8.
The One-Rai Car
Emery found himself shaking as he made his way back to the platform. The train stopped directly beneath the collegio, running through a recess in the building that formed a vast tunnel overhead. The long corridor offered some shelter, but it also funneled the wind into strong gusts that carried rain and snow inside. The patches of ice had been salted over to prevent injury, and the salt broke loudly underfoot. The vast arch overhead that supported the tunnel bore a faded mural of clouds and angels in flowing robes, the images that had been popular in the city's first days. There were murals like this everywhere. The scene had been captured in the tones of a vibrant sunrise, but in the years since they had faded into the brick, and the day's dim light made their triumph wearier.
When he rounded the corner at the tunnel’s end, it had begun snowing again. He pulled loose a fold in his vast gray scarf and tugged it over his head to make a hood. He was aware that this did little to help his appearance, but at the present moment he was more concerned with keeping his hair at least somewhat dry. He walked through the snow for a long time, tracing the sheer wall of the collegio’s south face, until he came upon a Chukwu about his age smoking a cigar. Juliet had told him someone might be here; it was hard to tell, though, whether this one was a dealer or whether he just happened to be standing here. Emery waved as he approached.
“What’s going on?” the kid said in a thick accent. His eyes danced nervously.
Emery thought he recognized him but wasn’t sure where he’d seen him before. “Nothing much,” he said. “You selling?”
“Sellin’ what?” he asked suspiciously.
This could turn bad very quickly if the kid was just out for a stroll, but Emery decided to take his chances. “Poppy gum,” he said too loudly.
“Man, get the hell outta here. Nobody you ask is gonna be selling poppy gum.” He shot a nervous glance over his shoulder. Emery began to back away, but he turned back and said, “I’m selling some fine china, if that’s what you’re looking for. But you better be cool about it.”
“Sorry. Yeah, I’ll take it.”
“How much are you buying?”
“Whatever you’ve got.” Emery reached into the pocket of his coat. “I have a hundred rai on me.”
The kid’s eyes bugged like he sensed a trap. “A hundred rai, huh.” He shot another glance around. “Here’s how we’re doing this. You seem too stupid to be from Unity, but I’m not taking my chances.” He pulled his backpack off and unzipped it. Removing several textbooks, he extracted a large brown burlap bag from inside. “I’m not getting busted today, man. You walk out with the china and the rai, and if they come down, it’s on you. You sit next to me on the train, and leave the rai when you get off. I’m not touching it till we’re out of here.”
“Fair.” Emery took the bag and buried it in his own backpack. “How do you know I won’t just run off with this?”
“It’s a small city, Emery. I know where you live.”
Emery, who couldn’t even recall where he’d met the Chukwu, shivered at that. They walked back to the tunnel and waited on the platform. The dealer never stopped scanning the crowd, and he twitched conspicuously whenever a passerby came too close. It occurred to Emery that he wasn’t very good at this; how hadn’t he been caught before? After a few minutes his nervousness was rubbing off on Emery. Did Unity have some way of telling who was carrying contraband? To distract himself, he resumed his previous examination of the ceiling mural.
“Sir Esposti,” came a voice from mere feet away. Damnit…
Emery peeled his gaze from the mural to find that he had nearly run into M. Oburumu. The instructor’s usual smile was absent.
“Maestro,” Emery replied.
“I was hoping to speak with you after our lecture today,” M. Oburumu replied, “but you seem to slip out of class almost before we adjourn. Do you have a moment to talk?”
“Actually, I’m late meeting friends for dinner, so only a moment.” It was a feeble excuse; if a maestro demanded a student’s time, the student’s friends were expected to wait.
The maestro turned to the dealer. “Ah, Deion. I was unaware the two of you were acquainted outside of class.” Suddenly Emery recognized him: he was a timid student from M. Oburumu’s history course last term. Emery had never learned his name. M. Oburumu addressed Emery again: “It appears I shouldn’t keep you. I just wanted to let you know I am missing three of your home assignments for the term to date, which is especially concerning given that the term has just begun. If it is an error in my own records—”
Emery winced. He was achingly aware of the brown bag in his backpack; could M. Oburumu tell he was hiding something? “No, I forgot to turn them in. I know you don’t take late work…”
“That is my rule, yes. However, I can make an exception this one time, as the quality of your work has been outstanding on those occasions when you have actually remembered to submit it. If you hand me the missing assignments by this time next week, I shall accept them for partial credit. This is, of course, a one-time offer.” Finally the inevitable smile appeared. “And please, do not discuss this with your peers. As much as I would like to see you succeed in my course, I do have a reputation to uphold.”
Emery offered a little bow. He was sweating despite the cold. “Thank you, Maestro. I’ll try to have them to you in a couple days. I do have to run now, but I’ll see you the day after tomorrow. And thanks. And have a good afternoon.”
“And you, Emery.” His heart did not beat for the duration of the maestro’s ages-long pause. “Make sure you allow yourself some rest.” Emery felt himself begin to breathe properly only as the maestro turned and strode down the platform.
When the train finally came, Deion insisted that they ride on the one-rai flatcar on the back rather than in one of the enclosed cars. “You know who doesn’t ride the flatcar?” he asked, glancing back at the window of the three-rai car. “Unity inspectors.”
“This is bloody sadistic,” Emery muttered, wrapping the scarf more tightly around his head to cover as much of his face as he could without blinding himself. He shuddered as the train began moving, recalling the last time he’d ridden an open car like this. A few other passengers were riding on the flatcar, those who were too poor to afford the three-rai car and were traveling too far to walk easily. They all looked nearly as miserable as Emery felt, and they huddled closer together as the train picked up speed and the wind cut through their coats. “Where is this stuff coming from?” Emery whispered.
Deion didn’t look like he was going to answer that question.
“Hey, for the amount of rai I’m putting into this, I think I’ve at least bought the right to know it’s from a decent source.”
“Will you shut up?” Deion looked frantically around. “It comes from Redemption,” he whispered, “of course.”
Emery nodded. “That’s good to know,” he said, as if it meant anything to him. Well, it was something, at least: Jacob’s Ladder, he recalled from the sermons of his youth, was a stairway to heaven. Though it wasn’t much to go on, the two names at least suggested some correlation. He had more questions, but it was clear Deion would provide no more in the way of answers.
The lights of different districts passed in a blur. The Locust Point station was one of the few in the city that was covered and heated, but by the time he passed through it Emery was so thoroughly chilled that it did little good. He’d feel better when he got inside and stripped off the frigid clothing growing damp with melted snow.
The ride seemed interminable, but at last it did terminate. “This is me,” Emery mumbled through half-numb lips, reaching inside his pocket to draw out the little purse. Twenty jade five-rai stones clinked inside, sharp treble notes muffled by the suede pouch. “If you want to come by on Friday evening, I’m having a gathering at my house with some classmates who I’m sure would love to do business with you.”
“We’ll see.”
“You
have a wonderful evening, man. Stay warm.” He slid the bag into the dealer’s bare hand as he moved to rise.
“You too,” Deion replied, with a look that said you-better-not-try-anything-funny. He slid the purse toward him with another look over his shoulder. Emery didn’t look back until he had crossed the platform and descended back onto the street. On the way back to his estate, he withdrew the brown bag from his backpack and kicked it down a storm drain.
Mrs. Rizzo was in her garden again, absent the Unity inspector Emery had seen with her before. She was bent over, planting a patch of camellias, gloved hands submersed in soil. She looked up as she heard him approaching. He was glad he’d already disposed of the gum: he was sure he could conceal nothing from the glare she offered him. “Sir Esposti,” she called out in rare greeting. “Good day.”
“And to you,” he managed. “It’s a frigid day; don’t stay too long in the cold.” It might be Mrs. Rizzo herself, though, who caused his shiver as he ducked behind his gate.
Carrot was tackling Geneva to the floor of the foyer when Emery entered. “I was playin’ with that!” he yelled.
“I got it from you fair ‘n square, stupid,” Geneva replied, shoving him off and attempting to rise. Neither of them appeared to notice that the door had opened. “That’s how you play ball.”
“I’m glad to see the two of you have been so well-behaved in my absence,” Emery said.
Both of them went slack-jawed at the sound of his voice, but Geneva managed to recover from the surprise in time to smile and say, “Yay, you’re home!”
She ran forward to embrace him but was far from happy to find that he hadn’t overlooked the squabble. “Give me the ball.” He peeled off a wet glove and reached to claim it. It was red and maybe ten inches in diameter, made for kicking. “If you’re going to fight over it, neither of you gets it for the evening.”
Geneva’s nose gravitated toward the ceiling at that. “It was Carrot’s dumb fault.”
“And stop calling each other names, if you expect to have any toys left. Is Lydia preparing dinner?”
“She told Oliver to fix it. Miren and that new boy are down digging in the hole.”
“Alright, then.” The thought of the two alone was far from alright; Geneva and Carrot unsupervised were a small worry by comparison. Miren wasn’t the sort of role model Emery wanted for a new resident, especially one who, judging by what Green had said, might be in need of special guidance. “Which one of you would like to go down there and tell them it’s almost time to eat?”
“Ye’ should do it,” Carrot quipped. “Ye’ still ‘ave a coat on.”
Emery trudged hastily through the house, wondering when he’d started taking orders from a prepubescent. It was probably for the best that he go; Jehovah knew what Miren and the new boy were getting into. At the rear door he traded his leather boots for a rubber pair better suited to the sewers. He cut across the estate’s ample back yard, following the muddy tracks through the snow. He was about to begin his descent down the manhole when a head emerged from it.
“Evening, Salvador.”
The new boy’s face was smeared with dirt. “Oh,” he replied, “evenin’.” He pulled himself up to meet Emery’s expectant gaze. He paused for too long, as if distracted. “We’ve been hard at work. I was just going to, erm, find th’ bathroom.”
“Where’s Miren, Salvador?”
“Still down there. Shoveling.”
A silence. The tall boy rubbed his eyes; they were red, as if he’d just woken up.
“Wash up while you’re at it. Dinner should be ready before too long.”
Salvador nodded. “I could use some.”
“Well, you go do your thing. I’ll go let Miren know.”
“See ye’ inside, then.”
The ladder’s rusty, unreliable rungs had been replaced when construction in the tunnel had started. Emery descended it quickly, breathing through his mouth to try to spare himself the rancid air. The stench was so thick, he swore he could taste it. Ankle-deep water rushed over the rubber boots as he reached the floor, and he was reminded of the boots’ poor insulation. He turned on his flashlight and stepped out into the sewer’s main aisle, marching against the current.
The entrance to the new tunnel was about fifty feet from the manhole. They had carved some uneven steps to keep the mouth elevated and prevent flooding; Emery marched up these and crawled through the small passageway into the main chamber. The past two months’ progress was impressive. In its finished state the tunnel would span nearly a mile between this doorway and the one they would create at its far end, outside the city. It was presently what Emery estimated must be more than half its finished length, and from this vantage the glowing dot that was Miren’s lantern was barely visible. Despite the cold, there was shelter from the wind, so it was far more bearable than above ground. He moved slowly, so as to avoid her notice until he was close enough to see her, but as he approached a strange calm came over him. Too many distractions had taken Emery from his work here, and he felt more at ease as he neared the site. He needed to spend more time digging; perhaps all the time he’d wasted recently was contributing to his dark mood. It was precisely the opposite of what Dr. Mari guessed.
“Welcome back,” Miren called as he drew closer. Her eyes seemed to retain their hue in the lantern’s yellow light. “I was just—”
“It’s me,” he interrupted, directing the flashlight beam at his face. “It’s almost time for dinner. Salvador was on a very important bathroom errand, and I told him he could stay up there and get ready. I came down to let you know.”
Miren retracted her hand from the shovel for which she had begun to reach when she’d seen Emery’s face. “Oh, okay. I was just taking a break for a moment, but we’ve been working hard for a couple hours.”
“That’s perfectly fine.” Nothing was visibly amiss. “I’m not coming across as that much of a taskmaster, am I?”
A long look, eyebrows arched. “Well, honestly…”
If malingering was the worst of his worries, he’d do well to relax. Emery sighed, reaching for the discarded shovel. “Well, then. I guess you all deserve some recompense.” He raised it like a scepter over her crown of close-cropped red hair. Miren feigned a bow. “In my infinite mercy,” he announced, “I, Master of the Universe, hereby decree a day of rest tomorrow. No hand shall lift a tool, and a feast shall be held in my loyal subjects’ honor.”
Miren laughed. “Seriously? If you’re for real, I think we need to crack a bottle or two in celebration. For those who are of age.”
“Who’s that, you? I don’t think you need a bottle of wine to yourself.” He gesticulated with the shovel, which was beginning to make his arm ache. “Hell, I’ll swing by the market and get a cheesecake or something. Just be glad I’m not making you come down here for a day.”
“Well, you’ll be taking the day off too right? After all,” she intoned, “‘no hand shall lift a tool,’ right? We’ll share a bottle to celebrate you taking it easy for once.” She reached to take the shovel.
“No hand but my own,” he corrected himself, stepping back. “It’s a tough job being Master of the Universe. No days off.”
Miren bypassed the shovel and went after Emery’s arm, wrapping both of hers around it and finally prying his fingers loose. “I think you really do have a problem,” she said. The shovel clattered dully on the packed dirt. She didn’t release his arm; instead she sat, pulling him down with her. “What was Ambler like?” she asked.
“Um, well.” It was an unexpected change of topic. “Besides there being no Vorteil there, I suppose it’s a lot like Rittenhouse. If you’ve seen one bastion of civilization, I guess you’ve seen them all.” He shrugged. “Though I don’t suppose you’ve really seen Rittenhouse outside the estate.”
“No,” Miren said softly, “I mean what was it like for you there?” Her expression was suddenly very serious, her eyes as penetrating as they had seemed when Emery had first seen her, in th
e king’s palace months ago.
“Why do you want to know?” Emery answered; his sudden anger surprised himself. He hadn’t expected to repeat this conversation so soon.
“I don’t know.” Miren pulled her hand away from his and drew her knees to her chest. “Nobody talks much about family here.”
“I’ve told you,” Emery said a bit more gently, “whenever you want to talk about past stuff, I’m here.”
“Maybe I’m curious about your past,” Miren replied. “As open as you seem to be, you never actually tell us that much about yourself. At least, you haven’t told me. But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”
“No. I didn’t mean to be like that, it’s just… well, you’re the second person today to ask about. Here’s the story I told,” he began, and at length he told it again.
“The story you told,” she echoed, when he was done. “Is it true?”
“Parts of it are.”
“Which parts?” she pressed.
He felt the muscles of his mouth tighten. “The part about my cousin being killed with a brick. And the part about him being alive when my mom got there.” Suddenly he was nauseous. “She came early to pick me up one day, and saw what he was doing to me…” He shivered, started again. “The story I told was the story we told the investigators. The outsider sneaking into the city was an invention. It was just Seth and my mother and me. And I know how ironic it is, that it just became more ammunition for Rittenhouse and Ambler to hate people outside.”
Miren was quiet for a while. “Yeah,” she said at last, “I can see why you wouldn’t want to talk about that too often.”
“Yeah.” He smiled weakly. “I don’t guess you were expecting a pureblood to have such an ugly history, huh?”
“I’m not actually all that surprised,” she said, leaning in to rest her head on his shoulder. “I don’t think there’s really anywhere you can get away from ugliness.”
“I guess that’s true.” He took her hand again and forced a grin. “So, tell me about your ugliness.” Emery had never gotten Miren to discuss anything about further back than their meeting the autumn past.
“Oh, I could tell you horror stories,” she teased. “Really, though… I guess for me, it was my mother.”
Emery chuckled. “You have an ugly mother?”
“Shut up.” She gave him a shove that he decided to interpret as playful. “She’s not my actual mother, anyway. She’s my stepmother, and she never let me forget it. She used to use me to get to my father when they were fighting. She did… some terrible things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“I don’t know, like…” Emery hadn’t expected her to divulge anything too revealing, and she didn’t. “It was like pulling knife in a fistfight, you know? She didn’t have a limit. It could start out as the smallest dispute, and she’d be willing to escalate it to this catastrophic level.”
Emery nodded, not knowing how to reply without prying. “Yeah,” he said at last, “I guess people are just crazy everywhere.”
“It wasn’t all bad at home, though. I wasn’t poor in the same way a lot of people in New Providence are, and I never went hungry. And when things weren’t crazy with my parents, I definitely had my fun.”
“What’s fun like outside? Most people in here wouldn’t believe it can be had for less than ten rai.”
“Oh, you know.” He couldn’t see her face from their present position, but by her tone he knew she was smiling now. “We outsiders have our barbaric ways. All sorts of evil witchcraft, animal sacrifices and stuff.”
Miren liked to get a rise out of Emery by poking fun at his aversion to magic; this time he decided to go along with it. “And human sacrifices on solstice, I’m sure. We mustn’t let holidays go by unobserved.”
“Oh, plenty of those, and nude moonlit dances afterward.” She reclined so that her head was against his chest. “Maybe once this stupid tunnel is done, we’ll sneak out sometime and I can take you to one.”
She shivered a bit and he put an arm across her shoulders, bracing himself against the frigid packed earth with his other hand. “I’m afraid I couldn’t. Pagan rituals are fun and everything, but it’s an open secret I’m a horrid dancer.”
Miren laughed, the movement of her chest rocking his. “That’s why we do it by moonlight.”
Emery started to say something else, but she wrapped her arm around his neck and turned to face him. As they kissed he thought of several reasons this was a bad idea, but she buried her fingers in his hair and he somehow forgot every one. They were late to dinner.