Mr. Stitch (13 page)

Gorud said nothing for a moment, then, “Still, it’s too much.”

“No. I need it. I can’t work without it.”

“You think the world will fall apart if you stop working? Will He wake up?”

The old coroner rubbed at the number corner of his mouth. “Huh. No. Probably not.”

“So. Why?”

Beckett shrugged. “What else can I do? It’s this, or lie in bed until I die.” He sniffed and looked around. “It’s cold. We should go. You drink djang?”

“Haha,” Gorud said. It was not a laugh, exactly, but a sound meant to indicate that he was laughing. “Where do you think you got djang from?
Thukeri
have invented djang.”

“Well, come on then,” the coroner said gruffly. “I’m thirsty.”

Emilia Vie-Gorgon was nothing if not generous, and with the nearly bottomless wealth of the Raithower Vie-Gorgons at her disposal, she could afford to be. When Skinner had returned to her boarding-house, late that night, she found that most of her belongings had already been packed up and burly-sounding men with heavy, competent footsteps were in the process of moving them out. Mrs. Crewell, astonishment plain in her voice, had been waiting for her with a handful of letters, details of the arrangement between the former coroner and the Vie-Gorgon heiress.

“It says there’s a house in Lanternbridge,” Mrs. Crewell was saying, as men tromped past with trunks of clothes, “leased under William Vie-Gorgon’s name that’s mean to be for you and your assistant. There’s a cook there, and a maid that should come in once a day, and you’re to be given an allowance of…my goodness.” She quoted a figure substantially higher than Skinner had ever made with the Coroners, but must have still been paltry compared to the funds that the Raithower Vie-Gorgons regularly had access to. “If you don’t mind my asking, Miss Skinner, what…what is this all about?”

Skinner permitted herself a truly enigmatic smile, one that she ordinarily reserved for the most outrageous of circumstances. These were certainly circumstances that might qualify, even if the wine and good company hadn’t managed to coax her humor to the surface. “I have found an opportunity, Mrs. Crewell. I imagine that you’ll hear about it, soon enough. Let me thank you for your good nature and excellent hospitality. I surely cannot imagine a better host than you have been. Do not!” She suddenly raised her voice to speak to the movers. “Do not even
think
about moving that instrument without wrapping it in cloth, first. Have you any idea what the cold weather will do to the strings?”

She traveled by coach from Chapel Height, skirting the lower edge of New Bank, and into Lanternbridge. The neighborhood was near one of the sinuous curves of the Stark, built near one of the first bridges across its length. Centuries earlier, when Trowth the city had really been a half a dozen loosely-connected little villages, an enterprising family member—probably an Ennering, but historical documents differ—had put three long lines of bright yellow lanterns along the bridge, and ensured that they burned at every hour of the night. Travelers, merchants, tinkers, and anyone else that might bring a coin or two of commerce to one of the competing districts were, once the sun went down, quite naturally drawn to the brightly-lit bridge, and the neighborhood found its inns and taverns always full come evening.

The good trade made Lanternbridge one of the wealthiest districts in the area, a characteristic which persisted for many years, until the sprawling mass of Trowth finally, by virtue of dozens more bridges across the river, spread out to the far side of the Stark, and pushed its travelers’ lodgings with it. Lanternbridge fell into disrepair for nearly a century then, gradually sliding down the inevitable decline into slumhood, until the Great Forfeiture. Once the wealthy families abandoned Old Bank for Lanternbridge’s neighbor, New Bank, the place underwent a kind of cultural renaissance. All of the decently-paid servants, craftsmen, cobblers, haberdashers, tailors, and restauranteurs relocated to be nearer to the wealth, and Lanternbridge was where they found themselves.

By Skinner’s time, it was known as a clean, quiet, safe neighborhood, with an exciting mixture of solidly middle-class, cheap journeyman shops and startlingly luxurious fashion houses and dining rooms. It was a common place of residence for moderately wealthy, not-quite-Esteemed merchant families, for up-and-coming and ambitious young people, and for certain relatively famous and popular actors and theater managers.

The house in Lanternbridge was a cozy three-storey building, not a mansion by any means, but by far more comfortable than any house Skinner had ever hoped to own. She took a few minutes to insist that the movers tour her around the space—getting a feel for distance and location, locating the stove without actually having to risk burning her hands—then hastily ushered them all out. It was far too late at night to begin work, to begin even pondering the work, and so instead she took advantage of the huge, soft, warm bed that had been provided her.

When morning came around, and anemic sunlight sifted through the gritty black clouds that made up the roof of Trowth, Skinner decided that she would likewise took advantage of a late morning, stirring only faintly as the maid brought her breakfast—covered over, with a tiny heat emitter at the base of the tray, it would stay hot for hours she knew—then pushing her face deep into downy pillows and sweet, satisfied dreams. The weak sunlight crept across the floor of her room, warming and brightening it. Gas lamps along the walls burst to life, bringing with them more light and heat, but Skinner would not be moved.

It was nearly noon when she finally roused herself, sampling the bacon, eggs, and toast that had been left for her breakfast and was, indeed, still hot. Years of early mornings, to get a start on the day’s inevitably macabre labors caused her a twinge of guilt when she realized the time, but she resolved that she would not regret starting to work as late as she liked.
Late mornings,
Skinner thought to herself,
Are the privilege of the artist
.

Skinner chose a light dressing-gown for herself, rather than struggling to strap herself into the substantial undergarments required by her coroner’s suits. Not having to get fully-dressed in the morning was another luxury she had rarely enjoyed. Waking up in a house, being beholden to no one—it was almost impossible to imagine that, the very day before, she’d planned on renting a rat-trap flat in Bluewater to stay off the streets.

Downstairs, company was awaiting her, and Skinner recalled that the letter mentioned she would have an assistant who would share the house with her. She’d assumed an arrangement would have to be made, as the knocker required someone who could take dictation for her, but had quite forgotten that the assistant would be living with her.

“Miss Skinner?”

Karine. She recognized the voice at once, and of course it was Karine. The young indige women had lost her job at the same time Skinner had, and there couldn’t be anyone more qualified to assist her. “My dear,” Skinner said, “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

“They didn’t tell me who I would work for,” her voice smiled, “I am glad it’s you, miss.”

Skinner experienced a fleeting moment of worry, at the astonishing extent of Emilia Vie-Gorgon’s information. How on earth did she know about Karine? The Vie-Gorgon heiress must have men everywhere. Skinner shook off the thought.

“Well, have you eaten, Karine? I’d like to get started, but we’re not in any hurry, just yet.”

“Oh, yes, miss. I am ready whenever you are.”

“Good. How well do you take dictation?”

There was a peculiar sound then, a mechanical tapping sound, and then the turn of a dial. Skinner had never heard anything quite like it before. “Yes,” Karine said. “I have been working for my cousin, who is a broker for airshipping. I have learned to use this…the Feathersmith machine.” She did something with her hands, and a machine clacked and rattled alarmingly. “It is like a tiny printing-press.”

“Well, then I suppose we had better get started,” Skinner said, gamely, as she sat down and prepared to work. It did not take her more than a few minutes of silence to realize that she had absolutely no idea how to begin. The silence hung awkwardly between them.

The work on
The Bone-Collector’s Daughter
had been different—the product of an inspiration that had seized her while she had been wholly occupied with something entirely unrelated. When it had blossomed in her mind, she found that the play had practically written itself; Skinner was herself taking dictation, listening to the play speak in her head and then just repeating it to Sitwell in one of their aggravatingly-long sessions. And, for as successfully as she’d been with
The Bone-Collector’s Daughter
, she’d really never written anything else before, and was altogether unsure as to how to go about it.

“Miss?”

“All right,” Skinner said. “Let’s just…start. With…something.”
It’s better, it
must
be better, to just right it down, whether it’s good or not. If it’s bad, we can always change it later
. “With Theocles. We’ll start with the poem. Do you know it?”

“No.”

Merciful relief, as Skinner found she could spend a good hour reciting the epic story to Karine—working easily from memory, not striving to build something new. She told her assistant the whole story, but had her just write down the main thrust of each of the sixteen books. When they’d finished, Skinner was strongly of a mind to break for the day, enjoy a well-cooked meal, drink some of the liquors that the movers had helpfully pointed out to her the night before. She resisted the impulse, out of an old habit that she’d learned from Beckett: whatever you didn’t solve today was what would bite you in the ass tomorrow. Of course, writing a play hardly had the same urgency or stakes about it that tracking down renegade necrologists did, but the principle could correctly be said to be the same.

“So,” said Skinner, as Karine’s clattering typing ground to a halt. “So, what is this about?”

“It’s about Theocles.”

“Yes,” Skinner agreed. “Wait. No. No, Theocles is
who
it’s about.
What
is it about, though?”

“He…takes over the empire.”

“That’s what happens. What is it
about
?” Skinner asked again, and Karine said nothing. “All right, I know what this is about. It’s about a man who is thirsty for power. He wants more power, he thinks he
deserves
more power…no. No, he thinks he can do a better job. He thinks he can do a better job, and so he starts doing bad things in order to get the power.”

“That’s not in the poem. The poem just says he’s jealous of Agon Diethes.”

“Well, we’re changing it. We’re allowed to, there’s no rule. It’s more interesting if Theocles thinks he can do a better job. Or maybe both. Maybe he secretly thinks he can do a better job, but then something happens…that makes him sure of it.”
What…how could you make that happen? It needs something weird. Something creepy
.

“He fights that troll in the second book. In Daeagea, before my people made a kingdom for themselves, there were all just tribal hetmen. And if a man went out and killed one of the kriegbats or lannershrikes, it was seen as a sign of his destiny.”

“Yes. The troll.”
No, wait
.
The Loogaroo.
“Wait, all right, I’ve got it. First scene. First scene is Theocles and his friend in the forest. After…after a battle. It’s a stormy night. Are you writing this down?”

What followed was a rough cut of a scene in which two tired, bloody, dirty old soldiers encountered a compelling oddity in the woods. Theocles, still at this point content to be a humble servant of the Emperor, did not fight a troll, but instead came upon two bogeys, behaving in the strange and off-putting way that bogeys do.