The Golden Specific (31 page)

Then, in December, the sheriff visited the jail and returned with Rosemary, who, though visibly upset, did not fight him. In silence, they walked the road north, but instead of entering the village they continued to the farmhouse where Sophia had heard the song of the gray dove. She knew, then, that Rosemary had been the one singing.

When they reached the doorway, Cabeza de Cabra paused. “I wish I could, but I can do nothing for him,” he said.

Rosemary nodded without looking at him. “He asked me to send a letter to his friends. I do not know how to send something to New Occident. Will you help me?”

“I will, but let it be soon, because now that Casavetti has confessed, the priest will be seeking a quick sentence.”

“I know. I will visit him in the jail tonight so that he may write it, and then I will bring it to you.”

“Very well.” He sighed. “Be careful, Rosemary.”

She nodded and turned to enter the farmhouse. Cabeza de Cabra walked back to Murtea, and his footsteps felt heavy and slow.

Only a few days later, he left the village walls once more, this time accompanied by a small crowd. The deputies and the
priest were there, but so were others: grown men, old women, even a few children. They returned from the jail with Bruno in tow. He was thin and his clothes were terribly dirty.

The procession reached the farmhouse, where Rosemary stood waiting like a sentinel, and she joined them as they walked farther north, to the stone bridge. The landscape beyond it had changed. Black trees with sharp thorns grew amid hillocks of dark purple moss. Here and there, the familiar dry grass still clung to the earth in patches.

Sophia could not understand the fierce pounding of the sheriff's heart, or the anxiety that he felt as he untied the prisoner's hands. Why? What were they doing to him? Bruno turned and spoke to the crowd in English: “Fear not. I know these hills and they know me. Ausentinia will protect me. I will follow the lost signs to the city. Though I may not return here, you may trust that I will find my way to safety.” Sophia heard Rosemary weeping quietly nearby.

Bruno crossed the bridge, stepping onto a patch of yellow grass. Then, head tucked down, he ran into the hills as if his life depended on it. There was a sudden roar of wind, and a gust moved through the black trees, pulling their limbs like desperate arms. The small crowd of people stood watching. Minutes passed. It was impossible to say if the windstorm had died down or if it had merely retreated farther into the dark hills. There was no sign of Bruno.

“Justice has been served,” the priest declared, putting his hand upon the golden cross that hung from his neck.

The crowd, with seeming reluctance, turned to go. There
was some grumbling, as if for most of the spectators disappointment, rather than justice, had been served. Rosemary remained where she was, and Cabeza de Cabra approached her. “Come. There is nothing to see.”

“He will return,” she said quietly, still watching the hills.

“It is not likely.”

“He said he would find Ausentinia. He may not be hurt.”

“And what if his soul is taken by the Dark Age? If his face is stolen, as the sentence intends? What then, Rosemary?”

The words emerged, as if from her own mouth, and Sophia felt a sudden fracturing within herself.

The part of her in the Gray Pigeon knew that Cabeza de Cabra was speaking of the Lachrima, and the realization set off a sudden avalanche in her mind, a torrent of fragments that made a comprehensible whole: the letter sent to her parents; their disappearance; the vanished existence of Ausentinia and the lost signs. She understood everything that had happened as surely as if she had seen it.

At the same time, the shock of understanding left her numb. She lost awareness of herself lying in the cool room of the roadside inn. She was no longer Sophia; she was only something that moved and thought as Cabeza de Cabra. It was as if she were truly living in the map, and nothing else existed.

Rosemary stared fiercely at the bridge. “If he returns, I will take care of him.”

Cabeza de Cabra rested his hand on her shoulder. “I will come back for you at sunset and take you home.”

After that, he went to the farmhouse at least once a week
to see that she was well. Later in the month, he approached the farmhouse and heard her singing a song of a gray dove, pierced by an arrow and felled. His heart was heavy, and not only because of the mourning girl. There were worse things.

After Bruno's sentence had been carried out, the priest condemned others to walk the stone bridge. The crowds that came to watch grew larger. The second prisoner, a young woman, was dispatched more to the priest's satisfaction. She stepped into the tall grass near the bridge and stood, trembling. The roar of wind gathered, and the ground beneath her feet changed, transforming into black moss. Everyone could hear her terrible screams, and when she stumbled back onto the bridge, Cabeza de Cabra recoiled. Her face was gone. She had smooth skin where her face had once been. And yet from that absent mouth came terrible cries—wails that shredded their ears.

Two other prisoners were sentenced to the same fate in February.

And then, in March, five strangers were taken to the jail: a man and woman, explorers from New Occident, and their plague-stricken guides. Cabeza de Cabra felt curiosity and sorrow in equal measure at their arrival: they had brought
lapena
and, with it, a bundle of troubles. At their sentencing, he felt a stab of sympathy. The woman was fierce and determined; when the priest pronounced their sentence at the stone bridge, she looked at him as if studying a viper. Her husband was patient, with not an ounce of malice or resentment even as Cabeza de Cabra cut his bonds and explained the priest's words.

“You are condemned to enter the Dark Age where it has
overtaken the roads that lead to Ausentinia,” he said. “Should you manage to escape, you are never to return to Murtea. You may speak your final words.”

The priest and much of the town stood watching. The woman reached into her skirts and took out a bundle of papers and a watch on a long chain. She handed the papers to Cabeza de Cabra. “Will you please preserve these?” she asked quietly.

“I will.”

She handed the watch to her husband. “Shall we try Wren one last time, Bronson?”

He smiled. “I suppose it can't hurt.” He opened the timepiece and pressed his finger against something inside, then closed it. They stood looking at one another.

“Tell them their time is up,” the priest said harshly.

Cabeza de Cabra was silent.

“Shadrack will take care of her, Minna,” Bronson said.

“Yes. I know he will. He loves her as much as we do, doesn't he?” She gave a small laugh that caught in her throat. There were tears in her eyes.

“He does,” Bronson agreed quietly. “Now we do here as we did on the
Kestrel
.” He took the long chain of the watch and circled it around his wife's wrist, and then his own. “Wherever we go, we go together. Whatever else we may lose in those hills, we will not lose each other.”

“Yes, Bronson,” Minna said. Their wrists bound by the watch's chain, they held hands and walked over the stone bridge. They stood for a moment at its far edge and then stepped forward, deliberately and with certainty, as if they knew exactly where
they were going. The wind lifted up and howled and stormed in pursuit. Just as Bruno had vanished, so did Minna and Bronson, and after several minutes the crowd began to lose interest and drift away in disappointment.

“I think we can be confident that the sentence was carried out,” the priest said to Cabeza de Cabra. When the sheriff did not respond, he added, “Do you not return to the village?”

“I will remain here until they emerge,” he replied, still looking at the stone bridge.

“Suit yourself.” The priest shrugged and walked away, and Cabeza de Cabra was alone.

“Two of the faces will be empty,”
he said softly to himself.
“The third face, which binds the other two, will have twelve hours. Follow the three faces wherever they lead you, across the many Ages, for your search lies with them.”

 32 

Waging the Campaign

K
NOWING
B
ROADGIRDLE
HAD
forced Shadrack into an agreement, and knowing that agreement was partly to protect him, Theo felt a kind of reckless fury that rose and fell in the MP's presence. It seemed that everyone in Boston was lying, and they were lying because of Broadgirdle. Shadrack had concealed Broadgirdle's coercion. Bligh had concealed Broadgirdle's crime. And of course Theo himself was lying to find the explanations for the greater lies with which Broadgirdle had concealed his coercion and his crimes.

Worse still, he realized now that his ability to lie, that comfortable talent which he had cherished as a skill, was no ability at all. It was a malignancy planted there long ago by Graves
himself. Graves's lies were a contagion. A lie from Graves engendered fear, and the fear engendered another lie, and soon the way of telling truth was entirely lost. Theo had never considered the point in his life when his own deceitfulness had begun, but now he saw clearly that it began with Graves.

As the days passed, he plunged into the labyrinth of memories that made up those two years of his life, trying to find the first instance. He could not be sure. He recalled a moment when a concerned woman at a horse ranch accused him of being underfed. Theo had lied without considering the alternative and without considering what it signified to defend Graves.
By then I was already sick with it,
he thought.
By then I already lied without a thought.

He hated the lies now, including his own. He hated that he had lied to Nettie about who he really was. He hated that he had lied to Mrs. Clay about his job at the State House, and he hated that he had lied to obtain the job in the first place. He hated that Shadrack, who told the truth by instinct, had been made to tell lies as well. When Broadgirdle was absent, he raged at the injustice of it, telling himself over and over that Graves would pay—for Shadrack, for Bligh, for all of it.

When Broadgirdle was near, looming over Peel's desk or writing speeches in his office, the rage seemed to grow cold and still, like an ember trapped in ice. Then Broadgirdle would swagger out of the office and the rage would return, slow and silent and tormented by its powerlessness. The reckless fury made Theo more audacious in his search. He examined files when Peel left the office; he asked questions whenever they
could be construed as even tangentially work-related; he observed every detail he could for its possible relevance, knowing Winnie was also watching beyond the State House.

But, to his frustration, he had learned nothing new. A week had come and gone, and he was no closer to leaving with proof than he had been on the day of his interview. He could find nothing pointing to the location of the Weatherers; he could find no explanation for why Broadgirdle was working with the Sandmen; and he found nothing directly tying the MP to Bligh's murder. Moreover, the revelation of how Shadrack had been pressured only made things more confusing: if Broadgirdle wanted Shadrack's help, why would he frame him for Bligh's murder?

Theo felt like he was banging his head against a wall. The answer was there, on the other side, but it was impossible to get at. He was learning more than he had ever wanted about Broadgirdle's plans for the future of New Occident, but he was learning nothing about the man's secrets.

Finally, on the twenty-second, Theo unexpectedly discovered a vital piece of the puzzle. Broadgirdle was once again preparing a speech; with the campaign now in full swing, he gave speeches two or three times a day. Later in the evening, he would explain to the Boston Merchants' Guild how his policy for keeping the eastern borders closed and expanding west would, presumably, bring them great trade opportunities and wealth. With disgust, Theo heard him practicing in his office: cutting off legal trade with the Baldlands and the United Indies would help the merchants how, exactly? He shook his head and returned to the filing left to him by Bertie Peel, who was being an enthusiastic audience to Broadgirdle's speech.

The papers were rather dull reports on parliament minutes purchased during May, but as he was neatening the pile, something fell out onto the carpet. Theo stooped to pick it up, and his heart began to race. It was a little pamphlet whose cover said:

Theo opened it and read the contents.

Do you find yourself wondering about
the purpose of life?

Do you ask yourself unanswerable questions about
why the world is the way it is?

NIHILISMIANS
HAVE
THE
ANSWER
.

Long ago, during the Great Disruption, the prophet Amitto wrote a book of reckoning and prophecy. The
Chronicles of the Great Disruption
account for how the world changed, proving that the true world disappeared with the Great Disruption.

We live in a world of illusion.

Nothing in this world is as it should be.

Nihilismianism can explain why.

Nihilismianism is the way of truth.

Find the answers you are seeking.

“Remorse will overcome those who follow the false path and do not seek the Age of Verity.”

—
Chronicles of the Great Disruption

Theo read with growing excitement. The pamphlet had been there, in the middle of the accounting papers. It gave him an excuse to ask Broadgirdle or Peel directly about why it was in the office. Perhaps now he would finally discover the nature of the connection between Broadgirdle and the Sandmen.

As the fourth iteration of the speech to the Merchants' Guild came to a close, Theo tucked the pamphlet in his shirt pocket and made a decision. The door to the inner office opened and shut; there were sharp, mincing steps in the hallway announcing Peel's return; then Peel himself walked into the front office. “Mr. Slade,” Peel said.

“Yes, Mr. Peel?”

“I need to step out to collect the printed materials our MP will be distributing tonight at the guild meeting. Please continue your filing until I return.”

“Certainly, Mr. Peel.”

Peel left the office with a jubilant spring to his step—the campaign was making him downright giddy—and after a
minute or two had passed, Theo quietly made his way to the inner office. He knocked.

“Come in,” came the booming reply.

Broadgirdle was standing by the window, speech in hand, surveying the common with a critical eye, as if considering what he would do with it once the common, and Boston, and New Occident were his. “Yes?” he asked, without turning.

“Sir,” Theo said, in his meekest voice, “I wanted to ask you something very particular.”

Broadgirdle turned from the window. “What is it, Slade?”

“I found this paper among the materials I was filing, sir, and I was wondering—could it be—? Is it—? Are you . . . ?” Deliberately trailing off, Theo handed Broadgirdle the pamphlet and waited, doing his best to look cowed and hopeful at the same time.

“Ah, yes,” Broadgirdle said, dropping the pamphlet on his desk. He ran his carefully manicured fingers over the thick black beard and eyed Theo keenly. “Are you Nihilismian? I had not seen you wearing a talisman.”

Theo hesitated. Broadgirdle's reply had told him nothing about his own beliefs. “No,” he admitted. “But I'm interested. I was hoping to learn more about it.”

The MP nodded approvingly. “It is well worth learning about. The Nihilismians are excellent allies in the plan for westward expansion. According to their beliefs, we should by this point be a much larger nation, stretching from this eastern shore to the western shore of the Baldlands.”

Theo was appalled. “Really?” he said with awe.

“Yes, and I wish the entire population of New Occident looked west with as much zeal as they do. They consider it our right, as a nation, since this is the course we took in the Age of Verity.” He tapped his fingers thoughtfully.

“How fascinating.”

“Fascinating and helpful. I plan to work closely with the Nihilismians once I am elected. They have the right vision for what this nation should be doing: looking west, expanding, bringing gain and profit along the way.”

“So you are not Nihilismian yourself, sir?” Broadgirdle frowned, and Theo worried that his question had been too direct. “I was hoping to talk to someone who—” He shrugged with an air of embarrassment. “I guess I need a bit of guidance.”

Broadgirdle's frown eased. “I was Nihilismian,” he said, his voice more subdued than usual, “once. It was through Nihilismianism that I discovered my mission. I learned of the Age of Verity, and the westward expansion that should have occurred long ago.” He considered the clean surface of his desk. “Nevertheless, a successful politician needs to be flexible in his beliefs.” He looked at Theo and smiled with the air of easy charm that won him so many adherents. “And Nihilismians are not flexible. But I maintain a . . . sympathy for their views. For their predicament.” He extended his open hand in a gesture of offering. “If you like, I could put you in touch with the Nihilismian outreach in Boston.”

“Thank you, sir.”

With a nod, Broadgirdle returned to his contemplation of Boston Common.