Milady, never have I believed in the priest’s tales of Hell, discounting it all as a load of bollocks. But if the lomadh has occurred in other times and places, surely it explains where stories of Hell originated. Any soul unversed in magic, who wasn’t knowing the true nature of what they witnessed, would try to explain what Tristan and I saw by claiming that the mouth of Hell itself had, for a moment, opened upon this mortal coil.
But only for a moment. After that, just a fire it was. And who’s to say whether ’twas a ravage or a blessing, for it burned to ashes many an abomination spawned of the lomadh. So it seems to me now, upon reflection. But in the moment I could not help thinking of Kit and Morag and Pym and the other wenches of the Tearsheet. No sooner had we got clear of the catastrophe than I wished to return, in case any of them might be saved. We were down in that filthy ditch yet and I began looking about for a handhold I might use to climb up to the street. I saw none, and it’s more and more exasperated I became, until all of a sudden there’s a hand right in front of my face, reaching down. It’s a hand in a white kid glove, expensive, immaculate. My gaze follows the arm upward until I’m looking into a man’s face. He’s above me on the pavement, squatting down, offering his hand to pull me up. A yellow beard, waxed and groomed to a sharp point, and the fanciest and most fetching hat, with a gorgeous plume on it. It’s for the first time now that I’m seeing both of Athanasius Fugger’s eyes, for doesn’t he have the queerest habit of keeping his hat pulled down low and cocked to one side. I’m struck, in the midst of all the chaos and lamentation of the lomadh, by a peculiarity of the man’s face. The pupil of the left eye—the one he prefers to hide behind his hat—is larger than the other. Stuck open, as it were. You might say it were an odd thing for me to attend to in such circumstances, but for some reason it struck me clearly in the moment.
I reached up and lay my palm upon his and felt his strong grip. Putting his legs and his back into it, he drew me up out of that ditch and got me safe up to the street. For the first time now I could see the fire and smoke burgeoning from what was left of the Tearsheet. That held my attention while he squatted down again, and helped Tristan just as he’d helped me. For which Tristan thanked him, in that clipped and wary manner that passes between men who are not sure of each other’s intentions.
By the time we worked our way back round to the Tearsheet’s former entrance, there was nothing left of tavern or of brewery. People had scattered, coughing, bleeding, dazed, gibbering like madmen. I saw old Simon Beresford staggering confusedly down the street. Not one other member of our party was to be seen. Les Holgate was no more. No more Morag, or Pym. The other wenches of the bawdy-house. And worst of all, at least for me although of no note to another soul: no more Kit Marlowe.
And of course, no more Tearsheet Brewery, the only place in London where ever I was safe.
Diachronicle
DAY 390
In which—finally—we seem to learn from experience
TRISTAN STAGGERED OUT OF THE ODEC in a terrible state. He was bruised and his hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and his skin almost grey. I felt a little sick seeing him: whatever happened, it could have been worse, and thank God it wasn’t. I reached for the intercom button, then drew my hand back. He did not look in the mood for a conversation. We could only chew our thumbnails and speculate as he put himself through decontamination.
When he emerged, I did not resist the impulse to embrace him. But he caught me up short as my arms reached around him, and politely pressed me away from himself. He gestured gingerly to his left forearm. “Hairline fracture,” he whispered hoarsely. “Possibly.”
“Let’s go to the emergency room,” I said, reaching for his good arm, but he shook his head.
“Debrief first. Call the Odas.”
“They can meet us in the ER—”
“Here. Now.” He staggered down the hall toward the toilets.
I telephoned. Rebecca said they could be there in ten minutes. Erszebet came with them, for Rebecca had been soothing her after the drama of the morning.
Tristan sequestered himself in the conference room, on a video conference to Frink, until the others had arrived. When finally it was the five of us, and the video screen, so long the bane of our existence, had been shut off and unplugged, he glanced about the table at us, then looked down briefly, then back up and said in a heavy voice, “Les Holgate is dead.”
“Excellent,” said Erszebet immediately, before the rest of us could so much as draw breath. “He deserved it.”
Tristan gave her an angry look. He seemed about to say something but then contained himself.
“That’s horrible,” I said. “Who killed him?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t a who, it was a what.” He took a moment, briefly pressed his good hand to his forehead, and began again. “He arranged a scheme that had elements he hadn’t considered or thought out. I tried to foil it but there were unforeseeable complications. And then . . .” He looked at a lost for words. “The brewery blew up. Everyone inside of it was killed.”
“There was an explosion?” Frank Oda asked.
“No!” Tristan said firmly. “Something I can’t describe. Explosion, implosion, turning inside out, being put through a blender, fire, ice . . . worse things too.”
Erszebet looked solemn, and sighed. “Diakrónikus nyírás,” she said quietly. “Diachronic, mmm . . .” She made a broad, sideways chopping gesture with both hands. “Shear. Diachronic Shear. There is a separating.” She shook her head. “I even tried to warn Les Holgate because his ideas were so extreme. Very bad. I have heard of it but never seen it.”
“What does it mean exactly?” asked Frank Oda.
“And what do we do about it?” Tristan followed.
“Can we go back on another Strand and fix it somehow?” asked Frank Oda.
Her eyes widened slightly, and she shook her head. “Oh. No. No, it’s over. His existence—the existence of everything caught up in the Shear—it is gone forever, across all Strands. You cannot even go to look for him. He is gone. Full stop.”
“That’s horrible,” I said again.
“Why? He was a terrible person,” said Erszebet. And then, softening: “But I am sure there were innocent people destroyed too. It is very sad for them and their families.” She looked thoughtful. “I thought perhaps this was apocryphal because I never met anyone who had experienced it. The last one in Europe was Paris, 1777. I suppose by my time everybody knew better than to risk it.”
“Who else was lost in this Diachronic Shear?” Rebecca asked. “Gráinne must have survived or you could not have gotten back here.”
Tristan looked as if another hundred-pound weight had settled upon his shoulders. “She’s not the one who Sent me back,” he said. “After the chaos, the young English witch named Rose found me and offered to return me here.”
“We’ve lost Gráinne?”