Bitter Seeds

the promise of eradication. It catches their attention.

Marsh retreated from the fire on trembling legs. The gypsy woman clenched his arm. Her icy facade had melted away, and in its place hung the visage of a terrified girl. She'd gone pale; she trembled. Her back was pressed to the wall, as though she tried to push herself out of the room.

An awareness suffused the room, the suffocating pressure of a vast intelligence. Something looked at Marsh. Saw him. He grappled with a primal urge to run, to hide, to render himself unknown and unnoticed once more. But hiding was impossible. The Eidolon was everywhere. Everything.

It must have looked at the prisoner, too, because her fingernails drew blood.

My God, Will ... How can you negotiate with something like this?

Somehow he did. Will conversed with it, like a microbe and a man sharing a common tongue. His attention stayed on the fire, but Marsh knew that in reality—reality?—the Eidolon was everywhere. Inside every atom.

Will rifled through the sheaf of pages on his lap. “It appears I'm somewhat rustier than I'd realized,” he muttered. When he reached the end of the pile, he started again, flipping through the papers more frantically.

The Eidolon's presence rendered every silence an eternity in a perfect, lightless universe.

Marsh tried to look at his watch. He couldn't tell if it was running in the proper direction.

Will stopped halfway through the pile. “Oh, dear.” He set down the sheaf of papers with shaking hands.

“Will?”

Very quietly, he said, “Pip.”

“What did it say?”

“Do us a favor.”

“What is it?”

“I need you to open the bag.”

“What?”

“The bag, please.”

Marsh staggered across the room and zipped open the carpetbag. It was stuffed with towels and bandages. Nestled beneath the linens were a thin leather cord, a wooden bit riddled with bite marks, and a pair of gardening shears.

“Will?”

“The Eidolon's price,” said Will, “is a fingertip.”

“Like hell it is,” said Lorimer. “Tell that thing to lick my nadgers, Yer Highness.”

“Are you out of your mind, Will?”

“I can't do it myself.”

“Then I'd say it won't be done.”

“The price has been negotiated. It will be paid.”

“The hell it will! Tell it to sod off.”

“My friends.” Will spoke in a rigidly neutral tone. The strain of maintaining his composure and concentration showed in the beads of moisture on his forehead. “One does not renege on these negotiations.”

“Don't be a damn fool,” said Stephenson.

Will made a gesture that encompassed the room, and by extension, the Eidolon. “My friends. Do you truly want to double-cross it?” In the same strained monotone, he continued, “The price will be paid, regardless of our desires to the contrary.” His voice wavered. “Mine in particular. At best we can control the circumstances of the payment.” He looked at Marsh. “And I'm asking you, Pip, to help me. I can't do it myself.”

“Will—”

“It's waiting. Please. Don't make it worse.”

Marsh felt as though he were trapped inside a fever dream. He watched himself take up the cord, bit, and shears. The curved blades of the shears scraped across the floorboards as he fought for balance on the swaying floor. The noise fell into a gulf created by the Eidolon's presence. Everything sounded hollow and insubstantial.

“I'm not staying for this shite,” said Lorimer. “I'll find some ice.”

Stephenson barked, “Get the brandy from my desk, too.”

“No!” said Will. “Sir. I can't, ah, I have to be of sound mind to finish our transaction.”

Marsh looked between Stephenson and Will. “Look, Will, I know it goes against your grain, but perhaps you should consider bending your principles this—”

“No. Let's just get it done.”

Marsh struggled to cross the inconstant room.

The floorboards rattled with a heavy thump, as if struck with something large.

“STOP!”

Everyone jumped.

Marsh halted in his tracks. “What was that?”

“You heard it, too?” asked Stephenson.

“Ignore it. It's a side effect of the Eidolon, just as I warned you,” said Will. “Makes us hear and see things. Real things. And my wish to make this stop right now is very real.”

Lorimer paused on his way out the door. “Oy! What are you smiling at, lassie?”

Indeed, the prisoner's terror had evaporated. Now she sat in the corner with a cat-canary smirk on her face. Both corners of her mouth curled up. She looked even more satisfied than she had at the cafe. If anything, she looked ... giddy.

Still in a dream, Marsh kneeled next to his friend. Since Will was left-handed, Marsh looped the leather cord just above the last knuckle on the smallest finger on Will's right hand. He pulled it as tight as he could, until the flesh underneath turned bone-white and the tip of Will's finger turned purple. Will winced.

As he tied off the cord, Marsh said, “I'm sorry about what I said yesterday.”

“No apology necessary.” Just for a moment, the impish glint returned to Will's eyes. “But if we're doing apologies, then this is as good a time as any to confess that I rather fancy your wife.”

Marsh smiled. “I know, Will.”

“But I give you my solemn word I'd never do anything to hurt either of you.”

“I know that, too, Will.”

Marsh tested the knot. It held. He put his hand on Will's shoulder. “Are you absolutely certain about this? We can find another way.”

“I'm certain. And no, we can't. Just please do it quickly. Please.”

“I promise.” Marsh handed over the wooden bit.

Will stuck it in his mouth. He closed his eyes, set his hand on the floor toward Marsh, and turned away.

Marsh crouched so as to put his weight on the shears and make the cut as quickly as possible. The metal blades reflected the angry orange light of the embers. He centered Will's fingertip between the blades, made certain they would land above the tourniquet.

He counted. One. Two—

Three things happened at once. The blades crunched together at the center of Will's finger. Will screamed. And the blood trickling down Marsh's arm, where the prisoner had gripped him, caught the Eidolon's attention. It noticed Marsh again.

This time, it took a closer look.

Marsh's ego crumbled under the scrutiny of a boundless intellect. It fixated on his blood. It looked at him, in him, through him, from within the very space he occupied. He smelled the iron in Will's blood; saw those same atoms forged deep in the heart of a dying star; felt the pressure of starlight on him; heard the quiet patter of a fingertip hitting the floor, Will's sobs, and the popping of novae. It studied the trajectory of Marsh's life, peered into every dark corner... .

The Eidolon withdrew. The fire spoke again.

Will clutched the mangled hand to his chest and coughed out the bit. It dropped past his slack lips, trailing threads of spittle. Will gaped at Marsh, trembling and looking paler than anybody should.

“My God,” he said. “They've given you a name.”

“Will? Are you—?”

Will waved him off. He pushed himself upright. Now his speech didn't sound quite so impossible as it did