The Valet of Anize, Chapter Five
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originalsam_backupCHAPTER FIVE
The second week of my employment found me settling in rather more thoroughly to my role. There was more time, now, to look to the details that are a valet's delight, the things our employers don't expect and sometimes don't even notice but which make life just a little easier.
I had not forgotten, in the excitement of that first week, that my employer was for all intents and purposes running a machine shop out of her kitchen. I felt perhaps she would enjoy being able to eat there as well, and if I could cook breakfast for her it might make a pleasant, domestic break from the institutional-scale cooking of the Government House kitchens.
Meat and cheese I could take from the kitchens, provided I ducked the chefs and didn't take too much at once. Fruit was better purchased from the market, where I could pick it over by hand, and at any rate I would have to supply some cans of food. Dr. Anizin might want to cook something for herself, and did not strike me as someone whose actual experience extended much past opening a can and heating the contents.
I returned from my expedition that day with groceries, some cleaning supplies to scrub a bit of grease off a corner of the counter, and some linens to replace the rather ragged ones she was currently using. I deposited the linens on the bed and the cleaning supplies and food on the counter, intending to clean out the cupboards as well, if necessary, and hoping to find at least a few cookpans stowed somewhere among the tools. I already knew the below-counter cupboards were hopeless -- an old broken gas welding rig was stored there -- but I had high hopes for the others.
Instead, when I opened them, I found an entirely new surprise: books.
Every shelf was covered in them, stacked with Dr. Anizin's usual methodical messiness. There was one shelf of mechanical engineering and city planning textbooks, probably left over from her training, but the rest...
I had clearly discovered where the All Gods library's books on the history of Anize during the Silence had gone. There were at least ten that bore the All Gods call number stamps, and another few dozen without insignia besides.
No, more than a few dozen, perhaps a few hundred, I realised, as I continued to open cupboard doors. The history of Anize, yes, but the history of the world's reaction to the Silence as well. Seminal works, rare volumes, preserved pre-Silence books in thin vellum covers, books I'd never heard of or only seen referenced in the appendices of more popular histories. Biographies, too, of famous preservationists and theorists, of the handful of people who had tried to go to the stars and disappeared forever.
Titles like "The Unspeaking Mystery" and "The Stars Fell Silent", both popular volumes, shared shelf space with esoteric theorists and Singularist debunkers. I opened a third cupboard and found a handful of books about space travel. There was one, a children's book, propped upright; I took it down and paged through it. Simple drawings of spacecraft covered each page, as the book explained in small words that spaceships had once carried people from Earth to every habitable planet. It showed how food and supplies were packed into holds for the colonies, and how luxury passengers -- like those who had once been Arrival's lifeblood -- traveled in spacious staterooms.
One dogeared, much-abused page showed the ship's engine, nothing much more than a blurry cylinder with deep grooves and curved lines on either side to indicate motion. A child had, at some point, scribbled in illegible pencil in the margins.
"I see you've found my library."
I turned, nearly dropping the book in surprise, to find Dr. Anizin standing in the doorway. The clock on the wall behind her told me I'd dallied too long over the books, and should have expected her.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Anizin," I said, carefully closing the book and putting it away. "I was looking for a place to put the food."
"Food?" she asked, rummaging in the bag and coming up with a glass jar. "What...are these?" she asked, tipping it back and forth.
"Preserved new potatoes," I said, hurriedly closing the cupboard doors. "They're very good in stew. Odd to find them this time of year, usually they only start turning up after the potato harvest in the fall, but perhaps the climate in Anize -- "
"Carry, you're babbling." Dr. Anizin sounded amused. "I'm not mad at you."
"It wasn't my intention to snoop," I said, but I stopped tidying the books away and turned around. "You have a marvelous collection, if that's not impertinent to say."
She smiled at me. "It's not impertinent, and it is marvelous. No," she added, as I turned to close the last door. "You should understand this, Carry. Sooner or later you'll find out anyway. What can you cook with what you have here? I don't want to dine with my mother tonight."
"Oh," I said, going to the bag, glad of the distraction but mystified by her change of subject. "Well. Pasta with fresh peppers, and a cream sauce?"
"Cream," she said, taking another jar out and handing it to me. "Sounds good."
"Cookpans?" I asked. She nodded at a box in the corner. The pans in the box were dusty, but not unusable. I rolled up my sleeves a little and set about cleaning two of them at the sink in the corner. After a minute, she spoke again.
"A hundred and fifty years ago, the stars went silent," she said contemplatively, over the running water. "Suddenly the interplanetary infonet failed. The preservationists say two thirds of humanity's knowledge just...disappeared. We couldn't access the servers off-planet. Four days later, a shipping vessel failed to make planetfall. A day after that, three scheduled passenger vessels failed as well. The best communications engineers on the planet tried to punch back through, but there was just...nobody listening."
"I've been to the Silence exhibit at the Intercontinental Museum," I offered uncertainly, drying off one pan with a relatively clean grease-rag. I filled the other one and set it on the stove to boil. "Knives?"
"Nothing clean," she said apologetically. I fished the knife out of my boot and cleared a space next to the stove. "Well, you come prepared."
"At your service, Dr. Anizin," I said, taking out one of the beautiful red pepper buds I'd found at the market and slicing it neatly, as I'd been taught, pulling out the tough seed-sacks.
"So you are. Anyway," she continued, while I rummaged for some butter in the bags, "A few people started to panic, but if the servers were down that would explain the ships being late. Navigation might have crashed. A computer virus, maybe. Most people were just glad Arrival's network was spared. Only a few alarmists were worried."
"Melendez," I murmured.
"You paid attention at the exhibit," she observed. "Jeanette Melendez, yes. She predicted that if all the interplanetary servers were down, something really, really bad had happened. She tried to suggest panic plans, long-haul arrangements that would protect Arrival's food sources and stabilise the economy if nobody came. Nobody listened to her, of course. Then another ship failed, and another, and another, and a ship went out and just...stopped registering. Disappeared off the scanner. People panicked. And nobody ever came again."
I measured out a helping of pasta and threw it into the boiling water. "I've always thought that it must have been frightening. Like being sudden orphans in the universe."
"Add some more -- eat with me tonight," she said, and I glanced at her quickly, to be sure she meant it, before adding another handful of pasta. The butter was melted, so I stirred in some cream and dried garlic as she continued. "Yes. I imagine it was. But I'm not really interested in the preservationism or the politics and...wars and everything. Maybe if Anize had been harder hit, but...my ancestors were shrewd. They looked after their own. I guess in New Breton you learned a little about the famines."
"Yes, Dr. Anizin."
"I've been collecting books on the Silence since I was a kid," she continued. "The mystery of it, the total enigma, it -- it draws me. The idea that Arrival is the last human stronghold -- or if it isn't, the idea that out there in the stars someone's still trying to get back to us. Humanity used to own space, Carry, it used to be our birthright. And every time we try to take it back..." she spread her hands, gently indicating explosion, "...poof. Disappeared."
I checked the pasta briefly, then went back to the pepper buds while the cream sauce simmered. "The Singularists say...some of them, anyway...that if there are survivors out beyond the Silence, we should look to our own people first."
"Do you agree?" she asked.
"It's beyond me, I'm sure," I said. "Do you think there are?"
She leaned on the counter and ticked items off on her fingers, slowly. "Massive political collapse. Pandemic. Digital virus. An isolationist revolution. Aliens," she added with a smile. "The hand of God. Everyone seems to believe that whatever happened, happened out there. Your pasta," she said, and I turned to find the pot threatening to boil over. I stirred it, checked it, switched off the heat, and left it to settle while the sauce thickened. "Yes. I think someone out there survived. I hope so. Don't you?"
"I doubt we'll ever know," I said, then looked around, concerned. "We haven't anything to eat this with. Shall I run to the kitchen?"
"A skeptic and a pragmatist," she said. "I think..." She pulled open a drawer, rummaged in it, and came up with two forks and a screwdriver set. "I've been looking for that."
I carried the pot to the sink and drained it cautiously, using my knife to hold the pasta back. That done, I stirred the pepper buds into it, and poured the cream sauce over, tossing it with the knife and one of the forks. Half of the food went back into the shallow pan where I'd been making the sauce.
"Workroom or living room?" I asked, and in answer she settled herself on one of the stools. I put the pan down in front of her and presented her with a fork, then carried the deeper pot over and sat on the other stool. I waited, of course, until she had taken the first bite.
"This is really good," she said.
"Thank you, Dr. Anizin. I can fetch some wine or juice, if you wish..."
"Stay. Eat," she said, so I did. "I think you have to discount a virus, because even if it hit the main servers, there are backup navigational servers -- I mean, there were, on the ships, at least the books say so. A ship would still get here, and any ship left drifting could eventually get somewhere. I don't think massive political collapse is really likely. The whole system was too spread out and diverse. You can apply evolutionary science to this, you know? A diversity of elements makes it less likely all of them will fail. Pandemic's more likely, but you'd think they'd be over it by now. Unless we're in some kind of permanent quarantine. Why wouldn't they tell us, though, if we were? And even a really fast virus couldn't take out every single planet plus all the server stations."
"Hand of God then, is it?" I asked, and she swallowed hastily before laughing.
"Maybe," she said. "But I have my own theories. Mom doesn't like it, as a hobby." She hesitated. "She worries about me. Following my heritage. My grandfather was on the last ship to try to get through. Chief communications officer on the Adamant."
I stopped eating. "Your grandfather was Karlo Melendez?"
"Yes," she said, "And his grandmother was Jeanette. My mother's side are all Anizins, rulers of Anize dating back to the Silence. My father's side comes from the mad prophet. Bet that's not in the exhibit, is it?"
"No, it isn't," I agreed. "But it explains Anize's wealth."
"Jeanette Melendez saved Anize and most of the neighbouring prefectures," she said. "Otherwise we'd have ended up -- well, like New Breton."
I considered this quietly, while she scooped up the last of her food. Dr. Leigh Anizin, my Dr. Leigh Anizin, was not only the presumptive future governor of Anize but a direct descendant of the last spacefarers of Arrival. The final failed mission to the stars had taken the life of her grandfather. And she was building engines in a workroom in Government House.
"This was nice," she said, oblivious to my silence. "Let's make this a weekly meal, Carry. Put the food in the main kitchen for now, and I'll clear a place for it later. Are you finished?"
"Yes," I said, accepting the pan from her and carrying both hers and mine to the sink.
"Well, wash up, and then you can go for the evening. I'm going out to my workroom. Check up on me around eleven, okay?" she said with a smile. "And Carry -- if you ever want to borrow any of those books, just leave a note so I know where they've gone."
"That's very kind of you, Dr. Anizin," I said. "I won't abuse the privilege."
"No, I don't think you will. Goodnight, Carry."
"Goodnight, Dr. Anizin," I called, as she left. I finished scrubbing the pots, hung them up on hooks over the stove, washed my knife and the forks (and the screwdrivers, for good measure) and put the new linens on the bed before I left.
I felt a little uncertain about the evening, on balance. Valets do not normally eat with their employers. I had, of course, many times, but always while traveling and often because there was simply no alternative. I liked cooking for Dr. Anizin, but my place was not at her dinner table, and the informality of it had made me restless.
I considered walking out to the barracks to say hello to Bart and Stick, but they would soon be at dinner and I wanted to be nearby in case Dr. Anizin needed me. Besides, it was a lot to think over.
It wasn't as though her fascination with the Silence was so strange, really; for decades people had questioned and examined it, and far less intelligent people than Dr. Anizin had devoted their lives to trying to discover what had happened out in the dark. And at any rate it was not my place to judge. But her mother disapproved, as she did of the workroom where Dr. Anizin built engines, and I felt -- not for the first time -- that the Governor considered me an untapped spy of some variety.
I ended up back in the courtyard, where I always gravitated in the evenings, listening to the clatter of voices and silverware as the household staff and soldiers ate their evening meal. It was soothing, and helped me to sort out my thoughts about dinner with my employer from my instincts.
I did my duties with pleasure, and my employer was well cared-for, but there was a sensation of something missing. Some last puzzle-piece had yet to fall into place. Perhaps it would be the Governor, or perhaps Dr. Anizin needed something further she wasn't yet willing to request. It was possible I was lonely, but I didn't think so; valets are trained to be self-sufficient, and our job is often solitary. The usual sadness of settling-in had passed away, and I wasn't at all unhappy.
But there was something missing.
***
ADDED 9/19
I had little time to consider my dilemma the next day, which was in some ways a relief. I woke Dr. Anizin and saw her off, then was promptly summoned to the shabby loading-dock back door of Government House to accept a consignment of equipment for the workroom. I had to summon some of the guards to help me cart it all up to the workroom and store it in the little alcove designated for such things, still not having gained permission to enter the workroom itself. Then there was the matter of the laundry -- Dr. Anizin's shirts were never quite ironed right and often required a re-working once delivered -- and after that I checked my All-In-One only to find I had been summoned to Pendleton's office.
When I arrived, it was obvious I'd kept him waiting. Well, good; he would have to learn sooner or later that Dr. Anizin was my concern, not him or the fiefdom he was obviously intent on protecting. Serving Government House was admirable and he did a decent job of it, but I did not serve the same master he did.
"Well, I was led to believe valets are prompt," he said, when I knocked on the frame of his open door.
"We are, when our employers call us," I replied. "My apologies for my tardiness; I had to see to Dr. Anizin's shirts. What can I do for you, Pendleton?"
"I'll need your assistance with the reception on Friday," he said, and I frowned.
"The reception?"
"Didn't that make it onto the calendar?" he asked. "The Governor is holding a formal reception for -- oh, what's her name..." he shuffled some wires and a few scraps of paper to one side, consulting a little notebook, "...Mendell, the composer. She's doing an artistic residence with the university in Karev."
"And you need my assistance?" I asked, skeptical.
"Mendell will need certain personal services. I'm sure Dr. Anizin can spare you."
I frowned. "Have you spoken with Dr. Anizin about this?"
"No, but I can't see that she'd object."
I considered the matter, then stepped inside the office, clearing a box off the chair across from Pendleton so I could sit down. "I think you should speak with Dr. Anizin before you make that assumption."
"What, you're so indispensible to her? Please," Pendleton flicked his fingers dismissively. "We both know she's too independent for that."
"Nevertheless, she is my employer, as I believe I've said," I insisted. "And she will need my services before and during the reception."
Pendleton laughed. "To do what? Dr. Anizin comes to the reception for ten minutes, says hello, and leaves. Twenty minutes if Dr. Dutta is there to keep her company. Thirty if the Governor insists."
"That may be, but my place is with her, not turning down the bedsheets and fetching drinks for a stranger. Hire someone; pay one of the servants extra."
Pendleton looked angry. "You are at the service of -- "
"I am at the service of Dr. Anizin, and I am not some frightened kid to be bullied into servicing every visitor the Governor throws a party for," I said. "Dr. Anizin may choose to offer my services, but you may not, Pendleton."
He flushed suddenly, and I cocked my head, interested in his reaction.
"That's what happened, isn't it?" I asked. "You offered this composer a valet without asking, didn't you?"
"Get out," Pendleton growled.
"Well, if it helps you save face," I said, and stood without hurry. "I'm sure Dr. Anizin will be reasonable about it, but you'll have to ask her. Next time, tell me first, and I might do you a favour."
"Out!" Pendleton shouted, pointing at the door. I gave him a stiff bow, just for kicks, and left the office. Unwise of me, perhaps, to bait him that way, but --
My thoughts were interrupted as I nearly ran into Bart, who caught me by the shoulders before I could fall. The bandage had finally been removed from his nose, and it was a sort of grainy bruised green, still slightly swollen. I hardly recognised him, between my annoyance with Pendleton and my sudden loss of balance.
"Where are you going?" he asked, righting me. "You look like you're ready to hit something. Not the nose!" he added, covering his face with his hand.
"Sorry, Bart," I said, dusting down my sleeves. "I just had the stupidest -- nice nose -- stupidest fight with Pendleton."
"Thank you, and join the club," he said.
"He's made trouble for you? What'd you do?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing specific. He rants at the guards about once a month for the good of our souls, and he gave me a lecture after you kicked my ass," Bart said, sounding philosophical about it. "You get used to it."
"Yes, well, perhaps past time someone put him in his place, which is charge of Government House and not my services or my employer," I said. Bart laughed. "What?"
"I don't know, it's just funny to see you angry," he said. "We had bets on you having your baser emotions surgically removed. Come on, I'm off shift and it's nearly lunch; some beer will do you good. What were you fighting about?"
"Pendleton thinks I'm under his purview, that's all, and I'm not," I said. "But if I'm not his underling I guess he thinks he must be mine. I won't have the one, and he won't have the other. It seems to me -- " I started, and then bit my tongue; I was beginning to believe that living under her mother's roof was doing Dr. Anizin little good, even as far from the Governor's office as she was, but that might have seemed like criticism. Bart was watching out of the corner of his eye.
"Well, it seems to me that I have more important concerns," I said. "Dr. Anizin will need an appropriate outfit for the reception on Friday, and there's not much time in which to get it."
"Yeah, Stick and me are on doorwatch," he said, then seemed to think my surprise was confusion. "You know. Making sure nobody wanders too far from the reception."
"You knew about it?"
"The reception? Sure, didn't you?"
"I didn't," I said wrathfully. "One more thing Pendleton and I are going to have to maneuver about when this is over. It's not on Dr. Anizin's calendar and I've had no updates about it at all."
Bart whistled low. "You're not on the House distro, are you? The mailing list for security updates?"
"Security updates?"
"Well, that's where all the information comes first. I bet he's got you on the press releases. A day's advance notice."
"I swear to god, Bart, I'm going to go back there and put him in a headlock and make him -- what, you don't think I could take him?" I demanded, as Bart stifled a laugh.
"I'm sure you could, but he's a hundred pounds heavier than you. It'd be like watching a kid wrestle down a horse. NOT THE NOSE," he added, as I raised a fist in mock-threat. "Look, I'll have Stick set up a forward for you, and anyway the best revenge is a dazzle. Make your boss look good. Pendleton will choke on his drink. Now, come on, show me your shit-eating grin," he said.
"I have no such thing."
"Sure you do. Smile pretty for me."
I rolled my eyes. "Do people buy that?"
"You'd be shocked," he said. "You don't think Stick keeps me around because of my sober personality, do you?"
I won't admit I laughed.
***
I missed Dr. Anizin that evening, but when I went to her suite I found a note thanking me for taking the parts delivery and telling me she was in her workshop. Guessing that she'd be there for some time, I took the opportunity to invade her bedroom and rifle her clothes.
Her closet was messy, but there was an underlying order to things: there might be heaps of trousers but they were all in the same general area, and what shirts weren't hung up were obviously not worn very often. I found a few with holes in them and set them aside for mending, then pushed deeper into the closet, past a heap of towels and socks, to the back.
There I found an odd island of cleanliness in the mess. Or perhaps not so odd; these were obviously clothes she didn't wear often, and had apparently been put here by some past servant, possibly the weak-nerved secretary she'd broken before me. A neat row of formal shoes, black and brown and red leather. Some sandals, none with more than a slight heel -- in fact, the heeled shoes were lower than the shiny black boots I found at one end of the row. On the hangers, whole outfits were grouped together and neatly pressed. Dark pinstriped trousers, crisp white shirts and satin-backed waistcoats, a black dress, a deep red dress, a sky-blue shirt without a suit to match...
I took down the third dress I came to, cream-and-green, simply cut and obviously not even tailored. None of the clothing was, and the waistcoats above all else should have been. Disdain or lack of time? Not really any way to tell, but any employer of mine would simply have to make time.
Despite that, it was gorgeous, and the fabric was a fine weave. With a little work, and perhaps some new trim, it would do. With the brown leather shoes -- no, too much light colour in the dress. Perhaps a pair of undyed dress canvas shoes, which were very fashionable in Anize just then. Yes.
I paused in front of a mirror in the back and held the dress up. The drape would be different on her, of course, but it had been years since I'd worn anything except my uniform, and it was strange to see the high red collar over the top of the dress. Amused by myself, I took down one of the waistcoats and held that up over the dress. No, definitely not.
Armed with at least one concrete thing in a world of uncertainties, I set the hanger on a hook near the door and went to see if I could badger Dr. Anizin into a fitting.
The door to the workshop was closed and, a subtle twist of the knob proved, locked. I listened, heard the clatter of metal-on-metal, and waited until it stopped before knocking.
"Come in!" Dr. Anizin yelled through the door.
"It's locked!" I called back.
"Sorry! Carry, is that you?"
"Yes, Dr. Anizin," I said. The lock clicked after a moment and she opened the door with one leather-gloved hand.
"God, is it past eleven already?" she asked.
"No, Dr. Anizin," I said. "I'm not interrupting anything?"
"Nah. Come in," she said, and just like that, I was admitted to the sanctum.
Not much had changed since my last visit, except that now I could identify some of the machinery and more than a few of the tools scattered around. Dr. Anizin went to one of the engines hanging on frames and returned to what she'd apparently been doing before, making minute adjustments to the location of a large metal ring on one end. I waited, quietly, until she had finished.
"It is so nice," she said, as she stepped back and pulled her gloves off, "to have someone in this room who understands the superior importance of the work to their own interests."
"That is somewhat the philosophy of my career," I said, smiling.
"I suppose it would be. What can I do for you, Carry?" she asked.
"Mr. Pendleton has informed me there is to be a formal reception this Friday," I said, while she took out a laser rule and measured the width of the ring she'd been adjusting.
"Oh? Who for?" she asked, as the laser beeped and gave its readout.
"You weren't aware of the reception?" I asked.
"No?"
"Hm," I said, and kept the rest of my indignance to myself. "In any event, you'll need appropriate clothing and attention on the evening."
She gave me an amused look. "I will?"
"Indeed, Dr. Anizin."
"Well, there's some stuff in my rooms. The white -- "
" -- cream dress with the green, yes, my thought precisely," I interrupted smoothly.
"And the brown shoes?"
"I thought I might find you a new pair," I suggested.
"Was that a subtle 'no', Carry?"
"It may have been, Dr. Anizin," I admitted.
"I guess that's why Mom pays you," she said. "Was this a courtesy consultation?"
"As a matter of fact, I need to request your actual person for the completion of the outfit," I said, and she laughed. "Your dress is not tailored, Dr. Anizin. I'd like to do a fitting and make a few adjustments."
"Nothing I own is tailored," she replied, tapping something into one of the computer consoles.
"Yet," I pointed out. She gave me an interesting look -- a mixture of pleasure and sarcasm, tinged with impatience. Dr. Anizin had an expressive face, and she could convey whole reams of information in a single look. I knew I was sailing dangerous waters, but I was not absolutely doomed in this case. "Your waistcoats could use adjustment, and of course any new clothes can be fitted with a minimum of fuss."
"My waistcoats?" she said, and the pleasure began to push the sarcasm out.
"Do you prefer the waistcoats to the dresses? Easily enough done; easier, in fact. But," I added, as she opened her mouth, "this week, the dress."
"The tyranny of the servant," she said, crossing her arms.
"In service of your interests," I replied. "You are a politician's daughter. Shall I set aside tomorrow afternoon and notify Brighton you'll be leaving work early?"
"He'll love that. Don't tell him why," she said, and walked back to the engine. "As long as you're here, hold this for me while I take a measurement."
The second week of my employment found me settling in rather more thoroughly to my role. There was more time, now, to look to the details that are a valet's delight, the things our employers don't expect and sometimes don't even notice but which make life just a little easier.
I had not forgotten, in the excitement of that first week, that my employer was for all intents and purposes running a machine shop out of her kitchen. I felt perhaps she would enjoy being able to eat there as well, and if I could cook breakfast for her it might make a pleasant, domestic break from the institutional-scale cooking of the Government House kitchens.
Meat and cheese I could take from the kitchens, provided I ducked the chefs and didn't take too much at once. Fruit was better purchased from the market, where I could pick it over by hand, and at any rate I would have to supply some cans of food. Dr. Anizin might want to cook something for herself, and did not strike me as someone whose actual experience extended much past opening a can and heating the contents.
I returned from my expedition that day with groceries, some cleaning supplies to scrub a bit of grease off a corner of the counter, and some linens to replace the rather ragged ones she was currently using. I deposited the linens on the bed and the cleaning supplies and food on the counter, intending to clean out the cupboards as well, if necessary, and hoping to find at least a few cookpans stowed somewhere among the tools. I already knew the below-counter cupboards were hopeless -- an old broken gas welding rig was stored there -- but I had high hopes for the others.
Instead, when I opened them, I found an entirely new surprise: books.
Every shelf was covered in them, stacked with Dr. Anizin's usual methodical messiness. There was one shelf of mechanical engineering and city planning textbooks, probably left over from her training, but the rest...
I had clearly discovered where the All Gods library's books on the history of Anize during the Silence had gone. There were at least ten that bore the All Gods call number stamps, and another few dozen without insignia besides.
No, more than a few dozen, perhaps a few hundred, I realised, as I continued to open cupboard doors. The history of Anize, yes, but the history of the world's reaction to the Silence as well. Seminal works, rare volumes, preserved pre-Silence books in thin vellum covers, books I'd never heard of or only seen referenced in the appendices of more popular histories. Biographies, too, of famous preservationists and theorists, of the handful of people who had tried to go to the stars and disappeared forever.
Titles like "The Unspeaking Mystery" and "The Stars Fell Silent", both popular volumes, shared shelf space with esoteric theorists and Singularist debunkers. I opened a third cupboard and found a handful of books about space travel. There was one, a children's book, propped upright; I took it down and paged through it. Simple drawings of spacecraft covered each page, as the book explained in small words that spaceships had once carried people from Earth to every habitable planet. It showed how food and supplies were packed into holds for the colonies, and how luxury passengers -- like those who had once been Arrival's lifeblood -- traveled in spacious staterooms.
One dogeared, much-abused page showed the ship's engine, nothing much more than a blurry cylinder with deep grooves and curved lines on either side to indicate motion. A child had, at some point, scribbled in illegible pencil in the margins.
"I see you've found my library."
I turned, nearly dropping the book in surprise, to find Dr. Anizin standing in the doorway. The clock on the wall behind her told me I'd dallied too long over the books, and should have expected her.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Anizin," I said, carefully closing the book and putting it away. "I was looking for a place to put the food."
"Food?" she asked, rummaging in the bag and coming up with a glass jar. "What...are these?" she asked, tipping it back and forth.
"Preserved new potatoes," I said, hurriedly closing the cupboard doors. "They're very good in stew. Odd to find them this time of year, usually they only start turning up after the potato harvest in the fall, but perhaps the climate in Anize -- "
"Carry, you're babbling." Dr. Anizin sounded amused. "I'm not mad at you."
"It wasn't my intention to snoop," I said, but I stopped tidying the books away and turned around. "You have a marvelous collection, if that's not impertinent to say."
She smiled at me. "It's not impertinent, and it is marvelous. No," she added, as I turned to close the last door. "You should understand this, Carry. Sooner or later you'll find out anyway. What can you cook with what you have here? I don't want to dine with my mother tonight."
"Oh," I said, going to the bag, glad of the distraction but mystified by her change of subject. "Well. Pasta with fresh peppers, and a cream sauce?"
"Cream," she said, taking another jar out and handing it to me. "Sounds good."
"Cookpans?" I asked. She nodded at a box in the corner. The pans in the box were dusty, but not unusable. I rolled up my sleeves a little and set about cleaning two of them at the sink in the corner. After a minute, she spoke again.
"A hundred and fifty years ago, the stars went silent," she said contemplatively, over the running water. "Suddenly the interplanetary infonet failed. The preservationists say two thirds of humanity's knowledge just...disappeared. We couldn't access the servers off-planet. Four days later, a shipping vessel failed to make planetfall. A day after that, three scheduled passenger vessels failed as well. The best communications engineers on the planet tried to punch back through, but there was just...nobody listening."
"I've been to the Silence exhibit at the Intercontinental Museum," I offered uncertainly, drying off one pan with a relatively clean grease-rag. I filled the other one and set it on the stove to boil. "Knives?"
"Nothing clean," she said apologetically. I fished the knife out of my boot and cleared a space next to the stove. "Well, you come prepared."
"At your service, Dr. Anizin," I said, taking out one of the beautiful red pepper buds I'd found at the market and slicing it neatly, as I'd been taught, pulling out the tough seed-sacks.
"So you are. Anyway," she continued, while I rummaged for some butter in the bags, "A few people started to panic, but if the servers were down that would explain the ships being late. Navigation might have crashed. A computer virus, maybe. Most people were just glad Arrival's network was spared. Only a few alarmists were worried."
"Melendez," I murmured.
"You paid attention at the exhibit," she observed. "Jeanette Melendez, yes. She predicted that if all the interplanetary servers were down, something really, really bad had happened. She tried to suggest panic plans, long-haul arrangements that would protect Arrival's food sources and stabilise the economy if nobody came. Nobody listened to her, of course. Then another ship failed, and another, and another, and a ship went out and just...stopped registering. Disappeared off the scanner. People panicked. And nobody ever came again."
I measured out a helping of pasta and threw it into the boiling water. "I've always thought that it must have been frightening. Like being sudden orphans in the universe."
"Add some more -- eat with me tonight," she said, and I glanced at her quickly, to be sure she meant it, before adding another handful of pasta. The butter was melted, so I stirred in some cream and dried garlic as she continued. "Yes. I imagine it was. But I'm not really interested in the preservationism or the politics and...wars and everything. Maybe if Anize had been harder hit, but...my ancestors were shrewd. They looked after their own. I guess in New Breton you learned a little about the famines."
"Yes, Dr. Anizin."
"I've been collecting books on the Silence since I was a kid," she continued. "The mystery of it, the total enigma, it -- it draws me. The idea that Arrival is the last human stronghold -- or if it isn't, the idea that out there in the stars someone's still trying to get back to us. Humanity used to own space, Carry, it used to be our birthright. And every time we try to take it back..." she spread her hands, gently indicating explosion, "...poof. Disappeared."
I checked the pasta briefly, then went back to the pepper buds while the cream sauce simmered. "The Singularists say...some of them, anyway...that if there are survivors out beyond the Silence, we should look to our own people first."
"Do you agree?" she asked.
"It's beyond me, I'm sure," I said. "Do you think there are?"
She leaned on the counter and ticked items off on her fingers, slowly. "Massive political collapse. Pandemic. Digital virus. An isolationist revolution. Aliens," she added with a smile. "The hand of God. Everyone seems to believe that whatever happened, happened out there. Your pasta," she said, and I turned to find the pot threatening to boil over. I stirred it, checked it, switched off the heat, and left it to settle while the sauce thickened. "Yes. I think someone out there survived. I hope so. Don't you?"
"I doubt we'll ever know," I said, then looked around, concerned. "We haven't anything to eat this with. Shall I run to the kitchen?"
"A skeptic and a pragmatist," she said. "I think..." She pulled open a drawer, rummaged in it, and came up with two forks and a screwdriver set. "I've been looking for that."
I carried the pot to the sink and drained it cautiously, using my knife to hold the pasta back. That done, I stirred the pepper buds into it, and poured the cream sauce over, tossing it with the knife and one of the forks. Half of the food went back into the shallow pan where I'd been making the sauce.
"Workroom or living room?" I asked, and in answer she settled herself on one of the stools. I put the pan down in front of her and presented her with a fork, then carried the deeper pot over and sat on the other stool. I waited, of course, until she had taken the first bite.
"This is really good," she said.
"Thank you, Dr. Anizin. I can fetch some wine or juice, if you wish..."
"Stay. Eat," she said, so I did. "I think you have to discount a virus, because even if it hit the main servers, there are backup navigational servers -- I mean, there were, on the ships, at least the books say so. A ship would still get here, and any ship left drifting could eventually get somewhere. I don't think massive political collapse is really likely. The whole system was too spread out and diverse. You can apply evolutionary science to this, you know? A diversity of elements makes it less likely all of them will fail. Pandemic's more likely, but you'd think they'd be over it by now. Unless we're in some kind of permanent quarantine. Why wouldn't they tell us, though, if we were? And even a really fast virus couldn't take out every single planet plus all the server stations."
"Hand of God then, is it?" I asked, and she swallowed hastily before laughing.
"Maybe," she said. "But I have my own theories. Mom doesn't like it, as a hobby." She hesitated. "She worries about me. Following my heritage. My grandfather was on the last ship to try to get through. Chief communications officer on the Adamant."
I stopped eating. "Your grandfather was Karlo Melendez?"
"Yes," she said, "And his grandmother was Jeanette. My mother's side are all Anizins, rulers of Anize dating back to the Silence. My father's side comes from the mad prophet. Bet that's not in the exhibit, is it?"
"No, it isn't," I agreed. "But it explains Anize's wealth."
"Jeanette Melendez saved Anize and most of the neighbouring prefectures," she said. "Otherwise we'd have ended up -- well, like New Breton."
I considered this quietly, while she scooped up the last of her food. Dr. Leigh Anizin, my Dr. Leigh Anizin, was not only the presumptive future governor of Anize but a direct descendant of the last spacefarers of Arrival. The final failed mission to the stars had taken the life of her grandfather. And she was building engines in a workroom in Government House.
"This was nice," she said, oblivious to my silence. "Let's make this a weekly meal, Carry. Put the food in the main kitchen for now, and I'll clear a place for it later. Are you finished?"
"Yes," I said, accepting the pan from her and carrying both hers and mine to the sink.
"Well, wash up, and then you can go for the evening. I'm going out to my workroom. Check up on me around eleven, okay?" she said with a smile. "And Carry -- if you ever want to borrow any of those books, just leave a note so I know where they've gone."
"That's very kind of you, Dr. Anizin," I said. "I won't abuse the privilege."
"No, I don't think you will. Goodnight, Carry."
"Goodnight, Dr. Anizin," I called, as she left. I finished scrubbing the pots, hung them up on hooks over the stove, washed my knife and the forks (and the screwdrivers, for good measure) and put the new linens on the bed before I left.
I felt a little uncertain about the evening, on balance. Valets do not normally eat with their employers. I had, of course, many times, but always while traveling and often because there was simply no alternative. I liked cooking for Dr. Anizin, but my place was not at her dinner table, and the informality of it had made me restless.
I considered walking out to the barracks to say hello to Bart and Stick, but they would soon be at dinner and I wanted to be nearby in case Dr. Anizin needed me. Besides, it was a lot to think over.
It wasn't as though her fascination with the Silence was so strange, really; for decades people had questioned and examined it, and far less intelligent people than Dr. Anizin had devoted their lives to trying to discover what had happened out in the dark. And at any rate it was not my place to judge. But her mother disapproved, as she did of the workroom where Dr. Anizin built engines, and I felt -- not for the first time -- that the Governor considered me an untapped spy of some variety.
I ended up back in the courtyard, where I always gravitated in the evenings, listening to the clatter of voices and silverware as the household staff and soldiers ate their evening meal. It was soothing, and helped me to sort out my thoughts about dinner with my employer from my instincts.
I did my duties with pleasure, and my employer was well cared-for, but there was a sensation of something missing. Some last puzzle-piece had yet to fall into place. Perhaps it would be the Governor, or perhaps Dr. Anizin needed something further she wasn't yet willing to request. It was possible I was lonely, but I didn't think so; valets are trained to be self-sufficient, and our job is often solitary. The usual sadness of settling-in had passed away, and I wasn't at all unhappy.
But there was something missing.
***
ADDED 9/19
I had little time to consider my dilemma the next day, which was in some ways a relief. I woke Dr. Anizin and saw her off, then was promptly summoned to the shabby loading-dock back door of Government House to accept a consignment of equipment for the workroom. I had to summon some of the guards to help me cart it all up to the workroom and store it in the little alcove designated for such things, still not having gained permission to enter the workroom itself. Then there was the matter of the laundry -- Dr. Anizin's shirts were never quite ironed right and often required a re-working once delivered -- and after that I checked my All-In-One only to find I had been summoned to Pendleton's office.
When I arrived, it was obvious I'd kept him waiting. Well, good; he would have to learn sooner or later that Dr. Anizin was my concern, not him or the fiefdom he was obviously intent on protecting. Serving Government House was admirable and he did a decent job of it, but I did not serve the same master he did.
"Well, I was led to believe valets are prompt," he said, when I knocked on the frame of his open door.
"We are, when our employers call us," I replied. "My apologies for my tardiness; I had to see to Dr. Anizin's shirts. What can I do for you, Pendleton?"
"I'll need your assistance with the reception on Friday," he said, and I frowned.
"The reception?"
"Didn't that make it onto the calendar?" he asked. "The Governor is holding a formal reception for -- oh, what's her name..." he shuffled some wires and a few scraps of paper to one side, consulting a little notebook, "...Mendell, the composer. She's doing an artistic residence with the university in Karev."
"And you need my assistance?" I asked, skeptical.
"Mendell will need certain personal services. I'm sure Dr. Anizin can spare you."
I frowned. "Have you spoken with Dr. Anizin about this?"
"No, but I can't see that she'd object."
I considered the matter, then stepped inside the office, clearing a box off the chair across from Pendleton so I could sit down. "I think you should speak with Dr. Anizin before you make that assumption."
"What, you're so indispensible to her? Please," Pendleton flicked his fingers dismissively. "We both know she's too independent for that."
"Nevertheless, she is my employer, as I believe I've said," I insisted. "And she will need my services before and during the reception."
Pendleton laughed. "To do what? Dr. Anizin comes to the reception for ten minutes, says hello, and leaves. Twenty minutes if Dr. Dutta is there to keep her company. Thirty if the Governor insists."
"That may be, but my place is with her, not turning down the bedsheets and fetching drinks for a stranger. Hire someone; pay one of the servants extra."
Pendleton looked angry. "You are at the service of -- "
"I am at the service of Dr. Anizin, and I am not some frightened kid to be bullied into servicing every visitor the Governor throws a party for," I said. "Dr. Anizin may choose to offer my services, but you may not, Pendleton."
He flushed suddenly, and I cocked my head, interested in his reaction.
"That's what happened, isn't it?" I asked. "You offered this composer a valet without asking, didn't you?"
"Get out," Pendleton growled.
"Well, if it helps you save face," I said, and stood without hurry. "I'm sure Dr. Anizin will be reasonable about it, but you'll have to ask her. Next time, tell me first, and I might do you a favour."
"Out!" Pendleton shouted, pointing at the door. I gave him a stiff bow, just for kicks, and left the office. Unwise of me, perhaps, to bait him that way, but --
My thoughts were interrupted as I nearly ran into Bart, who caught me by the shoulders before I could fall. The bandage had finally been removed from his nose, and it was a sort of grainy bruised green, still slightly swollen. I hardly recognised him, between my annoyance with Pendleton and my sudden loss of balance.
"Where are you going?" he asked, righting me. "You look like you're ready to hit something. Not the nose!" he added, covering his face with his hand.
"Sorry, Bart," I said, dusting down my sleeves. "I just had the stupidest -- nice nose -- stupidest fight with Pendleton."
"Thank you, and join the club," he said.
"He's made trouble for you? What'd you do?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing specific. He rants at the guards about once a month for the good of our souls, and he gave me a lecture after you kicked my ass," Bart said, sounding philosophical about it. "You get used to it."
"Yes, well, perhaps past time someone put him in his place, which is charge of Government House and not my services or my employer," I said. Bart laughed. "What?"
"I don't know, it's just funny to see you angry," he said. "We had bets on you having your baser emotions surgically removed. Come on, I'm off shift and it's nearly lunch; some beer will do you good. What were you fighting about?"
"Pendleton thinks I'm under his purview, that's all, and I'm not," I said. "But if I'm not his underling I guess he thinks he must be mine. I won't have the one, and he won't have the other. It seems to me -- " I started, and then bit my tongue; I was beginning to believe that living under her mother's roof was doing Dr. Anizin little good, even as far from the Governor's office as she was, but that might have seemed like criticism. Bart was watching out of the corner of his eye.
"Well, it seems to me that I have more important concerns," I said. "Dr. Anizin will need an appropriate outfit for the reception on Friday, and there's not much time in which to get it."
"Yeah, Stick and me are on doorwatch," he said, then seemed to think my surprise was confusion. "You know. Making sure nobody wanders too far from the reception."
"You knew about it?"
"The reception? Sure, didn't you?"
"I didn't," I said wrathfully. "One more thing Pendleton and I are going to have to maneuver about when this is over. It's not on Dr. Anizin's calendar and I've had no updates about it at all."
Bart whistled low. "You're not on the House distro, are you? The mailing list for security updates?"
"Security updates?"
"Well, that's where all the information comes first. I bet he's got you on the press releases. A day's advance notice."
"I swear to god, Bart, I'm going to go back there and put him in a headlock and make him -- what, you don't think I could take him?" I demanded, as Bart stifled a laugh.
"I'm sure you could, but he's a hundred pounds heavier than you. It'd be like watching a kid wrestle down a horse. NOT THE NOSE," he added, as I raised a fist in mock-threat. "Look, I'll have Stick set up a forward for you, and anyway the best revenge is a dazzle. Make your boss look good. Pendleton will choke on his drink. Now, come on, show me your shit-eating grin," he said.
"I have no such thing."
"Sure you do. Smile pretty for me."
I rolled my eyes. "Do people buy that?"
"You'd be shocked," he said. "You don't think Stick keeps me around because of my sober personality, do you?"
I won't admit I laughed.
***
I missed Dr. Anizin that evening, but when I went to her suite I found a note thanking me for taking the parts delivery and telling me she was in her workshop. Guessing that she'd be there for some time, I took the opportunity to invade her bedroom and rifle her clothes.
Her closet was messy, but there was an underlying order to things: there might be heaps of trousers but they were all in the same general area, and what shirts weren't hung up were obviously not worn very often. I found a few with holes in them and set them aside for mending, then pushed deeper into the closet, past a heap of towels and socks, to the back.
There I found an odd island of cleanliness in the mess. Or perhaps not so odd; these were obviously clothes she didn't wear often, and had apparently been put here by some past servant, possibly the weak-nerved secretary she'd broken before me. A neat row of formal shoes, black and brown and red leather. Some sandals, none with more than a slight heel -- in fact, the heeled shoes were lower than the shiny black boots I found at one end of the row. On the hangers, whole outfits were grouped together and neatly pressed. Dark pinstriped trousers, crisp white shirts and satin-backed waistcoats, a black dress, a deep red dress, a sky-blue shirt without a suit to match...
I took down the third dress I came to, cream-and-green, simply cut and obviously not even tailored. None of the clothing was, and the waistcoats above all else should have been. Disdain or lack of time? Not really any way to tell, but any employer of mine would simply have to make time.
Despite that, it was gorgeous, and the fabric was a fine weave. With a little work, and perhaps some new trim, it would do. With the brown leather shoes -- no, too much light colour in the dress. Perhaps a pair of undyed dress canvas shoes, which were very fashionable in Anize just then. Yes.
I paused in front of a mirror in the back and held the dress up. The drape would be different on her, of course, but it had been years since I'd worn anything except my uniform, and it was strange to see the high red collar over the top of the dress. Amused by myself, I took down one of the waistcoats and held that up over the dress. No, definitely not.
Armed with at least one concrete thing in a world of uncertainties, I set the hanger on a hook near the door and went to see if I could badger Dr. Anizin into a fitting.
The door to the workshop was closed and, a subtle twist of the knob proved, locked. I listened, heard the clatter of metal-on-metal, and waited until it stopped before knocking.
"Come in!" Dr. Anizin yelled through the door.
"It's locked!" I called back.
"Sorry! Carry, is that you?"
"Yes, Dr. Anizin," I said. The lock clicked after a moment and she opened the door with one leather-gloved hand.
"God, is it past eleven already?" she asked.
"No, Dr. Anizin," I said. "I'm not interrupting anything?"
"Nah. Come in," she said, and just like that, I was admitted to the sanctum.
Not much had changed since my last visit, except that now I could identify some of the machinery and more than a few of the tools scattered around. Dr. Anizin went to one of the engines hanging on frames and returned to what she'd apparently been doing before, making minute adjustments to the location of a large metal ring on one end. I waited, quietly, until she had finished.
"It is so nice," she said, as she stepped back and pulled her gloves off, "to have someone in this room who understands the superior importance of the work to their own interests."
"That is somewhat the philosophy of my career," I said, smiling.
"I suppose it would be. What can I do for you, Carry?" she asked.
"Mr. Pendleton has informed me there is to be a formal reception this Friday," I said, while she took out a laser rule and measured the width of the ring she'd been adjusting.
"Oh? Who for?" she asked, as the laser beeped and gave its readout.
"You weren't aware of the reception?" I asked.
"No?"
"Hm," I said, and kept the rest of my indignance to myself. "In any event, you'll need appropriate clothing and attention on the evening."
She gave me an amused look. "I will?"
"Indeed, Dr. Anizin."
"Well, there's some stuff in my rooms. The white -- "
" -- cream dress with the green, yes, my thought precisely," I interrupted smoothly.
"And the brown shoes?"
"I thought I might find you a new pair," I suggested.
"Was that a subtle 'no', Carry?"
"It may have been, Dr. Anizin," I admitted.
"I guess that's why Mom pays you," she said. "Was this a courtesy consultation?"
"As a matter of fact, I need to request your actual person for the completion of the outfit," I said, and she laughed. "Your dress is not tailored, Dr. Anizin. I'd like to do a fitting and make a few adjustments."
"Nothing I own is tailored," she replied, tapping something into one of the computer consoles.
"Yet," I pointed out. She gave me an interesting look -- a mixture of pleasure and sarcasm, tinged with impatience. Dr. Anizin had an expressive face, and she could convey whole reams of information in a single look. I knew I was sailing dangerous waters, but I was not absolutely doomed in this case. "Your waistcoats could use adjustment, and of course any new clothes can be fitted with a minimum of fuss."
"My waistcoats?" she said, and the pleasure began to push the sarcasm out.
"Do you prefer the waistcoats to the dresses? Easily enough done; easier, in fact. But," I added, as she opened her mouth, "this week, the dress."
"The tyranny of the servant," she said, crossing her arms.
"In service of your interests," I replied. "You are a politician's daughter. Shall I set aside tomorrow afternoon and notify Brighton you'll be leaving work early?"
"He'll love that. Don't tell him why," she said, and walked back to the engine. "As long as you're here, hold this for me while I take a measurement."
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