Guardian

by A. J. Hartley

  “You can count on it,” I said.

  It was wet outside. A sudden storm had rolled in, poured steadily for twenty minutes, and gone again, leaving the cobbles slick and steaming, the side roads muddy and puddled. Instead of retracing my steps along the back alleys behind the opera house, I took the main street to Hanover and south toward the Parliament buildings, but the way quickly became crowded with huddled bystanders as if every home, office, and emporium had disgorged its people onto the road as news of the calamity spread. I had seen widespread excitement and consternation in Bar-Selehm before, but never had the mood been so tinged with fearful alarm. It was thick in the city’s thoroughfares like smog, caustic and nauseating. I could feel it creeping into my lungs with every breath, settling into my stomach, and churning it up like acid. Usually when dire events struck, the crowds’ moods depended on their place in the city, but today the anxious looks, the hesitant whispered inquiries, seemed to come from society ladies, Mahweni laborers and factory workers, Lani street vendors, and men of every color and stripe. Whatever had happened, however awful, it had done what few things ever did in Bar-Selehm: it had united the city.

  Against Willinghouse.

  I heard his name hissed in fevered conversations on every street corner. The evening edition of the papers was an hour away, but the story was already out, and the guilty party charged in the court of public opinion. My churning stomach tightened still further.

  I thought of the footprint I had seen on the roof of the dome. Someone else had been there, I was sure of it, though the sudden rain would have washed the print away.

  Again my stomach roiled. The footprint might be the one thing in Willinghouse’s favor, but it worried me nonetheless. If word of it reached the press, it wouldn’t be long before it was connected to one of the region’s favorite horror stories.

  The Gargoyle.

  I knew more about that particular nightmare figure than I would like. The creature had come to my rescue only a few weeks before, and it had had the ravaged face of my sister Vestris.

  I pushed the thought down, gripping my little purse tight as I elbowed my way through the muttering crowd.

  That was easier said than done. As the domes and towers of the Parliament House came into view, the throng thickened and the roads clogged. Carriages and flies were stuck in the congestion, their horses and orleks stamping and shaking their heads restlessly. Their drivers murmured and patted them, but if the roads weren’t cleared soon, the tumult would be made more dangerous by stampeding animals.

  The mood of mounting unease was also infecting the police, who were glancing at each other nervously, as they tried to contain the crowd, arms spread, their truncheons swinging from thongs around their wrists. For now. As tension rose, it felt like we were moments away from the officers wielding those batons more decisively. On the other side of the street, they were backed by pockets of dragoons with bayoneted rifles.

  I wasn’t going to get any closer to the Parliament House, but then maybe that wasn’t where I should be going, anyway. The main police station was on Mount Street on the other side of Ruetta Park, but that was surely too far to be where they had taken Willinghouse. Given the military presence, perhaps they would have used the War Office, which was one of the city’s original fortifications and still had its own garrison. If they had indeed stowed him there, I hoped there was no plan to move him to the police station, not with the mood in the streets as it was now.

  The crowd’s smoldering attention was on the Parliament building itself. An expectant hush was spreading through them, as if they knew an announcement was coming, and some of those who were pushing to the front had notebooks clutched to their chests and pencils tucked behind their ears: reporters. Sureyna was probably in the throng somewhere. I fought the tide back up Hanover toward the War Office, where a pair of decorative bronze one-horns stood on plinths above a pair of less decorative field guns. The guard on the perimeter had been doubled, and the sentries had shed their ceremonial air, looking ready for trouble. Two of them spotted me as I crossed the street, and as one swung his rifle round to half ready, the other raised a hand. It said, in no uncertain terms, Stop.

  “The offices are closed,” he shouted. “Clear the premises.”

  The noise of the crowd at my back was like the drag of the ocean, like the throb and scrape of machinery. I raised my voice opting, for once, for honesty. Of a sort.

  “I’m attached to the Willinghouse family,” I said. “I was summoned to see to my master’s needs.”

  All right, not really honesty.

  The soldier who had spoken hesitated and exchanged a word with his companion, which I couldn’t hear.

  “The prisoner has not been granted visitation privileges at this time,” he said at last.

  So he was there.

  “I have documents requiring his signature,” I improvised.

  “You?” said the guard, his formal demeanor wrinkling with scornful amusement. “I think the Parliament secretaries can take care of any official correspondence.”

  “These are family matters,” I said, pretending I hadn’t noticed the change in his tone. “I am his private secretary.”

  “You a reporter?” said the rifleman, peering at me.

  “A Lani reporter?” said his companion. “Come off it.”

  “Makes as much sense as some stray Lani bitch working as an MP’s private secretary.”

  I bristled, glancing away while I swallowed down my fury, then said, “No, I am not a reporter. I am, however…”

  I paused, words queuing up in my mouth, desperate to spill out and overwhelm them with my abused authority: words like Inspector Andrews, Elitus and Merita, the Glorious Third Infantry Regiment, and a host of other things I could not discuss publicly, no matter how wounded my pride. When I just stood there, the guard’s half smirk blossomed.

  “I reckoned as much,” he said. “Be off with you, or I’ll make you my private secretary and teach you some manners.”

  He leered, and his friend snorted with amusement, but their attention was suddenly taken by a police carriage drawn by four horses and escorted by a pair of blue-caped officers mounted on orleks. It had pushed its way through the crowded street, and as it came to a clattering halt, the doors kicked open. Inspector Andrews emerged, drawn and intense, and with him, between two other officers, was Dahria.

  All her studied nonchalance and dispassionate amusement was gone. She looked exhausted, her eyes red-rimmed and her face ivory-blanched. Her gaze lighted on me, and her mouth opened as if she was going to cry out. We rushed toward each other, but at the last second, faltered, unsure of what to do. I wanted to throw my arms around her, but if she wanted the same, she seemed to check the impulse. For a moment we stood facing each other, the toes of our shoes only inches apart but our arms awkwardly, painfully by our sides. In the next instant, Andrews had strode over, his face dark and serious.

  “Miss Sutonga,” he said.

  “I was trying to get in,” I said, dragging my eyes from Dahria, “but—”

  “Come with us, my dear,” he said.

  He flashed papers at the guards, who fell back warily, watching me with a suddenly hunted look that, in other circumstances, I might have enjoyed. As we walked silently across the forecourt beneath the great bronze rhinos, the one who had threatened to make me his private secretary came to a hasty decision and stepped forward.

  “Miss, I’m sorry for my previous remarks,” he babbled. “I wasn’t aware that—”

  I turned on him, drawing myself up, my face implacable.

  “No. You are aware of nothing,” I said.

  His face clouded, unsure of whether I was offering him an olive branch or making a point, then he nodded earnestly and stepped back as I brushed past. I did not look back.

  Instead, I hurried to catch up with Andrews and, just under my breath, said, “Someone was on the roof of the dome. I saw a footprint.”

  He gave me a quick look, and his pace stutter
ed.

  “You were there?”

  “I didn’t see what happened. I arrived right after the … incident.”

  “And left via the roof?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. I’ll send a man up to look. In the meantime, Miss Sutonga, say nothing. You are Miss Dahria’s maid, nothing more. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  He looked embarrassed by my unusual deference, and smiled sadly.

  “We will clear this business up—have no fear,” he said.

  I opened my mouth, then just nodded. Together we hurried to catch the others up, aware of the two sentries looking blankly after us.

  * * *

  PAPERS WERE SIGNED AND stamped. We stood in an imposing circular lobby and waited till more papers were presented and they, in turn, were signed, scrutinized, and stamped while policemen and soldiers kept a wary, watchful distance. Andrews did the talking for us, and neither I nor Dahria spoke, avoiding each other’s eyes as if afraid of giving something away. At last we were escorted along a long, marble-flagged hallway and through a series of heavy doors, all guarded. Unlike the men outside in their crimson and brass, the soldiers here wore simpler uniforms of dull russet fabric with black belts and boots. They did not gleam like the ceremonial officers in their parade dress, but their rifles looked at least as functional, and their lack of grandeur gave them a purposeful air.

  We passed a series of hallways with cells along one side, all faced with wrought-iron grilles and smelling faintly of metal and urine. There were few windows, and the place had a hard and uncompromising air to it that made me feel unaccountably guilty. Willinghouse was kept in a separate cell at the end of an otherwise deserted hallway made of whitewashed stone blocks. It too was faced with a floor-to-ceiling iron grille like the front of a cage, into which was set a door, though we were not permitted inside.

  Willinghouse was sitting on a short wooden bench with his head in his hands, his jacket cast onto a barrack room cot with a single coarse blanket. He looked stunned. His dress shirt was speckled and smeared with darkening blood. Worst of all, he did not immediately respond when we arrived, looking up vaguely and glancing at us in turn before lowering his gaze to the stone floor once more.

  “Keep your distance from the bars,” said the duty officer, who was holding a pistol in his right hand as his left rested on the hilt of his saber. Behind us, two other soldiers stood, rifles unslung and held across their bodies, at the ready in case … I didn’t know. In case we tried to break Willinghouse out by force, I suppose. There was nowhere for us to sit down, and we dithered, unsure of what to do or say. I felt like I had fallen into a nightmare and that the world as I knew it no longer had any relevance.

  Willinghouse looked at us again, as if just remembering we were there, and his eyes lingered on me, then flicked to the guards with a hint of warning. He did not want our professional relationship to be revealed. I bit my lower lip. I would not be able to speak, and that meant that my friends would need to ask the right questions.

  “What happened?” said Andrews.

  Willinghouse looked miles away.

  “Josiah,” Andrews prompted, “what happened?”

  Willinghouse sighed and shook his head.

  “We had been talking,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “Tavestock and I. Informally. Trying to reach agreement on … some matters. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It might,” said Andrews. “But what happened today?”

  “We were in session this morning. He said he wanted to talk to me before question time this afternoon. Didn’t want it to look secret, so he told me to meet him in the main chamber beforehand.”

  “What did he want to talk about?”

  “He didn’t say, but I thought that he was perhaps prepared to discuss some issues that he had previously said were off-limits.”

  “What issues?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Joss!” exclaimed Dahria.

  “I can’t, Dahria,” said Willinghouse, looking at her, his green eyes blazing. “I’m sorry. If he recovers … It could … I don’t want to damage his standing in his party by giving away confidences.”

  “I thought he wanted to talk publicly?” said Andrews.

  “On his own terms, yes,” Willinghouse answered. “But I don’t know what he was going to say or whom he wanted to witness the conversation.”

  “What time did you go in?”

  “When he rang. The morning session ended at eleven. Question time was scheduled to begin at half past twelve. I must have gone in around noon, maybe a few minutes after.”

  “Which was when he had asked to meet?”

  “Yes.”

  “He rang?” said Andrews.

  “There’s a bell pull system. All the offices have one. He said he would ring when he was ready, so…”

  “You can access those bells from the main chamber?”

  “Yes. There’s a switchboard just inside the main door. It’s used to summon MPs for voting.”

  “And when you went in, what did you see?”

  “Nothing at first,” said Willinghouse, who looked more gaunt and haggard by the minute. “He had been … He was lying by the speaker’s chair, but I didn’t see him right away. I thought the place was empty, that he hadn’t arrived yet. I went to my usual seat. I heard something, a groan or a sigh … I wasn’t sure. I got up and walked to the center of the building and saw him beside the dais. On his back. His throat…”

  His voice tailed off and his eyes looked blank, unfocused.

  “Did the prime minister say anything to you? Anything at all?”

  “Nothing. He tried to. I could see it in his eyes, but he could not summon the strength. Or his voice … No. Nothing.”

  There was a loaded stillness as the full horror of this registered. Tavestock had been unable to speak because his throat was cut.

  “There was so much blood,” Willinghouse mused, his eyes going to his own stained hands as if noticing them for the first time. “I tried to close the wound, but…”

  “How long were you sitting before he made the noise?” Andrews pressed. “Come on, man. It’s important.”

  “Not long,” said Willinghouse. “A minute, maybe less. I got some papers from my case, but I didn’t have time to start reading them.”

  “And you saw no one else in the room?”

  Willinghouse shook his head emphatically. “I suppose someone could have been hiding,” he said, almost hopefully. “I didn’t look around. I went to him, but I didn’t know what to do. The guards came in almost immediately.”

  “Did you look up?” I asked. I couldn’t help it. I had to know.

  Andrews gave me a sharp look.

  “Up?” said Willinghouse, vaguely.

  “The public galleries,” I said, ignoring Andrews’s hot stare. “The dome itself.”

  Willinghouse’s brow contracted, as if he was trying to remember who I was, but he shook his head again, his eyes almost closing wearily.

  “And you heard nothing?” I pressed. “Even when you first came in? Think.”

  One of the soldiers turned to look at me, frowning at my familiarity with the great politician.

  Willinghouse began to shake his head again, then stopped.

  “There was something just as I walked in,” he said. “A click like a door latch or window.”

  “There are no windows in the great chamber,” said Andrews, still eyeing me.

  “Just a snap, like metal,” said Willinghouse, musingly, as if trying to summon it back to his ears, his mind. “Louder than a door latch, somehow. It seemed to come from all around.”

  An echo resonating in the dome. There must be a maintenance hatch up there.

  “Who knew you were meeting?” asked Andrews.

  Willinghouse shrugged.

  “He spoke to me privately,” he said. “I don’t think anyone heard. If he told someone else…”

  Again th
e hopeless head shake, but before he had chance to say more, the door into the cell corridor crashed open and a uniformed policeman, broad and barrel-chested, his face pink and his whiskers gray, strode in, two more officers struggling to keep up.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he barked.

  Andrews turned to him, straightening up and stiffening.

  “Commissioner!” he said. “I wanted to begin the investigation while the prisoner’s memory was fresh.”

  “Have you been assigned to the case, Andrews?” the commissioner fired back.

  “Not as of yet, sir, but since I have had some dealings with the accused—”

  “Precisely, sir,” the commissioner roared. “Some dealings! He’s a friend of yours, man! You will have no part in this matter, do I make myself absolutely clear?”

  Andrews blinked.

  “I’m sure I could be a valuable resource for whomever you appoint—”

  “Nonsense, man, you will have nothing to do with it. And what do you mean by bringing these women in here?”

  “They are part of his family, sir,” said Andrews. “I thought that—”

  “You thought? When I want you to think, I’ll let you know. Now get them out of here. I don’t want to see your face until this matter is resolved.”

  “Commissioner, I strongly request that until the prime minister is able to speak of the matter, I continue to be involved—”

  “Speak of it?” said the commissioner, his florid anger hardening. “He shall not speak of it, sir. He’s dead.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  NEWS OF THE PRIME minister’s death roared from every headline that evening, and the low rumble of unease that had suffused the city became a shrill mosquito whine. Regardless of race, creed, sex, or political affiliation, the crowds in the streets stayed, waiting to hear something that would comfort or explain, milling like anxious chickens during a thunderstorm. In the context of Tavestock’s death, and with increased military presence on every corner, rumors were spreading that a black activist assassin had been caught, however much the War Office denied them and appealed for calm.