Mr. Stitch

by Chris Braak

  Without warning, Beckett turned and fired another bullet into the dead man behind him. The action was so sudden, the gunshot so sharp, that the gunman at his feet cried out, involuntarily. Beckett leaned down and glared, one eye hard as a polished stone, one just a bloody black pit into the recesses of his skull. “Idiot. What do you think I’m going to do to you?” He kicked the man in his wound again. “Who do you work for?”

  The gunman coughed and choked and spat out, “John,” from behind his tears. “Anonymous John.”

  “What are you doing?” Valentine whispered, softly. Beckett hadn’t seen him enter, barely registered the sound of his voice.

  “Where were you taking the munition?”

  “An address…in. Bluewater.” He nodded towards his dead companion. “He’s got it. Written.”

  Beckett turned to Valentine. “Get it. I’ll be outside.” He threw one last, spiteful kick at the man’s face, and stomped out into the warming springtime air.

  Nineteen

  It was after the third performance of Theocles, at yet another high-spirited soiree at the home of the Raithower Vie-Gorgons, that the official news of the play’s demise was received. It was some time after midnight-considering that the performance was a several-hour affair in the first place, and was combined with six curtain calls and a substantial amount of paperwork required for the royal censor to fill out, this may in fact be regarded as an unusually quick response. In any case, some time after twelve, a messenger arrived from the royal palace at the Raithower home; he was admitted by the Vie-Gorgon major domo, and brought directly to Emilia Vie-Gorgon, who decided to make the announcement to her guests herself.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, her voice full of emotion that Skinner could not help but think was spurious. While she was no expert on the subject of Emilia Vie-Gorgon and her many modes of expression, Skinner was fairly certain that she’d never heard the young woman sound so moved about anything. “I have an…unfortunate. A terribly unfortunate announcement. It seems that His Royal Majesty…” here she pronounced the word “majesty” in such a way as to suggest that it was so thoroughly distasteful that she regretted requiring her tongue to say it at all, “…may the Word bless him,” pure sarcasm there, “…has found something objectionable in the content of our play.” How she managed to say this while sounding completely innocent of purposefully commissioning the most objectionable play imaginable was a mystery to Skinner. “He has, just today, announced that, in his position as head of the Church Royal, he has added Theocles to the Black List. Future performances are prohibited by law. Printing a copy of the play is prohibited by law. Owning a copy is prohibited by law.” Her voice took on a sly tone here. “I expect that all of you will want to destroy your copies as soon as possible.”

  There were acid chuckles at this, followed by pronouncements of both consternation and indignation, that Skinner suspected were for show. Here in the safe, warm circle of Emilia Vie-Gorgon’s attention, critically lambasting the Emperor was acceptable, even expected. Just calling him a petty name or making lewd comments about his mother was likely to garner appreciative snorts of laughter, regardless of how seriously the joker took it. There were no spies for the emperor among Emilia’s circle of friends, that was for sure, unless they were Emilia’s own spies, placed to evaluate just how much her friends valued her.

  But whatever the case, in the cold light of morning, when the assorted Committees of Loyalty and Compliance and Modest Behavior roamed the streets once more, even the most fervent comedian would quell his tongue, and say “Word bless the Emperor, and keep him,” and mumble such other obsequies as might satisfy the harsh and demanding eye of the Empire. The more she came to know them, the more Skinner found the Esteemed Families to be peopled entirely by cowards. Emilia, so far as Skinner knew, was the only one that had ever troubled to dare anything.

  And Valentine, Skinner thought, as he came muttering back from the punch bowl with a drink for her. Though the line, in this case, between the young gentleman’s daring and his simple lack of good sense was a crooked one. “Stupid,” Valentine was grumbling.

  “You think the Emperor is stupid?” Skinner asked, sipping at her punch.

  “No, my cousin. She knew this would get closed down. She’s baiting him. It’s like…she’s waving a red flag in front of a bull. Provoking.”

  “I thought the Raithower Vie-Gorgons were largely unassailable, even by the Emperor.”

  “Huh. Maybe. I wouldn’t bet on it, though. We…they, anyway, don’t have an army of marines and lobstermen to deploy against the dissidents. Sure, shutting down the trains for a few weeks would be a hassle, but it’s not like no one else could run them.” Valentine sucked his teeth, as he considered. “Maybe the Gorgon-Vies couldn’t, though. Maybe that’s what she’s banking on. The Emperor acting without thinking, responding with force, the way he always does, not realizing the wasp’s nest he’s about to step into.”

  “Hm.” Skinner said, noncommittally. With Emilia’s announcement, she’d begun to grow a little worried. The play was done and done for, now, so what would be the point of continuing to employ the playwright? Emilia, Skinner had no doubt, had known precisely that Theocles would be shut down; this must all be part of her plan. Maybe more plays? Maybe the plan was to continue to secretly heckle the Emperor until…until what?

  “Oh, there she goes with Nora, again.” Valentine said. “I wonder what she’s up to?”

  “Where?”

  “By the stairs. Uh. Three o’clock, about ten yards.”

  Skinner let her clairaudience drift in the direction Valentine had indicated until it caught up with the two young women. “-it?” Emilia was saying.

  “Yes. By post if you believe it. He must have sent it last week. How did he know?”

  “I’ve given up trying to guess. He’s certainly clever.”

  “More clever than we are,” Nora Feathersmith snorted.

  Emilia cleared her throat.

  “Fine, more clever than I am, anyway. I assume you’ll want to burn it?”

  “Not at all,” Emilia said. “It’s hardly a crime to be sent evil letters. I save all my correspondence; if all is uncovered, I shall present it and, in a very convincing manner, explain that I have been the victim of a cruel trick.”

  “Doesn’t that seem a little risky?”

  The women had moved into a study, now, and one of them-Emilia, probably-was opening a desk drawer. “I don’t think so. The privilege of being unable to be responsible for anything is that we are equally unlikely to be held accountable for anything. We are, after all, only women. Surely we could not have devised such a devious plot on our own?”

  “Hah. The next step, then?”

  Emilia or Nora activated a baffler, then, and Skinner found her hearing clouded with incomprehensible echoes. Not for the first time in the last few years, she cursed the man that had invented it. “Valentine,” she said, letting her perception return to her body, and cutting off the young coroner in the middle of an impassioned speech about why playwrights ought not to be censored by anyone.

  “-just that, what? What is it?”

  “Emilia and Nora are about to come down those stairs,” Skinner told him. “I need you to distract them.”

  “All right. For how long?”

  “As long as possible,” she said. “I need you to occupy their full attention. There’s…something upstairs I need to check on.”

  “Ah,” Valentine said, excited. “An escapade. An exploit. I shall attract attention at once.”

  Valentine sauntered through the party, then-though she could not see him to be sure, there was something about the young coroner that suggested that sauntering was his natural mode of transportation-and, as Emilia and her friend descended into the salon, he began talking in a very loud voice about propriety and treason, and his suspicions that there was not one but were in fact several spies among the partygoers who were insufficiently loyal to the Emperor and, by extension, the Empi
re. He then challenged to a duel anyone who would dare threaten the Empire’s edicts, lewdly grabbed a hold of Emily Rowan-Czarnecki’s new silk bustle, delivered a good-natured headbutt to Corwin Daior-Crabtree when the man tried to grab hold of Valentine’s arm, and then kicked over the punch bowl.

  Though Valentine had always enjoyed many critics, and after that evening added several more to the list, not a one of them could ever say that when Valentine Vie-Gorgon committed to something, he did not commit to it fully.

  His antics left Skinner ample opportunity to slip upstairs. She had, by old habit, been keeping track of how far Emilia and Nora walked. Sixteen steps down the hall, then a right turn. The door was locked, so she knelt down and lightly rested her hand against the keyhole.

  At the publicly-funded but very, very private schools where knockers were trained, the teenaged savants were kept under close guard, with strict headmasters and rigid schedules. No one was permitted out of bed or out of their rooms past seven o’clock, and all the doors were locked, with bafflingly complex mechanisms, to ensure the knockers remained there. At the same time, the masters of the schools considered it a useful skill for the effectively blind knockers to be able to navigate their way past the innumerable obstacles that they would undoubtedly face. As such, while punishments for violating curfew were severe, there was still the unspoken expectation that Skinner and her peers would try to escape and roam about the grounds-sometimes getting into trouble, more likely just reveling in the freedom that their abilities had finally bought. Using telerhythmia to pick locks was the first skill that a teenaged knocker ever learned.

  Skinner began knocking rapidly against the lock’s tumbler, creating a tension on the interior pins. Then, a few telerhythmic bursts inside rattled the pins up and down until they stuck, shears opening, and the lock snapped open. She slipped inside the study quickly, clairaudiently canvassing the hall behind her to ensure that no one was coming.

  Fortunately, she wouldn’t need to put on a light, possibly alerting household staff to her presence. Unfortunately, as was always the case, the room served as a new adventure in relational geometry. She couldn’t knock too loudly on the walls to get a sense of the space-not without risking undue attention. Which meant that she’d have to, very slowly and very lightly, feel her way around the room with her cane.

  Years of experience building mental pictures of new rooms had given Skinner a good feel for it. Vie-Gorgon studies like this were usually narrow, with the desk directly opposite the door, near the window. There was probably some guest furniture, a low stool or a chair, perhaps, in between…there. She tapped lightly on a wooden chair leg. Reached out, set her hand on it. It was high-backed and plush. She resisted the urge to move quickly; if she had to make a run for it, she needed to be sure where everything was. A few moments of caution now were worth it.

  Farther out, more furniture. Then the desk. It was heavy, wide. The desk chair was on the opposite side, between the desk and the window-she knew there was a window, because she could hear the wind whipping against the glass. Around the side, carefully, and she made sure to fix its corners in her mind. Behind the desk, and she lightly bumped into the chair. It was wheeled, and rolled slightly when she touched it. She felt her back brush against heavy draperies.

  Now, to find the letter. Slowly, and as quietly as she could, she began opening the drawers. Each one squeaked and scraped against the desk slightly, but also particularly. No two drawers or doors or spots on the floor ever sound quite the same. There, third one down on the left. There was neither time nor means to sort out which letter, precisely, she was looking for; instead, she grabbed the first four and stuffed them into the pocket of her dress.

  “…candles for the study.”

  Skinner jerked her head up. Someone was coming down the hallway. She suppressed the urge to snap her telerhythmia around the room looking for a hiding place, instead reached out with her hands. The desk? How high is it off the ground? Would they be able to see me under it?

  “I thought Miss Emilia said she didn’t like candles in there.”

  “Her mother wants candles in all the rooms, don’t ask me why.” The door handle rattled as someone grabbed it. “Oh, she’ll chew you out for this, it’s supposed to be locked all the time.”

  The drapes, move behind the drapes. Skinner stepped as close to the window as she could and pulled the heavy drapery around herself. Her hiding place would either be effective, or laughably absurd-leaving the hem of her dress exposed at the bottom, or lying across her face so that its shape was clearly visible. The door opened, footsteps brushed softly on the thick carpet. I left the drawer open. Shit. The servants chattered aimlessly as they worked, presumably putting new candles in candelabras throughout the room. No way to get to it. How will I know if they’re looking towards me?

  Matches were lit, and the smell of sulfur filled the air. They’ll see me for sure, now.

  “Such a waste,” muttered the first speaker at the front of the desk, not a yard away from Skinner. “Candles…just because she likes to see the windows lit up at night.” Closer now, he’d moved around to the back. “Wish I were rich enough to burn candles at all hours.” There was nothing between him and Skinner except for that thick drape. She could reach out and touch him if she wanted. The drawer’s particular voice resounded as the servant closed it.

  The pause that followed brought Skinner’s heart into her throat. It could not have lasted longer than a fraction of the breadth of a breath, but Skinner must have spent a day, a month, a year with her chest pounding, biting her lip and gritting her teeth, waiting for the man to snatch the draperies away and demand an accounting of what she was doing in Emilia Vie-Gorgon’s study.

  Such an apocalypse never occurred, and instead the man, after a moment’s hesitation, left the candlelit study and closed the door behind him. Skinner breathed a sigh of relief whose force surprised her, as though she might have inadvertently expelled her soul, then after using her clairaudience to make sure the hall was empty, followed the servant out.

  She hadn’t taken more than two steps into the hall when yet another voice addressed her, triggering yet another precipitous drop of her stomach.

  “Miss?” The sternly polite and politely suspicious voice asked. Emilia’s major domo. “The guests aren’t supposed to be up here.”

  “Yes. No,” Skinner replied, smiling. “I was a little lost, I was trying to find…”

  “I fail to see what you could have been looking for that you thought might necessitate you leaving the first floor,” the man said, his voice icy with official indignation.

  “Yes, well.” Grimacing inwardly at the straightened circumstances that forced her into such a pass, she adopted a hang-dog expression and morosely tapped at the silver plate that sealed off her eyes. “It’s easy for me to get turned around, you see.”

  “Oh,” the major domo said, his voice dropping with the certainty that only knowledge of the most exquisite faux pas can bring. “Oh, oh, yes. Of course, I’m sorry. Do you…can I help you back to the party?”

  “If you would,” Skinner said to him. “That would be lovely.”

  Twenty

  “We need to discuss your recent actions,” the Moral Responsibility officer said. Beckett couldn’t remember the man’s name and this, somehow, disturbed him more than the hearing about his fitness for duty. “Some of the reports coming in are disturbing. Your superiors are worried.”

  “Stitch is worried?”

  “Mr. Stitch is only your direct superior. The people that I work for are superior to him,” the man said with a quiet sneer. He had a sheaf of papers in front of him. Beckett stopped listening. His mind wandered back to the last night’s raid. It was vivid in his imagination, Bluewater in all its rotten, sagging, destitute glory.

  Bluewater was where the poor indige lived. The wealthy hetmen of the indige clans had mansions and townhouses lining the streets of Indigae, where imported gullah-trees and glowing phlogishrubs were maintained a
t great effort and expense. Indigae was a safe, clean neighborhood, well-patrolled by gendarmes, well-tended to by the city’s many civil services, and far from the poison-smoke-spewing factories at the west end of the river Stark. Indigae was so lovely a neighborhood, in fact, that if it were not for the immense social shame incurred by being seen amongst the indige, even the Esteemed Families would have maintained residences there.

  Bluewater was not any of those things. The wide boulevards of Indigae were narrow, crowded streets in Bluewater. The little gardens were patches of dead grass or shimmering blue slime-mould on the cobblestones. There were no gendarmes in Bluewater, and if order was kept by the gangs of thugs and criminals that ruled it, it was only by accident. The neighborhood dissolved from warehouses full of cheap imports, warehouses converted to densely-inhabited, multi-family barracks, and warehouses that were too rickety and unsound even to support squatters, into factories that spewed black smoke, blue smoke, green smoke. Factories that dumped brightly-colored heavy metals into the rivers White and Crook, which had long been covered over by Trowth’s incessant development. The two swift and underground tributaries took the bright-colored and psychoactively charged mud into the Stark, where it sank to the bottom and bred strange species of fish and lizard.

  Bluewater was a wretched place, a place whose inhabitants had yet to see the runoff of wealth from their more successful cousins in Indigae. The indige there were easy prey for Anonymous John and his men, for Dockside Boys and River Rats, for Starkies and the Old Trows. Bluewater was as thoroughly villainous a neighborhood as Trowth had known, and who could blame the indige for choosing gang life, smuggling, drugs, and robbery over the meager existence that they might be fortunate enough to eke out in this disused corner of the city?

  “Your violent behaviors…Mr. Beckett?”

  Beckett snapped back to himself, looked around the room, recollected the situation. “What?”