A Gluttony of Plutocrats (The Respite Trilogy Book 1)

by Ella Swift Arbok

  Did I have the courage? Did I dare enter that den of vipers with no defense but my own wit?

  Would it advance Linnet’s search for truth if I gave her names, pictures, sound? For Linnet’s sake, and for Sy’s, I knew I should. Yet, still I was afraid.

  Upsetting Sy, breaking a promise, would hurt us both, but we had built our relationship on trust.

  That evening, as we walked home to her boat, I took the envelope from my pocket. “Sy, I’ve been invited to a party. Without you.” I showed her the letter and told her what Ms. Pikowood had said.

  We paused by a streetlamp.

  Sy read. “You don’t need more contacts. I’m sure your patents will be approved.”

  “Sy, Linnet’s campaign began with your mistreatment.” The final word felt weak, but that was the habit we had developed. Not rape. Not torture. Mistreatment. I fingered the goat’s-head combi that hung around my neck. “Do you remember what this can do?”

  She took a deep breath. “I’m scared, Lemuel. Please promise you won’t accept without talking to Linnet first. She’ll know the risks as well as anyone.”

  I promised.

  When I managed to contact Linnet—not an easy matter with the primitive telephones of the day—she insisted I read the invitation exactly as worded. The three final words—“full comforts provided”—aroused her interest.

  “Lemuel, I don’t know exactly what that means, but it’s a phrase I’ve come across before. Tell me, was it also on the letter from Ronnie Bile?”

  I had reread Bile’s letter recently but didn’t recall those words. It answered another puzzle, though. “By his signature, the letters FCP. I thought it was a qualification.”

  “No, Lemuel. I think it means any pleasure, no matter how depraved, will be satisfied. If you go, be sure you can get out whenever you need to.”

  Something happened a few days before Bandstorm’s party that made me wonder if I relied too much on the printed news. I walked to work with Sy through lamplit streets, a little earlier than most to compensate for Sy’s extended lunch breaks.

  Snow swirled in a breeze. It lay on the ground, muffling our footfall.

  Silversmith Square came into view between the silhouettes of Heyho Bank and the Elysium embassy. Four dark figures spread across the road, a hint of threat in an otherwise idyllic scene.

  The recessed doorways of the square had become nighttime refuges for the misfortunates, shelter from the inhospitable weather. Sy had warned me the annual roundup was coming, but it gave me no pleasure to witness it.

  We slowed as we approached the police officers.

  A child’s scream reached me. I set off at a run, not far behind Sy.

  The largest officer held out a hand. “This need not concern you, sir.” He spoke to me alone.

  Sy answered. “A child’s scream? Why should we not be concerned?”

  “No, madam. That was a yelp of joy. We’ve just told the poor dears we are giving them refuge and hot food throughout the festivities.”

  Another scream. The thud of something solid against something less so. A whimper.

  Sy slipped through the cordon. I followed as two officers turned to her. I stopped in front of them, letting Sy run on. Courage or stupidity? Were the two so different?

  Soon, she returned. “Why are batons required? To emphasize the invitation?”

  The policeman answered without turning. “It’s none of your business, madam, how we do our job.”

  Another thud. A scream followed. A lull in the snowfall revealed the scene. Most of the children dragged from their slumber had their hands free, although some had them cuffed in front of them.

  One girl struggled to a halt near me, fighting the restraining hand that held her collar. She turned her eyes to meet mine. There was something familiar. Difficult to be sure, with her face contorted in terror. “Help me, Mister. Or you’ll not see me again.”

  The man who held her collar lifted her from the ground. Snow goggles and a heavy hood obscured the face of authority.

  I put a hand on his arm, not enough to obstruct him but enough to make him turn and set the child on her feet. What could I do?

  Around the square, children were being dragged into enclosed horse-drawn carts.

  Sy put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I claim custody of this misfortunate.”

  The policeman reached for his baton. For the child? For Sy?

  I didn’t have time to think. I stepped in front of him. Lamplight reached through his hood. “Cragsby? Perhaps you’ll explain the law of custody to me.”

  He glared but lowered his baton. “Oneway, our job is difficult enough without this.”

  I waited.

  He shook his head. “She has the right, but we have a job to do here.”

  Sy bent down. She put a hand under the girl’s chin. “You know you can refuse.”

  The girl smiled at Sy, but there was fear in her eyes. “Don’t let him hurt me too much, Miss.”

  Sy’s head fell to her chest.

  Cragsby sheathed his baton. “Taking one won’t make a difference.” He bellowed an order, and the three of us were allowed to leave the square by the same route Sy and I had entered.

  I survived the day without doing anything stupid, but my thoughts lay elsewhere.

  After stopping off for a few words with Mabel, I hurried across Godbest Park in the light of a full moon over snow.

  As I approached Respite’s Respite, a girl in a blue-and-white tartan dress and old leather boots leaped from the deck to the path. She turned, her dark braid swinging. When she saw me, she froze.

  Sy followed, almost colliding with the girl. She held up a hand to stop me. “A moment, please.” She brushed a curl from the girl’s forehead. “Emily, you remember Lemuel, don’t you?”

  “’Course I do, Miss. He helped me once, with a coin. Again today, I s’pose.” She looked at me. “Is he the one I ’ave to pleasure?”

  Sy’s jaw clenched as she shook her head. It couldn’t be easy for her, reawakening dreadful memories.

  I took Emily’s hand, releasing my grip when I felt her recoil. “There’ll be none of that, Emily, not while you are with us. Do you understand?”

  Sy ushered her into the cabin. I followed.

  New bedding lay along the side seat.

  Sy shrugged. “That’s for us—in turns, if we can’t fit together.” She pushed the door to her berth open. “In you go, Emily. If you’re ready.”

  Emily sidled in under Sy’s arm. “You want me to sleep now, Miss?”

  Sy unplugged the radio-alarm and took it to the cabin. “Yes, Emily. If you’re ready. And my name is Sy, as I’ve told you many times.”

  Emily turned her face up to Sy’s, a frown replacing her impassive expression. “You mean ‘sigh,’ like what they sometimes say to do?”

  Sy breathed deeply. “You’d soon get bored of my full name. I’ll say it again. It’s Ensayada.”

  Emily tried the name a few times. “I’ll sleep if you say, Sy.”

  We sat on top of the bedding in the cabin. I reached for Sy’s hand. It was shaking.

  We settled back, shoulder to shoulder. Her body trembled too. “What have I done, Lemuel?” She wiped the back of her hand against her eyes. “I’ve told her so many times that we’ll treat her like a child. The trouble is, I don’t think she knows what that means, except the way others have treated her. Or perhaps she knows what I’m saying but doesn’t believe me.”

  “Why should she not believe?”

  Sy tilted her head back. Her hair rubbed against the window pane, leaving lines in its fine frost. “Linnet says most children given custody are treated little better than those on the streets. They may be safer, but they are still abused or worked like slaves.”

  “And the ones rounded up? You believe they will be hurt?”

  Sy shuddered. “No one really knows. But some will be hurt, and some won’t come back in the spring.” She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and stuffed the handkerchief
up her sleeve. “There are rumors, so many rumors. Ask Linnet, when you get the chance. And Emily knows what she sees.”

  I got up and put the kettle on. A strong coffee could do no harm. “If it helps, Mabel has agreed to look after her during the day, for as many days as we want. I’ll pay.”

  From a half loaf of rye bread, I cut a wedge, buttered it, and took a bite. Dinner.

  I put Sy’s coffee on the bench beside her.

  Sy turned and rubbed her fist against the cabin window. It didn’t help. The frost outside was greater. She turned back. “Would you mind, Lemuel? I’ve had quite a day. On deck, to the left of the rear life belt, you’ll find a string. Pull it gently, please, and a bottle of cool, green wine will rise from the Craggle. And rinse it well before you take out the cork.”

  We listened to the radio news, a local station, joining it in the middle of a story about turkeynappings.

  “Remember, folks, once its ring has been removed, only a trained eye could tell a pet turkey from a butcher’s fowl. Please lock up your pets, at least until the New Year’s festivities are over.”

  The roundup of misfortunates followed, a factual report giving an estimate of those still sleeping rough in the city. It stuck to the party line, describing the way school halls and other seasonally unneeded buildings had been modified to house the unwanted children.

  “At least for the next six weeks, they will eat well, they’ll sleep in warmth and comfort, and they will get basic medical assistance. It’s good to know this has all been made possible by the generosity of you listeners and other concerned citizens.

  “They are not yet all safe of course, so if you see any, please encourage them to report to the Civic Hall. For their own protection. After all, if it were your child, which would you prefer? Leave her in the bitter cold, or give her security and nourishment?”

  I listened with some confusion. If it were my child, he or she wouldn’t be sleeping in a doorway to avoid the snow. Not while I had a home.

  The door to Sy’s berth creaked. It opened a finger’s width.

  Sy knelt against the opening. She whispered, “What is it, Emily?”

  “Is he coming, Miss? I get scared if they wake me.”

  Sy nudged the door open an inch more. “He’s not coming. No one is. No one will come while you’re with me.”

  “Honest, Miss?”

  “Honestly, Emily. I can’t promise happy-ever-after, but while you’re with me, or with Lemuel, no man will touch you. Not tonight. Not ever.”

  When Emily had climbed back into bed, Sy closed the door. “Be patient, Lemuel. It won’t be easy to win her trust, especially for a man.”

  An hour later, with no further sighting of Emily, we sat together, a blanket wrapped around our shoulders.

  Sy refilled her glass and topped mine. “Tell me, honestly. You think I’ve made a mistake.”

  I cocked my head but could detect no sound from Emily. “What you did today was wonderful, but a little scary. We’ll manage.”

  She stared at me. “We? She’s my responsibility, not yours.”

  “How can you say that? I thought we were a team.”

  “That doesn’t give me the right to commit you.”

  “Maybe not.” I reached for my glass and took a generous sip. Some subjects were difficult to approach. “We never talked about it, Sy, but would you ever want to have a child of your own?”

  “I have one now.” Sy pulled her knees up, folded an arm around them, and began to rock.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes. A child of my own? That is my worst nightmare. And Emily comes close. Oh, Darken, what have I done?”

  Chapter 17

  December, the shortest month in the Respite calendar, neared its end. Snow gusted along Bluefinch Avenue. Beside the houses, it lay inches deep over beds of leek and parsnip, churned to sludge in paddocks.

  Sy and Emily sat in Mabel’s car. I waved as they left to meet the team bus, then settled back in the kitchen with a late breakfast, watching snowflakes dance against the window.

  As the day of Bandstorm’s party approached, I had often regretted my decision to go, but one thing gave me confidence. No one would know the power of the recording device I carried around my neck. Every face I saw, every action I witnessed, would be stored by Newton for as long as I needed it.

  It was because of that power—the combi’s potential to help Linnet—that I had to go. If there were a way to rid Respite of its evil, even if for a few years, that had to be worth a little personal risk.

  I waited.

  One thing had puzzled me as I reread the invitation that morning. Bandstorm’s party began at eight in the evening, yet my transport was scheduled to arrive at noon. No doubt the reason would become clear in time.

  A horse-drawn taxi pulled up by Dempster’s gate. Its driver, after checking a paper in his hand, stepped down and started along our path. He greeted me at the door. “You be Mr. Oneway?”

  I confessed.

  “I be your driver, sir.” He took my baggage and lugged it along the path. After a brief struggle, he hefted it onto the rack and held the cab door open.

  Woven goat wool covered the seat. Not luxury, but comfortable.

  I sat back and closed my eyes. Soothed by the steady rhythm of hooves over cobbles, I dozed.

  A shaft of sunlight burst through to my left. Something was wrong. I looked out. The taxi had strayed to the west road, the one by which I first entered town.

  I rolled down a window and called out. “You’re going the wrong way. Mr. Bandstorm lives the other way. Eastside.”

  No answer.

  I tried again. “Driver, you are going the wrong way.”

  He flicked a whip against the horse’s rump. “I do what I’s paid to do, sir.”

  Did it matter that I had got it wrong? No doubt Bandstorm had more than one home. It would be a longer walk home than I had anticipated, but I had a job to do.

  At the outskirts of town, we pulled up. My door was opened, this time by a man I had met before on the day of my interview with Ronnie Bile. Biggs? No, Briggs, just Briggs.

  I stepped out. “I’m confused. Where are we going?”

  Briggs lifted my luggage as though it were empty and placed it into the trunk of the same car that had taken me to Barford. “We are going to the master’s country estate. You’ll be well looked after, I’m sure. As you will no doubt have noticed, I’ve provided a basket of fruit.”

  I got in. What else could I do? Kill Briggs? Run for cover?

  Bandstorm’s limousine, with its horse-leather seats and its wine refrigerator that I opened out of curiosity, set off westward.

  Why hadn’t I been told the location of the party? I had the invitation in my pocket. I checked. No address.

  My one-strand escape strategy dangled on a fraying thread. Could I still walk home if I chose?

  We passed Senator Wellar’s estate and soon afterward the woodland in which I had landed half a year earlier.

  A fence had been erected since then. It followed the road for a hundred yards. On it was a sign written in large letters intended to be read from the road:

  brickwork trials. now hiring. cragglemouth labor office.

  That accounted for the stone building, and maybe also for Dempster’s newfound wealth.

  A few minutes later, we turned along a side road. Sturdy metal gates crossed the road, securing a gap in a high stone wall. At either side, beyond the gates, an armed guard stood.

  Briggs slowed but didn’t need to stop as the gates swung open upon our approach.

  Any thought of a nighttime retreat faded. If that entrance had armed guards, I couldn’t expect any easy way out.

  We drove on for a couple of minutes before pulling up at the far side of a circular drive. Briggs stepped out and opened my door.

  I stood on the cobbled driveway and stared. Built like a castle of great stone blocks, the mansion, spread over four floors aboveground, made me think of Revelation Temp
le—a place that still held fearful memories.

  Briggs, seeing the way I stared, turned toward the mansion. “Impressive, isn’t it, sir? Once a training home for young friars and friarettes. That was in the days of proper discipline.” A faraway look came into his eyes. It passed. He nodded toward a set of marble steps that led up to three tall oak doors. “Janet will take excellent care of you. Anything at all.”

  “My baggage?”

  “I’ll bring it, sir. Not sooner than an hour.”

  A strange choice of words.

  He drove off.

  I climbed the steps to where Janet stood in half-light.

  She was a child, no more than twelve to judge from her slight form, but heavily made up. She wore a black-and-white-checkered dress, quaint and rather shorter than it should have been. It reminded me of a character from an ancient cartoon, an unenthusiastic Alice in Wonderland.

  Janet took my hand. “I shall lead you where you wish to be.”

  She smiled. Her eyes remained cold, but it wasn’t the coldness I had seen in Bile’s eyes or in Bandstorm’s—coldness hinting at cruelty. It was more a look of weariness, defeated-by-life weariness.

  I had never been to a party in a setting of such luxury. I didn’t want to seem gauche, but little things worried me. Perhaps I had watched too many horror movies.

  Janet’s hand was warm and quite firm, but why was it holding mine? I released the hand. “Just show me the way, Janet.”

  She smiled. “I can show you many ways, sir.”

  She led me across a paneled hallway large enough to hold a tennis court. We climbed a wide bronze stairway then followed corridors. Janet led me to a small room, which she unlocked, placing the key back in her pocket.

  A mirror, no more than a hand’s width across, on each of the four walls, triggered an ancient memory. Not well placed for applying makeup or adjusting hair, but ideal to conceal a camera. A bed placed in the middle of the room, with neither headboard nor footboard, reinforced my suspicion.

  Janet sat on the bed. “Mr. Briggs will bring your clothes, sir, but not soon. In the meantime, my pleasure is to entertain you. Tell me how.”