Dr Lundfrigg stood grinning at them, then parted his lips and blew a ring-shaped water bubble.
“Look sharp, the sawbones has been practicing.” Cato tried to laugh, but only bubbles emerged.
A strange pressure built in Roger’s chest, and his breath escaped in a rush. A cloud of tiny bubbles fizzed from his mouth to form a dense, foamy cloud. Meanwhile the others entertained themselves trying to create the biggest bubble, made difficult by their drunken laughter.
Roger had seen this before. When he was a palace scullion, a cursing Lady Esther had spewed furious, terrifying bubbles from her mouth when she caught him and Sibet playing hog-the-wash with her skivvies. Somehow, Dr Lundfrigg had given common, drunken medical students this same ability. Magic for the common man.
A strangled laugh escaped his lips along with the bubbles. Harrod and his unimaginative ilk insisted some magic spark in noble blood marked them as “divine.” But now Roger had seen “magic” reproduced in a mushroom from Dr Lundfrigg’s garden. If anyone had magic, then anyone could rule. No more chapels or Saint-Queens, royal miracles or spark shows. Myrcnia could finally shuck off its obsolete faerie-tales for the Scientific Age. An odd feeling of limitless opportunity swelled his chest, and he wanted to shake Dr Lundfrigg’s hand.
Instead, Roger coughed out another swarm of little bubbles, each no bigger than a barley groat. By now the medical students had noticed his difficulty.
“Pretend it’s a smoke ring,” Cato said. “But don’t concentrate so hard.”
Dr Lundfrigg put a hand on Roger’s shoulder. “I think I know the problem.” He assembled a stethoscope from his medical cane. “Unbutton your shirt, young man. Let’s see how well I know my auscultation.”
Roger removed his jacket and unbuttoned the top half of his shirt, careful to keep his cravat in place over his bandaged neck.
Dr Lundfrigg pressed the cold metal bell of his scope to Roger’s chest. “Deep breaths. Very good.” He moved the bell in a line across Roger’s skin. “Just aim those bubbles away from my head. Aha. Just as I thought.”
He disassembled the stethoscope, and Roger buttoned up again. The effects of the mushroom had finally worn off.
“Have you ever had the romantic disease?”
“Doctor?” Roger hoped this wasn’t a test.
“The graceful cough. The flooded lung. Consumption.”
“Not as such. My mother did.”
“Well, allow me to extend my congratulations. You’ve had it also, a mere primary infection, that is. Most people with a primary infection never know they have it unless secondary complications set in. You’ve survived, and it’s unlikely to flare up again after all this time. There’s some scar tissue – I can hear it when you breathe, and it’s shredding those bubbles most impressively. My poet friends would be jealous.” Dr Lundfrigg took out a small notebook and jotted something down. “Finally, we are getting somewhere. I suspect the particular characteristics of ghostcandle variant ES1 could be a handy diagnostic tool for pre-symptomatic consumptive infections. Early treatment could revolutionize our approach to a disease that kills one out of every seven Myrcnians. Observe, gentlemen. Scientific progress has advanced under your very noses. This is only the beginning.”
The medical students cheered.
Roger spat out the remaining scrap of bluish mushroom and studied it in his palm. He wished he could transport it to his mother, before her first consumptive cough. Something might have been done to save her.
“This calls for a celebratory drink.” Dr Lundfrigg waved away the Skullflash. “Send a servant for the finest double-cask, silver-ribbon whiskey to be found this side of Khalishka.”
As Roger sipped his drink, an uneasy feeling settled in his gut. Dr Lundfrigg had used science to manufacture – no, cultivate – a power like the royal family’s smoke-and-mirror magic. A line had been crossed, connecting science to magic in unprecedented ways that could revolutionize Myrcnian society… or unravel it altogether.
23
By missing breakfast, Sibylla spared herself familial inquiries and instead read up on the history of Crosswitch Bridge. At a quarter to ten she grabbed her hat. Adjusting her veil, she made her way to the Great Gallery where Edgar stood seething in the front entry.
“I won’t allow you to go with that… foreigner.” His cadence made the word sound more like an insult than a descriptor. “Have you no concern over the damage to your reputation? There are already rumors of your friendliness with certain officers and my–”
Sibylla cut him off, taking two steps in. “That foreigner can injure our economy, invade our borders, or, if he chooses, take me out for a treat. After your dinner performance the other night, I doubt he fears Myrcnian royals. So by all means, tell the Emperor of Khalishka you won’t allow it.”
“Our marriage has been intended since the day I was born.”
“Then I suggest you take these concerns to Grandmother.”
Sibylla brushed past Edgar, leaving him fuming on the terrace while she joined Emperor Timur at the bottom of the steps. If the queen didn’t want Sibylla soothing diplomatic relations, then let her do something about it. The church’s genealogy charts weren’t the only measure of a person’s value, and the emperor had more to recommend him than magic.
To further provoke her cousin, she leaned close to the emperor and straightened his olive overcoat’s collar. “Lovely morning, Timur. Did you enjoy a good Myrcnian breakfast? It can be a tad heavy if you’re not accustomed.”
The corner of the emperor’s mouth tilted in amusement. He glanced at Edgar, who stood glaring on the terrace as if that might make Sibylla return to him. “I’ve noticed you avoid breakfast with your family.”
Sibylla followed his gaze. “I recommend everyone do so.” “Excellent choice.”
Emperor Timur extended his right arm toward the carriage. This vehicle had neither embellishments nor emblems, just a driver and two Khalishkan footmen. Only the nervous groomsmen worked for the palace.
Sibylla gave the driver directions to Crosswitch Bridge via the scenic route through Glasspon Gardens. They departed the hilltop palace and headed for the lower city. As they traveled, she struck up a conversation about the bridge’s construction while the emperor peppered her with absurd questions. How many Caligo men were needed to move a single wagon of stone? Did any bats reside beneath the arch? Had Celia the Devout cemented the severed heads of traitors into its walkway? Sibylla checked for a smirk on his face, certain he must be teasing.
When she pointed to a police station as an example of uneven Masonist style, he removed a notebook and charcoal stick to sketch it.
“Allow me,” said Sibylla, shaking off her right glove.
Without touching the notebook, she replicated the building’s disproportionate windows and rusticated stone walls in black ink. The emperor’s finger traced the lines as they dried. He flipped to a new page and pointed toward the red brick university. She continued to indulge him, enjoying his attentions, until the carriage halted on the west bank of Crosswitch Bridge.
They disembarked while his attendants stayed behind. Whether they stood out more than the average Myrcnian with a good income, she couldn’t say. Even unveiled, Sibylla doubted she’d be recognized here. Since her return from Helmscliff, she’d made one official appearance at the emperor’s greeting ceremony, and she no longer resembled the applecheeked princess who appeared on nougat tins and commemorative pie plates. In fact, the emperor, despite dressing to blend in, with his shorter beard, foreign eyes, and nimble build seemed to draw more attention.
Sibylla spotted a bread-vendor manning a wooden cart. Driven by her empty stomach and the smell of fresh baked goods, she took the emperor by the elbow and encouraged him to hurry.
At the front of the line, she requested two of each kind of bread. She glanced at the emperor while the baker wrapped the small loaves in beeswax paper. She hoped she hadn’t been too quick to order for him. Men often took umbrage to a lady who did the cho
osing. Instead, he leaned over the bridge rail to admire its black stonework.
She’d purchased five kinds of bread: date-stuffed buns, curry rolls, wheat with dried apple slices, marbled rye, and a white bread that looked fluffy enough to melt like ice shavings. Sibylla offered a curry roll first. The emperor examined its fried exterior, then sunk his teeth in.
Steam rose off the white slices. Not waiting for them to cool, Sibylla shoved half of one piece into her mouth and chewed. “A little saltier than I remember.” The soft center dissolved on her tongue. “We timed our visit well – still hot from the oven.” She grinned between bites. “I could eat a shell’s worth.”
The emperor’s remaining half-roll disappeared inside his mouth. “As a Myrcnian lady, you’ve an uncommonly healthy appetite.”
Embarrassed, Sibylla swallowed her last chunk of bread.
The emperor continued, “If you’d be so generous, I’ve a mind to experience more of your tastes this evening. Perhaps we might also enjoy some other pleasures.”
She gasped, the wheat loaf slipping from her hand. It tumbled over the bridge’s rail and landed with a splash in the Mudtyne. Flustered and unable to breathe at the implications, she watched the small loaf ride the current before sinking beneath the murky waters. She gripped the rail to calm herself and faced the emperor. He loosened his scarf, exposing his neck to the cold wind blowing off the river.
What kind of pleasure?
A night with the emperor might lead to a marriage that would promise a prosperous future for Myrcnia, but she’d be risking her status and the queen’s wrath. Endless concertina lessons, bloody fingers and no supper would be just the beginning. Dorinda had done far worse to her own husbands – rat poison and drownings – and if the queen preferred Sibylla to marry Edgar then Dorinda would ensure it happened. If nothing else, Straybound were the perfect instruments to express royal disapproval. Sibylla gazed out over the city rooftops, steepled and flat.
Even though she enjoyed Emperor Timur’s company, a part of her was reminded of Roger. Some day the emperor might also entice a flickering glow from her veins, and when he did, she might fall for him as well. Then, as with Roger, the queen would have her way. Despite their promises, the steaming bread shared on cold mornings, and his intriguing smile, the emperor, too, would disappear.
“This is another fiction,” said Sibylla in a fit of pique. Propping her hands on the bridge, she bent over the edge and limply smiled. “Just like the sharks in the Mudtyne. They don’t exist.”
“Do you know why you’re presently my favorite liaison?” The emperor removed his hat, and long strands of his hair flickered in the wind.
Sibylla stared down the river currents. “I don’t.”
“Because my interest in you angers more people than it pleases. But I have no desire in attending to people who think themselves less than what they clearly could be.”
Sibylla laughed. She had never been told she thought less of herself than she should. “And you have an understanding of what I could be?”
Tentatively, the emperor tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “An equal. For example, if you tell me you are already engaged this evening, I would believe you are engaged. And if you say you are not, then you are not.”
Sibylla studied the emperor, certain he spoke of more than evening entertainments. “And if I needed this afternoon to pursue another matter?”
The emperor stared into the Mudtyne’s murky waters. “Then I would consider that a small price for a private dinner. The time it takes to weigh one’s fortune against those of others.”
Another opportunity before the Binding ceremony would never present itself. Come typhoon or earth-tremor, tomorrow Roger would be bound. Sibylla had little more than a day to learn how he’d become the Greyanchor Strangler before she settled a contract that would join them to each other for as long as she lived.
Smoothing her gloves, she moved with intent. “I’ll instruct your driver on where we’ll meet for dinner. You mentioned wanting to try Caligo’s famous stews. I know a spot even the older residents don’t. And you really should see Marlowe’s Menagerie in the meantime.”
“While I respect your autonomy,” the emperor began haltingly, “I fear I would face severe censure by leaving you unguarded. Caligo is a dangerous city, more so than any in Khalishka, and it is my pleasure to accompany you. Unless, that is, the cicada has some other defensive trick up her sleeve?” He tilted his head in curiosity, but when she offered no response he signaled to a nearby attendant to ready the carriage.
“Really, that is not necessary.” Sibylla racked her brain for some excuse to go alone, but the emperor was already heading to the carriage. She stared at his retreating back. He had enabled her to leave the palace unsupervised, and she could hardly bargain her way out of his company now. At least he seemed adept at keeping secrets.
Uncertain but having no other recourse, Sibylla gave the address for Harrod’s townhome in Burkeshire Gardens to the carriage driver, though she didn’t have much hope of Roger being lodged there. Between the initial Rite of Contract and the Binding, Straybound were kept in cells.
Emperor Timur helped her into the carriage, and her face heated at the brief contact of his hand upon her elbow. An icy breeze whipped the windows as she adjusted her skirts to give the emperor room to join her. Sibylla intended to minimize how much she revealed in front of him, and so as a distraction she peppered him with questions. Did Khalishkans really burn dolls of the Myrcnian royal family? Had he ever been to the reed gardens in Lipthveria? And did he play any instruments?
Fortunately, when they arrived at 13 Burkeshire Gardens the emperor seemed content to admire the townhomes from the carriage while Sibylla questioned Harrod’s butler Dawson. Not only was Roger not living in a cell, but he had also taken up residence in Harrod’s house. And against all sensibilities, he’d gone to work somewhere in the medical district, apprenticed to – as Dawson called him – “a most distinguished gentleman.” Apparently, after lying to her, Harrod had lost his remaining wits. If the archbishop learned any of this, she’d need another prerogative of service to prevent a second hanging.
Back in the carriage, Sibylla squeezed her hands together to reassure herself. She had misjudged Harrod’s fondness for his brother, enough that she wondered if Harrod might have been blinded to Roger’s guilt.
She turned to the emperor. “Are you familiar with Caligo’s medical district?”
The emperor shook his head no. “I hear from Dr Kaishuk that it’s quite historical, in both the architecture and scientific attitudes.”
So far, the emperor had not pried into her affairs, but a knot of guilt over whether she should tell him some version of the truth had lodged in her throat. If she continued this pursuit of Roger without explanation, the emperor would likely draw his own conclusions.
“Before we go, I shall tell you something. As a child, I tutored a boy who worked in the palace kitchens.” Sibylla paused to see whether this revelation had offended the emperor. He gave nothing away, so she continued, “I’ve since learned he’s become a doctor of some repute.” Certainly being named the Greyanchor Strangler counted as repute. “And I’d like to introduce him to the royal physician now that I’ve returned to the city. After all, he was very bright once.” Sibylla stopped, as anything more would turn to lies.
The emperor considered her words, then replied, “You really are a seditious cicada.”
They arrived in Caligo’s medical district where tincture vendors, barbers, surgeons, and well-to-do purveyors of medicine occupied every shop front along Mouthstreet. Royal public service warnings against dishonest quacks and poisonous “health potions” were pasted over advertisements for Dr Groady’s Droop Serum – for “when even the princess can’t help your performance.” Though the emperor chuckled, Sibylla didn’t find the slogan amusing.
She hopped from the carriage to question a peddler, who took one look at her lace veil and pearl-studded traveling dress a
nd laughed in her face.
“What’s a lady doin’ lookin’ fer a surgeon? I’ve got a good idea…” He trailed off into another ugly laugh.
Putting on the sacrosanct air she used to deliver benedictions, Sibylla glared blackly at the peddler through her gauzy veil, then produced two winkles as further incentive. “I’m looking for a man. He goes by Roger Weathersby.” The peddler’s face remained blank, so she added, “A man of science. He’s a surgeon… or studying to be one.”
“Roger Weathersby. Weathersby…” The man jiggered his wig. “I know the name. A lusty fella, right? Got you in a bit o’ trouble, did he?” He hollered to another peddler. “You heard of a surgeon named Weathersby?”
“A surgeon? Naw, only Weathersby ’round here were that corpse fornicator. The one what sold his victims to anatomists. Old Eldridge were a customer, though he paid to keep his name from the papers.” Then, he began to sing. “A miscreant named Weathersby, who murders girls…”
“Where can I find this Eldridge?” Sibylla interrupted, all too aware of the emperor standing at a watchful distance. At this rate, he’d think her a scandal-chaser. Or worse.
The peddlers pointed toward the large Hospital of Gastronomical Revelations, and instructed her to keep going until it smelled like poverty and piss.
The emperor couldn’t help but comment: “This old pupil of yours has an interesting reputation.”
“So it would seem.” Sibylla hardly blamed his skepticism, and it was too late to amend her story.
“Clearly, the cicada favors men with colorful histories. I fear I will need to commit some scandal by sunset to pinion your wings.”
Sibylla held his hand to climb into the carriage. “Perhaps we’ll come upon a sea lion for you to wrestle.”
Three blocks west of the medical district’s major intersection stood Eldridge’s College of Barber-Surgeons. A faded sign swung on a squeaky bar. Sibylla knocked on the door. Unable to persuade the emperor to stay behind, as he’d an interest in meeting a “typical Myrcnian bloodletter,” they waited side by side until a beleaguered physician appeared.
The Resurrectionist of Caligo Page 24
