Guardian

by A. J. Hartley

  “Miss Willinghouse, I believe,” he said, reading it off the card Dahria had presented at the door, as if he didn’t know who she was. Or didn’t care. We both rose automatically, but he waved the courtesy away and settled into one of the available armchairs. His eyes never came to me at all, as if he couldn’t see me. “I’m a very busy man, so I would appreciate it if you would say what you have to say swiftly.”

  He was in his fifties, slim and fit, his face carved from stone or—more likely, given the industry that had made his fortune—welded in steel. He had an abrupt manner of speaking and a perpetual sneer ghosting his eyes and mouth, as if he could not quite believe how poorly the world was populated. In the case of Lani and black people, of course, he meant that literally and remorselessly, but a version of it haunted all his dealings, acting as if he were a kind of minor god doomed to walk the earth with lesser mortals.

  “I have come about my brother,” said Dahria, taking a direct but pleasant tone that must have pained her.

  “Out of my hands,” he said. “The man will have his day in court, and that’s all there is to it. Now, if you don’t mind—”

  “You are a man of considerable influence,” Dahria persisted. “If you were to intervene on his behalf, to show mercy, I am sure it would endear you to a great many people who might otherwise—”

  “Endear?” he echoed contemptuously. “My dear young lady, I care not a jot for the opinions of the idle and degenerate. The opinions of those who matter to me, I have already. If there is nothing more—”

  He got abruptly to his feet. For all his stuffy indignation, he could not completely conceal the fact that he was enjoying himself. He made my skin crawl.

  “Perhaps there is something I can offer that might alter your position,” Dahria ventured.

  I gave her a quick, panicked look, but Richter’s scornful smile only expanded.

  “I have no base appetites, Miss Willinghouse,” he snapped. “My heart is pure as steel. You would do well to keep such offers to yourself, lest you soil what is left of your reputation.”

  “You misunderstand me,” she said quickly. “I propose a trade. My brother’s life, for information.”

  Richter’s confident swagger stalled for a moment, and his face tightened. He was both skeptical and intrigued.

  “What kind of information?” he demanded.

  “On my brother’s activities,” said Dahria. “His plans, his party, his friends.”

  I stared at her aghast.

  What is she doing?

  “Leave us,” Richter commanded, not so much looking at me as turning slightly in my direction but keeping his eyes on Dahria.

  I dithered and gave her an anguished look.

  “Do as the prime minister says,” she said, playing the aristocrat once more. “I believe I am quite safe in Mr. Richter’s company.”

  I had no alternative but to stand, execute a clumsy curtsy, and leave the room, trying not to show the revulsion I felt at being so close to him.

  * * *

  I DIDN’T KNOW WHERE to go. Even more than that night at Elitus, I felt that I was in the belly of the beast, the very heart of an organization that despised me, my family, my friends, and all I stood for. Indeed, I did not need to stand for anything, to espouse any position or doctrine, for the Heritage party faithful to despise me. My very existence was enough.

  So I moved along the hall, looking for somewhere to wait for Dahria where I could hide for however long her desperate interview took. Behind me, I heard footsteps and turned in time to see a pair of uniformed men emerge from a side chamber. Not wanting to have to justify my presence—my existence—I tried the closest door handle and, finding it unlocked, slipped hastily inside.

  Like all the rooms I had seen in the Heritage headquarters, it was an elegantly appointed room furnished in the northern style and hung with portraits of Belrandian kings, generals, and politicians. I selected an overstuffed wing chair beside a shuttered hatch in the wall and had almost sat down when I realized I was not alone.

  Seated in another wing chair, its back to the door, was a familiar man in a fussy blazer quite different from the uniform gray of the Heritage faithful. It was the Grappoli ambassador.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, bowing, partly to hide my face. “I did not realize the room was in use.”

  “No reason you should, my dear,” said Count Alfonse Marino, smiling, his black, crystalline eyes twinkling playfully.

  He was as I had seen him before, slick and polished to the point of oiliness, slightly overfed, well-manicured, and languid. The plate beside him was covered in fine crumbs, and there was a scent of curry in the air that almost masked the woody, citrusy aroma of what I took to be the ambassador’s hair tonic.

  “No need to leave just yet.”

  I faltered, unsure what to do or say, my old diffidence returning with a vengeance. “Sit,” he said. He had an insinuating croon of a voice. If a well-indulged and aging house cat could speak, this was what it would sound like. “I take it you are escorting a guest?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, emphasizing the Lani lilt to my voice. I was still standing. We had met twice before, but on one occasion I had been heavily disguised and on the other he had not seen me properly in the shadows. I did not think he would recognize me, but if he did, the consequences would be dire indeed.

  “I thought as much,” said the ambassador. “Mr. Richter surrounds himself with people who look like he does.” He grinned knowingly, as if this were a minor peccadillo, but then added, “I’ve never really understood why. He thinks white culture—white people—are corrupted by the very presence of blacks and, frankly, people like you. Do you have an opinion on the matter?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” I said, with difficulty.

  “You are discreet,” he said approvingly. “A good thing in a lady’s maid. But you must have an opinion on the subject. Come. Sit. And tell me. I will not hold it against you or your mistress.”

  I settled cautiously into the chair opposite him, as he seemed to wish, and then pretended to wrestle with the question he had posed. I thought of the night I had seen him in his carriage, unnoticed in the dark, listening to Aaron Muhapi speak.

  “I don’t concern myself with politics, sir,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t suppose you do. But politics concerns you, whether you like it or not.”

  A strange thing to say, especially coming from the mouth of the Grappoli Empire, and doubly so in this of all buildings. Afraid I would give away too much, I said, “Do you like it here, sir, if you don’t mind me asking? In Bar-Selehm, I mean.”

  “I do,” he said, his brow clearing as if a warm breeze had blown through a cold room. “I love it here. The city is so … vibrant! That is the word, yes? Rich and full of life.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “That is the word.”

  “The art and culture here…” he began, but faltered, looking suddenly wistful.

  “You mean the art from Belrand?” I probed. I didn’t know what I was doing. The conversation felt surreal, like something I might dream, but I did not want to let it go.

  The ambassador waggled his head on his neck: not exactly.

  “Belrand is a wonderful place, have no doubt,” he said. “So is Grappol. All of Panbroke is a wonderful place.” He waved his hand as if to suggest that this was all self-evident but also uninteresting. “But Bar-Selehm is different. Special. Yes. I love it here.”

  Again there was something complicated in his voice, as if he had come to a realization that saddened him, but his eyes fell on his empty plate and he managed a smile.

  “Samosas,” he said. “I could eat them all day. They are a Lani delicacy, I believe. Curried meat or potatoes and chickpeas in crisp pastry. I buy them on the street and bring them with me. They warm them up for me here, though I am afraid Mr. Richter does not approve. They are quite delicious. I cannot get them at home.”

  Again the smile faded, and he gazed at
his hands, frowning.

  “I agree,” I said, keen to revive the conversation. Something about it puzzled and intrigued me. “Bar-Selehm is a wonderful place, a special place, and much of what makes it special comes from its people. White people. Black people, assimilated and unassimilated. Lani people like me, and others who do not clearly fit into any of the other boxes. This is what makes the city what it is—”

  I heard and cursed the clumsiness of my remark before I saw it in his face.

  “Well,” he said, rising suddenly, and smoothing his waistcoat, his face dark. “This has been most pleasant, but I fear I am needed elsewhere.”

  I considered him, trying to decide if it was worth apologizing but, not sure what it was I was attempting to achieve, and knowing I had already overplayed my hand, I let it go.

  “Your servant, sir,” I said, rising and curtsying quickly.

  “Indeed,” he said, turning on me and nodding. “Quite so.” He hesitated, then something crossed his face and he frowned. “Have we met before? You seem—”

  “Never, sir,” I say flatly. “But then, how could we have? Your people and mine interact so … infrequently.”

  “That is true,” he said vaguely, not satisfied by my answer, but then propelled down an avenue of his own thought that seemed to trouble him.

  “But you are needed elsewhere,” I reminded him.

  “Indeed,” he said again. “Quite so.”

  He clicked his heels together in the typical Grappoli way and gave me a short nod, which was, I thought a mark of his momentary disorientation. So formal a farewell would normally be reserved for social equals, not Lani maids.

  Before he could turn, the door snapped open, and an elderly white man stepped through. He wore a monocle and had a graying mustache which stuck out at waxed angles almost as far as his side whiskers.

  Archibald Mandel.

  My breath caught, as if a cold hand had closed around my throat, and I stared. His eyes moved from the ambassador to me and fixed me with a stony glare.

  “Who the devil are you?” he demanded.

  “Miss Willinghouse’s maid, if it please you, sir,” I said, remembering at the last second to lower my eyes and drop into a swift curtsy.

  “It doesn’t please me,” he barked. “Not in the slightest. What are you doing, Marino? We’re waiting for you. Didn’t Saunders tell you?”

  “I was on my way,” said the ambassador, trying to banish the strange, wounded expression that had been on his face a moment before.

  “Well, get a move on, man,” snorted Mandel. “We didn’t bring you over so you could make idle chat with some Lani baggage.” I stiffened but kept my eyes down. “Frankly, I would have expected a man in your position to have more refined tastes.”

  Then he was gone, and I was left staring so hard at the door he had closed behind him that I could have set it aflame with my eyes. I had all but forgotten the ambassador until he bustled over to the door, put one hand on the handle, and turned it.

  Then he stopped and, for a second, just stood there, the door still closed in front of him. Without looking round he said, “I am sorry.” And then he was opening the door and vanishing into the hallway.

  * * *

  DAHRIA FOUND ME TEN minutes later. We left in hurried silence, but as soon as we got into the street, I turned on her.

  “Well?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I was vague in my promises. He expressed interest, said he would delay a verdict in Joss’s trial, but how long I can stall him without giving him any real information, I don’t know.”

  “You shouldn’t trust him,” I said. “No matter what you give him, he thinks of your brother as a mortal enemy.”

  “He’s right to,” said Dahria. “But he’s not sure about me, and that gives me an advantage.”

  “You are going to go back?”

  “When I have something to give him, yes, and you will be coming with me, so get your devious little brain to work on some plausible lies.”

  “That’s a very dangerous game, Dahria,” I said.

  “Not to play it means that my brother’s life will terminate at the end of a rope in a matter of days,” she said.

  I could not argue with that.

  As if to drive the point home, the evening edition of the Standard was out by the time we wended our way back through the streets, and Willinghouse’s name was all over the front page. CONSPIRACY! screamed the headline in such bold type that at first I thought I’d picked up a copy of the Clarion by mistake. I tried to fold it under my arm where Dahria wouldn’t see it, but she held out a gloved hand.

  “It doesn’t help me not to know what they are saying about him,” she said.

  I handed the paper over, and we huddled together to read the cover story.

  Sources close to the office of the police commissioner have revealed that former prime minister Benjamin Tavestock visited the remote country house of his accused killer, Josiah Willinghouse, the day before the assassination. More remarkable still, they were apparently joined by none other than the infamous black activist Aaron Muhapi, who was recently detained by police for incitement to revolt and causing a public disturbance. Investigations are also probing links between Willinghouse, Muhapi, and those unassimilated Mahweni tribes that have been harassing trade and travel routes north of the city. Officers involved in the case are wondering if Willinghouse, whose trial is scheduled to begin tomorrow and will be covered exclusively by this newspaper, is the center of a larger conspiracy against Bar-Selehm. The assassination of the prime minister may be only one step in a larger plan to destabilize the government in preparation for a black uprising. In response, the new prime minister, Norton Richter, has ordered that black members of the police and armed forces stand down until the crisis has passed. Their arms and weapons must be made available to a civilian militia to be orchestrated by ranking members of the Heritage party.…

  Dahria said nothing. There was nothing to say. Silently, I slipped my arm into hers and drew her to my side as we paced the sidewalks back along the streets north of the opera house. It felt good to be so close to her, and I felt a pang of guilt that a part of me was enjoying the new bond we had forged, since it had emerged from so terrible a situation. But there was no denying it. She needed me, and I could not pretend that that did not give me pleasure, however much the sweet was touched with bitterness. We walked briskly, so that we would be home before the curfew patrols came out. If they saw me, I’d be arrested, and while Dahria was used to passing as white, that seemed unlikely to protect her now.

  CHAPTER

  19

  THE TENTED AREA WHERE the sick children lay had twice as many beds now, mostly just blankets on the ground. More of the girls were losing their hair. They lay tossing vaguely in a kind of constant, uneasy slumber broken only by sudden staggerings to the designated latrine. The place smelled sour, the air rank with vomit and other body odors. Most of the new beds had been filled with those who had most ministered to the children, Rahvey and Florihn included.

  “It seems to be contagious,” said the doctor, who was looking pale and drawn in stained shirtsleeves. He rubbed his temples as if they pained him. “I am not sure how much longer I can stay out of bed myself.”

  “Here?”

  “To go elsewhere risks spreading the disease,” he said. “I fear that leaving is not an option, though staying is…” He gave me a wan smile.

  “You think they are going to die?” I said, horrified that everyone seemed so much worse than when I was here last. I’m not sure if I expected the doctor to be encouraging or simply evasive, but he was neither.

  “I’m amazed it hasn’t already started,” he said. “A matter of hours now, I suspect, for some of them.”

  I stared at him, aghast.

  “Which?” I managed to ask, though the question seemed offensive in my own ears. He knew I meant my family.

  “The ones who first showed signs of infection,” he said, knowing he w
as confirming my worst fears. “The deaf girl first.”

  “Aab?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  I scanned the groaning, heaving bodies on the ground and found her, tiny, doubled up, and still. She may have already been dead. I picked my way through toward her, feeling a strange and unnerving dizziness as I got closer, as if my fear was overwhelming my balance. I dropped into a squat beside her and ran my fingers through what was left of her hair. Pieces of it came away in my fingers. Without that wild mane, she looked skeletal, her head small and smooth, the skin starting to flake away. She looked like something not altogether human, a goblin child or …

  A gargoyle.

  I blinked, then leaned in and parted her lips. Her breath smelled stale and rancid, and the slim gash of her mouth showed raw pockets in her gums where two of her teeth had been.

  I stared, my mind racing, then seized the sleeping girl’s hands and turned them over. Her finger ends and palms were red and blistered. Burns.

  I had seen such injuries before.

  “Aab!” I said. “Wake up! Aab!”

  The girl barely stirred. I turned quickly to the bed beside her where Jadary lay, lost in her own trance-like sleep. I grabbed her hands and studied them, but other than the patchy skin, which they all seemed to have, there was no sign of the scalded redness.

  “What is it?” said the doctor, hurrying over.

  “I don’t think it’s a disease,” I said, my attention back on Aab. I shook her, speaking her name with gentle insistence. “Aab! You have something or you found something. Something strange and shiny…” She couldn’t hear me. I shook her again.

  The doctor was asking questions I couldn’t answer, so I asked him one instead.

  “These burns on the fingers,” I said. “Do any of the others have them?”

  The doctor shook his head.

  “She had them from the start,” he said. “I assumed she was playing near the stove or helping cooking. They are not symptoms.”

  “They are,” I said. “The first and most important.”

  “Then why don’t the others have them?”