Republic

by Lindsay Buroker

  “Maybe you could simply invite the vice president to replace you—he ran against you, so he must want the job. Then it would be more like a stately resignation rather than a fleeing of a battlefield with one’s tail between one’s legs.”

  “He seems... rather bookish for the job. The other day, I caught him reading up on the new religious cult, which is apparently a very old religious cult, when he was supposed to be perusing papers distributed by the chief of financial affairs. He didn’t see this as inappropriate in the least; rather he launched into a lecture.”

  “I’d choose a history book over finance reports too,” Tikaya said.

  “In the middle of a staff meeting covering those finance reports?”

  “Perhaps not, but I’ve found his knowledge interesting when he’s shared it. Did you let him talk?”

  “I asked him to have a paper sent to my desk.”

  Tikaya snorted. “Learned that trick from Mahliki, did you?”

  “Perhaps so. Regardless, I can’t leave. There’s too much... much.” He yawned, and Tikaya resolved to let him go back to sleep.

  She patted in the darkness, finding his arm atop the blankets. “I was teasing, love. I know you can’t leave. And I won’t leave you here to face these madmen alone, either.”

  “The madmen don’t concern me greatly. I’ve been dealing with such men for a long time and understand their ways. That plant is another matter.”

  Chapter 12

  “Here.” A brutish man in wrinkled clothes and with missing teeth thrust a shovel into Maldynado’s hands.

  “I... have familiarity operating heavy machinery. Do you need anyone for the steam shovel or dozer?” Maldynado waved toward the equipment on the edge of the construction site. Yawning firemen were loading the furnaces and heating up the boilers for the day’s work. The sun hadn’t come up yet—and thick black clouds that smelled of rain suggested it might never make it—but fire barrels brightened the sprawling lot.

  “No. Your job is to shovel that into that.” The man pointed at all the debris left from the razing of the doddering building that had formerly stood on the site, then pointed at the nearby dumpsters. Wheelbarrows leaned against them, waiting for the morning’s workers.

  That means you, old boy, Maldynado thought. When he had asked the president for a job, this wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind. He eyed the shovel and thought about going back to the flat, to the warm covers he had left. Considering it was spring, there was an awful lot of frosty air forming in front of his face after each breath. Too bad Evrial had already left for the day, or they could have stayed in bed together. Maybe. She had been awfully busy of late, since their tiff the night her father showed up, and they hadn’t spoken a lot of words since then. He kept catching her gazing off into the distance, contemplating deep thoughts. Well, if she was going to leave him, it wasn’t because he was some jobless mooch. Maldynado clenched his jaw, tightened his grip on the shovel, and strode toward the debris pile.

  He spent the next two hours, laboring amongst the commoners—and trying not to think of them as commoners. After all, who was he now anyway? Those Marblecrests who hadn’t been tried for crimes against the government—and some of those who had—had fled the city. Those who remained were changing their stationery to read from the desks of Such-and-such Márblé in vain attempts to hide affiliation with the warrior-caste family name. Even if he hadn’t been disowned, he would have had a hard time thinking of himself as aristocratic these days.

  “Just one of the boys now,” he said.

  A worker in baggy clothing walked past pushing a wheelbarrow, his trousers sagging down in the back to reveal full moons no astronomer ever wanted to see.

  “One of the more impeccably dressed boys.” Maldynado patted his backside to make sure his suede button-down shirt was still tucked in suitably, then checked the sleeves to ensure they were rolled up the perfect amount: not so much that he grew chilled but enough to display the corded muscles of his forearms. Ladies had started to walk by the construction site on their way to work. If nothing else, he intended to be the most handsome fellow at this dubious place of employment.

  A crash and the screeching of metal came from the back of the lot. Strange. Vehicles didn’t tend to crash themselves when Amaranthe wasn’t around.

  “It’s going to blow,” someone hollered. “Everyone out of the way.”

  That was usually good advice, but Maldynado jogged in the direction of the commotion, curious as to what was happening.

  Great plumes of black smoke arose from a vehicle behind a steam dozer. The cement mixer? Maybe it wasn’t too late to solve the problem and keep damage from occurring. A notion of being seen as some hero who saved lives teased his thoughts, though as he passed a dozen men running in the opposite direction, most waving and shouting for him to turn around, he slowed down. Maybe running up onto all that smoke wasn’t such a good—

  A great boom blasted the construction site. Three times as much smoke poured into the sky, and shrapnel flew in every direction. Maldynado flattened himself to the ground, throwing his arms over his head and lamenting that he had rejected the hard safety hat a supervisor had tried to foist onto him.

  Shards of metal struck the ground all around him, and more than a few pieces pelted his back. Nothing large, thank the ancestors, but he cursed as some of the sharp projectiles sliced through his shirt and into flesh. When the pattering of shrapnel stopped, he lifted his head. The steam dozer had been knocked on its side. Behind it, the cement mixer remained intact, but it was now on the ground ten feet from the rest of the lorry. The cab was gone altogether. The engine too. The boiler had been peeled open like a flower, warped steel still smoking.

  None of the other lorries were on fire, nor did anything else seem in danger of exploding, so Maldynado climbed to his feet and headed toward the smoldering mess. He was the first on the scene and poked around, careful not to touch any of the hot metal. Heat shimmered in the air above the wrecked boiler.

  “No bodies,” he said. “That’s good.”

  The lorry would cost someone a fortune to replace, but that wasn’t for a menial shovel-wielder to worry about.

  “What the blast happened over here?” the foreman asked, running up.

  Maldynado stifled the urge to say that it had blown up, that being rather obvious. “Don’t know. I just got here.”

  “Find the fireman and the operator who were setting this up,” the foreman yelled toward a crowd of workers that was edging closer. Nobody else had come forward to investigate. Maybe they didn’t want to be blamed.

  Metal squealed and a blackened panel tipped over, almost flattening Maldynado. He darted out of the way before it smacked onto the ground.

  Or, maybe those workers were just smart enough to stay out of a disaster area.

  Maldynado wandered over to look at the cab—at what was left of it. The doors had been blown off, and all of the controls inside were warped, melted, or missing completely. Shrapnel crunched under his feet as he drew closer. He almost stepped on a bent gauge with the glass blown off. It was the one that measured the steam levels, letting the operator know if more coal needed to be added to the furnace or if steam needed to be vented because too much pressure had built up.

  “Interesting,” Maldynado murmured, picking it up. The needle was stuck in the middle. If an explosion had been impending, shouldn’t it have been pushed up into the red zone?

  “Out of the way, big man.” The foreman tried to push Maldynado aside.

  Maldynado hadn’t meant to be contrary, but he was focused on the gauge and didn’t move. The smaller man almost bounced off.

  “Yo, Shovel Head. This isn’t your area. Get out of here.”

  “I thought you might find this gauge interesting,” Maldynado said, holding it up.

  An engineer with soot-smudged overalls stood behind the foreman, along with a rat-faced man who looked twitchier than the target in front of a firing squad. The cement lorry operator, Maldynad
o guessed.

  “A broken gauge? I have a broken forty-thousand-ranmya lorry here.” The foreman didn’t try to push Maldynado aside again, but he did pointedly put his back to him. He grabbed the operator. “Come show me what happened. Your job is already forfeit. It’s time to find out if there will be charges of negligence pressed.”

  “Boss, please.” The rat-faced man winced as the foreman grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pushed him toward the destroyed cab. “I can’t afford no charges. Nothing was wrong, I’m telling you. Until the smoke started billowing out, and the lorry started shuddering, I didn’t know nothing. The gauges all read fine, I swear. Ask Donok.” He pointed at the fireman who was doing his best to look as inconspicuous as a post in the shadows of the dozer.

  Maldynado walked over to the engineer, thinking he might be more interested in the gauge.

  The engineer glanced at it and grunted. “Doesn’t mean much. The needle might have been reset when it was blown out of the cab.”

  “Or maybe it’s sabotage,” Maldynado said. He wondered if he had been so quick to speculate about nefarious activities before his year with Amaranthe. He thought not.

  “Over here, Nossev,” the foreman said.

  The engineer shrugged at Maldynado and obeyed his boss.

  “Such a cheery group of people I’m working with,” Maldynado said.

  “You, Shovel Head,” the foreman hollered. “Get back to work. And get all those other dirt-flingers back to work too. This is the most important job of the decade. There’s not going to be a delay.”

  “Shovel Head, how witty and original.” Maldynado stuck the gauge in his pocket and tapped his chin thoughtfully, wondering where he had left his shovel. Oh, well. He would find another.

  “Maldynado?” a quiet voice called. “What’s going on?”

  He turned to find Sespian walking off the street, a sketchpad in hand and a tube for holding maps—or in this case, maybe blueprints—in a sling across his back. Though he had grown up some since Maldynado had come to know him, he was still young enough to look more like a bicycle messenger delivering plans than a former emperor and current architect.

  “Mysterious explosion of a cement lorry,” Maldynado said, pleased that Sespian stopped next to him instead of going over to the foreman. Said foreman was still snarling and casting blame about; he hadn’t noticed his prestigious visitor yet.

  “Another accident?” Sespian lifted his eyes toward the cloudy sky. “Why couldn’t this go well? My first professional gig and probably the most important building I’ll design in my life.”

  “Nah.” Maldynado thumped him on the shoulder. “Once you get known for serving presidents, the Kyattese government will want you to come design something snazzy for them. Maybe even the Nurian Great Chief. Oh, or Basilard’s Mangdorian chief. How are you with yurts?”

  Sespian smiled, but barely.

  “What do you mean another accident?” Maldynado asked more seriously.

  “Yesterday, the steam brakes on one of the lorries went out, and it and its operators plunged into the hole excavated for the basement.”

  “Did the operators survive?”

  “Yes,” Sespian said, “but with broken bones.”

  “And the foreman called me a dolt—actually a Shovel Head—for suspecting sabotage... One broken lorry might be bad luck, but two in two days? Sounds suspicious to me.”

  “To me as well,” Sespian said.

  “Did you tell the president?” Maldynado snapped his fingers as a new idea came to him. “Is that why I was sent here? Old Starcrest knew something was going on, and he wanted me to pretend to be a common laborer all the while mounting a private investigation to find the culprit?”

  “Uhm,” Sespian said.

  Maldynado thrust a finger into that air. “That’s brilliant. I knew he couldn’t mean for me to simply wither and rot here at the lowest form of menial labor in the city.” A couple of men glowered as they walked past with shovels on their shoulders. “Sorry, blokes. I didn’t mean that. Everyone knows factory work is twice as menial.”

  They managed to simultaneously glare at Maldynado and thump their fists to their chests and bow toward Sespian.

  Maldynado ignored them. “Now, what were you saying, Sespian?”

  “That I didn’t tell Starcrest. About the accident.”

  “Oh.” Maldynado slumped. So much for having been strategically placed here. Did the president truly think him able of doing no more than shoveling dirt? “Why not?”

  “He’s running back and forth between trying to salvage that submarine, trying to help his daughter with the plant research, and trying to appease the thousand and one people who want to meet with him at every hour of the day. I’m sure construction mishaps aren’t a priority for him.”

  “This is going to be his house,” Maldynado said. “For the next five years at least. I’m sure he cares.”

  “I’ll figure out what’s going on and ensure nothing more goes wrong,” Sespian said. “There’s no need to bother him.”

  “Well, then I can help you.” Yes, that could work. And Sespian would let Starcrest know how useful Maldynado had been. “You’re a conspicuous sight around here. I, on the other hand, am—”

  “Shovel Head, you’re not bothering Lord Sespian, are you?” The foreman rushed up, walking, bowing, and apologizing at the same time.

  Sespian faced the man, though he looked like he would have preferred to talk with Maldynado instead. Maldynado decided to take that as a promising sign.

  “Foreman Bakost, as I’ve told you, I’m not a lord anything. You can simply call me Sespian. Or Mister Savarsin if you prefer formality. And no, Maldynado is not bothering me.”

  “We’ve had a little trouble this morning,” the foreman said, “but nothing that will delay the building. Are those the updates to the rear elevation? Come to my office, and we’ll take a look.” He extended his arm toward the shack on the corner of the lot. Office. Right. Maldynado had seen it. A tiny room with a desk made from used apple crates hardly qualified.

  Sespian headed off with the man, but he met Maldynado’s eyes over his shoulder and nodded.

  Maldynado perked up. Sespian’s words might not be tantamount to imperial orders anymore, but he had Starcrest’s ear, so doing good work for him might be noticed by the president himself. And if the boy ever opened his eyes and start paying attention to that fine young woman who was mooning after him, he could even become the president’s son-in-law.

  • • • • •

  Shortly after dawn, Amaranthe grew tired of pacing. She packed a bag, strapped her sword-and-pistol belt to her waist, and left her room in the hotel. Ominous black clouds marked the sky, and it scarcely seemed that daylight had come, but she could stare at the ceiling and wait no longer. Sicarius hadn’t returned to their room at any point last night. She had slept fitfully and had finally given up on trying. In most cases, she would trust that he could take care of himself, but this new assassin had her worried.

  Amaranthe grabbed the first trolley and headed into town, intending to visit Ms. Sarevic’s Custom Works. She didn’t know if she could get into the fortress of a workshop uninvited, but she didn’t know where else to go. She was supposed to be looking for a Maker, but surely figuring out who had attacked the submarine in the first place was just as important. What if they got the Explorer fixed, only to have it be targeted again? Besides, Sicarius would have more of a clue than she as to where to find a practitioner in the city. At the moment, Sarevic was Amaranthe’s only lead for anything.

  The trolley stopped at the corner of Fountain and Fifth, the construction site of the building Sespian had designed, and she spotted a familiar form strolling about amongst some debris. She jumped off on a whim. Though she had no reason to believe Sicarius would have stopped to talk to Maldynado, it would only take a few minutes to check, and another trolley would roll through soon.

  By the time she picked her way past piles of earth, dumpsters, and the
pieces of a cement lorry—how odd that it was spread all over in pieces, and, dear ancestors, what had happened to that boiler?—Maldynado was down on his hands and knees, his butt thrust into the air as he peered under a steam dozer.

  “This is the work President Starcrest found for you, eh?” Amaranthe asked.

  A clunk sounded—Maldynado’s head hitting the frame. Grumbling and grabbing his skull, he wiggled backward and sat up. “Amaranthe?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Though... I have noticed that all the other workers here are wearing those hard metal hats, perhaps designed to protect one’s head from bumps.”

  “Hideous, aren’t they?” Maldynado stood up. He had something in the hand that wasn’t busy holding his head.

  “But effective, I’d wager. I don’t suppose you’ve seen Sicarius today?”

  “No, and if we limited ourselves to wearing headgear simply because it served some purpose, how tedious would that be? I’ve been thinking of designing these fellows something more stylish to wear on the job.” While Maldynado rambled, he squinted at the blackened metal disk in his hand, something with what might have been a switch sticking out of one side. It looked like it had survived a fire. “Does this look suspicious to you?” he asked.

  “In what way?”

  “Like it could have caused a boiler gauge to misread or for a boiler to heat up too quickly or... something? I don’t know. Considering how many boilers our team has blown up, you’d think I would be an expert on the topic, but I haven’t intentionally sabotaged that many.”

  “It doesn’t look like much to me.” Amaranthe took it from Maldynado’s hand. She withdrew her kerchief, spit on the disk, and rubbed it.

  “When I gave that to you, I thought you would use your enforcer investigation skills to deduce where it had come from. I didn’t expect you to clean it.”

  “Really? You gave me something dirty and didn’t expect me to clean it?”

  “Er, yes, I suppose I should have known better.”

  “Maybe you did some damage when you hit your head.” Amaranthe held up the disk. Rain had started spitting from the dark sky, and there was no sun to gleam against the metal, but she believed it would gleam now if given the opportunity. She squinted at a tiny mark on the side opposite from the broken switch. “That’s interesting. And not a coincidence, I’ll wager.”