by Andrew Post
The Blatta, for example, would eventually make their way to the surface. It was inevitable. Also, if Patient Eleven got anywhere near him, she wouldn’t hesitate to end his life. And then there was the matter of having released the Executioner, the equivalent of loosing a rabid dog and asking it to ever so politely do as it was told and not rip the throat out of anyone it came across.
The sheet was full by the time he was done. The proposition was clear; what he was offering was precise. More than once, he reassured the recipients that none of this should be thought of as a trick. The Odium were nothing if not paranoid. But distrust could be curbed if money was involved. Working in the palace as long as he had had taught him that lesson.
The Odium pirates were more than suitable candidates. He certainly wouldn’t trust any of the figureheads in Adeshka. But word would get to them eventually. It’d be impossible to keep his alliance with the Odium secret forever. But all he’d lose were the citizens waiting clueless in the camps, really. Expendable.
No one could take the throne from him, even if he were voluntarily applying the label of defector and war criminal to himself. Geyser could become whatever it became after all this was over, just as long as he could get the stone out of the ground by some means. And, he assumed, if the rumor of the Odium was true about living in man-made caves carved into the permafrost at the ice caps, they’d have to be skilled miners. Maybe they’d be impetuous enough to volunteer to go after the stone.
Gorett wouldn’t mind sharing the profits with them, so long as it meant his protection. The girl could have the city—what was left of it. The Executioner and the Stitcher could fight for it the rest of their lives. Gorett snorted. He imagined her expression as he came back, aligned with dozens of pirates and their ships and weaponry—how dumbfounded she’d be. If she were, after all, the victor. If it were the Executioner, well, then, Gorett wouldn’t even give him the time to be dumbfounded. He’d take up a rifle and put the mad dog down himself.
It was close: the means to the end. It was like building a house: one had to lay the foundation before anything else. And with the Odium, Gorett could practically smell the fresh mortar, hear the grind of flagstones, the bite of a shovel making that first exploratory divot into the earth. Things would shape up. Even if he had to force them to.
Two miles almost straight down, through a labyrinth of winding tunnels and damp warrens, rubber wheels rolled over the hardwood floors of the miners’ house. Clyde looked from the pages of the journal in his lap to Nigel, who was easing into the living room. Clyde closed the leather cover on Mr. Wilkshire’s journal and met Nigel’s gaze. The man had parked at the far end of the room, as if he were avoiding a bad smell. With a few flipped switches, he engaged the brakes, never removing his focus from Clyde. He shimmied down in the seat to become comfortable. He gave Clyde a long stare, the gears in his head nearly visibly turning.
“I’ve got plenty of supplies for yer road ahead,” Nigel said finally, voice thin. “I couldn’t find sleep tonight, with all this excitement and the damned Blatta screeching out there.” He referred to the digger outside. The only thing keeping the Blatta from flooding the entryway cavern to the mines was the machine’s heavy, notched blade. “That and whoever’s banging away down in the cellar.”
“Flam,” said Clyde.
Nigel nodded. “Like his uncle in yet another way. Restless.” He looked over his shoulder to survey the front windows. He scowled toward the far wall of the cavern outside, peering toward the source of the hissing and chattering of the insects once more. “And like them as well.”
“They do make a lot of racket.”
When he looked back, Clyde noticed Nigel wasn’t staring outside anymore but was eyeing him carefully, really looking into his face and eyes. The miner sucked on his lower lip, bit it with his shining quartz teeth. He blinked, tired, and took a deep breath, ready to say what he had to.
Clyde steeled himself for the worst.
“I saw these on ye.” He pointed to his own wrist, then at Clyde. Clyde looked at the cuff of his jacket and saw nothing terribly exceptional or out of the ordinary there, except the cuff links with the ornate P set into them. “And I didn’t want to say this in front of the others,” he went on. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want them to know . . .”
Clyde set the journal aside. “I’m sorry. I don’t follow. Know what?”
Nigel’s eyes danced. After two false starts, an irritated groan, and a sigh, he got it out in one push. “After I left my previous . . . place of work, I moved to Geyser. I wasn’t always in this chair, and I was new to it and didn’t really know any kind of work besides what you do on two feet. I applied, on a whim, to be a digger operator, since . . . I thought, well, there’s a job a man can do whilst sitting down, and I won’t be in any sort of office pushing papers.
“Met the boss man, Albert Wilkshire, on my first day. He didn’t care what it was I used to do. He and I hit it off—as close as two men can be when one is an employee of the other, I suppose. A few months in, with maybe a wee bit too much brandy in his coffee one Friday night, he told me about ye. A lot, actually. As much as he cared for ye, he always thought it was such a shame that he had to keep ye locked away. But since he knew I was a man of good character and could keep a secret, he told me something he probably shouldn’t have been telling a man of such low standing as myself. But, as it were, I think he’d been sitting on it too long and had to tell someone. It really had nothing to do with me. I just happened to be the one present when he spilled the beans . . .”
“Please continue.”
“It was right in there, in the dining room, long after the other men had gone to sleep. It was just he and I. He told me about the fraternity he was a part of, a secret group assembled by King Pyne himself. And about ye and his guilt in being yer keeper—when the roles should’ve been reversed.”
“What do you mean?”
Nigel pushed with his elbows and sat up in his chair. “Wilkshire was a close friend of King Pyne, which was why he was part of his secret fraternity. They grew up together, went to war in the Territorial Skirmish with Embaclawe together. They lived big lives before returning to Geyser. Saw many worlds, many battles, many terrible things as well as good.
“They wanted to maintain Geyser as a good place of permanent peace. When it was time for Pyne to take up the throne at his father’s death, he went to Mr. Wilkshire and devised a plot to ensure that the goodness of Geyser would never be tainted—a safety protocol of sorts.”
Clyde sat up on the couch, his tiredness releasing him. “I had no idea Mr. Wilkshire and King Pyne knew one another. He never had him over as a guest. Not that I recall.” Clyde would’ve certainly remembered royalty in the chateau. Miss Shelby would’ve been polishing everything in sight for weeks leading up to the occasion, certainly.
“Aye, but to maintain the ruse, they sadly had to end their friendship. No one could know. Really, it made their friendship more meaningful by seemingly ending it. It’d become less about being chums and more about dedicating themselves to something bigger, more important than having another feller as a close mate. That sacrifice had to be made in direct reply to a new threat.
“Angry folks believed the path to total parity on this planet could be found only in having a constant state of turmoil, unrest, one leader always replacing the last. They believed machinery and bits and pieces of metal were not the product of a man’s hands but the work of his soul made manifest. That metal, the constant hammering, always adopting the better model, ceaselessly making draft after draft in a product line—that was mankind’s purpose. To them, machinery and engineering and tinkering weren’t just livelihoods but divine influence pressing its way into reality . . .”
“The Odium,” Clyde managed, the name like dirt in his mouth.
“Yes. And with their numbers growing, something had to be done. When Lady Pyne was with child, they decided their firstborn son would have to be kept safe. They knew the Odium may attempt to ta
ke the throne from him. So upon his birth, it had already been decided he’d be put into hiding.”
Nigel paused and raised a finger. “But they never guessed in a thousand years that the child would be born a fabrick weaver.”
Perplexed, Clyde opened his mouth for another question, but Nigel raised a hand. Tears rimmed his tired eyes. “Let me finish it, lad. I got to get through it fast; otherwise, I don’t think I’ll be able to do the story justice. Gots to get it on the first swing or we’ll be here all night.”
Clyde nodded, fighting his impatience. “All right.” His heart was hammering.
Nigel cleared his throat. “He saw the curse of yer fabrick early on. Ye would tell one of yer nannies—or even yer mother and father on a few occasions—that ye cared about them, and when they left the room and came back, ye’d have no memory of them at all, having to meet them all over again. If ye spoke of yer love for anyone at all, they’d become total strangers to ye.
“Yer father used that when he began to suspect treachery within his cabinet. Prime Minister Gorett was determined to usurp yer father by any means necessary and wasn’t secretive at all about it. He wanted your father worried. But yer father also knew Gorett was timid at heart, and to make up for it he would be patient in his planning. Without any solid grounds to discharge him, yer father kept Gorett close—as ye should with enemies—and learned that Gorett planned to arrange accidents with yer siblings and ye, so that when it was time for the Commencement, when your king father’s soul passed to the next heir, Gorett would be the only one present to inherit it. And so Lord Pyne and Lady Pyne decided to fake your death.”
“Wait. I’m—?”
“What’d I say, lad? Let me finish.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
“I apologize, Clyde. It’s just that this is difficult for me. I’ve sat on this for quite some time, and seeing ye here now really gives me . . . hope. Somethin’ I haven’t had in quite a while. Anyway, he sat ye down on his knee and asked ye to tell him how much ye cared about him, even though he knew it would wipe yer memory of him completely. Unaware of what it’d do, ye told yer pa ye loved him. He set ye down, left the room, and came back. He said ye smiled at him and said hello and introduced yerself—being the polite little shite ye always were—and as much as it killed him, he had ye put in an auto and sent off.
“An hour later, he was out on the balcony making the public announcement, lying for the first time to his people ever, that ye were dead. To him, it wasn’t so much of a lie. He had lost ye, in a way. He’d never see ye again, he knew. Gorett was well on his way to getting his plan set in action already.
“Grief, and the outpouring sympathy from Geyser to the Pyne family would be the cloak that’d operate as a way to get ye away. In the hubbub, he appointed Mr. Wilkshire to the task to move ye from place to place. Ye were always hooded and bound, to protect them not only from ye but from those who may have been privy to the colossal secret of who ye were. Ye changed hands, kept under lock and key, with your extraordinary ability exploited left and right. Ye see, Mr. Wilkshire had to rely on his business partners to house ye, and not all of them were good men, were they?”
Clyde shook his head. “No, they weren’t.”
“But, sadly, it was to be done. Ye couldn’t be kept in one place, and only Albert himself ever really knew where ye were at any given time. Mr. Wilkshire decided to keep ye himself, the last of the line of caretakers. By the time ye were twenty years old, he figured that would be when he’d start training ye to be a good leader. He planned on letting ye know everything about yer royal blood, about who ye really are. But he had to also maintain an outward image of normalcy. And that was about the time my team found the deposit of stone, and . . . well, I had no idea it’d put so much pain and treachery in motion.
“Gorett played at accepting the throne humbly, as if it were his duty to accept it. People speculated he’d kept yer siblings busy elsewhere or had them murdered outright, and for a while people let that gossip go by the wayside since, really, for the most part, Geyser was in all right shape. People felt safe, protected against the Odium—who, by then, were making announcements and broadcasting threats against the city. No one cared. Geyser’s people were confident the city was safe and their new king would keep them that way.”
Nigel sighed. “Then word began to spread about the deposit, and then the Blatta infestation was discovered . . .” He sounded exhausted suddenly. “And I lost ten of my best men in one week and . . . well, everything plumb went to shite. I holed up and prayed for the best, that yer father and Mr. Wilkshire’s plan wasn’t ruined, that maybe the Sequestered Son made it out . . .
“And as luck would have it, ye survived and, well, now—there’s hope.”
His smile was tired but there.
Clyde lowered his head, shook it. It was all so much to take in. His head swam, as it had after Nevele’s kiss but different; it wasn’t a swelling of the heart, a blossoming of good feelings inside of him but a crushing that kept driving him further down. It wouldn’t have felt much different if the cavern ceiling gave out right then on top of the house.
Nigel gripped Clyde’s wrist. “Geyser can be great again. The citizens can be brought back. The water will flow again once the Blatta are pushed back and Gorett is relieved of his duty.” He gave Clyde’s wrist a shake as if testing his attention. Clyde looked at him and nodded, although solemnly.
“This is big,” said Clyde, breathless.
“That it is. And I don’t mean to lay such a heavy burden on ye, lad, but Gleese depends on this. The fall of Geyser means the fall of the rest of the rock. We’re pretty much all that’s left besides Adeshka and, well, they’re a bunch of money-grubbing sods. The Odium will return when they know they can easily raze the city. Gorett must be stopped.”
“But what about the others? My siblings? My mother? What about them? I had heard that King Pyne, my . . .” He wanted to say father but couldn’t bring himself to—not yet. It still felt too fresh and alien to him. “He had other children, didn’t he? Where are they?”
“Gorett was successful in displacing them. They’re scattered among the stars, lad.”
“Dead?” Clyde grimaced. Can this get any worse?
“No, but conveniently out of communication range when yer father’s days became numbered. Maybe when word spreads far enough of what has happened, they’ll come back. Bad news travels fast, for certain, but not fast enough in some cases. Either way, ye were born first and, as the fates would have it, also a fabrick weaver. They were good people, yer two younger brothers and little sister—”
“What were their names? Were they like me?”
Nigel blinked. “Lad, there will be time for all that later.”
“But what about my mother? Where is she? Was she like me?”
“Yer mum, Susanne—bless her heart—she was a wondrous woman. She was a commoner, like any of us, but if anyone was ever to be destined to be a leader’s wife, it was her. And to tell ye true of it, Clyde, behind every great man there’s always a woman.”
“But was she like me?” Clyde pressed.
Nigel continued on dreamily as if he hadn’t heard Clyde’s question at all. “I knew her, back before she and yer father were ever acquainted.” He scratched at his arm, and Clyde focused on one of the tattoos: a faded 58th encircled with chark thorns. “Big heart in that lady.”
“But where is she now? She’s my last connection, if my brothers and sisters are really that far out of reach . . .”
Nigel’s hesitation confirmed to Clyde the worst was true even before he said, “She passed away giving birth to yer little sister, I’m afraid . . . I really wish I had more good news to impart to ye in this story, but the whole thing is rife with tragedy and there’s no two ways about it. If anything, I hope it gives ye the mettle, a fire under yer arse, to want to make things even more right.”
Nigel sighed. “Forgive me, lad, but I wanted to get what I knew in yer ears before ye set off. Perhaps i
t was cruel of me to lay this all on ye before the trip ahead, but Mr. Wilkshire trusted me with this. He knew that when he was running out of time and Gorett was seeking to have him killed for what he knew, ye would survive and possibly come this way. It was to be my job, if all else failed in the fraternity, to hide ye down here.” He gestured at the house around them.
“I apologize for pointing the gun at ye before, when ye first arrived, but consider it some impromptu acting. I couldn’t let the others become aware that I knew who ye were, if they were holding ye against yer will. Of course, I can see now that those others ye travel with are mighty great friends.”
Clyde brightened. “They really are. And I understand. There’s a lot to be wary of now. I probably would’ve reacted the same way.”
“No.” Nigel showed his crystal teeth in a wide smile. “You wouldn’t have. A good bloke, ye are. And that’s why, when the time comes, ye’ll make a great leader. Always true, like yer father, saying what ye mean and what ye intend regardless of who may be around. Stubborn but in a good way.”
Clyde stared at the cracked leather cover of Mr. Wilkshire’s journal. Nothing of what Nigel was telling him had been within its pages. Besides mention of a burdening thought, it had all been figures and tabulations, reportage on the day’s progress, and some sheets used as scratch paper for mathematics with the occasional doodle, poem, or grocery list. He looked up at Nigel. “What if I don’t want to be king?”
The miner cocked his eyebrows and sat back. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised to hear ye say that; I just figured it would’ve taken a while.” He struck a match on the underside of his armrest and brought it to his pipe. “It’s like anything in life: ye take it as it comes. Being the new employee of anything is hard—learning the ropes, knowing what to do and, more importantly, what not to do. I remember when I started down here in the mines. Mr. Wilkshire taught me how to use the diggers and how to properly wedge wendal stone out of its surrounding rock without damaging any of it. Back before, ye know, we were getting bits and pieces and not wholly intact deposits the size of a house. He was patient, understood that people fresh to a new task will make mistakes.
