The Fugitive and the Vanishing Man

by Rod Duncan

  The hunting party had been spread out. But the way now dipped into a wooded ravine, the path narrowing at the lip. Riders bunched up, each man waiting his turn to descend. Janus was there, gesturing others to go before him. Not wanting to risk a conversation with the man, Edwin pulled back on the reins and slowed. The baggage train clanked to a halt behind. Only when the last of the hunters was spurring forwards did they move again. At the edge, Edwin had to duck under a low branch before beginning the short descent. A stream glinted at the bottom. Timon was there waiting, his horse standing in the water, drinking.

  “What chance the hunt?” the king’s brother asked.

  Edwin stopped beside him. “We may be lucky.”

  “Come on, man, use your powers to help me for once.”

  “Is there a wager?”

  There was always a wager. The culture of gambling had rooted deep at Crown Point.

  Timon leaned in close enough to whisper. “Should I lay money on a stag or a boar? I won’t bet on nothing. That’d be bad luck in itself.”

  Prediction was a dangerous game. But so was everything in the court.

  “Nothing’s guaranteed,” Edwin said.

  Timon nodded.

  “And not a word to anyone that I helped you.”

  Another nod.

  Straightening, Edwin sniffed at the air, eyes closed, as if in meditation, allowing the moment to stretch, to become uncomfortable. The mules in the train were waiting behind, their drivers keeping a respectful distance. After a count of twenty, Edwin whispered, “There will be a deer. Your brother will bring it down from a great distance.”

  “Then I’ll place my bet and thank you,” Timon said.

  Edwin could have left it at that. But the opportunity was too good to let pass. “There’s more. Something… something about this animal will be strange.”

  Timon’s eyes grew wide. “What? And what will it signify?”

  “I cannot tell. But when I see it, I will know.”

  The king’s brother had leaned in as they spoke, like a friend or a lover. Then, as if becoming aware that he was too close, Timon pulled back and scowled. “Why do you do this?” He gestured to the skirt.

  “I prefer to ride side-saddle.”

  “You’d be safer dressed as you should be dressed. I’ll give you that advice for free.”

  “Then how would you like me – more fully woman?”

  “I don’t want you!”

  Timon pulled his reins around and splashed away, out of the water. Edwin watched him pricking the stallion into a trot up the far side of the ravine. If the king were to fall and break his neck, then Timon would take the crown. There was some protection for Edwin in that. Timon was a believer. He would look to his magician for guidance. But he was also a man of simple passions, not used to restraining himself. Nor built for long life as a king.

  Edwin leaned forwards and patted the dappled mare. It splashed across the water and began carrying them up the path the others had taken. Behind, the mule handlers shouted to their beasts and the whole procession resumed its noisy progress.

  By lunchtime there had been no sight of quarry. Nor could anyone have been surprised. They stopped in the shade of some trees while the cooks fanned charcoal fires and began to prepare a feast. For the most part it was cold meats and hot coffee. But there were also fruits and bread and sweet pastries, of which Timon seemed to have a particular fondness. And wine. If an assassin didn’t kill the king’s brother, then a seizure of the heart surely would.

  Edwin palmed a strip of dried salmon and found a rock to sit on away from the others, a place to eat without being seen. Aloofness was part of the role. A magician could not be ordinary. Not on a day of spectacle, as this would surely be. Existing without mortal sustenance, poised between the genders. It would unsettle the others, until they needed a magician. Then all that otherness would make things right.

  Facing away from the feast, Edwin discreetly ripped off a sliver of the fish and began to chew. It had been heavily salted. In the afternoon they would need to lag behind again and find a stream to drink from, where the men of the court would not see. Another small sacrifice.

  Janus took the opposite approach, trying to appear more like the others, though it was said his father had been a blacksmith. He would choose the same food as them, eat it with them, pretend to enjoy their humour. He would always defer to their decisions, right or wrong. But in secret, he despised them. Edwin had seen that. A man so much more quick-witted than those he bowed to: Janus was the danger, not Timon.

  Hearing the approach of soft boots, Edwin slipped the remains of the dried fish into a loose sleeve and brushed away the last crumbs.

  “What do you see?”

  It was the king himself. Edwin stood, bowed.

  “A kingdom without borders.”

  “How so?”

  “It will encompass the globe. You will be ruler of all.”

  “You’re no use to me if you flatter.”

  “Does a compass flatter?”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “A compass will point towards the North Pole. It isn’t flattery. It doesn’t say you’ll ever reach it. But by pointing, it tells you the direction your next step must take. You wished to rule the globe. It’s not a bad thing to remember it from time to time. To keep us pointing in the right direction.”

  “Clever words might be more dangerous than flattery,” the king said. But he was smiling.

  Edwin bowed again. “Tell me what you want to achieve, my lord. I’ll find the path.”

  “My father’s magician could put on a good show,” the king said. “Sparks and entrails. But he wasn’t a planner. He wasn’t like you. The trouble is, I can’t fault your thinking. Forge an alliance with Newfoundland, you said. Put a king in place on that island. Every bit of the plan makes sense. Except now the wrong man sits on the throne in the east and he won’t even send an embassy.”

  “I believe the embassy is on its way,” Edwin said, with a certainty he didn’t feel.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps. But even then, they may refuse our offer. If that happens, I’ll be turning to your friend, Mr Janus. He’ll be First Counsellor. I’ll have no choice. The captains will demand it. We have our army and it needs a fight.”

  “If we attack any one of these nations of North America, we’ll have the full force of the Gas-Lit Empire marching against us. Against you, my lord. Even with our new weapons, it’s a war we can’t win.”

  “Janus says we can. He says our victory will be complete. They’ll be so shocked by our power that their governments will crumble. The downtrodden will rise up to help us. The oppressors will topple.”

  It was an old argument, a moment to stay quiet.

  A stand of trees in the distance marked out the line of another small ravine. The leaves seemed to shimmer in the breeze. After lunch they would set off towards it, as had been arranged.

  “Do you know why Janus is useful to me?” the king asked.

  “No, sire.”

  “Because he disagrees with you. Seeing you at my right hand makes him all the more hungry for my good pleasure. When I listen to your advice, he puts all his soul into thinking up ways in which you might be wrong. And you, my good Edwin, you must focus all your wit on never being wrong. Mr Janus is always waiting. You know what would happen if you slipped. The balance pleases me.”

  “He threatens me when you’re not there,” Edwin said.

  “You think I don’t know that? It’s his job. You’re like a sword, Edwin. And he is the stone that keeps you sharp for me.” The king nodded towards the line of trees, the green of them standing out against the brown of the parched land around. “Just make sure that all today’s predictions come true.”

  Then he was walking back towards his men. Edwin watched as he slapped his gloved hands together. “Are you refreshed, my friends?”

  The hunting party cheered. Janus too, pretending to be like all the others. Men were mounting. The servants would clear awa
y and pack the mules. More noise. Even the songbirds had been scared from the trees.

  Timon had wheeled his horse and was staring back at Edwin. Not doubtful exactly, but questioning. How much might he have wagered? Edwin mounted, looping a leg over the pommel. A click of the tongue set the dappled mare trotting after the others.

  Riding side-saddle was another part of the otherworldly illusion. Men never understood how it could be possible to stay balanced. Emboldened by drink, a young guard had once demanded to try it for himself. He fancied himself a skilled horseman, but had fallen, the saddle being the wrong size for him. It had been made to measure for Edwin though. Another conjuring trick.

  The hunting master was pointing towards the line of trees in the distance. He set off at a gallop, with the king riding beside him. The whole court was in pursuit, yet leaving space for their lord to take the glory. Edwin touched the mare’s flank with the crop and she broke into a gallop, easing away to the right, away from the dust of hooves, giving a clear view.

  And there it was: like destiny, a deer bolting from the tree line, as if it had just scrambled out of the ravine. Clear of cover, it was springing away, a quarter mile distant, far out of range. Yet the king was reaching for his rifle. He raised it, took aim, an impossible shot from the back of a galloping horse. He fired once, twice. He missed, took fresh aim, fired a third shot. The deer twisted in the air and fell.

  The men cheered, hardly believing what they’d witnessed. Yet it had happened in front of them. Their blood was up. Anything might be possible. Had they been trained in the ways of the illusionist, it would have seemed different.

  Edwin slowed from gallop to canter. The king had reached his fallen quarry. He dismounted, aimed his rifle at the beast’s head. There was a puff of smoke, a fraction of a second delay, then a bang. The animal lay still. The king’s men were dismounting, clapping him on the back. Such a shot. They would tell of it to their children and their grandchildren.

  I was there the day our king brought down a running deer from a galloping horse. They’d say it was a quarter-mile shot. In time it would become a mile.

  Edwin pulled back on the reins. Best to arrive late. Let them discover the trick.

  They hauled it over to begin the butchery. There were oaths and cries of amazement. Approaching on foot, Edwin could see it too. The animal had fallen showing a brown coat but when they turned it, the other side was revealed as pure white. A freak of nature had divided its colouring left from right, as if it was two different animals somehow brought together. It seemed the king’s first bullet had caught it on the hind leg.

  Timon looked up from the carcass, his face full of wonder. “Where is the king’s magician?” he called.

  They parted as Edwin stepped up to the animal.

  “What does it mean?” Timon asked.

  Edwin squatted, put a hand on the deer’s neck, feeling the heat of it. Hidden knowledge should never come easily. Insight had to be a struggle. That way, they would trust it. The animal had taken a bullet to the brain, but its muscles still twitched, as if it had died without noticing and thought itself still running.

  The men were breathing heavily. The wind hissed in dry grass. Water trickled in the creek at the bottom of the little ravine. In the distance a hawk cried.

  Edwin stood. “I cannot see. Not yet. Show me the entrails.”

  So they did. Cutting open the belly, spilling the organs and intestines onto the dirt. The trick was the pretence of observation. The random pattern of blood vessels in the viscera, a nodule of yellow fat pressed between finger and thumb, as if its precise texture might reveal the future. It stank, but that was also part of the show.

  Edwin stood. “All is clean. All is healthy. There can be no bad omen from this. But to understand – this is not so simple. There is more than one story to be read here. I see a child.”

  “Whose child?” the king asked.

  “Yours, sire.”

  A murmur of appreciation whispered through the crowd of men. That was why they all had to be there, the whole damn succession, hunting together, so each of them would witness the miracle with his own eyes.

  “Also, there will be a messenger. Someone will come to bring good news.”

  It was enough. The men were shouting again. The king nodded his approval. Timon’s smile was tight, though he cheered with the others. If the king had a son, it would put him and his own son further from the throne.

  They parted to let Edwin walk away. They might have wanted a magician to read the omens, but a celebration should be a more wholesome affair. It was time to go and leave the job well done.

  But leading the dappled mare away, they heard the sound of following footsteps.

  “You’ve excelled yourself,” Janus said. “The king’s brother is set to win a small fortune. And all since you spoke to him.”

  “Did you lose money?”

  “A little,” said Janus. “But who can complain on a day of such news? A child for our king.”

  “We all rejoice,” Edwin said.

  “And only last week I saw you speaking with the king’s consort. It must help with the reading of omens to know the truth already.”

  “Perhaps you might try to read some yourself?” Edwin said. “What would they tell you?”

  “I might. But I don’t believe in such things…”

  They were far enough away from the others that Janus’s confession of heresy would not be overheard.

  “The king’s fame will spread because of this,” Edwin said.

  Janus nodded. “I’m not such a huntsman as the others. But I am good at looking. I see things they might miss.”

  “Such as?”

  “As the king took his third shot, there was a puff of smoke from the tree line. Did you notice? From just where the poor creature had bolted.”

  The skin on the back of Edwin’s neck tightened. Everyone should have been looking at the deer. That was the way such tricks worked. Misdirection. But somehow, Janus had seen.

  “Then do you suspect someone else took the shot?”

  “I do.”

  “And perhaps the deer was released to run into the king’s path?”

  Janus nodded.

  “If you’re right, the guilty man must still be down there, in the ravine. Hiding. If you run, you could find him. You could unmask our king as a cheat. Do you think you might be rewarded?”

  “You have me wrong,” Janus said. “This is only between you and me. I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate your art. And how much I learn from it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  They were seated in the main room of the secret apartment: Elizabeth and six agents of the Patent Office. The windows had been left open and the net curtains billowed. She attempted to time her breathing: four seconds on the inbreath, a pause, eight seconds on the outbreath. It would usually have calmed her heart. Not today.

  Five of the six agents were staring at her: McLeod, Winslow and three newcomers who had turned up a few hours before. She folded her arms and unfolded them again, unable to get comfortable.

  McLeod had made the introductions. He now sat opposite her, his expression vaguely positive. Encouraging, perhaps. She focused on him, tried to forget that the others were listening. It was impossible. Winslow held his pen poised near the inkwell.

  “Oregon,” she said, the word sounding breathy. Insubstantial. “Can we start there?”

  “You’ve not been to Oregon,” said McLeod.

  “I’ve met a man who has.” Strictly speaking she’d met a man who’d met a man. But the story sounded tenuous enough already and she wanted to make them believe her.

  “There’s a kingdom in the Oregon Territory. That’s what I’ve been told. Their lands reach north as far as the Yukon. There’s been no one to challenge them for years.”

  She paused, giving Winslow a chance to catch up. His pen whispered over the page.

  “This is all hearsay,” one of the newcomers said.

  “It’s evidence
. You need to understand it if you’re to understand what’s happened in Newfoundland. Oregon’s been building its strength. They’ve got no Patent Office looking over their shoulder. Nothing to hold them back. They’ve constructed new weapons. Terrible things. And explosives. All this beyond your gaze.”

  One of the agents looked away, as if embarrassed by what she’d said. Winslow’s pen slipped fast over the paper. She didn’t know how he managed to maintain that elegant copperplate. And sitting to his right, on the edge of her eyeline, sat the agent she was trying to not see. If she looked at him, the words would clot in her throat. The speech she’d prepared would dry up.

  John Farthing.

  She focused on the side of McLeod’s dark face, the way the light from the window caught his cheekbone, the pores of his skin. Any small detail to hold her gaze steady.

  “They have just the one tract of land?” he asked. “And their population – I assume it must be sparse.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “I don’t know. But they have new weapons. And a new explosive. It is a terrible thing…” An unwanted memory flashed in her mind: bodies and parts of bodies strewn over the ground, smoke clinging to the mud.

  “The population in the wilds is small,” McLeod said. “Even with these weapons, the danger will be… containable.”

  She could hear no tightness in his voice, no uncertainty. On the edge of her vision, John Farthing uncrossed his legs and crossed them again.

  “They’re planning a war,” she said. “A great war against all the world. They wish to tear down the Gas-Lit Empire.”

  “But why?” McLeod spoke with incredulity rather than fear. He was a believer, she thought, radiating calm certitude in the rightness of his cause. But belief can never see itself. It never knows its own limits. Farthing had been the same when she first met him.

  “The Gas-Lit Empire has riches,” she said.

  “Then do these wild peoples wish to plunder?”

  “Yes.”

  Easier to put it that way than to explain the more disturbing truth, that their enemies were believers also. The Patent Office clung to peace and order. The kingdoms of the wilds held to freedom. It was sacred to them. Each side took their enemy’s virtues for vices. Water never knows the nature of oil.