Lexicon

looked at it. I caught a reflection. It wasn’t enough to compromise me. Not completely. It was backward, you know. And not very clear. But I think a piece of it got in there. I call it my star. That’s what it feels like. A star in my eye. It’s not very nice, Yeats. It wants me to do bad things. But I figured out a way to control it. I just need to concentrate on killing you. When I do that, the star isn’t so bad. I don’t feel like I need to hurt anyone else. So you see, you dying is kind of a nonnegotiable at this point.”
    He was fascinated. This part he had not known. “Then what?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “After you murder me. What then?”
    “That’s not really any of your concern.”
    “I suppose not,” he said. “Very well. We will save that for later.”
    “But there’s not going to be a later, Yeats. Not for you.”
    “Mmm,” he said. He had narrowed her down to a dozen or so segments. He was mildly tempted to run through words for them all, which he could do in about fifteen seconds. That was a last-resort kind of move, though. It would spark an immediate response from her, of whatever kind. He would keep that in his back pocket while he attempted to learn more. “Before we proceed, I feel I must confess something.”
    “Oh?” He heard her coat scuff the carpet.
    “You are here because of me. There is no part of these events I have not engineered. The most difficult part of the exercise, in fact, was finding excuses as to why I left the bareword in Broken Hill for so long. To be honest, I expected you to move faster. It was becoming untenable. But here you are. Bringing the word back to me, filled with vengeance, according to plan.”
    “Really?” she said. “I have to tell you, from where I’m standing, that looks like a really shitty plan.”
    “When I came to Broken Hill in the midst of its immolation, I found myself moved. I felt desire. I realized then the danger of the bareword. It would have corrupted me. It would have been my undoing, as unearned power always is, sooner or later. And I have no intention of wasting this life on temporary greatness. What I will do with the word once I’ve taken it from you is leave a mark on this world that will never be erased.”
    “You’re not making a hell of a lot of sense, Yeats.”
    He shrugged slightly. “Perhaps my motives are beyond your comprehension. But I wish you to know that I don’t require words to make you perform my will. You are my puppet regardless. You stand here not because you willed it but because I did. Because defeating the bareword in your hands is the challenge I set myself to prove that I am ready to wield it.”
    “Dude, I’m going to kill you,” she said. “I’ve walked through every defense you have. There’s no doubt about that.”
    He rose from his chair and spread his arms. He began to increase his breathing, although she shouldn’t notice that. Segment seventy-seven. He was sure of it. It was 220 with more fear and self-doubt. Often paired in families, interestingly: a 220 elder child and a seventy-seven younger sibling. It was plausible that Woolf might slide from one to the other. “Here I am,” he said. “Kill me.”
    He heard her approach. There were two wide chairs opposite his desk, reducing the possible space she was occupying to a relatively small cuboid. Close enough to slice a sword through, if he was quick.
    “You have no idea how much I want this, Yeats. I know it’s bad form to say that. That I
want
. But I do. I want it so much.”
    He could hear her breathing. Very close now. He could probably reach across the desk and touch her. He pulled air into lungs, preparing to speak the words that would make her his.
    “Hey,” she said. “What’s that word? When the Japanese guys did something bad they’d atone by gutting themselves? You know? Disembowel themselves? What’s that called?”
    He didn’t answer.
    “Seppuku,” she said. “I think that’s it.”
    Doubt entered his mind. She was a seventy-seven, yes?
    “I’ve been planning this awhile, Yeats. Consider that.”
    He considered. “
Kinnal forset hallassin aidel!
” He turned. His hands closed on wood. He drew the blade from the scabbard. “
Scream!
” This was to locate her. To provide a signal that he had analyzed her correctly. He lunged across the desk and swept the blade horizontally. It cut nothing but air, and he overbalanced.
    “Not even close,” she said, from somewhere near the doorway.
    He