Mr. Stitch

by Chris Braak

  “Oh. Hm. Conscious…Conscientious Assignations, I think it were called. Big fuss about it in the papers, you know? That Eveham fellow was all over it, and he’s a laugh for a read, but I can’t say I’ve ever much cared for anything he’s got behind. Couldn’t find nothing particularly interesting about this one. Closed quick too, didn’t it?”

  “Closed quick” might have been an understatement, Skinner thought. The Conscious Assignation had played at the Royal for a week, billowed by favorable reviews from Andre Eveham, the drama critic at the White Star. If he was actually a poor arbiter of theatrical quality-and, as some suspected, really just a mouthpiece for the Empire’s preferences for the theater-he made up for it with a brutally clever wit. Eveham’s reviews were the most widely read in the city, but seemed to have little bearing on the success of their subjects.

  “You didn’t like it?” She asked.

  “Well, it didn’t make sense, did it? Fella’s keeping that woman safe, right, because her uncle’s after her? And so he’s got her in that little house, right…did you see it?” He coughed. “Er. Uhm, sorry miss. I mean…did you…had you…uh…”

  “I was there opening night, sir,” she told him, a small smile on her face. “I like opening nights.”

  “Yeah, well, all right,” the coachman went on. “So he’s got her in that house, right? But there’s never no, you know. Touchin’, or nothing like that. And they’re goin’ to be married at the end of the play, we think they’re in love and all that, right? But he’s been to that little room every night, and not once have they put hands on each other.”

  “Well. I think that’d be more than a trifle scandalous, wouldn’t you? Hardly a conscientious assignation, then.”

  “Yur, well, I know. Can’t do none of that stuff on the stage, can you? Some committee or other would be on you in a minute. Still, how’m I supposed to believe that two young people like that are all hot and bothered for each other, but don’t never do nothing about it? They don’t even say something like, ‘Oh, I want to put it to you somethin’ fierce, but we can’t…’ now, nevermind how I says it, I’m not a writer or such, but you know what I mean?”

  “You didn’t believe it.”

  “That’s it. That’s right, right there. Didn’t believe it. Didn’t believe a word of it. Like the fella-who wrote it, what’s-his-name?”

  “Bertram Sitwell.”

  “Sitwell, right, he’s just writin’ about how he thinks people should be. But they ain’t that way, if you know what I mean, and maybe if he weren’t a writer, and maybe got himself around a little bit, got down to the Riverside once or twice,” he coughed again. “Er. Excuse me, miss. I do go on sometimes. Not a fit subject of conversation for a lady.”

  I’ve personally killed six men, and participated in the execution of over a hundred. There’s not a lot you can talk about that’s going to upset me. “Of course,” she said, but she did not pursue the topic, and the driver had little else to say.

  A long silence that sounded to Skinner like a constellation of tiny sounds, and then they had arrived at the Royal. The driver politely lead her inside, past a noisy, chattering crowd, and upstairs to the Family boxes.

  Emilia Vie-Gorgon was waiting for her, along with another young lady. Neither said anything until the coachman had left-his departure a bold violation of the ordinance that all women were to be accompanied by chaperones while in public. Skinner gingerly found a seat for herself to occupy, while the other two women sat in silence.

  “Miss Skinner,” said Emilia Vie-Gorgon, abruptly. The youth of her voice was surprising, though perhaps it shouldn’t have been; famous as she was, Skinner realized, upon a certain amount of reflection, that Emilia couldn’t have been more than twenty. “I would like you to meet Nora Feathersmith. Nora, Elizabeth Skinner, formerly of the royal coroners.”

  This was an event nearly as intriguing as the invitation itself. Nora Feathersmith was the youngest daughter of Ephraim Feathersmith, patriarch of one of the most peculiar families in Trowth. Like all major families in the Empire, the Feathersmiths had their own special area of business-Ephraim continued a long tradition of excellence and control over engineering and manufactury. Feathersmith factories built everything in Trowth that had more than two moving parts-from revolvers to typewriters to train engines. And yet, unlike the Crabtrees or the Daiors or the Ennerings, the Feathersmiths had never received, nor, to anyone’s knowledge, even sought Estimation by the crown.

  That is, the Feathersmiths were a family, but not a Family. They were highly-esteemed by both the public and their colleagues in industry, but never Esteemed. In many ways, this served as quite an extraordinary advantage against many of their competitors: by never finding favor with an emperor placed on the throne by one Family, they never found themselves in disfavor when a new Family secured control of it. This permitted the Feathermiths to remain at the top of their industry since its earliest incarnation as weaponeers during the reign of Agon Diethes, to weather crises of interregnum, revolution, and the exposure of certain of its members as heretics. Peculiarly, by shunning the power that Estimation brought with it, Ephraim Feathersmith’s antecedents had found themselves a broader freedom.

  “Miss Feathersmith.”

  “Nora, please,” the young lady responded, lazily. She took a long drag on a cigarette or cigar that smelled of tobacco and dreamsnake venom.

  “And you must call me Emilia,” said Emilia Vie-Gorgon. “We are, I think, going to be great friends. You know my cousin, don’t you?”

  “Valentine.” Skinner replied.

  “Oh, he’s a charmer,” Nora put in. “And such lovely hair…”

  “Generally,” Skinner replied, a little stiffly, “I find him to be rather irritating. Is he..is that…why…how you know me, I mean?”

  Nora chuckled faintly, and Emilia was silent. That silence was profound in a way that Skinner had never heard from another person before. Ordinarily, she could make out the character of a silence-a thoughtful hesitation, an embarrassed lack of a response. From Emilia, she gleaned nothing: it was as though the young woman had vanished off of the face of the earth, hid herself deep in the aethyr while she contemplated a correct response.

  “No,” when her voice came, after that strange, total silence, it was softly shocking. “We have another friend in common, actually, one who thinks very highly of your abilities.”

  “Hm. Perhaps you should have him talk to the Emperor.”

  “Yes. Perhaps.” Emilia replied. Was that the hint of a smile behind her voice? A barb? There was no getting past the wall of smooth confidence that sheltered her private feelings. Emilia Vie-Gorgon was the kind of woman that could lie to her mother with the calm, casual certainty that ordinary people used to remark on the color of the sky. “Ah, the show begins!”

  If it was a tradition to be silent during a play, it was apparently a privilege of box seats to offer commentary. Emilia and Nora snickered furiously from the opening-a simpering detonation of music from Corimander’s last symphony-through each and every scene.

  “Oh, this is lovely. Can she walk? Maybe they should get someone to carry her onstage.”

  “That’s it, love. Say the words louder. That’ll improve them.”

  “Oh, he can’t help it, Emmy-he’s sad. Sad people say things LOUDLY.”

  “Yes, and so do ANGRY PEOPLE. And so do HAPPY PEOPLE.”

  The commentary greatly improved on the play-Alas, My Love-which was, in Skinner’s estimation, utter tripe. A new play by the now thoroughly-defamed Bertram Sitwell, Alas, My Love was modeled after the old pastoral-royal comedies of the 17thcentury, where every shepherd turned out to be a king in disguise. They were all an oblique reference to the ascendance of Owen I Gorgon as the first Emperor of Trowth after the interregnum, and meant to legitimize the Gorgon-Vies’ claim to the imperial line. The Gorgon-Vies spent a great deal of time attempting to legitimize their claims to the imperial line, and usually in as thoroughly a ham-handed fashion.


  “Oh, he’s gone up on his lines.”

  “Well, can you blame him? I’ve only had to hear it once, and I’m already trying to forget it.”

  “There’s the cue card boy. Oh, look, he’s lovely! They should just have him play the role.”

  “Certainly, he couldn’t be worse, unless he turns out to be a deaf-mute.”

  “Not at all; I should think not having to hear the script would be a categorical improvement. Miss Skinner?”

  Skinner had been sitting, quietly amused, though not comfortable enough to participate. She perked up when Emilia addressed her. “Elizabeth, please. And, yes, I imagine there are innumerable ailments that might be alleviated with a precipitously silenced performance.”

  Nora Feathersmith giggled enthusiastically, and Emilia certainly sounded like she could be smiling.

  “We shannot be,” the lead actor proclaimed during the pause, “together this day. Fate shall keep us all away, as does the winter stray the mourning dove, we are alone, alas, my love.”

  And then, mercifully, it was intermission. The intermission revealed another privilege of the box seats, which was complimentary, catered dinner. Quiet, discreet gentlemen-Skinner pegged them as typical theater ushers, conscripted perhaps, or else rewarded, with the task-brought in trays of warm food: spiced meats, soft bread, deliciously sweet fruits. Someone left a decanter of wine on a small tray at Skinner’s side, and she carefully located a glass.

  The wine was superb, rich in flavor, but smooth as water. It was like drinking spring sunshine on her face. She sipped at it carefully, though. Intoxication was more than a little dangerous to a knocker, who required great focus to keep their senses under control.

  “I take it, Elizabeth, that you aren’t enjoying the play,” Emilia said, after they’d had a few moments to set to their meal.

  Skinner swallowed a bit of lusciously soft bread. “I am quite enjoying the experience, certainly. I will admit that I’ve heard better work from Mr. Sitwell.”

  There was another one of those vacant, absolute silences from Emilia. “Yes,” she said, after a moment. “He has rather gone downhill, hasn’t he. What was his first one…?”

  “The Bone-Collector’s Daughter,” Nora put in. Skinner could hear her lick crumbs from her lips. “That was an interesting one. He’d probably have been hanged if he’d put it up in Canth, of course. And it surely never would have played here.”

  “No,” agreed Emilia, “but then, someone who desires to keep you quiet is the surest sign that you’ve something important to say, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you agree, Elizabeth?”

  There was something strange about all this, and Skinner suddenly felt like an animal wandering about in a forest full of traps. Pits and snares all around her, disguised beneath the impeccable camouflage of polite conversation. “I…suppose.”

  “Of course it is,” said Emilia, quietly. “If you want to say only what everyone would like you to say, then it hardly needs to be said at all. Maybe that’s why we’re drawn to it. The forbidden ideas, I mean.”

  Forbidden. Skinner felt a knot in her stomach. Is she talking about the Sciences? Surely…surely not. They don’t expect me to participate in heresy…

  “Oh, but Miss Elizabeth knows all about things forbidden,” Emilia said lightly. “Yes?”

  “I think that, perhaps, I ought to leave,” Skinner said, as she stood. “I doubt very much you’ll find me amenable to…what I suspect you have in mind.”

  “Oh, dear, do sit down. I assure you that you will be amenable to the idea. I know, because I am certain you’ve already been a part of it.”

  “I…what?”

  “Please. Sit.”

  Skinner did, and wracked her brain. What could Emilia mean? Had someone been implicating her in heresy?

  “You know, Mr. Sitwell hasn’t been very popular since his first play. His later works seem to lack a certain…something.”

  Oh. Skinner realized at once. That. “Yes. Gratitude, perhaps?”

  “Gratitude, that’s lovely. Did you know, Nora,” Emilia said to her friend, “that a selection of the Bone-Collector’s Daughter was published in The Observer fully a month before the play opened?”

  “Why,” said Nora Feathersmith, with obviously feigned surprise, “I had no idea!”

  “It’s true! And in it, he credited a collaborator, who must remain nameless…oh, why was that? I can’t remember the exact words…”

  “For propriety’s sake,” Skinner responded. “Which was a load of horse… well, nonsense. Sitwell had been looking to dump his…collaborator… ever since they’d started working together. Probably because he felt she threatened him and his over-blown ego.”

  “She?” Nora Feathersmith asked. “That seems a little peculiar. Woman aren’t permitted to write for the stage. Even during the war, they never let us do that.”

  “Did I say ‘she’?” Skinner replied. “Must have been a slip of the tongue.”

  “Oh, come now,” Emilia put in. “This is a private booth. I assure you, there is no one to overhear us. Nora, did you know, I found out who Mr. Sitwell’s nameless collaborator was?”

  “Really!” There was that feigned surprise again, and Skinner realized she was well and truly snared. “Who was it?”

  “Why, a woman working for the Royal Coroners by the name of Elizabeth Skinner.”

  “My goodness!” Nora said. “Is it true, Elizabeth? Did you help him write The Bone-Collector’s Daughter?”

  For most of her life, Skinner had felt herself a woman with a calm disposition, not given to flights of aggravation, or suffering from an excess of pride or choler. If she had seethed inwardly when the Committee on Moral Responsibility had taken her job, she had displayed outwards nothing but good grace. If she was furious at Edelred Gorgon-Ennering-Crabtree for forcing her to abandon Beckett in that slaughterhouse, she had presented a face as cold as a marble statue.

  And yet. Perhaps she’d never discussed something so close to her heart. Perhaps her tongue was loosened by the wine. Whatever the case, she found herself unable to restrain the bitterness in her voice. “Help? Help him write it? You seem to have Mr. Sitwell confused with someone with talent. I wrote that play, and Bertram struggled to drag down every word. If I hadn’t needed him to see it produced, I’d have kicked him to the curb after he crossed out a single line. The man can’t string ten words together to order breakfast, and can’t so much as touch a sentence without turning it to gibberish. Word and fuck, half of this play,” she gestured towards the stage, where the inanely innocuous Alas, My Love had recommenced, “is plagiarized from Henri Montcour’s 1787 version. All he’s done is translate it badly from the Sarein and then cram it with his own personal brand of prattling nursery rhymes.”

  There was silence for a moment, and the lead actor’s voice reached them in the box. “The king dost keep a revel here tonight, we shallst run first, or else take flight!”

  Emilia Vie-Gorgon and Nora Feathersmith at once broke into helpless laughter. Skinner compressed her lips to a thin line, and then felt herself compelled to join them. It took several minutes and an entire carafe of wine before they were able to regain control of themselves. Their hysterics were of such a fortitude that the poor actors, still valiantly trying to maintain the seriousness of the scene, were obliged to stop and start from the top no fewer than three times.

  “Ah,” Emilia sighed, “Nora, I do believe we’ve found the person that we’re looking for. What do you think, Elizabeth?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Goodness, you’re right,” Emilia said, as she filled Skinner’s wineglass. “I’ve gotten ahead of myself. We’d like you to write a play.”

  “Yes?” Skinner said, gulping down some more wine. “Any play, or a particular one?”

  Nora laughed again. “We’ve one in mind, actually.”

  “Do you know,” Emilia asked, “Theocles?”

  “Oh my,” Skinner whispered. “You are a pair of wicked yo
ung ladies.” Theocles was a 15thcentury poem about the second Emperor of the continent-Theocles the Tall, who had assassinated Agon Diethes and usurped the throne. He’d presided over a particularly oppressive regime, and had begun a foolish, ill-advised war with Thranc. His martial failures had led to the Second Reconciliation of the Powers, which had broken the Empire into its component parts and seen Theocles deposed and executed.

  The parallels were close enough to the reign of the current emperor that Skinner could have found herself arrested for writing it even if she weren’t a woman. The poem itself was on the Empire’s black-list. And these two young ladies, daughters of two of the most rich and respected families in the Empire, wanted…what did they want? To see it onstage? To get themselves arrested?

  “No one will do it. There’s not a producer in Trowth that would touch a play like that with a ten foot pole.”

  “Oh,” said Emilia, with that enigmatic sound of a smile. “We’ll find someone.”

  “They should do it here,” put in Nora, and her grin sounded fearsome. “Right at the Royal.”

  “Never,” Skinner replied. “They never will.”

  “It’s a wonderful idea, Nora,” Emilia said. “We shall arrange to have it performed right here at the Royal Theater.”

  “How do you plan to do that, exactly?” Skinner was still grinning around her wine, not entirely convinced the two girls were serious.

  “Didn’t you know, darling?” Emilia Vie-Gorgon asked her. “I own the Royal.”

  Eight

  It was a common misconception among many of the Trowthi people that the strangling bureaucracy of the Emperor and his assorted Ministries was something that had been inflicted on them. No sooner, for instance, had the Committee for Public Safety been dissolved than the Committee on Moral Responsibility had replaced it. The pressgangs had been dismissed, and almost immediately the gendarmeries monopolized law enforcement. In fact, much to the bitter resentment of the opinion-makers, editors, and columnists of the broadsheets, many of the men in the new committees were the very same ones who had been unemployed when the old committees were extinguished.