Sons and Brothers
All of them are brought back alive. One by one, undulating and sedated in their traps, the teratopods are subdued and removed by the brave men and women of Borisch-Gorslung Extermination Company.
From the depths of Splinter Row to the highest manors of Fog Hill, the pests are loaded onto rumbling lorries and transported to R it’s just as likely to be found in a minister’s private bathhouse as burrowing through a septic rootlet.
It is a versatile sculptor, molding its surroundings according to its verminous tastes.
One is discovered in the fountain at Hart Park, when the marble cherubs begin to piss a frightening shade of red.
Another is captured in a vat on the Root of Brewers, sowing its lair with a toxic, incandescent yeast. A third is found terrorizing the jewelers of Bast Street, stinging four policemen and leaving clusters of ruby flesh blooming in each splayed chest cavity.
Sreckt and a few lesser companies begin their own hunt for the centipedal culprit of the Conundrum Incident, to clear their name or outdo their rival.
They meet with no success—only false alarms and fatalities.
Even their state-of-the-art implements, pumped up from their midcity factories, are ineffective.
True to the immortal creature from the ballet, the contriver worm is immune to conventional assaults.
It will endure, grow, reassemble, recombine—and in the coming months, warns Bertram, when those left uncaptured reach maturity, reproduce.
Just one company seems capable of removing the pest, armed with specialized traps and armor and, in one hireling’s case, a good ear for teratopod toxin.
The humble outfit, hatched from the gutted shell of Borisch the payments are generous, the thanks effusive, even for the Whittleston infestations and mantises and other mundanities.
Three and Guy greedily apportion the tips, and Dawn, after so many years being denied the due for his heroism, gets to bask in a little well-earned adoration.
He does so with perfect dignity, offering a humble smile when clients show him his photograph in the Lunar Herald, not in his Brigade uniform but the iron vine of Borisch Dr. Nic had been uncharacteristically chipper, her needle gliding into his arm without backtracks, pit stops, or missed veins, accidental or punitive.
Either she recently decided to acquire knowledge of human anatomy or had come to work sober.
Guy can’t decide which unnerves him more.
“Quack nearly drained me. I think she’s selling the extra blood to hedge witches. ”
Dawn sighs, salting the hellrat broth. “She has her own debts to pay.”
Guy unfolds entry 399. Because photography cannot capture the biofilm’s striking colors, Rickhardt has supplied an oil pastel instead.
In the margins of the picture, in the watery curtains of mold, Guy can make out the shape of a melody.
Voices spiral in his ear, flashes of choreography dart across the words on the page.
An overture thrums into being, but it’s not Drovick, nor Vrenecker, nor Tasarte, but something Guy doesn’t recognize.
As he sews in the latest entry, a setting unfolds in his skull.
Years peel back, thousands of them, to the days before the fallowing of the world.
Tiliard regrows, extending through the stratosphere with a canopy so vast the hours are kept by noting which branches hold the sun like a bright fruit.
On the prosperous Branch of Lilies, twin princes vie for power against a backdrop of fungal castles and leaf-sailed airships.
The set is fantastic, the music even more so.
The melodies ring clear in his mind, but tonight, his audience is nowhere to be found.
“Have you seen Ty?” he asks.
“No,” Dawn says. Armed with his red oven mitts, he pulls the broth from the stove and delivers it to the table. “Probably out ruining those trousers you bought her.”
“Probably,” Guy sighs.
Dawn dishes out dinner, then eats in an almost provocative silence, eschewing any words about discipline or responsibility or those other virtues the Autotomic Brigade beat into him.
Even with—or especially with—tense matters, he rarely finds words adequate.
The man doesn’t even talk about Broken Horse, except in fretful sleep.
“Talk to me, Corporal,” Guy says eventually.
Dawn takes another spoonful. “You can’t keep this up forever.”
“Keep what up?” Guy asks, though he already knows.
“Keep her up. Let her sign on with someone. With Borisch, at least.”
“No.”
“She’ll be nearby. She’ll be safe—not running around with those boys from Orphanwell. And you won’t have to—the things you do for her, Guy. The people you…”
“Don’t start,” Guy mutters.
“The company can feed her. Give her clothes that fit. A decent bed.”
“Our bed is decent.”
“She can’t spend her whole life sleeping next to her brother.” Dawn brings the bowl to his mouth. “She’s outgrowing you. You know it. You both do.”
Guy bites his lip, studying the surface of his soup.