Soot

by Dan Vyleta

  The sailor turned, ducked through the hatch, and scrambled back up the steep steps. Halfway up he slipped upon a little crab, black-horned and yellow-patterned, its joints embroidered in thick fur. It cracked under his foot and took his balance. The sailor fell hard upon his hip and cut his chin on the sharp lip of a rung. Two fellow sailors had to drag him up, unconscious. He has limped on the left side ever since. If he’d broken his hip, he has heard the others joke, they would have fed him to the thing in the crate.

  Tonight he dreams of this, his visit to the hold; wakes up smoking, cramming sweets into his mouth. Soothed, he nonetheless has trouble breathing, and rolls out of his hammock to trade the cabin for fresh air. Out on deck, the breeze is strong, the water choppy; and a hundred birds sit lined upon the railing, far too small to suggest gulls. He walks to them; sees that they are land birds and is momentarily cheered by the promise of earth and trees. Then one bird stirs and the moonlight finds a crest of yellow in its spread-out wings.

  The sailor’s charge sees the birds explode into a cloud, then resettle on the railing one by one. Twenty times they play this game, until, exhausted, the sailor settles on his haunches and is still. His cabinmates find him there at the change of the watch, slumped against a lifeboat, his hands in his shirt, searching his ribs and groin for telltale growths.

   HICCUP

  [ 1 ]

  Charlie does not sleep that night, the night the birds fly to the ship, the night he is to be murdered. He lies halfway up the hill, alone, awake.

  Fretting.

  Doubt is a poison, he’s told Livingstone. He knows as much because he has long sampled it; decants it from its bottle from time to time to rub its stink into his gums.

  This time it was Balthazar who’d loosened the cork for him: the look on the old man’s face when he saw the camp of children and beheld the Angel. Charlie has been an icon to him, a thing from a story, a symbol of good. And here Charlie was, leading children into danger. They should be home with their mothers, or—if they had no mothers—in a Minetowns orphanage, to be raised on stale bread and homilies to labour. They might have gone hungry there, too. But at least they would have been safe.

  And behind this simple doubt there lies another, ten years deep. Charlie set off the Second Smoke because he was angry with his father. His father never knew it; his own servant killed him, as though acting out Charlie’s anger in proxy. Charlie has been told that there is a man in Vienna who claims that all sons wish to murder their fathers. And that it is those who succeed who are forever cursed.

  The guilt and doubt should have turned him away from the Smoke, transformed him into its critic. Instead Charlie embraced it as his truth. For how could he forswear it? After all, it had shown him something, in those early days when the Smoke they had unleashed was so alive that it rewrote all the rules of being human. It wasn’t that the Smoke was good. But it was honest. Complicated, messy, dirty. Compromised and compromising. Violent, tawdry, fickle. Fun.

  He could not deny it, even as Storms carved death into the land.

  So Charlie went chasing Gales. Oh, he did not go at once. First, he tried to help with Livia’s project of building a new polity on the principles of liberty, equality, community. But Minetowns was riven by politics. It had grown half afraid of Smoke even as it worshipped it; pampered Charlie as a hero while mistrusting his temperament: in matters of policy, he cleaved too much to the middle road. To the south, Renfrew’s power was rising; soon enough the wheel of history would turn and return them to an age where one tried to cut Smoke from one’s flesh. Then, too, he wanted to give Livia and Thomas the privacy they yearned for but did not dare request. So he left; found Gales and fellow chasers; and gagged on his doubt whenever he came across Smoke’s violence and those scarred by all the anger he had helped release.

  And then he met Timmy. A child brought Charlie to him, a Smoke-born orphan girl, preaching the Angel’s faith unbidden, begging for food. There he was, this little boy, living on an abandoned farm in an empty stretch of Scotland, breathing Gales into the air; birds and children swooping all around. Timmy reached out, held Charlie’s hand.

  He gave him hope.

  No, more than hope. A vision, religious in magnitude, feverish in urgency. In this vision, Charlie saw the boy walk south, into Renfrew’s lands, carrying his Gale: a thousand birds heralding his coming. He would unfurl the playful goodwill of his band of children; would spread it on his breath, converting the world to his promise: until the day that the Lord Protector himself would stand hand in hand with him, and cry. Renfrew spoke to Charlie once of his dream of a Republic of Virtue: a sinless world, achieved through careful rearing, breeding, self-denial. Here, against that, was a Republic of Play: borne on the pure breath of a little boy who seemed to live only to connect those around him. Charlie met Timmy and he started to dream of a world much better than the one he’d helped build down in Minetowns.

  All children, except one, grow up.

  He would have told all this to Balthazar, had Livingstone not come that night, carrying his darkness and his knife.

  [ 2 ]

  He hears him coming. Perhaps Livingstone’s foot dislodges a stone, or perhaps he has slipped upon the heather and falls down to one knee. A soft sound in the dark: it is enough to rouse Charlie from his blanket. He sits up, stares into the night. There he is: a silhouette in the moonlight, cresting the rise, still fifteen steps away; his movements smooth, untroubled by exertion. Charlie recognises him at once. He does not need to see the blade to know the purpose of his coming.

  Charlie acts at once (were Thomas here, he would be proud to see it). He rolls onto his stomach, reaches for his bag. There is a revolver there that he carries on all his travels. As Charlie digs for it amongst his underwear, he finds that he is angry with himself. After all, he’d known that Livingstone was up to no good. It was there in his eyes and too-many guns; in the way he sidled up to Timmy with his pocketful of sugar. The man meant violence: to someone, somewhere. It was just a matter of time.

  The problem was, Charlie knew it—but he wasn’t sure. Livingstone does not smoke. Charlie cannot taste him. He’s come to rely on a world where we share our secrets like air.

  Still, all is not lost. Charlie has seen him in time. Livingstone has his knife—Charlie can see it in his fist now as the man walks closer, unhurried. But Charlie has a gun. His fingers have found it, he is tugging it free from its wrapping in the bag. Charlie knows that it is loaded, that the mechanism is free of rust or dirt. All he needs to do is cock the hammer, pull the trigger. There is time for all that—five steps, perhaps six; time to aim and warn the man and then to shoot. Charlie knows it and is calm.

  He is not afraid to kill.

  Then he starts coughing. Consumption: he contracted it in Minetowns. By the time it was diagnosed, it did much to hasten his decision to leave. He did not wish for Thomas and Livia to know. The doctor recommended he seek out the mild climates of southern Europe. Charlie went to Scotland instead. He’s found it a shameless disease, corroding his lungs, emaciating his body, bent on bringing up pieces of him, blood and gunk, as though to remind him that he is nothing but a wrap of meat. Now, too, it shakes his frame; shakes loose some little chunk of him and slips it bitter onto his tongue. Charlie tries to swallow it (he should have spat) and inhales it back instead.

  When he tries to raise the still-uncocked gun, Livingstone is there, bent over him, turning Charlie’s arm aside with one knee.

  How helpless he is: coughing, retching, struggling for a sip of air. Charlie tosses, buckles in his blankets, a man drowning on himself. Then Livingstone reaches for him, not with his knife but with his open hands. He kneels down beside Charlie and lifts up his head; cradles him gently, his palms warm on Charlie’s skin. Smoke hacks out of Charlie, giving material substance to his cough, now raw with panic, now full of fucking anger, the good lad sent ragi
ng at the last. The Smoke rises up and passes through Livingstone as it would through God inviolate.

  Livingstone shifts his hands, supports Charlie’s head with one and slips the other onto his mouth, light as a feather, weighing his every bark of failing breath. Charlie kicks and tries to punch him; tries to think of Livia, of Thomas; tries to make his peace with his father, and with that other Father in whom he does not know if he believes. All he wants to know is that he did right, ten years ago; some gentle voice to say, All is well.

  As his body weakens, so does his anger. It mists the air around him, colourless, then condensates against his skin as Soot so pale, it bleaches his face into a mime’s. One more puff of self-pity, one of fear.

  Then comes a surprising calm.

   PARLIAMENT

  [ 1 ]

  To Parliament!

  Her uncle has given her a new dress, for this, their special day. Its long, full skirts and tight, high-cut bodice are suggestive of a wedding gown, as is the sheer radiance of the white silk. The harness fits on top and is, strange to say, at once monstrous and not unbecoming: too bulky for a corset, it nonetheless accentuates her waist and hips, and makes her arms looks graceful and slender. Eleanor observes herself very closely in the small mirror of her cell. When Renfrew knocks, she is ready. He wears the same suit as ever, but the shirt is new and the cravat formal and black. He takes her arm like a gallant and together they march forth, to the parliamentary chamber, where they will take a seat, as is their custom, on one of the back benches, side by side.

  The room is already packed, though the session is not to begin for another quarter hour. As always, the room is severely lopsided. Everyone is sitting on the right, with the opposition benches spurned by all and sundry, lest it suggest the existence of dissent. The Speaker alone sits separate, at the head of the room, and wears the wig of his office.

  He is not the only one in costume. If there is no opposition, there is nonetheless faction—and fashion. The old high aristocracy attends, as is their wont, in clothes newly tailored to the exact specification of the clothes they wore ten years ago, which even then reflected an earlier age and was horribly out of step with Continental fashions. The simpler folk—merchants, capitalists, moneyed commoners—have adopted a more comfortable style of clothes, sombre and practical. The richer of these hold sweet boxes in their hands, gilded or jewel-encrusted, to remind their betters of their worth. Amongst the young generation—some the sons of former liberals; others members of the gentry full of scorn for their parents’ ways—dandyism is the norm. Their suits are beautiful and formal; their shirts pearl-buttoned and ruffled at the chest; some have donned ornamental harnesses in tribute to Eleanor; many wear a Smoke mask either at their belts or on a strap around their necks. Fine leather gloves (in mauve or fawn or radiant white) complete the outfit.

  Dandy or aristocrat, merchant or financier—they all have fallen silent on the Lord Protector’s entry. Her uncle is not entirely without a sense of performance, Eleanor has found, and not opposed to accentuating his body’s weakness on their slow approach to their seats. He will cast it off, later, and stun the chamber with his willed vitality: Eleanor has seen it before, and knows that he rules, in part, because of this strange mixture of mortality and vigour. Renfrew is at once temporary and irresistible; “the man of the moment.” She understands that he has long eliminated anyone dangerous to his position.

  Which makes this morning session pointless, of course, just as all parliamentary sessions are mere legalistic theatre, an empty forum. All the same, she senses her uncle’s tension. He wants more from these men today than their formal approval. Today he will declare war: a war so total that it may kill half the island and grant him alone the power to determine who is saved. Eleanor does not know whether her uncle will care to mention that it will require that the nation put itself in hock to a Company maverick; or that the Storm released might jump the seas again and lay waste to half the world. Her uncle, she noticed, has been reading Paul of late, and Revelation.

  The Rapture has been much on his mind.

  [ 2 ]

  Which explains, perhaps, why he is willing to veer from standard custom, and, once the hour has struck and the room has fallen painfully silent, in his quiet voice asks the Speaker whether, on this one occasion, he might address his fellow Members of Parliament from the floor rather than his seat on the bench. Permission granted, he gets up laboriously and climbs down the tiered seating until he has reached the floor, Eleanor helping him along. On their arrival, the Speaker vacates his chair so Eleanor can sit.

  Now Renfrew alone stands tall in all the room and cherishes the silence. He reaches into his pocket, brings out a little brass bell, rings it. The doors fly open; two servants carry in a heavy crate. It came the day before yesterday, by courier from Smith, and was stored in Renfrew’s bedroom. He showed her the contents. The jam jars made both of them laugh: honest laughter, though she kept her hand on the harness, in case it should tip into passion. Renfrew has decanted one of the jars into a nobler vessel, a plain silver chalice, unconsecrated but suggesting liturgical gravity even so. It is this chalice a third servant now carries in and stands upon the little table behind which the Speaker ordinarily sits. A glass syringe is laid out beside it, on a thick cloth napkin of purest white. Renfrew reaches into another pocket, checks his pocket watch, looks up.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he says, as though only now becoming aware of the precise time of day. “I must beg you to indulge my eccentricities this morning. Today I wish to talk to you of war and peace. A final war, and a final peace. I took the floor just now to promise you a reckoning and a solution. We have been the victims of an act of terrorism, performed from spite and inexperience; from impatience at the pace of progress and youth’s lack of moderation. For ten and a half years we have looked for a way of turning back the clock. We have not found such a way. The polity is broken; the disease of immorality is rife. Today I wish to suggest to you that we cast away the past and in a single leap move to a new, a higher age. Today I will show you how we can crush our enemies and lay the foundations for a Republic of Virtue. Today I will show you freedom; for an age chained to vice can never be free.”

  He stops there, makes a loose fist of one hand, and coughs in it softly. He has spoken emphatically but without raising his voice or flapping his arms. The cough takes the place of such gestures. Eleanor sees movement in the seats; eyes moistened by emotion. The room is stirred. A number of gentlemen check themselves for Smoke.

  “If there is no objection, then allow me to begin.”

  [ 3 ]

  Renfrew speaks at length. His explanations are detailed but at the same time manage to elide certain specifics. He uses the example of making a fire; explains that they have match, kindling, fuel, all at the ready; announces that they will raise “a great Storm,” right there in the heart of Minetowns, that will burn away their enemy and forever lay a curse upon the Smoke. The isle will be purified, the spectre of “Smoke socialism” banished for evermore. Once the Storm has passed, the rule of “scientific virtue” can be imposed and free commerce thrive.

  The reaction is muted, twitchy. It is that word, “Storm,” that makes the parliamentarians nervous. None of them has seen one; few people have, and lived. It is to these assembled nobles and princes of trade a thing of story, like the devil or the bubonic plague. But unlike devil or plague, they know its consequence firsthand. Cambridge is no more. Bedford and Ely are bald spots on the map. Half of York was taken; the other half abandoned, for people had no wish to live beside a grave. Norway’s Bergen is a wasteland of black.

  Renfrew is aware of the nervousness and allows it to grow. He pauses, looks over the tiers of parliamentarians, nods.

  “I know,” he says at length, “that you are worried. What if the wind turns and the Storm heads south? What if—like the sorcerer’s apprentice—we wake a demo
n servant we can’t stop?” He nods gravely, moistens his lips, picks up the syringe from the cloth napkin and dips its needle in the chalice. “It worried me, too, friends. Then I found an inoculant. A cure, gentlemen.” He pulls up some liquid into the syringe, turns it, squeezes a drop past the needle’s fine tip: half preacher, half surgeon. “Those who stand with us will be inviolate, while those who oppose us will perish. We alone will choose who has the right to build the future.”

  He beckons then to Eleanor, who has waited for his gesture. Demurely she rises and traverses the room. The dress is long and tight and awkward to walk in; the harness keeps her upper body perfectly straight. She walks up to his side, as he has instructed her to, and, her palms upturned, extends her naked wrists. Her uncle hesitates just a moment before taking hold of her left arm. She understands the hesitation. His dream is of a world of natural virtue; his niece in particular was to have goodness bred into her flesh. The inoculation is a violation of this; a temporary measure, while the world’s slate is wiped clean. It bothers him.