The Buried Life

by Carrie Patel

  As the song finished, Jane and Fredrick returned to their acquaintances of earlier. The three women watched them with Cheshire-cat smiles and glittering eyes. “So wonderful to see the two of you back,” said Madame Attrop with almost exaggerated politeness. “Fredrick, how did your inquiries go?”

  He rolled his eyes a little too wildly. “Just the usual, Madame Attrop. Another convention to divide and re-divide the governorship of farming communes in the south. The only thing that’s interesting is how well the two sides get along when you put alcohol and crab cakes in front of them,” he said, smirking. Madame Clothoe giggled.

  “And how did you enjoy the dance, Miss Lin?” asked Lady Lachesse. Her many jewels winked at Jane.

  “It was wonderful,” said she. “Mr Arnault is an exceptional dancer.” The women smiled with still more feline ambiguity, and Fredrick looked again at her in disbelief.

  “Such a strange young man,” said Madame Clothoe in her creaky voice. “And to think, he could have been a member of the Council. So much potential,” she mumbled, trailing off. Jane twisted her head at Madame Clothoe and hoped that someone would continue her thread.

  Of course, she had hoped for someone other than Freddie. “I take it you aren’t aware of Mr Arnault’s history,” he said, eyeing her with malicious entertainment.

  “I didn’t even know he existed until last week.”

  “Perhaps the good Lady Lachesse would be so kind as to enlighten you. She knows more about these circles and histories than anyone here.”

  “I know he’s got a shady reputation,” Jane said with a fierce glance at Fredrick.

  “Shady?” He nearly laughed. “That doesn’t cover the half of it, my dear.” He nodded in the direction of the dance floor, and Jane followed his gaze. She saw Roman now locked in tight footwork with Inspector Malone, and she felt a flash of something uncomfortable that she could not definitely pin as jealousy or fear. To her chagrin, Fredrick was studying her with grim satisfaction, and she turned around, again trying to look as if she had not noticed.

  “Roman Arnault is a uniquely static figure in that his history begins with as much mystery as that in which he now abides,” said Lady Lachesse, framing her words with painted lips. The others turned their rapt attention to her, and Jane realized that Lady Lachesse was probably accustomed to this kind of audience. “The boy, Roman Arnault, arrived in Recoletta twenty-six years ago with his parents. They came from somewhere overseas, though it was never clear exactly where they came from or why they left. Some speculated that the Arnault family moved to escape an impossible debt, avoid some bloody feud in their homeland, or simply fulfill a strange wanderlust that may have possessed them. Of course, later theories purported that some unknown atrocity or dark secret, attributable to the seven year-old Roman himself, motivated their mysterious relocation, but this is based more in his highly developed myth than in fact.”

  “What became of the family in Recoletta?” Jane asked.

  “Their swiftly acquired titles will give you some hint as to their prudence in the whitenail circles. Duke and Duchess Arnault, as they came to be called, were every bit as enigmatic as their son is now, and shrewd as well. They arrived with a fair sum of money and in the space of less than a year were the toast of the Vineyard. Very quickly the Arnaults became intimate friends with the illustrious Sato family, which, I trust, you have heard of.”

  Jane nodded. “Of course.” Though the last of the Sato family had perished years ago, their name was still more highly regarded in the city than even Councilor Ruthers’s.

  Lady Lachesse lowered her voice and continued. “Duke and Duchess Arnault were their confidantes, and Councilor and Lady Sato formed an uncommonly close bond with them.

  “Despite their enviable political connections, neither Arnault ever aspired to any overt power. Much like their son, they were content, even in their element, working their own potent magic in the background. They had titles, but those are more useful in the marriage market than anywhere else. The only title with real, fungible power in Recoletta is ‘Councilor’.” She took a breath. “The Arnaults earned a substantial income owning and developing real-estate sites. The first of these were gifts from the Satos, and the Arnaults appeared every bit as suited to business as to behind-the-scenes politics.”

  “Their removal from the system was part of what gave them so much power,” said Madame Attrop. “They stayed out of the political games.”

  “How do you mean?” Jane asked.

  Lady Lachesse shot an irritated glance at Madame Attrop and continued. “Councilors are politicians because they know how to ask and, in some cases, demand favors. The Arnaults were landowners, so they had plenty of favors to give but made a point of asking for few. When you own a cubic mile of the most valued property in Recoletta, there isn’t much else you need, after all.

  “Twenty-three years ago, both Duke and Duchess Arnault expired from sudden illness, though many conspiracy theorists insist that poison was involved. Their deaths shook the city, and Councilor Sato lost both great strategists and close friends with their passing. Young Roman was already something of a loner, but this unforeseen loss plunged him much deeper into his isolation. The Sato family took him in, adopting the lone remnant of their strange and powerful allies.” She paused, a distant look in her eyes. “Whether this was a strategic or sentimental maneuver is still debated. As with most things, it was probably a measure of both. Many of the Arnaults’ secrets, including that of their mysterious origins, most likely died with them, but Roman would still have been too valuable to be passed along like a bad debt.” Jane felt a sudden pang of empathy for him, yet also wondered that his orphaning had brought him to a position so different from her own.

  “I do not mean to paint an overly melancholy picture of Roman’s childhood,” Lady Lachesse said. “He was good friends with the single Sato child, Jakkeb, who was his junior by a year or two. One must, however, fit these tidbits into the greater context of our political world, where notions of familial affection are often secondary.

  “Nevertheless, things went well for the newly extended Sato clan. Councilor Castor Sato, one of the most popular politicians in recent history, continued his personal golden age heading the Council with unprecedented success. Lady Luz Sato was an astute businesswoman, and her endeavors prospered. Jakkeb and Roman benefited from the finest tutors the city had to offer, and both excelled in their studies at the Quadrivium.” Here Lady Lachesse sighed, almost with weariness.

  “It was at this time, just over fourteen years ago, that misfortune struck again. I am sure you will recall this event for the uproar that followed in its wake. Councilor and Lady Sato were killed one night by a mugger. He was, of course, quickly apprehended and executed by a unanimous vote almost before a trial could be finished, but the public was heartbroken over the loss of its favorite darlings. As if this were not enough, in a stupor of grief, Jakkeb Sato walked into one of his late mother’s properties, a textile storehouse, which he set aflame himself. He never walked out.

  “And Roma… Mr Arnault?”

  “After unforgivably surviving his second family, Roman was doomed to be branded a pariah for the persistence of his reputation,” she said.

  “You might say he has a variant of the Midas touch,” Fredrick said. “Everything he touches dies.”

  Again, Jane ignored him. “And that’s why he’s so reviled? Because he’s unlucky?”

  “That is really only the beginning,” said Lady Lachesse. “The Roman Arnault that we see – or at least, that I see,” she said with a shrewd look, “– is thoroughly enveloped in a myth of his own creation. He has never said or done anything to discourage his unsavory reputation. In fact, he invites it. It is his identity as surely as mine is a railway heiress and yours is a sweet-mannered laundress.”

  Lady Lachesse plucked two fluted glasses from a passing tray, handing one to Jane. “But it isn’t the same. Because you and I can detach from these public personae at will, whereas Mr
Arnault, I sincerely believe, cannot. Whether through grief or for security, he retreated so far into his dark image that it is impossible to tell the man and the myth apart. No, he could not disentangle himself if he wanted to, and it is for that reason that I pity the man who could have been a prince.” Her eyes turned upwards, and Jane saw a flash of bronze neck as Lady Lachesse tilted her head back to finish her drink.

  “But what about his title and his fortune?” Jane asked. “Surely he could live a comfortable and quiet life if he wanted.”

  “He relinquished his title after the death of the Satos. You must appreciate the effect that these events had on him – fame and luxury became an anathema to him when he saw how poorly they protected the people in his life. As for the fortune, conventional wisdom is that he has it squirreled away for an emergency, but he lives modestly on his income from the Council.”

  Jane shook her head, running her thumb along the smooth edge of her own glass. In the background, a group of men and women laughed loudly. “Why even bother? Why get involved with the Council if he has the money to live a quiet life?”

  Lady Lachesse gave Jane a long, sideways glance. “Security.”

  Seeing Jane’s puzzlement, Madame Attrop spoke. “I think you’re missing the point of our story, Miss Lin. Someone in Roman’s position cannot afford to be irrelevant, so he chooses to make himself useful. He’s unassuming enough to avoid challenging anyone for power, but he’s resourceful enough to be indispensable to those that have it. Knowing what he knows, he has to be.”

  “And what does he know?”

  “That,” Madame Attrop said with a smile, “is the question.”

  Jane paused, mulling over the new information. “You’ll forgive my ignorance, but this is all rather shocking. I was under the impression that whitenails lived charmed lives. You can see what a wreck the murders of the past week have caused, after all.”

  Lady Lachesse smiled. “We live, bleed, and die too. We just try to make everyone forget that.”

  “Councils change,” Jane said. “What happens to Roman then?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll find a way to manage. He had better.”

  “You must understand, dear, what he does on behalf of very powerful people,” Madame Clothoe warbled, stroking Jane’s arm.

  “Well, what does he do?” Jane asked.

  A nasty sneer crept across Fredrick’s face. “I trust you’ve noticed that a certain… odor lingers about Mr Arnault?”

  “The clove cigarettes,” Jane said, reluctantly turning back to him.

  “Yes, but do you know why he smokes them?” Fredrick asked. Jane waited in the pause that followed. “They kill the gag reflex and cover the stench. For a bottom-feeder, see?”

  “It’s funnier if you don’t have to explain it,” Jane said.

  Madame Attrop interceded. “Mr Anders has just regaled us with a common, if unflattering, joke about Mr Arnault and the unpleasantness of his work. With the exception of Lady Lachesse and a couple others in this room, few could say with specificity what Mr Arnault does,” she said. “This, you will agree, is part of where he gets his power.”

  Madame Clothoe winced. “They say that he commits murders for the Council,” she whispered.

  “And he has never tried to deny it,” Madame Attrop added quickly.

  “Of course he wouldn’t,” Lady Lachesse said. She smiled slowly. “And as much as he depends on his air of mystery, I can’t fault him for guarding it. I doubt he has gone that far, but I can regale you with one story that is true, if you want to know what kind of man he is.”

  “Please,” Jane said.

  “It happened several years ago. Councilor Ruthers and certain investors had entered into a bargain with a metallurgist named Oxley to develop a lighter alloy for railcar construction. After the others had financed these efforts, Oxley realized he had developed a much better product than he’d anticipated, and he reneged on his agreement with the intention of selling the composition on his own.

  “Expecting retaliation, Oxley hid his notes and samples well before this became known. He had also arranged a chain of middlemen through which he could sell his alloy to factories outside of Recoletta. He planned this scheme for months. The point is, it was obvious that Oxley had protected his creations well enough, so Roman didn’t steal from him. He stole from Azari.” The look on Lady Lachesse’s face was not quite admiration, but it was close.

  Jane blinked. “Azari?”

  Lady Lachesse nodded. “Azari was a rival metallurgist. Not only did he and Oxley compete in their formulae, but they also competed for patronage from investors such as Councilor Ruthers, so you can imagine Azari’s furor when he realized that months of his labor had vanished and that he would have to produce an explanation for a rich and powerful patron. Imagine that furor when news of Oxley’s plans surfaced.

  “Along with the other members of the metallurgists’ guild, Azari believed that Oxley was also selling his alloys to the foreigners. It didn’t help matters,” Lady Lachesse added with a grin, “that Azari had found a broken pair of Oxley’s spectacles in his shop. Before long, Oxley was wondering whether selling his designs would bring him wealth or ruin. When another guild member’s formulae disappeared, he began to fear for his life.

  “Ultimately, Oxley gave up the scheme. He surrendered the designs to his original investors, and the metallurgists’ guild retrieved the missing compositions from his study. He did leave Recoletta, but without a penny of the fortune he had hoped to earn.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jane said. “Why go through so much trouble when Ruthers could have had him arrested?”

  Lady Lachesse smiled again. “To make an example. Besides, Councilor Ruthers isn’t the kind of man that likes to have the Municipals involved in his business when he can help it.”

  Jane exhaled, and, as her attention broke from Lady Lachesse’s tale, she was almost surprised to see the rest of the partygoers still dancing and the attendants bringing out new trays stacked with delicacies. “It’s quite a story. You’ll pardon my curiosity, but how do you know that Roman was behind it?”

  “The new designs were installed on Lady Lachesse’s railways, dear,” Madame Attrop said. “And she always watches her investments.”

  Lady Lachesse placed her empty glass on another passing tray. “I told you this story to give you an idea of how Mr Arnault operates – cleverly and in the background. I don’t think he’s a killer, but I know he’s devious. Still, he’s no worse than most others here, and I can’t blame him when so many of us profit from his exploits. But come now, this is unsuitable talk for a party. Let us continue to merrier subjects, shall we?”

  Chapter Seven

  The Other Side Of The Ballroom

  In the week before the gala, Liesl Malone’s preparations had begun not with etiquette lessons, but with covert meetings. She could hardly expect the Council to issue her an invitation, so she and Sundar had devised other means.

  Like any good machine, a party consisted of several moving parts. For Malone, inserting herself into it was a matter of identifying the weakest of these components and applying leverage. Ticking through her options, she knew it wouldn’t be security and it wouldn’t be food. Both the guard detail and the catering would run like clockwork. This left service and entertainment. Malone did not relish the idea of taking more orders than necessary from the whitenails, so she and Sundar set the first option aside and explored the latter in her office.

  “Seems like our only choice, but going in with the performers isn’t as subtle as I’d like,” she said.

  “It’ll be easier than you think. Besides, you’ve got a cellist’s fingers.”

  “But not a cellist’s training. How do you know so much about the orchestra?”

  Sundar scratched the back of his head and looked away. “I, uh, know a violinist.”

  “How well?”

  “Old acquaintance from my performing days. Let’s just say I’m not in any position to ask favors fr
om her right now.” He coughed into a fist. “It’s, uh, complicated. Anyway, don’t worry about the playing – you won’t have to.”

  “I’m not hiding in the cello case.”

  “Better,” he said. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out a folded but crisp sheet of paper and spread it on her desk. “You have an invitation.”

  “Except that isn’t my name.”

  He shrugged. “That can be fixed. This is just a performer’s invite, so it’s not printed on the fancy stuff.”

  Malone bent over the square. “This is how you upset the violinist?”

  “All in the course of duty, I’m afraid.” Sundar sighed and ruffled his forelocks.

  Malone looked at her watch. It wasn’t yet eight in the morning. She smiled slowly. “She might not be upset if you’d stayed for breakfast.”

  Sundar grimaced. “Too right. But then I wouldn’t have made it here.”

  “Is she going to know you took it?”

  He relaxed. “Not a chance. I’m surprised she hadn’t lost it already, knowing how often she’s misplaced her instrument. It’s a good thing she doesn’t play the triangle.”

  “Do they check invitations against a master list? If so, we’ve got another paper to forge.”

  “No, not the last I heard. There’ll be a few stand-ins and changes anyway if someone gets sick. Or if a second-chair performer shapes up. You’ll blend in as long as you wear something black. For you, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “That takes care of the doorman, but what about the orchestra? Someone will notice I’m out of place.”

  “Just show up at the door five minutes late and look apologetic. You’ll miss the musicians completely.”