Wizard and Glass

Silence from Blaine.

'Blaine? Are you there?'

'YES, BUT IN NO MOOD FOR FRIVOLITY, EDDIE OF NEW YORK. SPEAK YOUR RIDDLE. I SUSPECT IT WILL BE DIFFICULT IN SPITE OF YOUR FOOLISH POSES. I LOOK FORWARD TO IT.'

Eddie glanced at Roland, who waved a hand at him—Go on, for yourfather's sake, go on!— and then looked back at the route-map, where the green dot had just passed the point marked Rilea. Susannah saw that Eddie suspected what she herself all but knew: Blaine understood they were trying to test his capabilities with a spectrum of riddles. Blaine knew . . . and welcomed it.

Susannah felt her heart sink as any hopes they might find a quick and easy way out of this disappeared.

4

'Well,' Eddie said, 'I don't know how hard it'll seem to you, but it struck me as a toughie.' Nor did he know the answer, since that section ofRiddle-De-Dum! had been torn out, but he didn't think that made any difference; their knowing the answers hadn't been part of the ground-rules.

'I SHALL HEAR AND ANSWER.'

'No sooner spoken than broken. What is it?'

'SILENCE, A THING YOU KNOW LITTLE ABOUT, EDDIE OF NEW YORK,' Blaine said with no pause at all, and Eddie felt his heart drop a little. There was no need to consult with the others; the answer was self-evident. And having it come back at him so quickly was the real bummer. Eddie never would have said so, but he had harbored the hope— almost a secret surety—of bringing Blaine down with a single riddle, ker- smash, all the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't put Blaine together again. The same secret surety, he supposed, that he had harbored every time he picked up a pair of dice in some sharpie's back-bedroom crap game, every time he called for a hit on seventeen while playing blackjack. That feeling that you couldn't go wrong because you were you, the best, the one and only.

'Yeah,' he said, sighing. 'Silence, a thing I know little about. Thankee-sai, Blaine, you speak truth.'

'I HOPE YOU HAVE DISCOVERED SOMETHING WHICH WILL HELP YOU,' Blaine said, and Eddie thought: You fucking mechanical liar. The complacent tone had returned to Blaine's voice, and Eddie found it of some passing interest that a machine could express such a range of emotion. Had the Great Old Ones built them in, or had Blaine created an emotional rainbow for himself at some point? A little dipolar pretty with which to pass the long decades and centuries? 'DO YOU WISH ME TO GO AWAY AGAIN SO YOU MAY CONSULT?'

'Yes,' Roland said.

The route-map flashed bright red. Eddie turned toward the gunslinger. Roland composed his face quickly, but before he did, Eddie saw a horrible thing: a brief look of complete hopelessness. Eddie had never seen such a look there before, not when Roland had been dying of the lobstrosities' bites, not when Eddie had been pointing the gunslinger's own revolver at him, not even when the hideous Gasher had taken Jake prisoner and disappeared into Lud with him.

'What do we do next?' Jake asked. 'Do another round of the four of us?'

'I think that would serve little purpose,' Roland said. 'Blame must know thousands of riddles—perhaps millions—and that is bad. Worse, far worse, he understands the how of riddling … the place the mind has to go to in order to make them and solve them.' He turned to Eddie and Susannah, sitting once more with their arms about one another. 'Am I right about that?' he asked them. 'Do you agree?'

'Yes,' Susannah said, and Eddie nodded reluctantly. He didn't want to agree . . . but he did.

'So?' Jake asked. 'What do we do, Roland? I mean, there has to be a way out of this . . . doesn't there?'

Lie to him, you bastard, Eddie sent fiercely in Roland's direction. Roland, perhaps hearing the thought, did the best he could. He touched Jake's hair with his diminished hand and ruffled through it. 'I think there's always an answer, Jake. The real question is whether or not we'll have time to find the right riddle. He said it took him a little under nine hours to run his route—'

'Eight hours, forty-five minutes,' Jake put in. '. . . and that's not much time. We've already been running almost an hour—'

'And if that map's right, we're almost halfway to Topeka,' Susannah said in a tight voice. 'Could be our mechanical pal's been lying to us about the length of the run. Hedging his bets a little.' 'Could be,' Roland agreed. 'So what do we do?' Jake repeated.

Roland drew in a deep breath, held it, let it out. 'Let me riddle him alone, for now. I'll ask him the hardest ones I remember from the Fair-Days of my youth. Then, Jake, if we're approaching the point of… if we're approaching Topeka at this same speed with Blaine still unposed, I think you should ask him the last few riddles in your book. The hardest riddles.' He rubbed the side of his face distractedly and looked at the ice sculpture. This chilly rendering of his own likeness had now melted to an unrecognizable hulk. 'I still think the answer must be in the book. Why else would you have been drawn to it before coming back to this world?'

'And us?' Susannah asked. 'What do Eddie and I do?'

'Think, ' Roland said. 'Think, for your fathers' sakes.'

' 'I do not shoot with my hand,' ' Eddie said. He suddenly felt far away, strange to himself. It was the way he'd felt when he had seen first the slingshot and then the key in pieces of wood, just waiting for him to whittle them free … and at the same time this feeling was not like that at all.

Roland was looking at him oddly. 'Yes, Eddie, you say true. A gun-slinger shoots with his mind. What have you thought of?'

'Nothing.' He might have said more, but all at once a strange image—a strange memory— intervened: Roland hunkering by Jake at one of their stopping-points on the way to Lud. Both of them in front of an unlit campfire. Roland once more at his everlasting lessons. Jake's turn this time. Jake with the flint and steel, trying to quicken the fire. Spark after spark licking out and dying in the dark. And Roland had said that he was being silly. That he was just being . . . well. . . silly.

'No,' Eddie said. 'He didn't say that at all. At least not to the kid, he didn't.'

'Eddie?' Susannah. Sounding concerned. Almost frightened.

Well why don't you ask him what he said, bro? That was Henry's voice, the voice of the Great Sage and Eminent Junkie. First time in a long time. Ask him, he's practically sitting right next to you, go on and ask him what he said. Quit dancing around like a baby with a load in his diapers.

Except that was a bad idea, because that wasn't the way things worked in Roland's world. In Roland's world everything was riddles, you didn't shoot with your hand but with your mind, your motherfucking mind, and what did you say to someone who wasn't getting the spark into the kindling? Move your flint in closer, of course, and that's what Roland had said: Move your flint in closer, and hold it steady.

Except none of that was what this was about. It was close, yes, but close only counts in horseshoes, as Henry Dean had been wont to say before he became the Great Sage and Eminent Junkie. Eddie's memory was jinking a little because Roland had embarrassed him… shamed him . . . made a joke at his expense . . .

Probably not on purpose, but… something. Something that had made him feel the way Henry always used to make him feel, of course it was, why else would Henry be here after such a long absence?

All of them looking at him now. Even Oy.