by S. E. Grove
Sophia wanted only to get out of the sun. She was last in line to be questioned by the plague cleric. One by one, the Nihilismian missionaries had been allowed to pass into the city, carrying their few belongings. The two remaining Nihilismians, Whence and Partial, middle-aged women who were singular only by virtue of their occasional displays of kindness to one another, stood quietly, studiously ignoring her.
The punishing sun reminded Sophia of the Baldlands. She tried to take what relief she could by crouching behind the planter, but even in the rectangle of shade, the heat was overwhelming. The cleric conferred with his scribe as he approached Whence and Partial. He was an older man, with only a few strands of hair, a pair of bushy eyebrows, and no chin to speak of. His teeth were yellowed and crooked. The robes he wore, in white, black, and red, seemed entirely unsuited to the fierce Seville sun, but he appeared not to notice the heat.
The cleric stopped before Partial, examined her in silence, and then spoke rapidly in Castilian to his scribe, who made a series of slow, deliberate annotations. He held his hands clasped before him and peered at Partial with milky blue eyes. “You arrive today from New Occident?” the cleric asked, in accented English.
Partial nodded.
“Why do you arrive?”
“I am Nihilismian. I am here on a mission.”
“What is this mission?”
She sighed. “To set the Papal States on the true path.”
“And what is the true path?”
Partial did not respond. She seemed to be melting where she stood. Coughing suddenly, she let her head drop onto Whence’s shoulder. “Whence can tell you about the true path,” she murmured.
The cleric glanced at his scribe, and the scribe nodded. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“She is unwell,” Whence said, “but it is only a common cold. She is tired from the journey and the heat.” She put her arm around Partial.
“How long has she been unwell?”
“Some four days. She needs water and rest, that is all.”
The cleric eyed Whence dispassionately and turned once more to Partial. Eyes closed, breathing deeply, she appeared to have fallen asleep on Whence’s shoulder. There were beads of sweat on her upper lip and forehead. The cleric’s bushy eyebrows drew together in a frown. He spoke quietly in Castilian and the scribe nodded. Walking quickly along the dock, the scribe disappeared into the stone archway that led to the city.
“Where is he going?” Whence asked irritably. “We have been here for an hour already. Are we almost done?”
“Almost,” the cleric said with composure. He clasped his hands before him again, and waited.
Sophia felt the time pass slowly, but it was only a few minutes later that a pair of horsemen emerged, accompanied by the scribe. A flash of cold traveled down her spine, and she rose to her feet with a sense of foreboding. The two horsemen wore white, hooded robes that glittered in the sunlight. Their faces were obscured by golden masks: long, hooked beaks and narrow slits for eyes made them into ominous, brilliant birds. Sophia found herself thinking of the Nochtland guard; somehow, these golden horsemen appeared even more forbidding.
They dismounted when they reached the dock and walked unhurriedly beside the scribe. As they approached, Sophia saw that their long robes shimmered from golden thread that had been woven into the white cloth. Each wore a heavy belt and a long sword in a scabbard. One of the men tossed back his hood as he approached, revealing a mass of golden curls. They did not remove their masks. With a brief nod, the plague cleric spoke to the horsemen and gestured to Partial. The golden beaks nodded in reply. Then, without so much as a word, they stepped forward and took Partial by the arms.
“What are you doing?” Whence exclaimed. She reached out, clinging to her friend’s listless hand.
Partial awoke enough to object and push feebly at the hands that held her. The horsemen took no notice. Half guiding, half carrying her toward the horses, they led her away. “Where are you taking me?” Partial protested. She batted ineffectually at the masked men.
“What is happening?” Whence asked the cleric at the same time.
“Your companion has lapena,” the cleric said calmly.
“What? No—no, she doesn’t. It’s just a cold and she is exhausted by the heat.”
“We shall see.”
“But where are they taking her?”
“To quarantine.”
“You can’t take her to quarantine. There will be others with the plague there!”
The cleric nodded. “All those with plague must be isolated.”
“But she doesn’t have the plague!” Whence’s voice had grown shrill.
The cleric examined her for a moment in silence. “How can you be certain? She has all the signs. She is tired and does not care for life. She can hardly be roused.”
“Does not care for life? She is tired, that’s all!”
“Her signs are advanced,” the cleric said with an air of finality. The men with the golden beaks were leaving the dock, one of them leading the horses and the other leading Partial. “You are her travel companion, are you not? What remains is to see if you, also, have any signs of these plagues.”
Whence fell suddenly silent. She stared at the cleric with horror. Then she straightened her skirts and stood at her full height. “Very well. Ask me your questions. You will see that I am not in the least unwell.”
The cleric squinted at her thoughtfully. “You arrive today from New Occident?” he asked, commencing his litany of questions once more.
As Whence answered, Sophia watched, wide-eyed. She could hardly believe it had happened so fast. The Nihilismian was gone. She would be placed in quarantine, and if there was anyone there with the plague, she would surely fall ill. Sophia’s heart pounded, and her attention drifted. She felt a mixture of relief, shame, and fear: relief that she was not being led away by the men with golden masks; shame at her sense of relief; and fear that the same fate would befall her. It could not. It would not.
The plague cleric nodded at Whence, concluding his questioning. “It is well; you may enter Seville.”
Whence nodded in return. “Thank you.” Sophia could see that the Nihilismian was deeply shaken. She picked up her satchel and Partial’s without a word and walked slowly toward the city.
The plague cleric turned to Sophia and the scribe looked up, expectantly, prepared to take down her replies.
“You arrive today from New Occident?” the cleric asked.
“Yes,” Sophia replied, a false smile stretching across her face.
“Why do you arrive?”
“I am here to look for my parents. They came this way many years ago, and I hope to find them.”
The man considered this in silence. Then he echoed, “You hope to find them.”
“Yes. I am on my way to Granada, to the Nihilismian depository, to find a document written by my mother.”
The cleric took this in. Then he nodded slightly in the direction of the planter. “And what is this?”
“This is a container with plants.” Sophia realized, as she gave her reply, that the heavy lock might cause some suspicion. But she could not pretend it was hers. If the cleric asked to see inside the box, she would be unable to open it.
“And why do you bring it?”
“I am transporting it for a friend. It is a gift for someone in Seville.”
“Do you have the name and address of this person?”
Sophia opened her satchel and took out Map Vendors in Every (Known) Age. She had seen an entry for Seville, and she turned the pages as calmly as she could. “Gilberto Jerez,” she said to the cleric, finding the entry in her book. “Calle Abades.”
The cleric looked at her in silence for a moment. He spoke rapidly in Castilian to the scribe, who had been making careful note of Sophia’s replies, and the scribe responded
. Then the cleric asked her, in a practiced way, “Have you recently been visited by visions or apparitions of any kind?”
Sophia paused, feeling her heart lurch. “No, I haven’t.”
“Do you assert that you love the life granted to you by God?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish this life to end?”
“No.”
“Do you suffer from any declining spirits or do you know anyone,” he paused, “anyone in addition to the traveler called”—he turned to the scribe, who made a brief reply from his notes— “called Par-shal, who suffers from such declining spirits?”
“No, I don’t.”
“If you should fall into a decline of spirits, do you accept that you must leave the city, isolating yourself, so that you may die without contaminating those who love life?”
Sophia hesitated at the sudden prospect of such a terrible fate. The cleric watched her closely. “Yes, I do accept,” Sophia said.
“State your name and place of origin.”
“Every Tims, Boston, New Occident.”
“It is well. You may enter Seville,” the cleric said. The scribe finished his notes.
“Thank you,” Sophia said.
“You will find,” the cleric added, as he prepared to leave, “that you will not be able to make the delivery of this plant. Gilberto Jerez died last year of the plague.”
22
Falconer and Phantom
—June 29: 10-Hour 13—
It was soon discovered by those who hunted them that the Fourwings’ golden eyes remained bright and luminous, even after the creatures died. Longer lasting than beeswax or tallow, the eyes could be used in place of candles or oil lamps. For a time they were used in the streetlamps of Seville and Granada, until it became clear that the residents would steal every last one of the precious orbs. Now they are only used in private homes.
—From Fulgencio Esparragosa’s
Complete and Authoritative History of the Papal States
THE PLANTER WAS far heavier than Sophia had imagined. She was able to pull it along the wooden dock without too much difficulty, but once she reached the cobblestone streets her progress slowed. The stones were rounded and uneven, and the planter pitched and jammed at every step. Sophia’s pack, riding on the lower shelf of the planter, shifted back and forth, sliding off more than once.
The dusty orange trees were motionless in the brilliant sun. With significant effort, Sophia reached the main plaza, where the half-built cathedral of Seville stretched upward into the blue sky, all vaulted towers and pointed spires. Sophia had read in Esparragosa’s history that construction had begun centuries before the Great Disruption. Now, with the stagnation brought about by the plague, the unfinished cathedral seemed like an abandoned fantasy.
Her progress drew some attention. A woman wearing a long veil walked by holding two little girls by the hands. The girls, dressed in long white dresses that trailed over the paving stones, stared at Sophia with undisguised fascination. Three old men who sat near the cathedral talking, their faces withered as dried apricots, chuckled silently with their toothless mouths, pointing at the planter. At the corner where she turned off the plaza, an old woman knelt on a folded woolen blanket, her hands outstretched in supplication.
Sophia had nothing to give her. With a desperate yank, she left the plaza and trudged on, pulling the planter into the shade. She had as her goal the bookstore listed in Map Vendors in Every (Known) Age. Even if Gilberto Jerez had died, perhaps the store was still open. And she had to find food. Though she had brought New Occident money, she had no gold or currency of any kind accepted in the Papal States.
She had consulted her map of Seville while still at the harbor, and she followed it now in her mind, stubbornly hauling the planter over the cobblestones, even though her legs trembled and the sweat ran down her forehead. Sophia began to question her choice. Perhaps leaving the planter on the Verity would have been better. Surely she could negotiate help from Remorse’s associate without it. If he appeared, that would mean he wanted to help her and would be disposed to overlook the missing planter—wouldn’t he? Sophia felt her thoughts grow muddled in the heat.
Suddenly, the planter seemed to glide forward of its own accord, and Sophia stumbled forward. Hurriedly stepping aside, she turned to see what had happened. A tall man wearing a hooded cape had pushed the planter with the palm of his hand; now he stopped. “Looked like you could use a hand,” he said dryly in English. His voice was deep and accented. Sophia had heard the accent before from explorers who visited Shadrack; he was from the Closed Empire. Beneath the hood she saw a stubbled chin, dark blond hair the color and length of her own, and a Roman nose. His eyes were obscured by the hood’s shadow. Sophia squinted dubiously, taking in his worn boots, the long sword visible under his cape, and the bow and quiver slung over his shoulder. His hand was still resting against the planter. “Go on,” he said, as if he were a mule driver. “I’ll push.”
Too tired to argue, Sophia took up the handle at the front of the planter. They made quick progress, and Sophia strained to keep the map straight in her mind. They passed a street packed with butcher shops, where the meat hung in the shade and the flies described slow circles at every entryway. Then they turned on a narrow passage where two young women sat in a doorway, carding wool. A chapel tucked back from the road filled the air with the heavy scent of incense. Sophia glanced into an open shop where dried lavender hung in bunches from the ceiling. White candles of all sizes were neatly stacked on the store’s wooden shelves. After several minutes of walking through the quiet streets, they reached the address in the Jewish quarter. Sophia stopped and wiped her brow. “This is it,” she said. She turned to the gray-hooded man. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome,” he said shortly, and headed back the way they’d come.
Sophia watched him go, astonished. Even the friendly people in Seville are unfriendly, she thought. As the hooded man walked away, he raised his left wrist, and with an almost silent flutter of wings, a gray-brown bird of prey settled on his leather-bound forearm. The bird turned to stare back at Sophia, its black eyes disconcertingly bright.
There was a tiny patch of shade where the rooftops blocked the sun, and she stood there, catching her breath. The narrow street could have been beautiful, with its flower boxes and painted doorways and colorfully shuttered windows. The cobblestones, wretched as they were for hauling the planter, reminded her of East Ending Street. But the very air seemed to carry suspicion and neglect. Several of the houses were visibly abandoned, with littered doorways and broken windows. The plague had taken a heavy toll.
She knocked on the door of the map store with a sense of apprehension. Its sign hung lopsided on a single nail, and the shuttered windows did not appear to invite customers. No one answered, and Sophia knocked again with a sinking heart. After knocking a third time and receiving no reply, she slumped down in the doorway. Finding the map store had been her only inspiration.
Sophia let her head fall back against the door of the map store and tried to prevent herself from panicking. Reaching into her pocket, she clutched the spool of silver thread for reassurance. She longed to be safely home in Boston. When she thought about home—Shadrack, Theo’s homecoming, Mrs. Clay’s maple cake—she felt tears welling up in her eyes. She wished powerfully for Theo, who not only would have known what to do in such a situation but would have made light of it. She smiled at the thought, but it did not stop the tears from falling. They were so salty they hurt. I need water, Sophia realized. That’s why I’m so weak and confused. The thought made her feel even more overwhelmed and helpless. Somewhere down the street, a door opened and closed. Sophia opened her eyes and peered in both directions, shielding her face with her hand. I am not helpless, she told herself. I will knock on every one of these doors—someone must be kind enough to give me some food and water.
Draggin
g herself to her feet, Sophia shouldered her satchel, crossed the narrow street, and knocked on the low blue door directly in front of her. No one answered. She knocked again. A sound came from within, and though the door did not open a small window within it, covered with iron grating, did. Sophia looked hopefully at the window, which was just at eye level. An old woman peered out at her. “Please,” Sophia said in English. “Can you spare some food or water?” She bunched her fingers together and lifted them to her mouth, then pretended to hold a glass and tipped it back. “Please?” The woman stared at her for a moment longer, and then, without a word, the little window was slammed shut.
It felt to Sophia like a physical blow, but the first rejection stung the most. Next door, no one answered, and in the third house she had a string of incomprehensible words hurled at her and another window slammed in her face. The fourth and fifth houses looked abandoned, but she knocked anyway. No one answered. The sixth had flowers in its flowerpots, and the shutters were open. The door, to match the shutters, was painted bright yellow. Unlike the others, it had no little window. Sophia knocked as firmly as she dared.
After only a few seconds, the door opened slightly, and a young woman looked out. “Could you please spare any food or water?” Sophia asked, miming again. The woman paused, as if undecided. Her hair was tied back with a handkerchief, and she wore a full apron over her blue dress. The apron was covered with flour. Suddenly, there was a tussle of movement at her skirts and a small boy, no more than three years old, appeared at the woman’s knee. He pushed the door wider to get a better view and gaped up at Sophia. His cheeks were dusted with flour. Sophia smiled at him, her dry lips cracking. “Hi,” she said to him with a small wave.
“Ay,” he said back, mimicking her wave.
The woman had watched in silence, and then she bent forward and said something to the little boy, who disappeared abruptly as if pulled away by a string. She turned back to Sophia and, saying something in Castilian, pointed down the street. Her tone seemed encouraging, but Sophia had no idea what she meant.
