Chapter 3
There was a doctor down the street we occasionally saw. Zin didn’t want to go — she just wanted to hide her disfigurement — but I talked her into it. He wasn’t much of a doctor, but he was cheap and faster than the clinic, which was always overcrowded.
He didn’t hesitate when he saw Zin. “Vornauld’s Syndrome. It’s pretty rare, only about a hundred cases in the city. Most people with the condition will abruptly lose pieces of their body over time just like you lost part of your finger. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I can’t offer much hope for you. We don’t know its cause. We don’t have a cure or a treatment for it. We don’t even have a good idea of how it progresses. It seems to progress very quickly for some people, much less so for others. For some people it seems to stop altogether, but we can never be sure —“
Zin interrupted. “So you’re saying I could continue to just disappear like this, and there’s no way to stop it?” She leaned forward in her seat, her hands in fists.
The doctor nodded sheepishly. “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry —“
“Never mind sorry. Fuck. Is it fatal?”
“Often. If it continues to progress, it will eventually affect parts of the body that are essential for supporting life.”
Zin had her head in her hands. She seemed like she’d had enough for the moment.
I spoke up. “How long, best case, worst case?”
The doctor shrugged. “The literature indicates anywhere from eight months to several years, depending on the progression. We just have no way to tell. The best news I can give you is that it’s not contagious.”
When we left the doctor’s office, Zin was fuming; I thought maybe the visit wasn’t such a waste of time. After all, we knew the name of the disease or syndrome or whatever, so maybe we could find someone in the upper districts who could help us. The problem was Zin couldn’t go uptown. I had papers that would get me into a lot of the upper districts; Zin didn’t, so we needed money to get her some, not to mention for a doctor. I thought I knew how I might make some cash quick.
So let me explain something about me and money: I never had much in those days. When I said earlier I was a small-time grifter, emphasis was on the small-time. Most of what I did wasn’t even illegal, or at most in a gray area. If upper-class ladies wanted to over-pay for faux antiques, no crime there. If a parcel I was carrying happened to contain something illicit, well, I didn’t know. I had gotten arrested before, but I never had to serve any time. So, lower risk, lower payout. But now I needed some serious money, so I needed to do something serious. Luckily I had spotted just the opportunity the day before.
Zin decided to go into work despite her condition — work is how she coped. I went back to the book stall in Upper Stekson and asked the bookseller about the lady who had been there the day before.
“Yeah, she’s here a lot, don’t know her name. She always pays in cash, carries a lot of large bills most of the time. She’s mostly interested in old science books, especially rare expensive ones. Good for her too, ‘cause if she didn’t earn me so much money I’d kick her out of the store. Some of the other customers find her a little aggressive.”
After that I spent a while hanging around Thistle Street asking people what they knew about the stone house with the tower. Most people wouldn’t talk to me, of course, but there are always a few. One person told me the owner was a drug dealer. Some kids told me the house was the home of a sorcerer and her minions. A few different people believed the owner was a mad scientist.
The best help I got was from an old lady named El who had lived in the neighborhood since she was a child, and who happily shared the life story of Cassia Jeks, resident of 19652 Thistle Street.
I won’t subject you to the whole story here, just the salient parts. Jeks, it turns out, was a scientist, but not the mad kind, or even the romantic kind from stories who solves the problem that saves the world; she was the drab sort who solves the problem that makes the rich richer.
She hadn’t always lived in the tower house. When she moved into the neighborhood, twenty-or-so years ago, she lived a couple of blocks up from there, with her husband and son. They lived there until the boy was maybe seven, and then tragedy struck.
The husband and son died in the space of a year, from what my friend El didn’t know. After that Jeks earned a reputation in the area for being an eccentric. She also bought the empty lot at 19652 Thistle Street and built the house that’s there today. El had visited her a few times collecting for charity, and found Jeks to be quite generous.
By the time my source had finished her story, it was late afternoon. The old lady had given me some ideas. Now it was time to go back home and plan.
I didn’t always call the Hollow home. Once I was respectable. Even went to college. Not exactly Royal University, you understand, but one of the small city colleges, Ducton, which as its name implies lies in Ducton District. You may not have heard of the district, which isn’t surprising, as nothing interesting happens there. Which is probably why I never graduated — I was always off finding interesting things elsewhere. On the other hand, I never formally withdrew either. What that means is that I was still officially a student at Ducton, even though I never attended classes or paid tuition. Which means I could claim residence in Ducton and get the corresponding papers. Which, since Ducton’s a pretty nice place, was more than enough to get me into districts like Upper Stekson. I just prayed they wouldn’t close that loophole, or I’d have to move uptown. Either that or carry forged papers.
Zin didn’t like the idea. She thought it was too risky. But she generally didn’t like my choice of livelihood, so this wasn’t surprising.
“Break into her home? Do you really want your son to grow up without a father?” she demanded to know.
“More than I want him to watch his mother slowly dying. If I end up in jail, I’ll get out some day. Vornauld’s will kill you.”
Eventually she backed down. I went about putting the plan together. In a couple of days I was ready.
I was nervous but confident as I walked up Abyssal to Chethurst to catch the train to Upper Stekson, with a leather carrying case containing my kit. I was dressed smartly in a brown suit and grey wool tie — respectable but unassuming — with a pair of thick-framed eyeglasses. In my carrying case I had a collapsible cane.
I took a detour down to Ganyon Street to rent some transport for hauling stolen loot. It was a street glider with a trailer — a levitating vehicle relying on velocimancy, it was slower than a horse, but much more practical. I didn’t want to drive it across district lines, so I would unload it at a friend’s warehouse there in Upper Stekson.
It was bright and sunny that morning as I pulled up a few doors down from number Jeks’s. I sat for a minute in the cab, collecting my thoughts and reviewing the script. The time was about 9:30 by then, good time to go knocking on doors. Feeling prepared, leaning on my cane, I knocked on Jeks’s door.
Cassia Jeks opened the door without even asking who I was. Good sign. She smiled amiably and asked, “Good morning, how can I help you?”
I began my bit. “Good morning, ma’am. My name is Bentus Avastyon, and I’m with Sarcanth Childrens’ Charities —“ At this point I made a show of fumbling with my cane and bag as I tried to undo its clasp.
Jeks interrupted. “Mr. Avastyon, please come in and have a seat. No point in tiring yourself out like that.”
Her front room was all I expected. As I had guessed, the predominant feature was books: books in bookcases, books in piles on the floor, books stacked up on the ornate — and valuable — antique desk in the corner, books spread across the sofa — also antique, probably from the Imperial Era — that she ushered me to. If Jeks made it a habit to buy two hundred crown books, there could be a fortune in just this one room.
The fireplace was closed off, and above the mantle was a portrait of what must have been Jeks’s family. I hate to be insensitive towards the deceased, but by god that was an ugly painting. “What a lovely painting. Is that your family?” I said.
“Yes, those are my two boys. Both passed on many years ago, I’m afraid.”
“How sad.” I paused for a moment and continued, “Now as I was saying, Ms…?”
“Jeks.”
“As I was saying, Ms. Jeks, I’m with Sarcanth Children’s Ch“ — and here I coughed loudly — “um, Children’s Charities. I’m not here asking for money, just for a little of your time. Are you familiar with our organization?”
She admitted she was not, and I continued, “Well, then, we’ve been in operation for twenty-five years, mostly in the lower districts, Beetle Hollow, Anglers Terrace, those sort of places — by the way, did you know that child mortality is up almost twenty percent in Upper Stekson over the past ten years? That’s why Sarcanth Children’s Charities is planning to open a local branch office in Upper Stekson within the next year.”
I started coughing violently. She leaned forward with a look of concern. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Oh yes” — cough — “just some water” — cough, cough.
She went off to fetch a glass of water, and I seized my opportunity. I opened my case and took out a featureless white cube about three inches on a side. I carefully hid it behind a tall stack of books. I sat back on the couch, dislodging a couple of books as I did, and took some brochures out of my case.
A word about Sarcanth Children’s Charities. They really existed. In fact, they were the relief organization that Zin worked for. I had just picked up some old brochures from around the apartment. Easy.
Then she was back with the water, and I continued with the spiel. She seemed convinced with the whole thing, and it all went smoothly. She made some noncommittal statements, I said I’d be back in touch with her, she showed me to the door. Smashing success.
Once I was out on the street again, it was just a matter of waiting for her to leave. I ducked down the alley between two brownstones and quickly changed into casual clothing and removed the glasses. I mussed my hair a bit, dumped the case where it wouldn’t be noticed, and went back on the street. I took up a position on a corner where I could see her place and not look too suspicious. To complete the transformation, and to calm my nerves, I smoked some syzaro weed cigarettes. They’re expensive, and I had been saving them for a special occasion, but I figured I’d have enough money after this job to buy syzaros in pallets.
It was about two hours later that she left, walking up the street toward me. I put on my best nonchalant air. She walked past on the other side of the street, not so much as a second glance. Sigh. She was such a pleasant-seeming lady that I almost felt bad about what I was up to.
Once she was out of sight, I hurried to her door. I rapped out a very specific seven-knock sequence. Then I waited and hoped. About thirty seconds later I heard the sound of the door unlocking. I opened it and went in.
There behind the door was a strange little device, a bunch of metal appendages protruding from the white cube I had hidden earlier. A Shupkin Automaton — a brilliant little machine. Fits in a 3-inch cube but you can make it do just about anything — if you can program it, that is. I reset the device and it retracted back to its cube configuration.
I’ve had ample time since that day to regret my amateurish mistake. Instead of immediately moving valuables out to the trailer, I let my curiosity get the better of me. The winding staircase up to the tower was right there, right outside the front room. I had to take a look. Just a quick look.
The tower was circular, roughly fifteen feet in diameter. The second floor looked like a research office. There were lots of books, but here they were neatly arranged. There was a large, orderly desk, too.
I didn’t have time to linger so I sprinted up to the third floor, which was a tangled mess of electrical cables. There were a bunch of machines I didn’t recognize. The fourth floor looked like a chemistry or biology laboratory.
The fifth floor, by contrast, was a menagerie of nightmares. There, in cages, were creatures so strangely warped they almost defy description. A giant centipede-like creature, headless, end connected to end, racing round in a circle. Some distorted rodent with the head of a lobster making a high angry chitter. A lizard, but made of a gas, confined under a bell jar. A large flatworm, which as it crawled, split lengthwise again and again, joining and redividing in continually evolving patterns. More, each stranger than the last.
I spent far too long amongst the cages, absorbing the horror of it. I had to go. Only, as I descended the stairs, it was like moving through cement as it dried around me. I went slower, and still slower. Soon I wasn’t moving at all.
I tried moving each part of my body in turn. Fingers, mouth, eyes, legs, and so on, all stuck. Involuntary muscle movements like blinking and breathing still worked, but I couldn’t will any movement at all. So I stood there, for a minute, or an hour, or a day, feeling like a fool. The job could have been so easy. I could have had several thousand crowns by then.
After a long while, I heard the front door open. A voice called out, “Mr. Avastyon… You’re still here, aren’t you? I see your trailer out front.”
Footsteps. Soon Cassia Jeks came into view on the stairs below him. She said with a smile, “Good afternoon, Mr. Avastyon.”