he’s chosen a hotel next to a ‘works, again, i notice. i enter, ring the bell at the desk of the Laughing Lotus. the proprietor blanches when i show my badge, and takes me to the suite without a word. he glances at me sidewise every seven seconds (on the average), his eyes as flitful as a seeding bird. “for one who lives so close to a Clock,” i say when we reach the door, “you act as if you’ve never seen a Man of the Hour before.”
“it’s not that,” he says in a reed-thin voice, “it’s . . . i’ve never seen anyone who took the vows by choice. most are strained worse than any in the town—and ’round here, that says a lot.” i consider his uneven eyes, his shamblestep, his nervous and nebulous thoughts. “but you, you haven’t got a single mark of that moment on you. ‘least, that is,” he hurries to add, “not as i can see.”
“you’re wrong, and not wrong,” i tell him. “i was in Miklagarðr at the Bend.” his hands were shaking already; at this, he drops the key. “leave it,” i say as he backs away. “and may your hours keep their order.”
bending down to pick it up, i notice the line of loess below the door’s border. yes. now there’s no doubt. he was here, i want to shout over my drumming heart. i hurry with the lock, rush in, and feast my gaze on the evidence of his arts. the Fleet was here, says dustless room, each surface too sheereflective. i lift the phone, await the tone; “connect me to the Collective,” i speak into the buzz, “i’ve caught the trail of the one who broke Bandrangnar’s bells.”
then i feel the titan tick of the temple’s timepiece through the walls, and shake myself steady. how could i so nearly miss it? the hour’s about to fall. i kneel, and wait for its knell.