Expatria: The Box Set (3 page)
Read Expatria: The Box Set Online
Authors: Keith Brooke
Chapter 3
As Dum drew closer to the slightly larger Dee a new excitement grew. When the two moons at last appeared to touch, clan heads in the city of Newest Delhi initiated the biannual festival of Dumandee.
For the past week, it had seemed that nobody would speak to Mathias. Sala was busy arranging the festivities and Idi was still angry over Mathias's wandering off on his own in the deus house; on the few formal occasions when he had been with Greta they had barely exchanged a word. As Dumandee grew closer it became clear that the Kissing Moons would exert little influence on Greta Beckett.
Mathias had never believed in the superstition, anyway. In reality, the moons' orbits were tens of thousands of kilometres apart and Dum was actually quite markedly smaller than Dee, despite the common perception. The Kiss was an illusion.
The festival of Dumandee always culminated in the grand Primal Ball, on the night when the moons became, briefly, one. Mathias didn't want to go. Instead he sat in his room, trying to filter out the sounds of the revellers arriving at August Hall in the east wing of the Primal Manse, knowing that he should be there, cursing his indecision.
Eventually, his self-discipline won. He rose from his bed and dressed himself with the aid of a masked servant. His leggings were new, his padded jacket old but refurbished with pure golden threads and white sand-pearls from the island of Clermont.
He dismissed the servant and stood for a moment on his balcony, looking up at the single white disc formed by Dum and Dee. 'Exert your influence,' he said to the moons. 'Just this once.' Then he turned back into his room and headed for August Hall.
Already, the music was playing and the Hall was packed with finely dressed clan officials and sheet dancers, costumed servants and a host of representatives from the affiliated valleys. The octet were playing something percussive and new that Mathias didn't like, although it fitted his mood without a seam. The atmosphere was seductive though, free and energetic, smells of heavily spiced food and drinks almost overpowering in their intensity.
Mathias breathed deeply as he strolled around the edge of the dance floor. Edward was there, of course, and then Mathias spotted Greta standing nearby. Her gown was fine and loose, her hair woven high and away from her face. She was laughing and looking all around. Mathias wondered how long her high spirits would last.
Edward had an arm around a solemn, black-maned girl—that kind of intimacy was more accepted on an occasion such as this—but he was looking longingly at Greta. She had always been one of the obstacles between Mathias and his half-brother, another spur to Edward's envy.
Mathias stepped into Edward's line of vision and then moved towards Greta, hoping that things would be all right.
She saw him, she smiled, she held her hands towards him. It was as if there had never been a rift. She kissed the air in greeting and held out a glass for him. He took it and drank, noticing nothing but Greta. 'I'm late,' he said, but she shrugged. Tonight was no night for apology, tonight was the night of Dumandee, tonight was the night of the ball.
The music began to swell and fall away, swell and fall away, and, feeling supremely confident, Mathias gathered Greta into his arms and guided her on to the dance floor. Her body was small and brittle against his own. She smelt of fresh honeysuckle. Mathias had never held her so close for so long, their chaperone had always coughed discreetly and then not so discreetly. In the crowd of dancers they had more privacy than they had ever had alone.
The music changed and still they danced, moving faster, closer. Over Greta's golden head, Mathias saw Edward slipping away with the long-faced girl.
They danced faster, closer, pressing urgently together. Mathias bent to whisper in Greta's tiny ear. 'Greta, shall we—' But she was whispering in
his
, and her words stopped him in mid-sentence.
'The Prime spoke to me today,' she said. 'He asked how my father would react if Edward became heir to—'
'He
what?
' People nearby stopped dancing to look.
'He didn't mean... It was only if you...' Greta looked around at the staring faces and then dropped her head and tried to move back into Mathias's arms. '
Matti
, not here. I'm sorry.'
But she had said too much already. Mathias barged his way across the dance floor. His father was standing with Lucilla Ngota, just inside the balcony that overlooked the Playa Cruzo.
Mathias grabbed the Prime's shoulder and pulled him round. '
What do you mean
...? Then he remembered who he was mishandling and stopped, stunned by the force of his rage.
The Prime had gone pale, but his control was total. Mathias stepped back, then turned and ran through the shocked gathering. As he ran out of the hail the music faltered back into the silence and then a few voices came back too. In the corridor he saw Edward grinning cruelly, his companion nowhere in sight. Then he saw no more, everything a blur as he ran along the empty corridors and out into the night.
~
The streets of Newest Delhi were alive with partying crowds and a strange, new tension was caught up in the air.
March was trying, clumsily, to get at him through Greta—that much was obvious once Mathias was alone and more calm, walking through the darkened back streets. He was using the threat of naming Edward his heir to try to force Mathias to conform. But, instead, it had brought the old impetuosity back to the surface.
He stopped thinking and tried to become a part of the darkness. It was a game he had played as a child: ignore the thoughts that keep jumping into your head and try to melt into the night, or the sea, or the cliffs, try to feel yourself a part of the world.
It worked for a time: his mind forgot itself as his body grew calm and tranquil.
He was feeling sedate when partying noises broke through his barriers and reminded him of himself. He was on the Lincolnstrasse, in the poorer part of the city, where serfs lived alongside lowly engineers. The buildings here were low and in need of repair, the streets uneven and unpaved. Bonfire smoke clung to the air.
There was a sudden shout in the street ahead and, with a chilling clarity, Mathias realised that the sounds were not those of an ordinary Dumandee party. A sudden scream confirmed his intuition.
He stopped in the shadows, peered ahead.
Figures moved quickly at the next junction, throwing things on to a huge fire—no ordinary street bonfire—and yelling hoarsely at each other. The smell of smoke was now bitter on the night air as Mathias crouched behind a trader's stall, upturned in the disturbance. A nearby shop had been broken into, its double wooden doors smashed through, its contents looted and vandalised. For the second time he was aware of how little he knew of the real workings of the city.
He let himself give in to an almighty shudder and then he looked all around.
His head was clear now and he looked back along the street. He had to get clear. Quickly, he retraced his steps, cautiously at first and then more boldly, heading for the shore. He needed somewhere to think.
~
The waves barely made a sound as they half-heartedly crept a metre or so up the beach and then sagged back. He thought of the disturbances on the Lincolnstrasse, but that was too fresh, too confusing. Instead, he tossed pebbles into the water and thought of Greta, of holding her as close as he had at the ball. That had felt better than he had ever dreamed it would. It was less than a year—fourteen months, he counted—until their wedding. Things would be calmer then. He would have had time to settle into his role, if March ever forgave him for his behaviour this evening.
He moved up the beach and followed the cliff path out along Gorra Point, towards the Pinnacles. Small creatures scuttled in the darkness. Burrowers. He had listed them all when he was younger. The native furworms and gnaws and footies, the terran voles and gophers and jerboas. Each to its own niche, his list had grown long and complex in its details of breeding and possible evolutionary connection. But the list had gone out with his books, locked in some dark cupboard or maybe even dumped in a bio-converter in one of the valley farms.
The Pinnacles loomed against the night sky, brightened by the stars and the almost-set moons. He sat with his back against the rocks.
He stayed like that for a long time, staring out to sea, spotting the occasional night-sighted cutterette and, after a time, the skipping forms of a school of terran porpoises. He smiled, then, and rose and headed back along the cliff path towards Newest Delhi.
He followed the deserted ramparts of West Wall around to near the Manse, cautious in case the disturbances had spread. Up on the Wall he could still hear the sounds of the Dumandee Ball, quiet but persistent.
To get to his suite he would have to pass through the corridors by August Hall. Despite—or maybe because of—his calmness of spirit, he did not want to face that; he wanted to preserve his inner peace.
When he was younger he had often left the Manse without permission. March would never have let him out to play with the common folk, not with Mica Akhra, daughter of a lowly engineer, not even with Idi and Rabindranath Mondata, sons of the finest fish merchant in all Newest Delhi. When March grew wise to his son and posted servants to watch over the doors of his suite, Mathias had simply refined his route. It was a number of years now since he had climbed the pillars outside his balcony and he doubted if he could still manage. But there was only one way to satisfy his curiosity and, all of a sudden, he was filled with the adventurous spirit of a child.
The handholds he remembered were too close together for an adult, but there were others in the ancient masonry that were just as good. The two-storey climb made him breathe harder than he had expected, the life of an heir had been too soft on him. His hand caught the top of the balcony wall and he pulled himself up until his other hand joined it. With a heave his elbows were there and his feet found purchase on the outside of the balcony.
Then he looked up and saw the people in his room. 'What—?'
Vice-like hands seized his arms and pulled him over the balcony wall. He hit the floor hard. Winded, he struggled to turn, but the hands were still gripping him, holding him down.
Pulled to his feet, he looked into the face of an officer of the Primal Guard. The man's name was Agrozo; Mathias had never spoken to him before.
'Sneaking in, eh?' said Agrozo. 'Didn't fancy the stairs, eh? Eh?' He prodded Mathias in the ribs.
'You can't treat me like this,' said Mathias, straightening in the grip of two more guards.
'Orders says we can.'
'Orders?' Pernicious thoughts about his father were creeping into Mathias's mind. All he had done was argue, he had committed no crime! 'The Prime would not order you to treat his son in this manner,' he said, trying to sound in control, trying to sound like March. 'Let me speak with him.'
Agrozo exchanged glances with another of the guards. 'You can save that for the Court, sir. Now you can come with us.'
'Court? What are you saying? Just let me speak with the Prime, OK?'
Agrozo set his face and turned from Mathias. 'The Prime is dead, sir. Murdered. My orders are to arrest you, that's all.' The man shrugged. 'Now will you just come along? Or the boys'll have to help you.'
Mathias went. He didn't know what else to do. The Prime dead?
Dead?
Chapter 4
The Manse corridors were empty as Agrozo led Mathias and his guards to the Administry wing. On one level, Mathias had already accepted what had happened: March was no longer alive.
But he tried to distance himself from that thought.
How could he mourn when he was being marched like this through the Manse, surrounded by soldiers of the Primal Guard? He felt physically broken, like when the market-place crowd had threatened to crush him. Twelve years earlier, when his mother had been killed in the Abidjan Uprising, Mathias had felt like this; only now it was worse. The closest family he had left was Edward. True, there were Sala and, especially, Greta, but they were
not family
. Walking through the corridors, he could only think of this loss; he had no time for thoughts of his own future or what was happening to him at that moment.
The fact of his arrest finally hit him when Agrozo hammered at the door of the Prime's office and called, 'Prisoner Mathias arrested and awaits interview.'
The door opened and Agrozo was ushered in. After a minute or two the door opened again and Mathias was ordered to enter.
This had been March's favourite room. Here he had a broad desk and a view over the Manse gardens; on fine days he would open the windows for the scents of the Expatrian herbs. The room was cluttered with mementoes and signs of regular use; the single bookshelf was heavy with hand-bound volumes of Expatrian history, some written by Sala Pedralis, one volume even penned by the Prime himself, back when he had only been heir to his vagabond father.
But now the room had lost its easy atmosphere. Four guards stood by the door, a scribe sat poised to document the proceedings, and the Prime's oak desk had been cleared. Seated behind the desk was Lars Anderson, Captain of the Prime's Guard. At his left shoulder stood Lucilla Ngota, staring at the wall and carefully avoiding Mathias's gaze. Mathias could not tell if she would be his ally or not, events were still confusing him.
He looked at Anderson and stepped forward. 'Tell me, Captain. Is it true? What happened?'
Anderson's face told him nothing. The captain had taught Mathias to shoot, shown him the basics of shore-casting for mawfish; they had spent many hours, just the two of them, the world left far behind. And now they were on opposite sides of the dead Prime's desk.
'The Prime is dead,' said Anderson. 'Please, answer my questions. This has to be done. Where did you go after you assaulted the Prime tonight?'
'Then, Captain, am I not now the Prime of Newest Delhi? I demand that you tell me exactly what happened tonight. My father has been murdered and you sit there wasting my time with trivia!'
Anderson did not seem affected by Mathias's outburst. 'Very commendable, sir. I hope you are telling the truth. I hope that in time, too, you will see the necessity of this interview. Yes, you are technically the new Prime. But in the present contingencies I am still an officer of the old Prime and you, sir, are technically under arrest. Forgive me, but we must proceed. Where did you go tonight?'
'Lucilla?' But she was still staring at the wall. He wondered at what there had been between her and his father—she had been repeatedly unfaithful to him, with the women and men of the Court, but she had remained longer than any of her predecessors. 'Lucilla, you know this is wrong.' Then, she finally looked at him and he wished he had kept quiet. There was venom in her eyes, she was directing the naked flame of her hatred directly at his heart. He looked back at Anderson, shaken.
'I learnt of my father's death when I found Agrozo in my suite. After... after leaving the Dumandee I wandered in the streets then walked out along Gorra Point to a place we call the Pinnacles—tall needles of rock. I sat for a time, regretting my earlier behaviour, swearing to mend my ways. Then I returned to this.'
'You neglect your somewhat unconventional means of entering your suite,' said Anderson. 'Why did you sneak in? Why did you want people to think you were already in your room when the alarm was raised?'
'You are making false assumptions, Captain Anderson.' Mathias was learning that his self-control was far greater in real adversity than was normally the case. 'I did not know an alarm would be raised, as I had no idea what had happened. My method of return is one developed over years of avoiding parental restrictions. I chose to "sneak in" tonight because I wished to avoid meeting anyone who may have witnessed my earlier behaviour. Captain Anderson, I was
ashamed
. Now, this has gone on too long, you must have more important things to do.' No matter how hard he tried, he could not adopt the same tone of authority his father had used to such good effect; Anderson merely ignored him.
'What did you think when you learnt of the means of death?'
'Nobody has told me any details,' said Mathias. 'Presumably So you could try such amateurish methods of interrogation.'
Anderson ignored the slight. 'Why did—' He was interrupted by a knock on the door. 'Yes?'
Agrozo walked in and put something on the desk. After a muttered explanation in Anderson's ear he retreated to stand by the bookshelf.
Anderson looked at Mathias, something new in his eyes. 'Tell me, Mathias,' he said. 'Why should you have a stolen servant's mask in your possession?'
'I don't know what—'
'
This
one,' continued the captain, holding one out before him, the item that Agrozo had brought in. 'It was found on your balcony. A crude form of anonymity, but one that might work. Why were you carrying it? And why did you drop it when you saw my men?'
Before Mathias could answer there was a roar of rage from behind the desk and Lucilla Ngota had stepped around it and thrown herself at him. The impact knocked him to the ground, and he fought her frantically until two guards dragged them apart.
Disbelievingly, he stared at Lucilla. He had never seen a person so enraged. She would have killed him if she had not been stopped.
'Worthless,' she hissed, still struggling with the guards. 'You'll pay.' Mathias did not like to look at her as she struggled to get to him.
'Enough!' snapped Anderson. 'This takes us nowhere.' He gestured at a guard and Mathias was led out of his father's office. The last words he heard Anderson say were, 'There will be a trial. You must let justice do its...' Then the words grew too faint to hear and Mathias dumbly followed his guard through the long Manse corridors.
~
Dawn was breaking by the time the guard locked the door from the outside. Mathias looked around at the room that was to be his prison. It was an ordinary guest-room, in the south wing of the Manse. He was still shaken by Lucilla's reaction, but he knew that all he could do was wait until events proved his innocence.
At first he had been willing to accept that his arrest was inevitable, after the murder of the Prime. He
had
publicly assaulted March, only hours—
minutes?
—before his death. And Mathias was the person with most to gain from the situation: the inheritance of the Primacy of Newest Delhi, and with it the effective rule of almost half the population of Expatria. It was natural that suspicion should fall on his shoulders.
But the mask cast everything in a different light. Someone was trying to set him up, presumably the same person who had killed the Prime. He remembered the disturbance in the streets that night: the guard had told him it was Black-Handers, out for whatever they could grab while the revellers were distracted by Dumandee. The militia had easily kept control. He thought again of the dark currents flowing through the city he had thought he understood, the cults, the clans, the disenchanted. What did they think they would gain by all this? And then he stopped himself. Speculation would do him no good. Where had his self-discipline gone?
There was a knock at the door and he glanced up to see it open and someone step through.
'Idi!' They rushed together and embraced. 'Idi, how did you get in? Tell me what's happening!'
Idi's face looked serious and hollow, as if he had not slept that night. 'Your sentries don't like what they're doing here,' he said. 'There's a lot of people like that. Word gets around, you know? How much they tell you? Nothing? I figured. Listen, word is your pa was strangled with a power cable. Like a PA cable, they say. They say he left the party after an argument with
you
—yeah, I know you didn't to it, least I did when I just saw your face. After this bust-up he left, then Edward found him dead and you're chin-deep in shit creek. It stinks.' Idi smiled for the first time, but it was obviously an effort.
'You say Edward found him?'
'It's not what
I
say, it's what
they
say. It's what the militia and the guards say when they're letting off steam, it's what servants say who don't like the idea of being under Eddy.' He smiled again. 'It's the word, Matt, the word. They say he was broken up about it, say he was crying when he called the guards. They kept it quiet at first, until they figured they knew what had happened.
'Word also says that Eddy's ma has crawled out of the woodwork, now she's heard what's happening. She's trying to put pressure on for Eddy to be adopted above you as the new Prime. She doesn't care what comes of this, just says it's another proof that you're not the right stuff like her Eddy is.' Idi sighed. 'What have they got on you that'll stick?'
'Nothing solid,' said Mathias. 'Not that they've told me. Except for a mask somebody planted in my room; Anderson says I used it for cover. Someone put it there, Idi. Someone wants me out of the way.'
'Good reasoning, Matt. Except it's not just you: they wanted the Prime out of the way, too.'
Someone coughed outside the guest-room door and Idi stepped towards it. 'That's my signal. Time to go. Listen, Matt, try not to worry.' He shrugged. 'Yeah, I know. But you've got friends out here. We're not going to let you go down with this.'
Idi opened the door and Mathias hurried over to stop him. 'Listen, Idi,' he said. 'Will you get word to Greta for me? She has to know what's happening. I have to see her!'
'Hey, there's no
have tos
from where you're sitting, Matt. Yeah, OK. I'll try, I'll do something.' He gave a final grin. 'We'll get you out, Matt. They can't do this.'
~
Mathias tried to occupy his mind as he sat imprisoned in the guest-room. He counted the animals that flew past the window, setting terran birds against the native bat-types. The Expatrians were well ahead when he stopped counting. He tried to listen for the sea, but the day was calm and the sea quiet. He even tried to recall his list of cliff-top burrowers but it was no good. Always his mind came back to his lost father. He wished things had been easier between them; the feelings had always been there but it took death to make Mathias see that.
They brought him food—a plate of corn hash—towards the middle of the day. He didn't eat it. He just sat there, working his depression more deeply into his soul, wondering what his half-brother was doing in his place.
Later he sat watching the sun, too low and red to hurt his eyes. The day had been a long one and now it was ebbing away into the nothing of another brief night. At first the sky changed slowly, the sun burning a deeper hue, its colours seeping into the scattering of clouds. Then the change accelerated, the colours spreading, deepening, flowing through cloud and the darkening sky, ever-changing, drawing Mathias up and away.
A knock at the door brought him back down to the reality he had been trying to forget. He had been expecting them all day, another interview, maybe some more planted evidence that would prove his 'guilt' beyond all reasonable doubt.
The door opened and Greta was standing there.
He wanted to rush to her, to take her in his arms as he had at the Dumandee Ball, but instead he held back, feeling suddenly unsure of himself.
The door opened wider and Greta stepped aside to allow the chaperone to follow her into the room. Of course, she would not come to see him alone. Even in this situation—
especially
in this situation—they had to be watched.
Chaperone leaning on the closed door, Greta moved into the room and sat upright on the edge of the wide bed. Mathias wanted to go to her, but he couldn't move, he couldn't even speak.
'I'm glad they still treat you well, Matti.' She gestured around at the guest-room. 'Your cell is rather splendid.'
Greta's lightness of spirit was one of her most endearing qualities, but it was also one of her most infuriating. If ever an argument had gone against her and Mathias had felt close to winning a point, she would joke and the matter would be closed and Mathias would feel angry and elated at the same time. He felt both those feelings now and he didn't know which was proper.
'You made me very proud, last night,' he said. 'To be dancing with you at the Dumandee Ball. I wanted to show you off to the whole world.' He shrugged and turned away. He was no good at compliments, no matter how truthful they were. 'It wasn't me. You have to believe me: I could never have done anything like that.'
Greta was staring at her hands. 'Everybody saw the two of you arguing,' she said. 'And they say you climbed into your room to avoid detection.'
'You believe them, then?'
'At the Gatherings we are told that belief is total commitment. I do not
believe
that you... killed the Prime. I simply...'
Mathias stood by the window and watched a gull dipping over the roof-tops. 'How can I earn your total commitment?' he asked. 'What must I do?'
'I don't know, Matti. I'm sorry but I... Things have changed rapidly, since Dumandee. It appears that Edward will be named at least Prime-Designate, until things become more settled. He is working very hard to keep the clan functioning. He has made many friends by his efforts. Faces are changing too rapidly for me to follow. Captain Anderson has risen with Edward; they complement one another. Sala Pedralis is helping smooth the transitional period, too. I don't think she likes Edward, but she is winning back the dissidents and gaining the clan time. Lucilla Ngota has been disgraced. She won't tell me what happened but she has been suspended from all duties and her staff have been redeployed to cope with the crisis. I have tried to comfort her—the Prime's death has hurt her deeply. Matti, what will they do to you?'
