Ian Tregillis - Bitter Seeds

Aubrey moved to the bedside. He set his cup and saucer on the tea service and poured a second cup. Will's mouth watered. “Here,” said Aubrey. “Can you sit up?”

Will worked himself into a sitting position. The effort made his head spin, but he resisted the temptation to close his eyes again. Aubrey propped a spare pillow behind him. “Here,” he said, offering the cup.

Will wrapped his fingers around it. It was the good china, the Spode pearlware. That must have been a mistake; the lustrous Spode was meant for honored guests. The tea warmed Will's fingers. It was strong tea, with lemon, the way he liked it. He wondered how Aubrey had known this, or if somebody on the kitchen staff remembered how Will took his tea. It soothed him, and eroded the burrs that scraped his throat.

After half a cup, he rasped, “How did I get here?”

“The proprietress of the, ah, that place. She contacted us in quite a state.”

“Because I hadn't left my room in several days.”

“Because you hadn't paid. She said she had a, ah, guest on the premises who insisted, rather loudly I understand, that I would cover his expenses.”

“Oh.”

Aubrey sat in a century-old hand-carved oaken chair across the bed stand from Will. “What were you doing there?”

Will took a long slow sip, thinking about how to answer his brother's question. “I needed a change.”

“But why there? Why didn't you come home?”

“I'm rather unsure where that is these days.”

Aubrey quirked an eyebrow. Even during a heart-to-heart talk, or what passed for one, he strove for an elegant, understated comportment. The man was so entrenched in his position that he looked upon everything, even himself, with utter seriousness. “That's an odd thing to say. We grew up here, you and I.”

“We had different childhoods.”

Aubrey drained his cup. He poured the last of the tea for Will, then sent the service out with a servant whom Will didn't recognize. He supposed most of the house hold staff would be strangers to him. Who remembered the way he took his tea?

Sunlight on the near wall turned orange, then red, as it inched upward. The windowpanes crisscrossed the sunlight with thin shadows. Will nursed his tea. It was strong, astringent; it had steeped too long.

Aubrey's chair creaked when he uncrossed his legs. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“What happened to you, William?”

“We had different childhoods.”

“That's not an answer.”

“It's the truest answer I have to give.”

The sun set. Aubrey turned on the lamps in opposite corners of the room. They spilled warm light across rugs that one of Will's forebears had obtained in India.

Will dozed off and on. Each time he woke, he was surprised to see that Aubrey had stayed. Will felt strangely pleased by this.

“I dreamt of Mr. Malcolm,” he said. “Do you remember Mr. Malcolm?”

“Who?”

“Malcolm. Grandfather's steward, long ago.”

Aubrey shrugged. “Of course.”

“That's good. He was a good man. He should be remembered.”

Aubrey pulled a pocket watch from his vest pocket. It clicked open. He read it, frowned, and put it back. He said, “I'll have the kitchen bring you something to eat. Can you eat?”

Will's stomach gurgled. “I shall try.”

“Excellent. Well, then.” Aubrey crossed the room, toward the door. “I'm having guests tomorrow evening. I presume your convalescence will last longer than that.”

It wasn't, Will noticed, a question. “Who can say? Perhaps I'll be on my feet sooner rather than later. Whom are you having?”

Aubrey hesitated. “I think it would be better for all if you indulged in a few days of bed rest.”

“Ah. You'd prefer if I not make an appearance tomorrow. Is that it?” Will asked.

“It would avoid unpleasant questions.”

“Unpleasant?”

“My own brother in a, a, one of those places. What image do you think that projects?”

Will ignored the spinning in his head when he sat upright. “I'm frightfully sorry to have inconvenienced you, Your Grace.”

“Don't be like that—”

“You wanted to know what had happened to me. Well, I'll tell you this. I've done far more for the war effort than you and your charities will ever manage.” Will's voice cracked. He had to clear his throat before continuing. “I've done things you'd ... I've been fighting a war and I'm exhausted beyond my capacity to express. I couldn't bear it any longer. Just like father.”

The mention of their father cracked Aubrey's imperturbable facade. Aubrey, being the older of the pair, remembered their father more than Will did. Sadness tightened the corners of his eyes. He shook his head.

Quietly, he said, “No. Not like father. You'll get better.” His rueful smile diminished, but did not erase, the look of regret in his eyes. “You'll be your cheerful, aggravating self once more.”

Will couldn't see his brother clearly, because his eyes were watery. “I would like that very much.”

23 May 1941

On the road, near Magdeburg, Germany

They made decent time, rushing east from Bielefeld, but at the cost of rapidly depleted battery stores. The task of clearing the roads fell mostly to Reinhardt, who could vaporize the ice and snow as quickly as their three-truck convoy came upon it. In places they used Kammler, too, for tossing aside downed trees and other detritus, but Spalcke lacked his pre de ces sor's finesse, meaning he couldn't make the telekinetic clear roads on the fly. This panicked, unscripted race wasn't a patch on the Gotterelektrongruppe's perfectly choreographed performance in the Ardennes.

And it was a race; nobody denied that. Their destination was the point of contention. In the past three hours, they'd received several conflicting sets of orders over the radio.

Klaus rode in the lead with Reinhardt. He swapped out the other man's battery as their truck plunged through another cloud of steam. The vapor froze to the truck when they emerged onto another clear stretch of road. The windshield wipers rattled quickly across the window glass.

The driver cleared his throat. “Herr Obersturmfuhrer ...” He trailed off, obviously reluctant to address either Klaus or Reinhardt specifically. The two had been arguing all morning, which made the driver fidgety. Nobody wanted to be stuck in the middle when supermen fought.

The driver pointed. They were bearing down on a junction where several roads met. A signpost indicated the distances to cities in various directions.

“East,” said Reinhardt.

The familiar copper taste filled Klaus's mouth as he angrily called up the Gotterelektron. “South,” he said.

The driver bit his lip.

Reinhardt repeated himself. “East. We're going to Berlin.” The air inside the truck became very warm.

Klaus turned to the driver. “Pull over. Get out.”

The truck barely skidded to a halt before the driver jumped out.

Klaus ran a hand over his face. “Reinhardt. There are three of us. Two and a half,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the truck containing Kammler. “You think you're going through the batteries quickly now? How long will they last when you're fighting an army?”

“That's what we were MADE FOR!” Acrid smoke wafted up from the upholstery beneath Reinhardt.

Klaus dematerialized, willing his body transparent to the surging heat. He reached forward with one ghostly hand and unplugged Reinhardt's battery. It quenched the supernatural warmth. Klaus released his Willenskrafte.

Reinhardt's pale eyes frosted over with rage. “Do you know how many ways I've imagined to kill you?”

“The Soviets were watching us,” said Klaus, attempting to deflect the threat with reason. Over the years, he had likewise imagined countless scenarios for dealing with Reinhardt, and even Kammler, should the situation arise. Few suggested a clear victory for anybody. “They want the doctor's research. They're probably advancing on the farm right now, while there's nobody to defend it.”