knocker he simply said, “Yes. So?”
“I was at the Proc Offensive. Got…a lot of men had trouble, after that. Going into the caves, I mean. Do you know about it?”
“No,” Beckett said, simply.
“It was bad. They moved me off of that, afterward. To Quartermasters.” The knocker was silent again.
Beckett grunted. “Get to the point, boy. What is it?”
“I want…I need to be sure. Have you been in the army, Mr. Beckett?”
The old coroner rolled his eye but was, in spite of himself, intrigued. “Third dragoons. One battle, in the Dragon Isles.”
“Where?”
“Kaarcag.”
The knocker perceptibly shivered when he heard that. “You were at…? Kaarcag was a massacre.”
Beckett closed his eye and experienced a momentary flash of thorny green vines pouring from Fletcher’s mouth. “We knew it going in, that it was an ambush. You couldn’t help but see.”
“But you went in.”
“We went in. Took ninety percent casualties. The rest of us were discharged.”
“Why did you do it? Why didn’t you stop?”
“You don’t get to stop. The army falls apart if you stop following your orders. Even when you know they’re bad…you still have to do it. Suck it up, hope for the best.”
James nodded. “I can’t…I can’t tell you how I know about this. But. The Empire…has been producing oneiric munitions.”
The statement should have landed in Beckett’s mind like a cannonball, and yet he found himself unsurprised. There was very little he was willing to put past the Empire, these days.
“They were for use in Gorcia,” James went on. “When the war ended, most of them were destroyed. Some were brought back to the country. There’s a depot in the city. In Small Ash Abbey. The man that runs it is…not altogether trustworthy. I have reason to believe he may be selling his stock…”
“When?”
James was quiet; he cocked his head to the side, twisting himself as though trying to avoid Beckett’s gaze, though he had no direct experience of it.
“Tonight.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell Stitch?”
James grimaced, painfully. His face twitched, he seemed almost about to cry. “Orders, Mr. Beckett. You know how…how it is. Sometimes the men…the men you work with. They aren’t always…but you can’t just…” His voice dropped to a barely-audible whisper. “…you can’t turn on them. I told you because I thought you’d understand. I don’t know what Stitch understands.”
Eighteen
We have met with some setbacks. For all I believe that the mind is the key engine, Chretien’s work on the body is still incomplete. There seems to be no effective way to prevent the eyes from decomposing. This has led me to certain other concerns. Perhaps a creature could be built with no eyes at all? But how should such a thing think? How could it learn to live in a world of conscious beings? I know that there are blind men who live fully in the world, and are not harmed by this difference. But a blind man has a wholly human mind otherwise, lacking only the single default. What should a mind be if it lacks all the elements of the human mind, as well as its senses? How should this mind apprehend the world?
Beckett tore out of his office, barely taking time to shrug into his heavy coat. “You,” he said to Valentine, who was reclining lazily on one of the couches, “With me. Where’s Harry?”
Valentine snapped to his feet. “By the coach. The coaches. I think. I assume, I mean. What are we doing?”
“Intercepting. Get your coat on.”
Popular opinion had it that the name “Small Ash Abbey” came from the building’s miraculous survival of the Great Fire of 1719; the truth was substantially less remarkable: it was the smaller of two abbeys built by the Sar- Sarpek emigre Tyador Azsch in the 16thcentury. Small Ash Abbey had been retrofitted, sometime in the last fifty years, in the Daior-Vie style; a style of sleek lines and simple geometries, the Daior-Vies had been convinced that it would be embraced as the modern mold from which all future styles would emerge. As it happened, a certain scandal among the most esteemed Daior-Vies left the whole family in disgrace, and the style became an archipelago of clean-lined strangeness that was gradually invaded, overcome, and replaced by the more aggressive and more reputable contenders in the Architecture War.
The Abbey was tucked away in Whitehaven, a district so far from central Trowth that it might have been a suburb. There were no trains here, the stone roads were broken and choked with rust-colored, inaptly-named cheerweed. So far outside the city was Whitehaven that it actually constituted only the first or second, or possibly third, level of construction. There was no Arcadium beneath it, just a dense undercroft of basements and sub- basements that periodically collapsed, taking the buildings above them with it. The result of this gradual erosion of its foundation was a ramshackle Whitehaven, a run-down Whitehaven, a crooked, stony nest that served as a home to the indigent only.
Beckett stopped the coach several blocks from the Abbey. He and Valentine slipped out and approached along the street, sticking close to the buildings where phlogiston-barrel fires had stained the walls black and sooty. There were no streetlights here, and the moon was low behind the city proper, so there were plenty of shadows through which the coroners could pick. Having eventually secured a location that offered a serviceable view of the Abbey’s entrance and was still obscured by dark and architecture, Beckett and Valentine proceeded to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Waiting patiently is, without question, the most prized and important skill that a detective of any stripe must possess in order to catch criminals in the act. It is a skill at which Beckett was practiced, and which Valentine abhorred. That Valentine managed, in this particular instance, to remain still and silent for the astonishing three or four hours that they waited was lost on Beckett, as he was troubled by something that he did not know how to articulate.
As he watched the door to the Abbey, he felt his shoulders clench up, as a tension coiled through his body. Sounds, the sounds of men shouting, of rifles discharging. An eerie wail had picked up, just at the edge of his hearing, the sound of an engine whirring faster and faster. His neck and shoulders spasmed and he shook the sounds away. They were soft sounds, not real sounds, sounds that he knew lurked in his mind. They’d been shaken loose by something, by the drugs or the events at the gendarmerie in Red Lanes. Or by the munitions that must now be waiting in the Abbey.
Beckett closed his good eye and shook his head again, but the sounds only grew louder, the wail raised its pitch, men began to scream, lungs turned to rotten meat by the chimeric gas the Szarkany Rend had unleashed, choking, now, vomiting their hearts up, bleeding from their eyes and the wail, that wail.. Cook stared at him, fallen to the ground. Beckett tugged at his arm. “On your feet,” he shouted, voice muffled by his scarf, “come on, soldier, up!” The green fog crawled from Cook’s nostrils, drawing blood out with it, suspending it in tiny drops in the air. More cannons sounded, and more detonations. The fog rose in pillars, and reached out with crooked tendrils for tender lungs.
“Beckett! Beckett!”
“What?” Beckett opened his eyes. The noise was gone. The sun had, slowly, stained the shreds of horizon
