by S. E. Grove
“I trust you all slept well?” Calixta asked, gliding toward the table, where fruit and pastries, butter and jam, coffee and sugar awaited.
“I can’t remember the last time I slept so well,” Wren exclaimed, saluting her appreciatively with his toast. “The most soothing sound of the waves, the softest pillows, the most comfortable bed. Calixta, I am afraid that once this search concludes, you will find me at your doorstep, an uninvited but eager guest.”
“You are most welcome,” Calixta replied, pleased.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Goldenrod said, rising from the couch. “It is wonderful to be at last on land and in safe circumstances. You and your brother have given us the safest of safe havens.”
Sophia had wondered, when she saw the Swan in the port of Seville, how Goldenrod and Errol would take to the pirates. Calixta and Burr were flashy and boisterous, while Errol and Goldenrod were grave and quiet. But to her surprise, after only a few hours, the four seemed fast friends. Their common bond with Sophia paved the way, and then, as they conversed, each pair discovered in the other the quality they most valued: loyalty. From there, it was easy for Errol and Goldenrod to find amusement in what they perceived as the pirates’ frivolities, and it was easy for the pirates to pardon what they perceived as Errol and Goldenrod’s incorrigible gloominess. The Swan’s pirate matron, Grandmother Pearl, who watched the unexpected friendship emerging among them over the course of their monthlong voyage, affectionately dubbed them “the four winds.” And Wren was like an ocean current among these four winds: warm and good-natured in temperament, he adapted to his circumstances. He could be loud and rowdy, and he could be grave and quiet.
“Agreed,” Errol said. “We should not stay more than a day—”
“I insist you stay a week.” It was true that two of the four winds blew much more forcefully than the others, directing them and anyone around them with merciless, if friendly, force of will. “I am only too glad that we can offer you safety,” Calixta continued, spooning brown sugar into her coffee, “when there seems to be so little of it to spare.”
A month’s worth of newspapers had been waiting for them the previous evening. Despite their weariness, the travelers had snatched them up, reading and exclaiming while Millie and the other servants answered the volley of questions about the embargo declared by the United Indies, the secession of New Akan and the Indian Territories, the acquittal of Minister Shadrack Elli in the murder of Prime Minister Bligh, and the declaration of war by the new prime minister, Gordon Broadgirdle. “What does the morning paper say?” Calixta asked.
“This thing they are calling ‘the Anvil’ appears to be making life difficult throughout New Occident,” Wren said.
“‘The Anvil’? Sounds like the name of a tavern I’d rather avoid,” she replied breezily, seizing a slice of pineapple.
Wren gave the pirate a wry look. “It’s an anvil cloud. A heavy cloud that precedes a storm.”
The previous night, Sophia had taken a pile of newspapers upstairs and pored over them before falling asleep. Though the political events dominated the news, the growing prominence of what the newspapers called “the Anvil” had intrigued her. “But they’re using it to describe any number of things,” she put in. “Weather disruptions that have been happening all month. Sinkholes, storms, flash floods, even earthquakes.”
“‘A second sinkhole in Charleston,’” Wren read from the paper he had picked up, “‘consumed Billings’s crossroads to the west of the city, and noxious fumes were reported emerging from the sinkhole the following evening.’” He paused. “And on the coast off Upper Massachusetts, the anvil clouds obstructed a lighthouse, causing two shipwrecks.” He shook his head. “New Occident seems to be experiencing very strange weather.”
“It’s very worrying,” Goldenrod said, her green brow furrowed. “So many unusual patterns at once cannot be coincidental.”
“Yes,” Calixta murmured. “Bad weather. Always annoying. Any important news?” she asked meaningly.
Wren glanced at the paper again. “Skirmishes in the Indian Territories, but they are described in only the most general terms.”
“I very much doubt the veracity of these reports,” Goldenrod said.
“Naturally,” Calixta agreed. “One wonders about the reliability of the sources, and I have no doubt that Broadgirdle is doing his best to shape what we do and don’t know. Where is my useless brother?” she asked pleasantly, and considered a slice of cake drizzled with honey. “We have plans to make.”
“I am here,” said a groggy voice from the doorway. Burr’s handsome face was still heavy with sleep as he staggered into the room. “I heard a rumor that somewhere in this fantastically overstaffed mansion one could procure a hot cup of coffee. Is it true?”
“Oh, poor thing. You were expecting it to appear at your elbow when you woke up?”
“I was, rather,” Burr grumbled, pouring coffee into a porcelain cup. “But you have trained everyone who works here to think of it as their mansion, and they are wonderfully independent thinkers, so apparently what I expect counts for very little.”
“You will feel better after the coffee, my dear neglected brother.” Calixta pushed a plate toward him. “Have some cake. We need to find a way to get in touch with Shadrack, and we need to decide on our entry point to New Occident, since all the ports are closed to us.”
“New Orleans, surely,” Wren said, sitting down at the table beside her.
“If the Swan can take us to New Orleans, Errol and I can take Sophia north through the Indian Territories,” suggested Goldenrod.
“Is that not too much of a detour for you?” Much as Sophia wanted their assistance, she was well aware of how every day prevented Errol from searching for his brother. Indeed, she was well aware of how every member of the company was there because of her, accepting risk and inconvenience on her behalf.
“We go as far as you do, miting,” Errol assured her. “Until we see you safely back in Boston with your uncle.”
“There is no safety to be had in Broadgirdle’s Boston,” Burr commented dourly.
“The Ausentinian map says we are to part ways,” Sophia said carefully, voicing the concern that most troubled her. “I know we have discussed this before—”
“You put too much stock in the divinatory power of those little riddles, sweetheart.” Calixta patted her hand.
“However much the Ausentinian maps may prove true in retrospect, we cannot plan to separate because they predict that we will separate,” said Errol.
“He is right, Sophia,” Goldenrod agreed.
“But they are not little riddles,” Sophia insisted. They had gone over this many times on the Atlantic crossing. “Everything the maps have said has come true. And I am not saying we should plan to separate. What I am saying is that we should use the map to anticipate what might happen and plan carefully.”
Burr suddenly looked much more awake. “Speaking of divinatory power,” he said, “that’s how we should get word to Shadrack: Maxine!”
“Who is Maxine?” Wren and Sophia asked at the same time.
“Yes, Maxine,” Calixta murmured. “That is actually a good idea.”
Burr sat back with a satisfied air. “Of course it is. I am only surprised you admit it.” He turned to Sophia. “Maxine Bisset. In New Orleans. We have known her for years—utterly reliable. A bit of a fortune-teller, which is why my sister turns up her nose, but she also runs the best correspondence—”
There was a shout from the other end of the mansion. Everyone at the breakfast table fell silent and waited, listening; they heard the anxious clatter of running feet, and then Millie’s voice calling, “Captain Morris! Captain Morris!”
Calixta stood up just as Millie reached the room, breathless. “What has happened?”
“Tomás has seen horsemen,” she panted, “coming this way along the
road.”
“And what of it?”
“He was out repairing the gate. And brought this.” She handed Calixta a long, thin sheet of paper, looking rather the worse for wear from exposure to the elements. “They have been posted everywhere the last two weeks. But we thought nothing of it until now.” The group gathered around Calixta, who swore under her breath.
A fair drawing of Richard Wren occupied the center of the flyer. Around it were written the terms:
Reward: 2000 pieces silver
for the capture and conveyance
to authorities in Tortuga
of outlaw Richard Wren
“Why did you not tell me of this last night?” Calixta demanded.
“I’m sorry, Captain Morris.” Millie wrung her hands. “We didn’t think. I only heard you call him ‘Richard,’ and it didn’t occur to me—”
“How many horsemen?”
“At least thirty, Tomás said.”
“Too many,” Calixta said quietly.
“It is the League.” Wren’s face had gone ashen as he realized the Australian forces from which he had fled were so closely in pursuit. “They must be searching for me everywhere on the Atlantic, for they have no way of knowing I am here.” Everyone looked at him in silence. “The safest thing would be for me to turn myself in.”
“Absolutely not!” cried Calixta.
“Two thousand pieces of silver are terribly tempting,” Burr conceded, “and they would jingle most cheerfully in a little wooden trunk, devised especially for silver pieces, which we could shake now and then to remind ourselves—”
“Burr,” Calixta cut in, rolling her eyes.
“Only jesting!” Burr smiled. “Of course we cannot give you up—absurd. But we must leave, and soon.” He pointed at the tall windows. “I can see them cresting the hill, and they will be here in minutes. Though the staff are disconcertingly adept with sword and dagger, I think my sister would prefer to keep such confrontations out of the house. Very bad for the upholstery.”
Calixta gave him a smile full of warmth. “You can be so thoughtful, Burr.” Then she put her hands on her hips. “To the Swan, then.”
“To the Swan!” her brother agreed. “Friends, you have three minutes to pack.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then everyone raced from the room.
2
Pulio’s Perfumery
—1892, August 2: 8-Hour 11—
New Orleans was a divided city during the rebellion of New Akan. The rebellion’s organizers met and recruited in New Orleans, but its opponents were a powerful majority. It is a wonder that more of the city was not destroyed in the rebellion itself. It was spared for two reasons: first, the rebellion’s intentional focus on plantations and estates; second, the opponents’ decision to flee the city at the first sign of violent unrest. New Orleans was left in the hands of the rebels, and in the wake of the revolt it has become the seat of independent New Akan.
—From Shadrack Elli’s History of New Occident
SOPHIA FELT GRATEFUL, as she counted the seconds aloud to keep track of them, that her shabby belongings were still piled at the foot of her bed where she had left them the night before. With no time at all to change out of the extravagant fuchsia dress, she pulled on her boots, stuffed her clothes into her pack and her books into her satchel, and threw each over a shoulder. She dashed out of the peaceful little bedroom, peaceful no longer, and rushed down the stairs to the breakfast room.
Burr had miraculously found time to exchange his silk morning robe for the trousers, white shirt, boots, and sword belt that he usually wore. Wren carried his rucksack, Goldenrod carried next to nothing, and Errol promptly reached for Sophia’s pack when she entered the room. “Let me take that, miting,” he said.
“Calixta!” Burr shouted.
“Coming, coming,” came the unconcerned reply.
“She will be trying to stuff every gown she has into a trunk,” Burr grumbled. “Dearest,” he shouted up the stairs, “why don’t you leave everything here and buy some new things in New Orleans?”
The sound of drawers being frenziedly opened and shut suddenly stopped. Calixta appeared at the head of the stairs wearing her same lemon-colored dress and an elaborate sword belt. “An inspired suggestion,” she said.
“I’m glad you think so. And,” Burr added, “since our front door, which I am rather fond of, will be smashed to pieces at any moment if we do not leave, could I suggest we depart immediately?”
As Calixta pattered quickly down the stairs, Burr led the group to the rear of the house. Seneca clung to Errol’s shoulder. The glass doors stood open, and the five hurried down the marble steps, along the white stone path, and across the lawn.
“Millie has already alerted the crew,” Calixta said to her brother, keeping pace. “They will be lifting the anchor as we speak.”
Sophia did not turn to see the horsemen as they reached the mansion, but she heard them shouting when they spotted their quarry. The horses’ hooves pounded the lawn, and Sophia strained against the long, billowing dress, feeling it rip at the seams as she pushed herself to run faster. The pirates, Wren, and Goldenrod had already reached the dock. As the crew shouted encouragement, she raced after them and ran up the gangplank. Errol followed her with a leap, and the plank was hauled aboard in a single motion. A sudden jolt carried them away as the sails caught the wind. Some of the horsemen had reached the dock; they reined in violently, the horses wheeling perilously at the edge. More than one man drew his pistol, but every one held his weapon in the air.
“Why don’t they shoot?” Sophia asked, gasping for breath.
“They cannot sink the Swan with mere pistols,” Errol replied, only slightly less winded. “And they know we have cannon.” Seneca cried overhead and circled toward them, landing with a flutter on Errol’s arm.
Sophia sank to the deck with a groan. “I was so glad to be rid of the seasickness,” she said. “And here we are again.”
“I know, miting. I know.” Errol briefly rested a hand on her shoulder. “But it will be a short journey. And then you will be back on dry land for good. Try to lose track of time a little. We will be there before you realize it.”
• • •
THEY HAD ALREADY known that Richard Wren was a fugitive. What they did not know was the lengths to which the League of Encephalon Ages would go in order to find him. Wren had once been a vital member of the League, believing in its mission to protect early Ages from the destructive knowledge of future Ages. Now he was forced to flee from the very organization he had once served.
On the first night of their long Atlantic journey, Wren had explained how he found himself in such a predicament. They were gathered in Calixta’s cabin—Burr idling with a deck of cards, Calixta cleaning her pistol, Errol mending his cape, and Goldenrod listening along with Sophia. Despite her unrelenting seasickness, Sophia was mesmerized.
“As you’ve read in your mother’s diary,” Wren began, indicating the pages that he had copied for Sophia, “I met Minna and Bronson in February of 1881. I left them safe and sound in Seville, and then I returned with the Roost to Australia. Soon after our arrival, my crew and I were arrested.” He gave a wry smile. “There were many charges, but they all pertained to how I had broken the law in assisting your parents. The watch I gave them was the greatest breach. I soon found myself serving a very long prison sentence. Ten years, to be exact. Most of my crew were let off, fortunately.”
“How did they know—how could they know—about any of it?” asked Sophia.
Wren waved his hand dismissively. “The League has ways of knowing these things—many things. Sometimes it seems they know all things.”
“An informer?” Calixta’s pistol lay disassembled before her on a canvas cloth, and she looked up at Wren with a shrewd look as she polished the handle.
“My crew
are beyond reproach,” he said. “No—it is nothing like what you can imagine. Let me put it briefly so you can understand what I am up against.” He enumerated the points on his fingers. “Each Age has its reigning wisdom. For the Papal States, which we leave behind, it is religion. It organizes and directs all forms of knowledge. In New Occident, where your uncle’s mapmaking is so prized, Sophia, it is science. Before the Disruption, the ruling wisdom in Australia, too, was science. But once we joined with future Ages, we were caught in their sway, and the future Ages are dominated by the Ars—the arts.”
His listeners waited. The cards in Burr’s hands rasped and rustled as he shuffled them from one hand to another. When he spoke, his voice was perplexed. “As in . . . painting? And music?”
“Those are certainly artistic forms.” Burr gestured around the cabin, filled with paintings of Hispaniola that Calixta had acquired and curated with care. A girl splitting coconuts hung by the door; a battle at sea dominated the wall above a rack of rolled maps; and a breaking storm at sunset hung across from it. Each brought a spot of lightness to the dark wood walls. “And they have more power than people generally recognize. Each of these canvases is transporting in a way that you may not immediately realize. It is why Calixta liked them in the first place, no doubt—each had an undeniable influence.”
Calixta looked up from her work. “Of course they do.”
Wren gave her a nod. “I’m glad you agree. But it is the impulse of the Ars—the intuitive, interpretive, imaginative faculties, the ‘Three Eyes,’ as they are called—that really lie at their foundation. They can be channeled into painting and music, theater and sculpture, as they are in your Ages, but they can also be channeled into reading and understanding and shaping the world itself. Human minds. Cities. Societies. Landscapes.”
“I don’t understand,” Errol said flatly. The cape he was holding lay in his lap, his mending forgotten.
“It is almost unimaginable unless you have seen what the Ars can do, just as the world seen through a microscope is unimaginable unless you have seen what one can do.”