by S. E. Grove
At least once a day, sometimes more, either Theo or someone else needled Casanova for the story of the scar. And every time he brushed them off, prompting them to invent ever more outlandish explanations: a favorite book and a burning tent; a chicken, a rooftop, and a pot of tea; a blind old lady, a pipe, and a box of matches. Casanova laughed indulgently at each one and said nothing.
To explain his quiet nature, his preference for books over rowdy company, he professed to be a great coward. Some men treated their weapons with exaggerated fondness, as if holding family heirlooms; Casanova could barely stand to touch his sword and rifle, which he tossed under his cot at night like a pair of old brooms. He scowled whenever anyone boasted of victory in a knife fight. He rolled his eyes at the sight of men who, after training all day, threw fists at one another over some imagined insult. Casanova preferred to read in his tent. But Theo noticed that despite the constant claims to cowardice, no one ever goaded Casanova or threw insults—let alone fists—in his direction. No doubt, Theo surmised, his height and build and fearsome scar protected him, despite his peaceable nature.
Casanova waited, now, locking his hands behind his damp hair—he had just washed away the August dust in the nearby stream—and regarded the yellow canvas of the tent ceiling.
Finally Theo sighed. “Cas, I don’t know what to say to Shadrack.”
Casanova continued to stare at the ceiling. “Why is that?”
“There’s no news about Sophia. There’s no news about the war. And everything here . . . Well, you know. What can I possibly say?”
Now Casanova looked at him, one side of his face a handsome smile, the other side a puckered and twisted knot. “You don’t have to tell him that. Tell him unimportant things—he’ll never know the difference.”
“But what?”
“Tell him how Lumps fell yesterday, certain as he was he could lift the branch off the road by himself, and ended up sitting waist-high in mud.”
Theo chuckled at the memory.
“Tell him how it took almost an hour for Lumps to wash the mud out of his clothes, and he had to stand naked in the river to do it. If you have the stomach for it, you might even describe what Lumps looked like naked.”
Theo laughed.
“And you can mention how often you think of him and Sophia,” Casanova added gently, now that he had gotten Theo to laugh. “And how much you wish this war would end.”
Taking a deep breath, Theo nodded. “All right. I’ll do that.” He ran a hand through his dusty hair and tiredly put the paper aside. “I’ll write it tomorrow morning.”
Casanova watched the younger man for a moment. “I saw something interesting today.”
Theo looked up sharply, recognizing the shift in tone.
“The supply caravan that arrived yesterday. I managed to look inside.”
Theo waited.
“I thought the amount of food might give a sense of where we’re going—how long we’re meant to march. But there was no food in the wagon. There were crates with armor.”
“Armor?” Theo echoed, curious.
“Glass shields for the eyes, set in a leather mask.”
“Like goggles?”
“Look for yourself.” Casanova sat up, reached under his cot, and pulled out a confusion of leather straps and buckles.
“I’m starting to guess how you landed in prison, Cas,” Theo commented amiably.
Casanova eased the leather hood over his head and faced Theo. “How does it fit?” he asked, his voice muffled.
Theo frowned. “Hard to say. Well enough, if you wish to look like a giant fly.” Green lenses, bulbous and oblong, were set in at an angle, giving the mask a saddened aspect. Leather stitching ran down the center, and a pear-shaped screen of stiff cloth covered the mouth and nose. At the neck, a strap and buckle hung loose. “Can you see?”
“I can, but everything is distorted.” Casanova took one bulging lens in each hand and, with some effort, snapped them upward. “They have hinges—a little tight.” His brown eyes blinked expressionlessly through the mask. “There’s something in the fabric here—a smell like charcoal.”
Theo grimaced. “Better take it off.”
After he did, Casanova said, “I hope Merret doesn’t mean to make us wear those. Hot as an oven in there.”
“Why would we have to wear them? I guess they’re protection, but protection from what?”
Casanova stuffed the mask under his cot and lay back with a sigh. “We’ll know soon enough. Merret has us arriving in the Indian Territories in three days.”
There was a silence. Casanova again contemplated the low canvas ceiling, where the candle flame threw moving shadows. Theo stretched out on his cot and reached to snuff the light. But for once, he did not fall asleep immediately, and his thoughts ran haltingly, as if through a maze.
4
Five Letters
—1892, August 2: 8-Hour 31—
Newsprint, letters, even a painting: these things we call “dreck” can be from the past or future, but a past or future lost through the Great Disruption. They can sometimes offer surprising revelations. A piece of dreck from 1832 served as a warning: it cautioned New Occident to consider what conditions might serve as a foundation for war. For decades afterward, the threat of warfare hung over the hemisphere like a storm cloud, but the threat was always averted. The wars before the Disruption had cost enough bloodshed, and the rebellion of New Akan had demonstrated what misery was possible when the Age turned against itself.
—From Shadrack Elli’s History of New Occident
PRIME MINISTER GORDON Broadgirdle had clearly expended significant resources and no small amount of energy on his War Room. Lavish and excessively comfortable, it seemed to suggest that war was a cozy business—even a luxurious business—to be enjoyed from the confines of a cozy and luxurious chamber.
Shadrack hated it.
Everything about it turned his stomach. The room looked out in the direction of the Public Garden, its wide windows curtained with ochre velvet. Pin-striped wallpaper, dark blue and white, was interrupted by portraits of pre-Disruption politicians. Shadrack felt dizzy whenever he looked at it. Heavy armchairs upholstered in tan leather waited obediently around a polished oval table. In the humid air that even Broadgirdle’s expenditures could not avoid, everything was faintly damp; with some distaste, Shadrack marked a whiff of mildew. He suspected it came from the over-thick carpet, dark blue to match the pinstripes, which muffled even Broadgirdle’s heavy tread when he strode into the room.
And stride he did, every morning at eight-hour, thirty. Broadgirdle met with his war cabinet each day at this time, and he clearly enjoyed the meetings as much as he enjoyed his sumptuous War Room.
“Good morning, gentlemen!” He beamed, pulling out a chair beside Rupert Middles, the recently appointed Minister of State and the architect of the “Patriot Plan,” the parliamentary bill that had closed the borders to foreigners. Middles, with his outsized mustache and fat fingers, sat across from Salvatore Piedmont, the Minister of Defense.
“Good morning, Prime Minister!” Piedmont replied, harrumphing with energy. “A fine day to plan a war!” Shadrack groaned silently; he said the same thing every morning.
Salvatore Piedmont was a military man who had seen better days. His father had been a general in the first years after the Disruption, when slave rebellions in the south led to the formation of New Akan. Piedmont had inherited from his father a dislike for rebellion and a trenchant certainty that New Occident’s armed forces could solve any problem, great or small. Over the course of his long life, he had seen those beloved armed forces marginalized as New Occident remained at peace with its neighbors. Now, well into his eighties, he was delighted that they were finally in the spotlight. Broadgirdle, for his part, seemed not to mind that the head of the Armed Forces was a rather weak-witted octogenarian. I
t made it all the easier to have his way.
“Good morning,” Middles agreed, sitting up in his chair. He had still not overcome the sense of importance that came with being appointed Minister of State, and whenever Broadgirdle was present, he set his face into a stern mask, as if determined to embody the air of gravity and solemnity required for his position.
“Good morning,” Shadrack said wearily.
Broadgirdle flashed him a serpentine smile, pleased as ever to see Shadrack’s dispirited exhaustion. “We have a great deal to discuss today. I have reports from Griggs and June.”
“What does June say, then?” Piedmont rumbled happily. “A fine soldier. A very fine soldier, Erik June.”
Shadrack suppressed the desire to roll his eyes.
“He and Griggs both report considerable obstacles to their progress,” Broadgirdle said.
“What?” cried Piedmont.
Middles frowned worriedly. “More sinkholes?”
“Indeed, gentlemen. More sinkholes.” Broadgirdle sat back and watched them levelly, as if awaiting an explanation.
The first sinkhole had appeared in early July. Overnight, an entire city block in the western portion of Boston had disappeared into a gaping hole whose black depths seemed endless. There were no survivors.
The second had opened two days later, this time southwest of the city. Fewer lives were lost, for the area was less densely settled, but it was just as confounding. In total, seven such sinkholes had appeared within a day’s ride of Boston, and now more were appearing where the New Occident troops were meant to march. Shadrack had heard no shortage of desperate theories—the poor construction of roads, improper drainage, unprecedented volcanic activity—as well as more informed scientific debate, but as yet no one had been able to suggest a convincing explanation.
“It is a considerable problem,” Broadgirdle said, looking meaningly at Shadrack, as if he were responsible. “The troops are following maps made by the war cartologer, and that war cartologer is not accounting for sinkholes.”
“Well,” Shadrack said dryly, “the sinkholes don’t always appear where I ask them to.”
Broadgirdle raised an eyebrow, unfazed by the sarcasm. “There should be alternate directions for each route.”
Shadrack was about to protest that this would create a logistical nightmare, but he was interrupted.
“Excuse me, Prime Minister,” a woman’s voice said. Cassandra Pierce, Broadgirdle’s new assistant, had materialized at his elbow. She handed him a piece of paper. “I thought you would want to see this before it’s published. It will be in this evening’s Boston Post. I understand it’s already gone to press.”
As Broadgirdle silently read, Shadrack could see the effect of the text on his countenance: first surprise, then anger, then a concerted effort at composure, and, finally, a settling disdain. “Who wrote this?” he asked coolly.
“The editors,” replied Pierce.
“May I?” Shadrack asked.
Broadgirdle handed it over with a sneer. “I’m not entirely surprised no one is willing to sign a name to such a piece.”
Shadrack scanned the beginning of the editorial:
END THE WESTERN WAR
The editors appeal to the Prime Minister and Parliament to reconsider the costly and fruitless war with our neighbors. At the root of this war is Parliament’s border policy, which is so intolerant to foreigners. This policy has provoked New Akan and the Indian Territories to secede; it has provoked the United Indies to declare an embargo. As a result, New Occident finds itself isolated and friendless where it was once at the center of the hemisphere’s trade.
What do we gain by such policies? What do we gain from expansion to the west? Is the acquisition of Baldlands territory truly more valuable than the thousands of dollars in weekly trade with the United Indies? Is it more valuable than peace with the Territories? Is it more valuable than the port of New Orleans? We think not.
Shadrack had to stop himself from nodding his agreement at every line. Finally! he thought. Someone is writing reason. I hope the reading public comes to its senses.
“Outrageous!” Piedmont declared, his voice trembling. Shadrack looked up to find that the Minsters of Defense and State were both reading over his shoulder. “‘What do we gain?’ An absurd question that could only come from a civilian.”
“I notice that the editors don’t mention how the border policy has kept them safe for so many months,” Middles sniffed. He shook his head. “Another reminder that our system of purchasing parliament seats is invaluable. Can you imagine if such rabble had a voice in government?”
“Regardless,” Broadgirdle observed, “many of the rabble do read. And since this piece is already in press, I think it expedient to write a reply.” His voice was calm, and it was apparent that he had already devised a solution to the problem.
“A reply!” Piedmont exclaimed. “Surely this does not even merit a reply.”
“I think it does. And who better to write it than our Minister of Relations with Foreign Ages?”
Shadrack yanked his eyes up from the editorial. “I . . .” he began. “I am not sure I’m the right person for it.”
A smile began on Broadgirdle’s face, and Shadrack felt the widening grin like a vicious bite. It reminded him of everything that the man had done to compel him into his present predicament. Broadgirdle had learned that the two foreigners living in Shadrack’s home, Theodore Constantine Thackary and Mrs. Sissal Clay, were using falsified citizenship papers, and had threatened to deport them; he had somehow discovered Sophia’s entry to the Nihilismian Archive under false pretenses, and had said he would inform the archive so that they could press charges. Every member of his household was at the prime minister’s mercy. Every one of them would be lost if Shadrack did not do as Broadgirdle asked.
The desperation Shadrack felt was no less for being familiar. He had no choice but to labor as War Cartologer for a war he detested. He had no choice but to support policies that he considered discriminatory, injurious, and rash. He had no choice now but to write a scathing reply to the editorial, despite the fact that he agreed with every word of it.
—August 3, 16-Hour 40—
“READ THE LAST part again, Shadrack,” Miles ordered, scowling, “from arriving in Pear Tree.”
Shadrack looked around his kitchen table at the others, who nodded their agreement. The kitchen of 34 East Ending Street, with its disordered piles of maps, its mismatched dishes, and its fragrant peach cobbler, could not have been more different from Broadgirdle’s War Room. And the plotters who met twice a week in the kitchen could not have been more different from the Prime Minister’s war cabinet—but they were just as determined in their objective.
Miles Countryman, explorer and adventurer, was Shadrack’s oldest friend in New Occident. He was also the most argumentative person in Boston. He fought with Shadrack about everything from the pitfalls of politics to the size of a proper meal. Mrs. Sissal Clay, the housekeeper who resided on the top floor, was a widow from Nochtland, and since arriving at East Ending she had not argued with Shadrack even once. She almost never traveled.
The last two plotters were so dissimilar that they made Miles and Mrs. Clay seem like two peas in a pod. Nettie Grey was the very respectable daughter of Inspector Roscoe Grey, and Winston Pendle—Winnie for short—was the very disreputable son of an asylum inmate. Though Winnie was rather cleaner of late than was his custom, since he was now living with Miles instead of on the street, he had a persistent unruliness that no amount of clean clothes could repair. He perched crookedly on his seat while Nettie sat with perfect posture. He tousled his hair as he pondered Shadrack’s news, making a tangled nest of it, while Nettie’s hair was plaited beautifully. He chewed thoughtfully on a pencil, leaving it mangled, while Nettie remained calm and still.
What the plotters all had in common, different as they we
re in their ages, backgrounds, and tendencies, was a loyalty to the residents of 34 East Ending Street—present or absent—and an invincible loathing for Prime Minister Gordon Broadgirdle.
On the day Theo had been conscripted and sent to war, he had extracted a promise from Winnie that he would look after things in Boston while Theo was gone. Winnie took the promise seriously. The following day, he had made his proposal to Shadrack. The five of them would work together to bring Prime Minister Gordon Broadgirdle to justice. They would make him pay for the murder of Cyril Bligh, the missing Eerie he had taken prisoner would be found, and upon his imprisonment the senseless war with the west would end.
Shadrack had agreed, partly because he could see in the dirty little boy’s fierce eyes that he would go after Broadgirdle with or without him, and he rather thought Winnie’s chances were better if he had assistance.
Their progress was discouraging, to say the least. No new evidence had emerged to implicate Broadgirdle in Bligh’s murder. Not even the slightest clue—beyond a memory map found by Theo—pointed to the Eerie’s whereabouts. The five of them were unable to learn more about Wilkie Graves, the man Broadgirdle had been before bursting onto the political scene in Boston. While the plotters plotted in vain, Broadgirdle’s war was in full swing.
And, it seemed on August third, things were getting worse.
Shadrack’s friend Pip Entwhistle had arrived early that morning with correspondence from the Indian Territories: a letter from his friend Casper Bearing and four others like it. The plotters listened in silence as Shadrack read aloud one horrible story after another. The effects of the crimson fog were everywhere catastrophic; its source was a complete mystery. When he was done, Shadrack stood up and rested his forehead against the kitchen cupboard in despair.
