Widdershins

by Alexander, Alex

  He was fished out and thrown into the back of a black coach.

  Through the barred window he could see Inspector Forsyth talking to a bald man in a red dress.

  In the seat opposite him, the naked man from the Queen’s Garter curled up away from him.

  ‘Don’t hurt me, please… I beg of you…’ The man was a quivering wreck. At first Niclas thought he was just cold, being naked in the night air would do that to you. But he wasn’t shaking from cold.

  ‘’S’appenin’?’ said Niclas.

  ‘It spoke… I know it spoke… I saw it speak… No one believes me… Why don’t they believe me?’

  ‘Calm down, gov, it’s alright. It ain’t so bad.’

  ‘Alright! How is it alright?’

  ‘I figures it could be worse. Still alive ain’t you. I’m sure they’ve got a…’ Niclas tried to avert his eyes ‘…a towel or summin somewhere.’

  ‘It’s logicide… Moons collide… Reason forbid… Bedlam incarnate… It’s logicide…’ The man’s eyes were streaming. Niclas had seen a lot of people cry, but he’d never seen anyone cry like this. Alongside the tears, the man was squealing like a straining pig. He wished he had a handkerchief to offer the poor chap.

  ‘Logiwot?’ asked the boy.

  The whip cracked and the coach pulled off.

  Niclas looked out the window and managed to catch a glimpse of the boat on the other side of the canal.

  It was empty.

  ‘I can’t go there… P-p-please… H-h-elp. HELLLLP!’

  ‘Go where, gov?’

  ‘The Academy you fool!’ said the man, wide eyed and loony. ‘The Academy!’

  ***

  It was a jail cell, but not the sort of jail cell found in the Guard’s Tower. This one had a carpet, a sink, a toilet and a red frosted window that couldn’t be seen through. Cassandra lay on a small, stained mattress in the corner. Princesses are known for their heightened mattress sensitivity, peas and so on, and she could feel every coil digging through it. She may as well have been sleeping on a sack of potatoes.

  She dozed.

  That was all there was to do.

  Time moved differently there. There were no sign posts to break up the day. No clocks, no visitors, even the light coming through the window always stayed the same.

  She had a lot of time to think. That was what rooms like this were for, to lock people away with only their thoughts.

  The silence didn’t help either. It made her thoughts feel louder and all the little noises people phase out daily, played like drums in her ears. Her breath, her heartbeat, the sappy sound of her lips coming unstuck.

  It was enough to drive a person mad…

  Maybe that was the point.

  ‘Hello?’ she cried out, hoping her voice could be heard through the thick iron door. ‘Is there anybody there?’

  No one answered.

  She drifted in and out of sleep, hoping each time she woke there’d be something to see. But nothing happened.

  Then, hours later, the portal under her door opened and a bowl of food slid into the cell.

  She fumbled onto her hands and knees and rushed to the portal.

  It slammed in her face.

  ‘Wait! Come back! Hello? Hello?’

  And just like that, they were gone.

  The food was a porridge-like gruel. It made Martha's porridge seem a hundred times more appetising. It looked like lumpy grey sick and it smelt like damp wool. They’d obviously forgotten the cutlery. She tried a dab on her finger. It tasted like damp wool too. She pushed the bowl away and sat back, hungry.

  She wondered what was happening outside. Her mother had surely heard by now. She was probably already there, in the Academy, demanding her daughter’s release. Any minute now they were going to open the door, apologise unreservedly and let her go home.

  Any minute now.

  Any minute now.

  Any minute now…

  Any minute…

  A horrid thought dawned on the Princess as she lay counting the grey bricks that made up her four walls. They might not be coming for her.

  It had been hours. Maybe even days. There was no way to tell.

  A while later, she was awoken by a cacophony of locks sliding across, unlatching, unhinging; the rattle of keys. When the door opened, she came face to face with the Inquisitor who had brought her there. He stood over her, silent, greeting her with a pleasant, distrustful smile and a bending hooked finger that told her to come hither.

  She’d had a bag over her head last time, so this was her first look at the innards of the Academy. It was dark, crimson, a building with stone walls that had seen many generations of witless folk. Her corridor was just like all the other corridors, lined with iron doors and red, glowing lanterns. She wondered how many of the rooms were occupied. Then she wondered how many of the corridors were full. Then she wondered how many corridors of rooms there were, above her, below her. It was a troubling thought she’d never once thought to have, wondering just how many of her citizens were of unsound mind.

  The Inquisitor’s chamber welcomed her with a warm crackling fire and a cosy leather chair. She sat. The Inquisitor sat opposite. A hefty mahogany table sat between them. The contents of the table were ordered neatly, not a paper lay out of place. There was a golden globe, a set of golden scales, a golden inkwell and a quill with golden feathers. Clearly, an inquisitor was a job that paid well.

  But Cassandra wasn’t interested in golden possessions. She was interested in the books. One was bound in red leather and lay open in front of the Inquisitor. It was some sort of log book, a register with names and dates scribbled down in columns similar to the Palace’s Guest Book, but much busier.

  The other book lay to the side. It was closed now, but the Inquisitor had likely been looking through it. Cassandra’s eyes were drawn to it.

  ‘Child. You are very quiet. There’s much to admire in that. Citizens often bang on the doors during their first days here. Screaming. Shouting. Some have been known to injure themselves. But you’ve been very calm.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ said Cassandra. It was best to get the details now, she thought, so she knew who to hang later.

  ‘I am Inquisitor Sinclair, I shall be responsible for you during your stay here.’

  ‘My stay? You said I would be home tomorrow?’

  ‘Cassandra… It’s been three days since then.’

  ‘Three! No… It can’t have been…’

  ‘We extract all patients from the notion of time. It happens in the first three days. Helps them adjust to their new surroundings.’

  ‘Patients? Is that what I am?’ Cassandra’s stomach turned.

  ‘Do you know what an inquisitor does?’

  ‘Yes. You ask questions.’

  ‘Precisely. I want to ask you some questions, Cassandra. Do you know what they’re about?’

  Cassandra’s eyes fell on the Zolnomicon again.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Inquisitor, ‘most clever.’ He lifted the tome and opened it partway.

  Cassandra shuddered. She’d forgotten about the writing. She’d forgotten that it had changed.

  ‘You said you were reading this book? What language is this, I wonder?’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘You don’t know? But you can read it?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘So you can’t read it? Yet, you were reading it, didn’t you say that?’

  ‘It…’ Cassandra had to think very carefully about this. The truth sounded completely mad, but inquisitors could tell when people were lying.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, expectantly.

  ‘I was trying to read it. That’s what I’ve been doing. I couldn’t find any books about the language that it’s written in, so I thought I could use the pictures and compare it to colonial languages and maybe…’

  ‘But, child, this is gibberish. It’s hieroglyphic. And there are no known hieroglyphic languages.’ The Inquisitor cast his eye over his papers. O
r her papers, her name was inked in the corner of each page.

  ‘Our report here tells me that you told one Mr Eccleston you believed the Royal Protector had been hypnotised and made to attack your mother by someone else. Is that correct?’

  So there it was, the name of her betrayer: Mr Eccleston. Cassandra would add his name to the hangman’s list too.

  ‘Cassandra?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right,’ she said, bitterly.

  ‘And you still believe this?’

  ‘…I don’t know.’

  ‘Why Cassandra, who would do such a thing, if such a thing were possible?’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘You haven’t a suspect?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor a motive then, I suppose.’

  ‘…’

  ‘Not a shred of evidence besides your overactive imagination?’

  Cassandra’s case was falling away from her fast.

  ‘He was in a trance,’ she said, ‘and he didn’t remember what he did afterwards.’

  ‘Perhaps so, child. Affected by madness no doubt. Who knows the thoughts of a madman, their actions are mad so their thoughts must equally be so. But it is no longer disputed, I believe the Chief Inspector of the City Watch has already taken a full confession.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean confession? But he didn’t do it? He was screaming that he didn’t do it, why would he confess?’

  ‘Madness comes and goes. But please, we’re not here to talk about Rufus Atwell. I want to talk about you. You said that you’d stopped a boy from the Queen’s Garter stealing this book?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you report it to the librarians? Or the authorities?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Well, you saw a crime didn’t you? Why not report it?’

  ‘…I–’

  ‘And then… it was you who ended up stealing the book, no?’

  ‘Only so the thief wouldn’t get it.’

  ‘I see.’ The Inquisitor steepled his hands and sat in a moment of thoughtful silence.

  It was a torturous silence. The sort of silence that hurts.

  ‘Inquisitor, may I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course,’ the man smiled.

  ‘Why does the Academy, the source of all the Empire’s knowledge, forbid certain books?

  ‘Like this one?’

  ‘Yes.’ She wasn’t sure how he would react to this and waited nervously.

  ‘It is a good question, child. Sometimes, you see, it can be difficult to tell what’s real apart from what’s not. Of course, an educated young girl like yourself should have no difficulty deducing one from the other. But there are many citizens throughout the Empire who would struggle: the more fragile minds of our society. All illogical thought breeds suffering, and the first pillar of madness is belief. So you see, we are protecting the realm when we prohibit a book such as this. For they cause unfounded beliefs in unrealities. And those unfounded beliefs cause needless suffering.’ The Inquisitor spoke in quotes, likely because he was reciting the Academy’s maxims.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m glad. It is for the greater good after all.’

  Cassandra pondered how many terrible things had been done in the name of the Greater Good. She wondered what the Greater Good would think about it. Whether it was alright with people going about doing bad things in its name all the time. And she thought, what if all those terrible things out weighed the Greater Good a million to one.

  ‘What will happen to it?’ she said, pulling her eyes from the Zolnomicon’s magnetic hold.

  ‘What do you think should happen to it?’

  This was her moment to prove her loyalty and clearness of mind. She knew exactly what needed to be said.

  ‘We need to destroy it.’ She played her hand confidently.

  ‘Yes. We ought to. It shan’t be missed I don’t think, a book not written in Varcian isn’t worth remembering. But, the real question will be: are you devoted enough to destroy it yourself?’ said the Inquisitor.

  Cassandra could see the burning fire twisting in his perverted smile. She felt its heat flushing against the side of her face. She knew what had to be done but doing so went against every moral bone in her body. Books weren’t just pages and inkings, to her, they were living creatures, alive with ideas.

  The more she thought about it the harder it became and the Inquisitor was watching her every thought, as if she were an ape putting shapes into holes.

  It’s best to do things like this quickly, without thinking about it.

  She stood up, snatched the Zolnomicon from the desk, marched over to the log fire and held it there above the flames.

  ‘Yes. An excellent idea, Cassandra,’ said the Inquisitor, studying her intently.

  She let go.

  The book thudded onto the logs and sat there, immortal for a second or two. Then the leather cover began to curl and the pages began to char. The fire raged happily, its dancing flames wrapping themselves around the tome. She stood watching, hiding her horrified face from the Inquisitor. Hot, orange cracks of fire were spreading like burning veins through the leather. The face of the book slid off into the white hot logs and shrivelled like a withering leaf. The stone melted away like a shard of black ice. Pages began to burn loose and rise up in the heat, as if trying to escape it. She watched the inked illustrations bubble and the words turn to ash. Within minutes, the book was dead. The lingering smell was pungent, stifling and filled the room.

  Cassandra bit down on her lip to hold back her tears.

  ‘It’s done,’ she said.

  The Inquisitor had stood up and was now behind her, smiling proudly at her good work. He placed his grey, bejewelled hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Marvellous. You’ve taken a very important step. Now come, there is something I want to show you.’

  The Inquisitor took the Princess deeper into the building; down into its foundations, where the air was colder and the corridors far, far darker. There were no more lanterns, instead, flickering torches on the walls. It was medieval in its appearance, and, as Cassandra was about to see, in its purpose too.

  ‘All students of the Academy are given a tour once they have passed their induction. You are a very special internee here. I believe, for that reason, it is fitting that you see some of the work we do.’

  Cassandra was familiar with the workings of the Academy, but no more than everyone else. She knew there were Philosophers and Logicians who were said to sit about all day in plain rooms, debating and writing the rulebook of the Empire.

  She knew about the professors and scholars who studied the sciences in depth, and brought the teachings of The Curriculum to the fringes of the Empire.

  Then there was the bit everyone knew about, but no one really knew about. The Inquisitors and the Justiciars. The enforcers of logic, order and reason. Everyone knew what happened to people guilty of logicide. The Academy came for them and took them away. What happened next was the foggy bit. No one knew anyone who knew anyone who had even heard of anyone who had heard about what happened next. That’s because people who were committed to the Academy were never seen again.

  ‘This is where we begin to rehabilitate offenders,’ said Inquisitor Sinclair. ‘Their cells are shrouded in darkness and sound proofed from the outside world. Their senses are postponed, if you understand.’

  The doors here were different. They were iron like the one’s above, but thicker, bulkier, with spinning wheels at their centre.

  ‘We keep them unfed and unwatered for as long as is necessary.’

  ‘You starve them?’

  ‘For as long as is necessary.’

  ‘How long is that?’

  ‘Until their minds are simplified. You must first destroy all trace of a person’s unreality before showing them the path to true reality.’

  Cassandra was feeling faint. It could have bee
n the air. It was stuffy and dark, and not meant for Princess lungs. Or perhaps it was the thought that she would end up in one of these rooms. It was probably a bit of both.

  ‘I don’t mean to scare you,’ said the Inquisitor, in a tone that suggested that that was precisely his intention. ‘I only want to show you the fragility of the human mind. It is the best lesson I can offer.’

  They stopped at one of the doors.

  ‘This offender is early on in his re-education. Any further in and it would be damaging to disturb him, but at this stage we may be allowed to take a peek.’ He opened the small letterbox sized viewing window and beckoned her to look.

  Cassandra didn’t want to, she was quite fine where she was, but the Inquisitor insisted.

  She stood on her toes and peered into the room…

  In the single beam of light, she saw a gaunt, naked man, rocking to and fro cradling his body with his arms. He was absorbed within himself, so much so that though his eyes were open he wasn’t the slightest bit aware of her…

  And he was chanting…

  The word rolled off his tongue as though it were the only word he knew.

  ‘Logicide-logicide-logicide-logicide-logicide.’

  She fell away from the window in terror.

  The Inquisitor slid it shut.

  ‘It’s horrid, just horrid, how can you do such a thing to a man?’

  ‘It is necessary. We must cleanse his mind in order to heal it.’

  ‘And starve him?’ she gasped.

  ‘Food, Cassandra, is a distraction of the mind. Its taste, its texture and its appearance all distract us from what it truly is: sustenance. He will eat not when he wants to eat, but when he needs to.’

  ‘You think he’s mad? Can you see yourself? This is madness defined!’ Cassandra swayed a little, putting her hands on the wall to steady herself.

  ‘Cassandra, please, your compassion gets the better of you. We wouldn’t do it if it didn’t work.’

  ‘No. It’s horrid. I want to go home. Right now, you hear me, sir.’

  ‘I don’t think you are ready just yet.’

  ‘I demand it. I am the Princess. My mother will be looking for me–’