I licked my lips. I should do something. Yell and turn on the lights, stop the intruder in his or her tracks.
But . . . me, against an armed intruder? With only a sleeping prefect on my side? There was a recipe for suicide. I needed law enforcement. The reeves . . . what, in the distant town? Or maybe the study phone had a direct line to the knighthouse . . . which I was pretty sure was empty. Besides, the phone would be noisy, and if I used my phone to text, I could look forward to a few decades in prison for breaking into a prefect’s manor, and it would be too late to save the prefect anyway.
The prefect’s door opened wide again, and out came the intruder, moving with the sort of catlike stealth that told me a one-on-one would definitely have ended badly for me.
A scarce ten seconds had passed. With great care, the intruder shut the door and padded off, penlight steady, steps sure, never knowing I was there.
I waited, heart in my throat and ears peeled, until the front door opened and closed again. Then I kept waiting, in case he came back. A minute, two, and I couldn’t bear it any longer. I sidled across the hallway and eased open the prefect’s door.
I’d been wrong, before. He didn’t snore like a vacuum cleaner: he snored like an airplane engine. Whatever the intruder had done, it hadn’t been murder.
So that was that. But I couldn’t stop wondering about it, while planting the receiver in the children’s room, during the whole cold walk back to the train station. And for once, my boss didn’t know any more on the topic than I did.
Interlude
King Emil settled himself gingerly into a gorgeously plush armchair, its rough skeleton hidden beneath countless layers of padding. His care was extreme, but not as extreme as was his habit, because today he’d realized that he was (probably) not made of glass.
The realization had struck him with the first rays of morning light. He’d stared raptly at those rays as they streamed through the window, as they’d turned motes of dust and dead skin into glittering sparks, as they’d spread languorously over the sea-weathered knuckles of his hand—spread that far, and no further. When he lifted his hand, he saw the shadow it cast.
Emil’s eyes turned wonderingly back to the window. Light had no trouble passing through it, because glass was transparent. Even colored glass filtered light through. But his hand cast a shadow. He was not transparent; light could not pass through him. Therefore, it logically followed that he could not be made of glass.
Was it possible? Emil drew back his silk bed sheets and approached the mirror, delicately avoiding the corners of the mattress. He’d had the bedposts removed ages ago, and his mattress was wholly down, without any structure inside, but he did not trust it. He did not trust the mirror either, and he stopped three feet short of it to examine himself.
The mirror confirmed it: he was not transparent. If he had had more prominent ears or a flashlight to hold behind his fingertips, he might have come to a different conclusion; but he had neither of these, and so he pronounced himself not glass with all the ebullience that caution would permit.
It would not do to test his theory too far, in case it proved false: the consequences of such a mistake would be dire. But even so, it was with a lighter heart and a heavier step than yesterday that King Emil allowed his valet to usher him to breakfast and thence into the care of his chancellor and his chancellor’s regrettable regimen of morning meetings.
“What first?” he asked, comfortably snuggled into his plush armchair.
“Your high marshal has completed his report,” replied the chancellor.
“Hasn’t he given up looking for trouble?” asked the royal secretary, the third and final person in the room.
The chancellor sent him a moue of disgust. “Looking for trouble is his job.”
“And he savors it so.”
The chancellor dismissed this comment by turning back to the king. “Sire, may I bring him in?”
Personally, Emil agreed with the royal secretary’s analysis of the high marshal—a man who was, to the king’s mind, crafted of stainless steel and therefore a dangerous man to approach too closely. But his chancellor had long ago ground kingly duties into Emil’s mind, and so he said, “Bring him in.”
The high marshal, captain of the kingsmen and head of Carina’s military, had held his position for six years and looked the part. He stood a head taller than anyone else in the room, and his torso filled out his stiff white uniform impressively. His face was lean and rather handsome, and his eyes conveyed moderate military intelligence. At the chancellor’s invitation, he marched into the room and dropped to one knee a calculated ten feet away from the king—distant enough that even Emil could not feel threatened.
“Rise and speak,” Emil said.
The high marshal snapped to his feet. “Sire,” he announced, “fresh reports from Lindo Prefecture.”
Slivers of displeasure punctured Emil’s good mood. “Go on.”
“Renovations on Lindo Manor continue apace,” the high marshal announced—he was the sort of man who announced everything. “Secrecy greater than ever.” With martial precision, he went on to enumerate what his agent, tucked up cozily with Prefect Lindo, had discovered. Most was highly suggestive, but none of it, Emil established with relief, was definite or convicting. True, it was strange that Lindo had chosen now to install a maze of secret passages . . . but private escape routes were nothing new for prefect manors; they all had them. As for the added defenses, trick staircases, murder holes, traps, cubbies . . . sure, they were melodramatic, but they spoke of paranoia, not treason.
“People are always complaining to me about our neighbors’ growing hostility,” the king commented. “Lindo Manor isn’t far off the Bay of Uror; if Prefect Lindo believes the reports, this must be her attempt to shore up her defenses against Akter. It’s ridiculous to think she’d go to such excesses to murder me. She’s a sensible woman, and I am but one man—even if I am king.”
“Revenge is a powerful motivator,” said the high marshal. “Prefect Lindo would not be the first person to go overboard to ensure success—and Prefect Lindo has never been known for the subtlety of her anger. Hear me, Your Majesty: my agent is certain on this front. Prefect Lindo is planning treason, and almost certainly in the form of an assault upon your person.”
King Emil was not subtle in his anger either. His eyes blazed, and his hands balled into fists. “For a lowly agent to accuse a prefect is beyond presumption!” he cried. “Where are her proofs? That Graça prepares her manor for the conference and for her own defense? What prefect would not do as much? That she has emotions—that she burns with fury at herself and at me? Anger is not disloyalty, and hers is well earned!”
“My agent insists,” the high marshal persevered, “that this anger is of the dangerous variety.” He returned to one knee, extending the steel rods of his arms at Emil. “Sire, we implore you not to underestimate her.”
A delicate cough captured the king’s attention, and he turned to his royal secretary. More and more, over the years, Emil had placed his reliance on the royal secretary’s sound advice, even to the extent of inviting him to meetings that had traditionally been restricted to the chancellor. Only the chancellor had dared question this, and then only once. “Our royal secretary is to be our voice to the people,” the king had explained on that occasion. “It is his place to convey our will; and so, he must know what that will is. It is your place to administer that will—not to question it.”
“Lord Secretary,” said the king, on this present occasion. “Speak.”
“With respect, Your Majesty,” said the royal secretary, “although sensible when calm, Prefect Lindo is famously of a neurotic tendency, which explains much of her sudden angers. Yet she seldom remains angry long, and too many years have passed for her to now hold any irrational belief that you were responsible for her sister’s demise. If it be true, as your high marshal and chancellor would insist, that her preparations reflect something other than fear and stress, let them re
present her apology and her assurances of fidelity: she is eager to ensure Your Majesty’s safety, and thus she prepares her manor against outside attack. Her renovations should be applauded, not deplored!”
“High Marshal?” King Emil prompted.
The stainless steel soldier hesitated, reluctant to contradict the royal secretary. “My agent is good,” he said. “I haven’t witnessed the situation first hand, but the possibility she has made a mistake—”
“Is greatly heightened,” put in the royal secretary, “by her being a spy. She has been trained to be suspicious and to see conspiracy everywhere. Is it any surprise that she does?”
“Spies are trained not to blind themselves against conspiracy, not to see it where it is not,” said the chancellor, and Emil found his gaze sliding that way. There was something, he’d often thought, between these two—some rooted dislike, although rooted in what he could not say. Jealousy or competition? Or maybe their constant disagreements originated more simply in a difference of character: the royal secretary’s drama, panache, widow’s peak, and unfortunate taste for red satin-lined opera cloaks gave him rather the look of a cartoon villain. By contrast, the chancellor’s sensible gray tweed and measured tones pronounced him a restrained and honest man.
Strangely enough, this restraint was the very reason Emil did not wholly trust his chancellor. It seemed to him that the man was trying too hard. A truly honest man wouldn’t have to put on a show of steadfastness; he would twirl his mustache and cackle without fear of judgment. Only a man with something to hide would flagellate himself into wearing tweed.
The chancellor continued. “This isn’t the first time we’ve suspected the prefects—and Prefect Lindo particularly—of plotting against Your Majesty. It fits the pattern.”
“Patterns,” scoffed Emil. “We will not move against Prefect Lindo without absolute proof.”
“Then let us get you that proof,” the chancellor urged. “Send me with a contingent of kingsmen, and I will bring it to you. Or send the valorous high marshal.”
The royal secretary stroked his pointed beard. “Extreme measures, my lord—far out of proportion with the evidence of the report, which is neither impressive nor convincing.”
“I find it to be both.”
“Gentlemen, enough,” Emil commanded. “We appreciate your vehemence on our behalf, but we’d prefer your wise suggestions. We would seek proof, but not in such a manner as to offend, provoke, or accuse.”
The royal secretary bowed. “Your Majesty is wise not to antagonize Prefect Lindo. A simple approach would be best—although its primary benefit would be to set my lord chancellor’s mind at ease, so he can concentrate on his actual work. Why not summon Prefect Lindo and simply ask her about these”—his fingers flicked contemptuously at the high marshal—“rumors? When she denies them, allow her to renew her oath of fealty to Your Majesty. That should more than suffice.”
“A woman who has broken one vow will break another,” the chancellor pronounced gravely.
“We will have you recall that this woman is a prefect, Lord Chancellor,” Emil snapped, “not a commoner, and demands the respect of her station. Our royal secretary’s suggestion pleases us.”
The chancellor’s lips compressed, as humorless as his tweed. “I beg you, sire: take no risks. Meet her not alone. Prefect Lindo can recover from any offense you give, real or imagined, but you cannot recover from death.”
“If she is indeed faithful, as she surely is,” the royal secretary retorted, “dealing such a great offense might change that.”
“Then she is not a worthy prefect.”
“And that is your response? To scorn her? Are your coffers so great, my lord, your knights so plentiful that you could guard our borders against the combined powers of Vela and Akter, should it come to that? Can you replace her?”
“I would rather attempt to replace Prefect Lindo than His Majesty.”
“Enough!” Emil bellowed, slamming down his open palm on the plush arm of his chair and pushing himself to his feet. “We have made up our mind, and we will not have you bickering like children before our high marshal! Lord Secretary, summon Prefect Lindo to attend us tomorrow. Lord Chancellor, arrange time in our schedule. Now, be gone with you both!”
His advisors bowed, one pleased, one not, and took the high marshal with them.
Emil did not observe them go; the entirety of his mind had turned to horror. It had dawned upon him that sometimes glass vessels were filled with another substance, such as colored sand, and that this substance would hide the glass’s transparency.
He stared aghast at the hand he had slammed down, paralyzed by how close he’d come to spilling the precious grains inside.
Chapter 3:
Under-the-Table Dealing
My boss announced, “I will drive myself today.”
I stopped, one arm in my coat sleeve, to stare at him. He did not appear to be ill. His fair skin had not deepened into the particularly disturbing bluish shade it’d had when he’d come down with pneumonia or the greenish-yellow one it’d had that awful time I’d gotten us food from the Curry Bowl. Besides, on the former occasion, he’d had me drive him to the hospital and deal with the formalities, and on the latter he’d barely left the bathroom once before midnight. On neither occasion had he offered to let me go home so he could drive himself and save me the trouble of waiting—not that I’d have taken him up on it, if he had.
“Marta will provide you with a copy of the bus schedule,” he went on, locking his drawer. “The 2A bus will stop across the street in six minutes. Take that, then transfer to the 12. You have plenty of time to make it.”
As far as I knew, he couldn’t even drive; I’d never seen him behind the wheel. He owned the car I drove him in, a luxurious vehicle he must’ve been on the waiting list for forever to get. Its only minor inconvenience was that the wheel was on the left, and I’d always assumed he’d left it that way because he wasn’t the one driving. Certainly he hadn’t driven since hiring me. He hadn’t had the chance: the car lived in a parking garage two blocks from my home, the better for me to chauffeur him back and forth to work.
I’d never asked what he did on the weekends. Stay home? Take taxis? I tried to picture him on the bus, and my brain shorted out. Seeing him use his every-bell-and-whistle phone was weird enough.
“Is there a problem, Mercedes?” my boss asked, uncharacteristically tart. “You have turned into a goldfish.”
His eyes were shifty. Since when had he been afraid of making eye contact? Something was definitely up, and asking would only get me stonewalled. But I had an advantage: he didn’t want me to know what was wrong, and would avoid admitting anything was wrong, if he could.
“Less like a goldfish and more like a light bulb,” I said. “See, I can only imagine one reason you’d consider sending me on a long, winding bus ride as a favor: you plan to be out really late. So late that even the bus would be faster. Which is very considerate of you, except that on this particular evening, I’d do just about anything to be out a few extra hours.”
He seemed ready to answer and shut me down, so I hurried on with a mix of half-truths and round-eyed desperation.
“Luc’s on a cooking strike. I know that doesn’t sound that bad, but you’ve never seen what Francis does to the kitchen. Especially when he’s been broken up with. Doesn’t matter if he’s dated the girl for one evening or six months; he’s just as bad. I can’t even sneak in and grab cereal, not unless I want to be shouted and wailed at and used as a crying pillow through half the night. I’m hardened to it by now, but it’s still pretty horrible. I was going to go home and face it, because I’m not quite mean enough to actively go out again to avoid him, but if I had an excuse—” I spun the keys around my finger and then clutched them, gazing hopefully, shoulders compressed down, hair falling over my neck. “Please don’t make me go back to that. I’d rather drive you around all night long than pretend I’m sorry Her Vapidity left him.”
My boss is not a man who enjoys other people’s outbursts of emotion. His usual response to one of Sr. Basile’s fits is to say something harsh and find any excuse to leave. He’s also classically trained to respond to feminine vulnerability. I could never play him as hard as Prefect Avior and have him believe it, but I could see him wavering.
“Besides,” I added with a shy, puckish smile, “endangering the lives of pedestrians is a job for a professional.”
He folded. He didn’t give me the address—in retrospect, I’m not sure he knew it—but every few minutes he told me to turn left or right or stay in such-and-such lane, and did it nearly as well as my GPS. Aside from guiding me through the mind-boggling traffic patterns that Silvertip City had paid some fool to design, he didn’t say a word, and he didn’t look at me.
That was almost as worrying as the idea of him driving. The morning drive is his time to read the newspaper; the evening drive is his time to exposit on whatever he’s been learning about. He’d been telling me about Coptic recently, although I’d sensed a shift toward the gravitational influence of astral bodies on the feasibility of space travel.
Don’t ask me how those two are related.
But my point is that the way my boss was staring wordlessly at the road, without even that faraway look he gets when working out a cipher in his head, was about the most disturbing thing I’d ever seen.
“I have a meeting,” my boss said, interrupting my silent brooding.
“A meeting, eh?” I said, with exaggerated sage nodding. “I too drive in circles, snakes, backtracks, and zigzags when going to meetings. Every day, in fact, on my way to work. Seriously, Silvertip. What were you thinking?”
“The meeting,” he said, “is located in a private auction house. Entrance is by invitation only.”
Bargaining Power Page 4