Amnesty

by Lara Elena Donnelly

  “I know you don’t want to speak to Aristide again,” she said, “but since you said you’ll be going back to Sykes House … I don’t know if it will do him any good, with the fraud charges and all, but I thought it was better he had it. In case it can be of some use.”

  Daoud put the passport into the pocket of his greatcoat. “I will give it to him.”

  «Thank you,» she said, and meant it. Then, «You might take a roundabout route, getting back. Just to throw them off the trail.»

  «Who’s sniffing?» he asked.

  «That pack of vultures out front,» she said. «And heaven’s eyes see whatever else.»

  «I’ll swap cabs,» he said. «Maybe stop for a drink somewhere. So hopefully, we won’t find out.»

  * * *

  Cyril was resting his eyes, half wishing for a newspaper and knowing he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on any printed page, when he heard the clang of a steel door and, beneath its echoes, a tense, whispered conversation in the corridor perpendicular to his cell. Markert, and some other guard. It had the rhythm of street market haggling, by which Cyril surmised it might be a discussion of bribery.

  The whole thing ended in under thirty seconds, with Markert’s declaration—so loud Cyril heard it clearly—that this had better not happen again. It struck a false note. He must have come out wealthier in the deal.

  A freckled, brawny guard—Pryzbieza, fond of Cyril because he could pronounce the surname none of her colleagues could—came to unlock his cell.

  “Visitor,” she said. “Your sister. Markert didn’t want to let her in after hours, but…”

  “I hope you kept a little for yourself.”

  “Enough to drink on, after work. Come on, let’s go.”

  He let her handcuff him and went meekly down the corridor, wondering what Lillian wanted.

  Her face gave him no clues. When he sat, she produced a single cigarette from her coat pocket, which he took gratefully.

  “How’s it turning?” he asked, around the straight.

  “As it has been.” She had a book of matches, too, and struck one for him.

  “What brings you to my humble drawing room tonight? And how much did it cost?”

  “Rather more than I can afford, these days.”

  “Is that why you haven’t been visiting?”

  She didn’t blush; instead, shame made her mouth grim.

  “Don’t feel bad,” he said. “I’d rather keep the money out of Markert’s pocket.”

  It didn’t cheer her up. He leaned in, setting the straight on the edge of the table with one finger on the end to steady it, keep it from falling. Lillian had not merited an ashtray.

  “Lil,” he said, “is something wrong?”

  “No.” She marshaled her expression, and though she favored their mother in the breadth of her face and the shape of her eyes, suddenly he saw Father in her: the puppeteer’s control, the careful presentation.

  If she had put on her professional mask, something was very wrong indeed.

  “You’re all right,” he said. “Is it Stephen? Aristide?” Then, belatedly, “Jinadh?”

  The delay earned him a rueful look, her mouth twisted to the side by a hook of pained amusement. “Everything is fine, Cyril. Can’t I come see you without news, or an ulterior motive? You’re my brother.”

  There. Something flickered beneath her practiced polish. Like the flash of a startled fish in dappled water, it was gone again before he knew what he had seen.

  But she didn’t want to talk about it. Or … He cut his eyes toward the wire-crossed observation window, to the bored-looking guards behind it. One woman smoked; another picked at her hangnails. Only Markert, supervising his more junior associates, still watched them closely. And then there was Pryzbieza, leaning on the wall not ten feet away. His conversations with Rinko were ostensibly private, by law. His conversations with Lillian did not have that privilege.

  Whatever it was, maybe she couldn’t talk about it here. And he would have to guess her purpose.

  “Your brother,” he said. “I am. And a heap of good it’s done you.”

  “I don’t know.” She managed a smile. The glare of the bad lights over her eyes showed him they were wet, though the tears didn’t make it to her voice. “I think you gave me a good example of what not to do.”

  “And somebody convenient to blame all your mischief on.”

  “Cy,” she said, suddenly grave. “I’m so sorry for what Daddy did to you.”

  Surprise put a rod down his spine. “What do you mean?”

  “Stephen told me, about … after Tatié. I never knew.” She struggled with her words for a moment, then said, “No. That isn’t true. I guessed. I just … I knew I wouldn’t like what you were up to.”

  “That’s why you never asked?” When she’d come to his hospital bed, she’d straightened his blankets and said empty things. Never wondered aloud how he came to be there. Never asked why they’d had to haul his guts out of his belly, or where he’d been, or why he hadn’t written. Why he had stopped speaking to his father, except in small sentences, when they were forced together by circumstance.

  “If I had,” she said, “would you have told me anything?”

  He wondered if she had been more afraid he wouldn’t tell her, proving some deep connection between them well and truly severed, or more afraid he would, revealing his absolute lack of integrity. Perhaps she feared whatever character defect he had was catching.

  “I was walking the edge of that cliff anyway,” he said.

  “Still.” She laced her fingers and he saw the skin where they touched go white with the pressure of her grip. “He shouldn’t have pushed you off.”

  “Why are you apologizing for him?” This was a betrayal of everything Cyril had ever understood about his sister. The diplomat, the perfect daughter. The DePaul worthy of the name that he, Cyril, had summarily destroyed.

  “Because someone has to. Somebody has to apologize for our entire rotten family.” Anger made a thin line of her lips, pushed her gaze down and to one side. “I just wanted to do it before…”

  “Before what, Lil?” The arraignment? Whatever came after the election? She had plenty of time for that, surely.

  Pryzbieza cleared her throat. “Time’s up.”

  “See you in court, I suppose,” he said, trying for a smile.

  She failed to return it, and shook her head. “I truly hope you don’t.”

  That threw him. “Lil?”

  But she shook her head and buttoned her coat and only said, “I love you, Cyril. Goodbye.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Aristide woke before dawn, aching and nauseous, heartburn clawing up the back of his throat. A lesser—or maybe better—man would have been defeated by the sensation, but Aristide was habituated to hangovers. Struggling from sweaty, tangled sheets he reached for the glass of water at his bedside but found it missing.

  He had on last night’s clothes. The light was still on. His head spun when he sat up.

  He hadn’t been able to sleep. Why had he been awake so late? Why had he opened the fresh bottle of gin on the bar cart?

  Ah. Because today, today he would meet with two of Jamila’s unofficial employees, Tabby and Chido, at the corner where they had spent the two days previous mapping escape routes, obstacles, advantages.

  Two days had not been enough time. Jamila had come to him late, had given him no time for the kind of planning this venture required. There were bribes he would have liked to pay, if he knew to whom they should go. He had his Erikh Prosser passport—unused since he traveled to Porachis, always kept close in case of need—and a ticket under that name, but no papers or itinerary for Cyril. As it stood, there was half a plan for the extraction, a hotel two countries over, and Saeger’s word somebody would help them get there. After that, if they made it so far, things would go more smoothly.

  Then again, when he had time and resources, all his plans had gone awry. Maybe this strategy
—or lack thereof—would serve him better.

  Leaning on the doorframe, Aristide looked out at the gloomy parlor, empty of its boxes now. Daoud’s coat was still missing, and now his hat and scarf had gone as well. Silence hung over the room, disturbed only by the occasional chime of a distant trolley bell.

  And in the center of his otherwise empty desk, a flimsy booklet. Perhaps three inches by four. Aristide wove across the room and dropped heavily into the chair.

  Thick green card stock embossed with the Enselmese national crest, placed on a piece of the hotel stationery. A note, in Daoud’s hand: From a friend.

  Aristide opened it to reveal a haggard photograph of Cyril DePaul, partially obscured by visa stamps, above the name Ambrose van Weill.

  Well. That would solve some problems, maybe. Not as it was, of course. This passport was a piece of evidence in Cyril’s convenient fraud case. But perhaps, if altered slightly …

  Mother’s tits, it had come to this. Forgery had never been a strong suit, for the monarch of the demimonde. The closest he had ever come to caught was forging cheques, early in his career. Once he could afford it, he hired folk to make his fakes for him. What he wouldn’t give for Zelda Peronides now.

  Scamming in this city used to come as easily as breathing. But this was the only gasp of air he’d gotten, so he’d better take it.

  Cyril had borrowed Aristide’s pen to fill out the pages of the passport, so the nib and ink wouldn’t be a problem. The penmanship, however …

  It occurred to him that he couldn’t remember what Cyril’s handwriting looked like, and whether or not this was it. He had never learned to copy the other man’s signature or calligraphy. Why would he have needed to know?

  Letting out a ragged breath, he held the passport close to his eyes to study the idiosyncrasies, and then realized the text was blurry because his spectacles were still beside the bed. Once he had retrieved them and held them in his hand, he realized the offending extremity was shaking.

  That would never do.

  In deference to the hour, he chose a can of tomato juice to mix with his gin instead of vermouth. It went down pasty and tasted mostly of salt. He cleared his throat and poured another shot, unadulterated, which he took back to the desk with him.

  On a scrap of hotel stationery, he fiddled with Ambrose van Weill, adding letters where they would fit, modifying others. Perdition, why had Cyril chosen such an awkward name? Though Enselmese Ambroses were common as Jacks in Gedda, so really that left the surname, with its bothersome preposition. The v could be changed to an A, perhaps, and …

  Yes. Ambrose Adam Wallis. That was doable. Perhaps one of his parents came from the Hellican Islands.

  Aristide put the pen down, breathed deep, checked his hands were steady. Then picked it up again and put it to the paper. The less thought that went into this, the better.

  In victory, he reached for his gin. Heart hammering and fingers numb, he fumbled and watched in horror as the glass wobbled and then tipped, spilling across the fresh ink of his forgery.

  * * *

  Terrified and still a bit drunk, Aristide sat behind the wheel of a box van hauling a load of soiled laundry. Ahead of him, Tabby rode shotgun in the cab of a fish truck beside Jules, a driver Aristide had only met this morning. Chido was hidden amongst the mussels and twitching crates of pollock.

  Aristide hadn’t driven a van in decades. He had never broken someone out of jail. It was much more expedient to buy people’s freedom with money and favors, and less likely to see him locked up in turn.

  It wasn’t jail, he reminded himself, idling behind the fish truck in a narrow alley waiting for their target to come by. It was just a kind of carjacking. He’d done that. Back in the foggy moors of his past, yes, but he’d absolutely stolen a car out from under its driver.

  This time, all he had to do was provide cover. Park the box van behind his conspirators to partially block them from sight while they got the job done. He wasn’t even carrying a gun. Better not to be found with one, if it came to that. Which it wouldn’t.

  None of it would be his responsibility. Which meant none of it would be under his control. He didn’t know whose dirty laundry he was hauling. Didn’t know where Chido and Tabby had found Jules, or where they’d gotten the vans. He felt like he’d pushed a sled down a hill, hopped in, and was now at the mercy of the landscape.

  He did not like that this feeling had become familiar.

  Ahead of him, the fish truck coughed into motion, turning left out of the alley and into the jerky flow of traffic redirected from Station Way. Aristide stomped on the accelerator and trundled after them—the steel-toed boots of his disguise made him clumsy.

  A cab tried to cut him off but he leaned into the horn and pushed past, keeping close to the fish truck’s bumper. Angry drivers beeped and made rude gestures. He gave a few back, and almost rear-ended Tabby and Jules. Stopped for a moment, he imagined Chido hidden behind those canvas flaps, wondered if he was cold. Hoped the crates of seafood would hide Cyril from at least a cursory search.

  If they got Cyril into the truck at all.

  They were coming up on it, now: the spot they’d earmarked as the best bet for a clean getaway. The intersection of Shaw and Purlieu, where DeCarr split off just before the light. If luck favored them—Aristide sent a prayer up to the Queen—Chido and Tabby could do what they needed, and the vans would pull off Purlieu and head south toward Harbor Terrace. Tabby knew a man who ran a scrap depot at the bottom of Ionidous where they could pull in, change plates, and swap sensitive cargo. Then she and Chido and Jules would head back to wherever they needed to be, and Aristide would take the coastal highway northeast and out of town.

  Easy. Simple. He felt like he might vomit.

  Traffic jerked forward, stopped. Jerked forward. Stopped. The fish truck came level with DeCarr and inched forward. Aristide held off, despite honking behind him. If they needed to reverse to make the turn, he’d give them room.

  Any moment the cars would come to a standstill. Surely. Maybe even … now.

  They sat for half a breath before Chido jumped down through the flaps of canvas, gun already drawn, silencer heavy on the barrel. Chido disappeared around the front of the fish truck and Aristide realized he was desperate to draw breath: He hadn’t in some time.

  He couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t hear anything. All he could do was wait.

  * * *

  Cyril was surprised they let him shave himself. But the razor was a safety blade, and Dorfner stood behind him to keep watch.

  “Don’t look much better,” the guard told him, when he’d rinsed away the soap.

  “I do what I can,” said Cyril. “And whatever my lawyer asks me to.”

  “I would, too, let me tell you. She looks like she’d stomp any toe you put out of line.”

  “Which is why all of mine have stayed where they’re supposed to. Shall we?”

  They put him in the back of a van with two guards and no windows, so he couldn’t see what the streets looked like. Pity. His days in Amberlough were ticking down and he would never get a look at the place. It would just be the jail, the van, the courthouse. Eventually the gallows.

  Vaguely, he remembered the rotunda; remembered that the official entrance soared into sunlit marble arches, and that the floor was inlaid with a bronze seal, and probably some sort of platitude about justice.

  He preferred the jail, and the bare metal of the transport van. These at least were honest.

  For a while, he tried to keep track of the twists and turns, but the reality was he didn’t know which side of the building they’d come out of, and could be wildly off-base. Still, he knew in which direction they were headed, and the uninsulated walls of the transport let in sound. It was early, still, and the traffic around them light. No horns sounded; only the putter and grunt of engines navigating intersections.

  Would there be a crowd, at the courthouse? Would they let reporters in? How many photographs of his razor-nicked face,
his ill-fitting suit, would show up in the evening editions, or on tomorrow’s breakfast tables?

  The van rolled to a stop and idled, frame juddering. Cyril looked up from his hands, cased both guards. One stared vacantly at a spot on the ceiling. The other picked her fingernails.

  Just for a distraction, he ran his odds. Two against one, and him in handcuffs. Locked doors. And then the driver and likely another guard up front, once he got out. After that, the city on foot, with his hands still bound; yet another problem to solve.

  It was a very long shot. He wouldn’t have put money on it. And Rinko would have been very disappointed.

  They jerked forward. Stopped. Jerked forward. Stopped. Some kind of traffic backup; must be. He let his weight fall back against the side of the van, resting his head.

  Then, the van lurched and his skull smacked the metal. And again. He felt it settle strangely, tilted toward the front. Flat tires. Two at once.

  A commotion in the cab: shouting, slamming doors. Alert now, Cyril heard—though barely—the insectile zip of one silenced shot, and then another.

  Both guards jumped to their feet but stumbled when the van shook again. Something squealed at the rear door, then let loose with a ringing crack.

  The guards had drawn their guns, and when the door swung open they fired. But whoever had busted the latch had wisely taken shelter. A delivery truck close to the bumper blocked Cyril’s view of the street.

  He half-rose for a better angle, but the nail-picking guard pushed him back down. Both guards stepped forward to the open door and as he watched the first one jerked and fell forward, hitting the pavement outside. The second had time to lift her gun, but followed her companion before she could shoot.

  A mountainous slab of human appeared from below the bumper with a pry bar in one hand and a pistol tucked into his belt. How had he got all those shots off from his position?

  Then Cyril noticed the passenger in the delivery truck, unscrewing a silencer from her own sidearm. The driver had both hands on the wheel.