Authors: Jordan Reece
“Damn!” Grance said.
Yvod returned to the aisle. “What is it?”
“You busted the door to outside somehow when you two fell in. Every time I close it up, it just slides back open.”
“The catch must be broken. Leave it. Who cares?” As Grance continued to fiddle with the back door, Yvod rolled the one to the compartment shut. After several seconds, they walked back through the car to the luggage buckets. Yvod laughed at Scoth, who was shouting in panic for Jesco.
For a long time, Jesco slumped in silence. The only movement he made was to stiffen his left arm against his wound to lessen the bleeding. The blow to his side had not been a killing one, he gathered, and attributed it to the turning of the train as it had been dealt. They had all been thrown off-balance.
Scoth stopped banging. Yvod and Grance rustled through the luggage to disguise themselves, their voices coming through the wall to Jesco as dull burbles. A sharper sound came from the door to the walkway. Every time the train turned, it opened and banged shut.
Once the voices were gone, Jesco dared to move. First he inspected his wound. His shirt was sodden with blood. The blade had gone deep but missed his vital organs, so far to the side that it was less serious than it looked. Getting up with a groan, he went to the door and pulled off his shirt to cover his hands. He rolled it aside and staggered over to the compartment where Scoth was ensconced. Appearing at the window, Scoth said in relief, “You’re alive!”
Jesco pressed at a keypad lock, blood smearing from his shirt to the numbers. Tapping the door, Scoth called, “You can’t. This is a bank compartment. He jammed the numbers and it responds by locking on both sides. It should have triggered an alarm for the train guard, but . . .” Only the angels knew how long it would take for Cheffie to hobble to the back of the train, if he responded at all.
A twinkling attracted Jesco’s eye at the back of the car. The train was going around a curve, the door having opened and now sliding shut. As Jesco wobbled away, Scoth called, “What is it?”
Gasping from pain as he opened the door, Jesco spied the cause of the twinkling. The second earring hadn’t gone over the side. Hanging precariously by part of its hook, it had gotten caught in the chain along the walkway. The wind was edging the hook up the link, and the sun was reflecting off the diamonds hanging from the hoop.
It was about to fall, the wind and the weight of the bejeweled hoop working together to free it. Jesco dropped upon the walkway and thrust out his covered hand. The train squealed and turned, the wind kicked sand into his eyes and pulled at his shirt, and the earring fell.
The wind ripped the shirt away only a moment before the earring fell directly into his palm. He clapped his other hand over it, rocked backwards, and launched himself toward the car as he went into thrall. Crashing down to the floor between the compartments, the door rolled shut on his feet.
-he was-
-he was-
“
Jesco!
”
-she was-
-she was—
That son of a demon had brought it here, angels above, he had brought the delivery here! To the house! She stared at him dumbly and he smiled, smiled, smiled like the fool he was . . . he had no idea what he had done and she wanted to slap that stupid smile off his face . . .
“Jesco, let go of it!”
He didn’t release the earring. He couldn’t. He had to know. Moving aside in his mind, he let it sweep him away.
And with the party starting in only hours! The delivery shouldn’t have arrived for another
week
, coming with the shipment to the store and concealed in a box marked for the books manager! Then it would have been placed in the back office like normal, the employees warned not to open her mail and just to send her a message that it had arrived. She’d never worried about them getting into the delivery. Dircus hired honest people and they did as they were told. Once she received the message, she would have gone in for the day and locked herself into the office. The books were easy to manage and took only a little time. After that, she addressed the packages of rucaline to each dealer, dumped them into a bag mixed in with outgoing shop mail, and drove everything to the postbox on her way home.
There was a
procedure
for this, a strict procedure that had the rucaline in and out of her hands in a matter of hours. But Yvod had upended it with no more thought than he put into anything else.
Now he was sprawling on the couch, his dirty shoes propped up on the armrest and she hated him . . . she wished that she’d never had to involve him but half of her initial contacts were through him and hadn’t he remembered what Farron
said
when they first got started? You
don’t
have it on your person and you
don’t
have it in your home and for the love of the angels you
don’t
ever swallow it, you stay clean, clean, clean because the smallest whiff of involvement in rucaline will bring down the whole of the Drug Administration on your head.
“Why did you bring it here?” she exclaimed, pushing in her new earrings.
He didn’t care, he never cared, and still he was smiling. His eyes had a telltale vacant look that told her he’d tried the smallest bit of rucaline himself. Kicking off his shoes, he said, “I was already coming this way, Grancie! It was no problem. The Four-fingered Man brought it to shore-”
“You shouldn’t have been there to take it! What happened to Kobbes?”
“I gave him a wad of cash and told him not to worry about it! Why should he have to hide it in boxes of carriage parts and send it to-”
She was so angry that she cut him off again. “I have everything sent to the store so it doesn’t come
here
! To my
home
! You can’t stay for the party. You need to take it away!” Even as she said that, she had the dismal realization that he was in no condition to do so. His eyes drifted away from her, off into the distance where he was being crowned king or falling on a bed in a soft tumble of feminine limbs. Damn! Most people would mistake him for drunk but Skorla . . . Ailie . . . oh, they would recognize his look and Ailie would whisper to Yvod to share . . .
. . . and he
would
. . .
There could not be rucaline at this party. There could
not
. She had condemned rucaline after involving herself in it, left parties if it turned up in someone’s hand, made up a frightening and utterly false tale of a strange man high on rucaline who slugged her in the street and swiped out for her purse. For years she had built up a reputation as a person who wouldn’t have anything to do with rucaline or those who did it. She was careful not to pound the drum too hard or too frequently, but they knew, everyone acquainted with her knew that she was frightened of it. None would ever think that she’d been deep in the business all along.
Her mind was spinning in fruitless, agitating circles. She’d invited the newly married Lord and Lady Eddpra and they loved a party, the wilder the party the happier the two of them were, but not rucaline, never rucaline, Ivan had lost his girlfriend in university to a bolus dose and Nysta loathed Yvod. He had promised her a wedding and enjoyed her body but the ring never came . . . of course it hadn’t come, Yvod would say anything to get a woman in bed . . . Nysta was vicious in her spite to those who wronged her and if she saw him high on rucaline tonight . . . a chance at long last for her to lash out at him, to hurt him as badly as he had hurt her . . . all it would take was an anonymous message that could never be traced back to her but would turn the eye of the law to Yvod . . .
And then to Grance.
The unaddressed packages were on the table. She thought to pack up the delivery and her brother back into his carriage and send him to the nearest brothel for the night. But she couldn’t trust him with the rucaline! If she hid it in the house and he stayed for the party, his high would wear off and he’d bother her for more, catching her to whisper about it every five minutes, dogging her and getting mad when she refused, and then he’d upend the house to find it! Involve a trusted friend or two in the search! She could not control him and he never listened to reason because he was just so
stupid
.
She had to stop panicking. First, she would get rid of her brother. Stalking over to the couch, she went through his shirt pockets and slapped him when he dully tried to push her away. She claimed the packet of rucaline from his vest and threw it on the table before she moved on to his trouser pockets. It occurred to her that she could flush it all away, or grind it up and pour the powder down the sink, but this was so much money and everyone was waiting for the rucaline! No, she wasn’t going to destroy it. She wanted the money, needed the money that this delivery would bring. What she would do with it, well, she would figure that out once Yvod was out of her hair.
He had
taken
it. She should have anticipated that he couldn’t resist it forever. If there was ale nearby he had to drink it; a woman and he had to charm her. Now he’d gotten into rucaline and he wouldn’t be able to stop. He’d want more and more and more and soon everyone would see what he was doing and
damn!
She didn’t want this blasted for her!
It wouldn’t be. Once they were in the islands over the summer, she’d supply him with a heavy dose when they went out sailing. Drive him out of his mind and push him over the side to drown in the late afternoon. If she did it in the rough waters off Rogo Peak . . . yes, that would be the best place. People went under there every year, even the strong and sober. She would sail back to shore, sob and demand a search and fall into hysterics when they couldn’t start at once since it was now evening.
If his body was recovered in the following days, no one was going to suspect rucaline. They would believe what she said: Yvod drank too much and fell over the side, and she’d never seen him come up. All of the authorities knew what Yvod was like. Even in a lenient island culture, he went too far. They tangled with him every summer. In retrospect, this demise of his would seem inevitable.
Grance’s problem would be solved. When she determined that no more rucaline was on him, she heaved him up and said, “I’m sending you to Baker’s Dozen.” That would keep him occupied for the rest of the night, stuffing his mouth with doughnuts and stuffing his manhood into prostitutes. There were loads of brothels in Melekei, but Baker’s Dozen was a deliberate choice on her part. It was the seediest of the establishments. Even if they suspected he was on rucaline, they were likely using it, dealing it, or at the very least turning a blind eye to it.
“But the party . . .” Yvod said dreamily. “I like your party.”
“Papa is coming to the party this time. Do you want to see Papa?”
That was the right thing to say. No, Yvod did not want to see Papa! Not after Grandfather had cut off Yvod’s allowance for his behavior, and Grance’s with it though she had done nothing wrong. Papa had given them a little since then but not too much. He wouldn’t go against what Grandfather wanted. Grandfather had the final word on everything, and he could not be cajoled, persuaded, or threatened to change his mind once he’d made it up. Yvod had been punishing them both with frequent absences from family events. His tantrum was upsetting no one. He overestimated his importance greatly.
She got Yvod to his feet and walked him to the front door. Down the stairs to his carriage, and she settled him inside. It was a mess from his travels, newspapers and clothes and food strewn everywhere, and it smelled of perfume. A woman had been within here recently, and fresh anger overcame Grance. Had that woman seen the rucaline? Was she going to talk?
Everything was going to explode if Grance did not get a handle on this. She went to the autohorse, feeling a flicker of annoyance at its silly color, and searched through the destination cards. She found the one for Baker’s Dozen, installed it, and closed the flap.
The carriage rocked. Yvod had fallen to the messy floor in the carriage. His head poked out the open door and he said, “Want to come along with me? They got men there, too! I’ll bring them back here to party!”
She didn’t go over to slap him. She didn’t scream. Her blood was running cold at how he’d so blithely interrupted her means for income. She had married fast when she was cut off to get some security back. But it wasn’t enough. This was, and she would preserve it by any means necessary.
Yvod was still babbling about the prosties he could bring. If Grance was angry when she sent him away, the risk was too great that he would come back to aggravate her further. That was how Yvod worked, unless he was too drunk to remember who he was currently agitating. She had to play this a different way. Going to the open door, she assisted him back into the seat. Sweetly, she said, “You have a good time. I heard they’ve got several new women since the last visit you had there.”
“But you could come. Forget the party!”
“I’ll come tomorrow night. We’ll rock the walls.”
Now he was staring at her earrings in entrancement. The rucaline was fixating him upon something else other than arguing with her. “Go on, Yvod. I will see you soon.” She closed the door. He smiled vaguely at her through the window.
The autohorse didn’t move. Of course it didn’t move! She’d switched the destination cards but hadn’t inputted Yvod’s identification number. Opening the door again, she asked him what it was. He stared at her blankly.
He would just have to sit in there until he roused a little more and remembered it. She wasn’t going to drag him back into the house. Going to the garden, her mind worked on what to do with the rucaline.
Minute after minute passed with Yvod failing to stir. A Ragano & Wemill courier turned down the lane and hope rose within her. She’d throw money at him and get all of it out of her house. Frantically, she waved. The caterers would be arriving within an hour to deliver and she had on some of the jewelry but still not the dress she wanted to wear . . . her hair had to be done and the ale glasses brought down from the top shelf . . .
Jesco watched the exchange of packages and money from the other angle. After Hasten Jibb rode away . . . all of the statues chasing after him in his merry boy’s mind . . . Grance went to the carriage and opened the door. Slightly more cognizant, Yvod gave her the number. She programmed it into the autohorse and was relieved when it began to move. Pulling past the house, it circled at the stables and backtracked to the lane. Her idiot brother was borne away.
She’d gotten rid of him. She’d gotten rid of the rucaline. All was well.
Jesco nudged through the next hours. There was nothing in them but preparing for the party and the start of the party itself. Figuring the problems were solved, Grance had put Yvod’s visit and the courier out of her mind. The sky darkened as the party progressed from outdoors to indoors, guests getting towels to dry off and threatening to march next door and teach that old man with the hose a lesson or two. But the ale was flowing freely and music was playing, so the neighbor was forgotten. Someone had brought two escorts in tight gowns, and they danced together lasciviously. Papa drank as he watched them. The blonde cupped the redhead’s buttocks as they ground against one another. Her fingers slipped down to the hem of the dress and she flashed her dance partner’s bare buttocks to their attentive audience. Papa laughed at the naughty peek he’d gotten and called to Grance for something stronger to drink. She got it for him. The doctor had told him to cut back to save his liver, but tonight was for enjoyment, not good sense.
. . . she was having such a good time . . . she threw parties,
true
parties where inhibitions were checked at the door. If her guests wanted to fight, they fought; if they wanted to have sex, they found a room; if they wanted to eat to the point of vomiting and eat some more, there was a feast in the kitchen and dining room with which to glut. People were playing cards and swilling drinks and kissing wherever she looked as she wandered through the house. One couple had gone farther than that, almost naked on a couch in the parlor with half a dozen voyeurs cheering them on. They were friends of friends and she didn’t remember their names, but she’d find out and invite them again. They weren’t shy about putting on a show.
She left the man bending down to the woman’s lap to kiss the dark hair between her thighs, everyone hooting and hollering, and passed to the front of the house. Bryna staggered around the corner of the entryway, giggling and drunk, and fell on Grance. Laughing, Grance caught her. Bryna swayed in her arms and said, “There’s someone at the door.”
. . . sweet love of the angels, it was the courier . . .
Bryna had staggered on down the hall, and for the moment, nobody was in entryway but Grance. She stared in blind fury at the man there holding one of the packages . . . he had brought it back,
he had brought the rucaline back and she had a house full of people
. . . Stepping outside and closing the door swiftly, she said, “What are you doing here?”