Charmayne popped into my awareness as I scanned my list of people who required answers sooner rather than later, but the other half of this name belonged to Marco.
Are you available for supper this evening at 18:00? he inquired. My wife and I would dearly love to show you our collection of antique screens and ceramics. You are one of the few people who can truly appreciate them. It will be informal and intimate.
Edna and Marco. I had hoped to observe them at Baylor’s party, but Gennady and Percy had stolen the scene.
“They would make good additions to your social circle,” prompted Sheba.
I would be delighted to sup with you and Edna this evening, I sent back. I’ll see you at 18:00.
That accomplished, I dived back into the pile.
* * *
In case you’re wondering, it’s very interesting to have supper with someone who once tried to kill you. Even if she doesn’t realize it was you.
Months had passed since those events, but I remembered very well how Edna had willingly inflicted third-degree burns on herself in order to strike a blow at a Servant who was not to blame for her problems. I doubted she would have felt any concern for Sezen if they hadn’t been of the same social class.
But I also remembered the recording Edna’s abusers had made of their assault against her, and how they had tried to blackmail her with it. If not for Edna, I never would have known about Donnie’s machinations. She had provided the triggering event for the mass murder I committed against her kinsmen. Regarded in that light, how could I help but have a sentimental attachment to her?
Yet when she opened the door to her quarters, I didn’t see any of that history in her countenance. Instead, I saw her grandmother there.
Fortunately, it was Gloria Constantin’s strength, not her bluster that came through. “Welcome to our home,” she said. “I’m Edna.” She extended her hand, and I took it.
“How do you do.” What I could see of Edna’s home reminded me of the Koto compound, small, but full of beautiful things. My curiosity, already well stimulated, went into overdrive. “I’m very happy to be here.”
She took my meaning, and it pleased her. “These antiques are my legacy,” she said, ushering me in. “Once Marco and I married, I was able to retrieve them from storage.”
To her credit, she had not simply stuffed her home with things—they were arranged with a good eye. Instead of clashing with each other, the natural scenes depicted in the screens, paintings, ceramics, and carved furniture invited me to explore them. I judged them to be as old as the ones in the Koto compound, but their source seemed different. Rather than being from ancient Asian cultures, they were inspired by them. The themes and styles blended with another culture, one that paid them proper homage, but also wove its own colors and textures within.
Edna guided me through these tableaus, pointing out charming details: a grasshopper perched on the edge of a teacup as if it were planning to take a sip, a bird peering into a window like a gossip gathering juicy information, bears dancing at the edge of a glade with picnic baskets in hand. “I had to fight to keep these,” she confided. “No one else cared about them, but they have some trade value. Marco intervened on my behalf, and that finally did the trick.”
Her tone revealed affection when she spoke her husband’s name. I would have said as much to Lady Sheba’s ghost, but most likely she would have replied that affection is also not romance. There’s too much compassion in it.
Marco rose when we joined him in the sitting room, smiling with pride at his young wife. “I’m glad we could meet in these surroundings,” he said.
“I am delighted to be here,” I assured him.
Servants wheeled our supper in on a cart, but we attended to our own meal, sitting around a small table where we could speak without shouting to be heard, and where we could rest our eyes on the beautiful things Edna had rescued from her greedy, peevish grandmother (my adjectives, not Edna’s). They asked me questions about the Kotos (a.k.a. my family) and the art traditions they promoted and preserved. Fortunately, the answers were readily at hand either through records or with prompting from Sheba’s ghost. At some point, music began to play softly in the background, and I was pleased to recognize Anatoly Lyadov’s compositions.
The first selection of Eight Russian Folksongs began to play, and I felt as if Gennady had entered the room. Solemn, melancholy, profound—it summed him up better than anything else I could have thought of, even Lyadov’s Baba Yaga—which was the next thing on the playlist.
“This music and my antiques share some of the same roots,” said Edna, noting my interest. “In particular, the fairy tale of Baba Yaga and Vasilisa the Brave has always intrigued me, because I see parallels in my own life. I suppose any young girl can relate to the trials and tribulations of Vasilisa. Especially the part where she loses her mother.”
The sadness that crept into her tone was not unfamiliar to me. I have heard it many times, from many people on Olympia. It is a legacy we all share.
Edna’s mother died when she was still a toddler. The record stated her cause of death as an accident, which is code for execution. That had turned out to be the case for many of the Constantin women who married into more powerful families.
But not all of them. A few had managed to survive several decades, and to die by natural causes. Would Edna enjoy that sort of longevity?
The girl who had taken petty revenge on a Servant would not. But I wasn’t sure I was talking to that girl. The death of her kinsmen and the recovery of her legacy may have been all Edna needed to satisfy her desire for revenge. And being married to an affectionate partner who was proud of her would go a long way to heal old wounds.
Lady Sheba watched them with interest. “These two don’t want your voting power. They want your friendship.”
I gazed at the young couple who seemed to have repaired and completed each other.
For the rest of the evening, we chatted about art, and music, and fairy tales. It went on longer than I could normally tolerate for a social gathering, but I didn’t feel the strain. When our conversation began to hint at conclusions and the hope of future get-togethers, we transitioned smoothly to my departure.
“I would love to give you a tour of the Koto compound,” I said, making a mental note to schedule that when the real Kotos were occupied elsewhere.
“We would enjoy that very much.” Marco grasped my hands. I saw real gratitude in his eyes, not for the friendship I was extending to him, but for Edna’s sake.
As a Charmayne power player, Marco did not excel. But as a husband, he got very high marks.
Edna saw me to the door. Watching her move so confidently among her beloved antiques, I realized that she looked like a woman now, not a damaged girl. I couldn’t claim the credit for that—it had been up to her to decide to grow up. So I reached into a pocket and retrieved something.
“I’m glad you fought for your antiques,” I said as we paused at the door. “And I’m glad you won.”
“Me, too,” said Edna.
I extended my hand, and she grasped it.
I smiled as I walked away. You may think I’m crazy, making friends with someone who tried to kill me. But who am I to criticize a would-be murderer? Especially when I’ve been so successful at murder myself.
Besides, Edna had risked a lot to warn me. So I took a risk in return. Just now she was probably reading the note I had slipped into her hand. Lady Sheba’s ghost had taught me how to use the pen with which I had written it. It wasn’t terribly different from using a stylus, once you got used to it.
If someone were spying on Edna with devices, and they saw what had been written there, it would not raise eyebrows, since the note simply said Thank you. But as my mother used to say, the medium is the message, and this medium was a piece of paper of the same weight and color that Edna had chosen to write her message
to me. This was the best way to let her know I had received it.
She had palmed it without missing a beat. Her face revealed no indication of relief or nervousness, but that was a message in itself. She and I understood each other—we need not belabor the point.
I enjoyed the journey home, walking along the wide corridors and riding the movers and lifts. I even ventured to hope that one day, my fellow worms would enjoy the same experience if they chose to.
When I arrived home, I found a gift waiting for me in my entry hall—a basket of goodies, including chocolate.
Our best regards, read the handwritten note in the basket, from Marco and Edna Charmayne.
Uh-oh, I thought, examining the basket of delights.
I had envisioned many challenges I would have to face while pretending to be an Executive. And I had assumed that some of them would cause me emotional distress. But what I could not have imagined was the hardship of resisting the impulse to eat too much.
I knew what hunger felt like, because we worms usually have to subsist on nutrient broth. We also are allowed nutrient bars, tea and coffee, and a weak beer. Those, along with heat, toiletries, and basic clothing are the things we earn with our work. Sometimes we have shortages, but we never have overages—we never get more than we need.
The same cannot be said for Executives. They always have more than they need. Yet most of them are slender, and I felt a grudging admiration for that as I struggled with my new appetite.
A struggle it was, though I tackled it with iron resolve. I couldn’t gain an ounce of body weight, or I wouldn’t fit into Sezen’s clothes. I didn’t want to draw undue attention to myself. But this practicality was challenged by the variety of delicacies to which I suddenly had access. And that’s how I learned that there are two kinds of hunger: the one you suffer because there’s not enough and the one you suffer because there’s too much. With the first, you simply endure because you have no choice. With the second, the choices torment you just about every waking moment.
Chocolate is the biggest torment of all. There were several different varieties in the basket. I stared at the bar, remembering the taste of the last one I had eaten, and thought, I’ve got to get rid of these goodies.
But it was a gift from the Charmaynes. What if they asked about it?
Right. Hey, Sezen, whip out that chocolate we gave you! What?! You don’t have it anymore? What an insult!
Should I toss it in the trash? Should I use it to bribe someone? Should I save it for a rainy day?
I wandered into the dining room with the vague idea of setting the basket on the sideboard, and using it for guests. After all, I was now a voting member in the House of Clans. Whether I liked it or not, I would be doing a lot of entertaining. I could foist these unwanted calories off on my guests—
“Oichi!” warned the ghost of Lady Sheba.
I turned, and there stood Gennady.
20
Knives and Spoons
Gennady must already have been in my quarters when I arrived.
I’ve been an intruder myself. I harbored no illusions about what the bold and unapologetic appearance of someone who has not been invited could possibly mean. Such an invasion is never meant well, and yet I felt compelled to pretend I didn’t know that, because once we scream and try to run away, the jig is up, the game is on, the attack will commence.
“Would you like some chocolate?” I offered Gennady one of my bars.
He approached casually, as if we were continuing a conversation instead of beginning one, and paused next to the cutlery cart. “I wanted to congratulate you on your new status as a voting Executive. It’s well deserved.”
“Thank you,” I said, still holding the unclaimed bar.
“But I confess,” he said, “I don’t envy you. For me, it would be maddening to argue with the fools in the House of Clans. And with the sharks. I’m sure they think they can intimidate you.”
“The rascals!” I put the bar back in the basket. (Apparently Gennady did not suffer from the same addictions I did.) “I won’t let them.”
“I know you won’t. You are a perceptive woman, Lady Sezen. Is there any atrocity you haven’t seen?”
I remembered how surprised I had been to view the recordings of the sexual abuse of the Constantin children. “I’m betting that there is,” I said.
He moved so quickly, I could only flinch as he seized the sharpest knife from the cutlery cart and held it to my throat.
I may have mentioned that I’m not a martial arts expert. But I can keep my head in a fight, and I felt reasonably certain that a punch to the bridge of Gennady’s nose was my best bet. At the moment he had begun his lunge, I clenched my fist.
Then Lady Sheba’s ghost face loomed so large in my mind’s eye, it was as if she had physically thrust herself between us. “Don’t!” she snapped. “You must stay still.”
So I unclenched the fist. Gennady stood frozen with the blade against my neck. I felt the sting of the edge on my skin. “You have some odd courtship rituals where you come from,” I said.
“Are we courting?” said Gennady.
“Are we?” I threw back at him.
“My wife might disapprove of that development.”
“On Olympia, marriages are dissolved easily.”
His resolve appeared to crack a bit. Had I managed to embarrass him?
He stepped back and tossed the knife back onto the cart. “I don’t wish to be misunderstood. You have new power, Lady Sezen. I only wanted to remind you that power is dangerous.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Point made. No pun intended.”
“Good night, Sezen. Sleep well.”
He made an abbreviated bow and walked out of the room. I resisted the urge to call good night after him. The front door opened and shut behind him.
“He would have respected you if you punched him in the face,” said Lady Sheba’s ghost, “but he would not have forgiven you.”
I went to the cart and tidied the arrangement of cutlery. It was a compulsive action, something I would have done during my duties as a Servant. The knife Gennady had chosen was the only sharp one in the arrangement—it was for cutting crisp vegetables. I said.
“I’m impressed that he handled it so expertly,” said Sheba’s ghost. “And he knew where it was without looking at it.”
I touched my throat. It stung a little, but when I pulled my hand away, there was no blood on it. So Gennady had admirable control as well.
“Much the same way we did,” said Sheba’s ghost. “Though it never would have occurred to her to punch—Oichi, are you crying?”
Sad music, written by Bernard Herrmann, had begun to play in my head along with a scene from Vertigo, a movie in which a woman pretends to be another woman. I could see her—Judy—emerging from the shadows, having transformed herself with clothing and hair color into a woman named Madeleine. But it wasn’t just her appearance that had changed. Madeleine was dead, and Judy had resurrected more than just her style.
A lone tear slid down my face. For me, that was practically a fit.
“Did Gennady hurt your feelings?” Sheba’s ghost seemed not just puzzled by that, but also concerned.
I thought it over.
“Ah,” said Sheba’s ghost. She already knew why.
She was the one who had said it. Sezen would have handled Gennady’s provocation properly. And now I could see that I should not have stood by and let Sezen commit suicide.
I should have risked contacting Sezen. Pairing her with a Medusa unit would have enabled her to conduct this mission better than I, and to claim her clan’s voting rights, which would have tipped the balance of power in the House. She was worth the risk, and I hadn’t seen it until it was too late.
“You are evolving,” said Sheba’s g
host. “I suppose I am, too.”
She shrugged. “Your survival depends on my continued involvement. Whether or not I wake, I am committed to that.”
I couldn’t stop gazing at the cutlery cart as if it symbolized everything I had done wrong. And perhaps it did. Instruments sat in orderly arrangement on its surface, and they each could be used for particular tasks. By insisting on infiltrating the Executives on my own, had I attacked the carrots with a spoon?
* * *
Besides Sezen Koto, Lady Sheba’s ghost believed that two other Executive women had contemplated suicide: Miriam Khan and Halka Chavez. Neither of them had accomplished that goal. But neither of them had fallen off her list, either.
Both women were mid-level Executives, like Sezen. Neither of them had voting power, but a few of their family members did.
That was frustrating, at first. They had no predictable habit. Then I realized—that was the point. Miriam and Halka had to adapt to the whims and the machinations of the high-level Executives while constantly looking over their shoulders to make sure their relatives who were jockeying for position in the middle of the pack were not selling them out. That made them different from Sezen, who had some cachet within the entire Executive class because of her fashion sensibilities and the former glory of her clan.
Medusa Uploaded_A Novel_The Medusa Cycle Page 21