cart on his knees, grinning like a little boy. He steals a second of their reprieve to wrap one large arm around Bevel’s shoulders and draw him up for a windblown, breathless kiss. It’s quick, and chaste, but it leaves them both pink-cheeked and giggling like children.
“Useful to have a bookmouse for a brother, eh, Bev?” Kintyre asks, releasing Bevel to shift over to the cart and watch the action.
“Why?” Elgar asks again.
“Look,” Kintyre grunts, impatient. “Don’t you see what they’re doing?”
Elgar looks. “Burning the paper.”
“Means Forssy figured it out, too,” Kintyre says, and he sounds approving. Elgar tries not to goggle at a Kintyre Turn that approves of anything his brother does, much less speaks admirably of him. And he’s heard it twice now in as many hours. “He’s using the resources at his disposal. There’s no way he could have burned them all with his Words fast enough. But with an army . . .”
“But they’re not an army,” Elgar protests.
“They’re the best we’ve got in a pinch,” Bevel says. “And if they’re going to kill monsters and burn paper, and use up all of the Viceroy’s resources so he’s forced to show his hand, then I won’t be turning them away.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” Elgar asks. “Trying to get him to show his hand?”
“Or his face,” Bevel says with a casual, sideways shrug.
It’s Gallic, and arrogant, and Elgar can’t remember if he’d ever written that gesture onto Bevel himself. He doesn’t think so. It’s yet more proof that his creations are more human, more complex, than he’s suspected. It’s odd. Eerie. Unsettling. Uncanny.
“We can’t hit at him until we see him,” Kintyre says. “And we won’t see him until he’s exhausted every other avenue first. It’s what he does.”
A thought occurs to Elgar. “Like him going after Ahbni?”
Bevel nods, spares a second to peek up at the battle, then ducks back down and runs a hand through his sweaty hair, pushing it irritably off his forehead. “Find her, and I bet we find the Viceroy.”
“But we’re not looking. We’re just . . . sitting here! Like sitting ducks!”
Bevel offers him another cheeky grin. “Well, it’s not like he’s gonna come out otherwise, with Forssy stuck to your side like a cockleburr.”
“Oh my god. I’m bait?” Elgar shrills. “Again?”
“Can’t fight what we can’t see,” Kintyre says with an unapologetic shrug that matches Bevel’s.
“You guys are . . . are . . . assholes,” Elgar says, and then stops to blink. Huh. That’s . . . that’s what people have been saying about his work for years, and yet he hasn’t really . . . honestly, it hadn’t occurred to him that his creations might actually be . . . exactly what people called them. Boorish. Narcissistic. Shallow.
“There’s no point in changing what’s proven to work,” Bevel says. “One way or another, the Viceroy wants you dead. So if we stick to you, and wave you under his nose, he’s eventually going to have to stop puppeteering fictional monsters and come out to do the deed himself.”
“Oh god,” Elgar says with a groan. He covers his face with his hands, mortified and terrified, all at once. He wishes that he had stayed over with Forsyth and Lucy. At least they seemed to think through their plans before implementing them. Even if they sometimes do over-think them.
“Bev, let’s start moving toward the army,” Kintyre says, apparently confident that their conversation about dangling Elgar like a worm is over. “Burn what we can see as we go.”
“They’re not an army,” Elgar protests once more, weakly, but he is utterly ignored.
“I don’t like that we might miss some,” Bevel says. “But that’s better than sitting here, letting the monsters creep up on us. If nothing else, we can keep the creatures distracted and let the army finish the flush.”
“They’re not an army,” Elgar repeats, a little louder.
“Right, I’ll take point; you take rear. Let’s head down that way.” Kintyre points to a side aisle clear of hazards. “Push him to the back when you reach the army, and I’ll take its head.”
“Right,” Bevel agrees.
“They’re not an army!” Elgar shouts. “They’re just . . . just fanboys! Smelly, sweaty, self-important, vacant, playing at heroics and sucking back too much Mountain Dew fanboys! You’re going to get them killed if you encourage them to do more than they’re capable of!”
Bevel and Kintyre both frown at Elgar, faces darkening.
“How dare you demean their bravery?” Kintyre grinds out. “They are doing this for you. For love of you, Writer.”
And there, right there. That is it, that is the fear that has been fluttering in Elgar’s chest since it became clear that the Viceroy would target anyone and everyone close to him in order to traumatize and torture Elgar, to literally scare him to death. Juan, and Linux, and now Ahbni? There it is, pinned down and labeled. Finally.
Dread that someone is going to die and it will be all his fault. No, not dread. Apprehension. Anxiety. Dismay. Consternation. Terror.
“I never asked them to!” Elgar chokes. His eyes are burning. He can’t seem to get a full breath. He feels shaky, hollow, and yet completely filled up with something sharp and boiling.
Kintyre’s frown turns less disapproving,