The Crimson Skew (The Mapmakers Trilogy) by S. E. Grove (37)

36

Seven Witnesses

SHADRACK KNOCKED ON the door of Broadgirdle’s inner office, which adjoined the War Room. “Yes, Cassandra,” came the reply. “It’s unlocked. As always,” he added, a trifle sourly. Shadrack opened the door and stood waiting for the figure behind the desk to look up from the neat pile of papers before him. “What is it?” the prime minister asked, without raising his head.

“There are some people here waiting to see you,” Shadrack said.

Broadgirdle looked up at the sound of Shadrack’s voice, and surprise flashed across his face. “What are you doing here?” He half smiled. “I thought you would be on the road to Nochtland by now,” he said, his voice edged with malice.

“I found that, after all, it made more sense to stay.”

“Excellent,” Broadgirdle said, rubbing his hands together, his smile widening. “I do love a good fight.”

“So I hear,” Shadrack replied. He turned and left the office deliberately, heading toward the War Room.

“What do you mean by that?” Broadgirdle called after him.

“If you would follow me, you’ll see.”

Shadrack walked down the corridor, and after a moment Broadgirdle followed him into the War Room. There, Inspector Grey stood holding a piece of paper, and he motioned to the two officers who stood beside him. Without a word, they moved to stand on either side of Broadgirdle.

“What is this?” Broadgirdle asked with a scornful smile.

“Prime Minister Gordon Broadgirdle,” Inspector Grey said, reading from the paper in his hands, “I have been ordered by the parliament judges to conduct you from your office to a parliament hearing, which in this instance will be held in the State House parliament chamber. Due to the nature of your responsibilities as prime minister, there can be no ordinary arrest and trial at this time. The parliament judges ask you to answer immediately to the accusations.”

Broadgirdle frowned, the levity of his expression giving way to hostility. “What accusations?”

“Allow me to continue,” Grey said, without looking up. “You will be conducted by my officers to the hearing chambers, where a legal representative appointed by parliament will inform you of the accusations. I have been urged by the judges to add that this hearing must be conducted with the utmost discretion and speed, with the hope that the affairs of state will suffer minimal disruption.” He raised his eyes from the paper. “Please follow me.”

For a moment Broadgirdle stared impassively at Grey, and Shadrack thought that the man would burst into rage—or worse. But then the hard expression shifted, as if with awareness of some new perspective, and the supercilious smile that was so characteristic of him returned. “Of course, Inspector,” Broadgirdle said, his rich voice edged with mirth. “Let us by all means conduct this quickly and discreetly, so I can get back to the business of governing this nation.”

Unfazed, Inspector Grey nodded to his officers, who led Broadgirdle out of the War Room. Shadrack walked behind them, nodding reassuringly to the assistants who leaned out of their offices and peered into the hallway. “Please return to your work,” he told them. “The prime minister is assisting the police with official business.”

The winding trip through the building brought them finally to the great hall where parliament met. The ninety members, previously summoned, were seated in their chairs. Nine judges, selected by parliament from the district courts of New Occident, sat on a raised bench across from them. At a table to the left of the dais was a middle-aged man in a black suit and barrister’s robes. To the right of the dais was another table, this one with an older man in a similar costume, accompanied by seven people.

The seven people made a strange sight. Even to Shadrack, who knew them all by name, they were something of an odd assortment: Pip Entwhistle, with his white, square-cut beard and bulbous nose; Gerard Sorensen, with his perennial air of surprised disarray, who would not take his eyes from the table; the Eerie named Solandra, whose green hands were clasped before her and who regarded Broadgirdle with undisguised contempt; her father Lycium, whose green complexion seemed to darken at the sight of the prime minister; Susan Eby, a slight woman with black hair braided into two neat buns behind her ears; Victor Manse, a tall man with a tired expression and a worn hat, which he handled nervously; and Hannah Selvidge, an elderly woman in a floral dress with puffed sleeves, who looked hard at Broadgirdle through her spectacles. None of them seemed to belong in the State House.

In fact, the only person who appeared entirely at ease in the silent, austere room was Cassandra Pierce, who sat apart from the rest in the area ordinarily reserved for the public. She and Shadrack were the two-person audience to the strange hearing that began as Broadgirdle was led forward. “Prime Minister,” one of the judges said, rising to her feet. Her round, impassive face considered Broadgirdle without expression. “Mr. Appleby has been appointed as your counsel. He will apprise you of the accusations and discuss your recommended response. As of this moment, there will be no recesses, and no one will leave the room until this hearing is concluded. You may confer.”

The judge sat down. The members of parliament and the attorney for the state, who had also been standing, sat down. In the considerable rustle made by their movements, Broadgirdle and Appleby began a furtive conversation. From his seat beside Cassandra, Shadrack could hear nothing, but he could see the shape of the conversation reflected in Broadgirdle’s face as Appleby apprised him of the accusations and suggested a course of action. For the most part, Broadgirdle was silent and unmoved. No doubt the presence of these particular witnesses led him to guess the nature of the accusations. Broadgirdle listened with eyebrows raised, unimpressed, for several minutes. He seemed to answer Appleby’s questions with a dismissive wave of the hand. Appleby launched into an earnest appeal, leaning toward the prime minister and gesturing to the judges. After nearly a minute of silence, Broadgirdle nodded his assent.

Appleby rose to his feet, seemingly relieved. “We are ready to proceed, Your Honor.”

“Thank you,” the judge said. She took the top sheet of the pile of papers before her and read aloud. “Prime Minister Gordon Broadgirdle, we are here today to inquire into the potential criminality of several actions taken by you, both before and during your tenure as prime minister of New Occident. If these inquiries suggest that criminal activities did occur, you will be immediately removed from office. You will then be formally arrested and charged, and a trial will take place through the proper channels. Allow me to reiterate,” she said, putting the paper down, “this is not a trial to determine your innocence or guilt. This is merely a hearing to establish the likelihood of criminal acts, and based on the outcome of this hearing, charges relating to those criminal acts may or may not be brought against you. Is this understood, counsel?”

“Understood,” Appleby said.

The judge nodded and returned to her paper. “We are here to inquire into the following: Did you or did you not remain in New Occident without proper documentation after the border closure? Did you or did you not present false credentials when seeking political office? Did you or did you not engage in the illegal traffic of human beings, banned as part of the treaty negotiations with New Akan in 1810? Did you or did you not forcibly detain four people in the winter and spring of 1892, keeping them against their will at your property in Lexington, Massachusetts?” The judge turned from Broadgirdle to the table with the odd assortment of people. “Is the attorney for the state prepared to call witnesses?”

The older gentleman rose to his feet. “I am, Your Honor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fenton. You may proceed.”

Mr. Fenton was the kind of man who was easy to overlook. Everything about him was nondescript. His voice was quiet and unassuming; his clothes beneath the open robes were plain and unassuming; and the features of his face, fleshy and soft beneath a neat haircut and a neat gray beard, were bland and unassuming. Only his eyes gave him away. As he strode to the dais, he gave Shadrack a quick glance, and a sudden current seemed to pass between them. “I would like to call Phillip Entwhistle, also known as Pip, to give testimony.”

Pip rose to his feet.

“There is no witness box here, Mr. Entwhistle, so you may remain where you are.”

Pip nodded.

“Would you please identify the man sitting beside my colleague, Mr. Appleby?”

“Happy to. He is Gordon Broadgirdle, current prime minister of New Occident.”

“And do you know him personally?”

“I do, but not as Gordon Broadgirdle.”

There was a murmur of surprise from the gallery of parliament members.

“I knew him years ago as Wilkie Graves. And before that, I knew him by the nickname ‘Terrier.’”

The murmur from Parliament grew more consternated. “Silence, please,” the judge called.

“Thank you, Mr. Entwhistle. Would you please, in your own words, tell us how you came to know this man?”

“I will, Mr. Fenton, though I must admit it takes me back to a time I would rather not recall. I first met Terrier when I was a young man, and, frankly, not a very good man. I was young and stupid and much too taken with gambling. I would bet on anything. I would bet on whether there would be rain in the afternoon. Horse and dog races were as intoxicating as wine to me. Rather bad wine that always left me the worse for wear.

“I say that not to excuse what I did, but to explain how it is that I traveled to a dusty patch in the middle of the Baldlands, on the rumor of a gambling game that many of my dissolute fellows had warmly recommended. I arrived, and I found that it was much as they had described. A man named Herrick was running dog fights.”

Pip paused, and the members of parliament seemed to pause with him, waiting for the significance of this strange circumstance. “I stayed at the dog fights longer than I should have. The town nearby had its own unsavory appeal, and it was easy enough to spend a day at the dog fight, an evening at the tavern, and a night passed out under the stars.” He shook his head. “Thinking back on it, I wonder how my stomach could take it.” He sighed. “And the dog fights drew such crowds. My, they were nasty. Horrible spectacles, in retrospect. Blood sport. Can’t imagine how I ever watched. The dogs tore each other limb for limb. At the time, I’m ashamed to say, I found it exciting. People would bring their dogs, and you always hoped they would somehow surprise you and win the day, but Herrick’s dogs were beasts, and they always won. There was something that pulled you back—wanting to see those beasts of Herrick’s finally beaten, but somehow always knowing it wouldn’t happen. Until the man with the kerchief arrived.”

Pip looked up at Broadgirdle, and a flash of something unexpected—sympathy, perhaps—brightened his eyes. “I never learned his name. He wore a red kerchief around his neck, and his boots were so worn there was no tongue on either one of them. You could see at a glance that he was down on his luck, and that he’d come to the ring to gamble with Herrick because he was desperate. He proposed something crazy, and to everyone’s surprise, Herrick agreed. The man with the kerchief proposed putting not a dog in the ring, but his own son.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then a rumble of dismay from the parliament members.

“Oh, I know,” Pip said, with a forlorn air. “It was reprehensible. It gives you a sense of what we were all like, the men standing around, that we didn’t stop this deranged experiment but instead looked forward to it eagerly as another good gamble.” He shook his head, appalled at himself. “He could not have been more than eight or nine. The first fight was a big one. It had drawn quite a crowd—people had come from miles around to see the boy who would fight dogs. He wore ordinary clothes. His only protection was in the form of boxing gloves and a leather helmet.” Pip’s voice faltered. “And he was terrified.”

“Speak up please, Mr. Entwhistle.”

“He was shaking when he stepped into the ring,” Pip said, only a trifle more loudly. “But like the brutes we were, we didn’t do anything about it. We cheered. I am glad to say we cheered for him, but that is not much comfort, is it?” He paused and took a deep breath. “Well, I have no wish to tell you the details of that fight. I will mention only that when the dog first bit him on the leg, the boy ran to the corner and begged his father to take him out. He was weeping so hard and scrambling to escape, and his father pushed him back in. I remember clearly what he said to the boy: ‘Get in there, Terrier. Get in there. Are you no better than a dog?’ I suppose he meant it as some kind of encouragement, but it sounded instead like an insult. The question stayed with me. At the time, I was madly cheering along with the rest of them, but later that question began to strike me differently. You could even say that the cruel words spoken to Terrier were responsible for ending my gambling, for when I stood at the racetracks or stood at the dice table, I would hear that question in my ears: ‘Are you no better than a dog?’ No, frankly, no,” Pip said, shaking his head. “I was not.”

He took another deep breath. “Terrier won that first fight, and I suppose he made his father some money. I stayed for a few more, and then, as I said, something in me seemed to turn. Wish I could say it was righteous disgust or another noble impulse, but it was not. It was more like boredom. If I’d had my senses about me, I would have gone back to those fights and taken Terrier out of the ring and found him some place of safety. Instead, I left that filthy patch of desert and made my way elsewhere. And the words of Terrier’s father, as I have said, gradually curbed my excesses.

“I did not see him again for more than a decade. It’s a wonder I recognized him at all, frankly, since he had changed in more ways than one. He was a man, not a boy. He was no longer in the ring, of course. And the air of terror that he had had in the ring was replaced by a kind of swagger. How did I recognize him? Well!” Pip exclaimed, tapping the side of his nose. “You may be surprised. He looked exactly like his father. Indeed, he was a younger and less-impoverished version of that man with the kerchief, but he was the spitting image. There was no denying it.

“I came upon him at an inn in the southern Baldlands. In those days I was already a merchant, though I mostly sold worthless dreck. Terrier was sitting by himself at a booth, and I approached him. Perhaps I hoped to give him something like an apology for having stood by when he was thrown into the ring. Or perhaps I was merely looking to sell some dreck. Who can say? I cannot pretend that even then, after I had stopped gambling, I was always guided by better instincts.

“I approached him and said, ‘You look familiar. Can it be I am standing before the great fighter known as Terrier?’ I said this with an admiring air, you understand. For a moment something like suspicion passed across his face, and then he gave a broad grin. ‘Certainly, though it’s been many years since anyone called me that.’

“I tell you—he was entirely changed. He had a great, booming voice filled with confidence—a man used to getting his way. We had a meal and a drink together, and I had a chance to know him better. Terrier told me that his name was Wilkie Graves. His father, he said, had passed away some years earlier—I did not ask how. Throughout the entire conversation, what he did for a living did not come up. I suppose I dreaded asking, thinking that he might still be caught up in the world of fighting and gambling, and that world had little allure for me now. Instead, we talked about dreck. I showed him the books and pamphlets and other little scraps that I had with me, and he expressed great interest and told me about other pieces of dreck that he had come across. I remember he bought a page of newspaper from me—I was glad to have made a sale that day.

“Then we each repaired to our beds, and only the next morning when I saw him outside the inn, hitching his wagon, did I learn by accident what his new profession was.” Pip looked across at Broadgirdle, whose expression throughout the entire testimony had been a mask of scornful indifference. “He was holding a crate of food, with jugs of water and a couple of loaves of bread and a handful of apples. As we talked, he opened the locked wagon and put the crate inside, on the floor. There were three women and two men shackled there. Graves saw my expression, and he gave me a quizzical look. I struggled for words. ‘Transporting criminals, I see?’ I asked hopefully.

“‘Criminals?’ He smiled wryly. ‘I’m no sheriff, Pip.’ No doubt he could see the consternation written on my face. Graves considered me for a moment, and then he gave a great, deep laugh. ‘You don’t mind seeing a boy torn to pieces by dogs, but the sight of a few slaves in shackles makes you itchy?’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve got a strange sense of right and wrong, Entwhistle.’”

The members of parliament erupted with murmurs of horror and disbelief, and Pip waited, shaking his head sadly. “What could I say? He was right. Entirely right. I was left speechless, and Graves, with a cheerful wave, locked the wagon, climbed aboard, and made his way out of town.”

• • •

MR. FENTON THANKED Pip for his testimony. In the pause between witnesses, the murmuring among the members of parliament grew louder. Shadrack caught a phrase or two and smiled. “. . . simply outrageous.” “The temerity . . .” “. . . nothing more vile.”

He glanced at Cassandra, who nodded slightly. “Very effective testimony,” she said.

The judges had to quiet the room before Mr. Fenton could call his next witness. “Miss Susan Eby, your honors,” he said, gesturing to the slight woman with the braided hair, who rose silently at the sound of her name.

She was nervous. Her hands clutched a yellow handkerchief, which she worked through her fingers as if attempting to wring every last drop of moisture from the faded fabric.

“Please take your time, Miss Eby,” Mr. Fenton said reassuringly. “I am aware of the difficulties you face in being here today. The judges and I are grateful for your testimony.”

Slowly, the woman raised her eyes to Fenton’s face. She kept her gaze pinned upon him all throughout her testimony, seemingly afraid of what she might see if her eyes wandered. “Would you please identify the man sitting beside Mr. Appleby?”

“His name is Wilkie Graves,” Miss Eby said quietly.

“Thank you. Could you please tell us, in your own words, Miss Eby, how you know him.”

For several long seconds she looked into Fenton’s eyes, agonized. He gave her a slight smile, and Susan Eby took a deep breath. “I met him fifteen years ago, when I was eleven. My mother and father passed away, and my sister and I were put in the home of a neighbor who ran a home for children. Only there was no one to pay for our stay, and we were not yet old enough to earn our keep. Three months and four days after we went to the home, Graves took us away. At the time I did not know he had bought us. Carol and I thought we were being adopted.” Susan had rushed through her words as fast as she could, and she stopped now to take another deep breath. “We learned we were wrong when Carol was sold to a farmer near Mud Flats and I was sold to a factory six hours away. I lost touch with my sister for seven years, but after that time I ran away and found her, thank the Fates, and we were reunited.”

“Do you know for certain that you and Carol were sold?” Mr. Fenton asked, as kindly as he could.

“I do,” Susan said, with more firmness than she had used yet. “I saw the money change hands both times.”

“And did you ever encounter Graves again?”

“I did not. After Carol and I found one another, we moved to New Akan, where there is no slaving, and we have lived there by ourselves ever since. I have not seen Graves again, thank the Fates, until this day.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Eby.”

Shadrack watched with some curiosity as Broadgirdle, his face unchanging, kept his eye fixed upon the balcony. He seemed entirely uninterested in the witnesses and their testimony. The members of parliament, on the other hand, grew more agitated with each one. They no longer made any attempt to conceal their disgust and disapproval, and the rapid conversations that followed Miss Eby’s account were unequivocal in tone.

“Is that confidence or capitulation on the prime minister’s part, I wonder,” Shadrack murmured to Cassandra.

She smiled. “Of course it is confidence. Though he alone knows why.”

“I would next like to call Victor Manse,” Mr. Fenton declared when the judges had finally quieted the room.

Victor Manse lumbered to his feet and put his hat carefully down on the table. In response to Mr. Fenton’s questions, he said in a slow, deliberate voice that he knew the man sitting beside Mr. Appleby as Wilkie Graves. “Though we always called him ‘Early Graves,’ those of us who knew him,” he said with a wry smile, “as he had a reputation for sending those he sold to an early grave. I was bought and sold by Graves three times,” he continued somberly, “because I always caused some trouble to those who bought me. I believe I even caused Graves some trouble,” he added with satisfaction, “since thanks to me he had more than one unhappy customer.” He gave Mr. Fenton the names and locations of those places where he had been traded, and concluded by saying that his last master had died, leaving him and the other slaves he owned free.

“Thank you, Mr. Manse. Let me call Mrs. Hannah Selvidge.”

The old lady in the puffed sleeves and spectacles did not even wait for the attorney’s first question. “That’s Wilkie Graves, all right,” she said, pointing accusingly at the indifferent Broadgirdle. ‘Early’ Graves, just as Vic said—we all called him that. He had a reputation, for sure. We even joked about how many days we’d survived with him, since any amount of time with Graves between purchase and sale was perilous. You’d think he had no care for his merchandise!” she scoffed. “I imagine it would be hard to sell a dead slave, but Early Graves seemed not to worry about that, giving us just the barest crumbs to eat on the way to wherever we were going.

“Time I spent with Graves was eighteen days, and I tell you, by the end of them I was practically asking to be put on the auction block. It couldn’t be worse than Graves, I figured. There was a boy working with him then—a young boy, and I’m guessing it wasn’t by choice. Fates above, he was scrawny. I urged him to run away—he wasn’t chained, was he? But he looked at me terrified, as if I’d suggested he jump off a cliff. That’s how Graves was—he made everyone afraid of him. And the more time you spent, the more afraid you were.”

Hannah Selvidge concluded her testimony with several vehemently stated facts about when and where Wilkie Graves had circulated as a slaver. And then Mr. Fenton turned his attention to Sorensen and the two Eerie.

He began with Solandra, who rose and stood with a stately air, gazing coolly across at the prime minister. It was clear that many in parliament had never seen the Eerie’s distinctive green skin. She waited patiently for the whispered comments to stop before speaking.

“My name is Solandra, and I am one of the Elodeans living south of the Eerie Sea. In New Occident, I believe you call us ‘Eerie.’ I had no knowledge of Gordon Broadgirdle before this past year, when we came to Boston in response to a letter sent our way by Shadrack Elli, the cartologer.” She nodded to Shadrack, who gave her a brief, regretful smile. He was well aware of how his request for aid had unwittingly plunged the Eerie into their nightmarish misadventure.

Solandra, her green arms crossed across her chest, turned deliberately to face the parliament judges. “We never had the chance to speak with Shadrack, for we were captured by seven men. I did not know them at the time, but I have since heard them refer to each other as ‘Sandmen.’ They share several qualities, among them scarred faces, a curious choice of weaponry, and an unquestioning loyalty to Gordon Broadgirdle, who soon made himself known as the architect of our capture. The purpose of our capture was quite clear. Broadgirdle had heard rumors of the Elodean gifts, and he desired to use them for his own ends in the course of the war against the west.”

“And remind us when this planning for the war took place?” Mr. Fenton prompted her.

“Late autumn of 1891.”

A murmur from the parliament seats reflected their collective surprise.

“Well before Broadgirdle was prime minister,” Mr. Fenton clarified, in case the judges were in any doubt. “And what is this gift you speak of?”

Solandra uncrossed her arms and held out her hands, palms up. She took a breath like a long sigh, and suddenly clusters of white blooms appeared in her hands.

The members of parliament burst into urgent exclamation. Their comments reflected awe and wonder and not a little wariness.

“Please,” Mr. Fenton urged them. “Let us allow the witness to continue her explanation.”

Solandra smiled. “There is little to explain. All the Elodeans have similar gifts. I believe in the Baldlands they say that people like us have the ‘Mark of the Vine.’ In us, the Mark is especially strong. Elodeans vary in their gift, though gifts are familial. And my daughter . . .” she said, and paused. For the first time, she seemed upset, and she swallowed hard before speaking. “My daughter,” she continued, with visible effort, “has a gift that is most dangerous. The flowers she brings forth hold poison, and it is this poison that Gordon Broadgirdle has been using to fight his war.”

—11-Hour 01—

INSPECTOR GREY, STANDING outside the closed doors of the parliament chamber, heard the running footfalls with apprehension. “Inspector Grey,” the officer panted, rushing toward him.

“What is it, Ives?”

“Twenty men. On the State House steps.”

“What do they want?”

“You’d better come yourself, Inspector.”

Inspector Grey kept his pace steady as he accompanied Ives back along the corridor to the entrance of the State House. There twenty men waited, just as his officer had reported. All of them were scarred, with long, uneven lines that ran from cheek to ear. They carried weapons: pistols and long, curved grappling hooks on ropes. “How did they know to come?” Grey asked Ives quietly.

“We don’t know, sir. It must be that someone in the State House who saw us escorting the prime minister conveyed the news.”

Grey nodded curtly, suddenly furious at himself for not taking greater precautions.

The man nearest to Inspector Grey stepped forward and rested his hand loosely on the grappling hook that hung at his waist. “We’re here for the prime minister,” the man said flatly.

“What is your interest in him?” Grey asked coolly.

“Our interest is not your concern,” said the man. “We’re here to take him away, and we’re not leaving without him. I’m not asking.”