Amnesty

by Lara Elena Donnelly

  When Jinadh saw their guests his features fell out of their pinched, enduring expression into something much more like pleasure. He went to Daoud first, saying, «Blesséd Solstice, respected brother.»

  «The same to you,» said Daoud, and looked truly happy for the first time since Lillian had greeted him in the drive. Funny what exile could do: bring a Belqati man and a member of the royal family together at the holidays.

  “And Aristide,” Jinadh went on, “I am glad you could come as well.” He offered his hand to shake and Aristide, staring over his shoulder, missed the cue. Daoud cleared his throat, and Aristide jumped to.

  “Queen’s sake,” he said, taking Jinadh’s hands. “They’re like ice! Careful you don’t break one off.” A little stiff, a little too affected.

  Stephen lingered at Cyril’s side until Jinadh called him over to meet their guests. He came, with a quick glance behind at his uncle. Cyril did not return it, or perhaps even notice. Lurking at the threshold, he held one hand over his pocket as though checking for a watch or cigarette lighter, but did not then withdraw anything.

  How had Lillian never noticed it before? Patting a jacket pocket looked just like pressing your palm to a gut wound. The look on her brother’s face certainly fit the image.

  “Cyril,” she said, to cut the tension. “Punch?”

  He jumped at this name then slowly turned to face her. “No, thank you.”

  “I will take some.” Jinadh flopped into the armchair Lillian had left warm when she stood to welcome them in. “Tossing those awful things has given me a pain. I used to throw discus, in school, but that was many years ago and I am out of practice.”

  Magnusson, who had entered as though rolled in on silent casters, circulated with the punch tray.

  Cyril refused in favor of neat rye, poured from the bar. Magnusson eyed him with censure. Aristide pretended not to watch. Daoud stared at Aristide with the same harsh judgment as the butler aimed at Cyril. Mapping the glares drew a cobweb of malignancy across the room. You could strangle in a snare like that.

  In the center stood her son, dripping on the rug.

  She knew what was coming. He always begged a cocktail of his own before dinner, and usually ended up with half of one, or a sip of someone else’s, generally only after badgering and begging or sometimes subterfuge.

  With the clairvoyance of a medium, or at least a married man and father, Jinadh said, “Stephen, what do you say to a glass of punch?”

  When Lillian made a surprised sound, Jinadh shrugged and said, “It’s the holidays.”

  But Stephen, too, was watching Cyril swirl the glass of rye. Finally, he tore his eyes from his uncle and stood up straight. “Actually,” he said, “I think I’d like some whiskey.”

  * * *

  Dinner was more of an ordeal than some beatings Cyril had endured. At least when someone was hitting you, you knew exactly where you stood.

  But thinking that, and then seeing Aristide a few seats down, fork flirting with his dinner … well. Those memories belied the comparison. The exception, then, that proved the rule.

  The food itself strengthened some of his suspicions. Meatloaf made of mostly breadcrumbs, served with garden greens. No proper beef, no fish. Not even poached chicken.

  That would in part be due to scarcity. Magnusson kept a store of old newspapers downstairs for window cleaning, shoe polishing, and other tasks. Cyril had raided this to do some catch-up reading and found the past several seasons had been hard on farmers. Imports were expensive; key trading partners alienated by the Ospies were still reluctant to engage with an unstable Gedda. Shipping by sea was possible in coastal regions, but the railroads and highways were still recovering from Catwalk depredations. It was simply hard to find food and to move it. The DePaul fortune should have made this a negligible concern, but Cyril was starting to wonder if there might not be such a thing anymore.

  Finally, mercifully, the meal ended. Stephen was sent to bed and the liqueurs came out. Cyril refused and made himself scarce.

  He found Stephen at the top of the stairs, leaning back on his elbows. The indistinct sounds of conversation rose from the dining room, flowing more freely now that Cyril had gone.

  “Bad acoustics,” he said.

  “There isn’t a better spot.” Stephen sat up and put his elbows on his knees. Over the sharp bones, his skin was pebbled by the pressure of the carpet. “I tried to find one at the summer holidays, but this is it. Sometimes if they get loud you can make out the words.”

  It was true; Cyril remembered from childhood. There were places in Damesfort that made eavesdropping simple. The dining room was not one of them. “What rooms did Lillian put the guests in?”

  This occasioned some pursing of the lips and a little bit of thoughtful tooth-grinding. It was a show; Cyril had seen this boy at the dinner table more than once, and knew how well he hid what went on in his head. He wanted Cyril to be impressed. “Best ones in the north wing,” he said at last.

  Which weren’t nearly as nice as the worst in the south. They were dark, and caught a draft. There were empty bedrooms in better parts of the house. He smelled spite. She was displeased at Jinadh’s invitation.

  “Are they close together?” Because the way that bearded twig of a boy had been watching Aristide all night, the careful placement of his hand on Ari’s elbow as he made a point … those meant something more than “secretary.”

  “I think across the hall. She gave Mr. Qassan the hill room, and Mr. Makricosta has the, um … the…”

  “The El,” said Cyril, who had lived in this house longer than his nephew, though many years ago.

  The El was a two-room suite: a study attached to a bedroom, which was technically not in the north wing at all, but the central part of the house. The office door would be across from Qassan’s bedroom, which gave them a shred of deniability. It also meant that, from the right room in the north wing, the bedroom window would be visible.

  “Come on,” said Cyril.

  Stephen didn’t question him: just got up and followed.

  The room he was aiming for had been … Oh, Great-Grandfather’s reading room? He couldn’t recall. It was unused now, thick with dust, and freezing cold. Sheets shrouded what furniture remained—Lillian had pinched some for the rooms she kept open, apparently having lost a great deal to the Ospies. Obviously no one had used the room since the family took up residence. Too expensive to heat the whole house, probably, and not enough staff to keep it clean.

  Their feet would leave prints in the dust. Unavoidable. With luck, no one would check on this room after they left it. At least not for a long while.

  “Window seat,” said Cyril, and pointed. Stephen sat, and sneezed. Cyril leaned over him, checking the view from the window. Exactly as he remembered.

  It took half an hour of waiting before Ari’s bedroom light flicked on. By then Cyril’s toes had gone numb and Stephen had begun to fidget. But that died away with the lamp’s flare, and the sudden appearance of a figure in the window perpendicular to theirs.

  “It’s him,” said Stephen, whispering. His breath clouded the glass before his face.

  Cyril made a noncommittal noise as they watched Aristide prepare for bed. Alone. He’d been half expecting Daoud to act as a valet, too, but Aristide removed his cuff links on his own, and unwound the bow tie from beneath his collar. Because they had dressed for dinner this evening, with company, except for Cyril. His father had not lived to see the advent of black tie, and left behind only tails. Given the choice between stiff formality and ill-fitting chalk-stripe, he chose the latter, though to put it on was to remember Aristide had ordered it for him. That he wore Ari’s money and Ari’s taste against his skin.

  Across the corner of the courtyard, Aristide hung his jacket on the valet stand and unbuckled his cummerbund. His rings were next, and then the pearl drops from his ears. He looked around the room, made a pursed face, and turned back to his jacket. From one pocket, he withdrew a small, round flask and
emptied it down his throat. He had just begun to pull the studs free from his shirt when he paused, turned his head, and said something.

  From this angle, Cyril couldn’t see the newcomer entering from the office. But he could imagine. Reality matched up shortly.

  Daoud was already in pyjamas, a quilted dressing gown belted at his waist. Aristide looked … not exactly pleased to see him, but didn’t throw him out. They had a short, terse conversation. At the end of it, Aristide shrugged and dropped his hands from his shirtfront so that Daoud could take over. Stud by stud, Aristide came unwrapped. Daoud had to stand on tiptoe to kiss him, and when he pulled away he made a face.

  The flask. Daoud, who had glared at the butler for refilling Ari’s glass again and again, would taste it on him.

  Aristide, looking angry now, was the one who did the kissing next.

  In their frigid blind, Cyril felt a strange frisson through the air. Stephen’s interest in the scene across the courtyard had shifted to something less than analytical, but from his posture, he had half his attention on Cyril now: wariness, tension, embarrassment.

  Of course. At that age, how would he have felt to be observed and aroused? To watch what was happening through that window with a parent or his sister at his back, watching it happen, too?

  He hardly wanted to watch it now, but couldn’t make himself look away.

  “You should leave,” he said to Stephen. Why had he even taken them on this little mission, when he knew how it would end?

  “What? Why?” A note of relief belied Stephen’s protest.

  There were several answers to this question, all condescending or disingenuous. Because I said so. Because we ought to give them privacy. The kind of answers either of his parents might give. But Cyril said, “You’re not stupid or ignorant. You’ve seen enough to know what happens next.”

  Stephen slipped off the window seat. His knees were covered in dust. He brushed at them ineffectually before looking up at Cyril. “You’re not leaving, though.”

  He didn’t have a good response to that, and so said nothing. Stephen, from the shrewd look in his damson eyes, read more in that than Cyril would have liked.

  He did not enjoy what he saw. It wasn’t voyeurism; it was only more information. It didn’t seem, from his vantage point, that the two of them enjoyed it much, either. And that was information, also.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  The days before Solstice dragged for everyone else in the house. Or at least, Lillian got that impression when she could haul herself out of her office and away from the telephone. The work of the government—even a temporary one—did not stop for a little thing like the rebirth of the sun.

  Anyway, holing up with work gave her an excuse to avoid the various interpersonal tensions ratcheting tighter and tighter in the halls of Damesfort.

  On the day preceding the longest night, however, she could no longer use work as an avoidance tactic: everyone else had gone home, rung off, closed up. If tasks were unfinished, they would have to wait until the new year began tomorrow.

  When she emerged, the house echoed as if empty. A change that would have been pleasant if she didn’t find it so unnerving. She wandered the halls trying to find any of her family or guests, but only encountered Bern bringing in an armload of pine boughs, his shoulders and bundle dusted with snow.

  “No idea where anyone’s gone, ma’am,” he told her. “I’ve been out running errands.”

  Finally, she turned up Aristide in the drawing room, a book on his knee and music on the wireless, wrapped in a cigarette haze.

  “Welcome back to the present time and place,” he said, knocking the ash from his straight into a full tray. “Provisional government still performing as we’d like?”

  “It’s still performing,” said Lillian, aiming for the bar. “‘Like’ depends on who you ask.”

  Aristide made a noise into his book and flipped a page she felt fairly certain he hadn’t read.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked, plucking the stopper from the whiskey decanter.

  “Jinadh offered to take Daoud into the village,” said Aristide. “I believe their ultimate destination was the pub.”

  “Jinadh hates the pub.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Aristide, discarding the butt of his straight.

  “They ought to be back soon; everything will close down early.” Whiskey poured, Lillian tucked herself into the curved arm of the divan. “And my next of kin?” Levity distracted from the faint unease that clung to any thought or mention of her brother, her fear of saying his name in Aristide’s presence and seeing what it did to him. Humor helped her pretend the situation was normal.

  Still, he shifted in his seat. Closing the book and setting it aside he asked, “Is there any gin over there?”

  “And vermouth,” she said. “No olives, I’m afraid. Nor lemons. Mr. Qassan said you preferred a twist, but…” Lemons were rather dear.

  His smile was pinched, and he didn’t answer her question until he had his back to her, face hidden. “Out,” he said. “They went for a walk in the woods.”

  “At least they’ll work up an appetite.” Lillian was glad Cyril was getting exercise and some fresh air. “Speaking of, I’m ravenous.”

  “I wouldn’t dare,” said Aristide. “I asked for a plate of something a while back and I think I’ve earned the cook’s undying hatred. Things seem a little frantic downstairs.”

  “Thank you for the tip. I’ll leave them be.”

  “Your driver,” he said. “Martí. She’s Tatien, isn’t she?” The bar spoon chimed against the beaker as he stirred.

  “Yes, of course. Why?”

  “Was she at all mixed up with Memmediv’s messy little venture?”

  “You mean independence? I think not. Magnusson tells me she’s quite a patriot. Apparently she was out of service for some time, volunteering with her hometown militia to fight the separatists. Her most recent reference is some five years old.” And she had come cheap, because of that. “Still, good at her job.”

  Aristide returned to his chair, setting his feet up on the ottoman and letting his cocktail rest on his midriff. “I think I might have pinned her rather sharply.”

  “She’s sturdy; she’ll recover.” The whiskey had settled in her empty stomach, making her reckless with her reminiscence. “You never heard from Memmediv, did you? After Hadhariti?”

  Before he answered, Aristide tipped the better part of his martini down his throat. Fist to his sternum, he closed his eyes against some sudden pain: an ulcer, a rising belch. What finally came out was a strangled cough, wet and throaty. Even then he made her wait, rising to refill his glass.

  Around the curve of his elbow, she watched him pour: mostly gin, a miserly splash of vermouth. More liquor than she thought might fit into his glass. “I last saw him on the border. I think … Cordelia would have kept in some kind of contact.” He said the name like he worried it would break. “But he certainly didn’t have anything to say to me. Likewise, frankly.”

  “Not even to do business?” she asked.

  “My business is based in Liso.”

  “Imports and exports,” she said.

  “A euphemism.” The lid of the ice bucket struck home too hard. Then, a small concession: “I never worked with him. Not once. We aren’t in the arms game, anyway.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she said, though whatever games Cross-Costa played were still likely to be dangerous and dirty. “Have you told Cyril what you know?”

  Until now he had neatly avoided eye contact with movement and a mobile expression. Now he met her gaze, unwavering. “Have you?”

  Breath cooled her palate; she realized her mouth was open. As if she might answer his question.

  Before she could decide, she heard the door and voices raised in song. A familiar foreign mode, the tune wavering like water or flame between each note. The singers were loud, their Porashtu slurred and indistinct.

  “It sounds as though t
he pub has closed,” she said, “and the party has come here.”

  * * *

  Jinadh was much drunker than Daoud, and Daoud was certainly not sober. But neither was morose, thanks be. By and large Jinadh got laughing drunk, but if he started out on the wrong foot he could stumble into a foul pit of moodiness. She’d worried, hearing he’d turned to the village pub, but drinking with a countryman apparently made the place more tolerable.

  Magnusson brought coffee for the two revelers to settle them before dinner, which was imminent. Just in time for the dressing gong, Stephen and Cyril straggled in with soaked feet and filthy clothes. No sharp glances passed between her husband and her brother: the former too merry and distracted, the latter … well, unchanged. Aristide did not bolt from the room, nor sharpen his tongue on anyone present. His tipsy secretary did not turn possessive. Hot punch was poured down everyone’s throats before they were sent to change.

  Lillian began to have the wonderful, familiar feeling of gliding on clockwork: the feeling she got when things came together well and everything went the way it was supposed to. This rare, sweet sensation was usually limited to her professional sphere, and it was both pleasant and strange to feel it in the confines of her childhood home. Especially given the circumstances.

  At exactly the stroke of eight, they all sat down to tall white candles nestled amidst pine boughs and holly berries. Waxy garlands of mistletoe wound between the place settings.

  A roast goose, basted golden, sat queenly over casseroles and roasted vegetables. Most of it came from the estate, she knew; the turnips and potatoes were from the kitchen garden. Until yesterday, the goose had probably been living a quiet life on the local pond. The most expensive things to get had probably been the cooking oil and the sugar for the glaze. But unless you knew all that, it looked like a sumptuous spread.

  She’d have to ask Jinadh if the household budget could afford a bit extra for the staff’s Solstice fête. Or perhaps it would be better just to slip them all a little envelope of thanks.