“You’re not telling me anything,” Lee says, scratching the bandage again.

“Wouldn’t it be easier for Bradley to sit here with you?” I say. “You could see what happens through him.”

“I’d rather have you,” he says.

And I see myself in his Noise, nothing too private or anything, just a better-looking version of me, cleaned and washed and fit, instead of feverish and too thin and grimy in a way that doesn’t ever seem to wash off.

He hasn’t talked about his blindness except to make jokes about it, and when there’s someone else with Noise around, he can still see through that, saying it’s almost as good as having eyes. But I’m with him a lot when he’s alone, as we both seem to live in this stupid healing room these days, and I can see it in him, see how most of his life disappeared all at once, that suddenly all he sees are memories and other people’s versions of the world.

And how he can’t even cry about it because the burns are so bad.

“When you sit there quietly,” he says. “I know you’re reading me.”

“Sorry,” I say, looking away and coughing some more. “I’m just worried. This has to work.”

“You gotta stop thinking you’re responsible,” he says. “You were protecting Todd, that’s all. If it had taken starting a war to save my mum and sister, I wouldn’t have hesitated.”

“But you can’t make war personal,” I say, “or you’ll never make the right decisions.”

“And if you didn’t make personal decisions, you wouldn’t be a person. All war is personal somehow, isn’t it? For somebody? Except it’s usually hate.”

“Lee–”

“I’m just saying how lucky he is to have someone love him so much they’d take on the whole world.” His Noise is uncomfortable, wondering what I’m looking like, how I’m responding. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“He’d do it for me,” I say quietly.

I’d do it for you, too, Lee’s Noise says.

And I know he would.

But those people who die because we do it, don’t they have people who’d kill for them?

So who’s right?

I put my head in my hands. It feels really heavy. Every day, Mistress Coyle tries new approaches to the infection, and every day I feel better for a while but then it comes back a little bit worse.

Fatal, I think.

And still weeks until the convoy gets here, if they can help at all–

There’s a sudden crackle over the comm system of the ship that makes us jump. “They’ve done it,” Bradley’s voice says, sounding surprised.

I look up. “Done what?”

“They’ve got one,” Bradley says. “To the north.”

“But,” I say, looking from screen to screen, “it’s too early. There wasn’t–”

“It wasn’t Simone.” Bradley’s voice is as confused as I am. “It was Prentiss. He captured a Spackle before we even set the plan in motion.”

[TODD]

“Mistress Coyle’s gonna be fuming,” I say, as the Mayor keeps shaking hands with soldiers who come up to congratulate him.

“I find myself strangely calm about that prospect, Todd,” he says, taking in his victory.

Cuz it turns out there was still that squadron of soldiers to the north, wasn’t there? Twiddling their thumbs, being laughed at by Spackle who snuck by ’em on a regular basis to attack the town.

Mistress Coyle forgot about ’em. So did Bradley and Simone. So did I.

The Mayor didn’t.

He watched tonight’s big plan being made over the comm by Simone and agreed on the time and place where Mistress Braithwaite could plant her decoy bombs. And then when the Spackle figured out that one part of the valley on the northern road was vulnerable to attack cuz we were busy pretending we weren’t watching the south, just like we wanted ’em to think, they sent forward a small group sneaking past our soldiers like usual, like they’ve done a dozen times before–

Except this time, they didn’t find us so agreeable.

The Mayor moved his men to exactly the right place and they surged round in a flanking movement, cutting off the Spackle’s route and mowing most of ’em down with gunfire before anyone knew what was going on.

All but two of the Spackle were killed and those two got marched thru town not twenty minutes later to a ROAR from the watching army. Mr Tate and Mr O’Hare took ’em to the horse stables behind the cathedral to wait while the Mayor finishes getting the congratulayshuns of all of New Prentisstown. I take the long, slow walk thru the crowds with him, handshakes and cheering and backslapping everywhere.

“You coulda told me,” I say, raising my voice above the clamour.

“You’re right, Todd,” he says, stopping to look at me for a minute as the people keep swarming round us. “I should have, I apologize. Next time, I will.”

And to my surprise, it sounds like he means it.

We keep on thru the crowds and eventually we make it round to the stables.

Where a couple of really angry mistresses wait.

“I demand you let us in there!” Mistress Nadari says and Mistress Lawson beside her harrumphs in agreement.

“Safety first, ladies,” the Mayor smiles at them. “We have no idea how dangerous a captured Spackle might be.”

“Now,” Mistress Nadari says.

But the Mayor’s still smiling.

And he’s followed by a whole city of smiling soldiers.

“I’ll just make sure the situation is safe before I do that, shall I?” he says, stepping to one side of the mistresses, who are then held back by a line of soldiers as the Mayor goes inside. I follow him in.

And my stomach grabs itself into a tight fist.

Cuz inside are the two Spackle, tied to chairs, their arms bound behind ’em in a way I know only too well.

(but neither are 1017 and I don’t know if I’m relieved or upset–)

One of ’em’s got red blood all over his naked white skin, the lichen he was wearing torn off and thrown to the ground. His head’s up, tho, his eyes wide open, and I’m damned if his Noise don’t show all kinds of pictures of us paying for what we’ve done–

But the Spackle next to him–

The Spackle next to him don’t look too much like a Spackle no more.

I’m ready to start yelling but, “What the hell is this?” the Mayor shouts first, surprising me.

Surprising the men, too.

“Askings, sir,” Mr O’Hare says, his hands and fists bloody. “We’ve learned quite a lot in a very short time.” He gestures at the broken-looking Spackle. “Before this one unfortunately succumbed to injuries sustained during–”

There’s a whooshing sound I ain’t heard in a while, a slap, a punch, a bullet of Noise from the Mayor, and Mr O’Hare’s head snaps back and he falls to the floor, quivering like he’s in spasm.

“We’re meant to be after peace here!” the Mayor shouts at the other men, who look back in sheeplike astonishment. “I did not authorize torture.”

Mr Tate clears his throat. “This one has proven tougher under interrogation,” he says, pointing at the one still alive. “He’s a very hardy specimen.”

“Lucky for you, Captain,” the Mayor says, his voice still hot.

“I’ll let the mistresses in,” I say. “They can treat him.”

“No, you won’t,” the Mayor says, “because we’re letting him go.”

“What?”

“What?” says Mr Tate.

The Mayor walks behind the Spackle. “We were to capture a Spackle and let him go back with the news that we want peace.” He takes out his knife. “And so that is what we will do.”

“Mr President–”

“Open the back door, please,” the Mayor says.

Mr Tate pulls up. “The back door?”

“With despatch, Captain.”

Mr Tate goes and opens the back door of the stables, the one that leads away from the square–

Away from the mistresses.

“Hey!” I say. “You can’t do that. You made an agreement–”

“Which I’m keeping, Todd.” He leans down so his mouth is next to the Spackle’s ear. “I assume the voice can speak our language?”

And I think, The voice?

But already there’s a low flurry of Noise back and forth from the Mayor to the Spackle, something deep and black and hard flowing twixt ’em so fast no one in the room can follow it.