Fabrick

by Andrew Post

  Each cut on her body laced up and cinched tight. Across her face, her chest, her stomach, the threads zigzagged until every cut was bound. Her eyes were closed during this process, a slight twinge of pain written on her face as it occurred.

  Complete, her expression softened. She gazed at her onlookers, seemingly relieved. She lowered her hand, apparently having adjusted to the light.

  “Nice trick, but you still owe me,” Flam said, holding the blunderbuss by its bent barrel for the woman to see.

  She silently dismissed it, turning her attention to Clyde and then Rohm. She looked the pile of mice up and down but didn’t seem at all troubled or confused by the sight. Finally, she returned her gaze to Flam.

  She took a sharp breath and, sounding somewhat bored, said, “If you’re not of the Patrol, who are you?”

  “We’re just a handful of fools who came down here to rescue you when, obviously, you’re not worth our time or effort.” Flam shifted his arm as if his shoulder hurt.

  “What happened to you?” Clyde asked her meekly, keeping his distance.

  “I was deceived.”

  “By whom?”

  “She’s clearly got a beef with somebody,” Flam said while rubbing his other arm.

  “Who else?” She raised a fingertip, noticing a stitch upon her index finger hadn’t sewn itself correctly. As she focused on it, the stitch burst, then sewed itself together, this time properly.

  “The Odium?” Clyde asked.

  She chortled, a sweet sound despite her ghastly appearance. “I wish it were that easy. No, it was by our delightful and prosperous king himself.”

  Flam coughed. “I don’t know how long you’ve been down here, lady, but the king’s dead. I’m sorry to tell you, but whatever bad blood you had with him, you’ll have to take it up with him when you get upstairs with Meech.”

  “I know,” she said, blinking slowly, politely illustrating her annoyance. “I was being sarcastic. I don’t want to call Gorett the king any more than anyone else does. He’s a leech and a liar.” As her tone became coarser, the stitches looped in and out of her flesh over her wounds trembled ever so slightly. She took a deep breath, and the stitches went still again. “I worked for him several years. I was even appointed as a delegate to deal with fabrick weaver affairs abroad. I’m sure you’ve heard of the cruelty weavers have undergone not only in other continents but in Adeshka and here as well.” She waved a hand toward herself. “Clearly.”

  “No,” Clyde said. “I haven’t. The others might’ve. I myself spent most of my life locked up in basements, sometimes in chains and . . .” Clyde had to stop himself.

  She looked Clyde over again, as one would inspect a horse they weren’t sure whether to bet on or not. “You’re one as well,” she said evenly. “What’s your forte, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I’ve heard it given many names,” Clyde mumbled, “but I always liked conscience sponge the most.”

  “Conscience sponge, hmm? That’s . . . a new one.”

  Flam interjected, “You should probably explain the whole thing before she apologizes for nearly crushing me, Pasty.”

  “Why?” Her brows furrowed. “What’s its double edge? Tell me. What can you do? I thought I knew them all.”

  Clyde explained the best he could, taking nearly ten minutes.

  She was patient and said nothing until he was through and even for a while after. “The fabrick is ingrained in us in so many ways,” she said finally. “I’ve lived with my ability for close to twenty years this coming summer, and still I haven’t heard of all the different facets of fabrick. Yours, I must say, is the most unusual I’ve heard of. Better than being able to control plants or make someone sneeze on command or some other blasé thing like that.”

  “Thank you,” Clyde said, unsure. “What is it that you do?”

  “My fabrick? Well, as I just showed your friend here”—she patted Flam’s flinching shoulder—“I can control thread and string. I’m similar to the Pied Piper in that way.” She walked behind Rohm and leaned in to get a look at each mouse that made up its head. She spotted one tiny frisk mouse, a newborn, and wiggled a finger at it in greeting. She looked at Clyde and continued, “Cords of plastic, metal, or stone? Gathering those would be like trying to collect a handful of air. But I can make cotton and silk and other fibers dance and move any way I please.”

  Unlike Clyde, who felt somewhat ashamed of his fabrick, she seemed proud of hers. It made him like her—or at least admire her. He felt like he could stand a little taller.

  She pulled the threadbare sleeve up from her arm, showing Clyde the terrible state of her flesh. “But, as with yours and every other weaver’s, my fabrick is double edged. I could make a thousand coats in a flash, mend an entire army’s trousers in an afternoon, or even give the king an entire new wardrobe while he had his afternoon tea, but unfortunately I cannot keep myself together as easily.”

  Her upheld arm trembled, and the stitches broke and pulled out of the wounds. The flesh open and fresh, it became like a new sleeve around her arm. The wounds did not bleed, but Clyde could see within some of the divots in her skin all the way down to the muscle and bone. The sight made his legs go a little numb, especially when one panel of skin was slipping from her flesh and the stitches lunged to grab it up and pull it tight again.

  “What is your name?” Clyde asked quietly, daunted by this woman’s . . . everything.

  “I believe in fresh starts,” she said, coming around to the front of the pack of travelers. “And I don’t want to be known by my old name. That was the name of someone naive who fell victim to the silver-tongued dignitaries, and I don’t care to be known by it any longer.”

  She faced the room she’d been in for countless days and nights. There, marked next to the hospital door was the number eleven.

  “Nevele,” she chimed.

  “Neh-vel-ee?” Flam echoed, confused.

  “The word eleven, reversed: Nevele,” she enunciated, gesturing at the hospital room’s placard.

  Flam chuckled. “That’s rather good. Nevele. I like that.”

  Clyde nodded, as did Rohm.

  “Fine,” she said. “Nevele it is. And I believe a new name should come with a new wardrobe. Pardon me, gentlemen. And ladies—if there are any of you in there.” She leaned, looking into Rohm.

  She dodged into her hospital room, ripped the sheet from the mattress, and returned to the hall with it. She held it out, one big banner of white fabric with yellow soiled patches.

  She closed her eyes.

  The sheet threw off its stains in one billowy shudder. The material was suddenly untarnished. With a flick of her wrist, it shifted on her body, the material punctured by thread and reassembled, drawing about her.

  She turned around in a long-sleeved tunic, a hooded vest, a pair of slacks—all in the same snowy shade. She looked at her bare feet in the inch of water. She eyed Flam’s leather armor.

  “Mind?” she asked, but before Flam understood, she reached out with a tendril of her stitches and unlatched the hard leather panel covering his right shin. The stitches held the piece of leather out, working quickly as they broke it down and reassembled it into a pair of midthigh, brown boiled-leather boots. She lifted her left foot from the water, shook it, slipped on a boot, and did the same with the right.

  “There. Much better.”

  She seemed troubled by something on Clyde’s shoulder. Her stitches shot out and quickly repaired the rip sustained to his tuxedo in the initial encounter with her tentacle.

  “Sorry. Force of habit,” she admitted with a smile.

  A nice smile, Clyde couldn’t help but note.

  “Hold on a second,” Flam said. “Care to tell me why you’re getting dressed up like you’re intending to go someplace, making shoes for yourself and whatnot?”

  “I plan on getting to that deceitful bastard Gorett. No one deserves to be stashed away in some dank basement like an unwanted piece of furniture.”


  At that, Clyde felt the journal of Mr. Wilkshire gain a few ounces in his repaired tuxedo jacket.

  “And I assume that’s what you three are up to, yes? Out for revenge on the prime minister?”

  “Out for revenge, yes, but I can’t say we’re looking for the same bloke you are,” Flam said. “Me and the stack o’ mice here are helping Pasty track down who killed his friend. But you came at kind of an odd time; our mission statement is in the middle of an amendment, as it were.”

  “Who are you looking to kill, Pasty?”

  “My name’s Clyde, actually, and I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m going to seek revenge, honestly. I wouldn’t use the word kill, either.”

  Nevele took a deep breath, the sutures across her chest creaking. “Right. So here we have a dapper fabrick weaver without a goal, a Mouflon he must’ve conned into giving his word to help him, and a pile of talking mice.”

  “Frisk mice,” Rohm corrected.

  “Right. Apologies.” Nevele sniffed. “Looks like I got rescued by exactly the wrong bunch of bawdy buccaneers. Here I was going to offer you my services for freeing me, but I’m not sure I want to help if there’s no true goal in sight.”

  “Preaching to the choir, lady,” Flam said, folding his arms.

  “Well, you were down here for a reason other than to free me, yes? Perhaps I can help with that and we can part company afterward. You know, return the favor?”

  “We were looking for the elevator to sea level,” Rohm said.

  “Okay, that I can help with.” She pointed. “This way. The westernmost wall.”

  “We know that much,” Flam said, watching her go. “It’s the electricity we’re having a time with.”

  “Let’s just see what we’re up against first and get into the details later,” Nevele said, splashing ahead in her new custom footwear. “You Mouflons, always such defeatists.”

  Clyde took up the rear again and walked with his head low and his hands buried in his pockets. He truly felt he was wasting everyone’s time, but he hoped he could make himself useful.

  Nevele looked like a somewhat experienced individual. Worldly, even. Perhaps she’d like to get something off her chest—even if it meant a jinxing of a week of stubbed toes and tumbles down flights of stairs. But maybe after they got out of there . . .

  Chapter 16

  Vidurkis Mallencroix

  Pitka Gorett looked over the shoulders of his security officers as they sat patiently waiting at their dark monitors. A flash on each display showed junk-laden streets, abandoned shops, innumerable vacant homes. One of the security officers at the far end of the row thrust his arm up and swiveled in his chair, calling for the king’s immediate attention.

  “Sir, it looks like something has happened at the hospital.”

  Gorett swept his cloak aside and walked behind the security officer. Ignoring the officer’s narration of what he’d just spotted, Gorett bent toward the glass monitor, but all he could see was his own reflection, looking haggard. He glimpsed the security officer in the reflection as well, looking stressed.

  The officer sighed when the infrastructure of the hospital facility came on screen for a moment. In the third subbasement, one room was illuminated differently, a bright cautionary red. Room eleven. Gorett had sequestered someone specific there, and now, if the readings were correct, that occupant was no longer hooked to the heart rate monitors. Either she had died—the preferable outcome—or she had ripped out the diodes. He had warned her how important remaining attached to the machine was; each diode was keeping her alive with a steady supply of artificial nutrients. The minute she wasn’t, well, that would be when her slow death by starvation would begin.

  Gorett pinched the bridge of his nose, raked a hand through his hair. “Any reading on where she might be now?”

  The officer made a few keystrokes, but the screen went dark again. They’d have to wait for another surge to come. “I’m sorry, sir, but . . .”

  “Forget it.”

  Gorett didn’t bother to wait but simply walked to a guardsman at the security chamber’s doors. He whispered, “Has the keep been compromised?” It was a question he asked often. After securing the stores of food and water, the underside of the palace came next. They couldn’t exactly keep hold on a city with those horrid . . . things coming in through the floorboards.

  The guardsman stared straight ahead. “All layers of the palace are perfectly stable, sir. I saw to it myself this morn that every level is secure. No Blatta can get through our walls, I assure you.” Same thing he always said.

  “Yes, but the lowest of the keep, the prisoner cells. Have they been compromised?”

  “They are not our highest priority, sir.” He dared to make eye contact with Gorett. “You said so yourself, sir: prisoners are an expendable lot.”

  “Go ensure it’s secure. I want to visit someone.”

  “As you command, sir.”

  They had to take the stairs since the lift from the palace wasn’t cooperating. Gorett marched to the stockade, accompanied by ten of his royal guard. Five walked ahead of him in the narrow spiral stairwell, and five kept watch behind them. They had reverted to firelight long before the power problems. The old man who held the title before Gorett was old-fashioned in that way—annoyingly so.

  The guards were armed with rifles and the gray light lanterns that could immobilize any human or beast. Gorett requested a gray light lantern for himself and carried it along, the tiny pearl floating in a viscous fluid within. He rested his thumb on the switch. One flick, and a prisoner would get a shot of its nullifying glare.

  When they reached the bottom of the keep, five guardsmen walked ahead to make sure all was safe. Gorett waited, listening to the walls moan with pressurized metal, the occasional splintering of rock making a heart-stopping pop. He considered himself a rather stalwart man, but still he jumped every single time. His city was in agony, and now all around him, underground, it was so much more palpable. The echoes didn’t help. Especially the other voices mixing in with them, the other prisoners.

  “Oh, Lord Gorett. You’re here. Thank the heavens.” Reaching hands came from between rusty bars on either side of him. He recoiled, remaining smack-dab in the middle of his mob of guards. “Please have mercy. The city has fallen. Let us at least escape with our lives. I promise you, I’ll never return to Geyser for as long as I live.”

  “Shut it,” a guard shouted and banged on the bars. The hands retracted, but the begging continued, albeit at a more subdued volume. All at once, Gorett noticed, they gave up on pleading for their release and began chanting. Prayers, mostly.

  All that could be overlooked if it didn’t smell so awful in here. What was impossible to ignore was the city’s laborious moaning. It bothered Gorett deeply, but none of the prisoners seemed to notice. He guessed they’d spent so much time here that none of them heard it anymore. He remembered setting up his wares on the sidewalks of East Town, not six miles from this spot, begging for people to buy his mother’s crafts and charms. And how he’d gotten so used to the passersby rejecting him or telling him not to touch them that he began to not hear no at all anymore. Only when someone said yes—when they’d buy something and put money into his grubby hands—did his ears work.

  Of course, then came the day when his mother approached the wrong man on the wrong day. How he turned and, without even so much as a second thought, cursed all beggars and began hitting her. Splitting her lip, putting these little notches into her cheek where his ring had struck and dug in. From that day forward, he swore he’d find some way, any way, to cocoon himself with enough money to never beg or ask anyone for anything again. He’d form himself into a powerful enough entity that if anyone dared raise a hand to him, they’d find themselves dead within minutes.

  Still, the dry whispers from behind the cell walls punched through that armor he’d hammered and bolted onto himself. They’d cut through like a knife, finding the soft spot with such ease. He didn’t let his face change, d
idn’t give the memories purchase to climb his soul another solitary rung.

  That was a lifetime ago, he reminded himself. You’re a different man now. You’re the one who hands out the pittances. Still, he wished he could flip on a deafness to the agonized cries of his city and of the jailed men.

  He was here for a reason. He needed someone to stop not only the Mouflon and the man—if she hadn’t killed her releasers—but now Patient Eleven as well.

  Gorett watched his guards edge down the row of cells. Maybe when they apprehended the three, Gorett would put them to work—send them into the Blatta-choked mines, clear up Geyser’s floodway, and allow safe passage for the retrieval mission with men he couldn’t spare . . .

  The lead guardsman returned, lifting his visor. “Sir?”

  Had he been trying to get his attention?

  “What is it?” Gorett said, frowning.

  “It’s all safe, sir. The walls are holding. The cells as well.” The young guard removed a ring of keys. “Which one would you like opened?”

  “Executioner Mallencroix’s cell, if you would, please.”

  The ten guardsmen heard it, and as if the gray light were cast upon them, all froze openmouthed. The lead guardsman finally nodded and turned to walk to the end of the hall.

  The cell door swung open, revealing the emaciated figure seated within. Gorett pulled his cloak tighter, protecting its luxurious fabric from touching anything, and stepped into the cramped enclosure. He remained standing, for every inch of the space was horribly filthy. For a beat, he lamented that he’d have to pitch his shoes after this.

  Vidurkis Mallencroix’s beard hung to his knees, and he looked through his matted black hair at the visitor. “Hello.” His voice was like a dented bell being rung, a bent sound.

  “Vidurkis,” Gorett said and gazed at his pearl-like eyes, his stomach going twisty. They were gray, with the occasional flash of red and green when the torchlight hit them just right.