Chapter 7 - finale

In the stairwell Veon saw a dead rat being eaten by one that looked only marginally more alive. There was a smell of sulfur, acrid and metallic. Veon wished to hasten up to the loft; however, with his bulk, he dared not move but prudently on the narrow steps – several of which were already visibly cracked or disintegrating from rain-rot.

Ascending to Osuf's loft always reminded Veon of the climb he'd made with Amos when he was a boy of twelve nursing a sprained ankle, leaving the caves into which he'd tumbled, according to his sister. They had crawled through deep, dark, narrow ways which Veon was barely able to squeeze through, and had found their egress in a split fissure along the side of the Prow where a cleft in the facade let in some light. At that time, they had crawled out of the foul place towards the light of day, and now Veon was climbing once more, toward the crack of lamp light which emanated from beneath his cousin's door – only this time, he was climbing towards a place more foul.

As he reached the top of the stairs, and reached for the knob on the door, he heard a great explosive noise come from within, followed by a cry and a great clatter, as if an entire banquet table had gone over, collapsing under the weight of all with which it had been laden.

Veon waited a moment, reconsidering, listening to what was happening within the loft, as well as within the chambers of his own heart.

Do I really want to see what's on the other side? Veon asked himself. He feared few men, and dreaded no fight – but coming to see Osuf working was a thing of a different sort entire.

He had too much momentum now to turn back, however – and also he knew he could not brave these stairs again until he was right drunk. His hand closed around the doorknob, turning it with determination – which proved too much for the door, which was also in an advanced state of disintegration. The knob twisted and came loose from the rotten meat of the door. Veon extracted it like pulling a spoon of out thick porridge.

“Third for the best,” Veon muttered, thinking once more of Amos – for this was something that she liked to utter. He didn't believe in it much, himself; there was little place for superstition in Veon's life, which was dominated already enough by mystery and suspicion; but he finished the saying off anyway: “And worth more than the fourth.”

He let the knob drop from his hand, and heard it rattling down the decrepit steps, followed by a loud squeak at the bottom from an angry rat. Veon ignored all this and pushed the door open; it nearly fell from its hinges, and as he entered, he feared for a real moment that the whole thing would fall right on top of him.

“Hora?” Osuf called out with a raspy voice. “Did you bring me my dollop?”

“I doubt very much you've got a taste for my dollop!” Veon replied with a booming voice. He felt he could perhaps with forced pluck and some bravado rally his cousin out of the loft for some drinking – especially since he planned to pay for all the rounds. Getting out of this stinking hole was definitely his first priority at this point.

Osuf – pale, gaunt, all angular lines and wobbling bones – appeared from behind a free-standing chalk board. He squinted, and saw the dark-skinned gladiator who stood grinning gladly before him; then he grunted, nodded, and receded back to his work.

“They once called me Virtuoso!” Osuf cawed like a crow, his voice shot as if he'd been smoking and shouting curses all day – which was highly likely. “Do you know what they call me now?”

Veon had heard this rant before; he knew the answer; but he said nothing.

“The Vincible!”

“They call me either Victim or Victor,” Veon reminded. “We all get two names each, cousin – but which we choose to believe we are is up to us.”

“Save me your platitudes!”

“Of course. So sorry.”

“Ha! I need apologies even less!”

“Then I am at a loss for words.”

“Good. That is how I like you!”

Veon snorted. Coming around the blackboard, he scanned the area quickly to see what state his cousin was in. He saw three opened bottles of wine and an empty glass. Upon the blackboard was a great diagram with many labels in a scrawl which Veon doubted even his cousin could read – drunk or sober! The picture in the center looked like a saddle of sorts, but there were springs and cogs that were clearly meant to drive some kind of engine.

“What's this, then?” Veon pointed with only a cursory show of curiosity. This was a test, to see how well Osuf had worked. If he'd been at it many hours already, and had found a good deal of creativity, it would mean that he would not budge from the loft until the project was complete and he had formulated a prototype; but this would never happen, as he always abandoned the children of his imagination.

The only issue now was, how deeply invested was he? How hard would it prove to tear him away from this one? How much would it hurt him when he finally set it all aflame, effaced the board, and resigned himself once more to ineptitude, and sweet inebriation?

Osuf gazed upon his design and a crooked smile cracked upon his haggard face.

“It's a machine for traveling back in time,” he said with some pride.

Veon's eyebrow arched and he looked at his cousin. “Does it work?” he asked. He didn't need to ask why: a man with nothing but regrets in his heart thinks only of the past.

Osuf shrugged. “How should I know?” he said. “It would require a power source three times greater than the sun to initiate it.”

Veon turned back to the blackboard. It looked as if he was studying the diagram, but he was really thinking about his unfortunate cousin. Then he said, “If you went back and saved her – if you managed to keep Ella from being stricken down – would that not put you on a track upon which you would never invent such a machine? Isn't that a paradigm?”

“Paradox, Veon. You're right. I couldn't save myself these years of grief – but I could save her! Don't you see? If I went back right after she was shot – right after I saw her fall – then I could save her, spirit her away to a place where she could live, live without me.”

“Until you went back, that is,” Veon interjected. “The younger you would miss her, but from the time you went back, you could continue to enjoy her company.”

“No, Veon. She loved that other me, that naïve version of myself that could never imagine tragedy would touch me; as I am now, I am not very good company. Nobody could love this!”

Veon wanted to disagree with Osuf, but he did not wish to lie to him, so he said nothing, but gave him a meaningful look as if to say that love was out there, life was out there, if only he could climb out of this pit, climb down out of this tower, disconnect from his misery.

“You're lucky,” Osuf said with bitter vehemence. “They killed your family, but at least you weren't alone. You have Amos.”

Not anymore, Veon thought. Aloud, he said, “It is because of Amos that I have come, cousin. I am entreated by Count Opho, son of General Obho, to join the assault on Mozo in order to find definite proof against Leni, her betrothed.”

“A spy,” Osuf spat.

“Yes, that is what Opho was inferring – that Leni is a spy.”

“No, my good fool! Opho is the spy! Who is he working for, I wonder?”

“We have many enemies,” Veon muttered, “but few I can think of that would benefit from placing me in the army.”

“What if the goal is to divide you and your sister? Or to match you against her mountebank?”

“I am already those things,” Veon murmured.

“Then there is only one alternative: the spy is telling the truth. Whomever is his employer must have reason to hate the magician more than you.”

“The truth?” Veon said, dubious.

“Of course,” Osuf said, certain of himself. He seemed these days only to achieve genius in the state of drunkenness that only just preceded total stupor. “That is the spy's true weapon, after all, not the lies they use. They are trained very well to conceal the truth, but only to the point where it most effective to reveal it.”

“So I am to be used as a tool,” Veon surmised.

“I am sure it would not be the first time for you,” Osuf said with some derision.

“You are the master of tools,” Veon countered. “Do you see how I can be so useful?”

“No, I have no use for you at all!” Osuf waved his hand dismissively. “But clearly there are others who feel quite differently.”

“So there are documents you think that can reveal Leni to be a traitor, an infiltrator, and a scoundrel?”

“I'd bet my life on it,” Osuf slurred. “But then, that's not saying very much,” he added morosely.

“And you think there's a chance I could locate these sensitive data?”

“I believe they will be put in your path. One does not set the rat in the maze without first placing in it a piece of cheese.”

Veon frowned. He did not like this analogy. “I am no rat,” he said, scornfully.

“Then you are even worse off,” Osuf said dryly. “For that can only mean that you are the cheese!”