Disreputable Allies (Fates of the Bound Book 1)

by Wren Weston

  “Yes, because we can’t solve any problem without the damn matrons getting involved.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you. I spent the morning listening to important people ask me questions that I can’t answer, and I spent the afternoon listening to the radio speak of terrorism. Have you listened to it today? People are scared, and Bullstow thinks you’re a terrorist. With your attitude right now, I’m not so sure you aren’t.”

  “And you’ve always been so afraid of important people,” Tristan said. “If what we’re doing together is just another contract, then act like it. This has been a mutually beneficial arrangement for the last couple of years. We both made out on it. Don’t go ruining it now.”

  “None of this was part of the job.”

  “Neither was going back to the hotel.”

  Lila snorted. “Now you’re upset with me for not following the plan? That’s priceless. What if I had needed medical attention or a new palm or…something? Anything? Damn it, Tristan, were you even going to tell me where I could find you?”

  “Eventually. After everything blew over. If you’d been pinched, you could have led Bullstow back to the safe house while under the influence of the serum. I had to protect my people.”

  “So much for me being one of your people,” she said. “I’m Chief Shaw’s only suspect. What do you think will happen if I’m picked up for this? I can talk my way out of a lot of things, Tristan, but not a terrorism charge.” She hugged her helmet to her chest and shook her head. “You want to talk about protecting people? You protect a dozen. I protect thousands. What are they supposed to do if I’m thrown into a holding cell?”

  “They’d find another chief.”

  Lila’s mouth gaped.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “No, I think you meant it exactly like that. I want to know why. I deserve to know why. Why that building? Why last night?”

  Tristan scratched his chin and considered her for a long moment. “The building was a law office called Slack & Roberts. We’ve been watching them for the last six months. We have reason to believe that they’ve been throwing cases for certain highborn families, instead of defending their clients. Occasionally the lawyers pass evidence to the prosecution. Sometimes they even help fabricate it.”

  Lila said nothing, annoyed with Tristan’s conspiracy theories, knowing any response might inspire more of his nonsense. Highborns dealt with criminals found on their families’ properties. After an arrest, the family militia handed the accused to Bullstow for trial and filed the necessary paperwork for the judge. The trial was usually a brief affair, given the level of surveillance on most highborn estates. If found guilty, the accused compensated the family by relinquishing their mark for the duration of their sentence. The family could then use the prisoner as a slave until their term concluded. If the family had no use for a slave, the mark could be sold to another family at auction.

  Marks could also be purchased directly from the government, for Bullstow held the marks of those caught breaking laws on public property as well as on lowborn and workborn property. Most slaves were bought by mining or agricultural families who used the cheap labor to run their farms, ranches, vineyards, fisheries, and meat-processing plants, spreading the slaves among the servant class who worked the same jobs for pay. Even the Randolphs used prisoners, the bulk of which were sent to their manufacturing plants just outside of New Bristol or their oil platforms and refineries along the Costa Sur.

  “Why would a highborn family do such a thing, Tristan?”

  “Why does your kind do anything? Money, of course. The Wilson-Kruger family has done it at least a half-dozen times in the last few months, maybe more. They pick a group of innocents off the streets, frame them, then petition the court for longer sentences—”

  “I find that hard to believe. They don’t even have enough work for their own family. They certainly don’t need any extra hands.”

  “Of course not, but they could certainly use the extra money from selling a few marks. Chairwoman Wilson has even done it to members of her own family. She’s desperate for funds.”

  “Tristan, there’s not that much money to be made in selling marks.” Slave labor didn’t fetch all that high of a price—after all, the slaves became a dependent of the family, forcing the highborns to clothe and feed them, not to mention cover the cost of their healthcare tax. They also required extra militia to ensure they did not harm the other workers. It could be even more expensive if a slave died under highborn care.

  Yes, it was cheaper than using contracted workborn, but only just. The only real perk was having a steady stream of workers who either did the job offered or faced the hangman’s noose. Tristan had been correct: the country had a need for cheap, captive labor.

  “It doesn’t matter if there’s not much money in it,” Tristan said. “Maybe Chairwoman Wilson doesn’t need that much money to begin with. I’m guessing some of the cases are to get rid of undesirables or threats to her family. Sending someone to the mines for twenty years is a slow, quiet death sentence.”

  “The Wilsons don’t have mines.”

  “They auction people off to those who do.”

  “How do you even know this? I can’t see you paying for the information. You don’t care if the highborn sell one another for profit.”

  Tristan grinned. “No, I don’t. The highborn can take care of themselves.”

  “Is that what you thought when you detonated the bomb? ‘It’s not my fault if one of them dies. The highborn can take care of themselves’? How many highborn would have had to die to make you regret it?”

  “There was a fire truck ready and waiting, and Bullstow has a clinic on site.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “No one got hurt. Not permanently, anyway.”

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  Tristan only shrugged.

  “If I had died, would you have regretted it?”

  “You didn’t.”

  Lila shook her head. “I gave you too much credit. Killing people doesn’t bother you. Then again, you don’t see the highborn as people. You have much more in common with some highborn than you think.”

  Tristan did not answer her.

  “You admit to pulling the alarm? So you’d have a fire truck standing by just in case?”

  “No. It just seemed like a good omen. Look, I did you a favor, chief. Bullstow thinks that the woman who broke in last night was part of the AAS. No one has a clue who you really are or what you were doing inside, and no one will ever look at you as a suspect.”

  “There’s a sketch of me. A bad one, but it’s out there now.”

  Tristan tugged at his scarf. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Wrong. I can’t trust you to handle it. I can’t trust you with anything. What were you thinking? What do you think the prime minister will do about a bomb exploding so close to Bullstow? What in the world did you think this would solve?”

  “It wasn’t supposed to solve anything. The problem is too big for that. But at least my kind will have one less place they’ll get screwed over in this city. Bullstow will investigate, but it won’t be a high priority. No one died. It was just a few singed eyebrows near a lowborn—”

  “It’s terrorism,” she insisted. “I’m to turn you over to Chief Shaw, did you know that?”

  “So you’ll just do as you’re told?”

  “It’s because I don’t do what I’m told that you even know. Unless I can convince my father otherwise, he’s going to turn your name into Chief Shaw on Monday as a suspect.”

  “Of course he will.”

  “Hey, I bought you what time I could, and I don’t like my chances of convincing him to let this go. People are going to want answers if the true cause of the explosion gets out, so you better hope that Chief Shaw can keep it under wraps. It hasn’t been so long since the Almstakers, or
have you forgotten?”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten, but Bullstow forgot about the Almstakers when they couldn’t prove that the group was responsible. They’ll do the same now.”

  “Bullstow didn’t forget. They found the cause of the explosion and the culprit. It wasn’t even terrorism. But this one? This was—”

  “What we did wasn’t terrorism. It was an escape, for you and the slaves in this city. What do you want me to say, Lila?”

  She startled at the use of her first name. Even after several years, Tristan had never used it. “I don’t want you to say anything. I always knew you didn’t respect me, but I thought you at least respected the work.”

  “I respect you, or I wouldn’t team up with you. You’re angry right now. Fine. Just drop me a line when the next job comes up. I’ll—”

  “You don’t get it, do you? There won’t be another job. As long as I don’t hear another word about the AAS, I won’t report you to Chief Shaw, and I’ll try to convince my father not to, either. Don’t push it, though. The AAS is dead, do you understand?”

  She crept forward and rifled through Tristan’s pockets until she found her stolen jammer.

  He held his hands at his side and let her.

  “I’ve bought you what time I can, but you and your people need to leave Saxony before Monday morning. Your life depends on it. Don’t contact me again.”

  Lila turned her back on the man and slipped from the alley, cutting off the jammer as she hopped back on her bike.

  She needed to get back home, dive into her work, and find out Zephyr’s identity. She couldn’t do that by lingering with petty criminals. She shouldn’t even have come. Her father would be livid if he found out that she had warned Tristan to skip town.

  But she owed him that much. They both did, whether her father admitted to it or not.

  Lila shoved her helmet over her head and flipped the kill switch on her bike.

  A blackcoat called out across the street, trotting toward her, two pieces of paper lodged in his fists.

  Lila pretended not to notice, and hit the start button on her Firefly. The man sprinted toward her as soon as the motor roared to life. He stood in front of her, finger tapping on her helmet, Saxony rose stitched onto his blackcoat.

  A scar crossed his face.

  Lila cut her bike’s engine, pulling off her helmet. There wasn’t enough room to go around him, anyway.

  “You’re in an awful hurry to ride away,” Sergeant Perv said, the moment her engine sputtered and died. He stared at her face, not as though she were a person, but a room in which all the furniture had all been moved a few centimeters to the left.

  It wasn’t that he recognized her as an heir. Though she was of age, she had never formally assumed her position as heir, nor had she ever given an interview. Therefore, newspapers could not legally run her picture. Neither could they post it online without dire consequences. As such, few people in New Bristol recognized her face when they saw it.

  Lila enjoyed the loophole and the anonymity it provided.

  “I’m late,” Lila said, slipping her keys into her pocket.

  “Late for what?”

  “For a date with your father.”

  The blackcoat glared. “This is an expensive bike. Where’d you get it?”

  “At a dealership.”

  “Which one?” he asked, circling her, his eyes locked on the bike. “This is a lot of bike for someone who lives in East New Bristol.”

  “Who says I live in East New Bristol?”

  The sergeant stared at her for several long seconds. “Do you recognize this?” He stuck a copy of the American Abolitionist Society flyer in front of her face.

  Lila skimmed the text, humoring him, and shrugged. “No, I do not.”

  “What about this woman? Have you ever seen her before?” He held up the picture that he and his men had cobbled together with the aid of a sketch artist.

  Lila whistled at the drawing. “Is she your sweetie? Have you lost her? With your charming personality, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “You can’t help yourself, any more than you could help yourself last night, can you?” Sergeant Perv grabbed her arm. Her helmet toppled from her lap and bounced on the sidewalk with a dull thunk.

  He shoved her against the wall of a closed grocers, already padlocked for the night against the homeless and the drug-addled. Her jaw dug into the brick.

  “What the—”

  “Not so funny now, is it?” He cuffed her hands behind her back as another blackcoat rushed down the street to assist him.

  As the DNA pen slid into her neck, Tristan slipped out of the alley. He thrust his hands into his pockets, smirking as he slipped back into the Plum Luck Dragon.

  Tristan did not look back.

  Chapter 7

  Lila sat in a hard wooden chair in front of a cluttered desk. A map of Saxony flickered on the wall beside her, lights blinking here and there, marking crimes. The computer hummed from a little box in the ceiling, running the numbers, collating the data, and projecting the map onto the wall. With one touch, Chief Shaw could bring up the crime statistics for any city or any street in Saxony. With another, he could highlight every militia vehicle on patrol.

  Lila had always admired it. She admired it so much that she had slipped into BullNet one night, copied the code, and now had the exact map available in her own office, with no one the wiser.

  The door opened. Chief Shaw stood at the entrance, hand twisting the knob back and forth as though it might be her neck, and scowled. He was an older man, a man who carried his pot belly well and hid his hair beneath a sentry cap. Most blackcoats never wore them after making lieutenant, but it was Shaw’s habit, a habit carried over from his sentry days, long gone but not forgotten. Unlike the others who wore them constantly, Chief Shaw’s didn’t cover a balding dome.

  “You’re lucky I was still here,” he growled, finally closing the door behind him.

  “It’s only seven o’clock. If you go home earlier than this, then you aren’t doing your job right. Unless you are,” she conceded, “in which case, I’d love a few tips.”

  “Tip number one. Don’t have a side job. That helps.”

  “Touché.”

  He slid her palm across the desk. While she checked his office for bugs, Shaw replaced her wooden seat with one of his soft leather chairs, pushed away from his desk by the eager Sergeant Perv when he dropped her off. He had not wanted to offer her any sign of luxury, so sure that he had scored the biggest bust of his career. After receiving the results of Lila’s DNA profile, the blackcoat had been shouting about truth serum immediately, something he could only receive from a superior officer.

  His nervous lieutenant had recognized Lila immediately, though not from the sketch. He’d boxed the sergeant’s ears for his mistake and almost let her go. Even though he thought his sergeant barking mad, he’d called Chief Shaw, clearly hoping he could smooth over the affair before Lila demanded that his sergeant be fired for stupidity.

  She hadn’t been able to talk her way out of it.

  “I stopped the fool boy before he could begin a formal arrest report, and no one saw you brought in except for his lieutenant. Everyone else is too busy canvassing the city. That will keep it out of the press and should keep it from the matrons,” Shaw said gruffly, sitting across from Lila after she finished her scan. “That doesn’t change the fact that Sergeant Holguín swears you’re the woman in this picture.”

  Chief Shaw slid the familiar sketch across his desk.

  Lila dropped her eyes and snorted. “Only senators have ever described me as pretty, what with their highborn manners and all, but I’m offended at the insinuation that I look anything like this woman. My nose is much smaller than hers, my chin much daintier. Why, I even—”

  Shaw pushed the sketch closer. “I’ll never unders
tand how you made chief when you can’t go two seconds without—”

  “It’s my day off. Be glad that I’m not taking this seriously, for your sergeant’s sake. What did this mystery woman do?”

  “Drop the act, chief. Mr. Simmons is an amazing sketch artist. If there’s one thing about this sketch that’s perfect, it’s your eyes. You can’t disguise them with rubber and latex.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “You were here last night. I should have you in a holding cell right now. I should shoot you up with truth serum and find out exactly what you know.”

  “Not without a chance to speak first, I hope. That is the law.”

  “Then speak. Because my suspicion is enough for the serum. Plus there’s a sergeant who swears you’re a match for our only suspect. I don’t care who your daddy is. You’re going to talk to me and tell me everything you know or—”

  “This is how you repay someone who’s helped keep your ass in that chair for the last few years?”

  “Were you here last night when the explosion happened?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair.

  “You mean, did I witness a bomb go off? Yes, I did. Great job on managing the press, by the way. I could take a few tips from you.”

  “How did you know it was a bomb?”

  “I guessed. You wouldn’t be yelling at me like this if it wasn’t.”

  Shaw rubbed at his mustache. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

  “What on earth would I have to gain by it?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Did you have anything—”

  “I had no idea that was going to happen,” she said carefully. “I was working on my father’s case when the fire alarm went off. I fled, and the bomb exploded as soon as the sergeant pinched me.”

  Lila didn’t mention that Sergeant Holguín had only caught her because he had turned on thermal imaging. None of the blackcoats had mentioned it or her disembodied head floating above the street. They would have been thought crazy at the addition, a fact that might have worked in her favor if it didn’t also expose her thermal suit. Bullstow and Chief Shaw were both ignorant of her toys, and she wanted to keep it that way.