Mr. Stitch

visible through crooked buildings with a vivid red light. Valentine was clutching at his shoulder. “What?” Beckett snapped, “What is it?”

“Look.”

Two men, from two different directions, were approaching the Abbey. They had their collars turned up and their hats pulled down low-a reasonable precaution against prying eyes or the chilly snap of early-morning Armistice. With competent efficiency they approached the Abbey, did not call out to each other, did not say a word; the only sign that they might be there for the same purpose at all-rather than simply two suspiciously-dressed travelers who coincidentally arrived at the same abandoned Abbey at the same unlikely hour of the morning-was the fact that the first man held the heavy wooden door, ever so briefly, for the second.

“Think that’s them?” Valentine whispered.

Beckett didn’t bother answering, instead checked his revolver and steeled himself, pressing fear and anxiety and excitement to one side, evoking the cold dispassion that he wore more comfortably than his uniform. “Come on.” With an audacity that was Beckett’s and his alone, the old coroner walked right through the front door of the Abbey, on the heels of his suspects.

The inside of Small Ash Abbey prioritized space, as most of the old-century religious spaces did. Empty air was at a premium in claustrophobic Trowth, and the only places that could afford, or would afford, to leave a square cubic inch free of brick or mortar were those places that had some interest beyond what they could rent it for. Small Ash consisted of a square of four long halls with tall, round-arched windows facing its wide inner courtyard; there, a hastily-erected construction of salt-worn wooden timbers obscured whatever took place. Inside the Abbey, there was no sign of the two men.

Beckett laid a finger across his lips for silence, and gestured for Valentine to search the hall to the right, hopefully working his way into the interior courtyard. The two men drew their guns, held them low and ready as they crept through the dark. Once separated from Valentine, Beckett began to notice the hallucinatory sounds again-the faint whine of some eldritch engine, the distant echoes of choked-off screams, a murmuring…

No. The murmuring was real. Real men were talking to each other, in the structure that occupied most of the Abbey’s courtyard. Beckett thumbed back the hammer of his gun and tried to slip discreetly past the rusty-hinged doors.

The inside of the structure was not dissimilar to any kind of warehouse: a claustrophobic mountain of plain wooden boxes, towering on either side of a three or four narrow alleys. The place was lit by a few blue phlogiston lamps, hanging high overhead; they were the military-grade lamps, with thick metal shields around the sides to prevent volatile leaks. There was an empty space in the midst of the boxes, where three mean spoke to each other in hushed voices. Beckett took a deep breath to push his fear away, only to find there was no fear or worry-just a raw, empty space.

“Coroners,” Beckett said, as he approached, startling the three men. “No one moves, put your hands on your heads.” In his many years as a coroner, Elijah Beckett had said precisely these words in precisely this order a countless number of times. In those same years, only four times had the suspects to which he spoke ever complied with the orders.

These men were no exception; they recovered quickly from their surprise, split up, drew weapons, and fanned out in an attempt to surround him.

“Who are you?” Spat the man in the middle, not one of the two visitors, so probably the quartermaster who was arranging things. He was handsome enough, though Beckett thought he wore his sideburns too long. He had a new, nickel-plated revolver pointed at the coroner.

Where is Valentine? Beckett wondered, but the thought had no real traction. No thoughts had any traction, they just floated away from him, along with a whirling line of voices and footsteps and gunshots. Should I be afraid? These men mean to kill me. He thought. The hell with it, I’m not afraid of anything, anymore. Without the hesitation that plagues even the most experienced shootists, Beckett raised his gun towards the man directly to his left, and shot him in the face.

The sound of his gun, loud and bright like a thunderbolt in his hand, was lost to the soft sounds of gunfire in his mind, and echoed by a return volley of bullets that went mercifully wide, tearing chunks of wood from the empty boxes. The handsome quartermaster was screaming then, not at Beckett, but at the gunman to his right, Beckett couldn’t hear him, or couldn’t be bothered to hear him, just turned and fired. He hit the gunman high in the shoulder, sending the man whirling to the ground.

“…hit the munitions, you idiot!” The quartermaster was saying. He dropped his weapon. “Look, okay, look! Unarmed. I surrender, all right? I surrender, just stop fucking shooting.” Beckett stepped forward and struck the man across the face, using the full weight of his antique revolver. The man fell, and Beckett kicked him twice in the ribs, hard, before he could stand. “Shit. Shit,” he gasped. “I surrender, for fuck-” Beckett kicked him in the teeth, and he slumped into unconsciousness.

“What…what…are you…” the gunman moaned. “You’re supposed to arrest…”

Beckett whirled on him. “Who are you working for?” The man’s face was different, now, there was a deep dent in his skull and his were glazed. Dummies, Beckett thought, how did the dummies get here? How did they find their way from Kaarcag? It would reach out to him, Beckett knew, try and crush him with its stupidly strong hands.

“You’re supposed to…”

Here, Beckett told himself. You’re here, in Trowth. He’s a heretic. The old coroner stepped on the man’s wounded shoulder, digging the toe of his shoe into the bullet wound. The gunman screamed. “You were picking something up here. Where were you taking it? Who are you working for?”

“You can’t-”

Beckett pressed harder, and the man screamed again. “You don’t tell me, boy. You don’t tell me anything. I have a question, you answer it. That’s how this works. Understand?” Beckett leaned in again, coaxing a ragged gasp from the man’s throat. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” the man stammered. “Yes.”

“Who do you work for?”

The man shook his head, sweat streamed down his face, which now was wracked with pain. “I can’t. He’ll kill me.”

Without warning, Beckett turned and fired another bullet into the dead man behind him. The action was so sudden, the gunshot so sharp, that the gunman at his feet cried out, involuntarily. Beckett leaned down and glared, one eye hard as a polished stone, one just a bloody black pit into the recesses of his skull. “Idiot. What do you think I’m going to do to you?” He kicked the man in his wound again. “Who do you work for?”

The gunman coughed and choked and spat out, “John,” from behind his tears. “Anonymous John.”

“What are you doing?” Valentine whispered, softly. Beckett hadn’t seen him enter, barely registered the sound of his voice.

“Where were you taking the munition?”

“An address…in. Bluewater.” He nodded towards his dead companion. “He’s got it. Written.”

Beckett turned to Valentine. “Get it. I’ll be outside.” He threw one last, spiteful kick at the man’s face, and stomped out into the warming springtime air.

Nineteen

It was after the third performance of Theocles, at yet another high-spirited soiree at the home of the Raithower Vie-Gorgons, that the official news of the play’s demise was received. It was some time after midnight-considering that the performance was a several-hour affair in the first place, and was combined with six curtain calls and a substantial amount of paperwork required for the royal censor to fill out, this may in fact be regarded as an unusually quick response. In any case, some time after twelve, a messenger arrived from the royal palace at the Raithower home; he was admitted by the Vie-Gorgon major domo, and brought directly to Emilia