'The Guild still exists, idiot.'
'An amputated child, kept for the amusement of the rich.' Crane shouldered the shotgun and pointed angrily at me. 'Their engram singers are a fragment of my glory. Don't insult my lineage by calling them Artificers.'
'And that's what I was waiting for,' I said, drawing iron and putting a shot into his chest before he could bring the shotgun back down. His chest shimmered and bled. He began to laugh.
'Oh, Jacob. Such' — he coughed — 'such enthusiasm. But so much to learn. Here to save the Patron, but he's already dead. And look at what you've lost.'
He fell to his knees, the shotgun clattering across the floor before it slid to a halt near my boot. As I watched, Crane's body shuffled and collapsed, his skin falling in fist-sized clumps onto the scaffolding. Each drop curled open and fluttered away, darkening as they flew. Crows. His whole body exploded into a murder of crows, clamoring as they swirled through the room before bursting out into the corridor and away.
The body that he left behind, now that the facade of his Artificer-formed possession was disrupted, was that of my father. The shot had gone through Alexander's chest, right into the heart. His eyes clouded as he fell.
My only hope was that he was dead before he saw me. Before he saw his son, and the revolver.
I always had trouble separating the father I knew from the father I remembered. My childhood was filled with memories of this man, this giant. Lifting me over his head, howling with laughter. The smell of his leather coat as we hunched behind a longrifle on my first hunt, powder stains on his hands as he taught me to load the weapon; standing beside me when the first shot missed and I tried to reload as the boar charged, his steady voice talking me through the steps as my quavering hands spilled gunpowder all over the element, the muzzle. The bullet dropped from my fingers and as I scrambled in the dry leaves for it he took the shot, the tone in his voice never hinting at disappointment. Practice loading, he said, or hit with the first one next time.
This, compared with the shrunken failure who sat in his empty library, berating me for getting kicked out of the Academy. Throwing me out of his house. This man, who couldn't even talk to me without swearing. His every word laced with failure. Mine, and his. Our histories so thoroughly meshed, and nothing I could do was good enough, and nothing he could do would help that. The father I knew, who couldn't even look me in the eye, who wouldn't talk to his friends about me, who never answered their questions about where I was, what had become of me. The father who would pass me in the street without a second look.
And the father I remembered. Guiding me, strengthening me, pulling me up when I fell. Always careful to watch me fall, and show me why, and give me a boost on to the next thing. The pillar of strength in my childhood, and the pillar of disappointment as I became a man.
Now they were the same man. All I had was a father to remember, and never know again.
I stood over my father's body, trembling. The revolver was no longer in my hand. Whether I had dropped it, or thrown it away, I didn't know. Wilson stood beside me, his hand on my shoulder.
'Jacob,' he said, his voice laced with sorrow. 'We're going to have to fight our way out of here.'
'You can't give me a minute to mourn?'
'Not when it'll get us killed, no.' He tugged at the collar of my coat. 'Now get up. Come on. You didn't even like the guy. Gods know he didn't like you.'
'Get up' because I was on my knees now. Get up because there were tears in my eyes, and I was unarmed, and there was a room of shambling horrors at my back. Get up because the city was falling apart, and somehow that was my problem. Just get up.
'Still my father,' I said, blinking tears away. 'Still my dad.'
'Then do something about it.' Wilson was facing away from me now. 'Soon enough, you won't be able to do anything at all.'
I stood and lifted the shotgun that Crane had dropped. My father had dropped. It was a Regetta Model No. 5, manual feed magazine. By the weight and balance, all ten rounds of the magazine were full, lined up under the barrel like soldiers. I turned and slipped the safety clear.
'Okay,' I said. 'I'm ready.'
The horrific congregation just stood there, looking at us. Wavering slightly, like they'd been standing too long and were getting tired. The dead don't get tired. Wilson stood next to me, knives held loosely at his waist.
'What do you think? Did we disrupt his control, or something? Or are they just waiting for us to make a move?' Wilson asked.
'Beats me. You wanna just start shooting, see where that gets us?'
'Sounds good.' He loosened his shoulders and then unfurled the long, sharp arms of his spider-self. 'After you, kid.'
'We gonna just leave the Patron here?'
'Are you going to carry him out?' Wilson asked.
'I guess not. Okay,' I said, trying to work myself up to it. My mind was clean and bright. I hadn't been this clear in days. Raised the shotgun and sighted at the closest cog-dead. Ten shells. There were more than ten of them. A lot more. 'Okay.'
The shotgun shuddered against my shoulder, the report echoing through the concave space of the chamber. I flinched. The buck tore into the front line of the cog-dead, shredding pale flesh and opening wounds that gushed tarblack blood. Three of them stumbled, one missing most of his shoulder and neck, his head hanging by a flap.
The rest didn't move. Stood there, staring at us.
'Okay,' Wilson said. 'Save your shot, I guess.'
He walked forward and pushed a path through the room. I followed, holding the shotgun in front of me like the prow of a ship. The limp arms and legs bumped against me, weak hands clutching at my coat, several of them slipping and tumbling over as we pushed through. They looked at us with terrified eyes, eyes that remembered and saw and understood, but robbed of volition. They were robbed of their bodies, but they had their eyes. I paused.
'Wilson, I think… I think they're coming out of it.'
He paused and looked. The cog-dead he had just pushed out of the way limped back to him, put two soft arms on his chest and leaned forward. His mouth, gaping and drooling that thick, black ichor, got closer and closer to the anansi's face. I tightened my grip on the shotgun.
'Hu, huh, hu,' it said, a whisper, a prayer. 'huh, hu.'
''Help,'' Wilson answered. 'Gods damn us, Jacob. 'Help.''
The cog-dead nearly collapsed into Wilson's arms.
'I don't want the responsibility of this, Jacob,' Wilson whispered. 'I don't want to deal with this.'
'We don't get to choose what comes to us, Wilson.'
'No, but still.'
A high, piercing note rang through the room, vibrating from the scattered pipes, singing through the chamber. The cog-dead became anxious. Afraid.
'Huh, huh, hhhaaaaah,' the one in Wilson's arms screamed, and then his grip tightened and he lunged at Wilson's face. The anansi ducked, then brought his knives around and cut him down. The pearl-white body fell to its knees, holding up ruined arms. 'Huhl, hahl, puh…'
Wilson kicked him in the face and sprinted for the exit. I was right behind him, the congregation of pale faces suddenly animate as the pipe music snapped into an even tone that threatened to deafen us. The room shook with the sound. They were on us, grabbing, biting, tearing at our clothes and our skin. Neither of us could strike. Neither of us could look back, afraid we would see the horror in their eyes, hear them begging under the oppressive clamor of those pipes.
We reached the door and threw it shut behind us. The last thing I saw as I struggled against the press of bodies was the stage far below, and my father's body spread out over the Patron's tomb, and a sea of terrified eyes, screaming and tearing and crying as they came at us. The door boomed shut and the music stopped. It was quiet in the stone chamber, deep under the Manor. We stayed there for a minute, catching our breath, shaking the adrenalin out of our limbs, and trying to forget what we had seen. What we had done.
