by Carrie Patel
“We apprehended her and Arnault together,” Lachesse said. “In Madina. But she escaped and found Ruthers.”
“How did she escape?”
Lachesse looked up, eyes narrowed. “You aren’t nearly upset enough by all of this.”
She wasn’t, if she was being honest. And, under the present circumstances, she wasn’t sure if assassinating one of the most corrupt politicians in Recoletta’s history was any different from assassinating the demagogue who had followed him. With Sato’s blood on her hands, she had little room to judge.
But she chose her words carefully. “I spent my last night in old Recoletta jailed in the Barracks, thanks to Ruthers,” Malone said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to bring his murderer to justice.”
“I said nothing about justice,” Lady Lachesse said. “I’m talking about a prudent response.”
This was just the kind of political nonsense Malone had been hoping to avoid. She felt a headache coming on. “Just tell me what you want.”
“Jane Lin is a hero,” Lachesse said. “And if you don’t stop her, she’ll destroy the peace we just shed so much blood to attain.”
“What? Where is she now?”
“The Qadi had to release her. But that girl is dangerous.” Anger burned in Lady Lachesse’s eyes and smoldered in her voice.
It was suddenly clear. “You’re mad because she got around you. This is personal,” Malone said.
The whitenail shook her head.
“Then tell me.” And quickly, she hoped.
“She’ll ruin us trying to save him,” said Lachesse.
“Who?”
“Roman Arnault.”
Malone nodded. If she’d had her notepad, this would have been the part where she closed it and gave Lachesse a long, steadying look. There was nothing here but an old woman used to seeing shadows. “Then perhaps you should speak with the Qadi,” Malone said after a considered pause. “I’d need the Council’s authority to open an investigation without clearer evidence.”
Lachesse shook her head again. “There is no Council without Ruthers.”
“Then who–”
“That’s why you will step in as interim governor.”
Malone blinked. She was searching for a way in which she might have misheard that. “No.”
The old whitenail leaned forward and spoke slowly. “Recoletta needs stability. Someone strong needs to fill that role.”
Malone heard herself laugh. “There’s a long line of people who’d be happy to occupy it.”
Lachesse closed her eyes. “And all of them are wrong for it. Ruthers is dead. The rest of the old Council is dead or missing. Sato’s other advisors and governors are tainted by association.” She laid a finger across the desk, the immaculate, four-inch nail pointing at Malone. “You have survived both governments. And ended one.”
“That’s a qualification?”
“People need to see a familiar steward in power. Someone who knows when to play by the rules and when to break them. Just until a new Council can be selected.”
At which point Malone would be all too ready to give up her new position; which Lachesse must have been counting on.
“Find someone else,” Malone said. The last thing she wanted, after the skulduggery she’d experienced as Sato’s chief of police, was to find herself wedged even deeper in the political machinery.
Lady Lachesse clasped her hands on the desk with a clatter of rings and clicking of nails. “I’ve already put your name forward with the relevant parties. I’ll be surprised if you aren’t confirmed by the end of the day.”
Heat flared beneath Malone’s collar. Lachesse was used to moving other people around like pieces on a board, but Malone had no patience for it.
Malone took another deep breath of the woman’s musky perfume and expelled it in one forceful sigh. “Find someone else,” she repeated, her irritation mounting.
Lachesse smiled and made a row of Xs with her crossed nails. “And whom would you recommend?”
No one, of course. Almost no one in Recoletta had the experience or profile for the job, and the few that did were as venal and power-hungry as Lachesse.
“We paid dearly for this peace, Malone. Don’t throw it away just because you don’t want to get your hands dirty.”
She remembered her parting with Salazar and her promise to keep the peace intact. She’d known there would be trials, she just hadn’t expected so much this soon.
The room was suddenly stifling, and Malone felt like she was going to choke on the thick, over-perfumed air. Lachesse had found just the place to dig her nails in, and there wasn’t anything Malone could do about it.
Lachesse rose, an infuriating smirk on her painted lips. “Expect your confirmation this afternoon, Chief. In the meantime, I’d suggest you get ahead on your investigation of Jane Lin.”
Chapter 4
The Price Of A Drink
The interrogator sat back on his crate. It was impossible for Jane to tell if he was bored, unconvinced, or just testing her.
Or if that was just the way his sun-beaten eyes always looked.
Still, it felt good to be the one in control of the story. Or it had until her mouth went dry.
She peeled her tongue from her teeth and swiped her cracked lips with it. “Could I have some water?”
The interrogator waited and stared at her long enough that she knew he was just trying to make her nervous. If she hadn’t been so hungry, thirsty, and exhausted, it might have worked. But she was already at her threshold for discomfort.
He banged on the door with a fist. “Companyero, some sweet.” Moments later, the door opened, ushering in a gust of cool, moist air.
And a hand with a metal cup of water.
The interrogator gave it to Jane. She took it and drank, feeling the first swallow trickle down her throat and into her gut.
“They let you go, ess what it sounds like,” he said. “You fled, that’s what you say. Which ess?”
She was still gulping the water, thankful for the excuse it gave her to stall. The tricky part about spinning a story was keeping straight the parts she’d told and the ones she’d recalled but kept to herself.
She’d mentioned Roman by his first name only, but she hadn’t said anything about the vault. She hoped that would be enough detail for her interrogator.
Jane wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I didn’t leave right away. I told you, it’s not that simple.”
“So set it out,” he said. “You had parley with the jefe-lady, ee then what? Still looks like culpa to me.”
He didn’t know the half of it.
“I’m just getting started,” Jane said. “There was another parley.”
* * *
After her discussion with the Qadi, Jane had quickly made her way out of Dominari Hall. She hadn’t known what to make of the Qadi’s story about her strange pardon, and it made sense to get out before anyone got a different idea.
And after all that had transpired there, she’d be glad to never set foot in it again.
The tunnels outside were chaos. Protesters clogged the cavern, demanding food, justice, an audience. All things they’d never get in Dominari Hall.
During Jane’s time in Madina, stories had spread about the horrors people had suffered under Sato’s authority – food shortages, violent riots, whole districts turned over to crime. Watching the angry crowd, Jane could believe it.
She didn’t envy whoever got the job of putting it all back together.
A phalanx of guards stood against the crowd. Reflexive panic surged in Jane at the sight of the crooked row of men and women until she remembered that they weren’t after her now. Not that they were in any condition to go after anyone – their uniforms were worn, torn, and barely fit. Many of them looked too young or too old, and their darting eyes and hunched shoulders betrayed their fear and inexperience.
This was a dangerous place to linger.
Jane ducked her head and moved past
them. She was almost clear of the place when a hand grabbed her arm. She spun, fist raised, to see a bespectacled man with lank hair and olive skin.
He flinched and let go of her arm.
“Please, I just want to talk,” he said, hands raised to shield his face. “Couldn’t get your attention.”
“You have it now,” she said, still wary.
“My name’s Burgevich. I believe you also know Fredrick Anders.”
Freddie. “Knew,” she said. Her voice was thick in her throat.
Confusion and concern fluttered across his face. “Can we talk? Not here,” he said, casting a swift glance at the guards.
She wasn’t sure about this twitchy stranger, much less about sharing memories of Freddie.
But at that moment, it was better than being alone with those memories. And with the memory of Ruthers, falling before her gun.
“Let’s get out of here,” Jane said.
His smile was quick and boyish. “I know a place. Best whiskey you ever had.”
* * *
Jane and Burgevich took the main streets below ground. She could have sworn they were heading toward the Vineyard, the once-wealthy part of town where some of Jane’s clients had lived, but she didn’t recognize any of it. Or maybe it was her memory of the place that had changed.
But no, she was certain this had once been the jewel of Recoletta, with broad, skylit tunnels, working gas lamps, and moss flowers hiding the smooth walls.
What she saw now was like a bone sucked of its marrow.
Doors and windows had been smashed, or else barricaded with splintering boards. Statuary had been toppled over and left to lie in trampled gardens of leaf-bare twigs. Anything that was not bolted down to the tunnel walls or floor – and indeed, many things that were – had been ripped up and rooted out. The murals that had once decorated the passages were scarred and stained with crude etchings and all manner of filth, and the area reeked of stale urine and standing puddles.
She was just starting to doubt the wisdom of coming to this place when Burgevich pointed to an intersection where the gas lamps had been ripped from the tunnels. “Almost there,” he said, turning to her with that sunny schoolboy grin.
Then she really got suspicious.
But she let him continue in front, still trying to remember how Freddie had mentioned his name, and he said nothing, not until they’d reached a wooden door with soot- and oil-fogged windows. The light seeping through was warm and buttery, and the music coming from inside was the hum of quiet conversation and the tinkle of glassware. So when Burgevich opened the door, she allowed him to usher her inside.
The bar was small but full, with tall, wooden tables just large enough for two or three people to crowd around. The patrons themselves huddled over flickering candles, cradling glasses of whiskey that glowed in the firelight. It was difficult to tell who they’d once been – some wore wide-brimmed hats and jackets with the lapels pulled up, some wore the coarse uniforms of the factory districts, and others wore silks and satins that must have once cost a fortune, now roughed up with dirt and wear.
Burgevich found them a spot at the bar, where an older man with a tangled, white beard and a face full of wrinkles filled and refilled the mismatched glasses.
“Two, please, Mr Petrosian,” Burgevich said, sliding onto one of the stools.
The older man nodded, setting a squat tumbler and a tulip glass on the bar.
Burgevich leaned in. “The Chau gang’s desperate. They’ve been cutting their flour with clay dust to meet demand, and even they can’t get salt into the city.”
Petrosian nodded thoughtfully, like a man savoring a morsel of fine food, and poured two fingers of whiskey into the tumbler.
Then, he turned to Jane. “And for the lady?”
“I’ve got her,” Burgevich said quickly, giving Jane a conspiratorial wink. “Word has it two of the Qadi’s men were caught looting in the Vineyard.”
Petrosian held the bottle motionless, frowning at Burgevich. “I’ve heard that one thrice since yesterday. I expect better from a newspaperman.”
Now Jane recalled where she’d heard Burgevich’s name. He’d been a colleague of Freddie’s at the paper. In fact, Freddie had complained about him snapping up the Vineyard murders assignment just as the mess with the Council, the Library, and Sato had gotten started.
Realization must have shown in her expression, because Petrosian was regarding her with placid curiosity. His face looked as though it were held together by all the wrinkles and lines.
Burgevich coughed in embarrassment. “Well, did you know they’ve got a berth reserved on the next train back to Madina? Seems the Qadi doesn’t trust Recolettan justice.”
Jane shivered. She could hardly blame them.
The older man droned appreciatively and filled the tulip glass for Jane. She murmured her thanks and tasted the whiskey. It was as smooth as oil.
Petrosian acknowledged her pleasure with a nod before moving on down the bar.
Burgevich leaned forwards. “Petrosian trades in secrets. Has since the early days of the Sato regime. Though, with a new government in town, everyone is wondering if his prices are about to change.” He tilted his head at the busy tables around them.
“You’ve been coming here for a while.”
“It pays to know where the good information is. And Petrosian’s stock is unmatched.”
She regarded her glass. “Can’t imagine there was much of a paper under Sato.”
“Not exactly. But there was still a lively trade in words.” He sipped from his tumbler.
“And you think that’s about to dry up?”
“Hard to say. That depends on who’s running the show now.” He peered at her out of the corners of his eyes.
“And I’d thought we were here to drink to Freddie.”
“This,” Burgevich said, raising his glass, “is exactly what Freddie would be doing if he were here.”
“No,” Jane said. “He’d be running.” And he’d be right to.
Burgevich bit his lips and asked his next question slowly. “How did it happen?”
Jane hesitated. The superstitious, animal part of her brain believed that saying it would only make it real. But the rest of it knew that Freddie deserved to have his story told. “He came to my rescue. Followed the Qadi’s forces back to Recoletta and broke me out. One of the guards shot him while we were making our escape.”
Burgevich watched her through his small-framed glasses, his gaze steady and unwavering. “And then you turned back and shot Ruthers.”
Someone plunked a glass down hard on the bar; it sounded like a gunshot. Jane flinched, snatching her hands into her lap.
Burgevich looked on, candlelight glinting in his lenses.
She was beginning to see why Fredrick had disliked this man. Burgevich’s keenness and energy would’ve been bright lights and sirens on many a hungover morning, and his simmering ambition would have seemed like duplicity.
“The whole city knows what I did,” Jane said.
“But nobody knows why,” Burgevich said with a wry grin.
Because Ruthers had been Roman’s jailer. Because he was supposed to be the last man with the code to the vault. Because she and Roman would have been free if she’d shot him the first time she had a gun.
Or because Sato and Ruthers had been working together, as the Qadi and her allies were now saying.
“That’s going to cost more than a few tidbits about local crime,” she said.
Burgevich smiled over the rim of his tumbler. “Fredrick told me you were sharp. What do you want?”
That was easy. Whether or not he could help her was another matter. “I want to get Roman Arnault out of the Barracks.”
He raised his eyebrows. “There’s a secret all of its own.” He scanned the huddling, whispering patrons and lowered his voice further. “Unfortunately, that’s not the kind of help I can provide.”
Jane sipped her whiskey and tried to hide her frustration in
the bottom of her glass. It had been a long shot, anyway.
“But someone connected to the old Council might be able to help. Roman used to work for them, you know. And now that Sato’s gone, some of them are finding their way back into power.” He knocked the rest of his whiskey back. “And you ever decide you want to talk, you know where to find me.” He pushed back from the bar and thunked his empty glass onto it.
As he left, Jane was surprised to note that she had almost finished her drink, too. She was watching the spirit shimmer and flare in the candlelight when a hand appeared and tipped another shot in.
She looked up to see Petrosian eying her, clearing Burgevich’s empty glass with one hand and refilling hers with the other.
“On the house,” he said. “In honor of a mutual friend.”
He’d spoken more like a conspirator than a mourner. “You know Roman,” Jane said.
“A man who appreciates good information as much as good whiskey.” Petrosian raised a glass of his own from somewhere behind the bar.
“This seems like the sort of place he would like,” Jane said, regarding the wavering shadows and the creaking wood with a new sense of appreciation. It was a comfort, if a small one, to share a pleasant memory with a stranger. But one thing she knew was that Roman didn’t have friends. He had associates. “I suppose he spent a lot of time here over the last few months.”
“Long before that. Back when Recolettan silver was worth something,” he said, running his surprisingly elegant fingers over the bar top. His nails, she noticed, were clean but trimmed short.
But he moved his hands with such care and delicacy that Jane was sure his nails had once been long. Many whitenails in Madina and Recoletta had begun cutting their fingernails to avoid the unwanted attention they attracted.
“Maybe it will be again soon,” she said, considering the carefully dispersed crowd.
“Coin’s only as good as the place it comes from, and a place is only as good as the people in it.” He frowned at the motley crowd.
“Things could change. With Sato gone. And Ruthers, too.” Jane took another drink before she could dwell on the thought.