The Crimson Skew (17 page)

E
XTRAORDINARY EVENTS RARELY
remain extraordinary. Even if they continue unexplained, their very strangeness gradually becomes less and less strange. So it had been with the sinkholes, which at first were described in alarmed tones as localized subterranean eruptions or—by the city's more fantastically minded—as an army of giant worms. Then the alarm faded, and soon enough the people of Boston began to think of them as nothing more remarkable than bad Boston
weather. They calmly went about their days, giving the sinkholes wide berth.

And so it was with the falling ash, which left a good inch of powder on the city that turned to paste with the first dewy morning. Those who did not clear their streets and walkways found that a thin crust of cement, baked by the sun, had hardened on every surface. Boston took on the unlikely appearance of a crusty, gray mummy. The morning newspapers made alarmed noises about the consequences of “The Anvil,” but for the most part, all of New Occident seemed to be treating the ash as if it was simply another kind of precipitation.

Shadrack looked about him in amusement as he walked to the State House. He saw more than one workman chipping ash crust from windows, and he passed a pair of children flinging the hardened ash into the river. No one seemed particularly disturbed by the sediment, despite its unknown origins. The notable exception was the Nihilismian prognosticator, a self-styled street prophet who always stood at a corner of the Common, haranguing passersby about the evils of the Age of Delusion. On this morning, he had drawn a small crowd and was energetically accusing his listeners of having ignorantly led the Age toward certain apocalypse. “It is no longer a mere expression,” he shouted, his beard trembling with excitement, “to say that the sky rains fire. The rain of fire and brimstone, so feared in the Age of Verity, has actually come to pass!” His voice rose to a shriek. “One might even say that the Age of Verity is reaching into this deluded Age to destroy it!”

“Except that there's been no fire,” a man called back from the sidewalk.

“Or brimstone,” a woman chimed in.

Shadrack chuckled to himself at the Nihilismian's consternated expression and walked on, heading up the State House steps.

He had already written several letters that morning to diverse correspondents across the region with the intention of discovering what he could about the strange phenomenon, and he planned to spend the morning investigating the matter further. But when he arrived at his office, he found a young woman with short black hair and a trim suit standing at his closed door. The prime minister's assistant was waiting.

“Minister Elli,” she said, with a brief smile. “Unusual weather, isn't it?”

“Good morning, Cassandra,” he replied. “To say the very least. Any theories?” He opened the door and ushered her in.

“I have some ideas.” Her expression was mischievous. “But I'd like to have some evidence before I speculate out loud.”

“Very wise,” Shadrack said with a smile. “My housekeeper suggested the Fates were having their chimney swept.”

Cassandra laughed.

“I am not entirely sure she was joking,” Shadrack said, with a shake of his head.

“Surely every theory is worth testing when there is no clear explanation,” she said.

Gamaliel Shore had been sorely disappointed to lose
Cassandra Pierce, and the Prime Minister was quite proud of having lured her away. Both parties recognized her as the best assistant in the State House. She was known to be discreet, punctual, tireless, and incredibly resourceful. Moreover, she was friendly without being unctuous, professional without being cold, and informative without being a gossip. She bore very little resemblance to the Nihilismian archivist called “Remorse,” who had, it was thought, departed on a mission to another Age. Even her appearance was different—brighter and cleaner, somehow. Those few people in Boston who had business in the Nihilismian archive
and
the State House would have had difficulty realizing that Remorse and Cassandra were one and the same.

And Shadrack, having never visited the archive, was himself no wiser. He had assumed that anyone who chose voluntarily to work with Broadgirdle was bound to be either wildly deluded or perilously dim-witted, so he paid little attention to the new assistant whenever he had contact with her. But Cassandra would not be ignored. Because he would not hire an assistant, much preferring to work alone, Shadrack had to deflect her insistent visits himself. She began making a habit of stopping by Shadrack's office, at first with messages from Broadgirdle (that could easily have been delivered by the messenger boy) or papers to sign (that were far from urgent), and later with questions that, to his surprise, piqued Shadrack's interest.

Usually, these questions were about maps. Were there new
maps showing the position of Princess Justa in the western Baldlands, and how far did her rule there extend? Did the maps of the Indian Territories show exact or only approximate positions for the westernmost towns? How did the maps of the Territories and Baldlands account for migratory populations that traveled north and south over the course of the year?

Shadrack had begun to feel less dread when he saw Cassandra at his door, but this morning proved to be different almost from the start. “May I close the door?” Cassandra asked once Shadrack was seated at his desk.

“Certainly,” he said with some surprise.

Taking a seat across from the desk, Cassandra held up a bundle of papers. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“I would be glad to try.”

“I have found that the key to being a good assistant is to anticipate what the prime minister needs before he knows he needs it.”

“That is certainly an admirable goal, though it sounds impossible to me.”

Cassandra smiled. “Usually, it just means thinking ahead a little bit.”

“Very well—if you say so.”

“In this case, it has to do with the terrible fog attacks that have struck in the Indian Territories.”

“Fog attacks . . .” Shadrack echoed. “Is that how we are describing them?”

Cassandra blinked. “Is my description inaccurate?”

“No.” He paused. “But ‘attack' suggests intention and deliberate action. I was not aware that we knew as much.”

Cassandra pursed her lips. “You are probably right. The prime minister does not call them attacks. But I just cannot help seeing them that way.” She gave a sheepish smile. “Perhaps it is in my nature to see malicious people doing bad things where there are none. Surely not a good quality!”

“Well,” Shadrack conceded, “they could be attacks. We do not know.”

“Precisely,” Cassandra continued. “Which is why I think it is best to be prepared.” She placed the bundle of papers on the edge of Shadrack's desk. The top sheet, Shadrack could see clearly, was a list of addresses.

“You mean to be prepared for an attack here?”

Cassandra nodded.

“I . . .” Shadrack leaned back in his chair. “I confess it had not occurred to me. It seems a very remote possibility. To date, all of the occurrences have been in the Indian Territories.”

“Nevertheless,” Cassandra said, raising her forefinger, “a good assistant thinks ahead.”

Shadrack gave a slight smile. “Right. You've made your point. And what is it you would like to do in anticipation of a possible attack here?”

“My first thought was to ensure the safety of all the prime minister's properties.” Casually she handed the top sheet of paper across the desk to Shadrack. “Other precautions must
also be taken, of course, but surely it would help to somehow secure them.”

Shadrack took the paper without a word and attempted to school his face into an expression of helpful rumination. He could not believe what Cassandra had just given him. For weeks, he had searched for this information without success, for Broadgirdle kept his personal matters carefully concealed. If it truly listed all of Broadgirdle's properties, what he was now holding could very well point to the location of the kidnapped Eerie. “Hm,” he said, scanning it quickly. “That sounds challenging,” he commented. There were five addresses. One was the mansion on Beacon Hill, which he and all of Boston already knew about. Another was an address in western Cambridge. Two were warehouses near the water. And the last was a farm in Lexington. “How would you secure these properties?”

“I asked myself the same question. Without knowing what this fog
is
, we cannot begin to protect ourselves from it.”

“I could not agree more,” Shadrack said mechanically. He repeated the addresses silently to himself, committing each one to memory.

“So I thought it might help to consult a botanist,” Cassandra said brightly, looking pleased with herself.

Shadrack felt a sudden tremor of warning. Putting the list of addresses carefully aside, he clasped his hands and looked at Broadgirdle's assistant. He felt immediately, undoubtedly certain that Cassandra Pierce knew much more than she was saying. Her expression, so cheerfully self-satisfied, looked no
different from usual. But her eyes were grave—deeply, meaningfully grave.

“Why a botanist?” Shadrack asked quietly. “I should have thought you would look for a chemist if you think the fog storms are deliberate attacks.”

“Ah,” Cassandra said, without changing her tone, “but everyone who has reported on the attacks says the fog smells like flowers.”

“Many substances smell like flowers.”

Cassandra frowned. “So you think it's a bad idea to consult a botanist?”

“Not necessarily. I was only trying to understand how you had come to your conclusion.”

She sighed. “I suppose, to be thorough, I should also consult with chemists. You are right—we cannot know the nature of this substance. Nevertheless,” she went on, handing him the second sheet of paper, “these are the botanists I was able to identify in Boston who have enough expertise to consider the problem.”

Shadrack glanced at the list of names. None of them was familiar. “How did you determine their expertise?”

“I looked at their scholarly work. Though I am by no means an expert in botany, it is a small field, and there are only three scientists in Boston who publish their research with any regularity. These are the three.

“And finally we come to my request for assistance,” Cassandra said, leaning forward. “You will see that one is circled.
I could locate the other two, but not this one. Then I realized that he teaches at the university—I believe you hold an appointment there as well, do you not?”

Shadrack looked at the circled name.
Gerard Sorensen
. “I do,” he said slowly.

“I thought perhaps, with your connections there, you might be able to locate him.”

Shadrack looked up at Cassandra and realized that he had misunderstood. His first impression had been that she was in Broadgirdle's confidence and that her knowledge came from him.

But no—she was not in his confidence. Cassandra Pierce was working behind Broadgirdle's back.

She said the words just as they were meant to sound: hopeful, light, and without particular significance. Shadrack heard their significance nonetheless. As he looked in her eyes, he understood the words she really intended:
This man knows what the crimson fog is. I am giving you his name. Go find him.

He could not fathom how or why Cassandra Pierce had come to this knowledge, or how she had come to a point where she was betraying Broadgirdle's secrets. Perhaps, he considered, this had been her intention from the start. After all, she was relatively new to the prime minister's office. But however she had arrived and however she had decided to betray her employer, one thing was clear: Cassandra Pierce was trying to help Shadrack. She had already given several indications of what to do, and he could not ignore them. The woman sitting before him suddenly looked
entirely different than she had when she knocked on his office door, even though nothing about her had changed.

“I think it's very likely that I could locate him at the university,” Shadrack said. “Would it be helpful if I tried to speak with him?”