by Carrie Patel
At her approach, the guards stationed at the front nodded and opened the doors.
A serious young man stood in the lobby. The stone walls were bare and rough – the builders hadn’t even bothered to file down proper corners. Even the writing table in front of him was little more than a thick stalagmite with the top sanded flat. The logbook perched atop it appeared to be growing into the stone.
The young man glanced up. He had the anxious, queasy expression of a student hoping the teacher wouldn’t call on him.
“I’m here for Roman Arnault,” Malone said.
The young man swallowed. The lump in his throat looked painfully swollen against his thin neck and shoulders. Either he was younger than he seemed, or even the guards were on rations. “He’s in the isolation wing – cell row D. Take the first corridor on the left. No, right. Then, go up one… two levels. There’s another lobby with a bunch of passages. Take the second on your left, and follow it around the first curve. One more flight of stairs and you’re at the prison cells.”
“Right,” Malone said.
“If you get lost, just keep making your way down. You’ll find the way out eventually.” He said it as if getting lost were an inevitability.
Malone took it as a challenge. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She headed off. Already, her brain was mapping the place out like hostile territory, flagging potential escape routes and dead ends. It felt good to occupy herself with something, if only to distract from the notion that she was burrowing deeper and deeper into an anthill.
Heavy footfalls and murmuring voices carried from the corridors around her. The cadence of patrols and office chatter. The twisting, looping corridors, the places where the walls between them thickened and thinned, all made it hard to tell where the sounds came from.
Malone fought the urge to glance over her shoulder. Nothing would have been guiltier.
She reached the branching passages the young man had described. One led off toward a quiet burr of distant voices and rustling papers. Offices, perhaps. Another split into a series of storage rooms. Two more curved and twisted far enough ahead that she wasn’t sure where they led.
The last should lead toward the prison area. Malone followed it and continued up the stairs to a short hallway with a row of cells.
The guard behind the desk at the head of the row saluted her. His accent was unusual but not uncommon – like many of the soldiers and clerks these days, he had the vague sound of coming from “somewhere else.” And like a lot of those people, he sounded like he was trying to cover it. Badly. Which meant he was probably one of Sato’s. Malone had a grudging admiration for those people, wading into a quagmire and sticking it out.
“Here to see the prisoner, ma’am?”
As if there was only one. Yet the hall was silent. And as much as Arnault knew, Lachesse and her ilk would want to keep him alone.
She nodded.
But for the creak and squeak of the guard’s boots, everything was quiet. Malone began to worry that they’d beaten or starved the strength out of Arnault. That would make things considerably more difficult.
The cell row was different from what she remembered. It was only five cells long, and the rooms she glimpsed through the bars looked smaller than the one she’d sat in – ideal for detaining a handful of prisoners who needed to be kept apart. But memory worked its own illusions on architecture and besides, it was possible she’d been on a different floor and in a different area completely. In fact, that seemed more and more likely as she let the details around her sink in.
A pity, because she still remembered the exit from the other cell row.
The guard banged on the second to last door. “Governor Malone to see you.” He retreated back to his desk.
The laugh on the other side of the door resonated with droll scorn. At least she knew that much of the man was intact.
Which was good, because she might not have recognized him otherwise.
Arnault’s perpetually ill-fitting jacket hung loose. He’d always been a large man, but he looked thin – even gaunt. Had they starved him so badly in the last few days? Or had the final weeks of Sato’s rule diminished him, too, so slowly that she hadn’t noticed until now?
He sauntered over to the door and gripped the barred window. Only then did she see the patchwork of bruises and welts covering his face.
His sharp blue eyes and mirthless smile were the only familiar parts.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” he said. His voice was a dry croak.
Malone glanced at the guard. He was waiting by his desk, barely twenty feet away. “I need to speak with Mr Arnault in private,” Malone told him.
He shifted nervously. “The prisoner is not to be left alone.”
“He won’t be as long as I’m here.” Malone fixed him with the cool glare that had brought junior inspectors to tears and sent senior bureaucrats into apoplectic fits.
But he held his ground. “My orders were to remain,” he said, the slightest quaver in his voice.
Arnault said nothing, but Malone glimpsed his smile of amusement out of the corner of her eye.
The sense of powerlessness before the indomitable bureaucracy of the Barracks was all too familiar to Malone as an inspector. But she remembered then that she wasn’t an inspector, she was a governor. And if she was going to be stuck with that position, she might as well make use of its advantages.
“Your accent,” she said. “You came to Recoletta with Sato.”
The guard’s audible swallow was answer enough.
“Curious that you are so reluctant to leave the traitor’s side,” she said. It was brittle logic that could have just as easily been turned on her, but she had the benefit of rank and a Recolettan pedigree.
And the hapless guard recognized that much. “Madame Governor, that’s not–”
“Then perhaps your sergeant will explain to me what it is. Because there will be plenty of room on the gallows for any of Arnault’s conspirators.”
The guard looked at his feet. “I’ll leave you to question the traitor, Madame Governor.” He gave her a hurried bow. Malone watched him scurry down the stairs with a mixture of remorse and relief.
“You always did have a way with the defenseless,” Arnault said over her shoulder.
“We don’t have much time,” she said, turning back to him.
“Yes, and I have you to thank for that.” He was watching her with the derisive amusement she knew too well.
Malone bristled despite herself. “And Jane Lin. Ask her about it when you see her.”
The sneer fell from Arnault’s face. “She was supposed to go free. That was the deal. If you–”
Malone held up a hand. “Whatever deal you’re talking about, you need to explain it. Right now.”
He licked his lips. Weighing the risk of talking with the risk of staying silent. “Lachesse and the Qadi wanted information. You’re allies now, right?” He was watching her for a reaction.
“If I knew what you were talking about, I wouldn’t be here,” Malone said.
“The vault.” He waited, still watching her.
But she was tired of games and deceptions, and besides, they didn’t have time. “I came here to release you, Arnault. Don’t make me change my mind.”
He blinked away surprise. It was hard to say if he believed her, especially beneath the injuries distorting his face. Malone guessed not, but she also guessed he had little left to lose.
Arnault leaned in, his voice low. “There’s an old place, built before the Catastrophe. Very far from here, and very dangerous.”
“So what do they want with it?”
“They think it holds an ancient weapon.”
“But you don’t,” Malone said. Holding Arnault to a straightforward answer was like carrying a handful of oil – he always slipped through your fingers before you could get anywhere useful.
He shrugged and shook his head at the ceiling. “It doesn’t matter what I think. The whi
tenails believe it will protect them from another Sato. So they’ll have it, or they’ll see that no one does.”
It all sounded fantastical, and Malone preferred concrete facts and realities to speculation and symbolism. There wasn’t time to straighten the latter into the former, but whatever the vault was, she didn’t trust it in the hands of Lachesse and her people.
“So how do we make sure none of them get it?” she asked.
Arnault’s smug grin looked painful on his split lips. “They won’t.”
Malone waited.
“They can’t open it without me,” he said. He glanced away, fidgeting. At first, Malone thought he was lying, but no, he was squirming. “They’d also need a code that only Sato and Ruthers had, and they’re both dead.” He met Malone’s gaze again and smirked. “So you might as well finish what you came to do.” He nodded at her hip.
At her gun.
She should have been insulted, but Roman was a man of few compunctions. She could hardly expect him to see them in someone else.
Malone retreated to the guard’s desk, where the keys were hung. She took them and unlocked his cell.
He stood in the open door, slack surprise on his face. He was even thinner than she’d realized.
Arnault stared back in bewilderment. “What are you–”
“We need to hurry,” she said.
He swallowed, making a dry, clicking sound in his throat. “Governor or no, they’re not going to let you walk me out of here.”
“If I can sneak four dissenters through a mob, one shouldn’t be a problem.”
Arnault didn’t seem convinced, but it didn’t really matter. All he had to do was move. “That was all Farrah,” he said as he passed her. He stretched his arms and rolled his broad shoulders as he scanned the hall. It looked like the guards had locked him up in his own clothes. It smelled like that, too. At least he still had his shoes.
“Stay five feet behind me,” Malone said, moving toward the corridor that had brought her here. The same one the guard had taken.
Arnault laid a hand on her shoulder as she passed. She resisted the urge to shrug it off.
“I need a gun,” he said.
“We’re not shooting our way out of here.”
“We might need–”
“If it gets to that point, we’re already done.” She pushed on, and he didn’t argue further.
She heard voices up ahead, their sharp, angry syllables ricocheting down the hall. They passed the final bend to the hall where the tunnels met. Malone held up her hand and strode ahead to scout it.
Two men stood in profile, arguing. No, one was scolding and the other withering. The latter she recognized as the guard who’d been watching Roman.
The scolding man loomed over him. “– orders, and that certainly does not include a filthy Municipal.”
It was a relief to see that she wasn’t the only one keeping the old grudges alive.
All of this was lost on the hapless guardsman, however. “Sir, she’s the gov–”
“I don’t care if she’s standing arm in arm with a resurrected Sato and Ruthers. You stand guard until one of your commanding officers relieves you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Follow me, Constable. I’ll show you how this is done.”
They were coming her way. Better to meet them here and stall for time. She only hoped Arnault didn’t do anything foolish.
Malone stepped out of the hall and into the lobby. The surprise on the commanding officer’s face was worth whatever was about to happen.
“Is there a problem, officers?” she asked.
The senior officer – a lieutenant, by the insignias on his jacket – struggled admirably to recover his bluster. “Madam – Governor – my colleague tells me that you ordered him away from his post.”
She mustered an expression of affront. “I did no such thing. I merely ordered him to give me a moment of privacy with the prisoner.”
The lieutenant flushed. “Governor, I–”
Malone renewed the attack. “Arnault’s trial has been advanced to tomorrow, so I don’t have time to deal with your ineptitude. If you can’t keep your watch under control, I’ll speak with General Covas about finding someone who can.”
Of course, Covas had probably not yet forgiven her for her surprise visit the night of Sato’s assassination, but this lieutenant had no way of knowing that. His face darkened with embarrassment.
“That won’t be necessary, Governor.”
“Good. Then check in with the watch officer about increasing patrols in the Vineyard. I want them on the streets before another mob forms.”
The lieutenant opened his mouth in protest and snapped it shut just as quickly. “Yes, ma’am,” he finally said.
With that, he sulked off toward the offices, and the first guard turned back toward the cells. Toward Arnault.
“You there,” Malone said. She didn’t know what to say to him, but she needed to keep him away from the hall.
The guard stopped and regarded her. She folded her arms and took a deep breath to stall for time.
“Tell me about the staffing here,” she said. “I want to know which of our exits are the most vulnerable.”
He frowned.
That had come out sounding more suspicious than she’d hoped.
“The next few days will be delicate,” Malone added. “If Arnault or his allies mean to try something, it will happen during the trial.”
The guard gave her a serious nod. “There’s no need to worry. General Covas has personally approved the shifts guarding the prisoner, and we’ll be doubling up starting tonight.” His back was to Arnault’s hall now. Another corridor corkscrewed away over the guard’s other shoulder, at ten o’clock to Arnault’s hall. If she could just distract the guard long enough, perhaps Arnault could make it.
Malone cleared her throat. “From where I’m standing, that all looks good.” She spoke loudly and hoped Arnault was listening.
But if he did, he didn’t show. Meanwhile, the guard waited, tugging at one too-short sleeve.
Nothing to do but try again. “Listen,” Malone said, her voice still raised, “you could get around the problem.”
The guard blinked. “Ma’am?”
“Just thinking aloud,” she said, watching for Arnault from the corner of her eye. What was keeping him? He was supposed to be good at sneaking and subterfuge.
“If you’re done with the prisoner, I better get back to my post,” the guard said. He started to turn.
“Not yet,” Malone said, a little too fast. “He’s losing his voice. I need some water before we continue.” Anything to buy a little more time.
The young guard pressed his lips into a thin, angry line. “I’m sure one of the duty officers can help. But like you said, I shouldn’t have left my post. Excuse me.”
He headed down the hall before she could frame a reply. Not that he looked open to another excuse, anyway.
She tried to think of something as she watched his back recede.
And she was surprised to find her hand on the grip of her pistol.
She snatched it away. She couldn’t.
So she followed him, hoping she’d think of something to say when they inevitably ran into Arnault.
But they didn’t. Not as they rounded the bend, not as they returned to the row of cells, Arnault’s still hanging open –
Someone grabbed Malone from behind. Her first instinct was to pull the attacker over her back and onto the floor, but she felt the cold steel of a gun barrel against her cheek.
And she felt the familiar weight absent from her side.
“Into the cell or I execute the governor,” Arnault said.
The poor young guard was ashen and trembling. But he was backing down the row towards the open door.
“Put your gun on the floor. Slowly,” Arnault said. The guard did, holding his pistol out like a dirty sock. He was too scared and too inexperienced to try anything else.
“Now kick
it over to me,” said Arnault.
The young man obeyed.
“That’s it. Into the cell. Malone, lock him up.”
Malone took the keys and locked the door, careful not to say anything and not to look at the young guard in any way that would give away the bluff.
Well, she hoped it was a bluff.
“Count down from one hundred,” Arnault said, taking the fallen gun and motioning toward the exit. “Quietly.”
When they were out of earshot, he turned to her. “Told you I needed a gun.”
They jogged back to the hall. It was too risky to go back the way she’d come in – the front entrance was too well-guarded – so Malone pointed down one of the mystery tunnels, watching for a way down.
It all reminded her of her last trip to the Barracks, when one of Arnault’s associates had released her. She could only hope they were both headed toward a better outcome than last time.
The way was clear so far. Malone kept her pace brisk but natural. Maybe the alarm hadn’t gone up yet.
“Which way?” Arnault asked. He looked – and smelled – even more of a wreck out of his cell, but hopefully that wouldn’t be her problem much longer.
“Down,” she said, remembering the lobby guard’s instructions.
“I thought you had a plan.”
She let her disgust rattle out of her throat. “It’s still working out better than yours.”
They came to a stairway at last. Muttering voices and the patter of footsteps carried through the tunnels, but the strange architecture of the Barracks made it difficult to tell where they were coming from. Malone led them down the stairs and to another branching hall. She instinctively turned left, which felt further from her original entrance and closer to another outer wall, but Arnault grabbed her arm and pulled her in the opposite direction.
“Guards. Listen,” he said.
Sure enough, the echoing thuds and voices resolved into the sound of several troops moving their way. Malone and Arnault ducked down another corridor just in time.
She caught scattered bits of conversation from the group as they headed up the stairs.
“– from the detention cells.”
“– thin along the east wall, so–”
“– cut him off above.”