Mr. Stitch

by Chris Braak

  It was decided on, eventually, that Skinner would be the one to take the daily trips to Market Street to purchase groceries. Her sense of smell and touch were expertly acute, making her ideally suited to sorting ripe fruits and vegetables from their counterparts that had been sitting for too long in the cart, and her bitter anger at the injustices of the world combined with a driving need to be useful for something made her a fearsome haggler. This was how she found herself out and about in the city, two days before the Emperor’s Invocation, squeezing gogons.

  It was during this expedition that Skinner heard a familiar voice-a sweet voice, a voice that would have been irresistibly charming if that charm had not been calculated to within an inch of its life. A voice that oozed humor and wit in precisely optimal amounts. A voice, in other words, that could belong to no one other than Emilia Vie-Gorgon.

  “Ah, Miss Skinner,” she said. “What a pleasure it is to see you.”

  “Yes? I wish I could say the same.” She chose one of the gogons-a particularly firm one, that did not seem to have any bad spots on its skin, and added it to what had become a considerable collection of the Indige vegetable.

  “You are, no doubt surprised to find me here…”

  “I should say that ‘surprised’ is actually a bit of an understatement,” Skinner said. “I’m not sure I have the vocabulary to express quite how astonished I am to meet you here.”

  “…but I wonder if we could speak privately for a moment?”

  Skinner took her burlap sack full of vegetables to the proprietor of the cart. “I don’t think, Miss Vie-Gorgon, that that’s very likely. In fact, I’m sure it’s essentially preposterous. What could we possibly have to speak about? Two crowns,” she said to the grocer, who was accustomed to a forceful parsimony from Skinner, and did not argue.

  “I need your help with something.”

  This was so unexpected a turn of phrase that Skinner did not quite know how to respond. She considered simply walking away, considered screaming at Emilia Vie-Gorgon, considered throwing vegetables at her, but settled for a kind of spluttering disbelief, accompanied by a few choked-out words. “You…I…you what…?”

  “Improbable as it may seem, I need help, and you’re the only one capable of providing it. If we could adjourn somewhere more private, perhaps…”

  “I don’t think that I’m going to go anywhere with you, Emilia. And while I admit to being desperately curious as to what problem you could face that was so severe it would imbue you with the audacity to come to me asking for help, I find that I am equally moved to give your request the dispassionate rebuff it richly deserves. Good day.” Skinner slung her bag over her shoulder and pushed into the crowd on Market Street, slashing viciously at feet and ankles with her cane in order to force a path.

  She almost dropped her groceries when she heard Emilia’s voice again, right beside her. The woman had a miraculous ability to move with a quietness that would put a cat, or a ghost, or the ghost of a cat, to shame.

  “There is a substantial amount of money in it,” Emilia began, but Skinner interrupted.

  “If you think I’ve sunk so low that I’d prostitute myself for you…” She took a deep breath. “I do not need your money. And if I did need your money, I would starve before I took it.”

  “Oh, yes, I suspect you would,” Emilia said. “But would you see someone else starve, to salve your pride? Your new friends have been very welcoming, haven’t they?”

  “What…how do you know…?”

  “Just a peculiar coincidence, I’m sure,” Emilia said, lightly. “Many of the Akori Indige work for my father, did you know? They’ve a long tradition of work as trainmen and engineers. Something about a resistance to the burns caused by free phlogiston. A lot of indige see employ on Vie-Gorgon trains.”

  “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “Nothing. Why nothing at all! Except that it’s fortunate that you’ve found so many friends who are lucky enough to find paying work in such bad times as we’re now faced with.” Emilia paused, becoming, yet again, a purely unreadable void. “And, perhaps, wouldn’t you like to be able to give them a little more? Wouldn’t it be worth it to you to contribute more to their livelihoods than doing their grocery shopping for them? I understand the Crabtree-Ennering-Vies have been building spacious new houses down by the waterfront-houses without leaks or mildew. Imagine if…well. Let me just say that I am willing to offer you let’s say..” she lowered her voice. “A thousand crowns.”

  “A thousand…?”

  “Up front. And another thousand afterwards.”

  Skinner hesitated, and hated herself for doing so, but…two thousand crowns… “What, precisely, would you expect me to do?”

  “It’s hardly anything at all, really. Just a bit of an errand that I’m afraid my schedule won’t allow for. A cousin of mine is taking the train to Seagirt tomorrow, and, fool of a man that he is, he’s forgotten one of his suitcases. All I would need is for you to take the suitcase to platform eight, and leave it there for him to collect.”

  “Aha. Really. And you’re going to pay me two thousand crowns for this. For something that you already pay your porters and valets and such for. What’s in the suitcase?”

  “The contents are private, and the suitcase will be locked. I’d love to be able to tell you, of course, but the Vie-Gorgons in general, and my cousin in particular, greatly value their privacy.”

  Skinner wanted to be able to tell Emilia to carry her own suitcase around and, perhaps more importantly, where she could stuff her two thousand crowns. But the truth was that Skinner had already begun thinking of ways that she could spend it-of how far a sum like that would go in the hands of the Akori matriarchs. They could provide for their family for years on a sum half that large.

  “Why do you need me for this?”

  Emilia was dead silent again, the vacuum that she left behind filled immediately with the melange of Market Street noise. “It seems that the Emperor has been growing increasingly…discomfited, these days. He’s instituted a number of security precautions on rail travel. He’s instructed the Coroners to search the baggage of any suspicious persons.”

  “I see. And you think that the Coroners are unlikely to consider me suspicious? And since whatever you’ve got in that little satchel is something you’d prefer the Emperor didn’t see, you’d like me to carry it past the checkpoint for you.”

  “In a word: yes.”

  “In a word: no. I’m sorry Emilia…no, that’s a lie. I’m actually pleased to tell you that I’m not interested in helping you, no matter how many crowns you dangle in front of me.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. Well, good day, Miss Skinner. And, do please offer my condolences to Pogo Akori.”

  “For what?”

  “Ah, did I not mention that? Yes, I suppose I must have forgotten. I am such a flighty creature sometimes, you see? My father’s been changing over to a new system of engineering on his major rail lines. I’m afraid a good portion of the Akori are going to be out of work by the end of the week.”

  “You…you would do that?”

  “I? Miss Skinner, I don’t have any power at all in this situation. You don’t think I have my father’s ear, do you? That I am directly involved in any of this?”

  Skinner found her grip on her cane to be painfully tight, and her thumb hovering above the catch that would let her draw her slender sword from it. One quick slash and one quick thrust, and then the world would not have to suffer Emilia Vie-Gorgon. Emilia Vie-Gorgon and her poisonous treachery, her secretive ambitions, her callous, heartless manipulations…surely it would be worth it? Karine’s family unemployed-a temporary hardship, at best. They’d find work again, wouldn’t they? There was always work to be had for people willing to do it, and a few hungry nights were a small price to pay to put an end to Emilia Vie-Gorgon’s diabolical machinery…

  Wasn’t it?

  “I’ll consider it,” Skinner said, curtly, and took the narrow stairs dow
n Baker’s Close.

  That evening, after a warm, spicy stew and a frankly astonishing amount of hot punch, while the Akori chatted about the day’s events and told each other jokes, and demanded that Skinner play strings so they could sing along, a messenger arrived at the house in Bluewater.

  He knocked crisply and briefly, but was gone by the time Karine had opened the door he was gone. “Miss Skinner,” Karine called. “Someone left this for you.” There was some muted, hasty discussion in Indt. “I don’t know what it is. It looks like a suitcase? And a train ticket?”

  Thirty-Two

  Leaving the suitcase was, in terms of practice, a fairly painless process. The coroners on duty-James Ennering, Gorud, two trolljrmen and three humans that Skinner didn’t know-offered her pleasant courtesies as she walked past the checkpoint unsearched. She handed in her ticket, went up to platform eight, set the suitcase down. Waited for a few moments, then left. All perfectly ordinary and simple activities that she had done many times before-speaking with people, carrying suitcases, offering tickets. Now, of course, these ordinary actions were wracked by paranoia; infusing every nerve-ending of her body with sheer terror and dousing her mind in quivering adrenaline, such that she was sure it must shine on her skin like a red beacon telling all passer-by that she was involved somehow, that she was guilty of clandestine activities, that she was suspicious. She found herself hoping, every time someone spoke to her, that they would notice her sweating, or her nervousness, and demand to search her bag. Every raised voice on the platform, every hurried footstep, became that of a dutiful coroner’s, double-checking the last of the parcels, about to expose Skinner and her complicity with the Vie-Gorgons. It would be a relief if James had questioned her more thoroughly, and if he only had, she’d have been pleased to give up and put down the suitcase-which had now become an abominable, impossible weight in her hand-so that she could go to prison and finally ease her troubled conscience.

  None of these things happened. It was strange to hear the grand concourse devoid of its usual murmuring ambience, but travel was light today, as many were dissuaded by the sudden appearance of the Coroners. Of course, because the papers had all been seized, and publishing had all been suspended, it was impossible for Skinner to know precisely why such draconian restrictions had been imposed. All she could do was listen to the echoes of her footsteps as she approached platform eight, and wish that she were more suspicious.

  Skinner stood on the platform listening. A chilly wind had come in from the harbor. This was common for early summer; the oppressive, sweltering heat wouldn’t come for a few more weeks. For now, though, if she hadn’t been maddeningly preoccupied with her own troubles, she might have enjoyed that pleasant balance between the warm sunshine on her face and the brisk, salty wind.

  It might have struck her as unusual that there was no one else on the platform. Nor, indeed, did there seem to be any trains running at all today. She could hear one, several lines away, moaning steam and creaking, but nothing else. No passengers chattered, no businessmen shuffled their feet. If Emilia Vie-Gorgon’s cousin was waiting for his suitcase, he certainly didn’t seem to be waiting nearby. Delicately, to avoid attracting the notice of any other knockers, she began to canvass the area with her clairaudience, in a slow, spiral pattern that gradually migrated away from her body.

  Rats scuttled on the train tracks. Near the station’s entrance, men muttered and made noise. That one train continued its symphony of weird train-noises. Nothing else. “Something’s wrong,” Skinner said aloud, startled by the volume of her own voice. She set the suitcase down and turned away; with great difficulty, she managed to keep an ear on the suitcase and track of where she was going.

  “Everything all right, Miss Skinner?” James’ voice. “Get your errand taken care of?”

  “I…yes. What errand?”

  James hesitated. “I thought…didn’t Inspector Beckett send you out here? Or is it the kind of thing…” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “I understand if you can’t talk about it.”

  “Beckett’s here?”

  “No, ma’am. He’s on the train. With the Emperor.”

  The Emperor…? “James, what’s going on?” The worry that had consumed her turned abruptly into a looming sense of catastrophe. Perversely, this seemed to actually calm her nerves; her body was less bothered by the threat of a real, imminent danger than it was by the illusory torments she’d composed for herself.

  “You didn’t know? I thought Beckett…there’s been a plot against the emperor. We’re moving him to the summer palace at Dunhill. You’re not here for Mr. Beckett.”

  “I…am. Obviously. But Beckett doesn’t tell me everything. Listen. There’s a suitcase on platform eight, I need someone to go and get it. I have reason to believe it may be dangerous.”

  “Gorud,” James said. The therian was on his way at once. “How do you know about this?”

  “I’ve been moving in unusual circles, lately. I…would like to avoid running the risk of slander, but I think I may know who is involved in the plot against the Emperor.”

  “I…hold on.” James extended his clairaudience out; Skinner felt the whisper of it as it brushed by her own sensorium. “It’s Gorud. He says there’s no suitcase.”

  “You need to get the Emperor off the train. Now.”

  “It’s already left,” James said, panic creeping into his voice. “And the clairaudient baffles are up. I can try and reach Beckett-he’s in the last car.”

  “Well, do it, for fuck’s sake,” Skinner snapped at him. “We need to stop that train.”

  Thirty-Three

  Beckett was huddled in the last seat of the last car of the emperor’s train. The locomotive was a vast serpent of brass and steel and iron, belching black smoke and phlogiston fumes that smelled like blood and copper. It was decorated on the outside with the winged angels of the Hierologue; androgynous figures bearing swords and chains, blinded by the palm fronds wrapped around their eyes. Inside the train were exquisitely plush over-stuffed chairs, and a mural that extended through all eight cars, depicting the illustrious history of the Gorgon-Vies, all the way back to Demogorgon himself.

  The train defied every law governing the sensible construction of a train-it was top-heavy, not at all streamlined, a machine designed for slow tours during which it could be appreciated. The Emperor’s train was a train only technically; in reality, it was yet another monument to his power, and to the seemingly bottomless wealth he was permitted to devote to his comforts.

  Beckett slumped in his chair, and rolled a brass veneine cartridge in his hand. He’d dosed himself only a half an hour ago, and could still feel the drug buzzing in his mind. It made him feel light, disconnected from his body. The only sensation that seemed to require immediate concern was the metallic bite at the back of his mouth, the part of him that craved more. It was early to inject another module into his system, if he wanted to keep to his five-a-day limit. Somehow, though, that idea didn’t seem to be especially pressing at the moment. So what if he did take an extra one? Why should that really matter? He could take a sixth cartridge today, and start back again at five tomorrow. The damage to his system, between drugs and disease, was already immense-how could one more dose harm him?

  The only thing that held him back was the sound of whirling gears he’d been hearing, lately. It was a troubling sound that seemed to grow closer according to how much veneine he was using. It was plainly a hallucination, Beckett didn’t doubt that, but whenever he found his attention distracted by something, the sound caught at his ear as though it were real, making him start and look around suddenly, trying to locate its source. It was always the same sound, and it never quite went away-an endless, ubiquitous buzzing that gradually led him to the fanciful conclusion that he wasn’t hallucinating it at all. He had sometimes begun to entertain the notion that the whirling gears really did underlay everything he saw. He imagined a vast network of gears beneath the streets, in the walls of the buildings, beneath
peaked eaves and inside chimney-pots. He started to think of people or trolljrmen as kinds of automatons; skin on the outside, but inside filled with those same incessant mechanisms.

  It was only in hours of weakness or extreme intoxication, of course, did Beckett give credence to these fantasies. He had spent a long time ignoring erroneous input that sometimes trickled into his senses, and so was generally unperturbed by the arrival of this new sound. Except that it occasionally grew unmanageably loud if he took too much veneine, making it difficult for him to hear what people were saying. This is why he hesitated, staring at the little brass module, and steadfastly ignoring the second and third-tier ministers with whom he was sharing the car.

  Presently, he became aware of a faint tapping by his ear. It had the three long, two short cadence that knockers used for “attention,” and the light hesitancy that Beckett had come to associate with James Ennering.

  “Ennering,” said Beckett, tucking the brass cartridge back into his pocket. “What is it?”

  What followed was a nearly incomprehensible jumble of raps. Every knocker’s sound was peculiar, and Beckett had just never been able to get the hang of James’-which taps were soft taps and which were strong taps, what empty air was hesitation and what was meant to indicate a purposeful space-and without being on the right track from the beginning, following a knocker’s telerhythmia was heinously difficult.

  “What…what? Stop. Just answer yes or no. There’s a problem?” Yes. “Serious?” Yes. “At your end?” No. “On the train?” Yes. “Shit. Shit, shit. Do I need to stop the train and get the Emperor off?” YES. This was the most assertive Beckett had ever heard. “All right. Crap, hold on.” At the front of the car was a small brass horn that, using a system of tympanums that Beckett had never fully understood, was able to communicate his voice from one end of the train to the other. He snapped to his feet and seized the horn at once, ministers eyeing him strangely. Beckett kept his voice low as he spoke-he didn’t know the danger, precisely, and therefore didn’t know who might be involved in it.