3.
The Burial of the Dead
It was framed as the celebration of a life, so the crowd wore white. Emery had never seen so many people in one place before: it was as if everyone in Rittenhouse was in attendance. The House of Jehovah God held two thousand, an ample number for almost any occasion, but today that was a minute fraction of the number present. They lined the street from the House all the way to Camden Landing, the harbor to the east, where the regent would depart to take up final residence in the bay. The cobbled street was covered in snow, a white canvas over which the white suits and dresses crowded. It was the brightest scene Emery had laid eyes on for as long as he could recall.
“There you are.” Emery turned to see Juliet making her way through the crowd. She was wearing a white coat and dress and looked positively frigid. She crossed her slender arms over her chest as she approached. “I wasn’t sure you were gonna make it.” He could see her breath.
“I told you I would,” Emery said.
There was a slightly taller, equally thin Vorteil approaching behind her. “You two finally get to meet.” Juliet motioned toward her companion. “Emery, Sander.”
Sander had about two inches of golden hair, copper-rimmed eyeglasses, and an infectiously sunny demeanor. There was a quiet power in the hand he extended, unmistakably a musician’s hand, as he said, “It’s so good to finally meet you.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Emery replied. “I know your sisters in passing.” Sander wore a golden Vorteil hawk pinned to the lapel of his white jacket. Despite his favorable features and friendly disposition, he made Emery uneasy. Emery tried to discern a reason, but when he failed to do so he pushed it from his mind.
A deep metallic groan cut their conversation short. The House of Jehovah had secured use of Unity’s loudspeaker system for the occasion, so those who couldn’t fit in the church could still hear the ceremony. The music had begun to play, and the poor but omnipresent amplification made it sound all the more like a dirge. “I wish we could hear what it actually sounds like,” Sander remarked over the din, craning his neck as if the effort might improve the loudspeakers’ quality. If anything, the droning only grew more garbled in reply.
When the music finally ceased, the requiem meeting began in earnest. Head Shepherd Lupo’s voice filled the speakers, otherworldly. “Grant him eternal rest, Jehovah Lord, and may Your perpetual light shine upon him…”
“So what happens now?” Emery asked softly, trying not to disturb the other attendees from attempting to divine words from the static. “I suppose that once Rex Muratore is in the ground, we’ll need a new regent. Has anyone stepped forward?”
Juliet blinked. “You seriously don’t know who’s campaigning to be your next sovereign? Come on, man, Sander knows this.”
Emery shrugged. “I mean, I remember how the election process works, more or less. But no, I have no clue who’s running. I’m sure I’ve heard some names thrown around, but before Rex Muratore passed away, it was hypothetical. It never seemed like essential information.”
“Well, it’s gonna be essential pretty soon,” Juliet said a bit too loudly. Her volume earned reproachful glares from a few of their neighbors, and one pudgy red-cheeked woman in an absurd frilled white coat shushed her. “With what you do,” she continued more softly, “it doesn’t make sense to be apathetic about who our leaders are.”
“He shall be justified in everlasting memory, and shall not fear evil reports…”
“I never thought it could really make much difference,” Emery said, “in terms of the work I do. So. Enlighten me.”
“Shh. After the ceremony.”
She was right: their silence was met with audible sighs of relief around them. There was a palpable feeling of shock among those gathered, one Emery couldn’t seem to tap into. Why did the Rex’s death mean so much less to him than to everyone else? He was a transplant, true, not born and raised in Rittenhouse like the others, but he feared it was deeper than that. Even in Ambler, he had always felt disconnected. The requiem continued for a while longer; he struggled to focus on the words.
“… may he attain, by aid of Your grace, a judgment befitting his feats. We bear from this place the honored dead.”
The loudspeakers hissed and gurgled as the music began again, signaling the beginning of the procession. The shepherd had stopped speaking: Rex Muratore was to be borne to Camden Landing in silence. Even from this distance, Emery could see the vast red doors of the House of Jehovah swing open as the procession began. The shepherds and their attendants looked like white specks from Emery’s vantage, becoming indiscernible as they descended the stairway of the church to stand level with the crowd. Emery turned his focus to the faces around him; all were solemn, and a few of the elderly were weeping softly.
The procession came, led by a pair of shepherds holding torches soaked in incense. The smoke they emitted was thick lavender in color; Emery tried not to cough but had to clear his throat as they passed. The shepherds’ white robes were hemmed in gold, and the handles of the bier were gilded oak. This pageantry was part of what had driven Emery from the church, years ago: it was far too gaudy. It took six strong men to bear the bier; the casket was heavy enough that it would sink when the funeral boat burned beneath it. Rex Muratore would be entombed at the bottom of the Delaware-Camden Bay, in the company of his predecessors.
The procession was out of sight long before it reached the docks. Emery waited in silence, casting glances at Juliet and Sander and trying to ignore the nagging sensation that he was wasting time. He had a long day’s work ahead of him in the tunnel. It was bitter cold, and his hands were growing numb despite his gloves. He rubbed them together, trying to restore some sensation. The whole crowd had turned eastward now, toward where the bay lay concealed behind the stone towers of the collegio and the glass spire of Unity Hall. Above all, beyond the boundaries of the city, loomed the ancient red granite of the Cloud Throne. The uppermost quarter of the pirates’ tower receded story-by-story to a narrow apex, giving it the appearance of a serrated blade, a sword raised by the brutal beyond to remind Rittenhouse that safety existed only within its walls. The resting place of the rexes was in the very waters from which the Throne emerged, a bloody frontier where their ancestors had battled and died to secure this city.
Finally the racket from the loudspeakers began again, signaling the end of the funeral: the regent had been laid to rest. Moments later the din of a thousand low conversations joined the garbled music, and the solemnity of the occasion seemed to lessen somewhat.
Juliet resumed where she had left off, still speaking softly. “Okay, so there are two candidates trying to get elected. Well, really three, but sir Molinelli doesn’t really have a shot in hell. He wants to eliminate circle divisions entirely, open up trade with the outside, all sorts of things no one’s gonna go for.” She added even more quietly, “As nice as it would be.”
Emery made a little grunting sound that he knew Juliet would interpret as assent. “So who actually has a chance?”
“A water power mogul named John Rizzo and one Admiral Gino Gullini,” Sander said. “The Twelfth, I think.” The line predated the Roccetti race itself: long before the circle divisions had been formed, the first Gino Gullini had helmed the voyage across the Atlantic and helped to establish the colony of New Providence. The eighth was the first Roccetti regent, a founder of Rittenhouse. “You people really have a thing about using the same name a lot,” he teased.
Juliet laughed at that, but Emery was taken aback. “Really? Both of them are my neighbors. The Rizzos live literally across the street from me; Mrs. Rizzo keeps that really elaborate garden.”
Juliet shrugged. “Makes sense. You live in the most moneyed Roccetti neighborhood in the city, and money is pretty much a requirement if you’re running for office. Rizzo isn’t quite as idealistic as Molinelli, but he has some pretty progressive ideas that people in this city might actually swallow. He wants to encourage friendlier circle interact
ions—do things like open jobs in more Roccetti-owned businesses to other people and give more governing power to Unity instead of the circles’ individual governments. He’s popular right now, too. He’s cosponsoring a big joint Roccetti-Vorteil recovery expedition next month with Councilwoman Esser. They’ll be looking for coal reserves out west, which would raise his stock even more if they find something.”
“And the admiral?” Emery asked.
“Gullini is all about the advancement of the Roccetti. He believes we’re better off if we focus on making our own circle more economically powerful, and he thinks our interests will only be defended if we maintain strong self-governance. He’s suspicious of giving too much power to Unity, which I can understand, but overall he’s going push circle relations toward even deeper division. He says we have to look out for our own first.”
“Our own,” Emery sighed.
“Gullini has the advantage going into it,” Juliet continued, “but sir Rizzo has a lot of outside support from other circles.”
Sander laughed. “Which probably doesn’t help much, since Gullini just says we’re trying to get you guys to elect someone weak.”
Emery recalled what the Vorteil doctor Arvid Hanssen had said to him about how it was all the better for his circle if the others chose to destroy themselves. “I hope most people aren’t that cynical,” he told Sander. Turning to Juliet he asked, “So we just vote for whichever electors are pro-Rizzo?”
“For the record, I think your elector system is kind of silly,” Sander said. “Why not just vote for the person you want in office?”
The Roccetti election process was indirect: rather than casting ballots for their choice of leader, they held an approval vote to choose five electors who in turn would appoint the next regent. Once chosen, the electors would isolate themselves and deliberate until deciding unanimously upon an appointment.
“I think it’s a good system in theory,” Juliet said. “The idea is to vote not for an elector who supports the same candidate you do but for the person you think is wisest. If even one elector refuses to reach consensus, the process is locked out indefinitely, which ultimately leaves the circle vulnerable. So it’s in our best interest to pick people who know how to compromise and listen to an opposing argument. The theory is that we get the best leader for everyone, rather than one that will only represent half the people voting. Worked pretty well last time,” she said, nodding toward the bay.
The crowd was dispersing. Sander glanced at his watch, brown leather with a gold-plated face. His family wasn’t rich, Emery guessed, but they were reasonably well-off. “I should get going,” Sander said. “I have some practice I need to catch up on.”
“It was nice to meet you,” Emery said, extending a hand.
“Yeah, definitely. We’ll all have to get together sometime soon.”
Emery smiled. “We’ll make it happen.” He wondered when he’d have the time.
Sander turned to Juliet. “Want me to walk you home?”
“I’m actually gonna hang back and talk to Emery for a moment,” she said, “but I’m sure I’ll see you soon.” She stepped forward to hug him in parting. It wasn’t the embrace itself that caught Emery’s eye; their contact was causal, friendly, unimpeachable, as it must be. It was the way their eyes met as they parted—it was only for a moment, and Emery would never have noticed if he hadn’t known Juliet so well. “Call me tomorrow,” she said, clasping her hands against the cold.
Emery tried repeatedly to exchange nonverbal signals with Juliet as they made their way north toward his estate, but this resulted mostly in frustration on her part as his expressions failed to convey his question. It was several minutes before they were far enough away from the crowd that Emery could ask, “So you and Sander—?”
Her curt nod cut him short.
“How long?”
Juliet shrugged. “Like three or four months now,” she said softly, glancing over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t being overheard.
“Wow,” Emery replied, “wow. He seems really cool, but I hope you’re being discreet.”
“Really? You’re going to lecture me on illegal activity?”
Emery had to laugh at that. “I mean, of course I fully support it. I’m just saying be careful.” He paused. “Are you sure I haven’t met Sander before? He seems familiar for some reason.”
“Um.” Juliet cleared her throat. “I mean, it’s very likely you’ve run into Sander somewhere, but… Dr. Hanssen is the Engals’ uncle. I thought you might have realized that.”
Emery came to a halt at that news. “Seriously?” That explained the strange discomfort he’d felt upon meeting Sander. “Somehow I missed it.” Hanssen was the doctor whom Emery had approached seeking antibiotics for Timothy and Miren’s leprosy. Despite his disdain for Emery, Hanssen had agreed on the condition that Emery take a sealed package to the drug lord Three Dogs outside the city. That package, it turned out, had contained instructions to kill him. And when Emery had returned intact, the doctor had given him only one of the two antibiotic kits he’d promised—enough for Miren or Timothy, but not both. That deceit, and Emery’s mistake of taking the doctor at his word, had ultimately killed Timothy.
“He’s how Chelsea got a job in the upper hospital, man,” Juliet continued. “Chelsea and Sander are twins. People our age don’t find jobs like that unless they have a connection. Don’t worry, though, Sander’s nothing like his uncle.”
“Clearly,” Emery said, “if he’s involved with you. But be even more careful if Hanssen is around. He’d see his own blood exiled if something like this came out. His entire identity is wrapped up in Vorteil advancement.”
Juliet nodded. “I do see a fair amount of the good doctor these days,” she said. “We’re both at the Engals’ for dinner every Friday night. I would have mentioned it to you sooner, but… Emery, I’ve barely seen you in months.”
Emery knew what Juliet was getting at. “I’ve been hard at work,” he said, a bit too defensively.
“You’re working too hard,” Juliet replied. She stopped walking, forcing Emery to turn and face her. “This tunnel is going to be the death of you, if not while you’re digging it, then when it’s finished. You’re telling me to be careful, but Emery, what you’re trying to do will get you caught. You show up at the collegio with mud stains on your clothes, and you didn’t even notice Unity lurking outside your house. You used to have the common sense to keep what you’re doing manageable. What happened to that?”
Emery got the sense that Juliet had some ideas about what had happened to it. Her dark eyes were wide with concern or frustration. “You’re not going to change my mind.” He sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. “Look,” he said, “I’ll try to be more available, okay?”
Juliet replied with a scrutinizing frown, one hand on her chin. “I’ll hold you to that,” she replied. She looked more worried than relieved. “Look, I have to get home and study. But I’d better see you sometime soon, and not underground.”
Emery tried for a laugh. “It’ll happen.”
She left him with a last long glance and a half-smile. Emery saw her off, then turned to head home. The street was still crowded with white-clad passersby; Emery found himself scanning for Unity officers among them as he made his way north. Was Juliet right?
The trees that lined the road were bare, and against the white backdrop their bark looked almost black. Long icicles adorned the bare branches, replacing absent leaves. It was a scene of beauty and quiet power, but as Emery craned his neck to observe it, he slipped on a cobble slick with snow. He lay dazed in the street for a minute, and when he rose, a nagging bruise prompted him to keep his eyes to the ground for the remainder of his journey. The snow clung to his paper-thin white slacks, quickly soaking through, and by the time he reached the front gate of his home, he was shivering so hard it took him three tries to open it. He cast a glance over his shoulder, abashed, and caught Mrs. Rizzo’s gaze.
She was
standing on the stone path that led from the street through her winter garden (pink hellebores, white snowdrops, deep blue chokeberries). There was a man between her and the witch hazel patch, a Roccetti, but not Mr. Rizzo. His brushed steel four-circle badge marked him as Unity, and the gunmetal gray jacket denoted an inspector, in contrast to lower officers’ navy blue. Mrs. Rizzo was speaking to him in low tones, and she quickly looked downward when Emery’s eyes met her. The inspector made no such effort to mask his stare. Emery attempted a casual wave, at which Mrs. Rizzo looked momentarily back at him, waved herself, and emitted a stilted laugh, her long black ringlets bobbing with the pained motion. His neighbors seemed increasingly interested in his comings and goings recently, but this was the first time he’d seen one talking to an inspector. Juliet had been right.
As he entered his yard, he saw movement through the frosted glass windows on the estate’s first floor. The windows were visible from the gate: the glass obscured detail, but it was probably clear that there were multiple people inside. If Mrs. Rizzo or the inspector had noticed the movement, Emery’s arrival confirmed that none of those people inside were him.
The mansion’s fireplaces were burning wood throughout the day at this time of year, and the warm air that greeted his entrance was stifling after being in the snow for so long. Emery kicked off his soaking boots before he had even closed the front door. He was casting aside the gaudy white coat he’d worn when Lydia met him in the foyer. “Emery,” she began.
After his talk with Juliet, Emery wasn’t sure how much more concern he could handle today. “Make sure the shutters on the ground-floor windows are kept shut,” he said. “I have to get to work on the tunnel in just a minute. What is it?”
He attempted to march past her into the main corridor, but Lydia caught him by the arm. “Emery,” she said, locking eyes with him, “we have guests.”