Carnival

by Elizabeth Bear

  “And stealing a three‑meter statue from a public venue?”

  “There’s the problem,” she said. “We didn’t build House. We just adapted it, learned how to program it.”

  “And adapted to it. You’re saying there’s no security feed from the gallery?”

  “I’m saying that anybody who could take that statue out could tell House not to remember. We’ll check the records–”

  “Of course.” He managed it without a glance at Angelo. He’d been cloaked when he entered. The chances he could be detected were slim. “Please do. That means it’s somebody with clout.”

  “Somebody in Parliament, if it wasn’t a ranking gallery administrator,” Lesa corrected after a reluctant pause. “We don’t let just anybody engage in urban renewal.”

  “This isn’t the way back to the residence unless we’re going the long way,” Kusanagi‑Jones said a little while later.

  “No,” Lesa said. “I’m bringing you to Pretoria house. I know who has access to the priorities there.”

  “And security?”

  They’d left the agents behind. Lesa seemed to understand the nuances of his question. “Shafaqat and Cathay are running a decoy operation,” she said. “Asha will follow us. Pretoria house has its own security, of course–”

  “Of course,” Vincent interrupted, ever so dry. “And there’s no evidence that itcould be compromised.”

  “Not by a male,” Lesa said.

  Kusanagi‑Jones raised an eyebrow at Vincent, who rolled his eyes. “Angelo is probably finding your remark somewhat cryptic.”

  “One of our household males has taken advantage of the recent confusion to run away,” Lesa said. “We are trying to recover him before it becomes public knowledge and we have to make an example of him when we catch him. Thank you very much for airing our dirty laundry, Miss Katherinessen.”

  “Anything you can tell me, Angelo can hear,” Vincent said, which earned him another arch look from the Penthesilean. There was a subtext there that Kusanagi‑Jones wasn’t catching, and for a moment, he understood what it must be like for others, on the outside of his rapport with Vincent.

  “The male,” Kusanagi‑Jones hazarded, his hands folded between his knees. “Robert, was it?”

  Lesa, looking out the window, nodded.

  Kusanagi‑Jones frowned. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  He half expected to be installed in the harem, or whatever they called it, but he and Vincent were given a small, comfortable room with a balcony that opened onto Pretoria house’s inner court and left alone to compose or, Kusanagi‑Jones thought, incriminate themselves.

  A young male servant who was familiar from the previous night’s dinner brought them warm sandwiches of scrambled, spiced vegetable protein and mixed greens, the bread made from some unfamiliar grain, and bottles–not bubbles–of a carbonated drink with a pleasing bitter aftertaste reminiscent of chocolate. They sat cross‑legged on the bed, the tray balanced on the covers between them, and picked at the food.

  Neither one of them was hungry, but they were both determined to eat, which made the meal an extended comedy of dragging silences and lengthy chewing, interrupted by occasional distant cracks of thunder and the sound of music and shouting drifting from nearby streets. Nothing as minor as the attempted assassination of a head of state would put a cramp in Carnival.

  Kusanagi‑Jones finished first and waited while Vincent picked bits out of his sandwich and poured drink into his glass one mouthful at a time. He waited poorly, bending his fingernails against the edge of the tray and wishing Vincent would break the silence with a conversational offer.

  But Vincent seemed preoccupied, withdrawn. “All right?” Kusanagi‑Jones said finally, and then bit the inside of his cheek in frustration.

  “Yes,” Vincent said, prodding his nose delicately with the tip of his finger. “Sore, exhausted, and full of released toxins, but I’ve been worse. Something’s preying on you.”

  And if he was presenting strongly enough that Vincent could tell, Kusanagi‑Jones was doing even worse than he’d thought.

  “Need to talk,” he said. And then, unable to bear the close intimacy of the two of them leaning together over their food, he swung his legs off the low New Amazonian bed and levered himself to his feet. The carpetplant dimpled under his soles. He strolled to the archway leading to the balcony and paused inside the air curtain, currents stirring the fine hairs on his arms.

  The first fat drops of a tropical downpour splashed the green‑blue translucence of the balcony as the ceiling inside paled to simulate the storming sky. As the light outside dimmed, that within seemed to brighten in comparison, so when Kusanagi‑Jones glanced over his shoulder he was caught by the luster of rust‑colored highlights on Vincent’s hair.

  He looked down, folded his arms to hide the way his hands were shaking–again–and stepped through the air curtain and out into the rain as if stepping through a spun glass drapery.

  His wardrobe shunted it away, creating a shimmering outline centimeters from his skin. He pulled his folded arms apart and ran fingertips over his watch, opening the utility fog.

  The water was warm. Blood‑warm, warmer than his skin, corpulent drops hitting hard enough to sting. He closed his eyes and tilted his face back, letting the rain wash him. It passed through his wardrobe without dampening the simulated cloth or affecting the hang of the outfit, soaking him, sluicing down his chest and thighs, saturating his hair.

  He heard Vincent’s footsteps and saw his shadow cross the fisheye before Vincent spoke. “Do you suppose it’s safe?”

  “Safer than the sunlight.”

  “There could be pollution. Parasites.”

  “Could be,” Kusanagi‑Jones said. Even when he dropped his chin to speak, water splashed into his mouth. It tasted strange, not neutral but crackling with ozone, faintly salty, sweet. From below, Kusanagi‑Jones heard voices, a woman’s and those of children, and the slap of bare footsteps running on wet pavement. He turned his right hand up to let the rain wash across the sealed nick on his palm. “Don’t seem too worried.”

  Water pattered on Vincent’s hair and shoulders as he came outside. He paused at Kusanagi‑Jones’s shoulder, and Kusanagi‑Jones leaned back slightly, so their wardrobes meshed. The coded channel was carried on a single‑photon beam–an unimpeachable transmission. But it didn’t hurt to shorten the hop. “Vincent–”

  Vincent’s hand on his shoulder almost made him jump out of his wardrobe. “If you’re about to tell me that you’re seizing command of the mission, Angelo, I don’t blame you. But I will put up a fight. Can’t we come to an accommodation?”

  Kusanagi‑Jones stopped hard, with his jaw hanging open. He put one hand out, found the balustrade, and used it to pivot himself where he stood. “Beg pardon?”

  To see Vincent staring at him, similarly gape‑mouthed and blinking rapidly against the rain that dripped from his lashes. “I thought–” He stepped away, let his hand fall, and tilted his head back. “The Christ. I thought you’d made me.”

  “As a double,” Kusanagi‑Jones said, understanding, but needing the confirmation.

  Vincent snorted, shaking his head, water scattering from short, randomly pointed braids. He rocked back and slumped against the wall beside the doorway. “Well, now you know. It’s a good thing Idon’t claim to be a Liar.”

  “Who?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that–”

  “Vincent. I won’t hand you over. Or your connections.”

  “I still can’t tell you.”

  “What organization?”

  The smile was tight, Vincent’s hands curled into fists beside his thighs. He didn’t look down. Kusanagi‑Jones hadn’t thought he would. “One that doesn’t have a name.”

  Kusanagi‑Jones shouldn’t have been riding a rush of relief and joy; emotion made you stupid. But it welled up anyway. He reached out and took Vincent’s arm, the dry wardrobe sliding over wet skin beneath. “Know what I�
��m thinking?”

  “Do I ever? It’s part of your charm–”

  Michelangelo took a breath and let the words go with it when he let it out. “I threw the mission on New Earth.”

  “The Skidbladnirsuffered a core excursion,” Vincent said. “You couldn’t have had…” And then his voice trailed off. He tugged away from Kusanagi‑Jones’s hand, but not hard, and Kusanagi‑Jones held on to him. “Angelo.”

  “I’m Free Earth,” he said. “Have been for decades. I killed Skidbladnir,Vincent, and everybody on her.”

  “To keep New Earth out of the Coalition.”

  “To give them a fighting chance.”

  Vincent licked his lips and looked down, jaw working. Kusanagi‑Jones imagined he was toting up the dead–the ship’s crew, marines, civilians. He started to pull his hand back and Vincent caught it, squeezed, held. “Do you mean to do it again?”

  “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I have to.”

  “Good,” Vincent said. “Me, too. We need a plan.”

  If there was any tap on the door to the hall, neither one of them heard it over the sound of the rain, but Kusanagi‑Jones could hardly have missed it irising open. He pressed Vincent’s arm before stepping around him, turning him. Then he walked under the dripping door frame before pausing to shake the water off his hair. A shower of droplets bent the leaves of the carpetplant until his wardrobe took care of the rest, wicking moisture away so his clothes seemed to steam. “Come in,” he said to the young woman who waited outside in simple off‑white clothing with a Pretoria household badge embroidered on the breast.

  She carried a slip of some sort in her hand, and was on the hesitant cusp of offering it to Vincent, who came through the door a moment after Kusanagi‑Jones and held out his hand, when she glanced at Kusanagi‑Jones for permission. Odd,he thought, and nodded, but not before he said “Wardrobe,” to Vincent.

  He didn’t want him actually touchingthat thing.

  The faint sparkle around Vincent’s fingertips when they touched the slip said Vincent had anticipated him. “Thank you,” Vincent said to the young woman. She nodded and stepped back, the door spiraling shut before her. Vincent glanced down, the slip dimpling lightly between fingers that didn’t quite contact its surface. “It’s for you.”

  “Who from?”

  “It doesn’t say.” Vincent generated a thin blade and slid it into the slip, along a seam Kusanagi‑Jones couldn’t see. A slight tearing sound followed, and then he tapped and inverted it, sliding out a second, matching slip. Vincent turned it in his hand and frowned at the black, ornate lettering.

  “Another party invitation?” Kusanagi‑Jones asked, letting his mouth twist around the words.

  “No,” Vincent said, raising a thin sheet of old‑fashioned card stock, wood pulp unless Kusanagi‑Jones missed his guess. “You seem to have been challenged to a duel.”

  16

  KATHERINESSEN APPEARED AT LESA’S DOOR IN THE COMPANY of Agnes, who had been working in a study near the on‑loan bedroom, and wordlessly presented her with a challenge card inscribed in Claude Singapore’s writing. Once she read it, he told her, minimally, that Kusanagi‑Jones wasn’t any more loyal to the Coalition than he was, and that it was his considered opinion that they should bring him in.

  She sent Agnes back upstairs to fetch Kusanagi‑Jones while Katherinessen appropriated the cushions by her work surface. Kusanagi‑Jones appeared and stationed himself against the wall on the opposite side of the room, arms and ankles folded, still enough to go forgotten. Except for the slip of paper that Katherinessen had laid on her desk for examination, but would not permit her to touch.

  Legally speaking, Kusanagi‑Jones couldn’tfight. Gentle or not, foreign or not, he was a male, and men didn’t duel. As she had expected, Katherinessen waited until she finished explaining and asked, “Then what’s the point in issuing a challenge?”

  “He cost her face,” Lesa said. “Bad enough she’s in a delicate political situation for pandering to the Coalition–”

  “Cost her face?” Katherinessen leaned forward, disbelieving. “He saved her life.”

  “That iscosting her face.” Lesa pressed palms flat on either side of the indicted card, and wrinkled her nose at it. “You laid hands on her, which is illegal and a personal affront. If you were a stud male, it would go to Tribunal. Because you’re a gentle male, if an arraignment found no intent to harm, she could still challenge, and the women in your household would have the option of meeting it.”

  “She can’t take him to trial,” Katherinessen said. “He has diplomatic immunity.”

  Kusanagi‑Jones broke his silence without looking up. “Which is why she went straight to the challenge.”

  “Precisely.” Lesa stood, turning her back on that cream‑colored card, and traced a hand along House’s interior curves as she walked away from the desk. “Do you want a drink?”

  “Please,” Kusanagi‑Jones said with fervor.

  Lesa turned, surprised, and pointed at Katherinessen. He nodded and held up two fingers.

  Ice rattled into glasses. She dropped it from higher than necessary, for the satisfying thump. “It isn’t personal.”

  Katherinessen frowned at his thumbnails while Lesa filled the glasses and waited, curling her toes into the carpetplant, waiting to see what he would logic out. He looked up and stood to take two glasses from her and pass one to Kusanagi‑Jones. “We…I…walked out of that assassination attempt with a PR advantage. She needs to nullify that.”

  “Theft had to be a blow,” Kusanagi‑Jones added.

  “Yes.” Lesa tested her drink. Too much ice. “And she can’t be seen to be beholden to the Coalition. And now it seems that you are willing to go to some risk to protect her.”

  “She needs to shift the apparent relationship back to a more adversarial footing, or lose support. But why a challenge, when Angelo hasn’t got–”

  “A woman to fight for him?” Kusanagi‑Jones said, rattling the ice in his glass. “You can say it.”

  Lesa snorted. She came around the desk, easing the formality of the situation, and perched one hip on it, though the position made her holster pinch. “If he were Penthesilean, and no one in his house would stand up for him, Claude could take him in service.”

  “Good way to get rid of unwanted houseguests.”

  Katherinessen frowned over his shoulder. “But he’s not.”

  “No. So if he can’t field a champion, he loses face as a…debtor who doesn’t meet his obligations. Claude looks tough on the Coalition and the two of you are sent home in disgrace, your viability as negotiators devastated. If I were a conspiracy theorist, I’d half‑bet she set up the assassination herself; it couldn’t better suit her needs. How long would it take the Coalition to scrape up another team?”

  “Of ‘gentle’ males? How long do you think? So it’s a stalling tactic.”

  “Precisely.” Lesa slammed the rest of her drink back and dropped the glass on the edge of the desk.

  “But if she wants the rest of the art repatriated–”

  “Look.” Lesa wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “She’ll leap on the opportunity to keep Coalition agents off New Amazonian soil; she never wanted you here in the first place, whatever face she gave the Coalition. So she splits the difference, if I know Claude. She stalls and bribes and cajoles and commits diplomacy by packet bot rather than facing an immediate threat. And moreover, making you look uncivilized reflects on public opinion regarding the Coalition.”

  “Charming. We’re deadbeats. We’re going to be very popular with the Coalition Cabinet when we get home.”

  “If you can’t, as I said, field a champion.”

  “Well, I can’t fight for him–” Katherinessen blinked. He sipped his drink thoughtfully and stared at the glass after he lowered it from his mouth. “You can’t be serious.”

  “You could ask.”

  The stretch of that silence gratified. “You’
d shoot Claude Singapore for me,” Kusanagi‑Jones said after several ticks.

  She grinned. “I’d shoot Claude Singapore on general principles. Actually, it’s perfect. We use her attempt to discredit you to discredit or kill her. Much more efficient than a vote of no confidence.”

  Katherinessen rubbed his fingers together, unconvinced. “And if she kills you?”

  She wondered if he knew just how unlikely that was. From the worried press of his lips, she didn’t think so. “Deal with my mother and Elder Kyoto, then. And get Julian off‑planet.”

  “Your son.”

  “He deserves better than I can get him here. He’s a very smart boy.” She paused, looked down, and swept her hand across the surface of her desk. “Take him to Ur. That’s my price.”

  She hadn’t expected Katherinessen to pause and turn, and give that slow, considering look to Kusanagi‑Jones. Whatever Kusanagi‑Jones’s expression disclosed in return, Lesa couldn’t read it, but it seemed to satisfy Katherinessen.

  “All right,” he said, when he looked back. “I’ll try.”

  Which was the best he could honestly offer. She waited a beat, to see if anything else was forthcoming, and nodded twice. “At least if I win, it saves us staging a coup.”

  “Sure,” Katherinessen replied. “All we have to do is fix an election. And provoke a revolution.”

  Lesa smiled, nudging the still‑cold glass farther from the edge of the desk with the backs of her fingers. “Or two.”

  Kusanagi‑Jones buried his face in his glass and breathed deeply, letting eye‑stinging fumes chase his muddleheadedness away. “How did you two make contact?” he said to Vincent.

  “New Amazonia turns out to be a hotbed of political unrest.” Vincent scratched the back of his neck, wincing. Kusanagi‑Jones had to lace both hands around the glass in front of his groin to keep from reaching to stop Vincent’s hand as he said, “Who’d guess? But Lesa hasn’t told you the best part.”