The Golden Specific (32 page)

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Casting Votes

E
LECTIONS
WERE
ALWAYS
tense affairs in Boston, as they were in almost every city and town of New Occident. As the sole opportunity to exercise voting rights at the national level, the election of the ruling party became a serious and somber duty. At the same time, because of the difficulties involved in keeping each vote fair and legal, Election Day inevitably became something of a circus. Some people didn't mind—they liked the bedlam, the sense that anything could happen and everything was up for grabs.

Winnie was not among them. He had been curled up in an alley near the State House since dawn, his eyes still half closed with sleep, watching the growing buzz of activity. He was
uneasy. Winnie sometimes had presentiments—curious and inexplicable feelings about the future that seemed to be based on nothing at all and nonetheless often ended up being true. Winnie's mother had been prone to similar presentiments, which, given her present circumstances, made them seem to him more dangerous than useful. Only people who had earned his absolute trust ever heard about them. He called these peculiar sensations “tweakies,” and he was having one now, on June thirtieth, Election Day.

Even though people were moving calmly enough past the State House, Winnie had the sense that something truly explosive was going to happen, and he could not put his finger on why. The air felt still; the morning fog muffled the comforting clank and clang of the trolleys, then unveiled the cars suddenly when they turned the corner, as a magician would. The other boys who hung about the State House began to materialize from out of the fog, hungry or full, depending on their luck. At eight-hour, the polls opened, and a steady stream of voters began filing in with their printed tickets.

All three parties—the New States Party, the Remember England Party, and the Western Party—had printed plentiful tickets with the party name and had each set up booths all over the city so that voters could pick up their tickets of choice and carry them to the State House. It was not uncommon to see some sort of chicanery around the booths, as one party stole the tickets of another or a voter was waylaid. But near where Winnie stood, Boston city police officers lined
the steps of the State House, and there was no chicanery of any kind: only people climbing the steps to cast their votes.

Despite the orderly start to the day, Winnie had a definite tweaky sense about things going awry. He would have reported this tweakiness to Theo, who could be trusted absolutely, but Theo was already closeted away in Broadgirdle's offices, helping the MP prepare his final speech, and though Winnie had free rein of the city, trying to enter the State House would make him stick out like a fly in a bowl of pudding.

Broadgirdle practiced his final speech only twice on the morning of June 30, so confident was he of its persuasiveness. Peel, after preparing a clean copy, fidgeted at his desk in trembling anticipation of the great event.

At long last, Broadgirdle emerged from the inner office and stood between the desks of the first assistant and second assistant, the very picture of Political Dignity. His black hair was lacquered and combed so that it shone like a brilliant helmet. The black beard made a lustrous complement. The senior centipede appeared calm and primed, ready for anything. The carefully manicured hands were tucked away in white cotton gloves, and the imposing trunk of the MP's person was appropriately clad in a sober-looking brown suit. Broadgirdle checked his watch and tucked it into his vest pocket. “Let us proceed, gentlemen,” he said, his voice echoing portentously through the outer office.

Gamaliel Shore and Pliny Grimes had already given their speeches; Broadgirdle had, naturally, engineered it so that his would be last. The other candidates were safely back in their
offices, and the fair-sized crowd of people outside the State House stood ready to hear the third. Ostensibly, the speeches gave undecided voters an opportunity to hear the parties' arguments for the last time. In reality, Theo saw, as he looked out over the crowd, most of the voters had already made up their minds and had arrived to boo or cheer.

Broadgirdle stood at the podium and looked out over the crowd. He noted that it was much smaller than the one he had addressed earlier that month, on the occasion of the prime minister's death. Then he lifted his proud head and began:

“People of Boston. It is my belief that a good politician uses both words and actions only as necessary, and the sparing use of both is generally advisable. I will therefore keep my comments brief. The sad loss of our beloved Prime Minister Bligh has necessitated this emergency election, and I am here to tell you why our party, the Western Party, offers not only the best plan, but the plan Bligh would have liked best. He understood, tragically too late, that this great Age of ours holds great promise. We have too long played the passive part—like a sponge, we have sat upon the eastern seaboard, soaking up the waves of foreigners who arrive from the Baldlands and the United Indies and farther, allowing them the full benefits of membership and yet gaining little in exchange. I ask you: Is this what we are? Are we a sponge? Is that how we wish to be thought of by the other Ages? The Sponge Age?”

Broadgirdle's voice rose with indignation, and there were cries of “Nay!” and “No sponges!” from the crowd.

“I say to you,” he continued, “that we should not be the sponge.
We must be the wave! We are a mighty Age, and we should act as is fitting for a mighty Age. We must keep our borders closed to the east, and we must surge west into the Indian Territories and into the Northern Baldlands, lifting those lands to prominence just as a powerful wave carries a vessel on its crest.”

Broadgirdle paused for a cheer, but the reply that cut into the silence was unexpected.

“Protect our homelands!” came a shrill shout. “Leave the Indian Territories to Indians!” Theo, standing close to the railing, looked down and saw a small group of people holding a printed banner with the words
PRESERVE THE TREATIE
S, PROTECT OUR HOMES
. They were from the Indian Territories—men and women, young and old, and the woman who had cried out in protest had a determined look. “New Occident has taken enough. The very place you stand on used to be Indian lands. And now look at it. Preserve the treaties, protect our homes!” Those with her repeated her refrain, lifting the sign high. “Preserve the treaties, protect our homes!”

The crowd around the protesters was momentarily dumbstruck. Some of them looked up at Broadgirdle, waiting to see his reaction. Theo could see his fury building, and there was a long, tense pause.

Theo held his breath. There was nothing Graves hated so much as public embarrassment. Most affronts struck him as amusing opportunities for repayment with interest, but insults that shamed him before a crowd enraged him, for he could not insult the entire crowd.

Theo remembered watching, horrified, when a tavern
keeper in New Orleans with less flexible morals than most of his kind had refused to serve Graves. It had not even occurred to Theo to feel pleasure at Graves's humiliation; he knew too well the cost. Graves had grinned at the tavern keeper, showing every one of his sharp metal teeth. The tavern was silent. The patrons who knew his reputation stared in dread. “If you refused food and drink to every man with questionable dealings, you'd soon lose your business.” There was an edge of menace to his voice.

“No matter,” the tavern keeper said firmly. He was a sandy-haired man with a reddish beard and a broad chest of his own. He crossed his arms over it. “I'd rather lose my business than give it to men such as you.”

In response, Graves let out a low laugh. “So be it, then,” he said, but with the tone of a man who has accepted his enemy's surrender.

Theo had breathed a sigh of relief, not entirely understanding Graves's final words but glad that Graves had used only words rather than a pointed pistol. They stayed in New Orleans two days more, and when they left Theo learned that the tavern had been burned to the ground by a fire that started in the middle of the night: a fire that had become explosive when the tavern's alcohol ignited.

Theo watched Broadgirdle now as he glared at the protestors, feeling once again the sense of dread. With effort, Broadgirdle took a deep breath. He continued, ignoring the interruption. “Your representatives in the Western Party have a message, I say. And the message is in the name. We are the last, best hope
of the west. Ours is the Western Party. We must go west!”

This was the end of the speech, and there were cheers and applause, but they were less thunderous than Broadgirdle had hoped. Peel was already trembling in anticipation; his future promised a wave of fury rather than a wave of glorious westward expansion. Broadgirdle stalked into the long corridors of the State House, Theo and Peel hurrying in his wake.

By the time they reached the office, Broadgirdle had regained his composure. “Peel, I will remind you that we are meeting tonight at eighteen-hour after the announcement is made.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When we meet,” he added, “I would like to know who leads that group of Indian protesters.” He folded his speech in half and handed it to Peel with a significant smile. “A name will be sufficient. I can take it from there.”

Theo listened to the exchange, wondering how he could warn the protesters. Another part of him insisted that he needed to pursue his lead so that he could prove what Broadgirdle had done.

With Nettie and Winnie's assistance, Theo had developed a theory that neatly accounted for all of Broadgirdle's machinations—almost all. He had captured the Weatherers, and when Goldenrod came in search of them, he had sent a Sandman to attack her. He had killed Bligh for knowing the location of the missing Eerie, and framing Shadrack for the murder was a neat way of gaining leverage on the most famous cartologer in New Occident.

Theo's newest piece of information had explained why.
Broadgirdle's Nihilismian sympathies largely drove his ambitions for westward expansion. Theo understood that a Nihilismian, even a lapsed Nihilismian, would find significance in the book written by the other Shadrack Elli: it meant that this Shadrack, of New Occident, was destined to create maps of the western lands they would acquire.

What was missing—in more ways than one—were the three Eerie. Without knowing where they were or why Broadgirdle had taken them, the whole edifice could not stand.

He had already decided, on the day of the final speech, that he would find a way to ask about the Eerie, even if it cost him the position. The charade had gone on long enough. Now, with Broadgirdle distracted by the protesters, would be as good a time as any. “Sir,” he said timidly.

“Yes, Slade?”

“You may remember the question you asked during our interview. The question about overhearing something. Which you ask of everyone who works in your office?” He looked from Broadgirdle to Peel, the very image of nervous hesitation. The nervousness, at least, was not feigned.

Broadgirdle's eyes sharpened. “Yes, I do. Certainly.”

“I am afraid a similar situation has arisen. I have overheard something. And I think you should know about it.”

“What is it?”

Theo swallowed. “I overheard two men discussing the plan for westward expansion. They . . . were critical of it. But it seemed unimportant, until I heard them mention the Eerie.”

Broadgirdle's face froze. Only his eyes, lit by a kind of slow
fire, seemed to register Theo's words. “What, exactly, did they say?”

Theo had practiced this part of the gamble. It had to sound precise and plausible, while still vague enough to cover all the possibilities of the facts he did not understand. “One of them said, ‘The three missing Eerie are no secret,' and the other one said, ‘Though Broadgirdle would like them to be.' I apologize, sir. That was him addressing you without a title, not me.”