The Half-Made World by Felix Gilman Page B

Kid Glove Kate, and Big Fane. He closed his eyes to clear his head and said,
    —Are we all here? Such a rare gathering. I’m flattered.
    Marmion answered:
    —Many of us are here. You will go alone, but there will be others watching over you.
    —Go where?
    —On the edge of the world there is a hospital.
    —Yes?
    —West of here. North of Greenbank, northwest of Kloan. East of the world that is not yet made, and the far sea. It is called the House Dolorous.
    —And?
    —Quiet, Creedmoor. Listen. There is a man there. We believe there is a man there. We do not know. We have gathered rumors in dark places, and scryed, and sniffed out trails.
    —They mean my spies gathered rumors. My girls. Don’t they always take the credit? The Guns are as bad as men, I swear.
    That voice was Jen’s. Jen of the flaming hair, Jen of the Floating World. It had been six years since Creedmoor had seen Jen—six years since he’d last patronized her brothel, the Floating World, which hovered in the hills over Jasper City like a wonderful filthy dream—six years since he’d heard her red lips whisper secrets. She would be sitting now in her office in the Floating World, which was all jade and leather and mahogany and sensual curves; in fact, she would most likely be lying lazily on the sofa by the fireplace. He wondered if she was still beautiful. Could the Guns have kept her young? Would they? They must have. It was impossible to imagine her old.
    The voice of the Guns:
    —The House is a hospital for the wounded of the Great War. It is neutral—it takes those who fought in our service, and those who fought for the enemy. It takes the maimed, and it takes the mad.
    —Commendable.
    —It sickens us. Listen, Creedmoor: the House is defended.
    —It’s only a hospital. It has guards?
    —On the edge of the world, things are not yet settled. Unruly powers arise. Small gods. One of them protects the House.
    —Some gulch-ghoul, some First Folk demon, some haunt of dry rivers? A poltergeist? A dust-devil with ideas above its station?
    —It is strong, and old, and well-fed.
    —Stronger than you?
    —Listen, Creedmoor. The man we seek is there, in a hospital room. If our intelligence is accurate.
    Jen interrupted, in tones of mock-outrage:
    —My intelligence is always accurate.
    Creedmoor said:
    —Is it? Must have been someone else who sent me and Casca into that trap back in Nemiah in ’63. So who is this fellow?
    —An old man. He was once a General, but now he is mad. The noise of the bombs of the Line shattered his mind. He does not know who he is, and nor do his doctors.
    —Well?
    —Well what? You do not need to know either. Bring him to us.
    Secrets! Creedmoor could feel the Guns buzzing and preening. How they loved their secrets!
    —They can be so dramatic, can’t they, darling?
    That slow drawl was Dandy Fanshawe—the pomaded and silk-coated old Queen of Gibson City, who was so outrageous and self-indulgent that few ever suspected he was a first-class spy or that he had once killed over a dozen Linesmen with nothing but his ebony sword-stick and his own teeth. It had been Dandy Fanshawe who first recruited Creedmoor into the service of the Gun, back when Creedmoor had been young, and Fanshawe, well, not young, but not so scandalously old as he was now. They’d met in an opium den in Gibson City, and Fanshawe had been lying on silk cushions wreathed in smoke, with his jade-ringed hand idly draped on some young man’s thigh. His nails had been painted. He’d been ethereal, mysterious, behind clouds of smoke made nebulous by candlelight. Darling boy! Fanshawe had said. We’ve had our eye on you for quite some time.  . . .
    Creedmoor remembered old days and smiled. He said:
    —They certainly can, old friend.
    —They’re such whispering secretive girls. They won’t even tell me . None of us are favored with their confidence.
    Creedmoor instantly suspected that Fanshawe knew exactly what was going on, but he kept quiet,