Stepping into the castle’s foyer, she stopped the first ensign she encountered. With a flick of an ink-bee as proof of her nobility, she demanded Captain Harrod Starkley be brought to her. As she waited, a collection of sailors loitered in the adjoining hallway. Their heads turned to one another in discussion, and she half-expected them to form a queue for benedictions.
When the ensign finally returned without Harrod, his eyes were red and he appeared seasick. Running his hand through his hair, he stammered, “Yer highness, Captain Starkley is nowhere to be found. He reportedly… left for lunch.”
“Before eleven?” Sibylla’s fingers twitched at her side. “The captain is not that uncouth. Did he order you to say he’s not here? I wonder that an order from a superior officer relieves a man of lying to a member of the royal family.” The ensign nearly burst into tears, but breaking his spirit wouldn’t solve anything. “If you would at least deliver a message?”
“Whatever pleases yer highness.”
“Tell that poltroon that I am not above defacing this entire building with ink if he continues to behave like a childish caitiff. And ensign, I suggest you take a trip to church. Lying is a sin, no matter who ordered you to do so.”
Flustered, the ensign kept nodding. “Yes, yer highness. I promise I’ll go at lunch. No, sooner. I’ll go now.”
At this rate, he’d end up in the stockades for dereliction of duty. “I don’t think that’s necessary.” Sibylla gently laid her hand on his shoulder. “Why hurry to an appointment that is always being kept for you?”
Tears fell from his eyes in wet streaks, and she realized her mistake when the ensign clutched her hand so tightly she thought her fingers might break. Barely the age of Edmund and Edward, sixteen or seventeen at most, he didn’t let go. It was a mistake to scold him. Two years in Helmscliff had made her forget this could happen, especially with sailors.
He forced the words from his throat. “Forgive me, Divine Maiden Sibylla, please.”
She winced at the title. She had no choice, now. Wriggling her hand free, she placed her thumb to the center of his forehead. “With mercy, I unburden thee.” She slid her thumb down his nose to his lips. “May you swim in the glow of the sea.” Closing his eyes, the ensign kissed her thumb. Before stepping back, she stroked his head as a mother might until his sniffles ceased.
What a disaster. Sibylla turned from the ensign to where a cluster of male onlookers jostled one another, trying to hide behind a horse’s suit of armor. They peered over the shiny rump and Sibylla pretended not to notice, lest she spend her day blessing the rest of the keep.
“That’s her? The princess?”
“Looks like maybe. You gone to her chapel, yet?”
“Not since we came to port, but Forks swears by her blessing of virility. Said after being anointed, he kept his shivers wet for more’n an hour without so much as a sip of Dr Groady’s droop serum.”
These buffoons had no idea how their voices echoed off the stone. As she passed, the men ducked behind the iron horse, their bodies visible between its legs.
Outside, the drizzle had stopped. Perhaps pursuing Harrod at his house might yield better results. If not Harrod, then she might find Roger on her own.
She veered left to avoid the carriage horses. She had an unfortunate past with the beasts. Her riding lessons always left her bruised with muddy skirts when her mount would throw her for no apparent reason. With her head in the fog, she nearly collided with a lithe gentleman dressed in embroidered blue silk.
“Watch where you step, girl,” said an annoyed vice-admiral who accompanied the gentleman.
Sibylla adjusted her hat to keep her face hidden. One discomforting apology was enough for the day. Evidently the vice-admiral had other business on his mind, as he bustled on toward the carriage. The gentleman in blue, however, did not.
Before her, Emperor Timur stood without a hat – brazen by Caligo’s customs – and gazed at her with curiosity.
Sibylla lowered her head. “Your imperial majesty.” As she moved to one side to allow him to pass, he stepped to mirror her.
Meanwhile the vice-admiral waited beside the carriage with Dr Kaishuk. Neither of them had noticed her yet, and she’d rather not explain what she was doing at the keep, or who she’d come in search of, or why. If only the emperor would bow and turn away, she might escape relatively unnoted.
“What a welcome distraction,” said the emperor in his deep, warm voice. “I was tired of listening to old men prattle. None of them have tasted blood since the War of Ships.”
Sibylla smiled despite her desire to remain unnoticed. “Let us hope they grow older before partaking in another such culinary delight.”
With a scowl, Dr Kaishuk puffed up her chest and called out, “The carriage is ready, sire. We’ve a schedule to keep.”
The emperor shooed away his advisor. “I will be exploring your city tomorrow,” he said, “although I am not interested in a second parade. Perhaps you could suggest something more diverting.”
Sibylla recalled a book extolling Caligo’s hidden beauties. “There’s Hoxley Tower in the west, the palace gardens if your imperial majesty somehow missed them, or St Harailt’s rectory if you’re interested in seeing her royal majesty’s divine implements.” Sibylla paused. “Though perhaps not. I propose either the library in Stalwerch, Marlowe’s Menagerie, or the museum of medical oddities in Hiddle’s Park.”
Sibylla’s braid had slipped free from her coat collar, and the emperor trapped the flapping ribbon ends with his hand. “If I wanted a list, I would read a book.”
This was a man who could ruin a nation. One she wanted to impress, she reminded herself. She’d do better to put some thought into it. So far, Emperor Timur had shown an interest in the lower classes and relished a good meal. She could point him to a hotchpotch or a woman like Dame Angeline. Her cousins seemed to enjoy her establishment, and they had mentioned a new ingénue.
She tugged her braid free and tucked it back inside her collar. “If your imperial majesty would like, I’m sure our Minister of Foreign Affairs would merrily show you any corner of Caligo, even places a lady such as myself could not attend.” With growing concern, Sibylla realized she didn’t know which direction the emperor needed to be pointed.
“Please, call me Timur.”
“Timur. As I said, a minister might better understand your needs. I’m afraid I can only tell you what interests me.”
“Then do.”
Sibylla hesitated. She couldn’t imagine what would dazzle him most, so she settled on the one place she’d longed to visit since returning from Helmscliff. “Crosswitch Bridge. Its imported black stone is beautiful and its structure unique. Not to mention, cart peddlers have sold wares on its segmented arches for centuries, and as a child I was fond of a woman there who sold fresh bread stuffed with dates and olives. I haven’t been back for some years, however.”
“Your Minister of Foreign Affairs looks like a cross between an overbaked sheet of seaweed and a splatted egg. I’d prefer you take me. Though if he’s my only way of stealing your company, then I’ll happily arrange an outing for three.” The emperor’s smile elicited an unexpected flutter in her stomach.
Sibylla nodded her head toward the vice-admiral with crossed arms. “I’d much rather go on our own as well, but the palace will no doubt insist on following protocol.” As it was, she’d snuck out during the guard change to avoid an army of maids and chaperones following her as she performed secret cleansing rites.
The emperor laughed. “I will not be asking permission. And neither will you.”
Sibylla could hardly point to any attendants as proof of needing consent, and both the vice-admiral and Dr Kaishuk seemed miles away and annoyed. For the first time, she considered whether the queen would truly accept Emperor Timur as a suitor, even after she’d succeeded in soothing national egos. Unlike her cousin, he wasn’t some dynastic conclusion. The emperor had no need of Sibylla’s lineage or her title.
In the crypts beneath St Myrtle’s, sealed urns of the magicked nobility dating back to Saint-Queen Ingrid were kept, each with its own family record illuminated in Old Myrcnian script on vellum. When Sibylla died, her body would be exsanguinated, her whistle-click, inking, and glow cataloged, and her urn filled with her blood, and placed in front of her parents. This way the church ensured none of the magic would be bred out by accident, and, when necessary, certain pairings could be “encouraged.”
Marrying Timur would allow her to escape all that; she might not even be entombed beneath the church at all. She studied his appearance. He had a strong, graceful build and a manner not entirely repugnant. Their children might inherit his chin and her lips, but they would not receive her magic. Her offspring would need a magicked father to inherit her gifts. Surely a safe Myrcnian border was more important than passing on the royal glow.
“The queen won’t approve,” said Sibylla. To the emperor, it sounded as though she meant the free-style courting, but in her head, it was more.
No matter the political consequences, Sibylla hadn’t once believed the queen would truly discard her granddaughter into a magicless match. And only one man had ever made Sibylla think of running away.
“Are good relations not what your queen wants?” The emperor’s voice held a note of challenge.
“It’s the execution she’d disapprove of.”
“And what do you want?”
She didn’t know. She could smell him on the cold breeze – rowanberry spirits, Khalishkan leather, and vegetal amber. He could be an ally, or he could be a trap.
“Then let’s see what happens when someone dares dictate my actions.” Emperor Timur held his arms behind his back. “Tomorrow after breakfast, the seditious cicada and I will meet on the terrace and go to see a bridge. I think I am not company you can deny.”
He wasn’t company she could accept either. No matter how pleasant he smelled or how he intrigued her, the queen did not allow Myrcnian nobles to marry outsiders even when she invited them herself.
Sibylla unpinned her hat upon entering Malmouth Palace and unraveled her braid into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. The palace staff had begun preparations for the Royal Heritage Ball in four days’ time, and every spare hand was busy with the related activities.
Harrod could evade her indefinitely, having gotten Roger’s prerogative of service with nary an inquiry from her. Only two days remained until the Binding ceremony – two days to decide, after hearing his crimes, whether Roger Weathersby deserved this stay of execution. Rupert the Webbed had taken two days to spare Angus the Foul, and so it followed for every Straybound since. She rubbed the temples of her forehead.
Turning the corner toward her bedroom, she inhaled sharply. Dr Lundfrigg reclined against the wall in silk trousers better suited for sleeping than making house calls. His dour jacket couldn’t hide the lurid plaid waistcoat beneath.
“Back at last.” Dr Lundfrigg pushed himself upright and tapped the floor with his medical cane. “Did you know the queen was looking for you? I politely explained that you had scheduled a physical this morning.”
“And what prompted you to make up such a lie?” Exhausted by the day’s events, she had little patience left to deal with the royal physician.
“I am keen to win your highness’ good opinion.” He waited for her to open the door to her room. “There’s already an awful rumor circling that you’ve been pining after some lieutenant… or was it a captain?”
Addressing such nonsense hardly seemed worth the effort, but she did have a good idea of how to deal with Dr Lundfrigg. Until he achieved his goal, he’d continue to haunt her in this manner. It wouldn’t be long before he asked the queen to compel her cooperation – no doubt in the name of her health. “Come inside, then.”
“Have you finally decided to make a personal contribution?” Dr Lundfrigg brightened at the opportunity. “The number of cases one sees at St Colthorpe’s on a daily basis is enough to unnerve even the most stout-hearted medical professional. All those illnesses, and only meager treatments available. I’m doing my best, but imagine if my patients had your highness’ glow. I could stare right into a man’s guts and discover the exact nature of his ailment.”
Sibylla pulled off her overcoat. “You still want my blood then?”
From his medical cane, Dr Lundfrigg once again produced an empty glass vial while Sibylla took a seat on the chaise lounge, rolling up the sleeve of her blouse. Dr Lundfrigg stroked her arm, running his fingers up the inside of her wrist to the nook of her elbow, searching for a vein. Sibylla let her skin turn translucent, her blood glowing purple-violet. He wouldn’t see what she did next.
“How thoughtful of your highness.” Dr Lundfrigg pierced her skin with the needle. He folded his hands around her fingers until they’d compressed into a ball. “Keep your fist tight, and the procedure will be over soon.”
As her blood flowed into the syringe’s glass barrel, so too a thin line of ink made its way from her balled fingernails up her arm. Dr Lundfrigg might have noticed if not for her luminescence, which washed the surface of her translucent skin in a haze. A mild wave of nausea rippled through her stomach as she directed the ink into the vial. Her fingers prickled, but sure enough once the vial had been stoppered there was no discernible sign her “sample” had been contaminated.
“Extraordinary times we live in, are they not? Shaking the timbers of society with the brilliance of the human mind.” Dr Lundfrigg spoke with an enthusiasm that reminded Sibylla of Roger. Perhaps because of her lightheadedness, the lingering uncertainty over Roger’s convictions soured her stomach.
Fortunately, Dr Lundfrigg had finished and removed the syringe. He applied gauze to the pindrop of blood on her arm and began reassembling his cane. Having concluded his strange business, he bowed before exiting. Now he might leave her alone for a while. At least until he discovered she’d muddied his results with ink.
Sibylla eased back into the chaise lounge, resting her head against the cushion. If she completed the Binding, blood extractions would become a daily part of her life – a necessary burden to keep her Straybound alive. She wondered what Dr Lundfrigg would make of the devotional, a holy rite that required the consumption of blood. The royal physician seemed to think he’d find the answers to men’s illnesses inside their veins, but Sibylla knew magic could no more fit in his glass vials than inside a teacup.
A hematologist wouldn’t unravel the divine mysteries any more than a botanist could forever banish weeds from a garden or an engineer pull water from a well in the sky. Even the church couldn’t explain why the blood binding worked, only that it did, and by the grace of the Divine Lady of the Stream. Let fools chase explanations that didn’t exist, as Sibylla had to live in the practical world.
She cradled her throbbing head in her hands. She might not endure a week of Straybound devotionals if she felt as she did now. She needed to look Roger in the face to know he didn’t kill those women. It wasn’t enough for Harrod to profess his innocence then hide like a coward; she’d perform her own examination of Roger Weathersby and determine: man of science or murderer.
22
At half past seven in the evening, Roger found his way to the Anathema Club on Brocade Circle. He’d often overheard wild tales at Eldridge’s from the lucky stiffs who’d scored an invite – it was where the biggest names in Myrcnian science sipped port, swapped theories, and bloodied one another at the tallycracker table. Roger had once fancied sneaking in disguised as a medical student, but never made it past the porter. Yet here he stood, invitation in hand, and a genuine un-forged one at that.
Dawson had dressed him in castoffs from his own wardrobe: a brown frock-coat, satin waistcoat, and charcoal wool trousers. Although Roger had taken care to wrap a burgundy cravat around his high, starched shirt-collar, he still felt like an imposter.
He was no imposter, he reminded himself. As a man of science, he belonged here as much as any physician, geologist, or astronomer. Bes
ides, his presence here was no act of self-aggrandizement. He wanted to secure a hospital bed for Celeste and inquire about her condition. If he could make a good impression and be taken for a professional man on top of that, well, that would merely be a bonus.
A servant in a black tailcoat craned his head out the front door. “I’m afraid the club forbids loitering, man.” He’d already pegged Roger, despite his dapper getup, as working class.
“I’ve an appointment with Sir Finch S Lundfrigg, MD.” Roger thrust forward the letter as evidence.
“Why didn’t you say so? Follow me.”
Roger gazed slack-jawed as he stepped into a vast entrance hall. Pillars of mottled marble braced a domed roof, and across the ceiling a parade of skeletons cavorted, both human and beast. A staircase with a red runner ascended before him, then split into left and right wings.
“Dr Lundfrigg is in the library,” said the servant as he escorted Roger up the stairs. As they passed various chambers, Roger glimpsed men playing tallycracker under canopies of cigar smoke, and solitary gents nursing books or glasses of rye. Another wall featured pinned multicolored insects, their glassy wings splayed. The preserved kraken tentacle from Sibet’s history book, lopped off the writhing Kettlebay monster a century ago, revolved inside a massive glass jar.
The servant halted outside a set of large oak doors. “Be sure to show respect, young man. That’s her royal majesty’s physician in there. You still haven’t removed your hat.”
Flustered, Roger wrested open the massive doors and entered the library. A skeleton of brass staircases spiraled up three stories of shelves, and crisscrossing bridges connected various upper balconies. The far wall exhibited a massive shale slab containing the fossil of some toothy sea creature.
Emotionally charged voices filled the room as two individuals argued beneath the fossil. Roger approached with his hat clasped in hand and waited at a polite distance. He couldn’t help overhearing snippets of the discussion.
The Resurrectionist of Caligo Page 22
