by K. Z. Snow
“I promise I’ll get you one, sweet William.”
Three knocks sounded at the door. “Eminence?”
Fanule slid the journal onto the desk a second before Mrs. Scrubb eased the door open. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Rumpiton saw your horse outside and wants to know if she can speak to you for a moment.”
“Yes, all right.” He walked out of the dim little sitting room, closing the door firmly behind him. Mrs. Scrubb locked it and headed down the hallway. Fanule followed.
She suddenly turned. “Oh, and before I forget, a man named Simon Bentcross called for Mr. Marchman just before you arrived. He sounded quite beside himself. Said he’d tried calling you but got no answer.”
“Of course not. I don’t have a voxbox on my horse.” Fanule put on a smile to conceal his concern, even tried telling himself there was no cause for concern, but his unease kept growing. Too many mysteries had been flung at him in too short a time. Worse, he still lacked confidence in his mental fortitude and resilience.
One problem at a time. One solution at a time. And no leaping to conclusions.
He’d no sooner stepped onto the broad porch of the boardinghouse than Mrs. Rumpiton was before him. “Eminence, I think I need your help. Or at least your advice. I refuse to go to Crimple. He’s a pompous quack.”
“I quite agree.” Fan sat in one of the chairs flanking a small table. He motioned toward the other chair, and Mrs. Rumpiton seated herself. “But you know I’m not a doctor.” He was touched, suddenly, by her pragmatic clothing—the common, head-hugging bonnet and handmade shawl, the large apron and lace-up boots—and realized how much he loved the ladies of Taintwell. Very few followed the latest fashion. Even when they ventured into Purinton, they embraced either simplicity or a defiant flamboyance. The women seemed prouder to be Branded Mongrels than most of the men.
“I may not even need a doctor,” said Mrs. Rumpiton, who didn’t seem comfortable in the chair. Enhanced by her skirts, the goodwife’s girth was held in a vise grip by the chair arms. “What I need more is to find the master of the Spiritorium. You’ve heard of the Spiritorium, haven’t you, Eminence? Your Mr. Marchman saw it.”
Fanule’s blood froze. All he could manage was “Yes.” He swallowed and forced out, “So did I,” in case anybody had seen him speaking with Zofen. But he couldn’t bring himself to elaborate.
“Do you know where I might find him?” Mrs. Rumpiton asked anxiously.
“No. Sorry. I’ve been looking for him myself. He… had no permit to set up his wagon on the Green and solicit business.” Fanule had improvised this excuse for his interest in the Spiritorium, but at least it was believable. “Why do you need to see him?”
Mrs. Rumpiton began to fidget with her apron. “I hired him to cleanse my son.” She flicked a guilt-tinged glance at Fanule. “You know how wicked Ulney’s been, Eminence, summoning insects to plague people. He put a bee in Miss Shermouth’s hat and sent grasshoppers into the Ebbelums’ garden and—”
“I know,” Fanule said calmingly, reaching over to still Mrs. Rumpiton’s writhing hands. He was quite familiar with Ulney’s mischief. Almost all Mongrels who possessed special powers tended to play with them while growing up. The temptation was hard for children to resist.
Mrs. Rumpiton’s fleshy face trembled. “The mister and I couldn’t take it anymore. The ire of our neighbors, dinners ruined because Ulney didn’t like the food. And the fines!” She leaned toward Fanule as much as her confinement allowed. “We got a letter from the village board telling us we were going to be fined every time Ulney played a trick on someone. We can’t afford to pay fines every other day, so we had to do something to make him stop!”
“And what did the man with the Spiritorium do?”
“Cleansed him, of course!” When Mrs. Rumpiton saw the butcher’s wagon approaching the boardinghouse, she blushed with embarrassment at her shrillness and lowered her head. The butcher, who appeared not to have heard, steered toward the back of the house.
“How does he accomplish that, exactly?” Fanule’s ears buzzed. He could barely listen. But he knew he had to listen.
Woefully, Mrs. Rumpiton wagged her head. “I don’t know. With the Machine, I assume. The one in the wagon. He never laid a hand on Ulney, so it must’ve been the Machine that changed him. I never seen it, though. Just heard it.”
“So you didn’t witness this so-called cleansing?”
“No. The Spiritmaster said the subject had to be alone and asleep. It’s different for siphonings, but we didn’t need one of those.”
“And how has your son changed?” Fanule asked with half a voice, his gaze welded to the woman.
She pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose. “Took the Ulney Rumpiton out of him, Eminence, and made him a walking corpse. Not wicked, not good. Not pleasant nor unpleasant. Not anything.”
Just like Yissi Sweetgrass.
“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Mrs. Rumpiton whimpered.
“Of course you didn’t.”
“The Spiritmaster said there’s always a ‘period of adjustment’ for the cleansed, that having your badness removed is like losing a mangled or rotten limb. The removal is necessary to save you, and to ease the minds of the people around you, and little by little, you learn to function without that limb.” She swabbed her nose with her handkerchief, then looked down at the square of embroidered linen as she folded and refolded it. “That’s why I need to find the Spiritmaster. I want to know how long before Ulney can function again. My mister said there ain’t nothing natural about this, not even if it lasts but an hour. I’m inclined to agree with him.”
The woman’s tale was unsettling but hardly enlightening. Fanule still couldn’t determine what Zofen was up to or what that Machine was about. Both must’ve had something to do with the beliefs he’d so zealously embraced. Which left the question: when and why did he embrace them?
Simply wondering about these things made Fanule queasy, but he had to gather his courage. He had to get to the bottom of this even if it meant confronting a man he loathed.
“I’ll look into the matter immediately,” he told Mrs. Rumpiton as he reached over the small table and cupped her shoulder. “I give you my word.”
Her smile, feeble as it was, conveyed relief and gratitude. “I believe you, Eminence.”
Fanule returned her smile, even as he thought, Gods, I hope her faith in me isn’t misplaced.
He descended the porch steps, then turned as another thought struck him. “One more thing, Mrs. Rumpiton. Did that man explain the difference between ‘cleansing’ and ‘siphoning’?”
Sniffling, she nodded. “Cleansing purifies an individual. Siphoning draws the evil out of an entire place.” She slipped her handkerchief back into her apron pocket. “What he called ‘an accursed place.’”
Fanule didn’t like the sound of that. The phrase accursed place was disturbingly open to interpretation.
Chapter Ten
WHAT NEEDED to be done, at least in the near future, fell into order as Fanule guided Cloudburst through the eccentric streets of Taintwell. His mood had cooled and his mind had cleared. He hoped he’d spy his estranged lover as he rode home, but he didn’t.
Nothing worrisome about that. If William couldn’t find work in Taintwell, he’d look in Purinton.
Two men arguing on the browning grass between Shrubberkill’s barbershop and the village’s only bank caught Fanule’s attention. He wouldn’t have given the scene a second thought if all they were doing was exchanging heated words. But the larger man was about to bear down on the smaller like a boulder falling toward a sapling.
Doder Cormorand was the boulder. And the bank’s handsome, natty cashier was his target.
“Stop!” Fanule shouted, pulling Cloudburst’s reins to the left and halting before a water trough and hitching rail.
Jusem Fober, sweat pearling along his mustache, all but wilted in relief. Neither he nor Cormorand said a word. They didn’t
need to.
“Doder,” Fanule said, striding up to him, “if you don’t want to bunk at Dunwood again, I suggest you return to your job.”
Stymied, Cormorand barely restrained himself. His nostrils repeatedly flared. “You been making a lot of suggestions lately, Perfidor.”
“That’s because I’m the fucking almighty Eminence of Taintwell,” Fanule snarled into Cormorand’s face, unable to conceal his contempt. Given all the other problems he currently had to contend with, he had no patience to spare for a common thug.
Jusem tried slipping away, probably back to the relative safety of the bank, but Fanule caught him by the arm. “Stay here. I want to talk to you.”
Cormorand thrust a forefinger toward Fober. “He’s the weasel! I know he is! Damn you, Perfidor, let me take care of my own business!”
“No. You have no proof of anything. Now either go back to work or sit in the jug. Your choice, Doder.” Taintwell had but one constable and two jail cells. They served primarily as holds for disorderly drunks and rowdy youths. Preternaturally causing harm, which meant attacking fellow villagers through one’s powers, justified jail time too, but such acts were rare. Those Mongrels who did possess special powers (for not all did) generally used them only in self-defense.
Doder Cormorand had no special powers, save for exceptional meanness and strength. But they were enough to guarantee injury to Jusem Fober.
“You’ve not seen the last of me,” Doder warned the cashier in his most intimidating voice.
“I haven’t done a thing!” Fober shot back. “Leave me alone, or I’ll charge you with harassment and threatening bodily harm!”
Cormorand hawked up a gob of spit and launched it at Jusem’s gaiters. After a final, predatory look, he clumped toward the street.
Fanule turned his attention to the cashier. “Mr. Fober,” he said in a lowered voice, “I don’t like meddling in other people’s affairs, nor do I make a habit of dispensing unsolicited advice. But considering I just took time out of my day to spare you a nasty thrashing, I’ve surely earned the right to speak openly.”
He couldn’t believe he’d once been intrigued by Jusem Fober—specifically, by rumors of his remarkable endowment and sexual endurance. At one time Fanule would have eagerly tested the veracity of those rumors, for he’d always favored men with Fober’s look and build, and he’d always appreciated a healthy carnal appetite in his partners. What’s more, Fober could bend his knees and elbows backward as well as forward.
However, the village fornicator was not a twor.
Just as well. The village fornicator was a lightning rod for gossip.
Fober cracked his neck, cleared his throat, adjusted his vest, pulled out his watch. “I suppose you have a point.” He clicked his watch open, checked the time, snapped it shut. “Just be quick about it, would you?”
“I’ll take as much time as I need.” Fober had no special powers either, so Fanule had no reason to tread lightly around him. “Have you become friendly with Yissi Sweetgrass? Tell me the truth. Your romantic exploits are no secret in this village.”
A flush surged into Fober’s face. “Sir, as long as I’m not breaking the law, what I do is none of your—”
“Yes, it is my business. Now it is. I didn’t ask to be pulled into this, but I’ve been pulled in just the same.”
Pressing his lips together, Fober again ran through his repertoire of fidgets. “Cormorand’s a brute,” he muttered. He flipped Fanule a defiant glance. “Nobody can deny it.”
“Nobody’s trying to deny it.”
“Then nobody can fail to understand why the lady in question might turn to another man for comfort. But you needn’t worry. She’d begun to want too much from me, so I ended it.”
Could that account for Yissi’s lack of spirit? It was possible. Being jilted by a spouse or sweetheart could result in all manner of uncharacteristic behavior.
“How did she react when you told her?” Fanule asked. He couldn’t shake the description Mrs. Rumpiton had given of the change in Ulney, how perfectly it fit Yissi, too.
Coincidence?
“Damn it, Perfidor,” said the flustered cashier, “it’s over, I tell you! What does it matter how she reacted?”
Fanule studied him. Jusem was jittery, shifty-looking. And he was dodging the question. “Mr. Fober, might you have had any concourse with the stranger who owns the gold wagon? Might you have hired him to do a ‘cleansing’ to ensure your freedom from unwelcome attention?”
Exasperated, Fober threw a small fit. He yanked off his hat and slapped it against his thigh. A hank of wavy hair fell over his forehead. The oil he’d sluiced through it gave it a sickly sheen the color of old mustard.
He suddenly raised his pale blue eyes to meet Fanule’s gaze. “And what if I did?” he hissed, his mustache jerking with each word. “That woman seduced me. Then she wouldn’t leave me alone. I swear she was like a damned succubus! She needed cleansing!”
Fanule wanted to slap Fober’s oath back into his mouth. “Is that what you told the so-called Spiritmaster? That she’s some insatiable whore who corrupted you and wouldn’t let you be? And did you let it drop, too, that she has a husband, just to make her look worse?” By far the taller man, Fanule leaned closer in. “Did you?”
“He asked, and I told him the truth,” Fober mumbled.
“You didn’t tell him anything near the truth, you filthy coward. You know damned well she’s no seductress or adulteress. You’re the one who pursued her, Fober, because she was easy prey. And because common-law unions aren’t recognized by the provincial government or any church. When she became an inconvenience, you wanted to be rid of her, plain and simple.”
“I wanted to be rid of her desire for me,” Fober snapped defensively. “The Spiritmaster expunged the corruption from her soul. Now she’ll be a faithful wife again.”
Fanule had to muster all his self-control not to blow up. “Her desire for you is gone, all right,” he said levelly. “Everything in her is gone. What that deceiver did was turn her into one of the walking dead. It should’ve happened to you, Jusem.”
Disgusted, Fanule eased back. Fober, the handsome sleek fox, stared at the ground. He suddenly reminded Fanule of Robin Thornwood, a former lover who was equally faithless and conniving, equally capable of sacrificing another person’s life to save his own skin.
Gods, he missed William. He missed the riches William had brought into his life and he had taken for granted: a bounty of innocence and honesty, of pure, unconditional love and fidelity. I will make him almond cakes with custard sauce when he returns. I will carry him to bed and massage his body with warm, scented oil and kiss his feet. I’ll do anything he wants.
“I have to get back to the bank,” Fober muttered.
“Go back with this in mind,” Fanule said. “From now on I will not lift a finger to protect you from any man’s wrath. Or any woman’s. You’ve crossed a line, Jusem. You’ve gone from player to betrayer. I’ll not defend anyone who makes that loathsome journey.” He shoved past Fober, knocking him against the barbershop wall.
THE HOUSE virtually echoed, it seemed so hollow. Fanule stoked the parlor stove and had lunch. Unless and until Lizabetta’s gazing box could impart some insight into Zofen’s motives, the Eminence of Taintwell had to issue a village-wide alert to prevent more cleansings.
The most expeditious way would be to contact Ape Chiggeree and have him blast the air horn mounted on an old windmill tower behind his shop. With the approval of the village board, Fanule had devised a code for different alerts. Only one was suited to this situation. Two blasts followed by one followed by two more was a call to all villagers to gather on the Green immediately. Once they were there, a village official—in this case, the Eminence himself—could issue a warning and be assured of it reaching hundreds of ears. But that was an extremely disruptive way to get a message out. It pulled people away from their homes and jobs, frightened the children, and led to a chaotic snarl of horses, wagons
, carriages, and transports around the Square. If residents didn’t perceive the message as an emergency, they’d be mad as hornets, and Fanule would lose a great deal of credibility as a leader.
Instead, he voxed old Ape, one of Taintwell’s most respected citizens, and had him feed a warning into the grapevine: Stay away from a gold circus-type wagon called the Spiritorium and the man who drives it. There’s evidence both are dangerous.
Then Fanule called the Well, the village’s weekly newspaper, and placed a boxed item on the front page of tomorrow’s edition.
DRUMMER ALERT!
All villagers are advised not to do business
with a strangely-garbed huckster who
calls himself the Spiritmaster and engages in
harmful practices. These are not cures! If you see a
large gold wagon, it is imperative
that you contact the EoT immediately.
Fanule Perfidor
Eminence of Taintwell
Fanule had no sooner signed off than the vox connector announced another call, this one from the Deputy Mayor of Purinton.
“Lillian,” he said rather too abruptly, “how can I help you?” His gaze wandered around the parlor, over the worn upholstery of the sofa and chairs and large ottoman, the scrollwork of the stove, the four-shelved tower of a walnut bookcase, the scattering of items on the sideboard. Everything looked dusty and woebegone—even the drooping fern that stood on a pedestal beside the front door.
Or was it only William’s absence that made the house seem neglected, as if its soul had fled and left merely a residue of itself behind?
“Fan, did you hear me?”
“I’m sorry, Lily. I have a lot on my mind. What was it you said?”
“Something strange happened at the Mechanical Circus on the night of November first, in the Caravan Park. The fact City Hall and the EA were notified testifies to the gravity of the matter. That little community is rather insular, you know, and distrustful of authority.”