SMOKE & MIRRORS #12: Order is Mercy

Welcome to Ashford Row

PARLOR TRICKS # 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

SMOKE & MIRRORS # 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

Arthur Mercer knew Ashford Row well enough to know when the city was pretending to be okay.

The old road released Arthur and Susan onto the city’s eastern edge, which was not where they had started, but was perhaps exactly where they needed to be. Shanties crowded the street, assembled from weathered boards, dented metal, and a patchwork of cobbled-together rooftops. The smell of rust and motor oil lingered in the corners. The place seemed loosely stitched, as if Ashford Row had not yet decided whether to keep it standing or let it all collapse. And here, more than any other place they had seen, the backlog souls were gathered.

A man stood beside a storm gutter looking unsure where he had found himself. Nearby, two young women held hands as they lingered. A pregnant woman looked up at the sky, then down to the grit on the street, then back up again. They appeared to have nothing in common, yet remained loosely tethered by some recognition they could not explain.

The street breathed like an ordinary street, but shallow and raspy at its edges. The buildings were hoarse versions of themselves. No candlelight leaked from the cracks of shuttered windows. No voices drifted through the thin walls. Something shuffled down an alley like a shiver down a spine.

Arthur walked on and Susan followed. Shoes struck cobblestone, accompanied by the clack of Arthur’s replacement cane. It still looked ill-fitted to his grip, though Susan could not have explained why. At the haberdashery, Susan saw several people staring into the storefront window as though its collection of fine hats contained a distant horizon nobody else could see. She scrutinized their clothes, their hair, the look in their eyes, not vacant but not entirely coherent, then she looked to Arthur. He did not acknowledge them.

Again, down the road, several souls crowded an antiques dealer. One man had grabbed the dealer’s wrists, insisting they were brothers. When the dealer broke free and staggered backward, three other strangers drifted into his shop, drawn by the open door and warmly lit interior. The shopkeeper stood in the street, unsure whether to abandon his shop to the strangers or charge in and drive them out.

“This is not good,” said Susan.

“No,” said Arthur. “It isn’t.”

Susan wondered if Arthur might move to help. He did not stop.

“I was wondering,” said Susan, “what exactly are we intending to do about—” Susan hesitated, drawn aside by the absurdity of it all. “—about the backlog?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” said Arthur. He paused at a street corner and looked to his left. Then his right. Then, thoughtfully, to the sky, as if the answer to this problem might lie somewhere above. His expression never changed. Then he looked to the antiques shop, which was now a source of clattering noise and the sound of shattering glass. “We cannot spend eternity saving every distressed storefront. We will not solve the problem that way.” His lips pursed a fractional degree. “We need to understand the pattern first.”

Arthur continued at a thinking pace despite the tension that surrounded them. Ahead, another group rounded the corner. These were not the backlog. The three men moved shoulder to shoulder with fixed expressions and the confidence of recently granted authority. The two groups converged beneath the balconies of a tall apartment building, where flowerpots and the occasional flag hung above the street. The three sour-looking men came to a stop before Arthur and Susan. They wore identical stern expressions, plain work shirts, and white armbands marked with the same crisp black symbol.

Arthur stood still, palm on his cane. Susan remained at his side, surveying the men. Reading Arthur. Something lingered now in the air. A thing the men carried with them. Something festering and angry. Something human.

“There’s trouble in the streets,” said the tall man in front. He adjusted the cotton band around his left arm as if insecure about the addition to his outfit. It was too brilliantly white to be anything but new. Or perhaps he wanted to draw attention to it.

Arthur’s eyes did not break from the leader. “I’ve noticed.”

“The city needs to take action.” The man paused expectantly here, as if the words themselves carried the necessary weight to compel a response. When none was forthcoming, the man continued. “We’re looking for like-minded folks who want to help.”

Like-minded was a dangerous word, particularly when spoken by angry men. Susan scanned the other two men and the street beyond them. A stray backlog soul wandered in the distance, paused mid-step, then kept walking as if searching unseen shelves for something long forgotten.

Arthur shifted the grip on his cane. “I don’t believe we’re the sort you’re looking for.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. The two men behind him matched his reaction, as if moving with a singular mind. The man reached out with a pamphlet. “You should be informed,” he said.

Arthur made no attempt to touch the paper. Its sterile white matched the new armbands. When the man released it, the paper slipped and curled through the air. Susan snatched it. The paper flexed but did not crumple in her fingers. It felt heavier than it should have.

“Who’s producing these pamphlets?” said Arthur.

The man’s jaw hung slack as though the question had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “I don’t know,” he said, his words coming slowly. He looked at Arthur, then Susan, then to the pamphlet clutched in her hand. “But I don’t like the sort of questions you’re asking.” He straightened suddenly, as if remembering how he had been instructed to stand. “You need to ask yourself if you’re going to be part of the problem, or part of the solution.”

The thug gave them a final glare then brushed past, his two friends trailing close behind. Arthur turned his head and observed them marching across the street, toward a shop owner who had stepped out to sweep his door front. Susan watched, too, then turned back to examine the pamphlet clutched in her fingers. It was a recruitment poster.

SAVE ASHFORD ROW.

ORDER BEGINS WITH YOU.

BE A PART OF THE SOLUTION.

For all the words on the page, it was remarkably nonspecific. No place to meet, no way to sign up. No name. Not even a specific mention of the threat. The only purposeful detail was the symbol in the corner, identical to the marks on the armbands.

“What does it mean?” said Susan. Her finger traced the symbol’s lines. “I’ve never seen this before.”

Arthur studied the mark, his expression blank as he traced the severe lines and unfamiliar flourishes. “I don’t know.”

Susan frowned. Arthur’s uncertainty troubled her more than the thugs had.

Across the street, the three thugs had positioned themselves so that the shop owner would have to push through them to leave. They weren’t threatening him, not exactly, but their tactics were intimidating enough that he accepted their pamphlet with a nervous nod.

“I feel like we should be doing something about that,” said Susan.

Arthur’s brow furrowed as he watched the shopkeeper accept the pamphlet. “We are.” He turned toward the center of the district, where the hanging sign of a public house caught his eye. “Are you thirsty?”

Susan drew her head back. “Now?”

“Frightened men, printed words, and rooms where no one is listening. That’s what a movement requires. A tavern should provide at least two of the three.”

Susan nodded slowly, still clutching the pamphlet as she put the pieces together.

“Excellent.” Arthur struck his cane against the cobblestones. “Let’s get a drink.”