The Crimson Skew (The Mapmakers Trilogy) by S. E. Grove (3)

2

Pulio’s Perfumery

SOPHIA FELT GRATEFUL, as she counted the seconds aloud to keep track of them, that her shabby belongings were still piled at the foot of her bed where she had left them the night before. With no time at all to change out of the extravagant fuchsia dress, she pulled on her boots, stuffed her clothes into her pack and her books into her satchel, and threw each over a shoulder. She dashed out of the peaceful little bedroom, peaceful no longer, and rushed down the stairs to the breakfast room.

Burr had miraculously found time to exchange his silk morning robe for the trousers, white shirt, boots, and sword belt that he usually wore. Wren carried his rucksack, Goldenrod carried next to nothing, and Errol promptly reached for Sophia’s pack when she entered the room. “Let me take that, miting,” he said.

“Calixta!” Burr shouted.

“Coming, coming,” came the unconcerned reply.

“She will be trying to stuff every gown she has into a trunk,” Burr grumbled. “Dearest,” he shouted up the stairs, “why don’t you leave everything here and buy some new things in New Orleans?”

The sound of drawers being frenziedly opened and shut suddenly stopped. Calixta appeared at the head of the stairs wearing her same lemon-colored dress and an elaborate sword belt. “An inspired suggestion,” she said.

“I’m glad you think so. And,” Burr added, “since our front door, which I am rather fond of, will be smashed to pieces at any moment if we do not leave, could I suggest we depart immediately?”

As Calixta pattered quickly down the stairs, Burr led the group to the rear of the house. Seneca clung to Errol’s shoulder. The glass doors stood open, and the five hurried down the marble steps, along the white stone path, and across the lawn.

“Millie has already alerted the crew,” Calixta said to her brother, keeping pace. “They will be lifting the anchor as we speak.”

Sophia did not turn to see the horsemen as they reached the mansion, but she heard them shouting when they spotted their quarry. The horses’ hooves pounded the lawn, and Sophia strained against the long, billowing dress, feeling it rip at the seams as she pushed herself to run faster. The pirates, Wren, and Goldenrod had already reached the dock. As the crew shouted encouragement, she raced after them and ran up the gangplank. Errol followed her with a leap, and the plank was hauled aboard in a single motion. A sudden jolt carried them away as the sails caught the wind. Some of the horsemen had reached the dock; they reined in violently, the horses wheeling perilously at the edge. More than one man drew his pistol, but every one held his weapon in the air.

“Why don’t they shoot?” Sophia asked, gasping for breath.

“They cannot sink the Swan with mere pistols,” Errol replied, only slightly less winded. “And they know we have cannon.” Seneca cried overhead and circled toward them, landing with a flutter on Errol’s arm.

Sophia sank to the deck with a groan. “I was so glad to be rid of the seasickness,” she said. “And here we are again.”

“I know, miting. I know.” Errol briefly rested a hand on her shoulder. “But it will be a short journey. And then you will be back on dry land for good. Try to lose track of time a little. We will be there before you realize it.”

• • •

THEY HAD ALREADY known that Richard Wren was a fugitive. What they did not know was the lengths to which the League of Encephalon Ages would go in order to find him. Wren had once been a vital member of the League, believing in its mission to protect early Ages from the destructive knowledge of future Ages. Now he was forced to flee from the very organization he had once served.

On the first night of their long Atlantic journey, Wren had explained how he found himself in such a predicament. They were gathered in Calixta’s cabin—Burr idling with a deck of cards, Calixta cleaning her pistol, Errol mending his cape, and Goldenrod listening along with Sophia. Despite her unrelenting seasickness, Sophia was mesmerized.

“As you’ve read in your mother’s diary,” Wren began, indicating the pages that he had copied for Sophia, “I met Minna and Bronson in February of 1881. I left them safe and sound in Seville, and then I returned with the Roost to Australia. Soon after our arrival, my crew and I were arrested.” He gave a wry smile. “There were many charges, but they all pertained to how I had broken the law in assisting your parents. The watch I gave them was the greatest breach. I soon found myself serving a very long prison sentence. Ten years, to be exact. Most of my crew were let off, fortunately.”

“How did they know—how could they know—about any of it?” asked Sophia.

Wren waved his hand dismissively. “The League has ways of knowing these things—many things. Sometimes it seems they know all things.”

“An informer?” Calixta’s pistol lay disassembled before her on a canvas cloth, and she looked up at Wren with a shrewd look as she polished the handle.

“My crew are beyond reproach,” he said. “No—it is nothing like what you can imagine. Let me put it briefly so you can understand what I am up against.” He enumerated the points on his fingers. “Each Age has its reigning wisdom. For the Papal States, which we leave behind, it is religion. It organizes and directs all forms of knowledge. In New Occident, where your uncle’s mapmaking is so prized, Sophia, it is science. Before the Disruption, the ruling wisdom in Australia, too, was science. But once we joined with future Ages, we were caught in their sway, and the future Ages are dominated by the Ars—the arts.”

His listeners waited. The cards in Burr’s hands rasped and rustled as he shuffled them from one hand to another. When he spoke, his voice was perplexed. “As in . . . painting? And music?”

“Those are certainly artistic forms.” Burr gestured around the cabin, filled with paintings of Hispaniola that Calixta had acquired and curated with care. A girl splitting coconuts hung by the door; a battle at sea dominated the wall above a rack of rolled maps; and a breaking storm at sunset hung across from it. Each brought a spot of lightness to the dark wood walls. “And they have more power than people generally recognize. Each of these canvases is transporting in a way that you may not immediately realize. It is why Calixta liked them in the first place, no doubt—each had an undeniable influence.”

Calixta looked up from her work. “Of course they do.”

Wren gave her a nod. “I’m glad you agree. But it is the impulse of the Ars—the intuitive, interpretive, imaginative faculties, the ‘Three Eyes,’ as they are called—that really lie at their foundation. They can be channeled into painting and music, theater and sculpture, as they are in your Ages, but they can also be channeled into reading and understanding and shaping the world itself. Human minds. Cities. Societies. Landscapes.”

“I don’t understand,” Errol said flatly. The cape he was holding lay in his lap, his mending forgotten.

“It is almost unimaginable unless you have seen what the Ars can do, just as the world seen through a microscope is unimaginable unless you have seen what one can do.”

“What is a microscope?” Errol asked.

Wren smiled. “I am making this too complicated. Errol, how would you communicate the purpose of the True Cross to someone who had never heard of it? Sophia, how would you explain the workings of modern medicine? The Ars are like this: a system of meaning and thought with so many centuries behind it that you must be fully immersed to understand it. And being fully immersed, you have trouble explaining the assumptions—they seem obvious to you. You understand them without knowing how.”

“Is this the secret that the League is keeping?” Sophia asked. “The Ars?” She did not entirely understand Wren’s explanation, either, but she understood his saying that the Ars might be incomprehensible from a distance. Memory maps were like that—impossible to imagine until one had immersed oneself in the memories. Perhaps the Ars were similar: an entire world springing into being, a world that could not be described, only experienced.

“No, no.” Wren shook his head. “That—that I will tell you another time. I merely mention the Ars so you understand how I was accused and sentenced so easily. While I was out on the ocean they knew nothing, but once I returned and was in their hands . . . everything was revealed to them. I did not even know that your parents had called me with the watch, Sophia, because I was serving my sentence already. By the time I found out—when I was released, only a few months ago—it was far too late. Still, I felt keenly my promise to help them and my failure in keeping it. I communicated with Cassia—Remorse—in New Occident, and we made a plan. Your extraction was not originally what we intended, Goldenrod, but when we learned of your circumstances, Cassia improvised.”

“But if they punished you before for helping my parents,” Sophia said, “surely they would not let you help me now.”

Wren looked down at his hands. “You are quite right. I can never return to Australia. I left knowing I would be a fugitive for the rest of my days.”

Sophia looked at him wide-eyed, shocked at how much this near-stranger had lost for the sake of her and her parents. She thought of the pins that had dotted Shadrack’s map in the underground map room—the pins tracking possible sightings of Minna and Bronson after their disappearance. To think, she realized, that each of those pins could be someone like Richard Wren. Someone not just catching a glimpse of Minna and Bronson, but helping them—at great cost.

“And will the League give pursuit?” asked Calixta.

“Perhaps. But I suspect they have more important matters to attend to. I am a very small fish in their ocean. Most likely they will cast a rather loose net, hoping it will catch me some time. I have done everything possible to ensure they will not.”

• • •

IT SEEMED NOW that Wren had been very wrong. Or perhaps, Sophia reasoned, two thousand pieces of silver were a loose net for the League: they advertised a reward and waited for the pirates and smugglers and merchants of the Indies to do their work for them. But it did not seem that they had decided to forget about Richard Wren—not yet.

On the four-day journey to New Orleans, Wren set out to change his appearance. Since the flyer had showed him long-haired and bearded, he shaved his face and head. After that, Calixta painted his face, arms, and hands with a lasting ink, drawing the elaborate swirls and patterned lines typical of the Indies tattoos.

The Swan approached the harbor at midday, and its passengers had their first glimpse of the weather that had plagued New Occident for weeks. A bank of yellowish clouds lay piled like cotton batting to the edges of the horizon. “I have never seen clouds of that kind,” Goldenrod murmured.

“What makes them yellow?” asked Sophia.

Goldenrod shook her head. “I do not know. Perhaps dust?” She frowned. “They seem so still.” The clouds hung low and heavy over the docks; even with the breeze from the ocean, the air felt packed and stale.

Calixta’s enthusiasm was not dampened by the foul weather. As soon as they had dropped anchor, she left the Swan in the hands of the skeleton crew that had manned it and hurried to secure two coaches. “Before we go to Maxine’s,” Calixta announced, “I must purchase a few things in the shops.”

Burr groaned.

“It was your idea!” Calixta protested.

“I only said that to persuade you to leave.”

“Well, it was very sound advice, and I intend to take it. Sophia rides with me.”

“I don’t need anything.” Sophia had changed back into her worn travel clothes at the first possible moment, and she had no desire to find herself trapped once more in an elaborate silk cocoon, no matter how fashionable it might be.

Calixta eyed Sophia’s footwear meaningfully. “What about new boots?”

Sophia looked down. One of the laces was torn and knotted in several places. The heels were worn down by half-moons. “Well,” she admitted, “maybe new boots wouldn’t be bad. If we’re going to be traveling north for so long.”

“Excellent!” Calixta bustled Sophia into the waiting coach and waved merrily to the others. “We’ll see you at Maxine’s in a couple of hours. Maybe a little more,” she amended.

Burr rolled his eyes. “Before nightfall, Calixta. Do try.”

Calixta settled into her seat, tapping the roof lightly. “Henri’s boot shop on Rue Royale, please, driver,” she called.

As the coach jostled forward, Calixta pressed Sophia’s knee. “You must be thinking of the last time we were here. With Theo.”

Sophia nodded. “Yes. It seems so long ago.” She looked out the window at the retreating harbor, remembering how she had lost track of time trying to find the pirates’ ship. She recalled the sudden appearance of Burr, the mad scramble to climb the gangplank, the Sandmen in pursuit, and Theo taking aim at a barrel of molasses. The last thought brought a smile to her face.

“You’ll be back in Boston soon, sweetheart,” Calixta said. “And won’t Theo be envious when he learns of all your adventures!”

Sophia’s smile grew wistful. “I think he will be. Especially that I’ve spent so much time with you and Burr.”

Calixta laughed. “Poor thing. I’m sure he’s bored to pieces these days. Now,” she said, with a businesslike air, “apart from boots for you, we both need to get some new hats, petticoats, at least a pair of dresses, slippers for the evening, stockings, small clothes, not to mention a brush, hairpins, soap . . . what else?”

“That seems quite enough.”

“Ah!” Calixta exclaimed. “Stop here, driver!” She tapped the roof. “Perfume, of course.”

As soon as they came to a halt, she pulled Sophia from the coach. “I really don’t think—” Sophia started.

“Please, don’t question me when it comes to purchases. It isn’t wise.” Calixta looked up at the driver. “Wait here.”

They were on the outskirts of the city center, and a long street lined with shops stretched before them. A millinery stood open across the way, and a pair of ladies carrying parasols looked in the window, admiring the hats. Next door, a girl in a white apron swept the steps of a pastry shop. Sophia glanced up at the sign over the doorway through which Calixta was leading her: VINCENT PULIO’S FINE FRAGRANCES.

Scents of orange blossom and almond, musk and cinnamon, gardenia and rose wafted through the air. Calixta headed toward the counter while Sophia looked around her. Delicate tables dotted the room like little islands, laden with glass bottles. The walls were lined with shelves, where heavy jars labeled Magnolia and Honeysuckle and Meadow stood side by side. A portly man with a carefully groomed mustache stood behind the glass counter, wiping the ornate atomizers in his display case with a white cloth.

“Vincent!” Calixta greeted him.

“Ah!” The portly man looked up, startled. “Captain Morris.” He glanced at the doorway and then at the back of the shop, where another customer was testing a row of perfumes.

“You seem disappointed to see me, Vincent,” Calixta observed, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “What ails you?”

“Me?” Vincent replied nervously. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Calixta laughed. “I’ve known you for seven years, Vincent. What is it?”

“Calixta Cleopatra Morris,” came a low voice from the back of the store. Sophia turned to see the customer who had been examining bottles now facing Calixta, his sword drawn. He had long, curly hair, which he wore tied back with a length of frayed leather. His black boots, shined to perfection, were poised to spring. “I will not call you captain, Calixta,” he hissed, “for you do not deserve the title.”

“O’Malley,” Calixta said coolly. “It is wonderful to see you, as well. What flea has bitten you that you greet me with a drawn sword? Not advisable under any circumstances, even if this were one of those rare days that happened to find you sober.”

“You know quite well,” O’Malley said levelly, taking a step toward her.

Calixta slowly removed her lace gloves and tucked them into the bosom of her dress, all the while eyeing O’Malley with disdain. “Truly, I am at a loss. The last time I saw you, we were dining aboard the Swan, drinking Burr’s best rum. If we’ve run into one another since then and memory fails, do remind me.”

“This has nothing to do with you and me,” O’Malley said, his mouth twisting as if he had tasted something rancid. “This has to do with what you did to the Eurydice. I only learned of it yesterday, but all of New Orleans is aghast at your crime. Such cruelty cannot stand unanswered.”

Calixta rested her hand on the hilt of her sword. Her face had lost all traces of amusement. “I commend you on your righteous indignation, O’Malley, but you will have to enlighten me as to its cause. I have not seen the Eurydice in more than three years. What is it I am supposed to have done to it?”

“Despicable,” O’Malley said, raising his sword. “I never thought you capable of it. You capture the ship, accept their surrender, leave the entire crew to drown—and then deny any knowledge of the atrocity? You have no place at the helm of a ship! I am delighted to be the one who will ensure you never sail again.”

Calixta drew her sword in a single motion and held O’Malley at bay. Her eyes were angry slits. “Every word you have spoken is a lie. I will gladly defend my honor and the Swan’s, but let us do so in the street. Your clumsy blows are bound to break every one of Vincent’s bottles, and I have no wish to pay for thousands of dollars of spilled perfume when I will already have to foot the bill for your funeral.”

“Gladly.” O’Malley smiled. “In the street there are sure to be others who will be delighted to see the demise of the once esteemed Captain Morris.”

There was a sudden movement Sophia could not follow, and the blades flashed and rang between them. Sophia let out an inadvertent gasp.

“Sophia,” Calixta said quietly, without looking away from O’Malley. She stepped backward toward the shop’s doorway.

“Yes?”

“Do you remember the name of the person we came to see?”

“I do.”

“I want you to get into the coach and ask the driver to take you there. He will know the address.”

Sophia took a deep breath and steeled herself. “No.”

Calixta scowled. “Do as I say.”

“I will not leave you here.” She glanced through the windows. There were already curious onlookers staring in at the duel. The sound of running feet promised more. “People are coming. If what he says is true, I cannot leave you here.”

“This is very unhelpful, Sophia,” Calixta said, her eyes still trained on O’Malley.

“I’m sorry. But I’m not leaving.”

Calixta’s blade dove forward, and suddenly O’Malley’s shirt hung open. Behind the counter, Vincent let out a yelp and ducked, disappearing from view. O’Malley lunged, his sword slashing viciously, and one of the tables nearest him toppled to the floor with a piercing crash. Calixta threw her sword upward, embedding it in the ceiling, and then hurtled forward, throwing her shoulder into O’Malley’s stomach. He was caught off guard. Still clinging to his sword, he fell backward and struggled to rise, but Calixta had drawn a short dagger from her belt. “Sorry, Finn,” she said quietly. She drew the dagger across the back of his ankles: first one, then the other. O’Malley gasped in pain.

“They will heal,” she said, rising quickly. “But you will not walk for a pair of weeks.” She tossed her head and looked down at him. “It saddens me that you would believe such a rumor. You know me better.”

She plucked her sword from where it dangled from the ceiling and sheathed it, then took Sophia by the hand. “Come with me, my insubordinate friend.”

The crowd outside Vincent’s had grown considerably, and it gave Calixta a wide berth as she fled from the shop. “Into the coach,” Calixta ordered Sophia abruptly. “Drive,” she said to the coachman. “I’ll give you the address once you’ve turned the corner. Make sure no one follows us, and I’ll double the fare.”