by Paul Haines
Anton walked into a grand entrance hall with its great staircases curling up to overlooking balconies, its floor a massive mosaic depicting an augurer, her hair wild and matted, as she overlooked the rugged and dry mountains to the west of Caeli-Amur. The design was in the manner of the ancients, and there were frescoes—painted in emerald greens and solar reds—on the walls.
Guests spoke to each other excitedly as they examined each other and each new patron who entered the mansion. A woman in the corner pointed towards him and whispered to a friend, for Anton himself was part of the entertainment. For Lefebvre, Anton’s presence was a display of exoticism and excitement, allowing the respectable gentlemen and ladies of the House to return from the ball, whispering to each other about the gratificationist-assassin who believed that real life could be found in the attainment of immediate pleasure.
As he crossed the floor, Anton felt someone grasp his forearm roughly.
Madame Demoul, her face set coldly like a statue, looked up at him. “You bastard.”
“So nice to see you,” said Anton pleasantly. He would have to get rid of her quickly, before she made a scene.
“I’m just like the rest of them, aren’t I? You seduce us and then throw us away when you’re sick of us.” She spat the words out, her head craned forward.
Anton looked around and smiled at other guests. Chatter echoed around the hall, concealing his conversation. “Jeana, you were always special. The months we had together—you remember how we embraced. How could you say that was not real? But we were forced to stop. You know that. Your husband, he suspected.”
“I’ll have you killed. I’ll have your throat cut in your sleep.”
Anton leaned in and touched her hand briefly. “I loved you.”
Madame Demoul seemed to shrink, and her eyes filled with tears. “Please come back to me. Please . . .”
Anton smiled at more guests as they passed by. “Send me a message at café La Tazia. Perhaps enough time has passed.”
Madame Demoul looked at the floor. “I can’t. You’ll hurt me again. I’m just one of your whores.”
Anton nodded slowly. “As you wish.”
Madame Demoul’s face was wracked with emotions. It shifted and changed from moment to moment. “I will, I will send you a note . . .”
“Now go, before anyone suspects.” Anton spoke with authority.
Madame Demoul turned and hurried away. Hopefully the pathetic creature would leave him alone for the rest of the night.
Anton continued on into the ballroom, where couples danced in intricate patterns, circling each other like parts of a great machine. On a stage along one wall sat a small orchestra, playing a sophisticated minuet.
Across the room stood a delicate and childlike woman, her golden ringlets piled on her head in a great tower, a beauty spot painted on one cheek. She talked to two other gowned ladies, one of whom apparently said something humorous, for the delicate woman threw her head back and laughed gaily. Her mouth smiling slightly, revealing white but slightly crooked teeth, she glanced across the room and Anton caught her eye. He struck that half-smile that he knew made him look devilish, and for several seconds she held his gaze.
There she is, thought Anton: my conquest for the night.
A servant requested his presence in the smoking room with Director Lefebvre himself. The man passed Anton a note: “Be prepared”.
As he began to follow, Anton looked back at the women. This time she smiled devilishly at him but then broke eye contact as if he bored her.
Anton smiled to himself. It seemed this would be a challenge.
* * *
Lefebvre dominated the smoking room the way he dominated everything. As was befitting a Director of House Arbor, he sat, tall and grey-haired, his nose straight, his eyes impenetrable.
Behind Lefebvre stood his cold-faced adjutant, Jean-Paul, while a number of Officiates lounged in chaise longues, their attention directed towards him subtly: here the feet angled in his direction, there the head.
“Ah my trusted colleagues, let me introduce you to the gratificationist, Anton Moreau.”
An Officiate whom Anton had already met—a man called Villiers with a greasy sheen to his skin—stood up. “Please, take a seat.” He ushered Anton to a chaise longue on one side of the room and turned to Lefebvre. “I must say Director, what a wonderful collection of entertainments you have provided this evening.”
A young fresh-faced Officiate, who seemed to have a permanent smirk, looked at Anton. “So Moreau, is it true you’ve dedicated your life to the search for pleasure?”
“That is something of an exaggeration—no one can solely seek pleasure. There are a great number of other things that one must consider. The point is to turn those other things to the service of pleasure. One acquires money—but what for?”
Lefebvre spoke and the room fell silent. “Loyalty, for example. Anton has always been faithful, hasn’t he Jean-Paul?”
Lefebvre’s adjutant nodded silently. There was something about Jean-Paul that unnerved Anton. He could not imagine the adjutant enjoying anything at all. The man was a House fanatic: drawn from the impoverished countryside, narrow-minded and brutal. There was something mechanical about him.
When Lefebvre spoke again, the room filled with tension. “It’s a precious commodity, is it not? What do you think Villiers?”
Villiers’ skin acquired a slicker sheen and the other Officiates looked on with anxious curiosity—something was happening.
“I could not agree more.” Villiers turned back to Anton, and changed the subject. “But I wanted to ask Moreau something. I understand that gratificationists seek escape in Lika-flowers and other such drugs.”
These were not real philosophers, thought Anton. They did not seek to uncover the truth beneath appearances. They were pragmatists—petty men concerned with the day-to-day running of the house. But Lefebvre had already indicated to him that he was not solely here for a discussion. He was here for work. “What I seek by such experiences is not escape from the world, but an even greater experience of it. I seek new and ever more intense cognizance of things.”
“And what pleasures do you seek tonight?” The young man smiled lasciviously.
“Why, whatever pleasures offer themselves.” Anton turned his hands up, smiling.
Lefebvre spoke slowly, fixing Villier’s with his eyes. “And what do you think, Villiers, of the rumours that there are Technis agents in our midst?”
Villiers looked at Lefebvre and his face twitched. “They are . . . surely rumours.” Silence now hung like a mist in the room and Villiers looked from Officiate to Officiate for affirmation. When none was forthcoming he glanced at Lefebvre. “Surely you don’t think . . .”
“Anton.” Lefebvre nodded to Anton and then at Villiers who, seeing the gesture, blurted out “No!”
In a blur, Anton had somersaulted onto the floor in front of Villiers. His hands emerged from beneath his coat clutching stilettos. In an instant he stood up, just as Villiers himself did. For a moment Anton and the Officiate stood eye to eye before Anton plunged his knives beneath the man’s ribs. Villiers eyes bulged and he grabbed Anton’s forearms and held them tight as his face contorted. His body shuddered and he dropped to his knees. Anton watched as the man’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes slowly became flat surfaces without depth. When he was gone, Anton laid him gently face forward on the floor.
The still smirking young Officiate looked from Anton to Lefebvre. “As Villiers himself said, what a wonderful collection of entertainment you have provided tonight, Director.”
* * *
Anton was relieved when he left the smoking room. It had been an unwelcome distraction; he had other business to pursue. He entered the ballroom. Leaning against the wall with her bird-like husband was Madame Demoul. She smiled at him and looked at her feet.
Anton turned away and saw her: he weaved between the dancers until he came close to the childlike woman. One of her friends looked quickly at
him and back to her friend. Without acknowledging the other ladies, he stepped forward and asked, “Would the lady like to dance?”
A slight surprised smile appeared on her face. Without waiting for a reply, Anton took her hand and led her towards the dancing.
“Might I ask your name?” she said.
“I think it should remain a mystery, don’t you?” The band began a piece comprising of plucked violins, violas and cellos that rose and fell in a soft staccato march. They carved out little paths between the other dancers, joining up, moving in formation with the others, and rejoining. Each time they came together Anton broke into his half-smile.
“Stop it,” she said.
“Why, whatever can you mean?” he said.
“I’ll have you know I’m happily married.”
“Then you’re perfect,” he said.
“You rascal.”
“And to whom are you so very happily married?”
“Why, to the Director himself,” she said.
Anton smiled, though he felt the fear rushing through his body: waves that started in his chest and coursed down his legs and arms. He breathed steadily to calm himself. “Perhaps we should go somewhere where we can . . . talk now.”
Her eyes were wide and sparkling, and she looked at him as if mesmerised.
“Now.” Anton spoke calmly and assertively, brooking no opposition.
She walked slowly from the room, nodding to guests as they greeted her. Anton followed her to the wide passageway that led back to the entrance hall. Despite his effort, his heart beat rapidly, as if it were a ferret rushing around in its cage. She opened a servants’ door, camouflaged by the wall’s decorations, passed through it and closed it behind her. Anton leaned against the wall and looked back at the ball. A couple passed by, smiling politely at him and entered the ballroom. As long as Lefebvre or one of his loyal officiates did not spy him, things would be fine.
Turning quickly, he slipped through the servants’ door.
In a narrow corridor, she stood, her eyes still alive with excitement. She spoke softly, “I know who you are. I have heard stories about you.”
He grabbed her by the arms and thrust her against the wall. Surprised by the action, she stood like a frightened animal, breathing heavily. He leaned in so that his lips brushed her hair and his breath hovered against her skin.
She took his hand and led him to a rickety flight of stairs and up to the second floor of the mansion. They passed along a long corridor to the great doors at its end. “What’s in here?”
“His study,” she said and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I’m not allowed in.”
Anton hesitated, then opened the door.
“No,” she said.
But Anton led her inside and lifted her onto the great desk that dominated the room. He brushed aside the Director’s papers and the quills. “What have you done to me?” Anton said playfully. He kissed her and felt the softness of her lips. He kissed her on her cheek and along her neck and shoulder, her ringlets brushing against his face. He ran his lips along the top of her breasts, bared by the décolleté neckline. He hitched her dress up, and ran his finger up her white stockinged legs. She threw her head back and closed her eyes.
He pulled a glinting stiletto from the sheath hidden around his waist. She drew a sudden intake of breath.
He pressed a finger to her lips to silence her and cut though the front of her undergarments with the blade, without taking his eyes from hers. Her mouth opened slightly, revealing her delightfully crooked white teeth.
A moment later, he was inside her and she wrapped her arms around him tightly, as if she might lose him. “My philosopher,” she said. “My assassin.”
All the while, he looked over her shoulder at the Director’s papers, strewn across the dark wood.
When it was done, he said, “Perhaps you should leave alone and I should follow you down.” He waited in the study for five minutes and then breezed out confidently.
Later in the night, as the guests were leaving, he leaned up against the wall next to her.
“You look familiar,” she said.
Anton drew an excited breath. He felt himself to be dancing on some invisible precipice that might crumble beneath his feet at any moment. “Near the Southern Gate lies Hotel du Cirque. It is not far from here. It has the most charming atmosphere. Perhaps you would like me to show it to you.”
“I’m free in two days time,” she said.
“Until then, Eliana.”
“How is it that you know my name?”
Anton half-smiled and blew air at her cheek. “Until then.”
Late in the evening, his mind still alight with traces of excitement and risk, Anton walked from the mansion and onto the street. As he walked along the wall, as if to reaffirm his daring, and to feel the exhilaration of earlier in the night, he purposely walked close to the Toxicodendron Didion. A vine whipped out and wrapped around his wrist, pulling him towards the rest of the heaving plant. He pulled a stiletto, cut the vine and stepped back. His wrist was already inflamed and itchy. He looked back at the vine, thinking how easy it would be to become trapped.
* * *
At first Anton sought only the immediate pleasures of the body. Over time, as they met weekly in the room on the top floor of the Hotel Du Cirque, Anton discovered that beneath Eliana’s childish air were hidden depths. Often she would ask him to explain some finer point of gratificationist philosophy, and her questions were unusually probing. She could grasp the philosophy’s consequences quickly, and constantly surprised him with her acumen. “So in the pursuit of immediate gratification, you’re prepared to risk long-term distress,” she said.
“Tomorrow we may be dead, and then what was the deferral of our desires for?” he said.
“But, perhaps we might also need to consider the terrible possibility that we may live another fifty years,” she said.
“Another fifty years of this!” He pulled her close so he could feel her breasts against him. She laughed.
One week, Lefebvre had headed on business to the great monolithic city Varenis. Anton and Eliana arranged to meet for the afternoon. Anton was looking forward to a languorous lovemaking session, where the long hours would stretch like eternity itself. He imagined Eliana’s head thrown back, her mouth opening and closing in some counterpoint to the rest of her body. As he thought of it, his heart leaped.
It was with some surprise that when he arrived at the hotel, a carriage was waiting at the front.
“Get in,” whispered Eliana.
Uncertain, Anton stepped up into the carriage and it took off, rattling along the cobblestones. Eliana leaned back on the seat opposite him and smiled knowingly.
Despite an almost overwhelming urge to ask her about their destination, Anton sat back in his own seat and looked through the window at Caeli-Amur. At first he thought they were headed to the massive Arena that sat at the base of the southern headland. But they passed it by, and it was empty on this afternoon. Instead they climbed the headland and passed through the southern gate of Caeli-Amur towards the water-parks and gardens that lay to the south. Though officially under the province of House Arbor, they were considered a neutral zone, where any of the House’s officiates could promenade in safety. Anton had never visited them. He was strictly a citizen of the city. Like many philosopher-assassins he had grown up among the caste. His father had died when Anton was young and he had spent much of his childhood strapped to his mother’s back, his eyes calmly taking in events as she continued to fight in the internecine wars between the Houses. Murder, intrigue, theory—Anton was born into them.
When they arrived at the gardens, they passed through a great cast-iron gate imprinted with the images of the god Demidae, crying alone in her boat among a great flat ocean. The carriage continued along the path, speckled sunlight falling between the trees. Colours leaped out at Anton: purples and yellows and oranges of flowers, the deep green of the grass, the sparkling blue of the canals that cr
iss-crossed the gardens. Statues of gods and heroes stood sternly on little hillocks, or in semi-hidden arbors.
“Is it true that the statues in the gardens move around at night, that the gardens are filled with spirits?” Anton asked.
“Stay with me and you’ll survive,” teased Eliana.
Eventually they crossed a long bridge that led to an island in the middle of the lake. In the middle of a copse of trees a great blanket was laid down, and on it was spread fruits and dried meats, cake-breads and flagons of liqueurs.
They stepped from the carriage, which then rattled away, leaving them alone with the feast.
“Who are you?” said Anton, half-joking, half in wonderment.
Eliana sat delicately on the blanket and her face became serious. “Who am I?” She seemed troubled by the question. “My father is a fisherman. My mother sells the fish at the markets, fixes the nets. It’s a poor life, but an honest one. One day, I was helping my mother at the market stall, and the Director came out of the Opera building. He walked over and spoke to me briefly. He invited me to one of his balls. My parents were so proud when the Director proposed to me. I knew I didn’t love him, but the look in their eyes! There were tears in them, and the Director even came to talk to my father about it. ‘As an equal,’ my father said. ‘He spoke to me as if we were equals.’ He was so pleased. It was such an opportunity—I couldn’t let them down. So that’s it: I’m just some poor girl the Director discovered down near the docks.”
“You’re not just that.”
After they had eaten, they sat looking out over the lake to the rest of the garden. Beneath the water moved fish and eels.
“Close your eyes, I have something for you,” said Eliana.
Anton smiled and closed his eyes. He felt her hand on his, pulling his fingers apart and something small and heavy dropped into it.
He opened his eyes and there lay a heavy silver ring with a flat top with intricate carvings on it. He peered at it more closely. The carvings were of a labyrinth, small and delicate.
Eliana held her hand out. “I have one also, though I’ll keep mine hidden. Life is a maze, isn’t it? These are to symbolise that we have found our way to . . . something.”
