New Ceres Issue 1 by Alisa Krasnostein
“Indeed,” said La Duchesse. “Tell me, M. and Mme. Stevens. When exactly did you meet a representative of the Lumoscenti?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Bob Stevens. “And frankly, I’m insulted.”
“It’s a common practice,” La Duchesse went on as if he hadn’t spoken, mainly addressing her comments to Savon. “Refugees arrive here with nothing — the lucky ones are processed immediately and placed with a patron to support them for a few months. But what then? A life of indentured servitude must seem terrifying to people who are used to earning an independent living — and their skills are irrelevant to this world. How are they to survive?”
“Unmarried women tend to marry immediately,” I said, with a veiled look at Drusus Savon. “Or find themselves some other kind of protector. They have to, or end up on the streets. A married couple wouldn’t even have that option.”
“But the refugees have one currency,” said La Duchesse. “Temporary but free entry into a native New Ceresian household. And a certain invisibility, because no one expects them to involve themselves in our politics. A certain religious organisation has been known to use this situation to their advantage, promising wealth and independence in return for a single, well-planned act of assassination. The perfect arrangement of timing, duplicate jewels and family complications has their signature all over it.”
Drusus Savon sucked in a breath. “A man like Everard — what could he have done to invite the wrath of the Lumoscenti?”
“I knew Everard well,” said La Duchesse, a little sadly. “He had the knack for saying the wrong thing, and aligning with the wrong people.” She unfolded the newspaper clipping I had seen in Everard’s room. “In this instance, he wore the golden robes to a masquerade. I have no doubt that, as with the matter of his niece’s data-crystal, he simply took a joke too far — some unfortunate remarks, perhaps, which fell into the wrong ears? The Suncatchers do not take lightly to being mocked.”
Catherine Stevens drew in a breath, and her husband stilled her with a hand on her arm.
“You thought perhaps that he was an enemy of the state?” La Duchesse said lightly. “A dangerous political adversary? A spy? That our highest religious order had a very good reason for wanting him assassinated? I’m afraid that is very unlikely.”
“It’s not like we had much choice,” said Bob Stevens.
“Don’t say anything,” his wife cautioned.
“Perhaps you didn’t even know that the data crystal they asked you to leave on his bedside table was poisoned,” said La Duchesse. “It doesn’t matter. It’s the Feast of Saturn — you can’t even be charged with the handling of a data crystal. I imagine the golden monks rewarded you sufficiently to set up a new life somewhere on this world. All you have to do now is pack your bags and leave this house before the Ambassador realises that his wife is not a fratricide, and brings a civil suit against you. Even in the civil courts, murder carries the minimum sentence of transportation. If you think New Ceres is a hard society to survive in, I guarantee you would not enjoy the Nullus Continent. Not that the Suncatchers would let you survive to expose their involvement in court… I suggest you hurry.”
“Why?” said Catherine Stevens. “Why accuse Mme. Marchmont and give us this opportunity to escape?”
La Duchesse smiled a flinty smile. “Perhaps I just don’t like her very much.”
“You can’t help yourself, can you?” I asked as the Stevenses fled the room. “Rescuing people, I mean.”
La Duchesse patted my hand. “When one has a talent, I believe one should exercise it as often as possible.”
###
We left the Marchmont estate not long after, my mistress and I. Bob and Catherine Stevens had already departed, and the Ambassador and his family were still closeted in a parlour upstairs, shrieking at each other. “Do you not feel at all guilty about that?” I asked my mistress.
“I have left them a note, attached to the Saturnalis tree,” she said cheerfully. “That should clear the matter up to reasonable satisfaction. But I agree it might be an idea to remove ourselves from Prosperine society for a while. New Switzerland, do you think?”
Drusus Savon was waiting for us by the door, though La Duchesse had pointedly not offered him a seat in the phaeton she had hired for our own transport.
She gave him a hard stare as he helped her into her travelling stole. “You went to a lot of trouble to meet me, M. Savon. Cultivating a man you hardly knew, tangling yourself in a murder and a house party, both equally dire. Was it worth it?”
“To meet a legend, Duchesse?” he said gallantly. “But of course. It was also a great honour to meet M. Pepin, considering my acquaintance with his father. You will be pleased to know that I am not currently in that gentleman’s employ. My investigation into Pepin’s identity was … a matter of private curiosity only.”
La Duchesse frowned. “And can we count on your discretion in this matter, as a gentleman? I would not like to see this ‘investigation’ of yours go any further.”
“Ah, but like you, madame,” said Drusus Savon, “I dislike a mystery to go unsolved.”
“You mistake me, dear sir,” said the Great Detective. “There are many questions in this world that I should hate to see answered. Good day.”
We swept out of the door and towards the hired phaeton. “Shall we have him killed?” she asked me in an undertone.
Despite the fear that had gripped my stomach since Savon first revealed that he knew my secret, I found myself smiling. “Not yet, perhaps.”
La Duchesse shook her head as I assisted her into the phaeton. “You are a better man than I, Pepin.”
My mistress always knows exactly what to say.
“She Walks in Beauty” by Dirk Flinthart
“Though darkness veils thy lovely face
Still we remember lady, who gave us birth
Though the days of your passing wax long
We are yet thy wayward children, O Earth…”
The knocking came again. With a curse, Gordon flung down his quill, spattering ink across the page. “Blast and damn you, Stilton,” he snarled, yanking open the door. “I told you I was not to be disturbed!”
“Sorry, sir,” said the manservant, his sallow face impassive. “I’m afraid it’s young Wilde. He insists on seeing you at once. A matter of some urgency, he claims.”
“Wilde, is it?” said Gordon. Whatever else might have risen to his lips was drowned by the clatter of boots on the spiral stairs that led up to the the tower study.
“Gordon? I say, Gordon? You’re up there, aren’t you?” Blithely assured of his welcome in Gordon’s sanctum sanctorum Dorian Wilde, self-styled poet and social reformer, appeared behind Stilton. “There you are,” he announced, beaming delightedly. “You’ll never guess what’s happened!”
“You’re in love,” said Gordon. He shot a look at Stilton, who rolled his eyes mournfully. “Again.”
“I’m in love,” Wilde continued, pushing past Stilton until he was in the study proper. “It’s absolutely glorious, Gordon. Of course, a cynic like you couldn’t possibly understand, so just take my word for it. It’s wonderful!”
“Congratulations,” said Gordon, dismissing Stilton with a gesture. When he turned, Wilde was scrabbling at the ornate writing desk under the window. In two long strides, the older man crossed the room and seized Wilde by the wrist. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Wilde straightened up and wrested his hand free. “Looking for some of that Old Earth brandy you keep in here, of course. Really, man, you’re not going to let something like this pass without a toast, are you?”
Shouldering the younger man aside, Gordon pressed a hidden latch, and produced a bottle from a concealed drawer. Casting about, he spotted a moderately clean pair of glasses tucked inside the cabinet of an ancient grandfather clock, and poured a couple of measures. “A toast, then,” he said, offering Wilde a glass. “After all, I’ve a drinking man’s reputation to maint
“Very funny, Gordon,” said Wilde. “I’ll have you know it’s the real thing, this time. Why, I’ve even—”
“I notice that while you’re talking, you don’t seem to be drinking,” drawled Gordon, lifting his glass. “I’m concerned for your priorities, Wilde.” With an elaborate twist of the wrist, he tossed the spirit down his throat, and closed his eyes in rapture. “All right,” he said, a few moments later. “I believe I’m adequately fortified now. You may speak to me of this paragon of femininity while I pour another bracer, just to be certain.”
Clutching his glass, Wilde sank to the floor with his back against the wall, a faraway expression on his face. He flicked a long, wavy lock of dark hair from his eyes with a careless gesture which had broken more than one girl’s heart, and sighed. “She’s a marvel, Gordon. She’s so — I’m lost for words, I tell you. I don’t even know where to begin.”
Gordon cocked an eyebrow. “Dorian Wilde speechless,” he said. “Now there’s an event worthy of Armagnac.” He sat down again and crossed his ankles. “If speaking of this Aphrodite is too heroic an effort for you, perhaps you might care to explain what brings you here?”
Wilde gazed at him, wide-eyed. “Why George,” he said. “You’re my best, my dearest friend in all New Ceres. Is it not natural that I wish to share this most excellent news with you?”
For a long moment, the two men simply stared at each other. Then they burst into laughter. At last, Gordon poured another measure of brandy for both, and slapped Wilde on the shoulder. “Damn you for a fool, boy,” he said. “What have you done this time?”
The younger man let his head fall until he was looking at the rug. “It’s Grace,” he said. “That’s her name. She’s a refugee.”
“A refu— Christ!” Only a truly heroic effort stemming from his reverence for genuine Armagnac kept Gordon from spraying the stuff out his nose in surprise. “What has your father said?” Obadiah Wilde was not only one of New Ceres’ richest landholders, but a leading figure in the most conservative faction of the planetary government. The relationship between father and son was strained at the best of times, and clearly, this was far from the best of times.
“Oh, the usual.” Wilde attempted to sound light-hearted, and failed miserably. “A lot of blather about disinheriting me, or sending me offworld like some sort of modern-day remittance man. He’ll get over it, I’m sure. He always does. In the meantime, I thought it might be a good idea for Grace and me to be out of his way for some little time.”
“Aha,” Gordon savoured the remnants of his Armagnac, and squinted out the window at the dying sunset. “So here you are, far from the press and the hurly-burly, seeking privacy in the depths of the country. Wilde in the wild, as it were. But no,” he turned back to the young man. “You would never leave your lady-love downstairs on her own for all this time. She’s somewhere else, isn’t she? What’s the plan, Wilde?”
The young man grinned lopsidedly. “I hope Father’s people aren’t as quick as you, George. You’re quite right. I’ve come here to your famous Tower of Silence on the shores of the Long Lake, supposedly in the highest of dudgeons after a royal dust-up with the old man. Naturally, while I’m in seclusion here I expect to see and hear nobody — except you, my old friend. Everyone knows how jealously you guard your privacy, so nobody will be surprised if you turn father’s people away from the door. Meanwhile, a trusted accomplice has conveyed the lady Grace to a certain house in Far Millway, on the other side of the Long Lake, and—”
Gordon slapped himself on the forehead. “You’ve installed her in my little hideaway there, haven’t you? And you’re going to sneak across the lake in my boat to be with her, leaving me to stay here and tell your father’s bloodhounds to go piss up a rope.”
“That’s about the size of it,” admitted Wilde. “Are you game?”
Gordon rolled his rangy shoulders, stretching the muscles in his back and neck. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” he said. “It’s been some little time since I behaved scandalously. Will your father mind very much, do you think, if I damage one or two of his flunkies in the process of escorting them off the property?”
“I’m sure of it,” said Wilde. “In fact, he’s taken on a new chap he’s very proud of — an outworlder with some sort of history as a soldier. Name of Benton. I’d take it as a personal favour if you happened to knock him down a peg or two.”
A wolfish grin spread across Gordon’s face. “Consider it done,” he said. He glanced out the window again. “It will be dark enough soon to set sail unseen. Care for another brandy in the meantime?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” said Wilde, and he held out his glass.
###
Perhaps two hours later, there came thunderous knocking at the heavy wooden door of Gordon’s tower. He settled comfortably into his favourite leather chair, which he had moved to command a clear view of the doorway. “It isn’t locked,” he called.
The door swung in, revealing a squat, scarred man in a dark suit. Gordon gave him a scant second or so to recognize the flintlock in his hand before he pulled the trigger. There was a crack, and the air filled with the sharp smell of gunpowder. Putting the gun down beside his chair, Gordon picked up his brandy balloon, and took a healthy swig, relishing the heady warmth of the liquor. “Are you still out there?” he called after a moment.
Cautiously, a face peered around the doorframe. Gordon smiled, and lifted his glass. “I rarely lock my door out here in the wilderness,” he said. “But I most definitely didn’t invite you in. Who are you, and what is your business here?”
The man moved as though to enter, and Gordon brought his other hand into sight, zeroing the second duelling pistol at about crotch height. “Another step,” he said, “And I will certainly attempt to geld you. You can answer perfectly well from where you are.” He tipped the glass again and swirled the fiery brandy in his mouth, but the gun didn’t waver for an instant.
The scarred man froze, then pulled himself together. “My name is Rudolf Benton,” he said. “I work for Obadiah Wilde. I’m here for Dorian Wilde.”
“Really?” Gordon arched an eyebrow.
Benton waited. When it became apparent that Gordon intended to say nothing else, he coughed, and shuffled his feet. Glancing around the interior, his eyes lighted upon the stairwell that curved up the wall to the floors above. “Would you be so good as to send him down?” he asked finally.
“No,” said Gordon. “Wilde is a grown man, and I’m not his messenger boy.” He sipped at his brandy again, enjoying the growing bafflement on Benton’s face.
“Can I come and get him, then?” asked Benton.
Gordon grinned. “You might try,” he said. “Then I might well shoot you, and then, of course, I might have to explain myself to someone in authority. On the other hand, since there’s nobody to say you introduced yourself, I might simply claim I caught you breaking into my house.”
“I see,” said Benton. Under the heavy suit he was a powerfully built man, Gordon noted, with the physique of a wrestler. His hair was clipped short and flat, accentuating the square, chunky face under it. “What can I do to bring forth Dorian Wilde?”
After a moment’s consideration, Gordon shrugged. “Nothing springs to mind.”
“But he is here,” said Benton, confronting Gordon with a cold stare.
“Are you equipped with some form of warrant, or legal writ?” Gordon asked. “Because I do not feel inclined to answer any questions unless required by law. And between you and me, I probably wouldn’t answer truthfully.“
Benton regarded him for a long moment. “I see,” he said finally. “Well, if by any chance you should see young master Wilde, I’m sure his father would be very grateful if you’d tell him to come home.”
“
“I think that will do, Mister Gordon,” said Benton. “I’ve had enough of your hospitality.”
“As you wish,” Gordon replied. “Close the door behind you, please. I believe I may even lock it.” He locked eyes with Benton, and smiled as evilly as he knew how. “Some nasty characters about lately.”
The door shut with a thump. Gordon waited, pistol levelled, until he heard footsteps on the stair behind him. “Has he gone, Stilton?” he called without looking.
“That he has, sir, and his three men with him.” Stilton moved into view, carefully keeping his angular frame out of the line of fire.
“Lock the door, there’s a good fellow,” said Gordon. “Three others that you saw, eh? Notice anything interesting about them?”
The manservant slid a heavy bolt into place, securing the door, and heaved a quiet sigh as Gordon spun his pistol round his finger before tucking it back into the concealed holster on the side of the chair. “I do wish you wouldn’t do that, sir.”
“Eh?” Gordon glanced down to see what Stilton was looking at. “The pistol? Oh, Stilton — you know me better than that. I have to take occasional shots at people. It’s part of my reputation.” He tossed the empty gun to Stilton, who caught it gingerly. “Reload that for me, would you?”
Gordon went to the sideboard, and refreshed his drink before continuing. “Benton was an interesting fellow, you know. If I had to guess, I’d pick him for a high-gravity type. Since we both know that Obadiah Wilde positively refuses to employee refugees in any position of responsibility, we must conclude that Benton is not a refugee. That makes him what — a mercenary? Hard to understand. There’s plenty of work offworld for such men. New Ceres won’t make his fortune. So why is he here?”