by K. L. Kettle
If it was mercy, the Chancellor wouldn’t invite her ladies to watch.
It won’t be long after I’ve killed the Chancellor before I’m up on that balcony. Looking down on a new audience. Taking a last bow. Maybe there’s some sort of freedom, on the other side.
The tallest of the Lice has her hand tight on my shoulder, leading me past the stains. “Cleaning house is a full-time job now,” she grunts.
She laughs with a snort, pinches my collarbone until I squirm, then it changes to a sort of massaging that I don’t think is trying to make me feel safe. It’s like the way the cooks used to tenderize meat, her thumb circling.
Tapping my thumb and fingers together with nerves and curling my toes as we walk, the pressure behind my ears gets worse. The stink of bleach makes my eyes water.
Distracting myself as we walk on, staring at the huge murals on every available wall. The paint is so old and damp it’s run in places, bubbled and mildewed in others. We’re not allowed to draw on the walls in the dorms, but up here the rules are different. Here there are words and colour and painted figures as tall as twenty women. They seem to laugh and point, their eyes following us as we pass.
The tall officer sniffs inside her mask. “Anyone would think you’d never seen the Foundations before. Don’t they teach you anything?”
Of course I know the Foundations, the people who protected High House Tower during the war. The cooks told us to pray to them when we were children. Not that I can tell the officer this: we’re not meant to answer back.
“Come on.” She leads me closer to the murals, the other officers laughing behind me. “That’s the Construction.”
The House Fathers talk about history in our weekly classes, but what I know best comes from you. You’d worked in the vents as a prentice, so you’d overheard the madams at the House of Knowledge. The Foundations weren’t gods, you said, they were just people. Scientists and artists and politicians. Women, sure, but men too.
The tall officer slows her voice like I’m stupid as she points out the murals. “That’s the Arrival.”
The Saints: the people that built the Tower, that started their wars for the gods they worshipped. Oil, Gas, Money and Speed.
Don’t look back. Give her that show-her-you’re-interested number nine smile. Don’t wonder how many men the hand on my back has pushed…
“The Lockdown,” she says. “The Last War. Tunnel life…”
Stories in paint. Proof of the history you told me when we were kids, before the House of Boys.
“That’s the arrival of the refugees.” The painted faces are of grey men and women, small, sick, being welcomed to safety beneath the Tower.
“The ‘Many Womb’ plan,” the officer continues. To repopulate they needed more women than men, so we’re told. “The Exploration. That’s when the Foundations’ ancestors went into the world to find what was left.”
I always loved the expedition stories. Rain Girl would tell them best, talking and talking. Romali Vor’s triumphant smile slides into my mind and I try to shut it out, just as the tall officer’s hand slips from my shoulder, down my back.
Everything inside goes cold; my toes cross in my slippers as her hand keeps moving down. “They went to the edge of the earth and there was nothing,” she says. “We’re alone.”
Alone.
Don’t react. My chaperone’s cold hand edges down, down.
“Your lot – you men – you destroyed it all,” she says as her fingers reach my waistband. They don’t stop. I try not to react as her gloved hand gropes my behind.
It’s not like it doesn’t happen to every boy. A grab here. A grope there. Small belittling moments we’re meant to endure, because it’s girls being girls. Shouldn’t we be grateful? Flattered? And when they don’t even know they did anything wrong, what? We’re meant to apologize?
Someone behind us coughs. She snatches her hand away to grip my arm tight enough to snap it off.
“Sorry, Spinny. We … um … need elevator six E,” one of the smaller officers squeaks. She points to a bank of gleaming copper doors. “You’re the only one with a clearance card for the fast one to the Pent House. Rest aren’t working again anyway.”
“This fogging place,” my guide swears. “It’s falling apart.” She groans behind her mask and pulls me back towards her swarm of Lice. “Did anyone call Maintenance?”
The squeaking officer won’t look at me as we move towards a pair of dirty golden doors.
I’ve never taken an elevator. Never even seen inside one. They say that the fastest can take you to the top of the Tower in a minute. Spinny swears again, swipes a card at the wall, pushes the button and we wait.
Each time Spinny moves her fingers, my heart jumps back into my throat. I flinch – don’t mean to. The Lice respond to weakness. Don’t show them you’re nervous. Think about something else…
Above, one of the biggest murals is being painted over. I think it once showed the birth of the Foundation’s First Daughter, Pallai Dunn, but not any more. Now there’s the faceless, unfinished painting of a glowing silver-clad woman as tall as the tenth storey. It’s half finished. Around her feet, hundreds of small, smiling women look up at her. Everything in that world is warm. And welcoming. And bright. There isn’t one man in it at all.
“Our glorious Chancellor,” Spinny says, leaning the snout of her mask close to my ear. Drumming her fingers on my upper arm as the silver figure’s unfinished, empty eyes stare down at me.
“Your date.”
In one great clunk, the elevator begins to whir behind the doors, a deafening monster of a noise.
Doors shudder open, exposing a small room made of metal. Inside, the lights buzz. My instincts pin me to the ground, but Spinny’s pull is strong and soon the grilled floor beneath my slippered toes cuts cold into the pads of my feet.
The Lice fill the space behind me with a wall of black backs, boxing me in behind the stink of well-worn clothes, sweat, dust and grease. As the elevator doors screech closed, my heart thuds. Any one of them could kill me right here, right now, if they knew what I’d been sent to do. Maybe they don’t know. Maybe I was wrong. But Romali Vor knew. She had to, right? Why else would she want me arrested? Did she tell her Lice friends, or want to arrest me herself? Her chance for glory in the Chancellor’s eyes.
The elevator lurches and groans, knocking me off balance, and we begin to climb.
Spinny hasn’t stopped watching me. Her head tilts as she looks me up and down. Taking stock. The circle lenses of her goggles reflect me in their glaze. I try to grin through it, everything’s-fine-nothing-to-worry-about.
She lifts the glass of her goggles up to get a good look at me. I can only see her eyes. Dark brown, cruel. Maybe she’ll stop the machine just high enough to give me a long fall, a quick death.
“Come on!” one of the officers grunts, hitting the old walls to speed up the elevator.
It jolts up so fast my bones rattle like the world is trying to drag me into the floor. Sounds suck into silence and the inside of my head feels as if it might burst.
I’m going to be sick, so I clamp my hands over my ears because my brain is going to leak out if I don’t.
Spinny snorts. “It’s the air pressure,” she says, sharp. “Hold your nose and blow.”
For some reason, the whole swarm of Lice find this hilarious.
Outside the elevator the world is rattling, rattling, rattling as we climb ten floors at a time. The world is falling away below us and we’re flying.
My ears pop so I crack my jaw until—Ping.
We stop, the earth letting me go so fast it’s like I might hit the ceiling. But instead the doors open and the Lice shove me into the dark. It feels like for ever before the floor catches me.
Pent House, says the elevator’s voice behind me.
Spinny waves her armoured fingers. “See you soon.” As the doors close, they’re all laughing, leaving me in the darkness.
There are stories about how hig
h the Tower is. As my feet cling to the warm stone floor of the Chancellor’s apartment, the air tightens in my throat. It feels like there’s a million floors below, maybe more.
Top floor, my friend. Top floor! you say.
“That doesn’t help,” I respond but no one answers.
My eyesight’s good in the dark, my senses sharp to sounds, but my ears still feel funny after the elevator. Hands shaking, moving through the pitch-black corridors feels awkward. Can’t believe I’m actually up here. How many boys have been in the Pent House? I bet even only a handful of the women have visited.
Rounding the corner, the lights start to blink on as I nearly crash into a man in front of me. Every nerve in my body jumps, but this sentry isn’t real. He’s made from bones and bleached animal skulls, all twisted up with wires and mirrors, jewels and flowers. He’s wearing the same outfit the House of Expression made for us last year: white, collarless, with leaves embroidered on it. The Gardener hosted last year’s Reserves, so the theme was hers.
I must be mad because the longer I stare at the figure the more it seems to look like you. I guess this is what they call art but it makes my skin crawl. It even has a pair of shoes, not that we get them.
When you ran, in the atrium, where did you get your shoes from? Replaying the moment in my mind. Slowing it down. Speeding it up. When we were prentice in the kitchens, we only had ugly, slop-covered rags to wear. Nothing to protect aching toes from being stood on, but at least the clothes were ours. The dream was to have a pair of shoes. Something sturdy. Heavy soles. Silk slippers are the best us boys can hope for. Soft skin, sweet-smelling feet, that’s the mark of care, Father Jai says. Of course boys without shoes don’t run either.
Where did you get a pair of shoes?
The Chancellor’s white walls glint with mirrors, opening up into a high space with dark windows stretching all around. You could fit every boy I know in this place, up the stairs to the open-sided floors above. Trying to twist open the top button of my collar, to get some air to my throat, I shuffle over the stone floor, keeping my elbows in so as not to break anything, past animal-skin rugs, and ancient paintings of gowned women reaching down to muscular, naked men. Push my nose up against the glass of the windows to try and see the world in the darkness beyond. But all I can make out is my own reflection and the room behind me.
There’s a protocol for Reserves. Shower. Get dressed again. Wait. The reserve cost covers from the time the woman arrives to mid-dark, when our House Father is meant to come and collect us. I should find a bathroom and get ready. It’ll be hours until the Chancellor arrives. She’ll be at the after-party. I’ll have time to calm down, prepare myself.
You sure you can do this?
Yes.
Just one little push?
Upstairs, looking for her bathroom, the walls, floor tiles, cushions and tables twinkle with small, mirrored scales. The whole place winks at me with my own face, my own eyes. On the side table near a large bed, three times bigger than anything I’ve ever slept in, there are small flowers made of folded paper. Did she make them?
You used to hoard paper. You’d put it in your mouth to sneak it away from the cooks. You’d make little men out of the mashed pulp.
Before my heart has slowed, the double doors behind me open and my whole body jumps.
Two high-heeled shoes fly from the Chancellor’s feet, kicked off as she glides away from the stairs into her bedroom, her curves as smooth as a sculpture of melting ice. She’s dressed head to toe in sparkling fish-scale silver. Behind her diamond-studded mask her large grey eyes are bright, unblinking.
“So…” Her muffled voice is musical as if she’s about to burst into song. “Here we are.”
“M-Madam Chancellor,” I begin. The muscles behind my knee tick as I bow, staring at the floor.
“Shh,” she says, putting her finger to her false lips. “I didn’t say you could talk yet.” Her voice is a whisper. “Presumptuous, going into a lady’s bedroom without being invited.” She drops herself on to a chaise, starts picking at the moulting fluff, adjusts her dress where it clings to her in the heat and pulls her fingers through her long hair. Her curls are white all the way to the tips, though her roots are black – the colour of charcoal.
She peels off her mask with a sigh and drops it on to the carpet. “Aren’t you going to look at me?”
I shake my head, look at my feet fast.
“You got a good gawp at Vor’s girl.”
The muscles behind my leg pinch.
“Younger, I suppose. Much like when I became Chancellor. Some say she wants my job. What do you think?” I shake my head again. “Over my dead body, of course,” she laughs.
Does she really think Romali Vor is a potential successor?
The Chancellor’s lost in thought now, her breathing slow. “My predecessor, her grandmother, she’d have tried to have her rivals killed, you see. Even me. Couldn’t bear the idea that anyone but her daughter would be Chancellor.”
But I’m not here because of Romali Vor. I’m here because of you, Vik.
“Ho-hum. Madam Vor, she’s loyal. The most loyal. She’ll find the right punishment for her daughter disturbing the peace.”
But Romali tried to have me arrested. She was trying to save the Chancellor, wasn’t she?
She sighs. “Such a shame, though, that mine wasn’t the first face you saw. Can’t unbreak that window. Not that I’m jealous, just sorry such an ugly little face was the first one you saw.”
How am I meant to tell the difference between what’s beautiful and what’s not?
She’s waiting, I think. Is that an invitation to speak? I can’t tell. She’s talked so much my head hurts more than normal. I’ve not even tried to look at her.
You’re messing this up.
“Fine,” she says, so quiet I have to concentrate. “Not even going to have a little peek? Perhaps I’m not worth looking at?”
“We … we blind ourselves to beauty.” Maybe reminding her of our oath will help?
“Oh, come on. Promise I won’t tell if you don’t.” She stands, moves towards me. “Besides, they’re my rules. I get to break them.”
My spine and neck bones click as I pull myself up straight. My whole body is shaking and it takes clenching all my muscles not to show it.
“You can look me in the face, you know. Not bad, hmm?” she asks, grey eyes flashing.
“I—” I begin, before my mouth dries.
Could I call her beautiful when I’ve only one face to compare hers to? Are stone grey eyes more beautiful than green? One thing’s for sure: I can’t read her smile. Wide and calm, it gives nothing away. Playing through Walker’s instructions, I try to imagine pushing her, here and now, just enough so she’d fall over, but I can’t even move.
“I don’t actually want to know what you think, sugar.” She flicks her hand through the air, waving my words away like a bad smell. Her nails are armoured with intricate, swirling metal, pointed silver claws. “I mean, please, I’m no teenager but I’m holding up OK.” She checks her face in the mirrors around us, pulling her skin about as if she’s tucking in the fabric of her dress. Her stockinged feet kick the dozen pillows covering the lounger on to the floor.
Reaching for a small bottle waiting for her on ice, she twists its top as if snapping the neck of an animal.
“I’ll tell you this, there are serums from the House of Beauty that’ll give me another two decades of good skin.” Gliding round the room, her toes curling through the animal pelts at her feet, she pours half the fizz into a wine flute and empties the contents of the glass down her throat, tipping her whole head back.
I brush the fabric of my suit down, straightening it the way Walker does, drying the sweat from my hands.
She shakes the bottle, sloshes the liquid from side to side as if someone else might be more interesting to talk to, before yawning, sighing.
“Strange thing for her to do, Ms Vor.” She says she’s not jealous but she keeps talk
ing about Romali Vor. “Throwing her mask off. You do know she could be arrested for that? Why would someone so privileged risk so much … and for a boy?”
Cold sweat trails down from my brow and catches in the bowl of my ear, drying in the sweet, recycled air.
She pouts. “Unless, of course, she wanted to guarantee my interest in said boy…” She taps her ringed fingers against the empty glass. “I can’t think of another reason.”
Tink. Tink.
Does she want to know what I think? My throat is dust and nails when I try to swallow. Even if she gave me permission to speak, it’s not like I can say Ms Vor wanted to stop me from killing her.
“Nothing?” she presses. The Chancellor drops to sit on the bed. The springs bounce and squeak. “You’re no fun. To business then. I never did hear your speech onstage. Bet Wally gave you some good spin, Jude Grant. Ladies and debutantes…” She claps one hand against her glass. Her diamond rings clink against it.
Tink, tink, tink.
That’s the permission I need. And she wants my speech? Remember to breathe. “My name is Jude Grant,” I say, no hesitation this time. No distraction. “And I am alive.”
Smile nineteen, a big-old-beamer. Maximum charm. Full tilt. Ear to ear. It has to hurt, otherwise how does she know you mean it? That’s what Walker said.
She rolls the glass between her hands.
Tink.
Tink.
Tink.
“You’re alive?” Each soft syllable seems to slide along the carpet. Standing, she runs the tip of a finger round the rim of the glass. It sings with a piercing whistle, making my ears ache. She glides closer, unblinking. “Alive, like you should be proud of it? As if it’s an achievement?” Her plucked-perfect white eyebrows rise in curling question marks. “And what does that make me?”
“You’re alive too,” I say. Jokes are charming, Walker said. She doesn’t laugh.