The Crimson Skew (The Mapmakers Trilogy) by S. E. Grove (4)

3

The Armor

THE PORTION OF Pennsylvania where Theo’s company was stationed had no roads to speak of: only overgrown deer trails and a seemingly endless supply of thorny brush. Theo and the others on the work crew had been given the task of transforming those overgrown trails into wide, clear roads that troops could march along unimpeded. Then the dank humidity had begun, with the yellow clouds that made the air heavy and even the slightest movement taxing. The vegetation seemed to thrive in it, unfurling luxuriantly so that weeds cut one day reappeared the next. The work was grueling, and it was made no easier by the prospect of what those roads would be used for. They were clearing the way for the army of New Occident, heading west to bring the rebellious Indian Territories to heel.

The scarce free moments Theo had were spent on tasks that under normal circumstances would have seemed trivial: eating, bathing, and washing his clothes. At times he felt too tired to eat, but he forced down the food, knowing his muscles would punish him later with terrible cramps if he did not. Somehow he had been able to get through the work and the tasks alike by suspending his thoughts, feeling almost nothing.

That is, he had been able to do so until the last few days. He had received another letter from Shadrack, full of reassurances and news about life in Boston. Shadrack wrote very little about his work in the ministry, avoiding all mention of Gordon Broadgirdle. The prime minister was a loathsome subject for both of them. He had framed Shadrack for murder; he had engineered a war with the west; and he had cast Theo, who knew all about the man’s sordid past, into the very center of that war. Broadgirdle was present in the letter—in every letter between them—as a great, odious omission. Shadrack reported that Sophia’s whereabouts were still unknown, but he was sure she would return home, and he hoped that the war would soon end and they would all be reunited.

Reading the letter, Theo was suddenly aware of a dull ache deep inside himself. His entire body slowed and his muscles rebelled. All the chores that had previously been tiring but manageable—even the simplest ones, like cleaning his boots—became detestable and almost impossible. He did not want to be there, in the wilderness, surrounded by his former cell mates, clearing paths so that hundreds of boots could march west. It had always seemed pointless, but now it seemed starkly wrong. What am I doing here? Theo wondered.

He had hoped Shadrack’s letter might reveal some careful hints about a plan to end the war—Shadrack was the War Cartologer, after all, and he was not without power in Broadgirdle’s government. Alternately, Theo had hoped that Shadrack would have a plan to extract him from his company. At the very least, Theo had hoped for some news of Sophia. Knowing she was safely back in Boston would have been some comfort as he headed into danger. But Shadrack offered none of this.

Theo’s company was only days from the border of the Indian Territories. Soon they would venture past the border and, no doubt, into battle.

And so Theo was sitting on his cot, wondering what he could possibly write to Shadrack, when his tentmate, a man everyone called Casanova, made his way into the candlelit space and rolled onto his cotton bedding. Casanova understood Theo’s mood at a glance. He lay down quietly on his cot, giving the younger man time to say the first word.

Casanova, like all the rest of the men in Theo’s company, had once been an inmate of the Boston prisons. Theo had, in fact, met him on his own first day there. The volunteers and recruits, who formed a separate battalion, called the prisoners’ corps “blocks,” a derisive reference to their recent incarceration. In reality, the time in prison made Theo’s company the better prepared for war. The volunteers were inexperienced young men—children, practically; the prisoners were men of all ages who had known their share of misfortune and what it meant to be subject to another man’s will. They did not all conform well to either condition, but their experience made them more cautious and generally more patient toward the indignities of soldiering.

Casanova was a special case. Tall, with broad shoulders and a thick neck, he had the aspect of a boxer. He had been a handsome man, once. But in some event or accident that he never discussed, one side of his face and head had been burned. Theo had seen him washing, and knew that the scar disfiguring Casanova’s scalp and face extended down across his chest and back: a mottled, pocked, rippled thing. Theo had his own scars, years of accumulated lines and gashes, on his iron-boned right hand. There was something different, Theo felt, about people who wore the damage of the past on their skin. The scar gave Casanova such a terrifying appearance that he maintained a fearsome reputation without any effort. Yet he was anything but terrifying: quietly observant, good-humored, and as kind to Theo as an older brother.

At least once a day, sometimes more, either Theo or someone else needled Casanova for the story of the scar. And every time he brushed them off, prompting them to invent ever more outlandish explanations: a favorite book and a burning tent; a chicken, a rooftop, and a pot of tea; a blind old lady, a pipe, and a box of matches. Casanova laughed indulgently at each one and said nothing.

To explain his quiet nature, his preference for books over rowdy company, he professed to be a great coward. Some men treated their weapons with exaggerated fondness, as if holding family heirlooms; Casanova could barely stand to touch his sword and rifle, which he tossed under his cot at night like a pair of old brooms. He scowled whenever anyone boasted of victory in a knife fight. He rolled his eyes at the sight of men who, after training all day, threw fists at one another over some imagined insult. Casanova preferred to read in his tent. But Theo noticed that despite the constant claims to cowardice, no one ever goaded Casanova or threw insults—let alone fists—in his direction. No doubt, Theo surmised, his height and build and fearsome scar protected him, despite his peaceable nature.

Casanova waited, now, locking his hands behind his damp hair—he had just washed away the August dust in the nearby stream—and regarded the yellow canvas of the tent ceiling.

Finally Theo sighed. “Cas, I don’t know what to say to Shadrack.”

Casanova continued to stare at the ceiling. “Why is that?”

“There’s no news about Sophia. There’s no news about the war. And everything here . . . Well, you know. What can I possibly say?”

Now Casanova looked at him, one side of his face a handsome smile, the other side a puckered and twisted knot. “You don’t have to tell him that. Tell him unimportant things—he’ll never know the difference.”

“But what?”

“Tell him how Lumps fell yesterday, certain as he was he could lift the branch off the road by himself, and ended up sitting waist-high in mud.”

Theo chuckled at the memory.

“Tell him how it took almost an hour for Lumps to wash the mud out of his clothes, and he had to stand naked in the river to do it. If you have the stomach for it, you might even describe what Lumps looked like naked.”

Theo laughed.

“And you can mention how often you think of him and Sophia,” Casanova added gently, now that he had gotten Theo to laugh. “And how much you wish this war would end.”

Taking a deep breath, Theo nodded. “All right. I’ll do that.” He ran a hand through his dusty hair and tiredly put the paper aside. “I’ll write it tomorrow morning.”

Casanova watched the younger man for a moment. “I saw something interesting today.”

Theo looked up sharply, recognizing the shift in tone.

“The supply caravan that arrived yesterday. I managed to look inside.”

Theo waited.

“I thought the amount of food might give a sense of where we’re going—how long we’re meant to march. But there was no food in the wagon. There were crates with armor.”

“Armor?” Theo echoed, curious.

“Glass shields for the eyes, set in a leather mask.”

“Like goggles?”

“Look for yourself.” Casanova sat up, reached under his cot, and pulled out a confusion of leather straps and buckles.

“I’m starting to guess how you landed in prison, Cas,” Theo commented amiably.

Casanova eased the leather hood over his head and faced Theo. “How does it fit?” he asked, his voice muffled.

Theo frowned. “Hard to say. Well enough, if you wish to look like a giant fly.” Green lenses, bulbous and oblong, were set in at an angle, giving the mask a saddened aspect. Leather stitching ran down the center, and a pear-shaped screen of stiff cloth covered the mouth and nose. At the neck, a strap and buckle hung loose. “Can you see?”

“I can, but everything is distorted.” Casanova took one bulging lens in each hand and, with some effort, snapped them upward. “They have hinges—a little tight.” His brown eyes blinked expressionlessly through the mask. “There’s something in the fabric here—a smell like charcoal.”

Theo grimaced. “Better take it off.”

After he did, Casanova said, “I hope Merret doesn’t mean to make us wear those. Hot as an oven in there.”

“Why would we have to wear them? I guess they’re protection, but protection from what?”

Casanova stuffed the mask under his cot and lay back with a sigh. “We’ll know soon enough. Merret has us arriving in the Indian Territories in three days.”

There was a silence. Casanova again contemplated the low canvas ceiling, where the candle flame threw moving shadows. Theo stretched out on his cot and reached to snuff the light. But for once, he did not fall asleep immediately, and his thoughts ran haltingly, as if through a maze.