West of the town, a river ran down out of the hills. It had once powered the town’s mill wheels, and now it carried their broken burned timbers away back east. Creedmoor and Liv followed it west, herding the General between them. They carried him across the water where it was shallow and tacked northwest across grassland. The sun, rising at their backs, seemed frozen in its progress, as if uncertain, and the sky was a red that went dark and rotten as the day lengthened. Liv kept turning, thinking it was the fires of New Design that glowered at her back.
“Don’t look back now, Liv. You’ve made your choice.”
The General offered: “When he looked back to see if the princess was following him up the stairs of bone, he saw her only in the act of vanishing like a joke repeated too often. Transformed into stone, down in the deep warrens. Nothing from the Fairy-worlds, from the Under-worlds, from the Inner Lodges, may be looked at directly, without changing. . . .”
“See, Liv? The General knows. He’s livelier, don’t you think, now that sad old town’s behind us? Come on, old man.”
Grass gave way to stones and weeds and scrub, to a dry ashy plain. Clouds gathered and darkened but it did not rain. There was no cover anywhere. Creedmoor urged them on faster and faster, toward the always-distant hills. Creedmoor muttered, deep in thought, as if in a dream. He rubbed his head and snapped, “Faster, faster, old man.”
“Creedmoor—”
“No, Liv.”
“Creedmoor, listen. I know you don’t want to give him to your masters—”
“Are you appealing to my conscience, Liv?”
“Of course not, Creedmoor—I’m appealing to your pride. This is your last chance to be free of them.”
“That’s impossible, Liv.”
“Creedmoor—”
“They’re listening to everything you say, Liv, and everything I think. And they tell me to kill you. Now move faster. Some of the Linesmen survived New Design. They are still pursuing us.”
—Creedmoor.
—I am trying to think.
—Yes. We know exactly what you are thinking.
—I know that you know. So there we are.
—Creedmoor. Stop. Turn back. What follows us is only half a dozen Linesmen, battered and tired and confused.
—Aren’t we all. And how are they following us, anyway?
—You can kill them easily. Turn back. Come home.
—Maybe I want to keep going west. Out onto the wild shores. Take the General and walk off with him into the sea at the end of the world. We can dissolve together. You’ll never have his secret. What could you do to stop me?
—The Goad, Creedmoor.
—Not while the Line pursues us.
—This is pointless, Creedmoor. It cannot last. Sooner or later, you must make a choice. And there is only one choice you can make.
—I could snap the old man’s neck. You could kill me first by means of your fucking Goad, but you would not, because then the Line would have him.
—Yes. We would take our revenge on you later, at our leisure. Your name would be forgotten. You will not do it. You are not a brave or a good man.
—No.
—Come home, Creedmoor. All our Agents are unruly, and we love you for it.
They kept walking. The ashy plain rose steadily into the west. Liv dragged her feet through it. Her legs were numb and stiff. The sun blazed behind them. They walked in silence—Creedmoor rebuffed every attempt at conversation, and the General had fallen mute. By midday, they were far from New Design. The sky was full of swirling ink-blot clouds.
Six Linesmen followed behind them. They followed at a distance, not daring to come too close. The plains were broad and treeless, however, and every once in a while, the Linesmen came close enough that even Liv could make them out—a row of black specks on the horizon. On one such occasion, Creedmoor suddenly turned and fired, and then there were five. Creedmoor holstered his gun again and kept walking.
“What’s the point, Creedmoor? Why are they following us? There aren’t enough of them to fight you, they must see that.”
He shrugged. “No point. They have their duty.” He turned an awful cynical smile to her, and she understood, immediately and without doubt, what she had to do.
Her palms began to sweat and her gut twisted with fear. But she kept walking, following Creedmoor, and apparently he noticed nothing different in her stride or her expression or her scent; or at least he kept walking, too, his back to her, his head down.