Quickly, with a practiced efficiency, Beckett and Valentine bound the madman, commandeered a Family coach, and brought the daemonomaniac to the coroners’ new holdings cells on the edge of Old Bank. The bars and walls were sheathed in greening copper, which metal’s alchemical properties served to gradually divest the man of the shimmering green light that poured from deep within his skull. Beckett decided to let the daemonomaniac sleep off his veneine dose in the interests of questioning him once the madness had fully abated. Moreover, the old coroner knew from experience that a dose that high would leave the subject with a terrible headache and painfully dry mouth afterwards-two features that might aid in his interrogation.
Afterwards, the two coroners stood on Terrace Street which, ever since the Excelsior’s unfortunate reactivation had swallowed a substantial chunk of Old Bank, had a view of the whole of Trowth, all the way down to the bay. The city, with its vast intricacies of architecture, green bronze and copper statuary, crooked roads and canted buildings, was all tangled shadows in the last dregs of red spring light. Trowth seemed then to be a great stone wave, frozen in the act of rearing up, ready to crash with apocalyptic thunder onto the iron stillness of the Agon Bay. There was a mass to the city, a feeling of unstoppable inertia, as though some terrible machinery had been set in motion and, by virtue of its weight and power, would not stop until it had finally destroyed itself.
“Well,” said Beckett, his ravaged face as impassive, as always.
“Well. Daemonomaniacs. I didn’t think anyone still did that.”
“There’s always a few,” Beckett replied. “The Brothers of the Mad Wind-you know, the ones that go out in the psychestorms, hoping for enlightenment?”
“They’re daemonomaniacs?”
“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.