Beating Heart Cadavers (4 page)

“Have you heard something, Mason?”

“Not so much heard as seen,” he admitted. “He's a Spöke, Ladeline.”

Fields' mouth twitched, but she forced a rigid, expressionless nod.

“So the rumors in Hasenkamp are true,” she said, her tone bland. “And you're sure? I thought that no one sees the Spöken.”

“Our paths crossed. It was definitely him, Ladeline.”

He paused for a moment, trying to see past her indifferent expression, but no matter how well he ever thought that he knew her, she was every bit a mystery to him as always.

“Does that change things?” he asked.

“It makes them more difficult.”

“More difficult to do what?”

“To bring him home.”

Mason lowered his gaze.

“So you won't stay.”

His voice lowered as he said it, and though it wasn't a question, he was expecting an answer.

“I never belonged in Oneris, Mason.”

“You could've,” he said, but the argument was a lost one. He sighed and ran his hand over his head. “Say goodbye before you go this time, will you?”

She seemed to think about it as though it was an odd request. Her silvery eyes flitted over to him, illuminated against the pale skin, and her cheekbones jutted out so sharply that it appeared that the bones would slice through the skin. For a moment she remained silent, and then she shrugged.

“We'll see.”

Ch. 5

The ambassador's house felt odd empty, like a playground void of children's screeching laughter or a garden that had been cultivated but never planted in. As Selicky stood at the base of the staircase in the main hallway where sprawling wooden floors led off to an assortment of decorated rooms, he had the urge to go upstairs to the bedroom where the ambassador had died. The sheets on the bed would be made up now and the water pitcher would be removed from the bedside table, both telltale signs that the man he had grown so used to looking after would never be there again.

“What do you think?”

Audamar Ratsel's voice sounded off to the majordomo's right, and he turned away from the staircase to face him.

Ratsel was a thin man – a bit too thin for his height, Selicky often thought – with dark, oily hair that was kept off of his face by the way he ran his hands back through it, and small, dark eyes. He had the face of a rodent in many ways with his pointed nose and non-existent chin, and yet he carried himself in a way that a man with far better looks did. Standing there in his government-issued uniform, the silver tunic done up all the way to the high collar in metal buttons, Selicky felt rather slight in comparison. The majordomo had been Ambassador Caine's confidant, but Ratsel's position had rivaled his in ranking altogether.

“About the house?” Selicky asked, clasping his hands behind his back in his nervousness that he had misunderstood the question. “It looks – empty.”

“Hardly,” Ratsel dismissed, “but it will be soon. Caine will come by later?”

“This afternoon, I think he said, but I could call and have him wait if you'd prefer –”

“No, we'll be out by then.”

Ratsel made a half-turn so that he was facing the entrance-way, his cap-toe shoes squeaking lightly on the floor and his hands neatly folded behind him.

“Do you know where it is?” the Spöke asked.

“I … No. He didn't say.”

“But it is
here
, isn't it?”

Selicky swallowed, frightened of not providing the adequate answer to his superior.

“It's … he said that he had it, yes – and that it was in his possession.”

“But he didn't tell you where it was?”

Selicky shook his head.

“No, but … he was very weak by the end. The matter … it weighed heavily on his heart. He probably would have had more time had it not.”

Ratsel ignored the last part of the sentence.

“I don't see why it should have,” he said. “The Spöken would have taken care of it. He should have brought it to us immediately.”

“Like I said, he was very weak.”

“Then those watching over him should have done it for him,” Ratsel said harshly, his eyes boring into the other man's. “If the ambassador had confided something of such importance to me, then I would have seen it as my duty to bring it forth to the government – especially if I knew that he was in no condition to do it himself.”

Selicky quivered in his spot. Despite the magnitude that the ambassador's confession had had and his initial fervor in learning it, he suddenly wished that he hadn't brought it up at all: he hadn't considered that he would bear the brunt of the blame for relaying the segmented information.

“I … Well, like I said, the ambassador only told me at the very end. I – I wasn't expecting such a statement, as I'm sure you can imagine … nor did I think it would be his final night. I had planned to come back in the morning and speak with him further –”

“Yes, yes – a lot of good your intentions will do us now, Selicky,” the Spöke said impatiently. “But it's fine: a bit of extra work for the department pales in comparison to the outcome.”

“I agree, High Officer. Imagine a country without the Mare-folk.”

“Imagine a world without the Mare-folk, rather,” he said. “We would've had one long ago if we hadn't played into our sympathies of what's right and wrong.”

Selicky shifted, feeling as though he ought to express his agreement before the Spöke became any more unhappy with him.

“I always thought we should have imprisoned them, myself. Lock them up behind the metal that their hearts are made of.”

“Imprisonment wouldn't have helped anything. But no matter: if Ambassador Caine was correct in what he believes he found, then the problem will fix itself soon enough.” Ratsel smiled to himself, his eyes shutting briefly as he breathed a deep sigh in. “We could add it to the food – starve them out. Or the water. Fill the reservoirs with them and watch as they die in the streets.”

Selicky nodded, his eyes downcast to the floor as he debated whether or not to try the conversation now that Ratsel seemed so pleased.

“And … is there a reason that you hope to find it before Matthew arrives?”

Ratsel's face hardened, and Selicky quickly backtracked.

“Only – since he's the new ambassador, I thought that it would be his decision –”

“Young Matthew will make a fine ambassador,” Ratsel said smoothly. “But he's young. Idealistic. And, as I'm sure that you remember, he has a habit of making friends with … the wrong sort. I wouldn't want his ideals to be compromised for them at the cost of a greater good for the country.”

“Matthew hates the Mare-folk as much as we all do, High Officer. I assure you,” Selicky said.

“I'm sure that he does. But … he's fragile right now, I'm afraid. His head isn't where it ought to be – not for this position of power, at least. I just want to make sure that he's watched over with the care that he needs.”

Selicky bowed his head.

“Of course. You know best, High Officer.”

Ratsel's eyes glimmered in the light.

“I always know best, Mr. Selicky, which is why I advise
you
to think carefully about the information you've relayed from Ambassador Caine. If there's anything – even a detail – that you've left out, it could mean the difference between a future or the collapse of Oneris.”

Selicky swallowed.

“I've told you everything,” he assured, yet his voice wavered all the same. “Ambassador Caine said that it was in the house. He undoubtedly wanted you to find it.”

Ratsel raised his chin.

“And we will.”

The estate was just how he remembered it, from the footpaths through the gardens to the brick design that made up the manor house's facade, as though it had turned into a museum for the late ambassador that was never altered, just simply swept of dust every now and again. As Caine looked out the window that overlooked his mother's begonia garden, which had been dead nearly as long as she had been, he thought vacantly of what his wife might plant there in place of the brown plot of dirt. But then, giving in to his more realistic side, he realized that the garden would never return to full bloom. Mari would never tend to it.

“It is not home.” Her voice came out of the blue to fill the room, her accent thick with emotion. And she was right – but not because Caine held so much attachment to their old house, or because he would miss the bright yellow hue that she had insisted on painting the kitchen walls to mimic the sunlight. It was because the room that he stood in which had once been his and that should have belonged to his son now was empty, and it would remain empty unless Caine could fix what had been wronged.

Caine tilted his head forward towards the window, letting his forehead crack against the cool glass, as he silently berated himself for his fault. His son had failed to meet the proper milestones, and so the government had insisted upon placing him under observation in order to determine what was wrong with him. Yet what was supposed to have been a three-day stay turned into a three-month one, and by the time that summer came, he would have been gone for a year. And it was Caine's fault, whether or not he would ever admit it aloud. And Mari would never forgive him for it – unless he could fix it.

And he could, he realized, now that he was ambassador.

It ought to have occurred to him before then, when he was standing in the middle of his father's decorated estate with his wrinkled clothing and unwashed hair, but he had broken the coffee machine and hadn't been able to make a pot for some time now, which had sidetracked him. Coffee had always been the catalyst behind his rational thinking, after all. Or any of his thinking, really.

Caine went to the phone on the bedside table and dialed in the number that he had memorized from calling so often and waited for someone to pick up on the other end.

“The Correctional Institution of West Oneris,” came the voice of the secretary.

“Hello, my name is Matthew Caine. I'm calling on behalf of my son, who's been in your care for … eleven months now,” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Caine. And what can I help you with?”

“I'm calling to request his release from the institution: I'd be able to come and collect him immediately.”

“I see,” the secretary hummed, her voice well-masked with consideration. “And do you have jurisdiction for his release?”

“I'm the ambassador,” Caine said, a hint of haughtiness in his tone.

“I see,” the secretary repeated. “But I'm afraid that your position has no bearing on our institution, Mr. Caine.”

“Ambassador Caine,” he corrected. “And I don't see why not – my rank is high enough.”

“But this isn't a matter for your department.”

“Whose department is it, then?”

“I'm afraid that I can't say.
Ambassador
.”

“Can you tell me when he'll be released, then? Or if he's making progress?”

“Not at this time, Ambassador.”

“Can you say anything?” Caine snapped, his voice ringing throughout the furniture-less room.

“Only that we're unable to release him at this time.”

“Well that doesn't help me,” he replied. “I was told that he'd only need observation – he should be home by now.”

“I'm sorry, Ambassador Caine, but these things take time,” said the secretary, her voice still poised and pleasant. “We'll contact you if anything changes.”

“No, wait –” Caine said, stopping her before she hung up. “Can't I just – couldn't I just speak to him? Just for a moment?”

“Your son is with us because he
can't
speak, Ambassador. Are you aware of this?”

“Of course I'm aware, but I – I could still speak to him, couldn't I? Just so he can hear me, and know that I still ...”

“We appreciate your concern, but I'm afraid that it's impossible. Your son is still very ill: he wouldn't understand you.”

“I'm his father – of course he'd understand me! He'd – he'd know it was me ...” But he wasn't certain if the statement was in any way true, and so he quickly changed his tactic. “Could I speak to someone else? A supervisor?”

“A supervisor, sir?”

“Someone who might be able to give me more information on why he's being held there.”

“I've given you all the information that we have at this time, Ambassador. If anything changes with your son, we'll be sure to call you, of course.”

“But –”

“Goodbye, Mr. Caine.”

The phone clicked and spewed a dial tone against his eardrum, though he didn't pull it away immediately. The noise filled the silence that seemed to haunt him now, and he wished that he could pinpoint where it had all gone wrong, that way he would be able to go back and fix it, like an equation in which an error had been made early on and that subsequently gave the wrong answer. It was a hassle to have to go back and rewrite all of the numbers, of course, but after repeating the steps more carefully, he was sure to get the answer that he ought to have had in the first place.

But he didn't know what answer that was.

Everyone else always seemed to know who they wanted to be, or what they wanted to be, even. Caine had always had more trouble. He was only the way that he was, and he couldn't alter that on a sudden whim or yearning desire to become something else. He was good at math, and so he had become an accountant; and he was the ambassador's son, so he got to inherit the title and uniform that would have fit much more nicely on a man who had any sense of where the world was going.

And all that he really wanted to do was go home – to their home, the one that he and Mari had picked out together – and collapse into bed beside her, and sleep away the thoughts of the rest of the world in exchange for the more pleasant ones found in dreams, and wake up beside her once again. He wanted to catch the morning train to West Oneris and march into the institution where Simon was and demand that he be released immediately. And he wanted Marijould to beam from the doorway as he returned, her hand pressed to her throat as she babbled in her native language the way she so often did when she was exuberant, and he wanted her to forgive him for ever making the mistake in the first place, and the series of other mistakes that had followed. But he was becoming increasingly aware that that would never happen.

“Simon will miss his old room,
Matthieu
.”

Though Caine didn't turn from his spot, he could see his wife standing in the doorway as though she had heard what he had been thinking. He didn't move to face her, but he was certain that her blonde hair was tousled from sleep and falling over her robed shoulders.