The Crimson Skew

by S. E. Grove

  There was too much: too much misery, too much agony, too much despair.

  Sophia dropped the mirrorscope into her lap. Her hands were trembling. She did not know how much time had passed; every moment had seemed to unfold an entire lifetime of pain.

  “It didn’t work?” Theo asked. Then he saw her expression. “What happened?”

  Sophia could not speak. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to forget what she had seen. It was impossible. Red filled her vision; cries filled her ears; she felt a tearing at her chest that seemed both cruelly fresh and achingly old. Her breath moved through her with difficulty, as if something inside of her, now crushed, was blocking the way. When she opened her eyes, Theo and Casanova were staring at her, worried and perplexed.

  “The old one remembers war,” she said, her voice faltering. “Wars of the past and wars of the future. They are never-ending.”

  36

  Seven Witnesses

  —1892, August 17: 10-Hour 11—

  In particular circumstances, individuals from other Ages may be granted temporary endorsement, a short-term passage that permits them entry to New Occident. The sponsoring party in New Occident must apply directly to the Minister of Relations with Foreign Ages, who will grant the endorsements on a case-by-case basis. Justification for these endorsements will be made at the end of each parliament session by the Minister. It should be noted that this temporary endorsement will not be granted for commercial purposes, only for extraordinary circumstances of diplomatic necessity, such as the visit of a foreign dignitary for the purpose of establishing a treaty.

  —Parliament decree, June 14, 1891

  SHADRACK KNOCKED ON the door of Broadgirdle’s inner office, which adjoined the War Room. “Yes, Cassandra,” came the reply. “It’s unlocked. As always,” he added, a trifle sourly. Shadrack opened the door and stood waiting for the figure behind the desk to look up from the neat pile of papers before him. “What is it?” the prime minister asked, without raising his head.

  “There are some people here waiting to see you,” Shadrack said.

  Broadgirdle looked up at the sound of Shadrack’s voice, and surprise flashed across his face. “What are you doing here?” He half smiled. “I thought you would be on the road to Nochtland by now,” he said, his voice edged with malice.

  “I found that, after all, it made more sense to stay.”

  “Excellent,” Broadgirdle said, rubbing his hands together, his smile widening. “I do love a good fight.”

  “So I hear,” Shadrack replied. He turned and left the office deliberately, heading toward the War Room.

  “What do you mean by that?” Broadgirdle called after him.

  “If you would follow me, you’ll see.”

  Shadrack walked down the corridor, and after a moment Broadgirdle followed him into the War Room. There, Inspector Grey stood holding a piece of paper, and he motioned to the two officers who stood beside him. Without a word, they moved to stand on either side of Broadgirdle.

  “What is this?” Broadgirdle asked with a scornful smile.

  “Prime Minister Gordon Broadgirdle,” Inspector Grey said, reading from the paper in his hands, “I have been ordered by the parliament judges to conduct you from your office to a parliament hearing, which in this instance will be held in the State House parliament chamber. Due to the nature of your responsibilities as prime minister, there can be no ordinary arrest and trial at this time. The parliament judges ask you to answer immediately to the accusations.”

  Broadgirdle frowned, the levity of his expression giving way to hostility. “What accusations?”

  “Allow me to continue,” Grey said, without looking up. “You will be conducted by my officers to the hearing chambers, where a legal representative appointed by parliament will inform you of the accusations. I have been urged by the judges to add that this hearing must be conducted with the utmost discretion and speed, with the hope that the affairs of state will suffer minimal disruption.” He raised his eyes from the paper. “Please follow me.”

  For a moment Broadgirdle stared impassively at Grey, and Shadrack thought that the man would burst into rage—or worse. But then the hard expression shifted, as if with awareness of some new perspective, and the supercilious smile that was so characteristic of him returned. “Of course, Inspector,” Broadgirdle said, his rich voice edged with mirth. “Let us by all means conduct this quickly and discreetly, so I can get back to the business of governing this nation.”

  Unfazed, Inspector Grey nodded to his officers, who led Broadgirdle out of the War Room. Shadrack walked behind them, nodding reassuringly to the assistants who leaned out of their offices and peered into the hallway. “Please return to your work,” he told them. “The prime minister is assisting the police with official business.”

  The winding trip through the building brought them finally to the great hall where parliament met. The ninety members, previously summoned, were seated in their chairs. Nine judges, selected by parliament from the district courts of New Occident, sat on a raised bench across from them. At a table to the left of the dais was a middle-aged man in a black suit and barrister’s robes. To the right of the dais was another table, this one with an older man in a similar costume, accompanied by seven people.

  The seven people made a strange sight. Even to Shadrack, who knew them all by name, they were something of an odd assortment: Pip Entwhistle, with his white, square-cut beard and bulbous nose; Gerard Sorensen, with his perennial air of surprised disarray, who would not take his eyes from the table; the Eerie named Solandra, whose green hands were clasped before her and who regarded Broadgirdle with undisguised contempt; her father Lycium, whose green complexion seemed to darken at the sight of the prime minister; Susan Eby, a slight woman with black hair braided into two neat buns behind her ears; Victor Manse, a tall man with a tired expression and a worn hat, which he handled nervously; and Hannah Selvidge, an elderly woman in a floral dress with puffed sleeves, who looked hard at Broadgirdle through her spectacles. None of them seemed to belong in the State House.

  In fact, the only person who appeared entirely at ease in the silent, austere room was Cassandra Pierce, who sat apart from the rest in the area ordinarily reserved for the public. She and Shadrack were the two-person audience to the strange hearing that began as Broadgirdle was led forward. “Prime Minister,” one of the judges said, rising to her feet. Her round, impassive face considered Broadgirdle without expression. “Mr. Appleby has been appointed as your counsel. He will apprise you of the accusations and discuss your recommended response. As of this moment, there will be no recesses, and no one will leave the room until this hearing is concluded. You may confer.”

  The judge sat down. The members of parliament and the attorney for the state, who had also been standing, sat down. In the considerable rustle made by their movements, Broadgirdle and Appleby began a furtive conversation. From his seat beside Cassandra, Shadrack could hear nothing, but he could see the shape of the conversation reflected in Broadgirdle’s face as Appleby apprised him of the accusations and suggested a course of action. For the most part, Broadgirdle was silent and unmoved. No doubt the presence of these particular witnesses led him to guess the nature of the accusations. Broadgirdle listened with eyebrows raised, unimpressed, for several minutes. He seemed to answer Appleby’s questions with a dismissive wave of the hand. Appleby launched into an earnest appeal, leaning toward the prime minister and gesturing to the judges. After nearly a minute of silence, Broadgirdle nodded his assent.

  Appleby rose to his feet, seemingly relieved. “We are ready to proceed, Your Honor.”

  “Thank you,” the judge said. She took the top sheet of the pile of papers before her and read aloud. “Prime Minister Gordon Broadgirdle, we are here today to inquire into the potential criminality of several actions taken by you, both before and during your tenure as prime minister of New Occident. If th
ese inquiries suggest that criminal activities did occur, you will be immediately removed from office. You will then be formally arrested and charged, and a trial will take place through the proper channels. Allow me to reiterate,” she said, putting the paper down, “this is not a trial to determine your innocence or guilt. This is merely a hearing to establish the likelihood of criminal acts, and based on the outcome of this hearing, charges relating to those criminal acts may or may not be brought against you. Is this understood, counsel?”

  “Understood,” Appleby said.

  The judge nodded and returned to her paper. “We are here to inquire into the following: Did you or did you not remain in New Occident without proper documentation after the border closure? Did you or did you not present false credentials when seeking political office? Did you or did you not engage in the illegal traffic of human beings, banned as part of the treaty negotiations with New Akan in 1810? Did you or did you not forcibly detain four people in the winter and spring of 1892, keeping them against their will at your property in Lexington, Massachusetts?” The judge turned from Broadgirdle to the table with the odd assortment of people. “Is the attorney for the state prepared to call witnesses?”

  The older gentleman rose to his feet. “I am, Your Honor.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fenton. You may proceed.”

  Mr. Fenton was the kind of man who was easy to overlook. Everything about him was nondescript. His voice was quiet and unassuming; his clothes beneath the open robes were plain and unassuming; and the features of his face, fleshy and soft beneath a neat haircut and a neat gray beard, were bland and unassuming. Only his eyes gave him away. As he strode to the dais, he gave Shadrack a quick glance, and a sudden current seemed to pass between them. “I would like to call Phillip Entwhistle, also known as Pip, to give testimony.”

  Pip rose to his feet.

  “There is no witness box here, Mr. Entwhistle, so you may remain where you are.”

  Pip nodded.

  “Would you please identify the man sitting beside my colleague, Mr. Appleby?”

  “Happy to. He is Gordon Broadgirdle, current prime minister of New Occident.”

  “And do you know him personally?”

  “I do, but not as Gordon Broadgirdle.”

  There was a murmur of surprise from the gallery of parliament members.

  “I knew him years ago as Wilkie Graves. And before that, I knew him by the nickname ‘Terrier.’”

  The murmur from Parliament grew more consternated. “Silence, please,” the judge called.

  “Thank you, Mr. Entwhistle. Would you please, in your own words, tell us how you came to know this man?”

  “I will, Mr. Fenton, though I must admit it takes me back to a time I would rather not recall. I first met Terrier when I was a young man, and, frankly, not a very good man. I was young and stupid and much too taken with gambling. I would bet on anything. I would bet on whether there would be rain in the afternoon. Horse and dog races were as intoxicating as wine to me. Rather bad wine that always left me the worse for wear.

  “I say that not to excuse what I did, but to explain how it is that I traveled to a dusty patch in the middle of the Baldlands, on the rumor of a gambling game that many of my dissolute fellows had warmly recommended. I arrived, and I found that it was much as they had described. A man named Herrick was running dog fights.”

  Pip paused, and the members of parliament seemed to pause with him, waiting for the significance of this strange circumstance. “I stayed at the dog fights longer than I should have. The town nearby had its own unsavory appeal, and it was easy enough to spend a day at the dog fight, an evening at the tavern, and a night passed out under the stars.” He shook his head. “Thinking back on it, I wonder how my stomach could take it.” He sighed. “And the dog fights drew such crowds. My, they were nasty. Horrible spectacles, in retrospect. Blood sport. Can’t imagine how I ever watched. The dogs tore each other limb for limb. At the time, I’m ashamed to say, I found it exciting. People would bring their dogs, and you always hoped they would somehow surprise you and win the day, but Herrick’s dogs were beasts, and they always won. There was something that pulled you back—wanting to see those beasts of Herrick’s finally beaten, but somehow always knowing it wouldn’t happen. Until the man with the kerchief arrived.”

  Pip looked up at Broadgirdle, and a flash of something unexpected—sympathy, perhaps—brightened his eyes. “I never learned his name. He wore a red kerchief around his neck, and his boots were so worn there was no tongue on either one of them. You could see at a glance that he was down on his luck, and that he’d come to the ring to gamble with Herrick because he was desperate. He proposed something crazy, and to everyone’s surprise, Herrick agreed. The man with the kerchief proposed putting not a dog in the ring, but his own son.”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then a rumble of dismay from the parliament members.

  “Oh, I know,” Pip said, with a forlorn air. “It was reprehensible. It gives you a sense of what we were all like, the men standing around, that we didn’t stop this deranged experiment but instead looked forward to it eagerly as another good gamble.” He shook his head, appalled at himself. “He could not have been more than eight or nine. The first fight was a big one. It had drawn quite a crowd—people had come from miles around to see the boy who would fight dogs. He wore ordinary clothes. His only protection was in the form of boxing gloves and a leather helmet.” Pip’s voice faltered. “And he was terrified.”

  “Speak up please, Mr. Entwhistle.”

  “He was shaking when he stepped into the ring,” Pip said, only a trifle more loudly. “But like the brutes we were, we didn’t do anything about it. We cheered. I am glad to say we cheered for him, but that is not much comfort, is it?” He paused and took a deep breath. “Well, I have no wish to tell you the details of that fight. I will mention only that when the dog first bit him on the leg, the boy ran to the corner and begged his father to take him out. He was weeping so hard and scrambling to escape, and his father pushed him back in. I remember clearly what he said to the boy: ‘Get in there, Terrier. Get in there. Are you no better than a dog?’ I suppose he meant it as some kind of encouragement, but it sounded instead like an insult. The question stayed with me. At the time, I was madly cheering along with the rest of them, but later that question began to strike me differently. You could even say that the cruel words spoken to Terrier were responsible for ending my gambling, for when I stood at the racetracks or stood at the dice table, I would hear that question in my ears: ‘Are you no better than a dog?’ No, frankly, no,” Pip said, shaking his head. “I was not.”

  He took another deep breath. “Terrier won that first fight, and I suppose he made his father some money. I stayed for a few more, and then, as I said, something in me seemed to turn. Wish I could say it was righteous disgust or another noble impulse, but it was not. It was more like boredom. If I’d had my senses about me, I would have gone back to those fights and taken Terrier out of the ring and found him some place of safety. Instead, I left that filthy patch of desert and made my way elsewhere. And the words of Terrier’s father, as I have said, gradually curbed my excesses.

  “I did not see him again for more than a decade. It’s a wonder I recognized him at all, frankly, since he had changed in more ways than one. He was a man, not a boy. He was no longer in the ring, of course. And the air of terror that he had had in the ring was replaced by a kind of swagger. How did I recognize him? Well!” Pip exclaimed, tapping the side of his nose. “You may be surprised. He looked exactly like his father. Indeed, he was a younger and less-impoverished version of that man with the kerchief, but he was the spitting image. There was no denying it.

  “I came upon him at an inn in the southern Baldlands. In those days I was already a merchant, though I mostly sold worthless dreck. Terrier was sitting by himself at a booth, and I approached him. Perhaps I hoped to give
him something like an apology for having stood by when he was thrown into the ring. Or perhaps I was merely looking to sell some dreck. Who can say? I cannot pretend that even then, after I had stopped gambling, I was always guided by better instincts.

  “I approached him and said, ‘You look familiar. Can it be I am standing before the great fighter known as Terrier?’ I said this with an admiring air, you understand. For a moment something like suspicion passed across his face, and then he gave a broad grin. ‘Certainly, though it’s been many years since anyone called me that.’

  “I tell you—he was entirely changed. He had a great, booming voice filled with confidence—a man used to getting his way. We had a meal and a drink together, and I had a chance to know him better. Terrier told me that his name was Wilkie Graves. His father, he said, had passed away some years earlier—I did not ask how. Throughout the entire conversation, what he did for a living did not come up. I suppose I dreaded asking, thinking that he might still be caught up in the world of fighting and gambling, and that world had little allure for me now. Instead, we talked about dreck. I showed him the books and pamphlets and other little scraps that I had with me, and he expressed great interest and told me about other pieces of dreck that he had come across. I remember he bought a page of newspaper from me—I was glad to have made a sale that day.

  “Then we each repaired to our beds, and only the next morning when I saw him outside the inn, hitching his wagon, did I learn by accident what his new profession was.” Pip looked across at Broadgirdle, whose expression throughout the entire testimony had been a mask of scornful indifference. “He was holding a crate of food, with jugs of water and a couple of loaves of bread and a handful of apples. As we talked, he opened the locked wagon and put the crate inside, on the floor. There were three women and two men shackled there. Graves saw my expression, and he gave me a quizzical look. I struggled for words. ‘Transporting criminals, I see?’ I asked hopefully.