Shadrack thought quickly. First he had to get the bonnet off. He would not be able to escape right away, but it might be possible to distract his guards, and that was as good a start as any. He locked eyes with Weeping and nodded. Immediately the young man loosened the wires and pulled the wooden block away. “Call her,” he said to the older man.
“Wait,” Shadrack said, turning in his chair. “Listen to me.” The older man was already walking to the door. “June fourth,” he said quickly. “Weeping is for the cursed, who bear the face of evil. All grief is of the false world, not of the true world. Trust not the weeping, and weep not.”
The older man stopped and turned and looked at him, as if the words touched the edges of something terribly remote that he had to strain to remember. The younger man clasped his medallion and murmured, “Truth of Amitto.”
Shadrack spoke in an urgent undertone. “Truth, indeed. But she is hiding the truth from you—the truth about the very passage for which you are named. Trust not the weeping, Amitto says.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, forcing the man to lean in. “I know you have heard the weeping, as I did, at the mansion. Can you deny it?” The man’s silence answered him eloquently. “I can prove to you that this weeping, this evil,” Shadrack pressed, “which she is hiding from you, is close at hand.”
The older man had not moved; he stared at Shadrack, troubled, as if still trying to work out the meaning of the words that he had quoted from the Chronicles of the Great Disruption. Weeping, looking intently at Shadrack, deliberated. “How?” he finally asked.
“Do you know what causes the weeping—where it comes from?”
The young man hesitated. He shook his head. “No one knows. If you know, tell me.”
“I cannot tell you. There is no way but to show you,” Shadrack said. “If you will give me my tools, I will map the memory that will allow you to see.”
“Don’t give him anything,” said the older man reflexively.
“Tell her I am drawing the map she requested,” Shadrack insisted. “I promise you, Weeping—I will show you Amitto’s truth.”
Weeping looked down at him, the force of obedience and the Nihilismian fervor warring like water and fire in his green eyes. He had obligations and loyalties in this world; but nothing surpassed his commitment to Amitto’s truth. The fire won. He leaned toward Shadrack and mouthed his words, so that the older Sandman standing by the door would not hear him. “Very well.” Then he straightened up and spoke in a loud voice. “You will draw the map she ordered or no map at all.”
Shadrack bowed his head, pretending to be cowed.
“Ashes,” the young Sandman said, turning toward the older man. “You may go and tell her that he has agreed. I will oversee his drawing of the map.”
20
At the Gates
1891, June 26: 10-Hour #
Welcome to Ensueño Inn. Please stable horses and anchor arboldevelas after checking in. Please do not bring your horses into the courtyard. Our floors will thank you!
Sign at the inn’s entrance
NORMALLY, MAZAPÁN RELIED on hired guards for protection on the route between the Veracruz market and Nochtland, where he had his chocolate store. His wagon bore the royal seal—a leaf encircled by its stem—which attracted highway bandits. But on this trip, Calixta and Burr could offer more expert protection. Burr hired horses for Calixta, Theo, and himself. Sophia, who had never ridden, sat in the cart with Mazapán.
She had been hoping for a chance to speak with Theo. The last of her anger had faded as they walked back through the market, his scarred hand in hers, and it had given way to a compounded sense of anxiety. For one thing, they were back on land and once again easy targets for Montaigne and his men. And now they had Theo’s dangerous raider to worry about as well.
She couldn’t help it; staying angry with him was impossible. She wanted to know who the raider was, and why he was chasing Theo, and whether he was likely to return accompanied by more like him. It was obvious to her, now, that Theo had been telling her the truth about his past—but he had told her too little of it. What she most wanted now was to sit down and hear everything, from beginning to end. But he rode separately, sometimes ahead and sometimes behind, and apart from asking an occasional question about the route, he seemed utterly uninterested in the journey.
Instead, the story she heard was Mazapán’s. He told her about his store in Nochtland and the winding street that led to it and the delicious pottery he made in the large, sun-filled kitchen. He spoke with the accent of the southern Baldlands, like Mrs. Clay. His clothes—thin leather boots, white cotton pants, and a shirt embroidered with vines—while apparently commonplace in the Baldlands, would have stood out in Boston. His sizable belly, wavy brown hair, and large mustache all seemed to shuffle back and forth when he laughed. Sophia was only half listening and kept turning around to see if anyone was following them. Only when Mazapán handed her the reins and said, “All right, concentrate now—keep them at a steady pace,” did she realize that the kindly chocolate vendor was doing his best to distract her. She felt suddenly grateful and a little ashamed. “Why do they call you Mazapán?” she asked. “Is that your whole name?”
He smiled. “Actually, my name is Olaf Rud. But no one here can pronounce it. You see, my grandfather was an adventurer from the Kingdom of Denmark—a place that today lies in the far north of the Closed Empire. He was traveling here when the Disruption occurred. It became obvious afterward that he could not return; everyone he had known and loved had disappeared.”
Sophia nodded, intrigued. She had read about such stranded travelers—exiles who lost their home Ages—but each case was different and uniquely interesting. “So he stayed.”
“So he stayed. And with him, his unusual name, which no one can pronounce. Everyone calls me Mazapán. It is the Spanish word for marzipan, and Spanish is one of the many languages still spoken in the Triple Eras. In the past I was known for making marzipan candy”
“Why in the past? Don’t you make marzipan anymore?”
His mustache drooped. “Ah, that’s not such a happy story.”
“I don’t mind,” Sophia said. “If you don’t mind telling it.”
Mazapán shook his head. “No, I am past minding. I’ll tell you, though I am afraid it will not give you the most pleasant impression of Nochtland. Still—I am sure you will discover its charms.
“You see, I learned to make marzipan with my teacher—a master chef who could have turned his talents to anything, but decided he liked candy best. From him I also learned to make chocolate and spun sugar and meringues—all manner of confection. Well, my teacher was not young when I began learning from him, and he passed away just a year after I opened my own shop. Much of his business passed to me, and I did what I could to match his high standards. I was fortunate to attract the attentions of the court, and I began serving banquets for the royal family—in the palace of Emperor Sebastian Canuto.”
Sophia was astonished. “Banquets of candy?”
“Oh, yes—nothing else. I suppose I could cook some beans if my life depended on it, but I have to rely on my wife for everything of substance. I am not much good at anything other than candy. The banquets were quite complete in their details, if I do say so myself. Everything on the table—the tablecloth, the plates, the food, the flowers—was made of candy. The plates were made of chocolate, like those you saw, but the food and flowers were usually made of spun sugar and marzipan. The pleasure people derived from the banquets was in how the candy was disguised. It all looked like real food, real flowers, real dishes. And it is one of humankind’s simplest and most eternal pleasures to be knowingly deceived by appearances. I, too, enjoyed the banquets; I created more and more fantastic feasts with more elaborate and detailed dishes.