Cities and Thrones

by Carrie Patel

  Malone turned to Arnault, but her objections caught in her throat when she heard them voiced by their assailants down the hall.

  “You said you were counting to ten!”

  “I did,” Arnault said. “And next, I’m going to count to five.”

  Malone cursed under her breath. This was supposed to be simple. Then again, these people were supposed to be toothless ideologues.

  “We’ll kill you!” one of them shouted.

  “Not before I get to five.” The man below him screamed. “Either way, you’re going to have to step into the hall.”

  Silence. This was rapidly getting out of hand.

  He thumbed back the hammer again. “One.”

  Before Malone could decide whether it was wise to stop Arnault, there was another shout from down the hall. “Fine! We’re coming!”

  There was a clatter of metal on stone, and three splayed shadows stepped into the hall ahead.

  Their wounded captive moaned with relief. Malone felt her own shoulders relax.

  Arnault moved the barrel of his gun to the man’s neck.

  The three figures stopped. One cried out, “Wait, what are you doing?”

  “Resting my arm,” Arnault said. “Keep moving.”

  They shuffled forward again, slow and steady, each careful not to get ahead of the others.

  As they stepped closer, Malone raised the shade on her lamp and turned it toward them. Two men and a woman blinked back at them, their hands up and their expressions as bleary and bewildered as if they’d just woken.

  “That’s all of you?” Malone asked.

  A man with a sharp nose and a lantern jaw gritted his teeth at her. “Go back and check if you want.”

  Malone knew a troublemaker when she saw one.

  “I will.” She got to her feet. “And you’ll come with me.” She motioned for him to turn and walk ahead of her. She gave Arnault a parting glance.

  “Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m perfectly comfortable.”

  Malone’s hostage hazarded a quick glance at her.

  “Two more big steps ahead,” she said.

  He complied, but she saw his cheek dimple in a grin as he did.

  “I should probably introduce myself,” he said after a pause. “Marcus Dalton.”

  “Save it.”

  “I’m just trying to be polite.” When she said nothing, Dalton continued. “Wouldn’t you rather get the story now, while we’re out of earshot of that thug?”

  She felt a twitch at the corner of her eye. “Keep moving. Don’t slow down.”

  “I’m only saying–”

  “I know exactly what you’re saying. Quiet.” At least she’d had the presence of mind not to leave him with Arnault.

  He shrugged. They reached a bend in the hall where the smell of gunpowder stung her nose. Shivering gaslight lapped at the walls.

  Malone gasped when she saw the room on the other side.

  It looked like one half of a whitenail’s private salon. Elegant, claw-toed desks, their polished surfaces laid out with solid bronze ink pots and crystal brandy decanters, sat in front of velvet-cushioned chairs. Neat stacks of papers lined the carpeted floor, and oil paintings of stern, venerable old Recolettans and torchlit cavescapes hung on the remaining walls, overlooking the remaining half of the room.

  The other half of the room was collapsed beneath tumbled walls and a half-caved ceiling.

  But Malone was fixed on the whole and furnished half of the room, which was still large enough to accommodate a couple dozen people. Or a printing press.

  “Quite a place you’ve found for yourselves,” Malone said.

  “Yes.” Dalton stood several paces in front of her, his back still to her.

  Malone had thought it a coincidence that she and Arnault had been chased through the Twilight Exchange the other day. But now, looking at this lavish hideout and considering the seeming extent of their network, she was reevaluating that assessment, too.

  “Turn around,” Malone said.

  He did, his face composed and serene.

  “Where is it?” Malone asked.

  A shiver ran through his face. It would have been too quick and too subtle to notice had she not been looking for it. “Where is what?”

  She nudged at a stack with the toe of her boot. Pamphlets – the same that she and Arnault had gotten from Sato, the same they’d found in the cheesemonger’s possession – spilled across the floor.

  Dalton gave her an intolerable grin.

  It never ceased to amaze her, the way a suspect would lie even when caught and confronted with evidence. She was half-convinced that, if only she could have them stare at a mirror instead of her, they’d realize how ridiculous they looked and give up the farce.

  “Really, Inspector. I hope you’ve marched in here with more than just a suspicion and a handgun. Or do you people even bother with warrants anymore?”

  “Where did these come from?”

  He shrugged. “Came with the place. Must’ve belonged to the previous owner. We threw out the dirty picture books, but I guess we missed these.”

  She sighed. “There’s a printing press.”

  “I’m sure there is.” His grin widened as he watched her. “Perhaps you should have sent that partner of yours with me, after all.”

  Malone aimed her revolver at the carpet next to his polished leather loafer and fired.

  He jumped back, yelping. “What the hell?”

  “I’ll ask you again. Where is your printing press?”

  “Is pamphleteering somehow illegal now?”

  “Fomenting unrest is. I can count just as well as my partner, you know.”

  He shook his head, the panic tide rising in his face. “I don’t actually know where the pamphlets came from.” But something in his eyes was composed, controlled. He had chosen his words carefully.

  “One.”

  “You’re making a mistake.” His fear of her was catching up to his fear of what he was hiding. But not fast enough.

  She thumbed her cylinder, checked the chambers. Spun it carefully. “Two.”

  “I don’t know where the printing press is. I swear it.” His voice was high and sharp, but there was something deliberate and purposeful about his words.

  The trick was chipping away whatever armor of half-truth he’d constructed around the lie.

  “But someone here does,” Malone said.

  “No! None of us,” he said, full of panic and earnestness.

  Not quite it. Malone thumbed back the hammer. “But you know who does.”

  She saw the fear in his eyes again just before he closed them. Not fear of her, but fear of his secret. “I can’t...”

  She fired, pointing the gun at him. He screamed as the hammer came down on the empty chamber.

  He stood, trembling, his hands over his ears and she pulled the hammer back again. “I will ask you one more time. Who prints the pamphlets?”

  “A whitenail. From one of the old, powerful families.”

  The thought struck Malone with both dread and exhilaration. It explained Dalton’s resources. And it gave her someone to chase. “Give me a name,” Malone said.

  He laughed bitterly. “Those names mean nothing now.”

  “Not to me.”

  He looked at her revolver and sighed. “Clothoe. Lucinda Clothoe.”

  The name sounded distantly familiar, but Malone pushed the search to the back of her mind. “Where can I find her?”

  “You don’t. That’s not the way this works.”

  “There’s no use in protecting her, Dalton.”

  The smug grin crept back to his face. His courage was returning all too fast. “You think that’s what I’m doing?”

  Malone tilted her head in the direction of the door. “I think you’re keeping your friend from medical attention.”

  His smile melted away. “And Sato’s mercies, yes? His chances are better out here.”

  Malone considered Dalton, his sudden despondenc
y, the way his fingers clenched into a fist at his side. She also considered the slow unraveling she’d seen in Sato, the hollowing of his cheeks and the darkening of his eyes. The man had a taste for political theatre that had been apparent in his execution of the remaining councilors shortly after his takeover.

  Perhaps Dalton was right to worry.

  “What if I could keep you at Callum Station under my own guard? No word to Sato.”

  Dalton snorted. “So instead of answering questions for Sato’s goons, we answer for you and yours. Is that supposed to be an improvement?”

  She cocked her head. “You think it is.”

  He hesitated.

  “You’re still going to have to give me something. A way to contact Clothoe. But you can either deal with Sato or you and I can handle this like...” She looked around the room. “Civilized folk.”

  His eyes slowly rolled to the door behind her. “And what about your pet?” His voice was barely louder than a whisper.

  She thought. “Let me figure that out.”

  Malone marched Dalton back down the hall to where Arnault waited with the other three. The downed man still lay on his back, moaning softly.

  Arnault barely looked up as she and Dalton came into view. “I heard shots,” he said.

  “I’m fine.”

  He shrugged.

  “No printing press,” she said. She was irrationally irritated that he hadn’t even asked about it. “But there’s a room back there full of pamphlets and stolen furniture.”

  The other man standing near Arnault, an older man with a neat gray beard and neat gray clothes, grimaced and bit his lip but said nothing. Arnault caught it, too.

  “Not stolen,” Arnault said.

  The older man hesitated for a second before nodding. He looked relieved to be acquitted of that much, at least.

  “We’re not thieves,” the woman said.

  “Just violent insurgents, is that it?” Arnault asked.

  “We call ourselves the Revisionists,” Dalton said.

  Arnault rolled his eyes.

  Prickling hairs on the back of her neck reminded Malone that she was vulnerable here, stuck between Arnault and their bickering prisoners.

  “We can sort this out in the city,” she said. The peculiarity of the word choice only occurred to her after she’d spoken – as if Recoletta’s borders had shifted with the rubble, and they’d found themselves in an indefinable no-man’s land.

  That didn’t seem far from the truth.

  “You’re arresting us? But we haven’t done anything,” the woman said.

  “Except open fire on the chief of police and her deputy,” Malone said.

  Arnault shot her a dangerous look.

  “That was Parsons and me,” Dalton said, nodding at the injured man. “The rest of them are clean.”

  Malone pulled a set of handcuffs from her belt. “Then we can discuss this back at Callum Station.”

  The older man and the woman gnawed their lips and looked back at Dalton. So that was the way it was. He gave them a tiny nod, and while they still looked just as concerned, they seemed to swallow whatever protest had been on their lips.

  “You’ll have to carry him until we can pick up a carriage,” Arnault said, nodding at Parsons. The woman and the gray-bearded man knelt to hoist him up. Parsons gasped and groaned, but Arnault had bandaged him. She suspected, from the glassy look in the wounded man’s eyes, that Arnault had also given him something for the pain. It made her wonder at the kinds of supplies he carried with him on a regular basis.

  While Arnault oversaw Parsons’ arrangement over the shoulders of the other two captives, Malone motioned for Dalton to approach. He obliged, obedient as a schoolboy, his hands held out in front of himself.

  She fastened the cuffs around his wrists, and even though he didn’t lean toward her – that would have been a fatal mistake – there was something intimate in his velvet-soft whisper.

  “When are you going to do it?” he murmured, his voice lowered and pleasantly burred.

  A series of treble clicks announced her success. “Do what?” she asked, but even so, she took his meaning well enough that she kept her own voice quiet.

  “You know.” He glanced at Arnault and raised his eyebrows in theatric suggestion.

  Malone followed his gaze, but some part of her already knew what he was talking about. She was surprised at her own lack of surprise, and she told herself that this wasn’t because the idea had already been circulating in her own head.

  Or because of Arnault’s episode at the Twilight Exchange. Or his mysterious meetings with Saavedra, his spy around Callum Station. Or his closeness with Sato.

  The more she tried to talk herself out of it, the more she realized she couldn’t trust him.

  She tested the cuffs with a quick tug. Secure.

  Ahead of them, Arnault was already marching the other three along the corridor toward the boulder-strewn cavern. He hadn’t bothered to cuff them, but he seemed to be keeping a close eye on them, leaving his back, as broad as the side of a carriage, to Malone.

  It was almost too perfect.

  “After you,” Dalton muttered. She heard the grin in his voice.

  “Start walking,” she told him, not daring to meet his eye.

  And as she followed Dalton along the tunnel, her revolver felt like a warm presence at her hip. It would be easy. She could do it. She was certain enough that Dalton would see that the other three supported her story if it became necessary – easy enough in Parsons’ case, at least.

  Besides, allowing Arnault to deliver these agitators to Sato would not only mean their end, but the end of any investigation into their networks and sponsors. Sato was plainly losing patience with slow, careful solutions.

  She thought all of these things, saw the scene play out before her, and yet her hand felt like lead at her side.

  They were just breaking into the cavern when Malone heard her own name from the head of the procession.

  “Over here,” Arnault said.

  She approached, feeling guilty already.

  He glanced at the four captives, who stood just out of earshot. Dalton looked studiously away.

  “Been thinking,” Arnault said. “Maybe it’s best we keep things quiet about their detainment. For now. We’ll need time to get our questions answered. And Sato can be impulsive. Not what we need right now.” He looked to her, careful and calculating and watching for her reaction.

  Malone felt the warm, adrenaline-edged wash of relief. “Fine,” she said. She could barely hear her voice over the nervous thunder in her chest.

  He nodded and returned to lead his group, showing his back again as if on a dare. Malone moved back to Dalton, who looked at her with a question in his eye.

  “Keep moving,” she said as Arnault led the other three captives into the wrecked cavern. She gratefully took up her position at the back of the procession where none could observe her trembling hands or clumsy steps.

  Chapter Six

  Subplots

  Fredrick had complained about the smell of smoke and cheap liquor for days after Jane had returned from her secret meeting with Roman. She’d been on the verge of telling him about Bailey and the Qadi, the whispers of the foreign strangers in the Majlis, her two meetings with Roman, all of it. But she’d remembered his exhausted melancholy after Lady Lachesse’s surprise visit, and she realized she couldn’t add to his worry.

  Or perhaps, she considered, she merely couldn’t bear to see that beaten look on his face and wonder whether the friend who had gone into exile with her had come to regret it.

  Besides, it wasn’t like nosy Freddie not to ask questions. The fact that he’d asked her nothing about where she’d been told her that he really didn’t want to know.

  So instead, she’d asked him about his job search, about the newspapers and ad agencies he’d been inquiring with, and she’d gotten a pained frown in response.

  “I gave up on those last week,” he’d said, swirling
the sediment in a mostly empty teacup. “Had to lower my standards a bit. If one of these big houses would have me, I’d even take a job as a butler.” He’d thrown back his head and drained the rest of his cup.

  He’d obviously been too worn down to realize the vague insult in his remark, and she hadn’t had the heart to point it out to him.

  So for the two days following her clandestine meetings, she’d been careful to give Fredrick his space and thankful that he’d grown too prudent to keep his regular stock of gin and brandy.

  On the morning of the third day, Jane left her apartment block while the lamps in the halls were still dim with the early-morning burn. She passed into the streets, cool and quiet in the absence of bodies and activity. This much she was used to, part of her daily journey to the Majlis.

  What she did not expect was the carriage waiting at the intersection, as dark and imposing as a hearse.

  It stood directly in Jane’s path, astride the very street she walked. She knew with a dizzy feeling of apprehension that it was there for her, and there was no one else out anyway to dissuade her from this notion.

  It was the Qadi’s men, she’d decided. Maybe Bailey himself. They’d kept closer tabs on her than she’d expected. Maybe they’d even caught Roman and forced him to talk (he wouldn’t have given her up quickly, she thought with a wave of nausea). Or maybe these were the same scouts who’d pursued her and Roman to the market.

  She ran through the possibilities as she let her steady, even steps carry her forward. She couldn’t run – if someone had planned to find her here, doubtless they’d planned for that, too – and even if she did escape, where would she go?

  She wouldn’t act guilty. She wouldn’t give them reason to suspect more than they already did.

  Jane kept her head down and her gait steady, all the while eyeing the carriage door to see who would emerge.

  When she was barely a dozen feet from it, the door swung open, pushed by a pale, long-clawed hand.

  Jane stopped, overcome by a rush of relief. It was not an emotion she’d ever expected to associate with Lady Lachesse.

  The hand withdrew, and Jane quickened her pace to climb into the carriage.