by S. E. Grove
She put the half-finished basket down and hurried over to where Theo was hidden. “Are you all right?”
“I can’t see behind me. Is he gone?” he asked in a muffled voice.
“He’s gone. Come out, and we’ll find Burr.” She lifted the basket and Theo stood up. He glanced quickly around the square. Sophia turned to thank the vendor, and as she did so the woman handed her two straw hats. Her crown of braids, interwoven with long green grass, nodded as she patted her apron and spoke.
“What’s she saying, Theo?”
He was gazing distractedly around the stalls but turned back briefly. “She’s giving you those for the money you gave her.”
Sophia took the hats. “Thank you. Thank you for helping us.” The woman smiled, nodded, and returned to her tent. Sophia put on one of the hats and gave the other to Theo. “We’ll be a little hidden with these,” she said.
Theo donned the hat. “Come on—I know the way back. This way.” He put his hand on her arm and found that she was trembling. He stopped abruptly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Sophia said, clenching her fists. The danger had passed, but only now did she feel the waves of fear washing over her. “That raider was scary.”
For a moment, his tense expression softened. He put his scarred hand in Sophia’s and squeezed tightly. “You sure fooled me. You looked like you weren’t scared of anything.” He pulled at her gently. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
19
The Bullet
1891, June 24: Shadrack Missing (Day 4)
Most firsthand accounts of the Great Disruption describe witnessing the passage of a year while time was suspended. But the prophet Amitto claims to have perceived all time past and present during his revelation, experiencing each day of twenty hours as any other. The Chronicles of the Disruption are thereby organized into 365 days: one day for each that he purportedly lived through. The days are commonly understood as chapters. Nihilismians follow the practice of naming themselves with the first word of the chapter corresponding to the day that they joined the sect.
—From Shadrack Elli’s History of New Occident
SHADRACK HAD TRAVELED extensively by electric train, but he had never been on a train quite like the Bullet. It was, true to its name, quicker and lighter on the rails than any he had ridden. But it was also better-equipped in its interior. He had passed through a full kitchen and a well-furnished study before being forced into his improvised cell. Bound hand and foot to a chair, he sat in a small, windowless closet. The wooden slats of the closet door admitted bars of feeble light. When the light dimmed, his internal clock told him that it was past seventeen-hour.
His thoughts were moving as quickly as the train, keeping pace as the Bullet raced south. It was obvious to him now, in retrospect, that the borders were indeed shifting. The signs had been there for years, but his supposed knowledge of the Great Disruption had prevented him from seeing their meaning. He cursed himself for his stupidity. He had violated one of his most valued principles: Observe what you see, not what you expect to see.
Of what use am I as a cartologer, he berated himself, when I could not even reliably see the world around me? Now, because of his blindness, he had placed Sophia doubly in harm’s way. He had sent her fleeing the ambitions of a madwoman, into the path of destruction.
It was well past eighteen-hour when the door suddenly swung open. The Sandmen lifted the chair with their grappling hooks to carry it through the doorway and set it down facing the center of the adjoining room.
Shadrack blinked in the lamplight. He was in a study as opulently furnished as the rest of the Bullet, with broad windows, thick carpeting, and a variety of desks and chairs. The Sandmen stationed themselves at the doors.
Blanca sat in the middle of the room at a long table. On the table was a sheet of copper. Beside the table were the two trunks filled with Shadrack’s mapmaking equipment, which the Sandmen had packed when they took him from East Ending Street. “I won’t deceive you, Shadrack,” Blanca said, in her musical voice. “While I know the route your niece is traveling, she and her companion are resourceful; they have managed to evade the men I sent to meet her.”
Shadrack tried not to show his relief too plainly. Then he wondered: A companion?
“This makes your situation more difficult, because it means I am less patient.” Her veil shook slightly. “As you know, I need two things from you: Sophia’s destination and the location of the carta mayor. So I will give you two choices. One for each thing I need.” She lifted the square sheet of copper, which glinted in the yellow lamplight. “You can draw me a map of the carta mayor’s location and tell me where Sophia is going.” Then she drew her other hand from under the table, revealing the dreaded block of wood with its attached wires. “Or, you can wear the bonnet,” she said almost kindly.
Shadrack stared at his lap, using the last of his exhausted energy to hide the panic he felt at the sight of the wooden block and wires. After a few moments he said, “We’ve already discussed this. You have my answer.”
Blanca sat silently for a moment. Then she stood. “You make this very hard, Shadrack. I do not like having to play the bully, but you leave me with no choice.” Her voice was mournful. She turned toward the younger of the two men. “Leave his hands and legs tied, Weeping. If he nods, take off the bonnet strings and call me. If he hasn’t done so by twenty-hour, tighten them.”
Had Shadrack imagined it, or did Blanca speak to Weeping with particular favor? The young man’s face, he noticed with surprise, was unmarked. His brown hair was clipped short, and his cheeks were clean-shaven. He pressed his lips together as Blanca gave him instructions. As she left, she gently patted Weeping’s arm. The door opened, and Shadrack caught a brief glimpse of the interior of the next car: a wooden floor, dim lamplight, and a wheelbarrow piled high with sand.
He did his best to keep from gagging as they placed the wooden block between his teeth. He did not resist; they would only jam the block in more forcefully if he did. The wires tightened across his cheeks and he grew still. He concentrated all of his attention on clearing his mind so that he would not choke. If he choked or gagged, his face would pull at the wires, and they would cut him. Shadrack breathed deeply through his nose until his pulse settled. The moment he felt calm, he knew that he would not be able to wear the bonnet for more than a few minutes. He looked up at the two men, both of whom were watching him.
The older man bore the familiar scars and the blank expression that was also, by now, familiar. He held the grappling hook as if it were an extension of his own hand: casually, almost thoughtlessly. The scarred Nihilismians had none of the usual fervor Shadrack had seen in the followers of Amitto. They lacked the zealous passion that Nihilismians carried like bright flames; no, the eyes of these men suggested loss, confusion, and an aimless sense of searching. But the unscarred younger man, Weeping, was different. He seemed like a real Nihilismian: his eyes were focused and bright with conviction. Dark green, they gazed into Shadrack’s unflinchingly. Though no compassion lingered there, they seemed to suggest something else: a clarity of purpose.
Shadrack thought quickly. First he had to get the bonnet off. He would not be able to escape right away, but it might be possible to distract his guards, and that was as good a start as any. He locked eyes with Weeping and nodded. Immediately the young man loosened the wires and pulled the wooden block away. “Call her,” he said to the older man.
“Wait,” Shadrack said, turning in his chair. “Listen to me.” The older man was already walking to the door. “June fourth,” he said quickly. “Weeping is for the cursed, who bear the face of evil. All grief is of the false world, not of the true world. Trust not the weeping, and weep not.”
The older man stopped and turned and looked at him, as if the words touched the edges of something terribly remote that he had to strain to remember. The younger man clasped his medallion and murmured, “Truth of Amitto.”
Shadrack spoke in an u
rgent undertone. “Truth, indeed. But she is hiding the truth from you—the truth about the very passage for which you are named. Trust not the weeping, Amitto says.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, forcing the man to lean in. “I know you have heard the weeping, as I did, at the mansion. Can you deny it?” The man’s silence answered him eloquently. “I can prove to you that this weeping, this evil,” Shadrack pressed, “which she is hiding from you, is close at hand.”
The older man had not moved; he stared at Shadrack, troubled, as if still trying to work out the meaning of the words that he had quoted from the Chronicles of the Great Disruption. Weeping, looking intently at Shadrack, deliberated. “How?” he finally asked.
“Do you know what causes the weeping—where it comes from?”
The young man hesitated. He shook his head. “No one knows. If you know, tell me.”
“I cannot tell you. There is no way but to show you,” Shadrack said. “If you will give me my tools, I will map the memory that will allow you to see.”
“Don’t give him anything,” said the older man reflexively.
“Tell her I am drawing the map she requested,” Shadrack insisted. “I promise you, Weeping—I will show you Amitto’s truth.”
Weeping looked down at him, the force of obedience and the Nihilismian fervor warring like water and fire in his green eyes. He had obligations and loyalties in this world; but nothing surpassed his commitment to Amitto’s truth. The fire won. He leaned toward Shadrack and mouthed his words, so that the older Sandman standing by the door would not hear him. “Very well.” Then he straightened up and spoke in a loud voice. “You will draw the map she ordered or no map at all.”
Shadrack bowed his head, pretending to be cowed.
“Ashes,” the young Sandman said, turning toward the older man. “You may go and tell her that he has agreed. I will oversee his drawing of the map.”
20
At the Gates
1891, June 26: 10-Hour #
Welcome to Ensueño Inn. Please stable horses and anchor arboldevelas after checking in. Please do not bring your horses into the courtyard. Our floors will thank you!
Sign at the inn’s entrance
NORMALLY, MAZAPÁN RELIED on hired guards for protection on the route between the Veracruz market and Nochtland, where he had his chocolate store. His wagon bore the royal seal—a leaf encircled by its stem—which attracted highway bandits. But on this trip, Calixta and Burr could offer more expert protection. Burr hired horses for Calixta, Theo, and himself. Sophia, who had never ridden, sat in the cart with Mazapán.
She had been hoping for a chance to speak with Theo. The last of her anger had faded as they walked back through the market, his scarred hand in hers, and it had given way to a compounded sense of anxiety. For one thing, they were back on land and once again easy targets for Montaigne and his men. And now they had Theo’s dangerous raider to worry about as well.
She couldn’t help it; staying angry with him was impossible. She wanted to know who the raider was, and why he was chasing Theo, and whether he was likely to return accompanied by more like him. It was obvious to her, now, that Theo had been telling her the truth about his past—but he had told her too little of it. What she most wanted now was to sit down and hear everything, from beginning to end. But he rode separately, sometimes ahead and sometimes behind, and apart from asking an occasional question about the route, he seemed utterly uninterested in the journey.
Instead, the story she heard was Mazapán’s. He told her about his store in Nochtland and the winding street that led to it and the delicious pottery he made in the large, sun-filled kitchen. He spoke with the accent of the southern Baldlands, like Mrs. Clay. His clothes—thin leather boots, white cotton pants, and a shirt embroidered with vines—while apparently commonplace in the Baldlands, would have stood out in Boston. His sizable belly, wavy brown hair, and large mustache all seemed to shuffle back and forth when he laughed. Sophia was only half listening and kept turning around to see if anyone was following them. Only when Mazapán handed her the reins and said, “All right, concentrate now—keep them at a steady pace,” did she realize that the kindly chocolate vendor was doing his best to distract her. She felt suddenly grateful and a little ashamed. “Why do they call you Mazapán?” she asked. “Is that your whole name?”
He smiled. “Actually, my name is Olaf Rud. But no one here can pronounce it. You see, my grandfather was an adventurer from the Kingdom of Denmark—a place that today lies in the far north of the Closed Empire. He was traveling here when the Disruption occurred. It became obvious afterward that he could not return; everyone he had known and loved had disappeared.”
Sophia nodded, intrigued. She had read about such stranded travelers—exiles who lost their home Ages—but each case was different and uniquely interesting. “So he stayed.”
“So he stayed. And with him, his unusual name, which no one can pronounce. Everyone calls me Mazapán. It is the Spanish word for marzipan, and Spanish is one of the many languages still spoken in the Triple Eras. In the past I was known for making marzipan candy”
“Why in the past? Don’t you make marzipan anymore?”
His mustache drooped. “Ah, that’s not such a happy story.”
“I don’t mind,” Sophia said. “If you don’t mind telling it.”
Mazapán shook his head. “No, I am past minding. I’ll tell you, though I am afraid it will not give you the most pleasant impression of Nochtland. Still—I am sure you will discover its charms.
“You see, I learned to make marzipan with my teacher—a master chef who could have turned his talents to anything, but decided he liked candy best. From him I also learned to make chocolate and spun sugar and meringues—all manner of confection. Well, my teacher was not young when I began learning from him, and he passed away just a year after I opened my own shop. Much of his business passed to me, and I did what I could to match his high standards. I was fortunate to attract the attentions of the court, and I began serving banquets for the royal family—in the palace of Emperor Sebastian Canuto.”
Sophia was astonished. “Banquets of candy?”
“Oh, yes—nothing else. I suppose I could cook some beans if my life depended on it, but I have to rely on my wife for everything of substance. I am not much good at anything other than candy. The banquets were quite complete in their details, if I do say so myself. Everything on the table—the tablecloth, the plates, the food, the flowers—was made of candy. The plates were made of chocolate, like those you saw, but the food and flowers were usually made of spun sugar and marzipan. The pleasure people derived from the banquets was in how the candy was disguised. It all looked like real food, real flowers, real dishes. And it is one of humankind’s simplest and most eternal pleasures to be knowingly deceived by appearances. I, too, enjoyed the banquets; I created more and more fantastic feasts with more elaborate and detailed dishes.
“Unfortunately, someone used my displays of innocent deception for a less innocent purpose. For Princess Justa’s sixth birthday, the banquet was more resplendent than any I’d served the royals before. All the members of the court were there; the emperor and his wife and daughter were at the head of the table. I had made marzipan orchids for decoration, because the empress’s favorite flower was the orchid. You have heard of the Mark of the Vine?”
“A little. I don’t really understand it.”
Mazapán shook his head. “To my mind, it is simply one more of the infinite differences that distinguish us from each other. My hair is brown; your hair is fair; Theo’s is black. Simply different. In the Baldlands, there are some who take great pride in having a particular shade of hair or skin. I find it rather ridiculous. But to continue—the empress had the Mark of the Vine. Her hair was not hair like yours or mine; it consisted of orchid roots.”
Sophia wrinkled her nose. “Orchid roots?”
“To you, no doubt it sounds strange. The entire court considered it the height of beauty. They were thin, wh
ite strands, the orchid roots, which she wove and bound into towering designs. Naturally, it gave her a love and affinity for the orchid flower. Her daughter Justa inherited this trait.”
“She has roots on her head, too?”
“No, Justa’s hair also bears the Mark, but it takes the form of a grass—long and green. I have not seen her since she was a child, but I am told it is very beautiful.”
Sophia diplomatically said nothing to contradict him.
“I had created marzipan orchids particularly for the empress, and there were vases all along the table. As the banquet began, the guests sampled the food, the flowers, the utensils, and even the plates. At one point—I was watching from the side of the room, naturally, to ensure everything went smoothly—the empress took up a marzipan orchid and ate it. I knew she would; there were banquets when she ate nothing but the flowers! She had another, and another. And then—suddenly—I knew something terrible had happened. The empress’s face was horrible to see. She clutched her throat and then her stomach. She crashed forward onto the table, her fabulous hair cascading onto the plates. Immediately, the entire room was on its feet. A doctor came at once, but it was too late; the empress was dead. She had been killed by a very rare poisonous orchid that someone had placed among the marzipan orchids.”
Sophia gasped. “Did they accuse you?”
Mazapán shook his head. “Fortunately, no. I was questioned, of course, but they soon realized I had nothing to gain from the empress’s death.”
“How terrible,” she said sympathetically.
“Indeed. Though they did not blame me, the emperor never wanted another such banquet, naturally enough. And I, for my part, though I knew I had not been to blame, could not help feeling some responsibility. Had I not created the marzipan orchids, no one would have been able to plant the poisonous orchids among them.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” Sophia exclaimed. “They just took advantage of how real the banquet looked.”
