“Technically. Any time someone uses flux to distort their own consciousness. The Brothers are mostly harmless, though. Real daemonomaniacs use etherized-flux…” the old coroner trailed off, staring at the city. The night air had cooled and sharpened; blue phlogiston streetlamps flickered on, waging a losing battle against Trowth’s deep shadows.
After a moment, it became clear that Beckett had no intention of continuing. “Why don’t we…er…” he prodded, “Prosecute them, then? The Brothers?”
Beckett shrugged. “No point. They’re all over. The second you go after one, the rest just disappear into their little bolt-holes. Usually into the Arcadium. I have someone keep an eye on them, instead. Sometimes, they lead us to real heretics.” He paused for a moment. “Not usually.”
“No?”
“There’s…” He shook his head. “The….there hasn’t been a serious daemonomaniac in Trowth in. Ten years. Thought they’d really. Died out.” He let out a low, ragged, sepulchral chuckle. “Of course they didn’t. It never goes away, does it? Once it’s out there once…as long as someone knows, it will never go away. Ideas are a poison worse than any plague.” His shoulders seemed to sag, then, as though the effort of holding himself upright had suddenly grown beyond his last reserves of strength.
Valentine watched him for what felt like a long time, possessed of an inexplicable urge to reach out to the old man, put a hand on his shoulder. He contented himself with, “Are you all right?”
“Have Karine check for…flux. Shipments that have gone missing, warehouses.”
“Beckett.”
“Warehouses that have been broken into.”
“Beckett, Karine doesn’t-”
“Someone knows. Fuck, they’re supposed to report it…” The old man had a hand to his head, as though he were overcome by a sudden wave of dizziness.
“Beckett!” Valentine snapped. “Karine’s gone, remember?”
“What?” Beckett grunted. “I know she’s gone. Just have…whoever. Whatever-his-name-is check into it.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Just.” Beckett shook his head again. “Fine.” He turned, abruptly, and strode off into the night.
For a moment, Valentine watched him go, wondering if he should follow. If the old man was losing his grip…Valentine shook his head. He couldn’t believe that; if there was anyone in the world that could keep it together, it was Elijah Beckett. And, even if something was wrong, how to talk about it without rousing the man’s pride and ire?
Valentine Vie-Gorgon decided that he would look into the flux issue himself.
Fifteen
Beckett waited until the following afternoon to interrogate the daemonomaniac. He took Gorud down into the basements of Raithower House, far away from the weak but welcome sunlight of Armistice, where it was deep and dark enough to feel like the middle of the night.
Though they were not used often, there were two old vaults beneath Raithower house that served as temporary holding cells. They could be accessed by a dark, narrow stair, and they were cramped and humid. In the winter they were deathly cold, in the summer they were broiling hot in the summer, and during Armistice they were possessed of a suffocating humidity. They were unpleasant places to be quartered. It was unusual for the Coroners, whose mandate was so extreme, to actually make arrests; the dangers of certain sciences being themselves often so tremendous that permitting a heretic to live long enough to transport him to a safe location represented an unacceptable level of risk to civic safety. However, the vaults were equipped with rough cots and heavy locks, and in the few instances when Beckett felt the need to interrogate a prisoner at his leisure, he was able to do so.
The daemonomaniac was crouched in the corner of the vault, glaring with eerie green eyes that were not quite luminescent. His third, atemporal eye, had vanished. In his withdrawal, the man quivered and shook, and chewed on his twitching, spidery fingers.
Beckett approached the bars of the cell, Gorud at his heels. The therian carried a small phlogiston lantern equipped with a red filter to keep its light dim. Daemonomaniacs often suffered unpredictable reactions-including painful and even deadly sublimations-under bright phlogiston light.
The old man had left his hat and scarf and coat in his office. He stood, impassive and immobile, glaring at the madman, trying to intimidate him with his hideously ravaged face. The empty eye and skeletal shadows cast in the red glare of Gorud’s lamp were certainly horrific enough, but the daemonomaniac’s mind was damaged beyond caring. He did not even appear to notice the two coroners, but instead gnawed enthusiastically on his abraded, skittering fingers.
“Name.” Beckett said.
The man stared off into the distance, not looking at Beckett at all, instead keeping his eyes focused on some invisible item that was of incomprehensible fascination to him. He said nothing.
“What’s your name?”
Nothing but the wet sound of the daemonomaniac chewing. His fingers were red and raw beneath his teeth.
“He doesn’t know,” Gorud said. “He has forgotten his name?”
Beckett nodded. “The ‘daemon,’ the intelligence that they think they’re in touch with, is supposed to expand their minds. It’s a delusion, of course, but their minds don’t know that. They fill up with nonsense, crowd the rest out. If we’re lucky, there’s still something we can use.” He reached out and slammed his hand against the bars. “Hey. What’s your name?”
The man looked up at them with a sudden start, and his eyes, briefly, snapped into focus. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead stretched his jaw wide, so wide that Beckett could hear the joint pop, and his eyes glazed over again. At once, he began to speak in a hoarse, raspy voice. “Huhk. Gurat. Torroketetetet-”
“Glossolalia,” Beckett muttered. “Nonsense.”
“-kaitor get…get…get out. Get out. It’s ours. It’s ours! OURS!” The daemonomaniac began to scream, the words dissolving into guttural croaking shouts as he leapt up from his corner and threw himself crashing against the bars. Gorud hopped back as the hinges and locks creaked, but Beckett remained still. The locks held. The man hammered impotently against the bars of his cell, shrieking and spitting like a mad animal.
“They’re starting from here,” the daemonomaniac’s voice dropped to a frantic whisper. “Here. No! Don’t tell them that.”
“Where did you get the flux?” Beckett demanded.
“They can’t know yet. They don’t know yet. Theyuk, arctorus keret gai phorthent.”
Beckett asked again. “The flux. Who gave it to you?”
“Gorret kora, kirakari ta net!”
“Listen,” the coroner said. “You’re talking nonsense. You think you’re speaking Trowthi, but you’re not. The part of your brain that understands speech-”
“Harep,” Gorud spoke up from the dark. “Kara dettu priata?”
Very slowly, Beckett turned to face the therian, who was huddled behind his lamp, his eyes wide, his canine face impassive. The coroner said nothing, and for a long moment, neither did the daemonomaniac.
“Exhu,” the daemonomaniac said, his voice soft, almost cogent now. “Garrakt for dett. They know.”
“Shingoru dettu parak. Exhu diri otomen.” Gorud shook his head. “Exhu borak.”
The man tried to speak again, but no words emerged. He worked his jaw, his eyes bulged, veins throbbed against his head. He threw himself against the iron bars, again and again, entirely silent except for the labored breathing through his flaring nostrils. Finally, he staggered back against the far wall, his body still wracked with pain, and shrieked. The foreign words exploded in a torrent from his throat.
“Agatta! Exhu agatta! Exhu agatta!” He broke off into a piteous wail and wept and screamed as he arched his back. The atemporal eye began to glow behind his skull, illuminating its morbid contours, humming faintly in sympathy with the metal bars.