“You’ll see this done, then?” Aradel asked.
“Of course, sir,” Caberel said. She was one of the few in the place who treated Marasi with any measure of respect. Perhaps it was because they were both women.
There were fewer women in the constabulary than among the solicitors. One might have guessed that the reason for this was that ladies weren’t interested in the violence—but having done both jobs, Marasi felt she knew which profession was bloodier. And it wasn’t the one where people carried guns.
“Good, good,” Aradel said. “I have a debriefing with Captain Reddi in…” He patted at his pocket.
Marasi held out his watch, which he grabbed and checked for the time.
“… fifteen minutes. Huh. More time than I expected. Where’d you get that tea, Colms?”
“Want me to have someone fetch you some?” she asked.
“No, no. I can do it.” He bustled off, and Marasi nodded to Caberel, then hurried after him.
“Sir,” she said, “have you seen the afternoon broadsheets?”
He held out his hand, which she filled with paper. He held up the stack of broadsheets, and almost ran over three different constables on his way to the stove and the tea. “Bad,” he muttered. “I’d hoped they’d spin this against us.”
“Us, sir?” Marasi asked, surprised.
“Sure,” he said. “Nobleman dead, constables not giving the press details. This reads like they started to pin the death on the constables, but then changed their minds. By the end, the tone is far more outraged against Winsting than us.”
“And that’s worse than outrage at us for a cover-up?”
“Far worse, Lieutenant,” he said with a grimace, reaching for a cup. “People are used to hating conners. We’re a magnet for it, a lightning rod. Better us than the governor.”
“Unless the governor deserves it, sir.”
“Dangerous words, Lieutenant,” Aradel said, filling his cup with steaming tea from the large urn kept warm atop the coal stove. “And likely inappropriate.”
“You know there are rumors that he’s corrupt,” Marasi said softly.
“What I know is that we are civil servants,” Aradel said. “There are enough people out there with the mindset and the moral position to monitor the government. Our job is to keep the peace.”
Marasi frowned, but said nothing. Governor Innate was corrupt, she was almost sure of it. There were too many coincidences, too many small oddities in his policy decisions. It wasn’t by any means obvious, but trends were Marasi’s specialty, and her passion.
It wasn’t as if she’d wanted to discover that the leader of Elendel was trading favors with the city’s elite, but once she’d spotted the signs, she’d felt compelled to dig in. On her desk, carefully hidden under a stack of ordinary reports, was a ledger in which she’d assembled all the information. Nothing concrete, but the picture it drew was clear to her—even though she understood that it would look innocent to anyone else.
Aradel studied her. “You disagree with my opinion, Lieutenant?”
“One doesn’t change the world by avoiding the hard questions, sir.”
“Feel free to ask them, then. In your head, Lieutenant, and not out loud—particularly not to people outside the precinct. We can’t have the men we work for thinking we are trying to undermine them.”
“Funny, sir,” Marasi said. “I thought we worked for the people of the city, not their leaders.”
Aradel stopped, cup of steaming tea halfway to his lips. “Suppose I deserved that,” he said, then took a gulp, shaking his head. He didn’t flinch at the heat. People in the office figured he’d seared his taste buds off years ago. “Let’s go.”
They wove through the room toward Aradel’s office, passing Captain Reddi at his desk. The lanky man rose, but Aradel waved him down, pulling out his watch. “I still have … five minutes until I have to deal with you, Reddi.”
Marasi shot the captain an apologetic smile. She got a scowl in return.
“Someday,” she noted, “I’m going to figure out why that man hates me.”
“Hmmm?” Aradel said. “Oh, you stole his job.”
Marasi missed a step, stumbling into Lieutenant Ahlstrom’s desk. “What?” she demanded, hurrying after Aradel. “Sir?”
“Reddi was going to be my assistant,” Aradel said as they reached his office. “Had a damn fine bid for the job; I was all but priced into hiring him, until I got your application.”
Marasi blushed deeply. “Why would Reddi want to be your assistant, sir? He’s a field constable, a senior detective.”
“Everyone has this idea that in order to move up, you need to spend more time in the office and less on the street,” Aradel said. “Stupid tradition, even if the other octants follow it. I don’t want my best men and women turning into desk slugs. I want the assistant position to be for nurturing someone fresh who shows promise, rather than letting some practiced constable gather moss.”
The realization made a lot of things lock into place for Marasi. The hostility she felt from many of the others wasn’t just because she’d skipped the lower ranks—many with noble titles did that. It was because they’d solidified behind Reddi, their friend who’d been slighted.
“So…” Marasi said, taking a deep breath and grasping for something to keep her from a panic. “You think I show promise then?”
“Of course I do. Why would I have hired you otherwise?” Corporal Maindew walked by, saluting, and Aradel threw the wadded broadsheets into his face. “No saluting indoors, Maindew. You’ll knock yourself unconscious slapping your forehead every time I walk past.” He glanced back at Marasi as Maindew mumbled an apology and rushed off.
“There’s something in you, Colms,” Aradel told her. “Not the gloss and glint of the application. I don’t care about your grades, or what those zinctongues in the solicitors’ office thought of you. The words you wrote about changing the city, those made sense. They impressed me.”
“I … Thank you for the praise, sir.”
“I’m not flattering you, Colms. It’s just a fact.” He pointed toward the door. “That broadsheet said the governor was going to address the city later this afternoon. I’ll bet the Second Octant constables ask us for help managing the crowds; they always do. So I’m going to send a street detail. Go with them and listen, then report back to me what Governor Innate says, and pay attention to how the crowd reacts.”
“Yes, sir,” Marasi said, stopping herself from saluting as she snatched her handbag and ran to follow the orders.
“GENTLEMAN JAK IN THE CITY OF FOUNTAINS”
Part Six
“The Sinister Soiree!”
I need not remind my astute readers of the precarious situation in which I was left at the end of last week’s column, but for those of you whose heightened tastes have just now led them from the gutters of disgraceful journalism to the noble pages of The House Record, let me present a short recapitulation.
Through the efforts alone of my silver tongue and tin-quick mind, I gained access to Lady Lavont’s private party in New Seran wherein she planned to auction the only remaining buttons from the Lord Mistborn’s favorite smoking jacket. Handerwym, my faithful Terrisman steward, had prised the information that the leader of the Cobblesguilders planned to steal the buttons by swapping them with impeccable forgeries at some point during the night.