Edward Maret

by Robert I. Katz

  EDWARD

  MARET

  Other Books by Robert I. Katz

  Surgical Risk: A Kurtz and Barent Mystery

  The Anatomy Lesson: A Kurtz and Barent Mystery

  Seizure: A Kurtz and Barent Mystery

  EDWARD

  MARET

  ●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

  A Novel of the Future by

  Robert I. Katz

  EDWARD MARET

  Copyright © 2001 by Robert I. Katz

  Cover design by Steven A. Katz

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form, without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  To Lynn

  Contents

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  —The End—

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Father Argos was fat, Edward Maret thought. He had been fat for as long as Edward had known him, and he had grown fatter with every passing year. His mind was still sharp though, almost as sharp as his tongue.

  “You’re lazy,” Father Argos said.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “You lack discipline.”

  “I know that, Father.”

  “And you don’t care—do you?”

  “Sometimes I do.” Edward Maret shrugged, and tried without success to suppress a smile.

  Father Argos looked at him severely, then sighed and shook his head. “Why do I even try?” he complained. “You’re going to do just exactly as you like, anyway. You always have, and you probably always will.”

  “It’s your duty to try, Father,” Edward observed. “You mustn’t allow yourself to despair. Despair is the greatest sin of them all.”

  “Don’t be fresh.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Edward, tell me, do you really love this girl?”

  The smile faded slowly from Edward’s face. He sank back into his seat and nodded his head. “Yes, Father. I do,” he answered.

  “Twenty years is a long time. You must be sure.”

  How often had he been asked that question, recently? Edward Maret repressed the sigh that threatened to bubble up within him. He knew that Father Argos cared deeply for him. His questions arose from a sincere affection and Edward, despite his teasing, would do anything rather than hurt the old man. They all care for me, he reflected morosely. Grin and bear it. It will be over soon.

  “You’re very young, Edward.”

  “I know that, Father. You’ve told me so often enough. You all have.”

  The Priest grinned. “Getting impatient, eh? Well, think what twenty years with the wrong woman would do for your patience.”

  “I have thought of it. I couldn’t not think of it with everyone harping on the subject all day long.”

  “Well, I, for one, am going to continue to harp on it. I have responsibilities toward you and your entire family, and I am going to carry those responsibilities out. And I don’t care in the slightest if you’re bored with the subject.”

  “No, Father, I realize that.”

  “You’re going to live for a long time, Edward. A long time. I want you to be happy.”

  Once again, Edward Maret suppressed a sigh. “Yes, Father.”

  The Priest searched his face thoroughly, this time approving what he saw there. “Alright, then.” Father Argos leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. Edward endured the silence that followed with equanimity. “You could have been my best pupil, Edward. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, Father, I did.” Edward said this without embarrassment.

  “I meant it when I said you were lazy.”

  “I know, Father.”

  “I also meant it when I said that you didn’t care.” The Priest waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, he went on. “I admired you for it, in a way. You were the most headstrong young man I’ve ever met. You simply were not going to study if you didn’t feel like studying.” Father Argos gave him a brooding, somehow clinical look. “You got by on intelligence and just enough work to avoid failing.”

  Edward stirred restlessly in his seat and looked hurt. “Now Father, that’s not fair,” he said.

  “Isn’t it? You were good only when you wanted to be.” The Priest sighed again and smiled crookedly. “Oh, well. You’re a young man now. I shouldn’t rebuke you. I pray you’ll be happy.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Edward nodded his head in careful agreement. “So do I.”

  Twenty-three is not so young as all that, Edward Maret thought. It used to be common for people to be married at twenty-three, to have families and jobs and whole lives of their own. And nobody thought twice about it. Nobody bothered them. They were free.

  His feet echoed hollowly as he trudged down the long hallway of the old house. The faint lemon scent of cleaning oil came to his nostrils. The floors and walls had recently been waxed, he noted, the dark, old wood gleaming richly in the steady light. The whole place had been spruced up, everything shining like new for the great event. He felt a smile break out on his face at the thought and his heavy step grew light. For seven hundred Earth years and five generations the house had observed all the rituals of the Maret family, the celebrations, the births, the deaths. His father had been born here. His father and grandfather and great-grandfather had been buried here. Every Feast Day had seen the halls alive with the bustle of relatives and distant relatives and close friends and friends of friends.

  For twenty-three years, except for that brief, agonizing time when his father and uncle had died, Edward Maret had been happy. But never had he been happier than now. He drew a great breath, rejoicing in the gleam of the wood and the sharp scent of the oil and all the joy it implied and skipped a little down the hall.

  “Cousin,” a voice said.

  Edward stopped, frowned and turned. By the time he had completed the turn, he had wiped the frown from his face and replaced it with a polite smile. “Philip,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”

  Philip Maret leaned languidly against the wall, his arms crossed against his chest, red-brown hair falling in waves down to his narrow shoulders. “Thank you, Cousin,” he said. He stopped, smiled thinly at Edward and cocked his head to one side as if thinking something over. Edward met his gaze calmly.

  “You say it,” said Philip, still smiling, “almost as if you meant it.”

  Edward shrugged. “You know me so well,” he said. “Too well.”

  Philip continued to lean against the wall. His posture loo
ked uncomfortable, Edward thought. He noticed suddenly that Philip’s eyes were softly unfocused and his normally impeccable clothing was disarrayed. “You’re drunk,” he said.

  Philip’s eyebrows rose. “So?”

  “You’re not in control of yourself. Go back to your room and sleep it off.”

  “Kind Edward. Concerned Edward.” Philip shook his head sadly and grimaced. “Sanctimonious Edward. Do you think I need an excuse for the way I’m behaving? Do you?”

  “You never have before,” Edward said.

  Philip snorted. “Well, I don’t need one now.” Slowly, as if peeling his body away from the wall, Philip drew himself erect and gazed into Edward’s eyes. “You always had it all,” he whispered. “The Golden Boy. Even when you fucked up they adored you. All you had to do was put on a sunny smile and pretend to look guilty and they all melted. Even Mother. Isn’t that right, Edward? Don’t tell me that it’s not. I know it is. God, how I know. You make me sick.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Philip.”

  Philip blinked once. He drew himself erect and his face paled. One hand curled slowly into a fist.

  “If you try to hit me, Philip, I’ll hurt you.” Edward’s voice was low and almost pleasant, a strange contrast to the meaning of his words. “I never have before, you know. I always made excuses for you.” Edward shrugged. “But I find suddenly that my patience for your little foibles has run out.”

  Philip’s nostrils flared and his breathing came faster. For a moment Edward thought that he actually was going to do it, and he braced himself, but suddenly Philip’s shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes and leaned back heavily back against the wall. Edward waited another moment, then pushed past his cousin and stalked angrily down the hallway.

  Dimly, Edward noticed that a sheen of sweat covered his face and his muscles ached from tension. He consciously took a deep breath and tried to still his trembling, then shook his head and sighed slowly. I probably could have handled that better, he thought. Then he thought of the coming festivities and his anger abruptly returned, washing over him like a wave. I can put up with a lot for the sake of the family, but he hit me at the wrong time. God damn it, he thought, and wondered where his good mood had gone.

  “That son-of-a-bitch…” He whispered it to the air.

  “Would you pass the potatoes, please, Edward?”

  “Yes, Mother.” He did as he was asked.

  “You’re very silent tonight, Edward. Is something bothering you?”

  Edward refrained from looking at Philip. “No, Mother.” “He’s nervous, Cecile, that’s all. Leave the boy alone.”

  Edward glanced at his Aunt Idris. As always, her stiff, upright frame exuded energy. “I think,” Aunt Idris said, “that too much of a fuss is being made of all this.” She sniffed. “You’d think nobody had ever gotten married before.”

  Edward’s mother looked at her sister-in-law with a fond, indulgent smile. “I seem to recall quite a celebration when you first married, Idris. We were intoxicated for three days.”

  “We weren’t intoxicated. We were appropriately joyful.”

  “Yes.” Cecile rolled her eyes and grinned broadly. “I remember.”

  Edward, who had hoped that his mother and aunt might get involved in a lengthy reminiscence and forget about him, was disappointed to have the former fix him with her sharp gaze. “How is the harvest going?”

  “Not bad. The cilium has a fungus, but it won’t cause much damage. The season has been too dry.”

  “That’s good. We need a few good years.”

  Edward nodded and his aunt frowned at this reminder of the recent political troubles. Trade with the Confed had almost died out during the Irredentist revolt. For five long years, only the rashest captains and most heavily armed ships had been willing to brave the no-man’s land that the route to Sparta had become. But the civil war was finally sputtering to an inconclusive end, the forces of the Irredentists disbanding and laying down their arms—coming sheepishly home—and now that things were almost back on an even keel, everyone was eager to resume their previous commerce.

  “I think the whole thing is absurd. We shouldn’t give the damn rebels amnesty. We should hang them all.”

  Edward could see his mother wince, but they all prudently stayed silent. His aunt, her eyes flashing, took the silence for victory and complacently speared a piece of meat from her plate.

  “Where will you spend your honeymoon?” Father Argos asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Edward replied. “We had been thinking of Kos, or maybe Santorini.”

  “Why don’t you go off-World?” Idris asked. “It’s so much more romantic.”

  “I don’t think it’s so romantic, spending all our time cooped up aboard a ship.”

  “I agree with you,” his mother said. “Fresh air and sunshine will be much more relaxing.”

  “They’re not supposed to relax,” Idris said. She laughed wholeheartedly. Father Argos cleared his throat and pushed a forkful of peas around his plate. Edward felt himself blushing.

  Cecile frowned at her sister-in-law. “Behave, Idris,” she said mildly. Idris laughed even harder.

  “Excuse me,” Philip muttered. “I have a headache.” They were the first words Philip had spoken all evening, and the others all stared at him. He pushed his chair back and stood, then walked unsteadily from the room.

  “He does look a little green,” Cecile remarked.

  For once, Idris seemed to have nothing to say, and they finished the rest of the meal in diplomatic silence.

  Only once did Edward glance at the clock. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, she’ll be here. Joanna. My bride.

  Chapter 2

  Joanna Langley waited impatiently by the baggage pick-up of the tube station, staring at the bustle of people coming in and out through the turnstiles and doors, eagerly searching for the tall figure of Edward Maret. She had been waiting for nearly an hour and her feet ached. She shuffled them tiredly and thought that she really should sit down in one of the comfortable chairs placed against the wall, but she couldn’t do it. She was too nervous. Joanna had felt her heart quicken a dozen times at the sight of men who bore Edward only the vaguest resemblance. She was being absurd, she knew, but she could not help herself; and besides, she perversely enjoyed acting like a love-struck schoolgirl. And why not? she thought. That’s just what I am. In two days, she would be married, and she happily intended to fulfill all the most sentimental clichés.

  Where is he? She resisted an urge to stamp her foot.

  For the hundredth time, she glanced at her watch, and this time, suddenly, when she looked up, he was there, standing by her side. For a giddy instant, she considered berating him, but his crooked smile, the way the lights shone on his hair, the knowing look in his eyes…these things all took her breath away, and she found herself for a moment unable to say anything at all.

  “Happy to see me?” Edward asked.

  She cleared her throat. “You’re late,” she said. It just slipped out, and immediately she regretted it. But Edward only smiled more broadly.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I got stuck in traffic.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him impulsively on the cheek, at which his eyebrows rose. “Not in public,” he chided. “You’re supposed to be serenely triumphant. Ostentatious displays of affection might give people the wrong impression.”

  “I’ll give any impression I want. Carry my bag.”

  With a chuckle, he tucked her single case under one arm. Joanna slipped her hand through his other arm and they set off through the crowd. “The car is this way,” he said. It took a few minutes to work their way against the flow of traffic, but soon they were outside the terminal in the bright sunshine. “How was the trip?” he asked.

  “Boring. Except for a layover in Eritis. There was a bomb threat in the tube.” She shrugged. “It turned out to be nothing, but we were all worried.”

  For an inst
ant he looked concerned, then he shook his head. “I’ll just be happy when this damned war is finally over.”

  “Soon,” she said. “Then we can get back to normal.”

  Edward nodded. He pulled out a sheaf of keys and opened the car door for her. Gratefully, Joanna sank into the front seat and laid her head back against the rest, then glanced across at Edward. He caught her looking at him and grinned. “Twenty-five kilometers to Airlie,” he said. “Enjoy the ride.”

  Vincent FitzMichael sat in a smoky tavern looking out over the street in front of the mag-lev terminal. He nursed a jigger of sugary lemonovka as he waited, sipping slowly, cracking an occasional cube of ice between his teeth. The drink was numbingly cold, a welcome relief after the moist heat of the sun outside. It tickled his tongue and slid down his throat with a sweet tease. Vincent lingered over the feeling, wanting it to last. He felt a sharp edge of expectancy as he waited for Philip Maret to arrive.

  The door opened and Philip’s thin, angular form entered. Philip blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, then he spotted Vincent and walked over.

  “Philip,” Vincent said, and raised his glass. “It’s good to see you. Sit down.”

  Philip looked terrible. His eyes were red and his hair hung down to his shoulders in lank, unwashed strands. He slumped into the seat opposite Vincent and gave him a moody glare. “I haven’t seen you since graduation. What do you want?”

  Vincent raised his brows in surprise. “I wanted to talk to you.” Philip gave the other man a sour look. “We were never the best of friends, Vincent.” He looked down at the rough wood of the tabletop and scowled. “I didn’t have anything against you, but I never had very much to say to you either. What’s so important that you have to talk to me now?”

  Vincent leaned his face against the window. His breath frosted a spot on the cold glass and he smiled silkily. “Look,” he said.

  Across the street, Edward Maret and Joanna Langley had just emerged into the bright sunshine. Edward hugged a bag under one arm and Joanna pressed herself close against his side as they walked. They were both smiling, their attention quite evidently fixed only upon each other.