I check the building, but the rest of it seems intact. Our destruction was localized, then. Focused. That means the Viceroy must know exactly where we are. We are now targets. Blast.
Above me, Bevel has Ahbni on his back, and is scaling down swiftly and expertly. Pip must be doing some rope climbing in her gym sessions, for she is quick and efficient in scaling down on her own after him. Next, Kintyre wraps Elgar in the rope, then mounts it directly after him, clinging with only one hand. Together, they inch downward in small jerks as Kintyre presses his feet against the glass wall of the building, and rappels down one-handed, the other wrapped in Elgar’s cardigan. Elgar’s hand never leaves his ankle, and Bevel reaches up to let Elgar stand on his shoulders when he gets close to the ground, before Elgar stumbles down and onto his feet and Kintyre hops lightly down after him.
“Holy shit,” Elgar pants, chest heaving as he wipes his forehead on his sleeve. “Oh my god. I’ve never done anything like that before. That was crazy.”
“It was three floors,” Bevel says, eyebrow raised skeptically.
“Yeah, dangling outside a building,” Elgar answers. “Oh my god.”
“This is our Writer?” Kintyre asks me, hands on his hips and head cocked.
I wish to say something glib, like, “unfortunately,” or “if you can believe it.” But Elgar is looking up at me with big, scared eyes, and I know too well the danger of an ill-thought word or a playful insult taken the wrong way.
Instead, I say: “Come, let’s head back inside.”
“Why?” Ahbni asks, but she’s already following us as we all make for the entrance to the convention center foyer.
“Because the Viceroy is here,” Pip says, “and clearly, he’s hiding in plain sight.”
I tap the pouch with my tablet in it. “Most of the men matching the Viceroy’s physical description are down in the gaming area. We shall start there. I have a feeling that the Viceroy will not be able to resist flying at us if he were to spot his archnemesis among the throng.”
“Oh, well, doesn’t that make me feel loved,” Kintyre snorts.
I cannot help throwing a cheeky grin over my shoulder at him as I lead our party toward the escalators. “Well, brother mine, you are good for something, you know.”
When we reach the bottom—after much wonderment and vocal amazement at the magic of moving stairs from Kintyre and Bevel—I say to Elgar: “Pull down your cap and hunch your posture. Pretend that you are . . . not you. We do not have time for you to be mobbed right now.”
Thankfully, my creator does as he’s told. He puts his head down, and bulls through the crowd in my wake. I have no real plan, which irks me to no end, save to parade Kintyre through the convention and hope that the Viceroy takes the bait. We cannot fight what we cannot see, and if Elgar and I are not temptation enough for the mad villain, then I hope Kintyre and Bevel may tip the scales in our favor.
For our part, I hold Pip’s hand in one of my own, muttering Words of Invisibility, and Slipping, and everything that I have learned as Shadow Hand that may help us pass unseen, and in the other, I grip Elgar’s, so that the slipping spell might include him, too, and spare us the possibility of being impeded or delayed by eager fans. I hope this allows the Viceroy to see Kintyre and Bevel, and miss us.
Of course, I must also hope that the Viceroy doesn’t have the ability to sense where the magic is being siphoned off to, that he cannot pinpoint us because I am leeching power from Pip. I wish I had a third hand, so I could have Smoke freed, and bared, if need be.
We emerge into the gaming area, a wide swath of round tables surrounded by seated folks of every possible description. Fortunately, most of the people are too focused on the cards in their hands, or the elaborate dioramas of battle on their tables, or colorful board games, to note our passage. Kintyre and Bevel weave around the massive clusters of gamers, walking back and forth, back and forth like inane, meandering shuttles amid the loom of people, spooling out their path temptingly.
Pip, Elgar, and I follow more slowly behind them, in a more or less straight line, dodging around the folding chairs, hopping lightly over satchels and the glossy plastic bags of purchases littering the walkway, trying to keep our presence as minimal as possible. Elgar follows as best he can, less agile, but motivated by urgency and the pull of my grip to move quickly. The feel of someone’s intense, hateful gaze prickles on the back of my neck, but the only other person behind me is Ahbni. For everyone else, the Words seem to be working. Damn Elgar Reed for Writing me to be so paranoid.
It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you, I think, recalling the clever poster I had once seen hanging in Pip’s office back in Vancouver. At the time, I’d thought it a terrifying warning, before I understood that it was intended to be humorous. Now, I find it wryly appropriate.
When Kintyre and Bevel have finished wandering the warp of the area, they slowly, looking utterly natural, begin to walk the weft. They stick out, literally head and shoulders above the crowd, easily seen. The rest of us pause on the edge of the floor, where the gaming gives way to the open space of a food
