Mr. Stitch

Fourteen

Quickly, with a practiced efficiency, Beckett and Valentine bound the madman, commandeered a Family coach, and brought the daemonomaniac to the coroners’ new holdings cells on the edge of Old Bank. The bars and walls were sheathed in greening copper, which metal’s alchemical properties served to gradually divest the man of the shimmering green light that poured from deep within his skull. Beckett decided to let the daemonomaniac sleep off his veneine dose in the interests of questioning him once the madness had fully abated. Moreover, the old coroner knew from experience that a dose that high would leave the subject with a terrible headache and painfully dry mouth afterwards-two features that might aid in his interrogation.

Afterwards, the two coroners stood on Terrace Street which, ever since the Excelsior’s unfortunate reactivation had swallowed a substantial chunk of Old Bank, had a view of the whole of Trowth, all the way down to the bay. The city, with its vast intricacies of architecture, green bronze and copper statuary, crooked roads and canted buildings, was all tangled shadows in the last dregs of red spring light. Trowth seemed then to be a great stone wave, frozen in the act of rearing up, ready to crash with apocalyptic thunder onto the iron stillness of the Agon Bay. There was a mass to the city, a feeling of unstoppable inertia, as though some terrible machinery had been set in motion and, by virtue of its weight and power, would not stop until it had finally destroyed itself.

“Well,” said Beckett, his ravaged face as impassive, as always.

“Well. Daemonomaniacs. I didn’t think anyone still did that.”

“There’s always a few,” Beckett replied. “The Brothers of the Mad Wind-you know, the ones that go out in the psychestorms, hoping for enlightenment?”

“They’re daemonomaniacs?”

“Technically. Any time someone uses flux to distort their own consciousness. The Brothers are mostly harmless, though. Real daemonomaniacs use etherized-flux…” the old coroner trailed off, staring at the city. The night air had cooled and sharpened; blue phlogiston streetlamps flickered on, waging a losing battle against Trowth’s deep shadows.

After a moment, it became clear that Beckett had no intention of continuing. “Why don’t we…er…” he prodded, “Prosecute them, then? The Brothers?”

Beckett shrugged. “No point. They’re all over. The second you go after one, the rest just disappear into their little bolt-holes. Usually into the Arcadium. I have someone keep an eye on them, instead. Sometimes, they lead us to real heretics.” He paused for a moment. “Not usually.”

“No?”

“There’s…” He shook his head. “The….there hasn’t been a serious daemonomaniac in Trowth in. Ten years. Thought they’d really. Died out.” He let out a low, ragged, sepulchral chuckle. “Of course they didn’t. It never goes away, does it? Once it’s out there once…as long as someone knows, it will never go away. Ideas are a poison worse than any plague.” His shoulders seemed to sag, then, as though the effort of holding himself upright had suddenly grown beyond his last reserves of strength.

Valentine watched him for what felt like a long time, possessed of an inexplicable urge to reach out to the old man, put a hand on his shoulder. He contented himself with, “Are you all right?”

“Have Karine check for…flux. Shipments that have gone missing, warehouses.”

“Beckett.”

“Warehouses that have been broken into.”

“Beckett, Karine doesn’t-”

“Someone knows. Fuck, they’re supposed to report it…” The old man had a hand to his head, as though he were overcome by a sudden wave of dizziness.

“Beckett!” Valentine snapped. “Karine’s gone, remember?”

“What?” Beckett grunted. “I know she’s gone. Just have…whoever. Whatever-his-name-is check into it.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Just.” Beckett shook his head again. “Fine.” He turned, abruptly, and strode off into the night.

For a moment, Valentine watched him go, wondering if he should follow. If the old man was losing his grip… Valentine shook his head. He couldn’t believe that; if there was anyone in the world that could keep it together, it was Elijah Beckett. And, even if something was wrong, how to talk about it without rousing the man’s pride and ire?

Valentine Vie-Gorgon decided that he would look into the flux issue himself.

Fifteen

Beckett waited until the following afternoon to interrogate the daemonomaniac. He took Gorud down into the basements of Raithower House, far away from the weak but welcome sunlight of Armistice, where it was deep and dark enough to feel like the middle of the night.

Though they were not used often, there were two old vaults beneath Raithower house that served as temporary holding cells. They could be accessed by a dark, narrow stair, and they were cramped and humid. In the winter they were deathly cold, in the summer they were broiling hot in the summer, and during Armistice they were possessed of a suffocating humidity. They were unpleasant places to be quartered. It was unusual for the Coroners, whose mandate was so extreme, to actually make arrests; the dangers of certain sciences being themselves often so tremendous that permitting a heretic to live long enough to transport him to a safe location represented an unacceptable level of risk to civic safety. However, the vaults were equipped with rough cots and heavy locks, and in the few instances when Beckett felt the need to interrogate a prisoner at his leisure, he was able to do so.

The daemonomaniac was crouched in the corner of the vault, glaring with eerie green eyes that were not quite luminescent. His third, atemporal eye, had vanished. In his withdrawal, the man quivered and shook, and chewed on his twitching, spidery fingers.

Beckett approached the bars of the cell, Gorud at his heels. The therian carried a small phlogiston lantern equipped with a red filter to keep its light dim. Daemonomaniacs often suffered unpredictable reactions-including painful and even deadly sublimations-under bright phlogiston light.

The old man had left his hat and scarf and coat in his office. He stood, impassive and immobile, glaring at the madman, trying to intimidate him with his hideously ravaged face. The empty eye and skeletal shadows cast in the red glare of Gorud’s lamp were certainly horrific enough, but the daemonomaniac’s mind was damaged beyond caring. He did not even appear to notice the two coroners, but instead gnawed enthusiastically on his abraded, skittering fingers.

“Name.” Beckett said.

The man stared off into the distance, not looking at Beckett at all, instead keeping his eyes focused on some invisible item that was of incomprehensible fascination to him. He said nothing.

“What’s your name?”

Nothing but the wet sound of the daemonomaniac chewing. His fingers were red and raw beneath his teeth.

“He doesn’t know,” Gorud said. “He has forgotten his name?”

Beckett nodded. “The ‘daemon,’ the intelligence that they think they’re in touch with, is supposed to expand their minds. It’s a delusion, of course, but their minds don’t know that. They fill up with nonsense, crowd the rest out. If we’re lucky, there’s still something we can use.” He reached out and slammed his hand against the bars. “Hey. What’s your name?”

The man looked up at them with a sudden start, and his eyes, briefly, snapped into focus. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead stretched his jaw wide, so wide that Beckett could hear the joint pop, and his eyes glazed over again. At once, he began to speak in a hoarse, raspy voice. “Huhk. Gurat. Torroketetetet-”

“Glossolalia,” Beckett muttered. “Nonsense.”

“-kaitor get…get…get out. Get out. It’s ours. It’s ours! OURS!” The daemonomaniac began to scream, the words dissolving into guttural croaking shouts as he leapt up from his corner and threw himself crashing against the bars. Gorud hopped back as the hinges and locks creaked, but Beckett remained still. The locks held. The man