A Gentleman of the Void
They say all good stories begin with a dead man.
That’s the phrase, isn’t it? Every good show begins with a death and ends with a marriage.
It’s how the great dramatist Aufhocker puts it—or at least the people who confidently misquote him, and there really isn’t a worthy distinction between the two.
No one has died yet, at least not in Aster’s sight line, though she can barely see past her own false lashes.
The broad amber windows of the Judicial Palas trap steam like a greenhouse, and the civilian gallery is swollen with bodies.
Ladies fan themselves with ginkgo leaves, diffusing their pheromonal perfumes, while their dates wipe fog from opera glasses.
As the accused is brought before the tribunal, panting under a hood heavy with sweat, the high magistrate lifts his gavel to scratch at a glistening age spot.
Even the floor has begun to perspire, oozing dewdrops from the marble loop of the BGS company sigil.
If nothing else, someone will die of heatstroke.
Aster is here, suffocating alone at the show trial of a hapless stranger, because Elspeth has once again publicly stood her up.
Attended by Tiliard’s most distinguished magnates and guaranteed to end in a tasteful execution, this is the kind of legal circus at which the Laurel Chancellor’s portraitist (and fiancée) would be expected to show her face.
That is, Aster supposes, precisely why she hasn’t.
Elspeth is diligent in upkeeping her reputation for inconstancy.
She wouldn’t have one stiletto out of the cab before making a diversion of some boy, or a cabaret with a decent band, or a parade marching down the Rue Petunia with a mist of champagne in its wake.
It’s her brilliant caprice, after all, that crowns every brushstroke of her paintings—or would, if she ever finished one.
Aster vows to fill the empty seat beside her with her own diversion, even if she must invent it. A story of a missed adventure is the only arrow that can pierce Elspeth’s maddeningly shapely hide. If not remorse, the bitch is at least capable of envy.
Unfortunately, the trial chugs along smoothly.
The magistrate is curt, the defense absent, and the accused so thoroughly damned that the only point of contention is his method of execution.
A lunar priest steps forward, draped in tinkling pearls, and proposes immolation.
A BGS lawyer invokes tradition and suggests he be fed to the Palas’s carnivorous tulip beds.
The audience applauds when a heckler demands he be dressed in costume and made to fight for a pardon onstage.
The condemned himself has little to say, mostly because the overeager captain of the Tender Guard has already cut out his tongue.
His is no great tale lost. His approach is uninspired (infiltrate the waitstaff at a state luncheon), his weapon of choice clichéd (lead seven-shot pistol).
Gun in one hand and a flute of Sullen Head mineral water in the other, he strode up to the city’s most decorated general and discharged two bullets directly into the panoply of medals overlying his heart.
He left no manifesto, no detailed plan. Whether the assailant is a stillborn revolutionary, a madman, or an assassin hired by someone in the Tiliard Cabinet, it won’t change his fate.
The only thing that might is the Marshal Revenant’s mood.
As always, the Marshal sits above the judiciary in his bony headpiece, exuding a scent worthy of the arbiter of the court.
It’s a strong concoction, but Aster knows him well enough to see an aura of contempt ripple through his veneer.
He’s still sore in the ribs, and Aster can hardly blame him. He was shot only last week.
The judges deliberate. The gallery fills with whispers.
Clerks pass by to refill wineglasses and offer cigars.
The Marshal’s frown suggests the execution will not be swift, and the magistrate’s grin suggests it will not be painless.
Aster guesses it will be some sort of dismemberment, but she doesn’t have the heart to place a bet with the bookmaker.
She sighs, curls her toes in her pumps, and nearly jumps from her skin when she sees the empty seat beside her has been silently, suddenly filled.
The man is a stranger, dark and lean, his long profile made longer by a pretty, dated top hat.
His fashion lags by nearly two decades, but somehow this only accentuates that kind of handsome, ambiguous agelessness most often seen in men straddling thirty.
His vest is garishly embroidered, his rapier antique, and his boutonniere, a pair of flared parrots’ wings, gives the impression of a bird just crashed into a storefront window.
There is something unnerving about him, and uncomfortably present—like a living man might appear to a ghost.
Uneasy but pleased, Aster proffers her glove. When he takes it, his thumb brushes against hers. A charming but still egregious faux pas.
“Asteritha Vost,” she says, suddenly aware of an unscratchable patch of sweat between her breasts.
“Mallory.”
She looks him over and resolves not to tell him she recognizes the name.
Mallory vant Passand has been an object of amusement passed around the rumor mill for a few weeks now, attached to a personable but evasive transplant from the countryside.
No one agrees on why he’s come to the city, or from where.
On Tuesday, he is an eccentric artist looking for patronage; on Thursday a deposed prince come to claim his inheritance; Saturday a huntsman ferried in from some alpine hamlet.
Today, Aster supposes he’s a wastrel grown, the ward of a mysterious benefactor whose untimely death has left him abruptly and unfathomably rich.
There is no better explanation for the rift between his lopsided smile and his pompous dress.
He releases her hand, and she pins down the source of her unease. He is devoid of any hint of perfume. No suggestion of lavender or beetlewort, no pure scents, no cheap knockoffs. Oddly enough, it seems the man she perceives is precisely the man who sits beside her.
“I’ll be damned,” she mutters, hoping her own perfume masks her tone.
“What was that?” He tilts his ear, hidden under sleek curls not quite black, not quite brown.
“I said you’re a little late for the trial.”
“I know,” he sighs. “But not too late for the sentence.”
She wonders if he’s here via the Tourism Bureau, which insists on directing visitors toward the Palas (ever failing to mention one is as likely to stumble into a firing squad as a parade).
Perhaps he’s a political sightseer, a margrave or investor hoping to watch the régime change with the leaves.
He must know that for the past seventeen years, all of them have left sorely disappointed.
“I meant to come earlier,” he says, dabbing at a rip in his glove. “But I was hit by a car on my way over.”
It takes Aster a moment to process the words. “Oh?”
“You know. Three wheels and a turret.” His smile widens, off-kilter as the rest of him. “Fortunately, I was hit by the wheels, not the turret.”
“Really.” Aster narrows her eyes, trying to tease a thread of untruth from his words. She can’t read him. He’s too flat-scented.
A bell rings. The Marshal waves away the flock of adjudicators, then stubs out his cigar on a nearby monstera leaf.
Boots shining with dew, he steps forward and announces the sentence: strangulation, accompanied by string quartet (a profound act of mercy, compared to the brass band).
Justice will be served shortly before the hors d’oeuvres.
A giddy buzz engulfs the crowd, invincible to the magistrate’s gavel.
Chairs squeak as gentlemen rise to collect their bets; clerks scurry to retrieve the wine.
The Marshal turns to his bailiff, who kneels at his feet and presents a pair of black gloves.
He peels them from their tray, expressionless under the maxilla of his headpiece.
He has told Aster many times he is not fond of the garrote.
He finds the sound of the screws irritating.
“Does the Marshal personally execute all his assassins?” Mallory asks. There is a boyish glint in his eye, the same that appears in nearly every young man’s when they get a good view of Tiliard’s grandest hero, whether they admire or despise him.
“If he did,” she mutters, “he’d hardly have time for anything else.”
Aster is surprised at how pleasing she finds his laugh. She wonders how Elspeth might follow up, how she would tease a good-looking stranger into inviting her elsewhere, goad him into offering his arm. Something succinct and effortlessly charming, no doubt.
Aster spends a moment forming the perfect quip. She adjusts her headpiece, gathers her wits, turns to Mallory, and expels a wet cough.
She doubles over, mortified, and covers her lips. Oh dear, she can almost hear Elspeth laugh. Very much like you to open your mouth to flirt and have a lung fall out.
“Excuse me—” She turns, hacking, but has nowhere to spit.
Groping for a serviette, she scans the aisle for an escape.
Nearby spectators attempt to distance themselves, but the seating is too dense.
They can only hide behind fans and sleeves and, for those that recognize the hallmark musical wheeze of her affliction, offer pitying looks.
Something soft presses into her glove. Mallory’s hand presents a square of embroidered batiste. Bewildered, she stares at the handkerchief, unsure if it is an offering of kindness or a sexual proposition. Before she can decline, the next spasm slithers up her throat.
“Are you all right?” Mallory asks.