“I wish we had more time,” Forsyth says. “But I think you are as prepared as I can make you. Now, allow me to actually fix your hair.”
Elgar turns to Forsyth and lets him fuss with water and a bit of the product someone’s left on the bathroom counter that smells strongly of verbena and coconuts. In a way, Elgar is reminded of Juan—fussy, fastidious, and picky about projecting the correct image. But Forsyth has grown up in Hain, in Lysse Chipping, in Turn Hall, where power and strength and virility are more prized than intelligence and manners. Forsyth has learned to wear his clothes as a weapon, to make a shield of a perfectly knotted neckcloth; to behave so appropriately and so correctly that Algar Turn wouldn’t be able to find any fault in him to exploit or harm; to be so good to the people under his care that the citizens of Lysse had no reason to rebel or oust him. Fear fueled his every action, his every practice, his every stride toward perfection. And still he was never valued above Kintyre—brash, rakish, windblown and road-soiled and bad-mannered. Save for by the Pointes, and Pip, and now, after a long time, Elgar.
It breaks his heart, just a little.
When Forsyth is done, Elgar reaches up, grabs his creation’s hand, and squeezes it gently. “Thank you,” he says, meaning a lot more than just the hair gel, and the fussing, and the dagger. “I’m glad I met you.”
Forsyth scowls. “Don’t talk as if your death is ensured,” he says, shaking his fingers out of Elgar’s. Every time they touch, flesh-to-flesh, there’s a sort of low-buzzing electrical current that runs between them. Elgar pretends that this is what Forsyth’s trying to escape when he steps back.
“I just mean . . .” Elgar gestures at the small of his back.
“Of course,” Forsyth says, and unlocks the door. He goes through first, and it occurs to Elgar that he’s doing it so he can scope out the room before Elgar reenters. “One must take advantage of those few things that Algar Turn taught that are useful. There are a vanishingly small amount of them.”
Forsyth
Once Elgar is armed, Ahbni hustles us all to the door of the suite, snagging a bottle of water and pressing it into Elgar’s hands as we file out the door and toward the elevators. Elgar is busy chatting with Kashif the Handcuffed Techie, a poor attempt at a companionable smile stretched across his face to mask his terror. Pip is concerned with checking the lay of her sword, tightening her belt, verifying that her boots are double-knotted. I do as I always do before a fight: I breathe deep, try to center myself, eyes and ears open and heart trembling.
For make no mistake, we are on the eve of battle now.
If the Viceroy plans to strike, he will do it now. No time is better than when Elgar is the least protected and the most visible. This panel is being viewed by five thousand fans in attendance and millions more on the video livestreaming service. And the Viceroy has always loved an audience.
I just wish I had more access to my magics. I am not, however, entirely without my own tricks. I have had the opportunity to watch many television shows and fantasy films about magics and monsters since my arrival in the Overrealm. I have picked up a few ideas.
I reach out and grasp Pip’s hand as we exit the elevator and cross the foyer to the escalators that will take us down to the main convention space and thence the ballroom. She looks at me, startled, as under my breath I begin to Speak Words of Protection, of Shielding, and every other charm I can think of. I hold my hand over my mouth, breathing the Words into my palm, feeling them condense and ball against my skin.
When we reach the escalators, Ahbni steps on first, followed by Kashif, Elgar, me, and then Pip. I hold the ball of Words tight in my fist, and then swiftly, gently, press them into the bare skin on the back of Elgar’s neck.
“Ah! That’s cold!” Elgar says, jumping and turning around to look at me. “What did you—?”
“Don’t touch it,” I say. “And let us hope that the Words remain while I am not in contact with you. Pip, don’t let go of my hand.”
“Right, okay,” she says. My wife is clever. She understands why.
I look up from our small tête-à-tête to find Ahbni watching us with slitted eyes, thoughtful and curious. She says nothing, keeping her own council for now. It occurs to me that we are going to have to be straight with her eventually. If things get dangerous, she deserves to know why. She deserves to know what we will be fighting, what she will be running from, if I have any say in the matter.
Unlike the rest of the crowd that files forward when they step off the escalator toward the large set of doors marked “Grand Ballroom” on the far side of a long, table-scattered hall, Ahbni doubles back and leads us to a small room underneath and behind the escalator. This door is marked with ConClusion signage that tells me that it is the “Green Room,” and when we enter, there are a half-dozen round tables with chairs already populated by three other guests and their three matching handlers. I recognize one as a famous actress from a major comic book film, but have no clue who the other two are. Pip does know them, though, for her eyes narrow at them both, and I
