by Carrie Patel
Jane let the whiskey sear her throat. This was right. She tried not to let herself consider that she was out of options – and nearly out of time – anyway.
“I’m going to tell you what nobody in Dominari Hall wants you to know. But you’ve got to promise me something,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows.
“You’ve got to promise me that you will run this story first thing in the morning.”
“Why?” But he was already spreading his notebook on the table, licking his thumb to flip to a blank page.
“Does it matter?” Jane asked. “Do it, and by this time tomorrow, no one will be talking about anything else.”
He considered this, rolling his first sip of whiskey around in his mouth before he nodded. “Let’s hear it.”
Jane told him everything. From her escape to Madina to the conspiracy between the Qadi, Chancellor O’Brien, and Father Isse to conquer Recoletta. She explained that Sato had never intended to spare Ruthers, much less work with him. On the contrary, Ruthers had been working with the Qadi to reconquer Recoletta the whole time. It was only her assassination of Ruthers that had changed the story and Arnault’s leak that had foiled the initial invasion.
Their new leaders – Malone, the Qadi, and Lachesse – weren’t saviors so much as the last people standing.
It was an ugly truth, but it felt good to tell it. Even if she wasn’t entirely sure whether she was cleaning the blood off her hands or just adding more to them.
As Jane told her story, Burgevich’s pen never left his notebook. When she’d finished, he gave her a few beats of silence before speaking.
“Even if people do believe this, it’ll drive them to riot,” he said.
“They’ll believe it because Malone and the others have been feeding them nonsense,” Jane said. “And if they’re going to get drawn into a riot, they might as well see who’s holding their strings.”
Burgevich closed his notebook. “I wish you could have given this story to Fredrick.”
His name was still a painful reminder of all she’d failed to do, and she wasn’t sure any amount of truth-telling would ever change that. Jane forced her wince into a smile. “Me too.”
“Of course, he would have been too hungover to meet your deadline.” Burgevich tossed back the rest of his whiskey. “I should go if I’m going to have this ready for tomorrow morning. And you should get to a good hiding place. Or some powerful friends.”
“Know where I can find some?” It was almost a shame she’d burned those bridges.
He laughed as he shrugged into his coat. “If I did, I sure wouldn’t be here. Good luck, Jane Lin.”
He drifted into the shadows, and Jane returned to her whiskey glass. It was nearly empty. She had just begun to wonder how it had gotten that way when another slid in front of her. She looked up at Petrosian, who nodded at the door.
Burgevich gave her a quick salute as he slipped out.
“The lady runs a hard bargain,” Petrosian said, refilling her glass.
“Not nearly hard enough.” She glared at Petrosian, thinking about the useless information he had sent her to Ruthers’s to find, and the cabal she’d discovered in its place.
His eyebrows rose in mock surprise. “I should hate to leave a customer dissatisfied. After all, I live and die by my reputation.”
“Oh? And what did you leave me with?” She was angry she’d told him about the vault code, and all the more because she should have known better than to trust him. But she hadn’t seen another option.
Petrosian tsked and topped off her glass. “Exactly what I promised – a means to distract Malone from Roman Arnault. The execution timetable aside, she’s very much focused on you now.”
Sudden realization hit her. “You knew I’d find Attrop there.”
“Suspected.” He squinted and pursed his lips as if tasting the word.
“You wanted me to find her.” She was still angry at herself, but also a little impressed at him. “But you told me you don’t meddle.”
“No, but I very much wanted to know what our former crime boss was up to. She’s kept uncommonly close counsel of late, so finding someone she might talk to has been… challenging.”
“You might have told me,” Jane said.
“That would have cost extra.” Petrosian lowered his voice and angled his gaze down at her. “And as I recall, you held something back as well.”
The code, of course.
He corked the bottle. “And if Mr Burgevich dances to your tune, then you’ll get what you want anyway, won’t you?”
Jane felt some warm coal of frustration smoldering within. “This isn’t how I wanted to do things.”
He chuckled again. “Miss Lin, if we could all accomplish the goals we desire through the means we prefer, we’d see more wealthy painters.”
She looked at the level in her glass. The memory of her hangover was fresh enough to bring bile to her throat. “No more.”
“You’ll need a clear head, won’t you?” He nodded. “You’ve got to run.”
“Do you know–”
“I know you’ve been talking to Burgevich for an hour straight, and he barely touched his whiskey until just now. You either gave him a story or a scare, and if he bought you a round of my best, I can guess which.”
Jane considered the fresh glass in front of her.
Petrosian shrugged. “If you’re going to run for your life, you might as well enjoy it first.”
But where and how? “Then maybe you can point me to a good hiding place. After all, you owe me,” she said, keenly aware that she had little reason to trust him. Still, it would be nice not to feel wholly responsible for every bad idea floating in her head just now.
“I’ll give you something better,” Petrosian said, placing a revolver onto the table.
Ice shot through Jane’s veins. She glanced around, but no one else seemed to notice.
“You’re on the verge of making a lot of enemies. So get yourself someplace where you’ll be uncomfortable enough to remember that, while you wait to see whether your scheme works out. Then, get ready to run.”
Jane sipped her whiskey, just to give herself something to do. It was as flavorless as water.
Petrosian shrugged. “It’s your decision. But at least take this. You’ve become one of my best customers. I’d hate to lose you.”
He was gone before Jane could see whether he was smiling or sneering.
Only her whiskey glass and the revolver remained on the table.
She didn’t want to take it. She hadn’t held one since shooting Ruthers. The cold metal barrel, the grip as rough as a factory man’s language, raised gooseflesh on her arms.
But she eyed the cartridges nestled in the chamber and slid the gun into her pocket. She’d never known how to refuse a courtesy.
Chapter 9
Strange Mercies
Geist leaned forward and sipped his caffee. Phelan had just returned with a fresh pitcher.
Malone had barely touched hers, but after so much talking, her already-abused throat was dry and raw. She gulped her caffee and immediately regretted it.
Geist seemed to misread her expression. His scar twisted in sympathy. “Dreckt. This waschergirl made boocoo difficulties.”
Jane Lin had certainly done that. Malone wondered if any of them might have been avoided if she’d been able to talk to her.
Of course, first she would have had to catch her.
“She made another difficulty,” Malone said, watching Phelan refill her cup. “Very boocoo.”
Geist nodded appreciatively. “Und then you were travailing to assassinate Roman, ya?”
Phelan gasped as the pitcher slipped from her hand, spilling the muddy brown liquid all over the table.
Geist snarled something incomprehensible at her.
“Pardon, pardon!” Phelan said, cringing as she bent over the mess.
Malone sneezed against the woman’s musky, bittersweet aroma.
“Contin
ue the history, please,” Geist said, winding his hand at Malone.
“Like I was saying, things only got worse from there.”
* * *
Malone hadn’t imbibed since her visit to the farming communes, but her skull throbbed with each step. Come to think of it, she’d barely had anything to eat or drink in the last twenty-four hours, which was likely part of the problem.
She’d also overslept again. But between the disaster at Maxwell Street Station, the liberal pawing she’d suffered from the physician (at Farrah’s insistence), her announcement of Arnault’s accelerated trial, and the subsequent deluge of petitioners, she’d endured more than enough to earn a decent night’s rest.
Not that anyone else – least of all Farrah – was likely to see it that way when she finally made it to Dominari Hall.
And the transit station mob, as it happened, had only been the beginning. By the time Malone had gone home last night, Dominari Hall had been surrounded above- and below ground by chanting protesters demanding everything from her resignation, to trials for all whitenails, to Jane Lin’s appointment on the new Council.
It was that last part that gave her pause.
Whatever disruption Attrop, the former Bricklayer, had planned, elevating a common laundress like Jane to the whitenail enclave of the Council couldn’t have been part of it. And given the cold terror on Jane’s face at the train station, Malone didn’t think she was crazy or foolish enough to want that position.
Which meant that the agitated masses had come up with this on their own.
Malone was so lost in her thoughts that she reached the plaza in front of Dominari Hall before she realized how oddly quiet it was. After yesterday’s uproar, the plaza and surrounding tunnels should have been chaos.
Instead, a contingent of guards blocked the entrance. The sight of their scuffed boots and poorly-sized uniforms, all forming a crooked line, wedged a bolus of dread into Malone’s stomach.
She approached the man with the largest and shiniest pins on his jacket. He was standing just off from the others, eyeing them while they watched the deathly still plaza.
“What’s going on here?” she asked.
His shoulders straightened. “Not a thing, Governor. All quiet since the shift started this morning.”
“That seem odd to you?” The words came out sharper than Malone intended but just as sharply as she really meant them. She much preferred being chief of police.
The guard gave her a dead-eyed look and waited just long enough for his disdain to register. “Not after the midnight shift’s demonstration.”
A thunderclap pealed in her skull. “The what?”
“Fired a few warning shots to clear the mob. No one was hurt, Governor.”
As if that somehow made it all reasonable. Malone hadn’t realized how accustomed people had become to life under Sato and all of the fickle brutality that came with it. She’d always thought Recolettans would pick up the old standards and routines like the refrain in a familiar song.
“What idiot ordered these ‘warning shots’?” Malone asked.
He blinked back at her. Were all of the guards this bad?
“Lady Lachesse, Governor.”
That explained a few things. None of them good.
“Next man or woman who discharges a weapon better be under immediate threat, or I’ll show them a demonstration. If your people can’t handle a few mouthy protesters, I’ll find someone who can.” Though where, she had no idea. This was already the bottom of the barrel.
“Governor–”
“Anyone tells you differently, you send them to me.”
Surly compliance ossified in his jaw. “Understood, ma’am.”
Malone left him in the plaza and continued into Dominari Hall, letting the adrenaline carry her to the real challenge.
Farrah would have advised her to summon Lachesse to her office and to cool down in the meantime. But the old whitenail would find an excuse to put her off, and she didn’t want to wait.
She marched down the main hall, wide and pristine while many of Recoletta’s tunnels were still vandalized or clogged with debris. Her feet sank into the thick carpet. It felt like stomping through mud.
When she reached the door to Lady Lachesse’s office, the page standing vigil stepped aside and blanched.
Malone opened the door without knocking.
Lachesse glanced up sharply, and Malone savored her expression as it melted from indignation into quiet forbearance. She was seated behind her desk, one hand raised in gesture and the other in her lap, speaking to a man sitting across from her. Malone couldn’t recall his name, but she was certain he’d been a clerk of some kind under the old Council. The two of them sat still, watching Malone as if she were a shape in the shadows that would disappear if they searched long and hard enough.
“You have time,” Malone said. It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t phrase it like one.
Lachesse nodded to the man. “I’ll send for you.” As if she didn’t expect this to take long.
Malone waited until he’d left and shut the door behind him before taking his seat and pulling it to the edge of Lachesse’s desk. “We need to discuss a few things,” she said.
“At your pleasure, Governor.” Lachesse’s face was carefully neutral.
“You’ve been ordering the guards around.”
Lachesse’s eyebrows arched. “Yes, well, something had to be done about the protesters. And you seemed preoccupied elsewhere.”
“Any use of force comes at my discretion alone. Do you understand?”
Lachesse assumed a mask of innocuous surprise. “Of course, Interim Governor.” She sharpened the word “interim” into a threat. “I would note, however, that it is not wise to let enemies gather on your doorstep.”
“Better on my doorstep where I can see them than in the shadows where I can’t.” As if Malone didn’t know she was surrounded.
Lachesse smiled. “You know best.” She looked away from Malone and tidied her desk with hands crowned by impossibly long, perfect nails.
Watching her, Malone wondered again if she hadn’t been appointed merely to dirty her hands on Lachesse’s behalf.
The whitenail tapped her desk in an admirable impression of someone just remembering something. “Since you’ve raised the regrettable situation with the protesters, I suppose we ought to discuss how you mean to handle Jane Lin.”
If Lachesse was raising the issue, it was only because she’d already decided how to handle it. “I’ve got enough to arrest her now.”
“It’s a bit late for that,” Lachesse said, tilting her head forward.
Hairs rose along the back of Malone’s neck. “Meaning?” Of course, she knew what Lachesse meant. But she didn’t like leaving important details to suggestion. Perhaps that was still the detective in her.
“Goodness, but I didn’t realize you were such a squeamish little thing.” Lachesse snapped her fingers and their long nails like a paper fan.
“You chose me for this job because you wanted someone to restore Recoletta to order,” Malone said.
“First, I need you to keep it from falling apart.”
Malone shook her head. At least Sato had spent a few months organizing parades and making nice speeches before he’d reached this point.
“The problem runs deeper than Jane Lin and Roman Arnault. Killing them won’t fix it,” Malone said.
“For a detective, you have remarkably little imagination. Executing Arnault lets people crush the last of the old regime. Executing Jane squashes their ambitions for a new one.”
Malone felt herself maneuvering around Lachesse, but she wasn’t even sure what game they were playing any more.
“You’re talking about symbols when people are talking about food, shelter and safety,” Malone said. “Getting rid of Lin and Arnault won’t change those things.”
Lachesse laughed and pointed one sharpened nail at her. “Changing appearances changes everything, Malone. The people of Recol
etta are not unhappy because they live in small homes, but because they used to live in larger ones. Or because they did not, but the people across town did. Your job has always been to give them something more substantial to focus on while the rest of us remake the city. Do you understand?”
“And here I thought you appointed me for my good looks,” Malone said.
Lachesse clasped her hands and spoke slowly. “I appointed you to give you permission to do what needed to be done. To pacify Recoletta with all available speed and force. I’ve read your reports from the Municipal Police. You’ve never lacked the will to make hard choices. You just need a reason.”
Malone waited for outrage and disbelief, but they never came. All she felt instead was a sudden, startling clarity.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’ll get rid of Lin and Arnault.”
Lady Lachesse smiled like a woman used to obedience. “I’m so glad we see eye to eye.”
* * *
The tunnels to the Barracks had been cleared. Which was convenient for Malone’s purposes, but an ill portent for the city.
The Barracks had been the headquarters of Recoletta’s city guard and a jail since the time of the old Council. It was a maze of tight, twisting corridors with no symmetry and no apparent order. It was the kind of place that seemed to change around a person, though maybe that was just the disordered, early-era design. It was rumored to have been one of the first places built by Recoletta’s pre-Catastrophe founders and, like most of those places, it felt like a tomb.
The passage opened into a tall, wide cavern. Even from the outside, the Barracks was an imposition on the eyes. It rose the height of the cavern like the cocoon of some burrowing worm, tumored with lumpy towers and ramparts. The builders had been careful to leave a wide cavern around the Barracks to give its guards a clear line of sight and to prevent anyone from tunneling into it through a wall.
The windows and doors that pocked it looked ready to swallow her whole. Malone wiped the sweat from her palms and reminded herself that she had every authority to be here.
Of course, it was getting out again that worried her.