ARC: The Buried Life

by Carrie Patel

  Now Malone focused on her glass and on the thin layer of bubbles floating at the top of her ale. She turned the glass in her hand, staring into the golden liquid. The other patrons behind and beside them built a wall of sound, but Malone could only hear a piercing ring coming from her own inner ear.

  “I know what I’d pick,” Sundar said, taking another drink. “But for now, I’ll settle for another one of these.” He slid his empty mug to the bartender. “One for you, Malone?”

  She nodded, a faint sigh of relief escaping her lips.

  Sundar pushed another pale ale toward her. “So, you know what got me into the black coat. What about you?”

  Malone took a sip. The truth was, nothing else had ever occurred to her, but that answer made her uncomfortable for some reason she couldn’t place.

  “It’s my best color,” she said.

  Sundar snorted, a jet of liquid spurting from his nose. He swiped at it with the back of his sleeve. “Seriously, though. A righteous hunger for justice? Family in the Municipals?” He lowered his voice, grinning and looking at the tables around them. “Family in the Barracks?”

  “All of the above,” Malone said. “At one point or another.” Sundar nodded, staring into his beer, and she guessed that he was, once again, searching for a new topic.

  As it happened, one found them, crashing into the bar between them. A heavy man with a doughy face and a bald spot on the back of his head looked up at them, his eyes heavy with accusation. “You’d better watch where you’re going,” he said, each syllable colliding into the next, “or I’m gonna hafta show you whose bar it is.”

  Malone’s hands were already on the cuffs linked to her belt. She and Sundar both wore their black coats, but so did half of the citizens of Recoletta. The only thing that clearly marked them as inspectors were the silver seals pinned to their lapels, and Malone doubted that their interloper would have noticed if they’d been covered in them.

  “Back to your table,” Malone said, her fingers tensing over the cuffs.

  “This is my table,” the man said, “and you better watch your tone with me.” Malone saw how it would unfold. She’d warn him again, he would get aggressive, and she and Sundar would have to haul him to the station to sober up under lock and key. The night would be over for all three of them in the next thirty seconds, but hopefully without any broken bones or missing teeth.

  Apparently, Sundar had other ideas. “Sorry about the mix-up, friend. Next one’s on me.” He signaled to the bartender, who slid a glass of water down the counter.

  Sundar’s hand came to rest on the drunk’s shoulder, and a light touch guided the man to his vacated barstool. The muscles in the man’s face had already started to relax, and the color that had started climbing his neck was subsiding. One of his hands was opening and closing over the bar, and Sundar nudged the glass of water into it.

  The drunk took a sip. “Thanks, it just… wait, this isn’t mine.” He looked at the glass as if it had grown out of the stained wood.

  “Whoops, sorry.” Sundar whistled and waved to the bartender again. Another glass of water slid his direction, and he switched it with the one in the drunk’s loosening grip. “Here you go. Cheers.” Sundar took the first glass of water, clinked it against the one in the drunk man’s hand, and they both tilted their heads back and gulped until the bottoms of their glasses held no more than a dewdrop. Sundar slapped his new friend on the back, clearing his throat manfully. “Damn good. Another?”

  The drunk shook his head, looking almost bewildered. “I’ve had enough. It’s just… I just…” He sighed. “It’s so hard.”

  Sundar nodded as if he already knew what the man was talking about. “Tell me about it.” And the man did. For almost an hour.

  By the time it was over, Malone knew more about the man, his wife, his mistresses, and their demands, than she cared to, and Sundar was still nodding with encouragement. The man’s story wound down, like many such stories, with rambling deceleration. The bartender had already sent for a carriage and, glad to have avoided a scene, was happy to pay the fare to send the man home. After an hour of drinking nothing but water, Sundar’s new friend seemed able to remember his address, at least.

  When they had sent the man home to recover and, hopefully, confess his crimes, Malone again sat next to Sundar at the bar, feeling more exhausted than she had by their visit to the Directorate of Preservation. The bartender served them another pair of pints on the house, and Malone accepted hers with relief.

  “I think we answered your question,” Malone said. Sundar looked over at her, a swallow of amber in his throat and a question in his eyes. “Look around. What do you see?”

  “The same thing we saw when we arrived.”

  “No broken tables, no black eyes.” Malone took a sip of her ale, the taste cool and crisp on her tongue. “You may not have sent him home happy, but you sent him home clean.”

  Chapter 4

  A Stranger in the House

  Dusk settled, and Jane made her way through the streets, pushing a bulky cart filled with the evening’s deliveries. At the bottom was the frock coat with its orphaned buttonhole. One way or another, it had to be delivered tonight. She wheeled her bundle into a gas-lit railcar and set off for the Vineyard, determined to enjoy the visit as if it were her last.

  Jane pushed her cart out of the railcar. Even after countless trips, Recoletta’s finest district took her breath away. The illusion of surface life was almost complete here, where broad underground avenues lined with lamps proceeded past hand-carved and gilded walls bedecked with greenery.

  While homes and offices in most parts of town shared walls with their neighbors on two or three sides, the residences here enjoyed the dual extravagances of open space and landscaping between them. It was as if the underground had sprung up around the mansions, rather than their having been carved from it. Jane soaked up every fluted column and flowering shrub, aware that she might not be welcome in this neighborhood after tonight.

  In the evening, groundskeepers fed the lanterns aqua-blue powders to complement the soft glow of the moon and stars from the skylights above. Jane passed whispering couples and cheery gangs, all out for an evening promenade or a leisurely dinner, as she made her stops.

  On the second to last stop of her circuit, Jane came to a long facade of light grey marble with jade accents. An iron gate separated her from the tranquil garden and the paneled door within. Jane pulled the cord suspended in front of the gate, and at the bell a bird-boned maid came out to meet her. Lena rarely said more than a dozen words on any of her visits, and even so, Jane realized that she would miss their quiet routine. Lena led her down a curving garden path lined with radiance stones that glowed like fireflies. Leaving her cart just outside the door, Jane followed up the steps and through the back door of the Hollens residence.

  Alfred Hollens was the only councilor with whom Jane had any connection. They had met in person a few times, and he had managed to be courteous without condescending, a feat for which few councilors were known. Mostly, however, Jane dealt with the domestic staff as she did now, continuing with Lena through the entry hall. As Jane passed a sitting room, she could just make out two voices: Hollens’s smooth rumble, which she recognized, and another, which she did not. It was strangely accented and carried dark tones, bringing to mind cut obsidian. Tilting her head, she saw Hollens, a mahogany-skinned man in his mid-fifties, reclining in a plush armchair, one side of his face illuminated by the flickering firelight. Half of the room was in darkness, and Jane could not make out the stranger folded within it.

  Lena took the bundle of folded and mended jackets from Jane and turned a corner into a service stairway, disappearing. As Jane watched her go, a ragged sigh escaped the sitting room. Edging closer to the corner, Jane could barely catch snatches of conversation from the fire-lit room. Though a discreet employee, particularly in the guarded company of the Vineyard, she found her curiosity aroused for the second time that day.


  “I really don’t know what to think.” This was Hollens speaking, and Jane could hear concern in the councilor’s normally strong voice.

  “I’ve said it before. Something like this was inevitable.” Here was the man with the obsidian voice, murmuring in a strange accent that massaged his vowels and torqued his syllables.

  “This will cost us weeks. If we’re fortunate.”

  “It’s simply a matter of containment. Setbacks are to be expected.” The unfamiliar man punctuated his statement with a quick slosh, a hard swallow, and the swashing sound of pouring liquid.

  “This is more than a setback. It’s unprecedented.”

  “So is Prometheus.” Jane detected amusement in the other voice.

  “Enough,” said Hollens. “More than ever, discretion is imperative. And if I’m not mistaken, that’s your area of expertise.” Jane heard the tinkling of ice in a glass, followed by a sigh. “What worries me is that dossier. He had it. Now it’s gone. Whoever has it knows what we know.”

  “A third of what we know.”

  “More or less. But does it contain the location? That’s the real question.” Ice and liquid chimed again as Hollens took a drink.

  “No.”

  “Did you see his copy? Are you sure?” Hollens asked.

  “No. But Ruthers is, and he gave it to Cahill. If you’re unconvinced, I’m sure you could speak with him yourself.”

  Jane waited through a long pause. When Hollens spoke again, it was with the forced coolness that a man of his standing reserved to mask extreme distaste. “If you’ve already spoken with him, I’ll take you at your word.”

  Their voices faded beyond Jane’s hearing. Pressing still closer to the corner, she picked up the conversation again.

  “…nothing but a fluke. You will see to that, won’t you?” asked Hollens.

  “It is what I do.”

  “Good man. You’ve proven yourself on many occasions, and you know how we rely on you. Now…” Hollens cleared his throat, and the men spoke in whispers that Jane had no hope of overhearing. Moments later, Lena returned with another bundle of suits and Jane’s payment. Guilty and startled, the laundress stifled a gasp, but Lena did not appear to notice that her attentions were focused elsewhere.

  “The first one has a drop of wine on the front, and the second is frayed at the hem. Councilor Hollens will need them by Wednesday.”

  Before Jane could respond, a muted thump and a cry of surprise sounded from deeper in the house. Lena’s eyes followed the direction of the noise, her lips parting in a small sigh. “Wait here.”

  Jane murmured in assent and, with the bundle in her arms, turned back into the hall. It was not until she nearly collided with someone that she looked up.

  Shrouded in a spicy-sweet smoke and leaning against the wall just outside of the sitting room was a tall, broad-shouldered man whom she presumed to be the stranger she had heard conversing with Hollens. Dressed in a loose-fitting black dinner jacket and idly smoking a cigarette, he was the embodiment of upper-class carelessness or middle-class coattail-riding. Even for an informal house call, his manner in the councilor’s home was cavalier, which led her to suppose the former. His jacket was a size too large, his ascot hung askew around his neck, and his pants were wrinkled. She then noticed that he was watching her with interest, his dark blue eyes shining behind black, chin-length hair. She blushed.

  “Red becomes you, my lady.”

  Jane hesitated, thinking that there wasn’t a scrap of red anywhere on her dress or jacket, but she took his meaning and felt another wave of heat flood her face.

  The stranger smiled. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Roman Arnault.” Arnault pushed away from the wall, facing her.

  “I’m the, ah, laundress.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Jane blinked, more uncomfortable than ever. “The laundress. I wash clothes for Councilor Hollens. Specialty items, mostly, since he has a staff, but…”

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Oh! It’s Jane. Jane Lin.” Her fingers dug into the bundle in her arms.

  Arnault gave her the kind of smile that looked as if he must have practiced it many times before. He peeled one hand from the bundle and kissed it. “A pleasure to meet you, Jane Lin, laundress.”

  He said her name slowly, as if trying it out. Jane flicked her gaze downward, noticing his hands and their clean but trimmed nails. After a few moments, he followed her eyes to the cigarette between his fingers. “Cloves,” he said, holding it up for her inspection. “Care for one?”

  “Oh, I wasn’t… no, thank you, Mr. Arnault.”

  “A lady of modest habits.”

  Jane had found that when whitenails and their ilk chose to make pronouncements on her station, bearing, or character, it was best to offer nothing but the tacit confirmation of a small smile, which she did now.

  Arnault’s mild tone kept what came next from sounding like a rebuke. “Miss Lin, do I look like a man who enlists the services of specialty laundresses? Or whose recommendations on the same would be trusted?”

  Arnault paused, and Jane, whose repertoire of etiquette offered no guidance for this kind of conversation, listened hopefully for Lena’s footsteps. “You can disagree with me, especially if I’m so pompous as to make sweeping generalizations about you, someone I have known for all of two minutes.” He took a deep breath, and Jane felt herself do the same. “So, Jane Lin, are you ready to tell me what you really think?”

  Jane heard the words come out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying. “It’s easy for you to say so when you can get away with visiting a councilor dressed like that.”

  Arnault’s expression changed slowly, his eyebrows lifting and his lips drawing back.

  “I’m sorry,” Jane said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  But he looked amused. “Speaking your mind is nothing to be sorry for, Miss Lin. I find a little honesty refreshing, especially in this neighborhood. So, how does a nice girl like you end up in it?”

  “Everybody has dirty laundry, Mr Arnault.”

  He chuckled, but in a way that suggested a private joke. “How right you are.”

  “And you, sir? What kind of business are you in?”

  “There’s no need to ‘sir’ me, Miss Lin. As for the business… I suppose you could say that I’m in the same line of work that you are.” He took another drag on his cigarette.

  Jane looked him up and down, taking in his outfit again. “If we’re being candid, Mr. Arnault, I find that hard to believe.”

  “It’s a metaphor, Miss Lin.”

  “Should I be honest again?”

  “Always.”

  “It sounds like a bad one.”

  Arnault considered the clove cigarette between his fingers. “To return to your modest habits,” he said, holding the cigarette in the air between them, “you avoid these because…?”

  Jane blinked. She didn’t want to mention that a habit like that was absurd for someone on her income. “They kill. From the inside.”

  “So do a lot of things,” Arnault said. “And people. And just like your dirty laundry, some things are best kept private.”

  He said it with a twinkle in his eye, but the memory of the overheard conversation sent flutters through Jane’s stomach. “Are you always this friendly with the domestic help, Mr Arnault?”

  “I’m not friendly with anyone.”

  “Then I have grossly misinterpreted our brief encounter.”

  “That’s because you’re a good influence, Miss Lin, and you should stay for tea.”

  Jane could not begin to fathom the reaction were she to have tea in Councilor Hollens’s home at Arnault’s invitation. “I thought you’d already enjoyed some with the councilor.”

  “We shared a stronger beverage. But with a nice young lady like yourself, I’d have tea.”

  The image of the frock coat in the laundry cart and the unpleasantness that awaited at the next stop pierc
ed her thoughts. “Actually, I should be going now. I’ve got a few more errands before the night’s over.”

  “You do more business in the Vineyard?” Arnault asked.

  “I do.”

  “And whereabouts, my lady?”

  “Just a few streets over, a bit north of here.” Jane shrugged.

  Before he could press her further, Lena reappeared, a nervous scowl on her face. “Mr Arnault, you know the councilor doesn’t like you smoking in here. I’ll just show Miss Lin out, and I’d be obliged if you’d put that thing out in the meantime.”

  Roman took one more long pull on his cigarette. “Better yet, I can accompany Miss Lin to the gate and finish it there. Apologies.”

  “Now, sir. What with recent events, I’ve got to lock the gate after her.”

  Roman’s back was already to her as he walked Jane to the door. “I’m sure I can figure it out.” Lena returned to the stairway while Roman led Jane to the garden, his palm barely resting on the small of her back. It was the kind of touch that Roman seemed to offer without much thought but that made her think about her posture and the placement of her hands.

  Jane stole a sidelong glance at her escort, more curious than ever about the man and his mysterious visit. What kind of man called on a councilor in such a state of dishevelment and accompanied the domestic help to the gate? Jane thought herself a keen observer, but between Arnault’s flippant charm and vague purposes, he seemed a man submerged beneath dark waters, isolated and imperceptible. The firefly lamps in the garden glowed with a new mystique, like tiny sets of eyes watching with an unblinking gaze. Everything in the night now seemed just beyond her grasp.

  They reached the gate and Roman turned toward her again. Even in the semi-darkness, she could clearly see his face, the olive tones shadowed by something more than the hour. He placed one hand on the gate. “I hope we meet again, Jane.”