Roger sat up sharply. “That man weren’t at fault for how she died, fighting for every breath like she were drowning. When he bled her, she woke one last time to tell me… never mind what. He did all he could, right to the end, as you’d have seen yourself, had you bothered to show. I paid him every last shelling that were stuffed into my pockets by the queen’s maid for… you know. You always speak of doctors as ‘human butchers,’ as like to kill off their patients as heal them. There may be some crooks among them, but it’s unfair to think physicians of every stripe are quacks. Setting a man’s leg will change his life more than polishing his silver.”
Harrod flipped the empty teacup and let a damp ring form on the tablecloth. “Don’t think a pretty speech is going to wash away that tattoo. That’ll never be removed. There was only one way to get you out of that cell, and I did what I thought best. But that doesn’t mean I’ll see her highness scarred by your necromantic, blood-spattered hobbies.” He stood to leave and waited for Roger to bow.
Roger forced his body into a humble pose, and watched his brother turn his back, as unbreakable as a brick wall. Roger clenched his fists, but he’d lost the confidence to take a swing.
Later that night, Roger slipped into the study on the excuse of damping the fire. Harrod had convinced him of one thing. All of Caligo thought him guilty, save for the only person who’d believed in him all along.
The sight of parchment, ink, and quills laid out on Harrod’s sturdy writing desk mobilized Roger into action. This could be his best chance. Dawson would soon come looking for him, to lock him in the old windowless coal room for the night – apparently Harrod hoped to prevent future nocturnal wanderings. Regretting his recent correspondence to Princess Sibylla, Roger sat at the desk and scribbled a letter. She’d saved his neck, so she must suspect his innocence. He owed her an honest thank you, but he couldn’t bear the thought of Harrod reading it. He’d find a way to send it in secret.
Your Most Merciful Highness,
I cant help but trust that you know the truth of me, though I dont dare commit it to paper. Why else would you come to aid me in my darkest hour? I cant never express myself as best I should. Im but an Ingrate, an indebted one at that.
My late ordeal were like something in one of them thick books you like to read. Thanks to you, I have my neck. But its not the same neck as it was. Now I bear your mark. The Stigma of the Straybound. The Bishop mumbled his faerie incantations, they inked me, and my chains was removed. Harrod says Im to be bound to you in four days yet has near hysterics when I but mention your name. In your last letter you professed an admiration for him beyond my ability to understand. I dont wish to burden you with petty complaints (Im an Ingrate remember) but my brother needs reining in. Is it your wish that I bow to his every demand? You shall understand I require my Autonomy to excel in my chosen profession. Id serve you better as a surgeon than a drudge.
Dearest Sibet, I confess I have always been a bit afraid of you, for though I was always told you was as a delicate crystal vase, Ive long suspected that you would be the one to shatter me. I should cross that last part out. I wont. This letter wont never reach you anyway.
Your humble and contrited servant,
Roger X. Weathersby, Man of Science.
P.S. Have you not burned this yet? Hurry, I beg you!
Roger did not dare rewrite this letter, fearing he’d lose his nerve and destroy the thing. He decided not to use Harrod’s seal and stamped the wax with the underside of his physician’s amulet marked with the skull and lancet. On the front he wrote simply “Sibet.” Adding a more formal name would raise unnecessary curiosity. There were multiple inappropriate sentiments written into that letter. Well, bollocks to them all.
Roger hadn’t forgotten his other promise – to find a place in a hospital for Ada’s mother – and a well-placed letter might solve that problem, too. Writing to Dr Eldridge was out of the question, but a certain physician from his research in The Speculum medical journal had fixed in his memory. A curious case like Celeste’s could make careers, and history books if a physician cared for such a thing. That physician should be a notable blood scholar. He dipped his quill and started a second letter on a fresh page.
Dear Sir Finch S Lundfrigg, Royal College of Physicians,
I hope youll forgive a humble surgeon who begs your help in a matter befitting your expertise. As an eager student of your work I have read of your great interest in the bodys lifeblood. I have found a Case with many Symptoms which may be of interest. I beg you to admit this Case, a humble and devout widow, into St Colthorpes Charity Ward. At very least I hope you will permit me to ask what would cause blood to turn to thick ink. Please send your reply care of my brother, Captain Harrod Starkley, at 13 Burkeshire Gardens.
Your obedient servant,
Roger Starkley, a Man of Science
This time Roger closed the letter with Harrod’s seal, hoping it and Harrod’s opulent neighborhood would lend a certain authenticity. At the sound of Dawson’s voice calling his name in the corridor, Roger stashed the letters in his pocket and ducked from the room. Tomorrow he’d find a way to send them, and with any luck he’d intercept their replies out from under Dawson’s nose.
On the following morning, “Patience Day,” Roger was made to face the wall in an unlit alcove and clean grout between bricks with a nailbrush. He’d been at work for hours when the sound of Harrod’s footsteps on the stairs made him turn. The captain hurried past, clad in his formal dress uniform: a double-breasted tailcoat with fringed gold epaulets, ruffled shirt and jabot, and white knee breeches with matching silk stockings. A tasseled saber hung at his side. Across his chest he wore a sea-green sash and a sapphire-studded medal etched with a kraken and anchor. Between this ostentatious dress and the buzzing servants this morning, Roger knew there was something afoot in Caligo.
A few minutes later Dawson appeared, dressed in a less elaborate variant of Harrod’s uniform. Roger dropped the nailbrush as he passed, catching the man’s attention.
“There you are, Roger. First-rate news – the Emperor of Khalishka arrives today, an’ I have orders to lock you in the coal room while the captain an’ I attend the procession. You’ll have plenty of boot-blacking to keep yer hands busy. And as I hear yer handy with a needle, there’s a tablecloth for you to hem by hand, long enough to fit a table in Queen Mildred’s great hall. If that don’t take patience, I don’t know what will. Don’t get into no trouble. Captain Starkley says he’ll be watching you.” Excitement had softened Dawson’s usual gruffness.
Roger nodded. Excitement led to confusion, and confusion cloaked as well as darkness when it came to moving unnoticed. A plan for delivering his letters formed in his brain.
“Procession? I’ll be sorry to miss the spectacle. Will you have a chance to see the palace?”
Dawson nodded. “Aye. I’ll fill you in later, if you behave yerself to the captain’s satisfaction. Should be a grand show, hundreds of riders, cannons, and a ceremonial spark show by her royal majesty, I hear.”
They descended to the old coal room. Roger patted the pocket of his coat where he’d stowed his letter to the princess and cleared his throat.
“There’s a girl in the palace waiting for word of me.”
Dawson cocked his head. “That so? A serving-girl sweetheart, I expect?”
“More or less.” Roger reached into his pocket. “If it’s no bother, I’ve a letter.”
“But have you coin?” Dawson fixed him with the uneven gaze of his lazy eye, and Roger knew he was about to be fleeced. After a brief but passionate negotiation, they settled on an extra caddy of boots to black, and one tooth extraction to be performed at a time of Dawson’s choosing.
Roger handed him the letter with a show of reluctance. “If you can’t deliver it, tie a rock to it and throw it in the Mudtyne.”
Dawson closed the door and turned the key.
One letter down. Unfortunately, he’d need to take care of the second one himself, as his use
of the fake name – Roger Starkley – on the return address would certainly raise questions.
Per his probation, Roger practiced further “patience” by waiting for the commotion of Harrod’s departure to settle before retrieving his lockpicks from the pocket of his topcoat. Harrod must have assumed that, since this old coal room had no window, it made a secure cell. He’d assumed wrong. Roger picked the lock with ease and tiptoed toward the servants’ entrance.
Within the hour, Roger had anonymously delivered Dr Lundfrigg’s letter to one of the clerks at St Colthorpe’s Hospital and arrived in Suet Street. Though he relied on the atrocious strangler portraits in the broadsheets to keep people from recognizing him, he wore the hat from Nail low over his eyes to hide his face. Details about the latest missing girl remained sparse – specifically whether she’d had an unidentifiable illness. Perhaps Ada knew something about the men who’d met with Celeste before she’d taken ill, though the idea of asking her turned his stomach.
He climbed the stairs to his garret two at a time, his mouth dry from worry that she might not be there. And in case she was, he held a hand level with his throat to prevent her strangling him.
This time he knocked.
“I saw you coming down the street,” she called from the other side of the door. “I got you a gift, Mr sack-’em-up man. Close your eyes and come in.”
Roger’s heart settled. He closed his eyes, arms braced against attack, and opened the door.
“Look.”
Roger opened his eyes.
Ada held up a tray of the sort street vendors used to hawk carnations or buttered parchment potatoes. “Mrs Carver promised to make jellied veal of it, but I asked and she said you could cut it up for me first.”
A fetal calf the size of a bread loaf lolled on the tray, front hooves splayed as if inviting an embrace.
“I’m sorry I sold your cat. I’d hoped you’d show me some insides.”
Roger had expected Ada to ask about her mother, though he didn’t know what to say when she did. He hadn’t had to tell Celeste she was dying. She already knew. But did Ada? And if not, was it his responsibility to break such news?
No. Or at least, not today.
Perhaps he might cheer her in his own, admittedly morbid, way.
“A fetal calf, eh?” Roger let his face light up with interest. He plucked an old scalpel from a jar of coffin nails, charcoal sticks, and mismatched cutlery.
“Set the tray on the bed,” he said. “Now hold the limbs like so, while I make the cuts. Watch them fingers.” He dragged the tip of his knife down the center of the calf’s belly, then made two crosswise incisions at either end so he could fold back the skin to reveal the organs underneath.
“Them looks like pickled eels.”
“These are the entrails. Help me unravel them. See how long they are?”
“They feel slimy.”
“We all have them inside us, you and me, too. When we eat, that’s where it goes.”
“Where’s the stomach? Can it really burst if you eat too much?”
Roger explained the path of digestion as best he could, borrowing many of Dr Eldridge’s words, then showed her the heart, lungs, and brain. He encouraged Ada to touch and even taste the different parts of anatomy just as Dr Eldridge had encouraged him.
“Nasty sack-’em-up.”
“Horrid ghost.”
Roger had saved hardboiled eggs and bread from his breakfast to give to Ada who, though she’d eaten breakfast with the Carvers, wolfed down the food. As Ada prepared to return the calf to Mrs Carver for the promised jelly, Roger took a deep breath, hating himself for what he was about to ask.
“Ghost, when your ma got sick, do you remember her talking about any strange customers, or…?” His voice trailed off at her deadpan expression. “I’m not asking for details, just–”
“Did a man with horns and a funny looking chin come knocking at her window?” She put a hand on her hip, but when she spoke, her voice cracked. “You think someone made her sick? Like that song Mrs Carver’s always singing, ‘Poison Mary.’”
“I don’t know.” Celeste hadn’t acquired her ailment from a water pump or rotten grain; there’d be more bodies, an epidemic. Roger’s current theory was she’d been infected by some foreign substance – a heavy metal or natural venom. “No one else has fallen sick at Eglantine’s, or the laundry?” Ada shrugged no. Claudine, Margalotte, and now, Celeste; women roughly the same age, with hard-soft bellies, and different professions. No men so far.
Ada puffed up her chest and slugged Roger in the arm. “Don’t worry, sack-’em-up. You bring the strangler to me. I’ll pull his entrails out through his nose.”
A series of explosions and whistles blared outside the window.
“Fireworks,” said Roger. “The royal procession must be on. Shall we go see?”
They washed up at the public pump, then wandered several blocks toward the general sounds of chaos. As the crowds grew thicker, Roger hoisted Ada onto his shoulders.
“I see horses,” she exclaimed, drumming her palms on his hat. Roger stood on a low rail that boosted his head above the crowds. A procession of mounted cavalry, the queen’s Black Stallions, rode past in formation, the riders clad in vibrant berry-red coats and shining cuirasses. The horses trotted as one in a fancy, forward-kicking gait.
A dozen cannons rumbled by, each pulled by a feathery-hoofed draft horse.
“Look!” shouted Ada, yanking Roger by the ear. “It’s a sailing ship on wheels.”
“The navy likes to put on airs,” he said. “They don’t fight wars with ships like that. The wheels are just for show. Look at all them poor sailors who have to pull it along on ropes.”
Ada dropped her voice to a whisper. “There’s a man on the deck. I think he’s staring.”
Sails snapped as the craft rattled forward – it wasn’t a full ship, and barely the length of an omnibus. In the bow stood Harrod, his eyes fixed on Roger amid the massive crowd. Might there be some truth to what he’d said about his uncanny hunches? Roger reached for his garlic.
“The high seas must be grand,” sighed Ada.
“I’d say they’re more apt to make one ill.” Roger frowned. He shouldn’t let his problems creep into his afternoon out with Ada. “Can you see the palace from up there, Ghost?” he said brightly to change the subject. “Are there any pretty princesses riding past?”
“None, ’cept for me,” said Ada with pride and squeezed his neck.
19
Sibylla’s gown of silver satin, quilted with white pearls, had been constructed for this occasion. As she stepped outside, her bodice refracted the sunlight like a crystal chandelier. One of the queen’s Black Stallions escorted her to the main dais where she climbed the stairs to eager applause from the crowd. Families had arrived as early as dawn with their children, baskets of food, and small metal dishes to collect the falling ash. Afterward, they’d take the dishes home to display on their mantels, a blessing of bounty from the queen herself.
Sibylla stood at the queen’s right while Crown Prince Elfred, in a silver-embroidered dress uniform, stood on the queen’s left. The remaining royal family members had boxed seats on the palace’s terrace. Myrcnian guards lined the main thoroughfare to keep the crowd from blocking the entry. No more people would be allowed inside the gates until the emperor’s parade concluded its tour at the front of Malmouth Palace. Sibylla’s fingers twitched nervously. She focused on not flinging ink-bees into the crowd, even though she considered her role here as entertainer.
Murmurs spread from the back of the throng forward. A general excitement settled in the air. Around the edges of the courtyard, palace servants prepared for the queen’s signature recreation of King Roderick’s Great Geese Feast by readying their matches to strike candlewicks. Applause trickled toward Sibylla before cheers at the back of the courtyard erupted with the emperor’s arrival.
Six pale horses of a special breed from Arenbough drew the emperor’s carriage, a r
eminder of Khalishka’s recent annexation of the slender coastal country. The small retinue of foreign soldiers outshone its Myrcnian escort, riding in a staggered formation on wide, pitchblack horses. Clad in calf-length black coats, they drew their slightly curved, guardless blades in salute. As they halted before the queen, the unified snap of their swords being sheathed into wooden scabbards silenced the crowd.
Sibylla concentrated on breathing steadily as she waited for the emperor to exit his carriage. Her nerves won out and a small ink-bee slinked off her fingertips. She expected a bear of a man, with a thick beard and fingernails like claws, not the sleek and lithesome figure that jumped from the carriage. How unfamiliar he looked, in the traditional Khalishkan military dress uniform, without crown or sash. Instead of the jewels and ribbons favored by Myrcnian royals, Emperor Timur kept a pair of fighting knives sheathed in a timber box on one hip and a silver pistol on his right. He wore his thick, black hair in a topknot, and a wellmanicured short beard that obscured his age, although Sibylla knew he was five years her senior. He was neither the tallest nor the shortest man, and hurried to the dais as if bored by the affair already.
He vaulted up the stairs and affectionately shook hands with the queen. Sibylla wondered if the exact measure of their greeting had been arranged in advance. He took position at the queen’s right, holding his hands stiff behind his back. Not once did he attempt to make eye contact with Sibylla and she began to think the talk of their potential marriage was rather more fuss than fact. All the better for her to focus on what she wanted: a Myrcnian embassy on Khalishkan soil.
The queen raised her right arm for silence.
“On this day–” the queen’s voice dipped and rose “–we welcome Emperor Timur and his countrymen. Long have we wished to strengthen our ties with noble Khalishka, and in celebration of this historic occasion we will offer the Blessing of King Roderick to those who have so benevolently gathered here today to wish us well. May this blessing represent to our guests Myrcnia’s great generosity and bounty in the face of all adversities.”
The Resurrectionist of Caligo Page 19
