The Fugitive and the Vanishing Man

by Rod Duncan

“And what was your part in the mutiny?”

  “There was no mutiny. We were attacked by a submarine boat. It would have drowned us… but…”

  The two agents were looking at each other as if embarrassed by her account. Then Winslow said, “The crew survived. They saw what you did, Miss Barnabus. We have testimonies. They all say the same thing. You put a pistol to your captain’s head.”

  “I saved his life.”

  “Did you not threaten to kill him?”

  “They would have shot him dead if I hadn’t done that. I stopped them. I saved them all.”

  Agent McLeod wrote.

  “We understand that the pirates were all women. Having captured the ship, they lined you up and assaulted the captain. Whereon you identified yourself as a woman for the first time and asked to join their nation. Is that not correct?”

  “You make it sound… bad.”

  “I’m reporting the facts.”

  “I played along. But only so I could help the crew.”

  “Whose crew?”

  “Ours! The men!”

  “You helped the men over the women – is that your claim?”

  “It’s the truth,” she said, the real truth being too complicated to explain.

  “But later you led an attack on the mother ship of the fleet.”

  “The attack was coming. I risked my life to stop it. If I ever mutinied, it was against the women.”

  “So you had joined them?”

  “I lied to them! I cheated them. I ran from them. They’d kill me now if they were here. And yes, I got myself into the attack. But only so I could rescue my friends.”

  While Winslow wrote, McLeod nodded, as if her words made sense.

  “You were present at the murder of the Fleet Commodore?”

  Elizabeth nodded, knowing where they were leading, feeling short of breath.

  “Did you kill him?” McLeod asked.

  “I tried to stop it.”

  “But not successfully.”

  Winslow put down the pen and folded his arms.

  “Is that what you want?” she asked. “To try me for mutiny?”

  “Murder would be more likely. And since you led the attack on the fleet, it would be treason also.”

  Would be. There it was: the possibility of an escape from the gallows. John Farthing had said they’d try to get her to go back to Newfoundland. Keep saying no, he’d told her. He hadn’t said anything about this sword, dangling above her head.

  “The crew of the ship Pembroke survived?” she asked. They’d been locked in a ship’s hold the last time she’d seen them. And that ship had been snared in the middle of the battle. Cannons had been firing.

  “They survived,” said McLeod.

  “So the women… the pirates… did they lose their battle?”

  The two agents glanced at each other again.

  Winslow said, “I’m sorry. I thought you’d know. But you’ve been away, of course. There was an exchange of prisoners. That’s how the crew came back to us. In the battle they lost many ships. But they gained one.”

  “They captured the Mother Ship?”

  Neither man denied it.

  If the pirates had captured the floating city of the Mother Ship, it would mean the Gas-Lit Empire was losing control of the North Atlantic.

  “How did you escape from the battle, Miss Barnabus?”

  “I took a steam launch.”

  “You stole it,” Winslow corrected.

  “We escaped from the fight.”

  “You deserted?”

  “We escaped.”

  “Then why did you flee to Newfoundland? If you were innocent, why not return to the Gas-Lit Empire?”

  Winslow had drawn a line in his ledger and was writing a new heading.

  “Newfoundland was a mistake,” she said. “We thought we’d landed in Nova Scotia but the wind had taken us too far to the north.”

  “And what did you find there?”

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to answer, but then closed it again. What she’d seen was a shift in the balance of power that might change the whole world. New nations were growing in the wilderness beyond the borders of civilisation. It would be wilderness no more. From the chaos of endless war, pockets of order were emerging. And in those far-flung places, weapons were being created that could overthrow even the might of the civilised world.

  “Well?” asked McLeod. “What did you see in the wilds?”

  She folded her arms and sat back.

  “I’m not going to tell you,” she said.

  CHAPTER 2

  From a distance, the castle at Crown Point seemed to be an extension of the basalt cliffs on which it rested. But closer to, and with an eye for detail, the entire history of the fortress might be read from the strata of those stones.

  The rough boulders at the base of the wall had once been free-standing: a crude barricade with spaces for cannons to fire down on boats in the Colombia River hundreds of feet below. That had been the start of it, a pirate camp on the plateau, preying on such trade as the wilds could sustain. Then smaller stones had been placed to fill the gaps between the boulders. They’d not been cut to shape. Rather, through careful placing, their natural angles interlocked, creating the first true wall.

  By then the camp had grown into something more permanent. They no longer thought of themselves as pirates. Protectors of that section of the river, perhaps. Custodians of a nascent order in the midst of the wild Oregon Territory. For this great service, they levied only a modest tax. And since they now risked just the kind of attack they’d once launched on others, walls were needed all the way around. A castle had begun to emerge.

  It was a good business. Wealth accumulated and the walls thickened to contain it. Further out, new wards were needed to protect the storerooms and stables, workshops and marshalling yard. By then the Lords of Crown Point had started to call themselves kings. They could afford the luxury of masons, who cut flat faces on the stones as the walls grew taller. And then, when the only reason for further height was a statement of power, the masons carved gargoyles and grotesque faces to frighten or amaze those who passed below.

  At the pinnacle of the castle, with the finest stonework, stood three towers from which flags streamed. The East Tower was the tallest. There, a slim figure stood, dressed in white with a blue scarf rippling behind. Flashes of green and turquoise at her neck were long enamel earrings. Shaped like fish, they danced in the gusting wind.

  She had been staring towards the furthest point upriver, sometimes shielding her eyes against the brightness of the sky, sometimes blinking and looking away as if to clear her vision.

  Two enforcer guards climbed the final steps to join her. Each carried a rifle with sighting lenses along its barrel.

  “He wants you,” one of them said. “The king.”

  She turned to face them. “Where?”

  “The Great Hall.”

  “I thought he was out hunting.”

  “Great Hall,” he said, again.

  “Will he want to see me… like this?”

  The guard stepped to the balustrade and leaned his gun against the stonework. The other one did a practice aim towards the shingle strands far below, swinging the rifle left and right before resting the gun next to his comrade’s.

  Reluctant messengers at best, they wouldn’t stoop to answer the question. She set off down the stairs, lifting her skirts, revealing glimpses of bare feet, narrow but long.

  The stones felt cold in the shade. But she was moving now, almost silent, descending thirty feet to the lower battlements, and then into the castle itself, along a corridor set within the thickness of the wall. Lamps lit the way, though she could have run it with her eyes closed.

  The king was supposed to be hunting. He always came back in a good mood after killing some poor creature. Or at least relaxed. At those times, he could be indulgent. But if the hunt had been cancelled or cut short, that would push him the other way. Better perhaps that she did not
approach him in that dress, though changing would mean a delay, which would carry its own risk.

  A key hung from a plaited cord around her neck. She unlocked the door and stepped into the room. Stripping down, she laid the blue silk scarf and white dress on the bed, then the padded under-cloth. A slim, muscular figure was revealed in the mirror.

  Donning trousers and shirt felt like stepping into a different facet of who they were. They sat in front of the mirror, brushing wind knots from dark hair, gathering it back into a queue, tying it in the style of men, with a black ribbon.

  Staring at the face for a moment, Edwin unclipped the earrings and started to wipe away the makeup. Leaving a trace could allow for a more androgynous look. The men and women of the court would react to that in different ways. A few would be attracted, some unsettled, some hostile. That ambiguous appearance was the statement of a deep truth. But truth is a luxury for more settled times.

  With the last of the makeup gone, Edwin turned his head, checking the reflection one last time, almost ready to appear before the King of Crown Point. Boots were the last to go on. Not something most would notice. And yet they transformed him more than any other external thing. She had arrived in the room with delicate precision. But in leaving, he closed the door with enough force to send echoes reverberating along the stone corridor. Striding away, Edwin planted his feet, landing on the heels instead of placing his toes, rolling shoulders rather than hips, projecting the authority his offices demanded: First Counsellor to the King, Magician of Crown Point.

  By the time he reached the final corridor, servants and guards were making room for him to pass. The Great Hall was in disarray. Attendants were righting a table while a serving girl worked on hands and knees, picking fragments of broken china from the floor. The king was pacing, his men giving him plenty of space.

  “Where’s my damn magician?”

  Edwin presented himself. “I’m here, sire.”

  “What took you so long?”

  Half the skill of being a counsellor was knowing when a question wasn’t looking for an answer. The king paced. Such force of will as he might have channelled into the hunt was coming out as this evil humour. It would run its course.

  Edwin stepped to the fire and crouched, staring into the flames as if they were whispering to him. The king hadn’t noticed but some of his men had. Most would be believers, though it was hard to know the degree or the number. He held a hand above the coals, palm down. With his thumb, he flicked open the hollow signet ring, releasing a pinch of powder. Then he began swirling his fingers, as if writing in the air. He could hear them whispering behind him. The king’s heavy footfalls had stopped. Edwin began to hum, his mouth creating vowel sounds, like some unearthly language.

  The fire began to crackle. He backed away. Green light fringed the flames. The crackling grew louder, became a popping sound that spat green sparks, reaching a crescendo, then fading. The room behind him had become perfectly quiet.

  Before turning, he allowed the muscles of his face to go slack, as if from terrible fatigue. All eyes were fixed on him as he staggered to his feet.

  “The path behind you is clear,” he whispered to the king, quiet enough so all others would need to focus on listening. Though not so quiet that they wouldn’t hear. “The path ahead you cannot see. Except for this: the thing that seems now a setback will be your certain road to victory.”

  He felt the relief rippling through the room. The king managed a smile. He took Edwin’s hand and pulled him into an embrace. Then, just as quickly, Edwin had been released and the king was waving to dismiss the others. The Great Hall emptied. The doors closed. They were alone.

  “Why must you come to me slathered with perfume, Edwin? Now I stink like a whorehouse. My consort will think…”

  Damn, but he’d forgotten about the scent. He bowed his head.

  The king paced to the wall. The Great Hall had been decorated in tapestry maps. Not the sort that would be useful for wayfinding. The safe routes across the continent were not the kind of thing to leave in plain view. These maps were broad outlines, more likely to lead astray than to guide. But they still showed the simple arrangement of the continent. In the far west, the castle at Crown Point, commanding the Oregon Territory with its access to the Pacific Ocean. In the far east, Newfoundland, like a fortress, ready to dominate the Atlantic. Between them lay the many nations of North America that belonged to that great alliance, the Gas-Lit Empire. But it was towards the north that Edwin’s eyes always strayed: two thousand miles of wilderness between Oregon and Newfoundland, the land through which the messengers would be travelling. If they had set off.

  The king kicked a fragment of broken china, sending it tinkling down the hall. “Establish a brother king in Newfoundland, you said. Drive a trade route between the coasts to control both oceans.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “And you have achieved this wonder in the East. But with one issue. The wrong man has become king!”

  Edwin noted the word you. It had been their joint plan, worked out together.

  “You have installed an enemy in the East,” the king said.

  “He may not be. We don’t know yet.”

  “Don’t try to play your burning powder tricks on me, magician. Hollow rings and hollow sayings. Such performances and speeches will sway the men. But don’t ever try to use them on me.”

  Edwin swallowed, ordering his thoughts. “This new king of Newfoundland – he is not the man we hoped for. And it may be that his price will be higher. But he will have a price. There is a deal to be made. Then you’ll have the whole route from ocean to ocean.”

  “And then?”

  “And then, my lord, you will tear down the walls of the Gas-Lit Empire.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The Patent Office agents arranged the evening meal on the table: smoked bacon with a sweet potato mash and steamed greens. It had arrived in the dumbwaiter, already arranged on plates, each with a metal cover so that they stacked into a tower. The cutlery was silver and heavy. Tinker wolfed down his portion, licking the plate clean, much to Elizabeth’s embarrassment. He then sat unnervingly still, watching the rest of them with a predatory focus.

  It was an awkward meal. After her blank refusal to reveal what had happened in Newfoundland, Agents McLeod and Winslow had withdrawn to one of the other bedrooms to consult. If they’d made a decision, she still hadn’t been told of it.

  While they were out of the way, Elizabeth had taken her chance to talk with the others. Julia had been questioned but revealed nothing. Tinker they hadn’t bothered to ask, though his natural mistrust of authority would have kept his mouth shut tighter than an oyster in any case.

  When the agents emerged, Winslow headed down the narrow stairs. The little black door closed quietly behind him.

  “Can I go for a walk?” she asked McLeod.

  He shook his head, seeming embarrassed by her lack of decorum.

  “What if I just leave? You wouldn’t need to notice.”

  “It’s not a good idea.”

  His manner was courteous but the gravity with which he spoke gave his words an edge of menace.

  “At least let the boy go for a run around.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Where is John Farthing?”

  McLeod smiled that embarrassed smile again. “Rest,” he said. “You must be tired.”

  She was. But rest would not come. Presently Julia came to her room and sat by her on the bed. Tinker followed, closing the door behind him.

  “I want to see the waterfall,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “They won’t let me go.”

  “Have you tried?”

  “The door was locked.” He blushed, as though admitting some grave moral failing.

  She wanted to hug him, but he was bristling with energy and wouldn’t have suffered it, so she hugged Julia instead. “They want to find out what we saw in Newfoundland. So long as we don’t tell them, we’ll still have
something to bargain with.”

  “How long can they keep us?” Julia asked, distress in her voice.

  “All will be well,” Elizabeth said, not believing her own words.

  “But I am so desperate.”

  “You’ll see your husband soon.”

  “It can never be soon enough. Never.”

  “My poor friend.”

  Julia looked at her hands, as if searching for a speck of dirt. “He won’t yet know that I’m alive.”

  Julia was voicing the very danger that Elizabeth had chosen not to mention. No one knew they had returned from the wilds. These agents of the Patent Office had the powers and resources to make people simply disappear, if that was what they wished.

  But the thought of Julia’s husband had sparked an idea in Elizabeth’s mind. “If he knew… He is a lawyer, after all.”

  Hope kindled in Julia’s eyes. “Could we send a message? Is there a way?”

  Elizabeth swung her legs from the bed and stood. “Suppose we could get out. Just for a few minutes. There must be a pigeon loft in a hotel this big. But we have no money.”

  “Could we put it on the room’s account?” Julia asked.

  It seemed unlikely.

  “Sell the silver,” Tinker said.

  “To who?”

  He shrugged as if to say that finding a buyer for stolen cutlery would be easy. It wouldn’t. Every knife, fork and spoon had been stamped with the hotel’s insignia. They’d end up in jail if they tried.

  “If this was England, we’d be allowed legal representation,” Julia said.

  But Elizabeth knew better. She had been in the custody of the Patent Office before. Whatever rules a country might have, the Patent Office was above them. The floorboards outside the room creaked. Everyone looked up. They’d been speaking quietly, though Tinker not so much.

  “Money first,” Elizabeth whispered. “Then we’ll find the means of escape. After that we can send a message.”

  A hand knocked on the door, quiet and precise. Agent McLeod didn’t wait for them to answer.

  “Are you rested?” he asked, looking in.

  “Quite,” said Elizabeth, getting up and stepping towards him. Tinker was close behind, as if he’d guessed already what she was about to do.