The Glyph of Truth

The Escape

Harcourt took stock of the battlefield. Several dead bodies lay in the yard, but Wade and Demijohn appeared to be unharmed. Atalanta stood exactly where he had left her, staring off into the distance, oblivious to the fighting. Dame Ludmilla and Valdez were nowhere to be seen.

Harcourt wanted to say goodbye to both of them before he left, but he was reluctant to wait any longer. At any moment, the appearance of further golems, Constables or soldiers might close this window of opportunity. Wade started directing his union members to patch up the fence as best as they could.

Suddenly, Valdez materialized. He was bleeding from a shallow cut in his forehead, but seemed otherwise unharmed.

"Valdez," Harcourt called to him, "where is Dame Ludmilla? I she alright?"

"She was just behind me only a moment ago. She might have twisted her ankle, but nothing more serious than that."

Valdez noticed that Harcourt was holding Atalanta's hand.

"Who is that?" he inquired.

"My wife."

Valdez grunted in surprise.

"Harry!" It was Dame Ludmilla. "Did you see what happened? The golems in the cellar suddenly developed the Glyph of Truth, although they were standing in the dark with their faces turned to the wall. They could not possibly have seen it!"

"Not with their eyes," Valdez added, "but maybe with their spirit, if they have one."

"I don't understand this any more than you do," Harcourt admitted. "Dolmedech might have been able to explain, but he is dead."

"We have to get organized," Dame Ludmilla urged. "At the moment, the golems are keeping the Constables and the garrison occupied, but sooner or later, they are going to show up here. And we will have to be ready to fight!"

"I cannot stay," Valdez stated.

"Why? Where are you going?"

"I must return to Sente. I promised my people. This is the weakness of the Commonwealth we have all waited for. Now, we must strike while the iron is hot, and win back Sente's freedom."

"How are you going to get there? I doubt there will be any ships sailing there as long as the golems are on the loose."

"I don't know. Maybe I can go over land."

"That will take months."

"I know. But I must return home. There is no other choice for me."

Aghast, Dame Ludmilla turned to Harcourt.

"You will need more gunpowder," Harcourt stated.

"You?" Dame Ludmilla asked, "Not we? Are you abandoning us, too?"

"I am leaving, too. I am not abandoning you. I helped you set the golems free, just as I promised, but that is all I can do for you and your cause. I have to set my own affairs in order."

Dame Ludmilla appraised Atalanta's listless face. "You know there is nothing you can do for her, don't you? The Dream Powder has taken away her mind, and it is never coming back."

"I know that. What I don't know is whether her soul is still somewhere in there, whether she can still feel pain, and suffering. And since I don't know, I intend to make what little is left of her life as pleasant for her as possible."

"Oh, Harry," she sobbed and flung herself into his arms. "You are a better man that you give yourself credit for."

"He is not," Valdez contradicted her. "The sins of a lifetime cannot be erased by one good deed. He has killed too many people, many of them better than he is..."

"Valdez!" Dame Ludmilla cut him short.

"No, he is right," Harcourt said. "Not even a lifetime of good deeds could undo what I have done."

"Don't try to make yourself worse than you are. You are not a monster," Dame Ludmilla replied, pushing herself away from him.

"No, I am not," Harcourt agreed. "I am only weak. I did bad things because it was easier than doing good. I joined the army because I did not think it was wrong to kill the enemies of the Commonwealth, or the enemies of the Council. And even after I left, I continued to hurt people for a living."

"Stay! You could do good here. You could fight for the rights of the workers."

"No. That isn't what I believe in. The proles are like golems. Set them free and they will run wild, destroying everything in their way."

"That's not true!"

"Then stay if you like. But you know the air is going to kill you, unless the Constables kill you first."

"At least I will be living my life to the full. While you cling to your dead past. Go! Get out of my sight!"

Without another word, Harcourt turned and walked away, pulling Atalanta along with him. She could only walk slowly. Harcourt decided he needed to find a horse. And then they would ride north. To Glimmermere, and into the mountains beyond. He would build a cabin in the woods and they would live from hunting and foraging. And maybe Camelia would show her some mercy, and Atalanta would get better. At least a bit better.

They walked down to the wharf, where the Aramaninta's Glory was now ablaze. They turned downstream, towards the canal. Harcourt took the snuff box out of his pocket and emptied its contents into the water. He would not be needing it after all.

The streets were mostly deserted. Fires were still raging in many parts of the city. Occasionally, they met groups of people hurrying past. Some were fleeing the city, and carried their meagre belongings with them. Others were clearly looters. Neither horses nor golems were to be seen. In the distance, Harcourt heard gunfire, and the roar of cannons.

A woman he passed in the street stopped and stared at him in horror. A young boy was at her side. Harcourt turned away, nagged by a foggy memory. With a scream of insane rage, the woman launched herself at him, and thrust a knife into his back. Harcourt staggered and went down on one knee, hurting it against the hard cobbles. He got back up again. Without thinking, he pushed Atalanta out of the way, drew his sword and chopped at the woman. The blade hit her in the neck, just above the shoulder.

With a gurgle, she dropped to the pavement, dying. Harcourt felt a blazing pain in his knee, but nothing else. He touched the hilt of the knife that still stuck out his back. The boy glared at him with hatred, but made no move to attack.

"Where is your father, boy?" Harcourt asked, filled with premonition.

"You killed him!" the boy spat. "You broke his leg! It got infected. The surgeon cut it off, and he died!"

"Run away, boy, or I will kill you, too."

The boy hesitated, then bolted. Harcourt sheathed his sword and took Atalanta's hand. They continued walking downstream. Soon, Atalanta was walking faster than him.