by Carrie Patel
“Well, if he should change his mind, the offer still stands.”
“How gracious of you. And now, perhaps you could tell me what the Qadi thought of our trade proposals.”
Bailey smiled, tapping the arm of his chair. “On that front, I’ve got something that, I think, you’ll like even better. Something for nothing.” Jane felt his eyes on her but kept her head down.
Roman said nothing but looked on dubiously.
“We’re offering biweekly food shipments. Nothing particularly lavish, mind you – dry grains, a portion of our winter squash surplus, some cured ham now and then. But it should be enough to sustain you through this business with your farmers.”
Roman’s eyes were searching Bailey, roving and scanning as if the angle of his body or the tilt of his head might give something away. “That’s generous of you.”
“Nonsense. It’s in our best interests to see that Recoletta comes out on top of this. We may have our differences regarding the governance of cities, but we are absolutely united when it comes to preserving a productive relationship with the farming communes.”
“I don’t suppose that’s an offer Sato can refuse,” Roman said. He looked briefly to Jane.
Bailey grinned. “Not unless he wants another wave of riots on his hands.”
“You are persuasive, Sayidh Bailey. When could we expect the first shipment?”
“Why, as early as tomorrow. We were confident you would receive this suggestion with enthusiasm, so we saw no cause for delay. And the sooner we move, the sooner we send a strong message to the farmers about the solidarity between cities.”
“And what is it you expect from us?” Roman asked.
Jane peered over the edge of her writing pad in time to see Bailey shrug. “Simply your assistance in offloading the shipments once they arrive. As I said, we’ve no wish to see Recoletta fall to its farmers.”
“But you wouldn’t mind seeing us fall to someone else, is that it?”
Bailey’s thin smile looked exasperated even to Jane. “Recoletta already fell, Mr Arnault. We’ve no wish to see it happen again. If you can survive the farmers, we’ll have plenty of time to work out the rest of this.”
“Fair enough.” Roman looked around at the hodgepodge and dilapidated furnishings. “I don’t suppose you brought me all the way here just to discuss food shipments.”
“And why not? One sends chocolates as a surprise. Not a trainload of comestibles.”
The hairs on the back of Jane’s neck rose. These were almost the exact words the Qadi had used, and hearing them come from Bailey unnerved her for reasons she couldn’t define.
“Besides,” Bailey said, “as I recall, you like to do your grocery shopping here, don’t you? I don’t suppose there’s much of that to be done in Recoletta at the moment.”
Jane heard mischief and sudden merriment in Bailey’s voice, but was there also something else? The low, cool tenor of a threat?
If Arnault heard it, he gave no sign. “I’d be remiss to pass up the opportunity.” He smiled for the first time, showing his teeth.
Bailey rose. “Then I won’t keep you. As always, Miss Lin and I appreciate your visit.” He turned toward the door, giving Jane a look that could have meant anything.
* * *
Jane returned to the Majlis with Bailey, doing her part to avoid eye contact the whole way back. At her desk, the remaining hours trickled by. The meeting, the curious glances from Arnault, Bailey’s strange reticence, and most of all, Father Isse’s unexpected apparition, set her nerves on edge, and she found herself recycling the same paranoid questions for the remainder of the day.
Regardless, she would have to meet with Roman again. To find out what he knew and to confront him with what she’d learned – about both the Qadi’s plans and her parents.
By the time Jane reached the market, the place was already bustling. She headed straight for the vegetable stalls that she had visited last time. She hadn’t caught sight of Roman yet, but she was sure he was near, waiting and watching.
The thought of him lingering nearby, looking on, and plotting his approach suddenly infuriated her.
She was just passing a crate of bright orange peppers when she felt a presence over her shoulder.
“Make your way to the onions,” a voice – Roman’s – murmured. Warm breath tickled her ear and prickled the hairs along her neck. She pretended not to have heard him but headed in that direction all the same. When she reached the bin, he was already there, sorting through white and yellow bulbs.
She saw him out of the corner of her eye, a bulky, nondescript figure in dark robes and a loose head wrap. She examined a medium-sized, tight-layered specimen while she waited for him to begin.
“Same place,” he finally said. “Wait five. I’ll draw them off first.”
“Hmm,” she said, picking up another onion while he skulked away. She worked her thumb under the loose, dry outer layer and inspected the shiny skin beneath until she was certain he’d gone.
When she’d counted off a minute in her head, she turned back to observe the souk.
The crowd ebbed back and forth, a mass of talking, haggling, browsing people. None spared her so much as a passing glance. It should have brought her comfort, but she remembered the fleeting, impenetrable look she’d gotten from Father Isse, and she shivered.
At two minutes, she wound her way from the produce to the copper and pewter goods.
Thirty seconds later, she saw him.
She caught him looking away too quickly. And as he turned his head to an unnatural angle and flashed her a view of graying mutton chop sideburns and overlarge, reddish ears, she knew he wasn’t the same man who’d accosted her before. Seeing him might have been a relief. The thought of multiple pursuers, organized enough perhaps, to keep the man she’d seen out of her sight, chilled her gut.
Jane backed behind a rack of hanging pots before he could look again.
When he did, his roving, searching gaze was unmistakable. She backed further away, careful to keep an eye on him.
Three minutes had passed by the time she turned past cases of rings and pegs hung with bracelets.
She had almost lost sight of her pursuer when a hand clamped on her wrist.
Jane heard her own startled, strangled cry as she looked down and into her challenger’s face.
The woman was short, even shorter than Jane, and there was something familiar about her sincere, age-crinkled face that took Jane several seconds to recall.
“I must apologize,” the woman said, her grip still firm on Jane’s arm.
It wasn’t until Jane had tugged her arm free of the older woman’s grasp that she recognized her as the gold merchant she’d encountered on her first day in Madina.
“I did not trust you, sayideh. I insulted you.” The woman looked down at her now-empty hand as if Jane’s arm had vanished from thin air.
“It’s really fine,” Jane said, already looking again for her pursuer.
“It was a grave thing. Words can’t dismiss it so easily.”
Jane began backing away again. Where, she didn’t know. “Honestly, we can forget about it.”
“No!” The older woman looked up, her face smooth in its seriousness. “Maybe this is easy for you. But not here, not for me.”
Every flicker of movement seemed to conceal a runner headed for her, and every turning gaze seemed to rake her where she stood. But she forced herself to look at the older woman.
“I understand,” Jane said.
The merchant sighed. “In Madina, it is deeds, not words, that heal a past hurt. If there is ever anything – anything – I can do, you must let me know.”
The crowds had already blended and mingled again, each individual as indistinguishable as a fish in a school.
“Actually, there is something you could do.”
The older woman smiled. “Tell me.”
Jane explained that she was being followed by a man with long, gray sideburns. She suspected ther
e were others with him, though she didn’t know how many. All she knew was that she’d heard of more than a few cases at the Majlis of attacks against assimilated Recolettans, like her.
And when the merchant nodded, patting Jane’s arm, Jane buttressed her conscience by reminding herself that the important parts of her story were true.
They waited until the man with the sideburns wandered into view again. When Jane pointed him out, the merchant grinned.
“Leave this to me,” she said.
Jane had no choice but to trust the woman. Yet as she backed into the crowd, she saw the merchant turn to her neighbors and whisper a few quick words. Those two men did likewise, and within seconds, there was a shift in the crowd, as subtle and decisive as a changing wind.
It was no assurance, but it was the closest thing she could hope for. She hurried back to the Jeweled Pheasant as the crowd hardened into a barrier behind her.
As she entered the smoky pub, she took a deep breath and brushed her clamming palms against the edge of her robe. She walked up to the bar, slammed a handful of damp coins onto the dented wood, and accepted a short glass of semi-clear liquor from the bartender.
Up the rickety stairs again, where Roman already waited, worrying a splinter out of the dilapidated table. He seemed about to rise, but he gripped the edges of the table instead.
“You all right?” he asked when Jane sat.
“Just had to lose a scout,” she said.
His grip on the table relaxed. “That’s not what I meant.”
She took a drink and shuddered, to her embarrassment. Still, it wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. “I thought you were taking care of our followers.”
“So did I. I didn’t realize they had such a close eye on you.” He raised his own glass, tilting his head at a curious angle.
She took another drink from hers just to occupy herself. She drank too deeply and just barely kept herself from coughing it out. “Well. I get the feeling Father Isse’s been keeping a close eye on a lot of things.”
Roman froze, and his own glass nearly slipped from his hand. “Father Isse?”
“He’s head of–”
“Underlake. I know. You didn’t tell me he was here.”
She swallowed her annoyance. “I didn’t realize what this meant when we last met.”
He set his glass on the table with an unnecessarily loud thunk. “You mean he was already here then?”
Her grip tightened around the smudged glass. “Obviously that’s what I mean.”
The words came out more sharply than she’d intended, but Roman didn’t seem to notice. “Jane, this is an extremely delicate time. You need to trust me to know what’s important.”
“Do I?” She took another gulp of the searing liquor and barely tasted it.
“Is there anyone else – anything else – unusual that you’ve noticed?”
Her mouth had begun to feel unnaturally dry. Surprisingly, it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. “Let me think,” she said, turning her glass and watching the remaining half of her drink lap at the sides. “Another foreign gentleman known as Chancellor O’Brien. Showed up around the same time as Father Isse as far as I could tell.”
“Shit.” He leaned closer. “Jane, this is important.”
“So you keep telling me.”
“I need to find out what’s going on in there.” He raised his head and looked around the deserted upstairs, as if the answer sat at one of the empty tables around them.
“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Jane said. “The Qadi has convinced you to accept trainloads of food from Madina. Meanwhile, Chancellor O’Brien is maneuvering twenty-six hundred soldiers, including three hundred infantry, into Recoletta. And thanks to Father Isse’s plan of food aid, you’ll let the advance guard into the middle of Recoletta four days from now. By the time your people roll back the cargo doors and see what’s waiting, it’ll be too late.”
Roman was momentarily speechless. The sight was even more satisfying than Jane had expected.
A lump bobbed in his throat. “How did you put all of this together?”
“I paid attention to the right details.” She took another drink. Only a thimbleful remained when she set the glass down again. “I told you, Roman. I wasn’t keeping anything from you on purpose. But that’s more than we could say for you, isn’t it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My parents. You told me Ruthers murdered them. But that wasn’t the whole story.”
“Jane, I…” He waved a feeble hand. “I wasn’t trying to mislead you. It just seemed like a simpler explanation at the time.”
“Simpler for whom? For you, so that I’d help you and your new boss get rid of Ruthers?”
His hand fell back to the table with a hard slap. “I couldn’t have known you’d go after him like that. Besides, you let Ruthers go. Please.” He ran his hands over his dark mane. “If you want to split hairs about it, Ruthers maneuvered your parents into the line of fire. Is he any less guilty for not pulling the trigger himself?”
“Don’t try to reframe the argument. You knew full well what I’d believe.”
He sighed. “I thought it would be easier for you. I was just trying to protect you.”
“No.” She threw her head back and drained the last of her glass. The burn of the liquor was exquisite. As it trickled into her gut, something else inside her snapped shut like a blossom at dusk, and she saw the man across the table in a vision of hard lines and stark, washed-out colors. “You wanted to protect your idea of me.”
She heard the feeble tone of his protest even while his words garbled and jumbled in her ears. When she rose, he did not follow. She made her way downstairs, feeling as though she’d been released, though she was not certain from what.
And she had not yet begun to ask herself what notions of him she harbored in the secret recesses of her heart.
She stepped into the street. He had brought her little but trouble. Even the ways he’d tried to help, the little measures he’d taken to protect her, had merely been half measures to mitigate some of the trouble that his acquaintance had brought her. She told herself that this was the wiser course of action even while she worried that she was already too entrenched to be independent from his help.
Still, if she was going to find herself in trouble, at least it would be trouble of her own making.
She took a final look at the door of the bar just before she passed out of view. He was not following her.
Chapter Ten
Hiding
In the days since her return to Recoletta, Malone had walked its streets feeling like a traitor. As best as she could tell, the food shipments from the farms had stopped coming. Every hollow-eyed stranger, every empty shop, every shattered window dug a ragged scar across her conscience.
She even began to hope that the Bricklayer, whoever and whatever he or she was, had started to bring in more foodstuffs through back channels.
Her debriefing with Sato had been shorter and less arduous than she’d expected. She’d arrived at his office just as Arnault was leaving, his face disfigured by his customary scowl. Sato had seemed distracted, but some of the color and shape had returned to his cheeks. He’d cleared the clutter from his desk and seemed organized. Collected.
None of the usual shipments from the farming communes had accompanied her to the city, but he hadn’t asked about that. Instead, he’d listened quietly as she’d relayed a sanitized version of her meeting with the commune leaders, in which they were dogged and determined and she’d been all but chucked onto the next train back to Recoletta.
He’d nodded, tenting his fingers and looking for all the world like he was thinking about something else entirely. She should have been relieved that he’d given her own story so little scrutiny, but not knowing what preoccupied him worried her all the more.
She wasn’t surprised, then, when Sato called a last-minute Cabinet meeting late in the afternoon.
Somewhere along the
line, the Cabinet meetings had transitioned from planning and strategy to cataloguing the impossible problems facing Recoletta. Malone and the other advisors gathered like storm clouds, and the atmosphere in the meeting chambers thickened accordingly. They looked around at each other like crumbling, cracking things, each wondering which of the others would break first.
Arnault, however, looked at no one.
Sato joined them last of all, still seeming strangely restored. Everyone else – everyone but Arnault, she noted – seemed too wrapped up in their own concerns and calculations to notice.
After the requisite settling and fussing, Sato lifted his head and smiled. “Nathan Tran-MacGregor. Finance.”
Tran-MacGregor tugged at his collar and squeezed the grimace between his lips into an obliging smile. “As our illustrious president has informed us, all is not well in Recoletta, and most of you are familiar with finance’s continued difficulties. Chief among these challenges is my ministry’s almost complete lack of income.” He shot Grenwahl a long, steadied stare. “It is impossible to fund public works, defense, reconstruction, and city services without steady income. Income which usually comes from taxes and tariffs.”
“Begging your pardons, Mr Minister,” Grenwahl said, doffing an imaginary hat. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to be doing your job, too.”
Tran-MacGregor rolled his eyes and sighed, more loudly than necessary. “Since basic verbal comprehension also seems to be beyond you, let me restate myself. I am only asking that you produce the tax revenue that is your ministry’s responsibility. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Then let me help you with your math,” Grenwahl said. “I’ve seen your budget. It looks like rich folks’ holiday dinner. Learn to make do with less.”
Tran-MacGregor blanched, then curled his lips in disgust. “We have to invest in Recoletta’s infrastructure and human capital in order to rebuild.”
“And like I’ve told you, you’re asking too much of a rebuilding economy. Lower the tax rates and offer more perks for good business. You’re about to strangle the market,” Grenwahl said.
