Suddenly, it was as if a black cloud from outside Ledôme had drifted into the Palais and across the Matrone’s face. Her dark eyes narrowed, her brows dipped, and her nostrils flared. “What on Laterre do you mean?” She didn’t wait for a reply. She shook her head fiercely, knocking her curl tower askew. “This must not be tolerated. You get out there right now, General, and you tell those lazy workers that—”
“Now, now, ma chérie. Don’t work yourself into a tizzy. You’ll get wrinkles. You wouldn’t want to undo the effects of those youth injections, would you?” The Patriarche patted his wife’s hand. “There will be enough sweet breads for the birthday fête. General Bonnefaçon will see to it personally.”
Hearing the word “birthday,” the Premier Enfant began to beat her spoons together again. “Bur-day, bur-day, bur-day!” she shrieked.
The Matrone raised the back of her hand to her forehead and said in a strong whisper, “Please, ma petite. Be quiet now.”
But the little girl was already too excited to stop. She raised the spoons above her head and clapped them together again and again, stomping in time with the beat.
“Nadette!” the Matrone and Patriarche shouted at the exact same moment.
A few seconds later, Marie’s governess came bustling into the banquet hall carrying a plate of sliced fruit. Her face was flushed and her auburn hair was unkempt.
“I’m sorry, Madame Matrone. I was fetching the mademoiselle a peach from the kitchen. She’s been asking for one all morn—”
But the servant’s words were cut short when the Matrone raised a hand and waved toward her daughter, her numerous titan rings clattering with the gesture. Nadette fell silent, bowed, and immediately started toward the child in an attempt to quiet her.
Marie, however, evidently thought it was a game. She let out a squeal and began to run around the banquet hall, all the while still banging her spoons.
“Oh, my head,” the Matrone said, looking like she might faint. “This is too much, too early in the day.”
“Here.” The Patriarche passed his wife his own flute of champagne. “Have some more sparkles.” He then turned to the general. “Have you checked with the gamekeeper yet about the hunt this afternoon? I want to make sure the gardens are fully stocked with game. Last time I went out, there was barely so much as a squawk to be heard.”
Marcellus let out a long breath and allowed his mind to wander, just for a few seconds.
“Your father is dead.”
How did he die?
Did he suffer?
“Monsieur Patriarche,” his grandfather replied. His tone was cool, patient. “Perhaps if the quail population is dwindling, you’d be best to hold off hunting until more can be bred in the menageries. Your father always limited his hunting to—”
The Patriarche sat bolt upright in his chair. “Hold off?!” He spat out the words, as if it was the most ludicrous suggestion his chief counsel had ever made. “On a hunt? What on Laterre do you presume I do all day? Sit around polishing my guns?”
His anger seemed to rile up the child even more. She dropped her spoons and started chanting, “Bang! Bang! Bang!” as she formed guns with her chubby fists and fired them into the air.
“Nadette!” the Matrone cried. “Please. My aching head! Can’t you do something?”
Nadette, looking terrified, finally caught the girl and tried to shush her by stroking her hair and feeding her pieces of fruit.
“No!” Marie pushed her governess’s hand away and started to cry. She appeared to be thinking about running again, but just then, Marcellus caught her gaze and cocked an eyebrow. Without a word, he pulled a fresh napkin onto his lap.
The Premier Enfant saw his signal, sniffled, and rubbed her teary face. She dropped to her knees and crawled under the table toward Marcellus. When Marcellus felt the silk of her gown brush against his legs, he started folding the napkin.
One fold, two folds, three, and four.
He’d done it so many times, he didn’t have to look anymore. The swan’s neck, wings, and beak soon materialized in his hands. It took only a minute to complete. When he was done, he felt Marie’s fingers on his. She took the napkin-bird and crawled away. Even though the Patriarche was still chattering about his upcoming hunt, Marcellus could hear the girl cooing to her swan under the table.
“Finally, Nadette,” the Matrone said. “It took you long enough to quiet her.” She turned to Marcellus. “You would think, given it’s her only job, she’d be better at it.”
Suddenly there was a loud bang, and everyone startled and looked over at the Patriarche, who had just pounded his fist on the table, causing the Matrone’s champagne flute to tip over.
“This simply will not do!” He banged his fist again as a servant came in to mop up the spilled drink. “Dwindling quail population?” He snorted. “What nonsense! If you won’t speak to the gamekeeper, General, I might just have to find a general who will.”
Marcellus tensed at the comment. He hated when the Patriarche threatened his grandfather. General Bonnefaçon had devoted his life to the Regime. He was the most loyal servant of Laterre that Marcellus had ever known. His grandfather had been practically running this planet for the past thirty years. The former Patriarche, Claude Paresse, had promoted Bonnefaçon to general when he first inherited the Regime. He’d passed away only two years ago, and now his son, Lyon, the current Patriarche, would be positively lost without Marcellus’s grandfather. And yet he acted like the general was as replaceable as a faulty droid.
Marcellus opened his mouth to say something—even though he had no idea what to say—but the general silenced him with a subtle shake of his head.
“I will speak to the gamekeeper this afternoon,” the general said cordially.
“Forget it,” the Patriarche spat. “I’ll speak to him myself. Apparently if you want anything done right around this place, you have to do it yourself.” And with that, he rose from his chair and stalked out of the room, promptly ending the meal.
General Bonnefaçon rose too, which was Marcellus’s cue to wipe his mouth and push back his chair.
“Please excuse us, Madame Matrone,” the general said. “Officer Bonnefaçon and I have much to do to prepare for today’s Ascension ceremony.”
The Matrone slouched in her seat. “Oh, not another dreadful Ascension! If you keep letting Third Estaters into Ledôme, we’ll be positively overrun.”
“I assure you there is plenty of room in Ledôme,” General Bonnefaçon said. “And the Ascension manoirs are a long way from the Palais.”
The Matrone waved a dismissive wave, sending her rings clacking together once again. Then she stood up, teetering somewhat on her feet. “Come, Marie. Come walk with Maman in the gardens.”
Marie let out a wail and burst into tears. “No! Birdy! Birdy!”
The governess immediately ducked under the table and scooped the child up into her arms, cooing into her ear. “Yes, yes. We’re going to see the birdies right now in the gardens.”
“If my husband hasn’t shot them all,” the Matrone said under her breath.
“No!” The little girl’s voice was almost muffled by sobs now. “Birdy! Birdy!”
Nadette attempted to shush the child again as she followed the Matrone out of the banquet hall. Marcellus’s gaze fell to the floor next to the edge of the tablecloth, and he noticed his white swan lying abandoned under a chair.
For some reason, he felt a strong urge to pick it up and run after the little girl, but then he saw that his grandfather was already halfway out the opposite door. Marcellus turned and followed behind him, grateful that the meal was finally over and he wouldn’t be expected to sit through another one for an entire week.
As Marcellus and his grandfather walked back to the south wing, Marcellus’s mind filled with more questions about his dead father that he longed to ask.
What were his last words?
Was he all alone?
But he knew there was no way he could ask such t
hings. Curiosity could easily be misconstrued as concern, and concern could just as easily be misconstrued as grief.
And you don’t grieve traitors.
So he continued down the corridor in silence, following the general into his large, oak-paneled study. The walls were covered with First World paintings and relics, including the head of an antlered beast (never successfully bred on Laterre), which hung above the fireplace with its dead eyes watching over the room. Marcellus’s grandfather took a seat behind his vast, imposing desk and immediately began to watch the many AirLink messages that had appeared on his TéléCom since they’d left for brunch.
“Will that be all?” Marcellus asked.
He knew he’d be expected in the Marsh soon for the Ascension, but he secretly longed for a few moments alone before then, so he could process the news about his father in private.
“No, actually,” his grandfather replied, still staring at his TéléCom. “Your father’s body is in the morgue at the Vallonay Med Center. They’ve requested that you go to sign off on the disposal.”
A wave of nausea instantly passed over Marcellus. “Me?”
His grandfather looked up from his screen, a knowing smile dancing on his lips. “First time seeing a dead body?”
Marcellus knew his grandfather was teasing him, the way everyone at the Ministère liked to tease him. He had a reputation for having a weak stomach—something he was working hard to overcome. He straightened up, reprimanding himself for losing control. “Yes. But I’m fine. Obviously, I have no connection to my father. His body will be like any other . . . body.”
He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. He needed to stop saying “body.”
His grandfather set down his TéléCom and flashed Marcellus a sympathetic look. “It’s perfectly normal to feel uneasy. I remember my first. Sols, I damn near fainted.”
Marcellus perked up. “You did?”
His grandfather chuckled at the memory. “Yes. I was working in the Policier, and my inspecteur had sent me to Montfer to investigate the murder of an exploit foreman. It was dreadful. The man had been ripped open with a mining pick. His insides were spilled out all over the ground. I took one look at him and I swear every planet in the System realigned.”
Marcellus felt himself grow woozy at the image and quickly sat down across the desk from his grandfather. “What did you do?”
His grandfather leaned forward conspiratorially, as if sharing a long-kept secret. “I clenched my teeth so hard to keep from passing out, my back molar cracked right down to the gum. Spent the rest of the day in the Med Center. Told them it was a piece of overcooked sheep bacon I’d bitten down on at lunch.”
Marcellus let out a laugh, instantly feeling lighter.
“But it gets easier,” his grandfather went on. “Eventually you see enough dead people that they stop being people and start being . . . bodies.”
A memory from earlier this year—almost three months ago—suddenly drifted into Marcellus’s mind. He could still see his grandfather’s vacant eyes as he’d returned from claiming the remains of the twelve men and women who’d come back from their mission to assassinate the Albion queen. The rebels on Usonia had eventually won the war, but that particular mission had failed.
He knew those soldiers were not just bodies to his grandfather.
One in particular.
“But, Grand-père,” Marcellus began with a shaky breath. “What about when it’s someone you know? Maybe even someone you’re close to?”
The general’s eyes narrowed, and Marcellus knew he was treading on uneven ground. But he pressed forward anyway. His grandfather had to talk about what had happened at some point. Didn’t he?
Marcellus tried to wet his lips, but his tongue was as dry as sand. “Not my father, obviously. I barely even remember him. But when you saw the body of Commandeur Vernay . . .”
Marcellus saw the shift in his grandfather’s expression immediately. Like a curtain being drawn.
“It’s already after 13.30,” his grandfather said, picking up his TéléCom again and swiping at the screen. “You should get on your way to the morgue. I’ll message Inspecteur Limier and let him know you’ll be late for your Ascension duties in the marketplace.”
Marcellus searched his grandfather’s eyes for a hint of the levity and openness he’d glimpsed just moments ago. But it was gone. Stamped out. Like a planet passing in front of a Sol.
Since childhood, Marcellus had trained himself on the complex workings of his grandfather’s worn and weathered face. Like an explorer mapping out rugged, uncharted terrain, he’d memorized every wrinkle, every muscle, every subtle movement and what it meant. He’d learned to recognize the rare moments when his grandfather was open and exposed, and more importantly, the all-too-frequent moments when his grandfather was closed. Locked. Bolted.
And right now, the bolt was as heavy and unrelenting as PermaSteel.
He should never have mentioned her name.
“Of course, sir,” Marcellus said, rising from his chair. “I’ll go now, on my way to the Marsh.” He swallowed as he walked to the door, glancing back long enough to say, “And I’m sorry.”
The general’s head whipped up and his gaze landed on Marcellus. It was cold and dark. “For what?”
But Marcellus didn’t answer. He just left.
- CHAPTER 4 -
CHATINE
“ONE THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED THIRTY-TWO Ascension points. Fourteen tokens.”
The computerized voice of the leveler echoed off the decrepit walls of the Vallonay Med Center morgue as Chatine scanned the Skin of the first body. It was a woman, possibly late thirties, probably a fabrique worker. She had clearly died of rot, from the looks of her blackened stump of a leg. Rot was the most common cause of death in the Frets. Médicaments were in such short supply in Vallonay that even the smallest cuts or nicks could eventually fester and turn black. And once the rot invaded your bloodstream, there was really no hope.
The leveler emitted a beep, alerting Chatine that the points and tokens had been successfully lifted from the woman’s profile account, and she moved on, ducking under the gurney to avoid the motion sensors that activated the morgue security microcams. Chatine had performed this morbid task enough times to know exactly where they were stationed. All thirty-seven of them.
Holding her breath as she passed by what was left of the poor woman’s leg, Chatine glanced up at the rows and rows of cavs that stretched out before her—all of them waiting to be frozen and ground to dust. This was going to take forever. There were so many bodies, some had been placed two to a gurney. Chatine spotted a man who was missing all ten of his toes and knew right away that it was the work of the Délabré, her father’s gang. This was someone who clearly hadn’t paid his debts. All the bodies were in varying states of decay—rotting flesh, sores around the mouth, sunken eyes—even though Chatine knew they’d only been dead less than a day.
Ascension points and tokens were normally emptied from accounts within thirty hours of death—the time it usually took for the Ministère to register the death and for the profile to be wiped from the Communiqué. Chatine’s father had discovered years ago that those points and largs could be lifted beforehand and “redistributed” to the highest bidder, and so the unpleasant task of retrieving them had fallen to Chatine.
She just really wished the Med Center workers would close the eyes before bringing the cavs in here. This job would be so much easier if the dead weren’t staring back at her, begging her to save them.
Chatine moved on to the next corpse—a younger woman, a girl—and placed the leveler flush against the inside of her arm, directly over her darkened Skin. The device rapidly flashed as it analyzed the data.
“Fifty-two Ascension points, four hundred twelve tokens.”
Chatine blinked at the amount and studied the girl, careful to avoid her open, unseeing eyes. She was thin—like almost everyone in the Third Estate—but her feet and ankles were puffy and swollen,
as though all the fat on her body had drained downward. Her arms and legs were covered in bluish-purple splotches, and rough scales enveloped her neck as though attempting to strangle her.
Chatine pressed her lips together to keep from being sick. She recognized the symptoms. She’d seen the same ones on the girls standing outside the blood bordels.
The girl on the gurney had low Ascension points, which probably meant that, like Chatine, she had ignored her job assignment and vowed to make her own way in the world. She’d chosen to defy the Ministère’s “honest work for an honest chance” propaganda. But instead of stealing and pulling cons like Chatine, she’d decided to sell the nutrients in her blood. Chatine could understand the reasoning behind the decision. Extra largs meant extra food. Extra food meant you and your family could live to see another day. Unfortunately, however, most girls—like this one—took it too far. Sold too much to the blood bordels. Got addicted to the feel of all those extra tokens in their profile account.
Dishonest work for a dishonest death.
Chatine felt a shiver ripple through her, and she glanced away from the girl’s young face. Mercifully, the leveler beeped just then, and she moved on to the next cav.
Chatine ran a hand down the side of her coat, feeling the weight of her stolen trinkets lining her pockets. That was all she needed to assure herself that she would never end up like that girl, lying in this run-down building while vultures stole her precious largs.
The next cav was a man, much older than the previous two corpses. The skin around his eyes had wrinkled and sagged years ago. His long dark hair and beard were streaked with silver. And his fingertips were blackened and calloused. An exploit worker perhaps? Someone who had spent practically his entire life underground, mining precious metals and minerals to send to the fabriques for processing?
His clothing was tattered and caked with a fine dust. Chatine had to pull up the sleeve of his shirt in order to access his Skin. She hated when she had to actually touch the bodies.
She placed the leveler against the Skin and waited, turning her face to the wall so she wouldn’t have to look at him. The leveler seemed to be taking an unusually long time, and Chatine glanced back to make sure it was making proper contact with his Skin. Then it let out a series of soft, rapid beeps.
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