The Golden Specific (19 page)

He snatched the paper.

“Hey, you have to pay for that,” the boy protested.

Theo ignored him and read quickly, his eyes flying over the page.

I
N
A
SURPRISE
move, the minority leader, MP Gordon Broadgirdle, has recanted and declared himself the incarcerated minister's champion. Before a silent and rather nonplused parliament, Broadgirdle made a seven-minute speech on the morning of June 5, insisting that he was now convinced Minister of Relations with Foreign Ages Shadrack Elli and the explorer Miles Countryman had been wrongly accused of murder. He vowed to find the foreigner mentioned in his speech, an Eerie woman by the name
of Goldenrod, whom he accused of being the true perpetrator of the crime.

Broadgirdle's speech astonished many in his own Western Party, who consider Minister Elli more of an adversary than a candidate for support and sympathy. Having been appointed by the murdered Prime Minister Bligh of the opposing New States Party, Elli frequently pursued policies directly against the Western Party's stated principles. Yet MP Broadgirdle contends that such partisan concerns cannot influence the pursuit of justice. “I know Minister Elli to be an honest, reliable, and patriotic man,” he said near the end of his speech. “He would never commit such an atrocity and we owe it to both him and Bligh to find the real criminal.” Broadgirdle's actions were immediately lauded by all and sundry as magnanimous and worthy of a great political leader.

“Pay for it or give it back,” the boy growled at Theo.

Wordlessly, Theo returned it. He continued on his way, but his euphoric mood had been obliterated. What might have looked like good news at first glance was undoubtedly bad news. Theo knew what Broadgirdle's sudden and spirited defense really meant. It meant that he had used his leverage, and Shadrack had ceded. He had agreed to Broadgirdle's terms.

 20 

Stalking Graves

I
T
HAD
TAKEN
Theo more than two hours to climb the six blocks up Beacon Hill. The thought of setting eyes on the man known in Boston as Gordon Broadgirdle made him want to run and run until he could run no farther. Realizing he would see Broadgirdle—and that Broadgirdle would see
him
—turned his legs to stone. He stopped, wheeled his stolen Goodyear around, and walked slowly back down the hill. Then the thought of Shadrack and Miles in prison brought him to a halt once more. He considered that they had no way to discover the truth while they sat behind bars. He reminded himself of Grey's misguided investigation. Punching his leg, furious at
his own unforgivable weakness, he turned and climbed two blocks uphill. He stopped again, overcome.

And so it went, for more than two hours, until he arrived at the corner, already exhausted, his palms sweating. But he arrived determined.
I'm here to prove he's guilty,
Theo told himself firmly.
I know he is, and I know there's evidence. I just have to find it. And once I find it, Shadrack and Miles will be let free.

Broadgirdle owned one of the largest homes on Beacon Hill: a brick mansion on a corner lot. Most of the others crowded the curb, but his flaunted a long front yard protected from the street by a low, black fence of wrought iron. The curtains were open in every room, as if to declare that the occupant had nothing to hide from anyone.

Theo stood on the opposite corner, watching the mansion with a bitter smile. He could remember when the man known as Gordon Broadgirdle would not have been fit to appear on the sidewalk in Beacon Hill, much less inhabit one of its mansions. In those days, he went by “Wilkie Graves,” and every piece of his tattered clothing was hung with silver bells. His teeth were long, jagged slivers of iron. He even wore gloves with iron claws, the better to make his point when someone disagreed with him—which was often.

It was quite a transformation, Theo admitted, as he watched Broadgirdle alighting from his coach and striding up his front drive. His hair and teeth and beard were new; even his walk was new—he carried himself with a kind of easy imperiousness that suggested a long life of privilege. Theo remembered
a more urgent, aggressive posture to his old adversary. But the eyes and the voice had not changed. Those were the same: terrifying.

Watching Broadgirdle in his fine suit, Theo thought involuntarily about the day he had met Wilkie Graves. The memory was one he had long ago tried to bury, along with everything else that touched upon Graves in the slightest. But it returned now, unbidden, fiercely vivid despite the years it had spent hidden away.

It had happened in a town very mistakenly named Paradise, a town as dry and dusty as any Theo had ever seen. He'd been on his own for two weeks, and food had been scarce.

The wagon was tied outside a tavern, and it was not the usual kind of wagon. Most travelers in the Baldlands used cotton canvas that would let the light through but block the worst of the heat and cold. This one was closed, made entirely of wood, with a door at the back. The door was chained and locked. Theo calculated that the wagon had to be full of valuables. Gold bars? Paper currency?
Food.
He began to imagine the links of sausages hung on hooks, the bags of grain, the barrels full of apples and potatoes. He was so hungry he would have eaten an onion raw and found it delicious. So alluring was the vision that he was drawn inexorably to the wagon, even though there were many easier marks in Paradise.

In retrospect, he always chided himself for not paying attention to the condition of the horses. If he hadn't been so hungry, he would have thought for a moment about their mistreated hooves and the lines of dried blood on their haunches. But the
vision of what lay inside the wagon drew him onward, and he slipped his tools from his pouch and began working at the lock, the imagined feast becoming more fantastic by the moment.

That was how Graves found him: with his pick still in the lock and a stupid look of dreamy anticipation on his face. Graves had grinned, showing all his jagged teeth. He was holding a black guard dog on a leash, and the dog looked as hungry as Theo felt. “Take him, Sally,” Graves said, in that booming voice Theo came to know so well. The dog leaped at him, and Theo put out his hand with the iron bones, knowing it would not be enough to stop the dog but hoping it would be enough to save his life.

Theo flinched at the memory. His heart was pounding. He raised the open newspaper he was holding as Broadgirdle paused in his doorway and turned to survey the street. Truly, he was almost unrecognizable. Only the voice really gave him away, for there were many men with cruel eyes. He said a brief word to his butler before passing into the foyer. The butler waved to the driver, who headed for the coach house.

But Wilkie Graves wasn't the only one who had transformed over the years; Theo had, too. He hadn't changed his name, but he was many years older and many years wiser. He'd last seen Graves when he was a boy of eleven: a lot shorter, a lot dirtier, and a lot sorrier.
He wouldn't recognize me if I stood right in front of him in full sunlight,
Theo told himself resolutely.

This thought, wrested out of the barest sliver of confidence, gave him the boost he needed. Wheeling his Goodyear away from the corner, he circled Broadgirdle's property. The mansion
and its surrounding property took up a large portion of the block; its back garden bordered the street, instead of another yard. At either side of the house was a high brick wall covered with ivy; a door in the wall was firmly shut. But there was a decorative pattern—the silhouette of an owl—cut into the door, and it allowed a clear view into the garden.

Theo crouched down and peered through. He saw a shovel stuck into the ground beside a recently turned flower bed. Theo shifted to the right. Now he saw two pairs of men's legs. They stood on either side of the door to Broadgirdle's garden shed. Theo stood back up.
What are you up to, Graves?
he thought.
Why do you have men guarding your garden shed? Is this one of your old tricks, or something new?
Stepping up on one of the pedals of his Goodyear, he peered in through the owl cutaway higher up on the door.

With a muffled exclamation, Theo abruptly dropped down. He gave a low exhalation, long and slow.
Well, Graves,
he thought,
this is new. This is definitely new.
He swung his leg over the seat of the Goodyear and pedaled away as fast as he was able. Soon the steep descents of Beacon Hill had carried him far from Broadgirdle's house, but Theo's heart was still racing. He had seen the two men guarding the shed quite clearly. They were dressed in nondescript suits, they wore grappling hooks on their belts, and they had unmistakable scars along their cheeks: long lines that stretched from the corners of their mouths to their ears; scars that had been made by wires pulled tight against the skin.

 21 

Quarantine

S
OPHI
A
FOLLOWED
C
APTAIN
Ponder through the ship and down into the hold. Dark and low-ceilinged, it was filled with crates stamped
CANNED
COD
and
JARRED
MOLAS
SES
and
PRESERVES
. The captain led her along a circuitous route through the piles of crates until they reached the very back of the hold. He held his lamp aloft. There, a tall box on wheels stood waiting. It was difficult to make out much beyond its shape. It was made of wood, and the lid, which presumably opened on hinges, had evenly spaced holes for aeration. She stood on tiptoe and tried to peer in, but the holes were too small and the hold too dark. A flutter of something green and
brown was all she could see. The lid was held in place with a formidable padlock. Experimentally, she pushed her weight against one end of the box, and it rolled easily across the wooden floorboards.

Sophia was taken aback. She had been imagining something smaller: a letter or some precious packet. The planter looked less valuable and more cumbersome than she had expected. “Remorse left me a planter?”

“This is it.”

Sophia considered her alternatives. They had arrived in Seville safely and in good time. In fact, they had arrived a few days early. The person sent by Remorse would not be expecting her yet, and Burr and Calixta would not arrive until July. She could not remain on the
Verity
; it would sail on for several months before returning to Boston.
If this is what I have to do to get the diary,
she said to herself,
then this is what I will do.
“I guess I will take it,” she said reluctantly.

“I expect it will be difficult to move single-handedly,” Captain Ponder said. “But I will ask the crew to roll it up while the plague cleric questions you.”

“Thank you.” As Sophia followed him back through the hold, she asked: “Do they take long? The plague clerics?”

“It will depend on whether there has been a recent outbreak. At times they are excessively meticulous, considering that we come from a foreign port. The threat is from within, not without, but the plague clerics are not ones to overly rely on logic.” He stopped on the stairs and turned to her. “You don't have the cold that has afflicted some of the others, do you?”

“No—I'm fine.”

“Just as well. A cold is a cold, but, as I said—the clerics are not renowned for their sound logic.”

Sophia considered this. “Have you ever known someone who suffered from the plague?”

“Once I almost stopped in a port farther north, where the plague had struck years earlier. As far as I could tell there was no one left alive. Even from a distance, I could see the bones of the inhabitants littering the dock.”

—9-Hour 42—

T
HE
ENTRY
TO
Seville was by the Rio de Guadalquivir, which divided the city into one greater and one lesser portion. The long harbor along the riverbank was almost deserted. One ship near the
Verity
was casually guarded by a sleeping mariner and a brown dog. Three more ships lay abandoned, their masts sagging wearily toward the murky water. Dusty orange trees lined a road to a great stone archway, beyond which a slow traffic of people and horses made its way along the cobblestones. The buildings near the river, with chipped white walls and red tiles, had a faded aspect, as if they had been exhausted by the sun.

Sophia had been waiting on the dock for more than an hour. The pealing of bells from the cathedral sounded, echoed by bells from smaller chapels throughout the city. For a moment Seville seemed a lively place, filled with cheerful cacophony. Then the chiming faded, and the silence seemed all the more mournful and ominous.

Sophia wanted only to get out of the sun. She was last in
line to be questioned by the plague cleric. One by one, the Nihilismian missionaries had been allowed to pass into the city, carrying their few belongings. The two remaining Nihilismians, Whence and Partial, middle-aged women who were singular only by virtue of their occasional displays of kindness to one another, stood quietly, studiously ignoring her.

The punishing sun reminded Sophia of the Baldlands. She tried to take what relief she could by crouching behind the planter, but even in the rectangle of shade, the heat was overwhelming. The cleric conferred with his scribe as he approached Whence and Partial. He was an older man, with only a few strands of hair, a pair of bushy eyebrows, and no chin to speak of. His teeth were yellowed and crooked. The robes he wore, in white, black, and red, seemed entirely unsuited to the fierce Seville sun, but he appeared not to notice the heat.

The cleric stopped before Partial, examined her in silence, and then spoke rapidly in Castilian to his scribe, who made a series of slow, deliberate annotations. He held his hands clasped before him and peered at Partial with milky blue eyes. “You arrive today from New Occident?” the cleric asked, in accented English.

Partial nodded.

“Why do you arrive?”

“I am Nihilismian. I am here on a mission.”

“What is this mission?”

She sighed. “To set the Papal States on the true path.”

“And what is the true path?”

Partial did not respond. She seemed to be melting where
she stood. Coughing suddenly, she let her head drop onto Whence's shoulder. “Whence can tell you about the true path,” she murmured.

The cleric glanced at his scribe, and the scribe nodded. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“She is unwell,” Whence said, “but it is only a common cold. She is tired from the journey and the heat.” She put her arm around Partial.

“How long has she been unwell?”

“Some four days. She needs water and rest, that is all.”

The cleric eyed Whence dispassionately and turned once more to Partial. Eyes closed, breathing deeply, she appeared to have fallen asleep on Whence's shoulder. There were beads of sweat on her upper lip and forehead. The cleric's bushy eyebrows drew together in a frown. He spoke quietly in Castilian and the scribe nodded. Walking quickly along the dock, the scribe disappeared into the stone archway that led to the city.

“Where is he going?” Whence asked irritably. “We have been here for an hour already. Are we almost done?”

“Almost,” the cleric said with composure. He clasped his hands before him again, and waited.

Sophia felt the time pass slowly, but it was only a few minutes later that a pair of horsemen emerged, accompanied by the scribe. A flash of cold traveled down her spine, and she rose to her feet with a sense of foreboding. The two horsemen wore white, hooded robes that glittered in the sunlight. Their faces were obscured by golden masks: long, hooked beaks and narrow slits for eyes made them into ominous, brilliant birds.
Sophia found herself thinking of the Nochtland guard; somehow, these golden horsemen appeared even more forbidding.

They dismounted when they reached the dock and walked unhurriedly beside the scribe. As they approached, Sophia saw that their long robes shimmered from golden thread that had been woven into the white cloth. Each wore a heavy belt and a long sword in a scabbard. One of the men tossed back his hood as he approached, revealing a mass of golden curls. They did not remove their masks. With a brief nod, the plague cleric spoke to the horsemen and gestured to Partial. The golden beaks nodded in reply. Then, without so much as a word, they stepped forward and took Partial by the arms.

“What are you doing?” Whence exclaimed. She reached out, clinging to her friend's listless hand.

Partial awoke enough to object and push feebly at the hands that held her. The horsemen took no notice. Half guiding, half carrying her toward the horses, they led her away. “Where are you taking me?” Partial protested. She batted ineffectually at the masked men.

“What is happening?” Whence asked the cleric at the same time.

“Your companion has
lapena
,” the cleric said calmly.

“
What?
No—no, she doesn't. It's just a cold and she is exhausted by the heat.”

“We shall see.”

“But where are they taking her?”

“To quarantine.”

“You can't take her to quarantine. There will be others with the plague there!”

The cleric nodded. “All those with plague must be isolated.”

“But she doesn't
have
the plague!” Whence's voice had grown shrill.

The cleric examined her for a moment in silence. “How can you be certain? She has all the signs. She is tired and does not care for life. She can hardly be roused.”

“
Does not care for life?
She is tired, that's all!”

“Her signs are advanced,” the cleric said with an air of finality. The men with the golden beaks were leaving the dock, one of them leading the horses and the other leading Partial. “You are her travel companion, are you not? What remains is to see if you, also, have any signs of these plagues.”

Whence fell suddenly silent. She stared at the cleric with horror. Then she straightened her skirts and stood at her full height. “Very well. Ask me your questions. You will see that I am not in the least unwell.”

The cleric squinted at her thoughtfully. “You arrive today from New Occident?” he asked, commencing his litany of questions once more.

As Whence answered, Sophia watched, wide-eyed. She could hardly believe it had happened so fast. The Nihilismian was gone. She would be placed in quarantine, and if there was anyone there with the plague, she would surely fall ill. Sophia's heart pounded, and her attention drifted. She felt a mixture of relief, shame, and fear: relief that she was not being led away by
the men with golden masks; shame at her sense of relief; and fear that the same fate would befall her. It could not. It would not.

The plague cleric nodded at Whence, concluding his questioning. “It is well; you may enter Seville.”

Whence nodded in return. “Thank you.” Sophia could see that the Nihilismian was deeply shaken. She picked up her satchel and Partial's without a word and walked slowly toward the city.

The plague cleric turned to Sophia and the scribe looked up, expectantly, prepared to take down her replies.

“You arrive today from New Occident?” the cleric asked.

“Yes,” Sophia replied, a false smile stretching across her face.

“Why do you arrive?”

“I am here to look for my parents. They came this way many years ago, and I hope to find them.”

The man considered this in silence. Then he echoed, “You hope to find them.”

“Yes. I am on my way to Granada, to the Nihilismian depository, to find a document written by my mother.”

The cleric took this in. Then he nodded slightly in the direction of the planter. “And what is this?”

“This is a container with plants.” Sophia realized, as she gave her reply, that the heavy lock might cause some suspicion. But she could not pretend it was hers. If the cleric asked to see inside the box, she would be unable to open it.

“And why do you bring it?”

“I am transporting it for a friend. It is a gift for someone in Seville.”

“Do you have the name and address of this person?”

Sophia opened her satchel and took out
Map Vendors in Every (Known) Age.
She had seen an entry for Seville, and she turned the pages as calmly as she could. “Gilberto Jerez,” she said to the cleric, finding the entry in her book. “Calle Abades.”