Interlude 2
Winged Knight
Still just a crazy man with a wolf on his head
- Location
- Texas
"Coffee, please," I tell the waiter. "Cream and sugar, and the day's newspaper if you have it."
"Right away, Ma'am."
I turn away from him as he goes off to set up my order, looking out at the crowd. The sun is just beginning to set, and people are making their way home from jobs in factories, offices, and any of the other numerous businesses that make up the capital of the world's most powerful empire. Most are walking, but the tram system does an admirable job transporting those who live further from the city center. There are even some automobiles, a luxury becoming more and more available with the encouragement of new production practices. Assembly lines of revenants putting everything together, piece by piece.
All in all, it creates a bustling cacophony that I find strangely soothing. One can get lost in the noise, almost hide in it, and sometimes that's pleasant. People talking, tram bells ringing, car horns honking… I could do without the smell, though. All this burning petrol, along with the smog from the factories closer to the river, fills the air with a caustic stench to make the eyes water.
"Hey! Hey, you!" calls out a rough, rasping voice from the alley behind me. "You're that senator! The dark one from the colonies!"
I briefly close my eyes, bracing myself with a deep breath, before turning in my seat to address the man stumbling from the shadows between the cafe and the building next to it. He is dirty and disheveled, the grease staining his shirt a sure sign of a factory worker. In one hand he holds a bottle, and even amidst the miasma of the city I can smell the booze wafting from it and the man's breath. He walks out of the alley, pausing briefly to keep the cap on his head from falling as he stumbles.
"I'm senator Fatima Hajar, yes," I reply, forcing a smile. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"Yeah!" the man shouts, waving his arms. The motion almost sends him tumbling. "You can stop saying all those awful things about our soldiers! They're fighting for us, against Galt and Iber and those savages down where you come from. Keeping Alba strong!"
"I don't recall saying anything negative about our soldiers, sir," I say. "Just how the military is being used."
"It's the same damn thing!"
He comes closer, and I rise to my feet. At this distance he could smash the bottle against my face, or simply lay his hands on me. Slowly, I reach for the collapsible baton in my suit pocket. This isn't how I wanted to end my day, but if I have to…
"Is there any trouble here?"
The man, face ruddy with drink, goes ashen and backs away as a uniformed officer walks across the street flanked by two revenants with todstein spikes in their skulls. I spare him a glance, pale and blonde and smiling with all his teeth, before looking back to the man who may or may not have been about to make a terrible mistake. Something he seems to realize as fear overcomes the bravery only strong drink could bring with the revenants walking closer, deathly silent in their hulking metal armor.
"No, no trouble, officer," I say, giving the drunk a meaningful look. "Just a concerned citizen addressing one of his representatives. Nothing to worry yourself over."
"Right," he says, taking off his cap to wipe sweat off his brow with it. "Yeah, just voicing my opinion. Ain't no law against that."
"Not currently," the uniformed man says, still smiling. "Off with you, then. No need to trouble the senator further."
The man tips his cap and mumbles something incoherent as he all but runs into the crowd. A few yelled curses from those he bumps into, and then he is out of sight. I turn to the police officer, keeping that smile on my face as I rest a hand on my table.
"I don't think he was going to try anything, but you have my thanks all the same."
"Just doing my job, senator," the officer replies. "Be careful, all right? You never know might happen on the streets at night, even in our fair capital."
I nod and continue to smile, keeping my eyes on him and his undead assistants until they too vanish into the crowd. A breath I hadn't known I'd been holding escapes me, and it takes all my effort to sit properly rather than collapse into my seat. My heartbeat is going faster than I would like, pounding in my chest, and not because of the drunkard.
When the coffee comes it is a welcome distraction. The waiter must have witnessed the exchange, but kept his distance while the officer and his revenants were near. A wise policy, all told. It does not bode well to garner the attention of such people. At best they might ignore you, which is the preferable outcome. At worst they might corner you later to ask pointed questions you don't have the answers for, and then take the opportunity to abuse the jurisdiction they have over the populace.
All for the sake of "maintaining the authority of the law," of course. Though this officer didn't strike me as someone on a power trip. No… His ready presence implies something rather more disturbing, but not anything the young man serving me need concern himself with.
I thank him and take a sip of my coffee. The black liquid has become a delightful shade of brown with the cream mixed in, and between that and the sugar they create a wonderfully bittersweet flavor that I don't know what I would do without. There are days I practically live on coffee, forgoing meals so I can have more time to get work done.
Work like I'm doing right now.
The message is hidden in the newspaper I was given, the shop owner having underlined certain words as instructed to when approached by people who for both their safety and my own I have never met. It's short and to the point, as these things must be, and when I take this paper home I'll burn it in my fireplace.
Meeting tonight. Important developments. Colonel.
That draws a frown from me, but I continue the act of reading the newspaper even after receiving the message. Appearances are important, and the coffee is good. I have the time to enjoy myself a little before getting to the night's business.
The rest of the newspaper gives me much the same as reports that have come to my office, if cleaned up and adapted for public consumption. Military recruitment issues are spun as "Our valiant men and women in uniform finding clever solutions to problems in the field." Tensions with Galt and Iber are sold as "We must prepare for the foreign threat to our shores." Meanwhile, discontent in the colonies becomes "Ungrateful malcontents waste Alban lives with needless chaos."
Naturally, even peaceful protest is lumped together with violent terrorism because why should anyone have issue with Alban rule? It's not as if people are exploited and brutalized for the sake of the empire's industry. You won't see such things in the reputable papers, and anyone trying to publish the actual truth is hunted down by those like that smiling police officer with his club-wielding revenants.
Alba is teetering. It's not over the edge yet, but all the signs are there and everyone is happy to keep rushing toward that cliff. And why? The true reason, one that will never get put in the papers, is that there's too much money to be gained in the short-term to care about anything like sustainability. Growth is everything, ever more resources going into a bottomless devouring maw to appease hunger that will never be satisfied.
But no, when war eventually breaks out it will be because the rest of the world is jealous of our prosperity and hates us for noble yet conveniently nebulous concepts like our "culture" and "freedoms." Never mind that the former has become an increasingly hollow justification for ostracizing anything that doesn't fit what is considered socially acceptable norms, and the latter has been a joke for decades.
God, I'm depressing myself. It's time to go home and prepare.
The newspaper goes into my purse and I leave a good tip for the waiter. After that, it's on to the tram system and back to my house. The trolley dings as it approaches its stop, and I take the chance to hop on. There are no seats available, but I'm fine with standing.
The passengers around me give space, but not much. I've avoided the rush, but people are still in the process of getting back to their homes. They're a dirty bunch, grimy from long hours. Inevitably, some of that gets on my nice red suit as people jostle into place to better squeeze into the tram. Sweat and oil assaults my nostrils, bitter and acrid enough I can taste it all through the lingering remains of my coffee, and I can't help curling my nose.
I could afford a car, but prefer to take public transit. Not only do I have an image to maintain, that of a politician fighting for the common man, but it reminds me of why I'm doing this. It's one of the reasons, in any event. I can't forget my most important one, my primary focus.
Kendra… I will save you or die trying.
I look out at the city as sparks rain down with the trolley starting up again. Tall, impressive buildings made of painted brick show tenement houses with shops on the bottom selling any manner of goods. Salted meats from holdings in Galt, fruits from Iber, and even textiles from my native Marak. Not to mention whole buildings devoted entirely to the latest in machinery, like automobiles and radios.
Money changes hands every second of every hour of every day, with well-dressed patrons enjoying spoils from all over the world to delight themselves with. Cafes like the one I just left are also a common sight, as are dance clubs where the latest in music from peoples across the empire are mixed together in new and exciting ways. Lamplights are lit to help facilitate this ongoing merriment, people laughing as they go from one entertainment to the next in a city that never truly sleeps.
Yet the spaces between show not everything is glittering and glamorous. In the alleyways I see broken up hovels made from scrap, dirty cloth and rotting wood broken on the ground where the police stormed through just weeks ago. The results of Aidric Dunstan's proposal criminalizing homelessness. Not that he called it such, of course, but it can't be anything else when the only options given are to join the military or be forced into a workhouse prison to labor until their bodies give out. After which their bodies will be taken, todstein spikes jammed into their skulls, forced to serve the empire in death just as they did in life.
My stomach twists looking at those sights again and again as the tram moves on, and I take deep breaths despite the smell in order to settle myself lest I retch. I hadn't been able to rally enough votes in time to oppose that measure. Too many of my colleagues in the lower chamber had to be convinced this was a terrible plan, one that only hurts the most vulnerable among us, and by that time the window to contest the motion had passed.
It's a relief to get out at my stop, to get away from the stuffy car crammed full of people trailing past the broken remnants of human misery. I take a few minutes in the lamplight to compose myself, then take off down the street. My home isn't far, but I have a meeting to get to and don't wish to linger outside at night any longer than I must.
The winter wind is cool across my face, though warmer than I remember even from just a few years ago. The light from the lamps reflects off my dark skin, making me shine. I am beautiful, even rumpled as I am from the tram. My hair is straight, done every morning to hide my natural curls, while my face is symmetrical and without blemish.
Yes, I am beautiful. I know this, and I use it. I need every advantage I can get, and being both attractive and unmarried sometimes gives men certain ideas when I require them to be more tractable in the Senate.
A place I angle to be distant from while in recess for the upcoming holidays. Perhaps I'll venture out from the city for a time, take a visit to the countryside. Anything to get away from Alba the city even if I cannot afford to get away from Alba the empire.
Not a very original name as far as capitals go. Alba, the capital city of the empire of Alba. But I've come to realize this is just how these people think. Alba must be grand, thus its leaders must be grand, so people must associate their seat of power with the empire itself.
Image and presentation. That's how this game is played. If you do not act in line with your station then you very well might find yourself losing influence, cut off from the connections required to move the world in ways you desire. Even I have to go along with that to a certain extent, though I twist it in such ways I find more palatable.
Like with my home. It's a simple affair, but I know as I walk up the steps this is a neighborhood full of well-to-do people. Two-story houses, three at most, with stone foundations and brightly painted wooden facades. As well, each has a small garden attached to a backyard where one might hold social functions. Large enough to comfortably hold a family and servants, along with the occasional guest.
It's nothing compared to the manors some of my colleagues live in, all in relatively close proximity to the Senate building itself rather than near the outskirts like with my neighborhood. Those are sprawling estates, some even with carefully maintained forests and parks for those old families to take their ease in with activities like hunting or horseback riding. Those are the truly wealthy, but my house shows enough class that I cannot be said to be embarrassing the institution of the Senate.
God knows I get enough pushback from those bastards in the upper chamber as it is.
The door opens before I even have a chance to pull out my key. Aysha, my maid, steps to the side with a bow and gives me room to enter. She's shorter than me, and plumper, but that thin layer of fat hides strong muscle she's had to use on my behalf on more than one occasion. Her skin is lighter than mine, though still dark, and she keeps her curly black hair tied back in her bonnet.
"Good evening, Miss Hajar," she says as she takes my purse and coat. "I trust you had a pleasant day?"
"Not really," I reply, pulling the newspaper free before Aysha could walk away with it. "And it's not done yet. Do you have a fire going? I need to burn this."
"Ah… So it's to be one of those nights, then?"
"I'm afraid so. If anyone calls on me let them know I'll be indisposed for the rest of the evening."
Aysha nods, moving over to the windows and closing the curtains. Together we watch the newspaper burn in the fireplace. It's a small thing, set into the wall of a modest living room set with a low table and plush chairs for receiving company. The ink turns the flames green, giving off a sickly light, before everything finally crumbles to ash. I take out the iron poker and stir the dust just to make sure everything is properly destroyed.
"There have been people watching the house," Aysha says as we make our way to the basement. "Watching the whole street. They drive by in cars, taking slow trips up and down the road. Sometimes they idle, as if enjoying the day, but they are always watching."
"The same car, or different ones?"
"Different cars, Miss Hajar," Aysha replies. "But the same people. They come in shifts."
"Hmm… We'll need to be careful about who we bring into the house."
The sound of our steps is muffled as we walk down into the basement, sturdy wooden stairs and stone walls taking in the vibrations of our presence and giving nothing back in return. Most of the space is taken in with either furniture put in storage or shelves of preserved food, giving the room a claustrophobic feeling. The darkness doesn't help, and even the lantern in Aysha's hand does little but cast strange shadows that dance along the walls and hide amongst the clutter.
One shelf moves away easily on a hidden hinge, its wheels cleverly set into a groove in the floor. Its back is as strong as the door to my house, and only capable of being opened from this side. Beyond is a hole carved into the stone, leading out into darkness. The smell wafts up to meet us almost immediately, the reek of human waste and chemical runoff a faint stabbing sensation now that the barrier has been removed. Aysha hands me a scarf, which I tie around my mouth and nose, and I take the lantern from her.
"Please wait here for my return," I tell her. "This hopefully won't take too long."
"As you wish, Miss Hajar."
Then I am down into the sewers, ducking low to keep my head from scraping the top of the tunnel, and Aysha is closing the door behind me. I hate asking her to wait, but there's no avoiding the necessity. Someone has to open the door, and it's too much of a security risk to give free access to my home.
A brief foray through the carved out passage takes me into the sewer proper, and I shift a portion of the wall aside to step out onto the walkway. The slowly moving sewage beside me is not as bad as one would find closer to the city center, but it still makes my stomach lurch and burns my lungs even through the scarf. A coughing fit takes me, and I put a hand on the wall to keep from hunching over. But the smell isn't going to get any better, so after a few moments I press on into the darkness.
The walk, thankfully, is brief. Colonel Blackwell does not live far away, and the journey is mostly just a straight line from my house to his. But I still cannot help but jump at every sudden noise, pull close to the wall with every movement in the stagnant air. The drip of water, the creaking of metal and stone… Sound echoes strangely down here, as if the earth itself protests my intrusion.
It is a relief when, almost half an hour later, I come to the hidden wall leading to a tunnel similar to the one connecting my own basement to the sewers. I open it, rushing inside and closing the door behind me. The smell is still present, but so separated it is no longer quite so cloying. I take off the scarf, close my eyes, and breathe deep.
"Rough walk?" a familiar voice asks, and I open my eyes to a young woman with pale skin and shining green eyes smiling at me. Stocky and strong, with a face like a brick wall framed by short brown hair, she looks more like one who works construction than a university professor. "Wish it got easier, but it never does."
"Were you waiting for me, Alice?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," Alice Finlay says, pushing off the wall. She's wearing a blue dress and a thick leather jacket, both stained from her own journey here. The tunnel is small, barely large enough for us both to crouch in, but she still comes close. "I was hoping I could get you on side before we deal with whatever has Blackwell in such a tizzy."
"On side for what?"
Alice scowls. "You know what. I'm tired of waiting, and I'm not the only one."
"We've talked about this, Alice," I reply, pushing past her as best as I'm able. "Open conflict is coming, but I'm not going to encourage leaping into action just because you're itching for it to start."
"Why do you restrain yourself?" Alice asks, grabbing my arm. "You can see the writing on the wall as clearly as I do. All those fat cats in the Senate, all those moneyed interests directing them, they're eating us alive! The whole damned country! We have to act!"
"We must be sure it is the right time to act. We only have one shot at this."
"How can you wait?" Alice asks, her voice coming out in a growl. "Your daughter-"
"Yes, my daughter," I snap back, wrenching my arm away as I turn to face her. She flinches as I move my face right up to her own. "Who is being possessed by a monster. My daughter who I will do anything to see free, even if it means having to wait for the best moment to strike. Because failure means Aidric Dunstan owns her forever. That is unacceptable. And if I can wait, then you and your contacts in the universities can wait."
We stare at each other in silence. On Alice's face, so wide and expressive, there is a resigned weariness laced with anger and fear. Anger at the world, and fear for it. But it's directed at me, as well. Because while I can't be sure what face I'm making, I know for damn sure what comes across in my eyes. I won't budge on this. Any possibility of defeat cannot be tolerated, not against an enemy as vast and callous as the one set against us.
Alice is the first to look away, her lips twisting in the riotous display of emotions still crossing her face. To a degree I empathize. This is the world she and her students are going to inherit. It only makes sense that she demands action.
Slow, careful deliberation can be torturous when everything is coming apart at the seams.
I knock on the door in a rhythm of two, three, and then two again. That's the signal that we're allies and not police or military attempting to sneak close for a raid.
The door, hidden behind the bookshelves lining the walls, opens up into another basement. Unlike mine, this is more like a smoking lounge than a storage room. Above is a small electric chandelier, a carpet of interlocking geometric patterns lines the floor, and in the center are a number of plush couches around a small table. At that table are three men, all of whom look up as Alice and I enter.
"Fatima," says a man a few years older than me in a well-fitted black uniform with its golden epaulettes, gray at his temples and in his neatly trimmed beard. It mixes well with his naturally black hair. "You didn't need to take the sewer route. No one would bat an eye if you'd just gone in the front door."
Colonel Gavin Blackwell is a large man, tall and broad of shoulder, with a face lined before its time with stress. He smiles, and I wish I had it in me to smile back. I'm too tense, lightning racing through my blood, so I don't respond to the carefully managed "romance" he and I have been cultivating in order to distract from why I visit him so often.
Though perhaps there's more truth to those rumors we've developed than we might admit to our fellows. The colonel is easy on the eyes, and I've noticed him glancing at me when he believed I wasn't looking. I certainly wouldn't object if he proposed. At least, I wouldn't if we manage to accomplish what I fear we'll be forced to attempt very soon.
We're not the first group to work against the government. We're not even the only one, if reports of violent unrest simmering up in the Kaledon Highlands is accurate. That's not even getting into the assault at Kirwick a few months back. Alba has plenty of enemies within its own borders who are more than willing to get their hands dirty.
To the best of my knowledge, however, we're one of the longest-lasting. Those who lead the empire have a vested interest in crushing dissent when it arises, and more than one conspiracy has been broken over the last century. Blackwell and I came together in common cause a little over ten years ago, slowly gathering like-minded people in a loose network to share information and aid.
Then the upper chamber passed its law on the act of possession, stole my daughter from me, and things had to change.
"This meeting is dangerous and stupid," I reply, taking off my suit jacket. I throw it across one of the couches and glare at Blackwell. "I'm being watched. I'm sure some of you are as well."
Blackwell's eyes narrow. "How do you know?"
"A police officer responded immediately when I was being accosted by a drunk," I reply. "There have also been cars with the same people going up and down my neighborhood in regular intervals. It's sloppy, but that just means the people observing me have either gotten careless or Dunstan wants me to know I'm being watched."
"It might not be as bad as you think," Blackwell says. "Military Intelligence has been asked to step into roles normally reserved for other departments. Something has happened in the Intelligence Bureau, and that gives us a window of opportunity."
"Yes, you mentioned that," a small, reedy man in a gray suit with thinning blonde hair says from one of the other couches. He darts his blue eyes from the left to the right, wringing his hands together. "Do you know anything more?
"I've assigned some of my people to follow up on it, Jacob. We'll hopefully have more information soon."
"Please let us know when you do," Jacob Hanley says, leaning back onto the cushions. They swallow up his small, skinny frame as if he were made of sticks. "Too many unknowns are bad for business, especially the kind of business we get up to."
"Lighten up, Hanley!" the last man says from the other side of the same couch, slapping the back of it with one large, calloused hand. He laughs as Jacob flinches. "Blackwell might be almost as stuffy as you are, but he's solid. He won't steer us wrong."
"I appreciate the vote of confidence, Fergus," Blackwell says wryly. He waves a hand at me and the still sullenly silent Alice. "Sit down, you two, and close the door. We've matters to discuss."
Fergus McCoy laughs again, his green eyes twinkling beneath a rough mop of red hair, and reaches for the bottle on the table. He pulls a small metal cup from the pocket of his denim overalls and pours himself a liberal splash of whatever is inside, amber and smelling of floral spice, before holding up the glass to the rest of us.
"First, a drink!"
Jacob frowns, the twitching around his eyes revealing his irritation. "Must we do this every time?"
"Rituals are important," the larger man says. He takes a deep pull from the cup and hands it to Jacob. "If we're caught we'll all hang together, so while we're alive and working in common cause we drink from the same cup."
A sigh escapes from Jacob, but he accepts the cup and drinks from it all the same. I take my seat at one of the empty couches, Alice taking the other end, and he passes the cup to me with trembling fingers. The whisky is like smoky fire going down my throat, smooth and hot. It settles in my chest like an ember, and I finally allow myself to relax a little before passing the cup to Alice.
She drinks, smacking her lips loudly to Fergus' noisy delight. Jacob, for his part, simply rolls his eyes. Then Blackwell takes the whisky and finishes what's left, exhaling sharply and thumping a fist to his chest.
"Strong as always," the colonel says as he sets the cup back on the table. "You certainly know how to pick your drink, Fergus."
"I just know people," Fergus says, smiling. "Wouldn't be good at my job if I didn't. Now, why don't you get on with what you wanted us all here for."
"I'll get right to it. Fatima already knows this, but orders have been given to the military that after six months of solidifying gains around the border of Marak we're to push deeper into the continent."
"Have to keep the war machine moving," Alice mutters. "I knew the lull wouldn't last."
"The military can't keep up the rapid expansion the Senate wants," the colonel goes on. "Dunstan's plans are a stopgap measure, buying us perhaps another three years at most before we once more run into the same issues."
"How many others in the military have noticed?" Fergus asks. "It's got to be more than just you, eh?"
"Some, and I've made inroads there. But there are… competing interests that are muddying the waters."
"You mean all the businesses profiting off of the spoils of the colonies," Jacob mutters. His hands are back to their wringing with this news, fingers gliding over each other again and again. "Along with those who supply the army with uniforms and equipment. There's a lot of money moving around from the military being constantly active and no one wants it to stop."
"The world's going to want its pound of flesh when we start running out of men and women in uniform, alive or dead, to hold the line," Alice says. She leans back and crosses her arms. "If our 'dear leaders' don't already have a draft ready to go to send me and mine out to die for them, then they'll have one soon."
"Who else in the military do you think you might be able to bring to our side?" I ask. "You mentioned inroads. Is there finally enough discontent to start pushing?"
"Dangerous," Jacob mutters. "Going to get us all shot…"
"Yes," Blackwell says, settling his hands behind his back. "I believe I might be able to convince General Crawford of the necessities we have all seen."
That makes my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. Fergus lets out a low whistle, and Jacob shoots bolt upright to stare at Blackwell. Only Alice is silent, still sitting with her arms crossed. But her eyes gleam as she observes the colonel, standing ramrod straight at the head of the table.
"Now what makes you go and figure someone so distinguished would throw his lot in with us?" Fergus asks. "Man's a damned war hero."
"I've not done much as of yet, save put out a few feelers in his direction," Blackwell responds. "He's been recalled from the colonies for raising his concerns about the call for further expansion, as well as protesting the policies proposed for those regions."
"So the old man started to grow a conscience. Better late than never," Alice says. "You think that's enough to get him on board?"
"I believe it's worth trying."
"It's too risky!" Jacob shouts, slamming a hand on the table. We all turn to him, his face flushed with the whisky and shining with sweat. He wipes a hand across his thinning pate and goes on, turning to each of us with wild eyes. "Too much is happening too fast! The Intelligence Bureau starts suffering unknown problems, relying on the military to pick up the slack, and now Ernest Crawford is being recalled? Am I the only one who smells the trap you all are so keen on walking into?"
Silence reigns as we all continue to stare at the little man. Jacob has never been this outspoken before, normally preferring to let others talk. But the fear on his face, twisting an expression already so overtaken with anxiety, is new to all of us. His eyes are wide, his lips drawn into a thin line. He wipes a hand across his scalp again as sweat continues to pour off of him, soaking his shirt and settling the loose fabric onto his skinny frame.
At this moment he reminds me of my ex-husband. Randall also lived with fear, hiding it behind everything he did. It never released so explosively, however. For Randall, it was simply a constant in his life and ultimately what ended our marriage.
As quickly as the mania overtakes him, it vanishes. Jacob cringes at our regard, slumping back into the couch and tugging at his collar. The redness in his cheeks fades away, leaving him even paler than before as the strength brought on by the alcohol passes on. He puts a hand to his chest, taking deep breaths as he visibly attempts to steady himself.
"What would you have us do, then?" Blackwell asks, his voice deliberately soft. "Should we simply let this opportunity pass us by?"
"I just want us to slow down and think," Jacob says, so quiet I can barely hear his words. "We don't know enough, and that's more than just risking ourselves. People could get hurt."
I take a deep breath. The whisky Fergus provided is strong stuff, and that one drink I took is having an effect. Even more, I'm tired. It's been a long day, with many more long days ahead. That's enough to wear down on anyone. It certainly seems enough to wear on Jacob, who must have been holding in all his reservations until now.
Jacob looks up at me as I lean forward across the table and put a hand on his knee. He's such a slight man, so bony and thin. Although he's around my age he looks so much older with his thinning hair and papery-pale skin. This world and its cruelties weigh on him, and I'm afraid I will have to add to that if we're to have any chance of a better one.
"Are you willing to kill?"
Jacob blinks, his surprise evident as he shudders away from my hand. "What?"
"Let me clarify," I say, sitting up straight. "I don't mean a senator, or one of the leaders behind big business interests. I mean the soldier who believes they're doing their job, or the factory worker who is afraid for their livelihood. Are you willing to kill them in order to achieve our goals?"
"I… That's…" Jacob brings both his hands to his chest as if to protect himself. "But we shouldn't have to!"
"You're right, we shouldn't," I say, keeping my voice firm. "But we will. I don't bring this up to catch you in a dilemma, but to impress upon you that this is war and that those are never bloodless. We're talking about the possibility of revolution, and revolution is war. People will die no matter how careful we are. We have to prepare ourselves for that eventuality."
"And when does the killing stop?" Jacob whispers. "When does it end?"
Now there's the important question. The question that keeps me up at night, wondering if I'm a madwoman dragging the rest of the world into my insanity. I grimace, knowing I don't have a good answer.
Because for me, it ends with my daughter free and Aidric Dunstan's ghost vanishing in the wind. Preferably he would be screaming on his way to Hell, but I'll take what I can get. Only when I have Kendra back in my arms will it end.
But those demons in the upper chamber won't abide that. They've seen they can take all their riches past death itself, and they will fight tooth and nail to keep them. The battle is existential. For them, it is eternity. For us, it is our future and the future of everyone who comes after.
Alice is smiling, something I pointedly ignore. She stands up and walks over to Jacob, placing a hand on his trembling shoulder. Alice kneels down so they're both at eye level with each other, and Jacob visibly forces himself to look at her.
"It ends when the country isn't eating itself and the rest of the world," she says. "When you don't need to live in fear looking at your numbers, and I don't have to lie awake at night wondering when I and all my friends are going to be forced at gunpoint to go to war for the profits of dead men."
"And everything before?" Jacob asks. "Even with Crawford on our side… We won't be able to get enough of the military on board to simply remove those in the Upper Chamber from power."
"War is already happening," Alice says. "We just have the luxury of not having to see it here."
"I know what goes on in the colonies," Jacob snaps, his eyes narrowing to glare at her. "I've audited it. I've done the math showing how blood turns to treasure! I've gone overseas and looked through the books and tallied all of the suffering we've inflicted on those poor people! "
"This is part of the reason I asked for this meeting, rather than just sending messages," Blackwell says. "Tensions are high, and I want to be sure about our resolve. Because we're entering a critical stage. Over the years the Upper Chamber of the Everlasting Senate has been removing more of their restraints, coming down harder on protest, and if we don't act soon I fear we might lose our chance to stop greater tragedy. That means taking risks, but we can prepare for those even if our enemies are attempting to lure out dissent."
"Explains a lot, that does," Fergus says. He sighs, but when he looks at Jacob it's with a smile. "We need you, Jacob. You're a wizard with numbers and all your work with the money guys helps keep everything we're doing afloat. You want to know more before we move? Well, we can do that as best we're able. But time is running out, and we need all hands on deck. Are you with us?"
Jacob is silent for a long time, looking down at his hands. He opens and closes them, and I observe how joint and muscle and bone move together. His fingers are ink-stained, but I can't help but wonder if he sees a different color there.
None of us are clean. Each of us, to greater or lesser degrees, has participated in the obscenity that is the Alban empire. We have each enjoyed prosperity bought by the suffering of others, even as we feared we might be the next to be devoured. But that doesn't mean we can't do something, can't throw ourselves against that awful behemoth and say "No. This is not right."
I will these thoughts to Jacob, think them with every ounce of strength I have. Because while I might not have had this exact conversation with my fellows in the Lower Chamber of the Everlasting Senate, I've gone over much the same topics. The words are different, but the spirit is the same.
If we do not stand together, then we will die alone.
"Yes," Jacob says at last. "God help me, yes. I'm with you."
I release a breath, and see Blackwell's posture relax a fraction out of the corner of my eye. Alice nods, while Fergus gives Jacob another smile and a friendly jostle with his leg. Jacob does not share their exuberance, the skinny man letting the couch devour him once again as he keeps staring down at his ink-stained fingers, but he doesn't shy away either.
"Right," Blackwell says. "To that end I want you all to start getting people ready to move. Work through your agents and get everyone who needs to know up to speed. I'm not sure when our moment is going to come, but I know it will be soon. When it does, I want us to be ready."
"It'd be a lot easier for me to get the unions organized if I could just talk with the various representatives myself," Fergus says, standing up and dusting off his overalls. "They're hard put thanks to Dunstan's little stunt with the homeless and the workhouses, and having a face to match with the marching orders would go a long way to easing their minds."
"Compartmentalization of information," I say, grabbing my jacket. "Telepathy might be a rare skill, but we can't be sure which necromancers are versed in it and which aren't."
Fergus opens his mouth to reply, but the door leading upstairs opens and I'm on my feet before my thoughts have a chance to catch up. I reach into my jacket and pull out my baton, snapping it open, and take a step toward the stairs. Blackwell raises a hand before I can go any further, which thankfully keeps me from bashing one of his people over the head. To his credit, the young man in plain clothes does not flinch at the motion. Judging by his posture he's a soldier, likely one of Blackwell's hand-picked agents.
This is all but confirmed when he salutes the colonel, one hand snapping up to brush short brown hair. Blackwell turns his attention fully to the young man, and waves a hand to put him at ease.
"I trust you've a good reason for intruding on this meeting?"
"Yes, sir," the young man responds. "We've had a break in the mystery surrounding the disturbances within the Intelligence Bureau. We think we have an eyewitness to what might have happened."
"How can you be sure?" Blackwell asks. "It's only been a few days."
"Too much activity around the upper Altyne River, sir," he says. "Necromancers directing revenants to search for something. They're doing their best to keep it quiet, but you can only do so much when moving around that many bodies. We managed to slip in close and abscond with who we believe they were searching for. We've got him inside the city now. He's near dead, but if we're lucky he'll make it through."
"Who is it?" I ask, collapsing the baton and putting it back in my jacket. "It must be someone important if they're going to such lengths to find him."
The young man pauses, looking over at me. Then he takes a deep breath and says, "It's Randall Dunstan."
The jacket slips from my fingers. Everything has gone very quiet, even though I can see Blackwell's lips moving to further interrogate his subordinate. Alice and Fergus are also on their feet, trying to get a word in, but I cannot hear them over the ringing in my ears. Only Jacob does not move, continuing to stare at his hands.
Randall Dunstan. A man I've not spoken with since our daughter was taken away from us. A man I believed had left my life forever.
I grab the bottle of Fergus' whisky and take a deep, long pull. I don't stop until every drop is gone.
"Right away, Ma'am."
I turn away from him as he goes off to set up my order, looking out at the crowd. The sun is just beginning to set, and people are making their way home from jobs in factories, offices, and any of the other numerous businesses that make up the capital of the world's most powerful empire. Most are walking, but the tram system does an admirable job transporting those who live further from the city center. There are even some automobiles, a luxury becoming more and more available with the encouragement of new production practices. Assembly lines of revenants putting everything together, piece by piece.
All in all, it creates a bustling cacophony that I find strangely soothing. One can get lost in the noise, almost hide in it, and sometimes that's pleasant. People talking, tram bells ringing, car horns honking… I could do without the smell, though. All this burning petrol, along with the smog from the factories closer to the river, fills the air with a caustic stench to make the eyes water.
"Hey! Hey, you!" calls out a rough, rasping voice from the alley behind me. "You're that senator! The dark one from the colonies!"
I briefly close my eyes, bracing myself with a deep breath, before turning in my seat to address the man stumbling from the shadows between the cafe and the building next to it. He is dirty and disheveled, the grease staining his shirt a sure sign of a factory worker. In one hand he holds a bottle, and even amidst the miasma of the city I can smell the booze wafting from it and the man's breath. He walks out of the alley, pausing briefly to keep the cap on his head from falling as he stumbles.
"I'm senator Fatima Hajar, yes," I reply, forcing a smile. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"Yeah!" the man shouts, waving his arms. The motion almost sends him tumbling. "You can stop saying all those awful things about our soldiers! They're fighting for us, against Galt and Iber and those savages down where you come from. Keeping Alba strong!"
"I don't recall saying anything negative about our soldiers, sir," I say. "Just how the military is being used."
"It's the same damn thing!"
He comes closer, and I rise to my feet. At this distance he could smash the bottle against my face, or simply lay his hands on me. Slowly, I reach for the collapsible baton in my suit pocket. This isn't how I wanted to end my day, but if I have to…
"Is there any trouble here?"
The man, face ruddy with drink, goes ashen and backs away as a uniformed officer walks across the street flanked by two revenants with todstein spikes in their skulls. I spare him a glance, pale and blonde and smiling with all his teeth, before looking back to the man who may or may not have been about to make a terrible mistake. Something he seems to realize as fear overcomes the bravery only strong drink could bring with the revenants walking closer, deathly silent in their hulking metal armor.
"No, no trouble, officer," I say, giving the drunk a meaningful look. "Just a concerned citizen addressing one of his representatives. Nothing to worry yourself over."
"Right," he says, taking off his cap to wipe sweat off his brow with it. "Yeah, just voicing my opinion. Ain't no law against that."
"Not currently," the uniformed man says, still smiling. "Off with you, then. No need to trouble the senator further."
The man tips his cap and mumbles something incoherent as he all but runs into the crowd. A few yelled curses from those he bumps into, and then he is out of sight. I turn to the police officer, keeping that smile on my face as I rest a hand on my table.
"I don't think he was going to try anything, but you have my thanks all the same."
"Just doing my job, senator," the officer replies. "Be careful, all right? You never know might happen on the streets at night, even in our fair capital."
I nod and continue to smile, keeping my eyes on him and his undead assistants until they too vanish into the crowd. A breath I hadn't known I'd been holding escapes me, and it takes all my effort to sit properly rather than collapse into my seat. My heartbeat is going faster than I would like, pounding in my chest, and not because of the drunkard.
When the coffee comes it is a welcome distraction. The waiter must have witnessed the exchange, but kept his distance while the officer and his revenants were near. A wise policy, all told. It does not bode well to garner the attention of such people. At best they might ignore you, which is the preferable outcome. At worst they might corner you later to ask pointed questions you don't have the answers for, and then take the opportunity to abuse the jurisdiction they have over the populace.
All for the sake of "maintaining the authority of the law," of course. Though this officer didn't strike me as someone on a power trip. No… His ready presence implies something rather more disturbing, but not anything the young man serving me need concern himself with.
I thank him and take a sip of my coffee. The black liquid has become a delightful shade of brown with the cream mixed in, and between that and the sugar they create a wonderfully bittersweet flavor that I don't know what I would do without. There are days I practically live on coffee, forgoing meals so I can have more time to get work done.
Work like I'm doing right now.
The message is hidden in the newspaper I was given, the shop owner having underlined certain words as instructed to when approached by people who for both their safety and my own I have never met. It's short and to the point, as these things must be, and when I take this paper home I'll burn it in my fireplace.
Meeting tonight. Important developments. Colonel.
That draws a frown from me, but I continue the act of reading the newspaper even after receiving the message. Appearances are important, and the coffee is good. I have the time to enjoy myself a little before getting to the night's business.
The rest of the newspaper gives me much the same as reports that have come to my office, if cleaned up and adapted for public consumption. Military recruitment issues are spun as "Our valiant men and women in uniform finding clever solutions to problems in the field." Tensions with Galt and Iber are sold as "We must prepare for the foreign threat to our shores." Meanwhile, discontent in the colonies becomes "Ungrateful malcontents waste Alban lives with needless chaos."
Naturally, even peaceful protest is lumped together with violent terrorism because why should anyone have issue with Alban rule? It's not as if people are exploited and brutalized for the sake of the empire's industry. You won't see such things in the reputable papers, and anyone trying to publish the actual truth is hunted down by those like that smiling police officer with his club-wielding revenants.
Alba is teetering. It's not over the edge yet, but all the signs are there and everyone is happy to keep rushing toward that cliff. And why? The true reason, one that will never get put in the papers, is that there's too much money to be gained in the short-term to care about anything like sustainability. Growth is everything, ever more resources going into a bottomless devouring maw to appease hunger that will never be satisfied.
But no, when war eventually breaks out it will be because the rest of the world is jealous of our prosperity and hates us for noble yet conveniently nebulous concepts like our "culture" and "freedoms." Never mind that the former has become an increasingly hollow justification for ostracizing anything that doesn't fit what is considered socially acceptable norms, and the latter has been a joke for decades.
God, I'm depressing myself. It's time to go home and prepare.
The newspaper goes into my purse and I leave a good tip for the waiter. After that, it's on to the tram system and back to my house. The trolley dings as it approaches its stop, and I take the chance to hop on. There are no seats available, but I'm fine with standing.
The passengers around me give space, but not much. I've avoided the rush, but people are still in the process of getting back to their homes. They're a dirty bunch, grimy from long hours. Inevitably, some of that gets on my nice red suit as people jostle into place to better squeeze into the tram. Sweat and oil assaults my nostrils, bitter and acrid enough I can taste it all through the lingering remains of my coffee, and I can't help curling my nose.
I could afford a car, but prefer to take public transit. Not only do I have an image to maintain, that of a politician fighting for the common man, but it reminds me of why I'm doing this. It's one of the reasons, in any event. I can't forget my most important one, my primary focus.
Kendra… I will save you or die trying.
I look out at the city as sparks rain down with the trolley starting up again. Tall, impressive buildings made of painted brick show tenement houses with shops on the bottom selling any manner of goods. Salted meats from holdings in Galt, fruits from Iber, and even textiles from my native Marak. Not to mention whole buildings devoted entirely to the latest in machinery, like automobiles and radios.
Money changes hands every second of every hour of every day, with well-dressed patrons enjoying spoils from all over the world to delight themselves with. Cafes like the one I just left are also a common sight, as are dance clubs where the latest in music from peoples across the empire are mixed together in new and exciting ways. Lamplights are lit to help facilitate this ongoing merriment, people laughing as they go from one entertainment to the next in a city that never truly sleeps.
Yet the spaces between show not everything is glittering and glamorous. In the alleyways I see broken up hovels made from scrap, dirty cloth and rotting wood broken on the ground where the police stormed through just weeks ago. The results of Aidric Dunstan's proposal criminalizing homelessness. Not that he called it such, of course, but it can't be anything else when the only options given are to join the military or be forced into a workhouse prison to labor until their bodies give out. After which their bodies will be taken, todstein spikes jammed into their skulls, forced to serve the empire in death just as they did in life.
My stomach twists looking at those sights again and again as the tram moves on, and I take deep breaths despite the smell in order to settle myself lest I retch. I hadn't been able to rally enough votes in time to oppose that measure. Too many of my colleagues in the lower chamber had to be convinced this was a terrible plan, one that only hurts the most vulnerable among us, and by that time the window to contest the motion had passed.
It's a relief to get out at my stop, to get away from the stuffy car crammed full of people trailing past the broken remnants of human misery. I take a few minutes in the lamplight to compose myself, then take off down the street. My home isn't far, but I have a meeting to get to and don't wish to linger outside at night any longer than I must.
The winter wind is cool across my face, though warmer than I remember even from just a few years ago. The light from the lamps reflects off my dark skin, making me shine. I am beautiful, even rumpled as I am from the tram. My hair is straight, done every morning to hide my natural curls, while my face is symmetrical and without blemish.
Yes, I am beautiful. I know this, and I use it. I need every advantage I can get, and being both attractive and unmarried sometimes gives men certain ideas when I require them to be more tractable in the Senate.
A place I angle to be distant from while in recess for the upcoming holidays. Perhaps I'll venture out from the city for a time, take a visit to the countryside. Anything to get away from Alba the city even if I cannot afford to get away from Alba the empire.
Not a very original name as far as capitals go. Alba, the capital city of the empire of Alba. But I've come to realize this is just how these people think. Alba must be grand, thus its leaders must be grand, so people must associate their seat of power with the empire itself.
Image and presentation. That's how this game is played. If you do not act in line with your station then you very well might find yourself losing influence, cut off from the connections required to move the world in ways you desire. Even I have to go along with that to a certain extent, though I twist it in such ways I find more palatable.
Like with my home. It's a simple affair, but I know as I walk up the steps this is a neighborhood full of well-to-do people. Two-story houses, three at most, with stone foundations and brightly painted wooden facades. As well, each has a small garden attached to a backyard where one might hold social functions. Large enough to comfortably hold a family and servants, along with the occasional guest.
It's nothing compared to the manors some of my colleagues live in, all in relatively close proximity to the Senate building itself rather than near the outskirts like with my neighborhood. Those are sprawling estates, some even with carefully maintained forests and parks for those old families to take their ease in with activities like hunting or horseback riding. Those are the truly wealthy, but my house shows enough class that I cannot be said to be embarrassing the institution of the Senate.
God knows I get enough pushback from those bastards in the upper chamber as it is.
The door opens before I even have a chance to pull out my key. Aysha, my maid, steps to the side with a bow and gives me room to enter. She's shorter than me, and plumper, but that thin layer of fat hides strong muscle she's had to use on my behalf on more than one occasion. Her skin is lighter than mine, though still dark, and she keeps her curly black hair tied back in her bonnet.
"Good evening, Miss Hajar," she says as she takes my purse and coat. "I trust you had a pleasant day?"
"Not really," I reply, pulling the newspaper free before Aysha could walk away with it. "And it's not done yet. Do you have a fire going? I need to burn this."
"Ah… So it's to be one of those nights, then?"
"I'm afraid so. If anyone calls on me let them know I'll be indisposed for the rest of the evening."
Aysha nods, moving over to the windows and closing the curtains. Together we watch the newspaper burn in the fireplace. It's a small thing, set into the wall of a modest living room set with a low table and plush chairs for receiving company. The ink turns the flames green, giving off a sickly light, before everything finally crumbles to ash. I take out the iron poker and stir the dust just to make sure everything is properly destroyed.
"There have been people watching the house," Aysha says as we make our way to the basement. "Watching the whole street. They drive by in cars, taking slow trips up and down the road. Sometimes they idle, as if enjoying the day, but they are always watching."
"The same car, or different ones?"
"Different cars, Miss Hajar," Aysha replies. "But the same people. They come in shifts."
"Hmm… We'll need to be careful about who we bring into the house."
The sound of our steps is muffled as we walk down into the basement, sturdy wooden stairs and stone walls taking in the vibrations of our presence and giving nothing back in return. Most of the space is taken in with either furniture put in storage or shelves of preserved food, giving the room a claustrophobic feeling. The darkness doesn't help, and even the lantern in Aysha's hand does little but cast strange shadows that dance along the walls and hide amongst the clutter.
One shelf moves away easily on a hidden hinge, its wheels cleverly set into a groove in the floor. Its back is as strong as the door to my house, and only capable of being opened from this side. Beyond is a hole carved into the stone, leading out into darkness. The smell wafts up to meet us almost immediately, the reek of human waste and chemical runoff a faint stabbing sensation now that the barrier has been removed. Aysha hands me a scarf, which I tie around my mouth and nose, and I take the lantern from her.
"Please wait here for my return," I tell her. "This hopefully won't take too long."
"As you wish, Miss Hajar."
Then I am down into the sewers, ducking low to keep my head from scraping the top of the tunnel, and Aysha is closing the door behind me. I hate asking her to wait, but there's no avoiding the necessity. Someone has to open the door, and it's too much of a security risk to give free access to my home.
A brief foray through the carved out passage takes me into the sewer proper, and I shift a portion of the wall aside to step out onto the walkway. The slowly moving sewage beside me is not as bad as one would find closer to the city center, but it still makes my stomach lurch and burns my lungs even through the scarf. A coughing fit takes me, and I put a hand on the wall to keep from hunching over. But the smell isn't going to get any better, so after a few moments I press on into the darkness.
The walk, thankfully, is brief. Colonel Blackwell does not live far away, and the journey is mostly just a straight line from my house to his. But I still cannot help but jump at every sudden noise, pull close to the wall with every movement in the stagnant air. The drip of water, the creaking of metal and stone… Sound echoes strangely down here, as if the earth itself protests my intrusion.
It is a relief when, almost half an hour later, I come to the hidden wall leading to a tunnel similar to the one connecting my own basement to the sewers. I open it, rushing inside and closing the door behind me. The smell is still present, but so separated it is no longer quite so cloying. I take off the scarf, close my eyes, and breathe deep.
"Rough walk?" a familiar voice asks, and I open my eyes to a young woman with pale skin and shining green eyes smiling at me. Stocky and strong, with a face like a brick wall framed by short brown hair, she looks more like one who works construction than a university professor. "Wish it got easier, but it never does."
"Were you waiting for me, Alice?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," Alice Finlay says, pushing off the wall. She's wearing a blue dress and a thick leather jacket, both stained from her own journey here. The tunnel is small, barely large enough for us both to crouch in, but she still comes close. "I was hoping I could get you on side before we deal with whatever has Blackwell in such a tizzy."
"On side for what?"
Alice scowls. "You know what. I'm tired of waiting, and I'm not the only one."
"We've talked about this, Alice," I reply, pushing past her as best as I'm able. "Open conflict is coming, but I'm not going to encourage leaping into action just because you're itching for it to start."
"Why do you restrain yourself?" Alice asks, grabbing my arm. "You can see the writing on the wall as clearly as I do. All those fat cats in the Senate, all those moneyed interests directing them, they're eating us alive! The whole damned country! We have to act!"
"We must be sure it is the right time to act. We only have one shot at this."
"How can you wait?" Alice asks, her voice coming out in a growl. "Your daughter-"
"Yes, my daughter," I snap back, wrenching my arm away as I turn to face her. She flinches as I move my face right up to her own. "Who is being possessed by a monster. My daughter who I will do anything to see free, even if it means having to wait for the best moment to strike. Because failure means Aidric Dunstan owns her forever. That is unacceptable. And if I can wait, then you and your contacts in the universities can wait."
We stare at each other in silence. On Alice's face, so wide and expressive, there is a resigned weariness laced with anger and fear. Anger at the world, and fear for it. But it's directed at me, as well. Because while I can't be sure what face I'm making, I know for damn sure what comes across in my eyes. I won't budge on this. Any possibility of defeat cannot be tolerated, not against an enemy as vast and callous as the one set against us.
Alice is the first to look away, her lips twisting in the riotous display of emotions still crossing her face. To a degree I empathize. This is the world she and her students are going to inherit. It only makes sense that she demands action.
Slow, careful deliberation can be torturous when everything is coming apart at the seams.
I knock on the door in a rhythm of two, three, and then two again. That's the signal that we're allies and not police or military attempting to sneak close for a raid.
The door, hidden behind the bookshelves lining the walls, opens up into another basement. Unlike mine, this is more like a smoking lounge than a storage room. Above is a small electric chandelier, a carpet of interlocking geometric patterns lines the floor, and in the center are a number of plush couches around a small table. At that table are three men, all of whom look up as Alice and I enter.
"Fatima," says a man a few years older than me in a well-fitted black uniform with its golden epaulettes, gray at his temples and in his neatly trimmed beard. It mixes well with his naturally black hair. "You didn't need to take the sewer route. No one would bat an eye if you'd just gone in the front door."
Colonel Gavin Blackwell is a large man, tall and broad of shoulder, with a face lined before its time with stress. He smiles, and I wish I had it in me to smile back. I'm too tense, lightning racing through my blood, so I don't respond to the carefully managed "romance" he and I have been cultivating in order to distract from why I visit him so often.
Though perhaps there's more truth to those rumors we've developed than we might admit to our fellows. The colonel is easy on the eyes, and I've noticed him glancing at me when he believed I wasn't looking. I certainly wouldn't object if he proposed. At least, I wouldn't if we manage to accomplish what I fear we'll be forced to attempt very soon.
We're not the first group to work against the government. We're not even the only one, if reports of violent unrest simmering up in the Kaledon Highlands is accurate. That's not even getting into the assault at Kirwick a few months back. Alba has plenty of enemies within its own borders who are more than willing to get their hands dirty.
To the best of my knowledge, however, we're one of the longest-lasting. Those who lead the empire have a vested interest in crushing dissent when it arises, and more than one conspiracy has been broken over the last century. Blackwell and I came together in common cause a little over ten years ago, slowly gathering like-minded people in a loose network to share information and aid.
Then the upper chamber passed its law on the act of possession, stole my daughter from me, and things had to change.
"This meeting is dangerous and stupid," I reply, taking off my suit jacket. I throw it across one of the couches and glare at Blackwell. "I'm being watched. I'm sure some of you are as well."
Blackwell's eyes narrow. "How do you know?"
"A police officer responded immediately when I was being accosted by a drunk," I reply. "There have also been cars with the same people going up and down my neighborhood in regular intervals. It's sloppy, but that just means the people observing me have either gotten careless or Dunstan wants me to know I'm being watched."
"It might not be as bad as you think," Blackwell says. "Military Intelligence has been asked to step into roles normally reserved for other departments. Something has happened in the Intelligence Bureau, and that gives us a window of opportunity."
"Yes, you mentioned that," a small, reedy man in a gray suit with thinning blonde hair says from one of the other couches. He darts his blue eyes from the left to the right, wringing his hands together. "Do you know anything more?
"I've assigned some of my people to follow up on it, Jacob. We'll hopefully have more information soon."
"Please let us know when you do," Jacob Hanley says, leaning back onto the cushions. They swallow up his small, skinny frame as if he were made of sticks. "Too many unknowns are bad for business, especially the kind of business we get up to."
"Lighten up, Hanley!" the last man says from the other side of the same couch, slapping the back of it with one large, calloused hand. He laughs as Jacob flinches. "Blackwell might be almost as stuffy as you are, but he's solid. He won't steer us wrong."
"I appreciate the vote of confidence, Fergus," Blackwell says wryly. He waves a hand at me and the still sullenly silent Alice. "Sit down, you two, and close the door. We've matters to discuss."
Fergus McCoy laughs again, his green eyes twinkling beneath a rough mop of red hair, and reaches for the bottle on the table. He pulls a small metal cup from the pocket of his denim overalls and pours himself a liberal splash of whatever is inside, amber and smelling of floral spice, before holding up the glass to the rest of us.
"First, a drink!"
Jacob frowns, the twitching around his eyes revealing his irritation. "Must we do this every time?"
"Rituals are important," the larger man says. He takes a deep pull from the cup and hands it to Jacob. "If we're caught we'll all hang together, so while we're alive and working in common cause we drink from the same cup."
A sigh escapes from Jacob, but he accepts the cup and drinks from it all the same. I take my seat at one of the empty couches, Alice taking the other end, and he passes the cup to me with trembling fingers. The whisky is like smoky fire going down my throat, smooth and hot. It settles in my chest like an ember, and I finally allow myself to relax a little before passing the cup to Alice.
She drinks, smacking her lips loudly to Fergus' noisy delight. Jacob, for his part, simply rolls his eyes. Then Blackwell takes the whisky and finishes what's left, exhaling sharply and thumping a fist to his chest.
"Strong as always," the colonel says as he sets the cup back on the table. "You certainly know how to pick your drink, Fergus."
"I just know people," Fergus says, smiling. "Wouldn't be good at my job if I didn't. Now, why don't you get on with what you wanted us all here for."
"I'll get right to it. Fatima already knows this, but orders have been given to the military that after six months of solidifying gains around the border of Marak we're to push deeper into the continent."
"Have to keep the war machine moving," Alice mutters. "I knew the lull wouldn't last."
"The military can't keep up the rapid expansion the Senate wants," the colonel goes on. "Dunstan's plans are a stopgap measure, buying us perhaps another three years at most before we once more run into the same issues."
"How many others in the military have noticed?" Fergus asks. "It's got to be more than just you, eh?"
"Some, and I've made inroads there. But there are… competing interests that are muddying the waters."
"You mean all the businesses profiting off of the spoils of the colonies," Jacob mutters. His hands are back to their wringing with this news, fingers gliding over each other again and again. "Along with those who supply the army with uniforms and equipment. There's a lot of money moving around from the military being constantly active and no one wants it to stop."
"The world's going to want its pound of flesh when we start running out of men and women in uniform, alive or dead, to hold the line," Alice says. She leans back and crosses her arms. "If our 'dear leaders' don't already have a draft ready to go to send me and mine out to die for them, then they'll have one soon."
"Who else in the military do you think you might be able to bring to our side?" I ask. "You mentioned inroads. Is there finally enough discontent to start pushing?"
"Dangerous," Jacob mutters. "Going to get us all shot…"
"Yes," Blackwell says, settling his hands behind his back. "I believe I might be able to convince General Crawford of the necessities we have all seen."
That makes my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. Fergus lets out a low whistle, and Jacob shoots bolt upright to stare at Blackwell. Only Alice is silent, still sitting with her arms crossed. But her eyes gleam as she observes the colonel, standing ramrod straight at the head of the table.
"Now what makes you go and figure someone so distinguished would throw his lot in with us?" Fergus asks. "Man's a damned war hero."
"I've not done much as of yet, save put out a few feelers in his direction," Blackwell responds. "He's been recalled from the colonies for raising his concerns about the call for further expansion, as well as protesting the policies proposed for those regions."
"So the old man started to grow a conscience. Better late than never," Alice says. "You think that's enough to get him on board?"
"I believe it's worth trying."
"It's too risky!" Jacob shouts, slamming a hand on the table. We all turn to him, his face flushed with the whisky and shining with sweat. He wipes a hand across his thinning pate and goes on, turning to each of us with wild eyes. "Too much is happening too fast! The Intelligence Bureau starts suffering unknown problems, relying on the military to pick up the slack, and now Ernest Crawford is being recalled? Am I the only one who smells the trap you all are so keen on walking into?"
Silence reigns as we all continue to stare at the little man. Jacob has never been this outspoken before, normally preferring to let others talk. But the fear on his face, twisting an expression already so overtaken with anxiety, is new to all of us. His eyes are wide, his lips drawn into a thin line. He wipes a hand across his scalp again as sweat continues to pour off of him, soaking his shirt and settling the loose fabric onto his skinny frame.
At this moment he reminds me of my ex-husband. Randall also lived with fear, hiding it behind everything he did. It never released so explosively, however. For Randall, it was simply a constant in his life and ultimately what ended our marriage.
As quickly as the mania overtakes him, it vanishes. Jacob cringes at our regard, slumping back into the couch and tugging at his collar. The redness in his cheeks fades away, leaving him even paler than before as the strength brought on by the alcohol passes on. He puts a hand to his chest, taking deep breaths as he visibly attempts to steady himself.
"What would you have us do, then?" Blackwell asks, his voice deliberately soft. "Should we simply let this opportunity pass us by?"
"I just want us to slow down and think," Jacob says, so quiet I can barely hear his words. "We don't know enough, and that's more than just risking ourselves. People could get hurt."
I take a deep breath. The whisky Fergus provided is strong stuff, and that one drink I took is having an effect. Even more, I'm tired. It's been a long day, with many more long days ahead. That's enough to wear down on anyone. It certainly seems enough to wear on Jacob, who must have been holding in all his reservations until now.
Jacob looks up at me as I lean forward across the table and put a hand on his knee. He's such a slight man, so bony and thin. Although he's around my age he looks so much older with his thinning hair and papery-pale skin. This world and its cruelties weigh on him, and I'm afraid I will have to add to that if we're to have any chance of a better one.
"Are you willing to kill?"
Jacob blinks, his surprise evident as he shudders away from my hand. "What?"
"Let me clarify," I say, sitting up straight. "I don't mean a senator, or one of the leaders behind big business interests. I mean the soldier who believes they're doing their job, or the factory worker who is afraid for their livelihood. Are you willing to kill them in order to achieve our goals?"
"I… That's…" Jacob brings both his hands to his chest as if to protect himself. "But we shouldn't have to!"
"You're right, we shouldn't," I say, keeping my voice firm. "But we will. I don't bring this up to catch you in a dilemma, but to impress upon you that this is war and that those are never bloodless. We're talking about the possibility of revolution, and revolution is war. People will die no matter how careful we are. We have to prepare ourselves for that eventuality."
"And when does the killing stop?" Jacob whispers. "When does it end?"
Now there's the important question. The question that keeps me up at night, wondering if I'm a madwoman dragging the rest of the world into my insanity. I grimace, knowing I don't have a good answer.
Because for me, it ends with my daughter free and Aidric Dunstan's ghost vanishing in the wind. Preferably he would be screaming on his way to Hell, but I'll take what I can get. Only when I have Kendra back in my arms will it end.
But those demons in the upper chamber won't abide that. They've seen they can take all their riches past death itself, and they will fight tooth and nail to keep them. The battle is existential. For them, it is eternity. For us, it is our future and the future of everyone who comes after.
Alice is smiling, something I pointedly ignore. She stands up and walks over to Jacob, placing a hand on his trembling shoulder. Alice kneels down so they're both at eye level with each other, and Jacob visibly forces himself to look at her.
"It ends when the country isn't eating itself and the rest of the world," she says. "When you don't need to live in fear looking at your numbers, and I don't have to lie awake at night wondering when I and all my friends are going to be forced at gunpoint to go to war for the profits of dead men."
"And everything before?" Jacob asks. "Even with Crawford on our side… We won't be able to get enough of the military on board to simply remove those in the Upper Chamber from power."
"War is already happening," Alice says. "We just have the luxury of not having to see it here."
"I know what goes on in the colonies," Jacob snaps, his eyes narrowing to glare at her. "I've audited it. I've done the math showing how blood turns to treasure! I've gone overseas and looked through the books and tallied all of the suffering we've inflicted on those poor people! "
"This is part of the reason I asked for this meeting, rather than just sending messages," Blackwell says. "Tensions are high, and I want to be sure about our resolve. Because we're entering a critical stage. Over the years the Upper Chamber of the Everlasting Senate has been removing more of their restraints, coming down harder on protest, and if we don't act soon I fear we might lose our chance to stop greater tragedy. That means taking risks, but we can prepare for those even if our enemies are attempting to lure out dissent."
"Explains a lot, that does," Fergus says. He sighs, but when he looks at Jacob it's with a smile. "We need you, Jacob. You're a wizard with numbers and all your work with the money guys helps keep everything we're doing afloat. You want to know more before we move? Well, we can do that as best we're able. But time is running out, and we need all hands on deck. Are you with us?"
Jacob is silent for a long time, looking down at his hands. He opens and closes them, and I observe how joint and muscle and bone move together. His fingers are ink-stained, but I can't help but wonder if he sees a different color there.
None of us are clean. Each of us, to greater or lesser degrees, has participated in the obscenity that is the Alban empire. We have each enjoyed prosperity bought by the suffering of others, even as we feared we might be the next to be devoured. But that doesn't mean we can't do something, can't throw ourselves against that awful behemoth and say "No. This is not right."
I will these thoughts to Jacob, think them with every ounce of strength I have. Because while I might not have had this exact conversation with my fellows in the Lower Chamber of the Everlasting Senate, I've gone over much the same topics. The words are different, but the spirit is the same.
If we do not stand together, then we will die alone.
"Yes," Jacob says at last. "God help me, yes. I'm with you."
I release a breath, and see Blackwell's posture relax a fraction out of the corner of my eye. Alice nods, while Fergus gives Jacob another smile and a friendly jostle with his leg. Jacob does not share their exuberance, the skinny man letting the couch devour him once again as he keeps staring down at his ink-stained fingers, but he doesn't shy away either.
"Right," Blackwell says. "To that end I want you all to start getting people ready to move. Work through your agents and get everyone who needs to know up to speed. I'm not sure when our moment is going to come, but I know it will be soon. When it does, I want us to be ready."
"It'd be a lot easier for me to get the unions organized if I could just talk with the various representatives myself," Fergus says, standing up and dusting off his overalls. "They're hard put thanks to Dunstan's little stunt with the homeless and the workhouses, and having a face to match with the marching orders would go a long way to easing their minds."
"Compartmentalization of information," I say, grabbing my jacket. "Telepathy might be a rare skill, but we can't be sure which necromancers are versed in it and which aren't."
Fergus opens his mouth to reply, but the door leading upstairs opens and I'm on my feet before my thoughts have a chance to catch up. I reach into my jacket and pull out my baton, snapping it open, and take a step toward the stairs. Blackwell raises a hand before I can go any further, which thankfully keeps me from bashing one of his people over the head. To his credit, the young man in plain clothes does not flinch at the motion. Judging by his posture he's a soldier, likely one of Blackwell's hand-picked agents.
This is all but confirmed when he salutes the colonel, one hand snapping up to brush short brown hair. Blackwell turns his attention fully to the young man, and waves a hand to put him at ease.
"I trust you've a good reason for intruding on this meeting?"
"Yes, sir," the young man responds. "We've had a break in the mystery surrounding the disturbances within the Intelligence Bureau. We think we have an eyewitness to what might have happened."
"How can you be sure?" Blackwell asks. "It's only been a few days."
"Too much activity around the upper Altyne River, sir," he says. "Necromancers directing revenants to search for something. They're doing their best to keep it quiet, but you can only do so much when moving around that many bodies. We managed to slip in close and abscond with who we believe they were searching for. We've got him inside the city now. He's near dead, but if we're lucky he'll make it through."
"Who is it?" I ask, collapsing the baton and putting it back in my jacket. "It must be someone important if they're going to such lengths to find him."
The young man pauses, looking over at me. Then he takes a deep breath and says, "It's Randall Dunstan."
The jacket slips from my fingers. Everything has gone very quiet, even though I can see Blackwell's lips moving to further interrogate his subordinate. Alice and Fergus are also on their feet, trying to get a word in, but I cannot hear them over the ringing in my ears. Only Jacob does not move, continuing to stare at his hands.
Randall Dunstan. A man I've not spoken with since our daughter was taken away from us. A man I believed had left my life forever.
I grab the bottle of Fergus' whisky and take a deep, long pull. I don't stop until every drop is gone.
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