“How long?” Wax asked, inspecting one of the plates.
“Almost four years,” Maraga whispered. “Like I said, I didn’t believe him at first. But I’ve always been interested in the stories that slip through the cracks. The ones other papers ignore because they seem too sensational, or too lowbrow.”
“Lies, you mean,” Wax said. “You print lies.”
“We prefer ‘whimsical what-ifs.’ Intriguing stories that would be fascinating if they were true.”
“So…” Wax said, “lies.”
“Our patrons understand what they’re buying, Lord Ladrian,” Maraga said, lifting her chin. “You know. You’re friends with Jak himself. It’s all about being larger than life, bigger than reality! Our patrons know we stretch to find the more interesting tidbits, the ‘might’s and the ‘could-be’s of the world.”
He shook his head, obviously unconvinced.
Maraga sniffed. “I did my journeymanship at the Times, top paper in the city. Totally respectable. The amount they fudged, slanted, or outright fabricated would scandalize you. At least I’m honest about it. Besides, I don’t print lies. I print human-interest stories — the tales of people who are ignored by the larger media. Exciting stories, by adventuring celebrities. Cartoons, pictures of funny-shaped vegetables…”
“How funny?” Wayne said from across the room.
“Depends on your sense of humor,” Maraga replied.
“Crass. With a light seasoning of vulgarity.”
“Second box on the left,” she said. “Next to your foot.”
Wayne located the appropriate box, which was filled with sketches. In seconds he was snickering to himself.
“Anyway,” Maraga continued, “the more Tobal brought, and the more I pieced together, the more terrified I became. This … was a story. A real story. Not a whimsical tale about bug men or the dangers of electricity. This … this could get people killed. Could get me killed.”
She looked up at them, then continued. “Once I believed, we worked for many months, putting all of this together. I started to see things he didn’t. Tobal wasn’t … completely credible. He jumped to conclusions. But he wasn’t wrong, not at the heart of the story. And he hadn’t made it up.
“He told me that one day he wouldn’t show up to our nightly conversation. He said, when that happened, I should run. Take everything to the authorities. But the authorities are involved, so … what then? Who to tell? And then, two weeks ago, he didn’t show up. One night. Two. Three … And I knew. I knew. They’d found him.”
“I’m sorry,” Marasi said.
“Could he still be alive?” Maraga asked. “Might they have just … taken him?”
“It’s possible,” Marasi said. “But … we don’t think it’s likely.”
Maraga nodded, looking down at her feet. Then she closed her eyes and seemed to be waiting. For what?
For the dice to land, Marasi realized. She doesn’t trust us. She’s waiting to see if we shoot.
Marasi looked around the room and noticed that Wayne — despite pretending to look at the pictures — was actually watching Moonlight, one hand resting lazily on his dueling cane. Likely with his metals ready, just in case she tried something. Even Wax was watching her from the corner of his eye.
“This is brilliant,” Moonlight said instead, staring at one of the walls. “Are these … trajectory estimations?”
Marasi joined her beside one set of sketches in tin, which depicted looping arcs. Moonlight was right; it looked like measurements with different estimates of how far a shot could reach.
Maraga stood up, seeming to take strength from the question. “That’s right,” she said. “Those numbers are the distances the Bilming military claim their new guns can fire. They love to send releases to the local broadsheets, extolling their grand navy. It’s mostly bravado. They imply they could shell Elendel from twenty miles away, but that’s a lie. The guns are much shorter range than that.”
“And this?” Marasi asked, pointing at another set of trajectories.
“Poor Tobal’s job was to research chemical propellants,” Maraga replied. At their confused stares, she continued. “These people, they’re trying to develop self-propelled shells. Weapons that could fire themselves and fly miles. Or even hundreds of miles. Before hitting and detonating.”
Rusts, Marasi thought, her eyes widening. She walked through the room, taking in each of the eight large plates on the walls. She identified one having to do with the “subway” systems of the city, a large interconnected cavern complex that was being “surveyed” to determine where to place train lines. But the truth, according to Maraga’s notes, was entirely different — the surveys were seeking caverns that could offer stable underground living conditions.
They’re preparing bunkers, Marasi thought. That’s what the supplies are for — they’re stocking up for a cataclysm, perhaps?
Just as people had sought refuge in caverns during the last days before the world ended. Before Harmony’s Ascension and the remaking of the land.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Wax said, joining her. “Harmony says my sister is trying to prove she can rule this planet. If she blows it up, what does that prove? Why build bunkers? Does she honestly think that saving a fragment of us and annihilating the rest would prove her competence?”
“I don’t know,” Marasi admitted, then pointed at another plate. “This talks about ashfalls. The days of ash and destruction allowed the Lord Ruler to secure near-universal power, at least in the North. So maybe Telsin thinks that would work again?”
“You should read the next plate over,” Maraga said.
Together they stepped to the side, reading what appeared to be a list of names. “Dupon Melstrom…” Wax read. “Vennis Hasting … Mari Hammondess … These are some of the most powerful senators in Elendel.”
“They’re in on it,” Maraga said.
“What?” Marasi said, spinning. “All of them?”
Maraga dug in a cabinet and came out with a piece of paper. She handed it to Marasi, who showed it to Wax. A letter from Vennis Hasting, talking about the creation of a bomb of incredible power. It was dated almost a year ago, and implicated many of the names on the wall.
Marasi frowned. That … that seemed impossible. This many people in their own government knew? Could the Set have its fingers wrapped that tightly around the Basin? She looked at Wax.
“I know some of these people,” he said. “Vennis is a rat, of course — but Lady Yomen is a good friend. As close a senator as I trust. This doesn’t add up, Marasi. None of this adds up.”
“Maybe that’s why the Senate is so confident,” she said, “that they can bully the Outer Cities.”
“I know these people,” Wax said. “They wouldn’t keep a secret like this; they couldn’t. Everything they’ve done so far has been about posturing for power. The Supremacy Bill, the tariffs, the ‘hard line’ they’re taking with the South … If Vennis knew about a bomb, he’d be advocating for strategic tests to prove how powerful it is.”
“They could all be in the Set,” Marasi said softly.
His expression darkened. He took the letter, staring at it, and she knew what he was thinking: if the Set’s tendrils ran this deep — even into the hearts of his friends among the senators …
“No,” he said. “There’s something very strange here, Marasi. If my sister had all of these people following her dictates, she would already rule the Basin. We’re missing a big piece of this.”