Mr. Stitch

by Chris Braak

  Beckett finally fit key into lock, as the daemonomaniac’s scream built to a fever pitch, was cut off by a strangled choke, and abruptly sound and light and all were gone. The daemonomaniac was still as a bronze statue, frozen at that twisted painful angle, his outline just visible in the dim red light from Gorud’s lamp. Beckett sighed, and let the door of the vault swing slowly open.

  “Dead.” He cautiously approached the man to examine him. Seizures of this nature were not uncommon with flux overdoses and, while gruesome, were somewhat less frightening to see than a full sublimation. Whatever daemonic sympathies the man had created in the recesses of his mind had overburdened his system, filling it with the psychoactive radiation of the flux. The mild synaesthesias that the mineral sometimes caused were nothing compared to this: the nerves that should control the heart were diverted to the tongue, eyes to the lungs, muscles in the arms and legs scrambled with internal organs, speech centers, memories. It was as if a giant hand had reached into the daemonomaniac’s nervous system and twisted everything into a deadly tangle of misguided signals.

  “Dead,” the coroner said again, as though the idea had become stuck in his mind, and he couldn’t move on from it. “Dead, dead, dead.” With a splintery creak of ruined joints, he bent down to look at the daemonomaniac’s hands. They had been chewed unnaturally thoroughly. The skin wasn’t just red, but broken in many places, bleeding, scraped all the way down to the bone. No mentally-undamaged person was capable of doing such injury to their own body.

  “Is this typical,” Gorud asked, as he brought the light around, and removed the red filter. The room was suddenly an order of magnitude brighter. “The chewing?”

  “No,” Beckett said. “I’ve never seen it before. But. Daemonomania is idiosyncratic. Not everyone responds the same way.” With a grunt of pain, he stood up. “What was that you did? You were talking to him.” The coroner turned to face the therian, who had now retreated a few steps. It was hard to tell, because the creature’s face did not reflect its emotions the way a human face did, but Gorud seemed pensive.

  “It is. Karak. Theri, you call it,” he said. “My language.”

  “How did he know theri?”

  Gorud shrugged. “I do not know. Perhaps he knew some of my people? There are not many of us here in the city. Perhaps he came from Korasai?”

  Beckett looked back down at the man. “Skin’s pretty pale. No tan lines, no sun damage. He’s been in Trowth for a while, anyway. Maybe Corsay when he was younger. What did he say?”

  Gorud was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing. Nonsense.” Beckett stared, waited to see if the therian’s reserve might be overcome by the pregnant silence. “He said…he said he must kill her. He said that someone was coming.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know how to say it.” Gorud puffed his lips out thoughtfully. “What is the word, for a person that is not from here? That is not like us?”

  “Foreign. Strange.”

  The therian ducked his had enthusiastically. “Yes. Strange. Exhu, ‘strangers.’ The strangers are coming.” He shuffled uncomfortably under his coat, and fiddled with the controls of his lamp. The sounds were very loud in the now-quiet vault, crisply echoing from the stone walls. It gave Beckett the feeling that he and Gorud had bored deep into the center of the cold earth and were now pounding madly and pointlessly against the walls of a rocky prison, far from anyone that could hear them, far from anyone that could help. After a moment, the ape-man shrugged again. “It is meaningless, as you said. Nonsense. Are we not all strangers in this city?”

  For a few seconds, that ominous, dreadful sense of isolation persisted. Then Beckett snorted. “Yeah. I guess we are.” He turned back to the claustrophobic stair that would lead to his office, and supposed he’d have to just cool his heels until something useful came along.

  Sixteen

  The next day, the broadsheets were full of righteous indignation and hysterical ranting. In fifty, no, a hundred years, no soul had ever thought to violate the good will of Armistice! The shooting at the Royal was a travesty, a tragedy, unheard of, deplorable, disgusting! The writers and critics of each and every paper found new depths of vituperative rhetoric to express an outrage that bordered on the cosmic. While they could not agree of what this unprecedented act of violence was a sign-some thought it was representative of a coarsening of the Trowth culture, others a lack of respect for tradition, still others saw it as the first step towards revolution against a decaying monarchy-no journalist could disagree that it was anything but paramount in importance.

  With the exception, of course, of Roger Gorgon-Crabtree. Peculiarly, in his review of Theocles, there was absolutely no mention of the daemonomaniac and his gun-though, given that between the flowery praise and ebullient enthusiasm there was hardly room for one additional word, this was perhaps not so peculiar. Roger-whom many readers had long suspected was actually morally incapable of liking anything unabashedly-had finally thrown his considerable weight fully behind a new play.

  The combination of this uniquely positive notice and Trowth’s prurient interest in the grim and grisly violation of one of its unspoken taboos served to make the second performance of Theocles one of the most popular in the history of the Royal. Patrons were turned away in droves-some even refused, and crowded into the lobby during the performance; maybe they hoped to steal a seat when some ticket-holder was overcome by the drama, maybe they thought they could appreciate the play just by virtue of what could be overheard through the auditorium doors, maybe they just wanted to be seen at the most popular event of any season. Whatever the case, there seemed to be no fear at all of a repeat of the preceding night’s incident, so thoroughly was the idea of Armistice imprinted on the minds of the people of Trowth.

  Following the performance, Emilia Vie-Gorgon and her brother, Emilio, hosted a small, informal party at the palatial townhome of the Raithower Vie-Gorgons. The actors, of course, were not invited-though they were generously compensated with several bottles of wine and sweet Corsay rum, and it was generally presumed that, wherever actors got off to when they’d finished a performance, they were likely to be enjoying themselves. Skinner was invited, though not as the author of Theocles-an honor she must necessarily avoid-but as a close friend of Emilia’s.

  The party, despite being nominally informal, was actually an opportunity for the young gentlemen and ladies of Trowth’s upper-classes to demonstrate their opulent wealth and often-questionable fashion sense, indulging in the bright colors, ruffled fabrics, ribbons, jewels, and other ornamentation that were usually considered gauche by public fashion standards. They mingled and danced and drank, gossiped about this or that arcane social event, objects so far outside of Skinner’s purview that they may as well have been discussing alchemy. It was hot and noisy, and the only music consisted of a relentlessly cheerful harpsichord and a poor man exhausting himself on a Sarein fiddle.

  Skinner wore a high-necked dress in emerald green that, she was assured, suited her admirably, and a diamond broach that Nora Feathersmith had lent her. Skinner found herself disinclined to be social on this particular night-though she had never been a social butterfly by any stretch of the imagination. The young men at the party had lost interest in her when she had refused their invitations to dance; the young ladies had lost interest when she had refused to use her clairaudience to overhear what others were saying about them. Instead, she stood off from the crowd of strangers with their jostling elbows and artificial laughter, lost in thoughtful rumination.

  Until: “Ms. Skinner,” asked an infuriatingly familiar voice. “Would you care to dance?”

  “I am afraid I am not much of a dancer, Valentine.”

  Skinner found her left hand in his right, and his left lightly on the small of her back. “It’s all right,” he said, “These new waltzes are mostly just to give us an opportunity to see each other’s clothes. It’s hardly any more work than walking in a slow circle.”

  “And are
your clothes worth showing off?”

  “It’s a handsome suit,” Valentine admitted with mock reluctance. “And I cut a dashing figure in it. But I really felt like you were the one that people should see.”

  “It’s not my dress,” Skinner said. “I haven’t got anything that isn’t coroner-charcoal.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the dress.”

  Skinner bit back a retort, and smiled in spite of herself. Valentine’s lines might be a little sappy, but she was flattered at least that he was trying.

  “Can I admit something?” He asked, after a moment of thoughtful silence.

  “If you’re sure your comfortable with such importune honesty.”

  “Hm. I spent five minutes watching you, trying to plan out how this conversation should go. The bit about the dress was all I came up with.”

  “Well, it was very nice. Thank you.”

  Another shy, thoughtful pause. “I also wanted,” he continued, in a low voice, “to…to say I’m sorry. About yesterday, and everything…”

  “Valentine…”

  “No, just listen, okay? I’m sorry about the other day, and I’m sorry about…you having to leave the coroners. I tried…well, never mind that. I didn’t know about your house, anyway. But I just wanted to say…” He took a deep breath. “I know that Emilia is helping you, now, and that’s good. But if…if anything changes, you know? Or if something happens…”

  “Valentine.”

  “If something happens, if you need anything, you just…I’ll help. I will.”

  Skinner sighed. “Valentine, you know I could never ask-”

  “I know, you don’t have to ask. Just say it sometime. Like, if you’re walking down the street, and you need lunch, just say, ‘Oh, I could use some lunch.’ And I’ll find out, and get you lunch, okay?” He paused. “No, wait, that sounds weird. I shouldn’t have said that. I regret saying that. Just pretend…what…why are you laughing?”

  Skinner found herself giggling helplessly. Valentine was just so relentlessly earnest, it was impossible to stay angry with him for any length of time. “All right! All right,” she said at last. “The next time I need lunch, you will be the first person I call. Fair enough?”

  “Yes, and-”

  “And you’re forgiven for everything you’ve ever done. You didn’t know I was in dire straits; how could you? I never told you. That was positively my fault. All right.”

  “All right. You’re good at this, by the way. Dancing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You know everyone is looking at us?”

  “Well, you do cut a dashing figure. Or so I’m told.”

  In fact, a substantial portion of the party was looking at the pair, usually with hastily averted sidelong glances. This was because new additions to the social circle-namely Skinner, who with her silver eyeplate was a particularly unusual addition-were always watched closely for any sign that might resemble weakness. It was also because Valentine was himself notoriously eccentric, and was often watched closely in the hopes that he might do something strange enough to be worth gossiping about. Aside from dancing with the new woman, this particular party seemed likely to prove a disappointment.

  When the dance had proved suitably tiring, Skinner begged the chance to rest.

  “Of course,” Valentine said, slightly out of breath. “Sure. I…hm. Is that Nora Feathersmith talking to my cousin?”

  “Where?” Skinner asked.

  “By the door. That’s strange. I thought they hated each other.”

  “Really? No, not at all. They’re quite good friends, actually. I sat with them in Emilia’s box at the theater a few weeks ago.”

  “You did? But…but this is all very strange. A year ago they had a very public falling out. Well. I suppose I just ought to pay more attention. Do you want something to drink? Wine? They’ve made a hot, spiced punch that’s very good…”

  “I’ll have some of that, yes, thanks,” Skinner said, as curiosity slowly compelled her clairaudience towards Emilia and Nora. Snatches of conversation sounded in her ears as she projected past the partygoers, but she ignored them until she found the precise timbre of the voices that she wanted.

  “…tomorrow, you think?” Nora was saying.

  “Yes, I should hope so. If we haven’t caught their attention by now, I don’t know that we ever shall,” replied Emilia, her voice characteristically devoid of any hint of hidden meaning.

  “I suppose our principal will be pleased.”

  “I doubt our principal is capable of pleasure.”

  There was a pause. Nora hummed softly to the music, while Emilia seemed to vanish from the face of the earth. “Do you really think it will work?” Nora asked, eventually.

  “I don’t see why not. Remember Adronus, dear heart,” Emilia replied. “Wars are won with narrative.”

  “Here you are!” Valentine’s voice brought Skinner immediately back to herself. He gently placed a cup of steaming punch in her hand. It was warm-almost too warm to hold, and certainly too warm for the stuffy salon. “It’s good, I think they use that djang fruit in it. That’s funny, isn’t it? Five years ago no one had even heard of djang, now I’m not sure there’s food or drink in Trowth that doesn’t use it…”

  “Who’s Adronus?” Skinner asked him, as she let her punch cool.

  “Adronus? I’m sure I don’t know. Is he here at the party?”

  “No, he’s…nevermind.” She sipped at the punch. It was still too hot. “Someone that you might have read, maybe?”

  “Uhm. Constantine Adronus, do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Skinner snapped, exasperated. “If I knew who I meant, I wouldn’t be asking about him, would I?”

  “Well, all right, I don’t know. Constantine Adronus was a general, uhm. 15thcentury I think. Or 1500 something, I get those mixed up. Anyway, he’s out of favor, now, since what’s his name, the Sarpeki general from the siege of Canth published his book…that whole thing about legs and arms.”

  “Valentine. Focus.”

  “Right, sorry. Adronus’ big thing was, ‘A war is over when the opponent thinks he’s lost. A battle is just a pointed argument.’ He used to say that wars were really just stories…”

  “War is narrative,” Skinner suggested.

  “Yeah, like that. Have you been…why do you know about Adronus?”

  “I was…it’s just something I heard, once. I thought you might know.”

  “Well, that’s suspicious. Why would you think that I knew anything?” His voice held a bold grin.

  Skinner snorted. “With all those years at fancy schools, I was sure you were bound to recollect something, particularly if it was useless. At the knocker school they only taught us skills.”

  “Well, la-di-da. For your information, gentlemen aren’t supposed to need skills. That’s what we have butlers for. And tailors.”

  “That’s just like the Families, isn’t it? Sustaining their lifestyles on the backs of their servants.”

  Valentine laughed out loud. “Careful. That kind of talk is generally frowned on in places like this.” The music picked up, as the fiddler found his second wind and joined the indefatigable harpsichordist. Skinner and Valentine danced again, and twice more before the night was over.

  The idle rich spent late nights, as morning held no particular urgency for them. It was close to dawn when the last, most devoted partygoers finally dispersed, all wavering drunken smiles and over-friendly hands. These were the gentlemen who, now that their late-night’s entertainment had waned, would probably find some other dissolute venue in which to practice their only particular ability: hedonism.

  Skinner had waited until the end, hoping for a brief word with Emilia, but, after her enigmatic conversation with Nora Feathersmith, the Vie-Gorgon heiress was nowhere to be found. Her major-domo helped the guests gather shawls and coats, and politely but firmly showed them the door. Valentine found her a coach, and repeated his embarrassingly sincere offer to buy her lunch
.

  The sun had nearly risen by the time Skinner returned to the house in Lanternbridge. Skinner could not see the sky turning red and angry with the day, the clouds unusually thick for Armistice, the black towers of soot pouring from smokestacks as the factories started up. She could not see the sprawling mass of the royal palace, highlighted against the sun, nor the vast expanse of her city stretched out beneath the meager light. She could not see the empty windows, the darkened doorways that looked like so many unfriendly eyes and mouths, yawning open to disgorge their bleary-eyed occupants.

  But she could feel something-a hot breath of air, stirring from the south and whipping through the streets, tinged with the bloody taste of burning phlogiston, the acrid smell of smoke and industry. A humming energy, beneath the city’s ancient streets, a powerful sense of immanence that surged through the drowsy morning like so much summer lightning.

  The truth was that knockers often had such feelings-experiences of unnamable dread or imminent danger, that many times had no reliable connection to the world. And Trowth was a city that lent itself well to such strange sensations, even among its less-sensitive inhabitants. Under the best of circumstances, gargantuan, weather-beaten Trowth was a city that felt haunted by the heat and cold, by damp chills and strange agues. So it was reasonable, and perhaps forgivable, that Skinner thought nothing of the feeling, and collapsed into her bed having given it hardly a second thought.

  Seventeen

  Beckett sat in his office, brooding. He had for the first time that year opened the heavy, green copper-plated shutters on his windows, an indulgence he permitted himself only during the two weeks of Armistice. These were, in fact, the only two weeks when the weather did not bother him in some way; warm enough not to cause his bones to ache, cool enough that he could still wear his suit and scarf without sweating. It would be an exaggeration to say that Armistice is the only time of the year that Beckett actually enjoyed, as “enjoyment” is perhaps too strong a word to describe what Beckett felt about anything, but certainly one could say that Armistice was the two weeks of the year that Beckett found to be the least intolerable.