by Chris Braak
Edgar Wyndham-Vie was tried for his illegal commandeering of the Revenge, and for his overwhelming incomepetence in handling the “sharpsie situation.” Beckett’s testimony would eventually prove instrumental in his conviction for threatening the public good, both because Wyndham-Vie had tried to cover up heretical sciences, and because in so doing he had caused the escalation of tension that led to the sharpsie riots. True to the Beckett’s prediction, the Wyndham-Vie name became worthless in a matter of months; everywhere the characteristic gargoyle-downspouts of the Family’s architecture were torn down and thrown into the street.
Wolfgang Rowan-Czarnecki was tried posthumously, and found guilty of heresy. Only an impassioned plea on his behalf from coroner Elizabeth Skinner prevented the Rowan-Czarnecki name from suffering the same fate as the Wyndham-Vies. She argued vehemently that, for all his faults, Wolfgang had been motivated not by personal gain or greed, but by an abiding love for his lost brother, by a powerful sorrow for all that his city had suffered through the war. One of the judges, who had himself lost a son to the war with the ettercaps, had been moved to tears by Skinner’s words. It was determined that, given the trying times that now beset the Empire, Wolfgang Rowan-Czarnecki would be pardoned of his crime by the Emperor himself, and his body, once recovered, would be buried in Vie Abbey.
The Excelsior was publicly dismantled. The elements of its engines were taken to half a dozen sites across the city, and melted down. Many people attended. Most of them cheered.
Alan Charterhouse was quietly placed under arrest and held at Raithower, and given a comfortable room there while the coroners decided what to do. Like Rowan-Czarnecki, it might be possible to receive a pardon, but only after he’d been executed. Especially in light of the disaster in Vlytze Square, it seemed unlikely that anyone with knowledge of Aetheric Geometry could possibly escape capital retribution.
Young Mr. Charterhouse found himself spending most of his time lying on his back in the bed that the coroners had provided him. He would lie perfectly still, his hands resting over his eyes, trying to sleep, but finding it impossible with his nerves jangling up and down his body. He waited for days, and was well-cared for. Beckett’s men provided excellent food, clean sheets, books when Alan asked for them. Valentine was permitted to visit occasionally. Both were voracious readers, and they talked enthusiastically about books, always studiously avoiding the subject of the Ted East novels that had once been Alan’s favorites. The days blended together into a long stretch of gloom, as Alan awaited his execution.
One day, Valentine knocked on Alan’s door, a few hours before dawn. This was alarming—though the coroner had been a regular visitor, he only ever came in the late afternoon. “Alan,” the young coroner called, softly. “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” Alan muttered. Understandably nervous about his impending execution, he’d been unable to sleep again. “What is it?”
“Get up, get dressed,” Valentine said. “You’re leaving.”
Alan sat bolt upright. “What? Now?” His heart sank deep into his stomach. “I thought . . . don’t I get a last meal, or something like that?”
“Not to the gallows,” Valentine grinned. “Come on, I’m busting you out.” He tossed the young man a satchel, stuffed almost to overflowing with clothes.
“W-what?” Alan said, not daring to let his hopes up.
“Can’t execute you if you’re not here, right? Hurry up, get your clothes on.”
Alan quickly began to dress. “Where, I mean, where am I supposed to go?”
Valentine’s grin widened, and the young cartographer found it infectious. “Corsay. There’s a ship waiting for you by the docks in River Village.”
“Corsay?” Alan practically choked on the word. Corsay was halfway around the world, a backwater colony, full of savages and monsters. “What…?”
“You’ve been accepted at the University there. Corsay University, I’m sure you know, is a long way from Vie Abbey and the Church Royal. They’ve a little more relaxed view about geometry, if you take my meaning.”
“Valentine,” Alan protested, “I can’t afford university.”
Valentine rolled his eyes. “Who’d have thought it’d be so difficult to convince someone to miss their own hanging? Don’t worry about the bill. Everything’s paid for, courtesy of Comstock Street. And don’t worry about your age. You’ll have to take the long way around, so you’ll be about sixteen by the time you get there. There’s a tutor waiting for you on the ship, though I’m sure you won’t need one.” He handed a number of sealed letters to the young man. “There’s your letter of acceptance, thanks to the recommendations of certain highly-placed members of the Trowth civil-service,” Valentine winked, “And a letter of introduction to a boarding house in Ennering Village there. Also paid for. Tell my aunt Helena hello, by the way.”
“Valentine…” Alan Charterhouse found himself speechless.
“Oh, one more thing.” Valentine drew one of his pistols, opened it, dumped the bullets into his hand. He stuffed the beautiful, pearl-handled revolver and its ammunition into the satchel. “Never know when something like that will come in handy.” He tousled Alan’s hair.
The young man didn’t move. After a moment, he said, “Beckett.”
“Trust me,” the young coroner told him. “This is exactly what Beckett wants. He can’t say it, because he can’t know about it, because if he did know, he’d have to stop it. But you saved Skinner’s life, Alan. You saved all our lives, potentially even the Empire. We owe you.” He grinned again, and Alan found himself grinning so widely that he felt his face would crack. “Besides, what good is being rich if you can’t throw money away? Now,” he took Alan Charterhouse by the arm, “Let’s get you out of here.”
“That’s my report,” Beckett told Mr. Stitch. The huge, hideously leathery Reanimate regarded him without expression, his brass eyes immutable. “I don’t know who activated the Excelsior. Anyone I might suspect was otherwise engaged.”
Skin and muscles creaked as Mr. Stitch finally nodded. He sat behind his great wooden desk, its surface bare, his hands folded before him. “It is. Unfortunate. I will. Take over. That investigation.”
“You don’t want me to look into it further?” Beckett asked, slightly appalled.
Stitch slowly cocked his head to the side, and Beckett shivered. He had never trusted the Reanimate, despite what amounted to a century of loyal service to the Empire. “Tragedy. Has strengthened. Our city.”
Beckett stared. Was Stitch really saying what it seemed like?
“I will. Look into it.” The Reanimate’s voice was strangely emotionless, and yet it still held a note of finality. “You. Would not like. The answers.” Slowly, Mr. Stitch raised its dead hand, and dismissed him.
Outside of Stitch’s office, Beckett found Valentine and Skinner sitting on the couch in the parlor, whispering softly to each other. It reminded him of other business.
“The boy’s gone,” Beckett grunted. “Wonder how that happened.”
Valentine nodded, his face studiously ingenuous. “I don’t know, sir. We were watching him closely.”
“I’ll bet,” the old coroner replied, his face hidden by the red scarf. After the incidents at Gotheray Castle, the fades had proceeded to further ravage the old man’s features, making it a gruesome, skeletal visage of grinning teeth and blood-red muscle. Beckett was quiet for a few seconds, while Valentine practically held his breath. “Well. We’ll get him if he turns up again. No time to worry about it now.” He tossed a folder of clippings and arrest reports to Valentine. “We’ve got work to do.”
End.
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