“The Survivor transcended death,” Marasi said, looking back, hand on the door, but not entering. “He survived even being killed, adopting the mantle of the Ascendant during the time between Preservation’s death and Vin’s Ascension.”
Rust … was she arguing theology with a demigod?
MeLaan, however, just cocked her head. “What, really?”
“Um … yes. Harmony wrote of it himself in the Words of Founding, MeLaan.”
“Huh. I really ought to read that thing one of these days.”
“You haven’t…” Marasi blinked, trying to fathom a world where one of the Faceless Immortals didn’t know doctrine.
“I keep meaning to,” MeLaan said, shrugging. “Never can find the time.”
“You’re over six hundred years old.”
“That’s the thing about having an eternity, kid,” MeLaan said. “It gets really easy to procrastinate. Are we going in that room or not?”
Marasi sighed, pushing into a room filled with filing cabinets and tables piled high with ledgers and broadsheets. This was Aradel’s doing; he liked to keep his thumb on what people were saying and writing in the city. So far, he didn’t do much with the collection besides watch for reports of crimes his men had missed, but Marasi had plans.
Unfortunately, Constable Miklin—who ran the records office—was one of Reddi’s closest friends. As Marasi entered, Miklin and the other two people working there looked up, then immediately turned back to their files.
“Who’s the civilian?” Miklin asked from his desk in the corner. How did he get his hair to stand up straight like that? Almost like a patch of grass growing from a pot.
“Special investigator from another jurisdiction,” Marasi said. “Lord Ladrian sent her.”
Miklin sniffed. “I’m led to believe this wisp hunt is your doing? I barely got to the offices tonight before I was sent back here to dig up information on that dam breaking.”
“What did you find?” Marasi said eagerly, slipping between two large filing cabinets—he had them arranged like sentries—and stepping up to his desk.
“Nothing,” Miklin said. “Dead end. Waste of my time.”
“I’d like to see what you found anyway,” Marasi said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
Miklin rested his hands on the table. He spoke softly. “Why are you here, Colms?”
“I thought Aradel told you,” Marasi said. “The dam breakage might—”
“Not that. Here. In the constabulary. You had an offer to join the octant’s senior prosecutor on a permanent basis, with a letter of commendation on your internship with him. I looked into it. And now … what? You suddenly want to chase criminals? Strap on some six-guns like you’re from the rusting Roughs? That’s not what police work is like.”
“I’m well aware,” Marasi said dryly. “But thank you for the information. What did you find?”
He sighed, then tapped a folder with the back of his hand. “Rusting waste of my time,” he muttered.
Marasi took the folder and retreated between the filing cabinets. She wished it were only Miklin she had to deal with, but the two other constables made their opinions known with quiet sniffs of disdain. Marasi felt them glaring at her as she led MeLaan out of the room, clutching her folder.
“Why do they treat you like that?” MeLaan asked as they slipped out.
“It’s complicated.”
“People tend to be. Why do you let them treat you like that?”
“I’m working on it.”
“You want me to do something?” MeLaan said. “I could scare the cynicism right out of those people, show them you’ve got friends that—”
“No!” Marasi said. “No, please. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
MeLaan followed her as she scurried to her desk outside of Aradel’s office. A lanky female constable stood there, one foot on Marasi’s chair, chatting with the man one desk over and sipping her tea. Marasi cleared her throat twice before the woman—Taudr was her name, wasn’t it?—finally looked at her, rolled her eyes, and moved out of the way.
Marasi settled down. MeLaan pulled over a chair. “You sure you don’t want me—”
“No,” Marasi said immediately, digging into the folder. She took a deep breath. “No, please.”
“I’m sure your friend Waxillium could come on over, fire off a few slugs, force them to stop being such sourlips.”
Oh, Survivor, no, Marasi thought, the image of it making her sick. But MeLaan obviously wasn’t going to let this go without an explanation.
“I’m beginning to realize that Waxillium is part of the reason why they treat me as they do,” Marasi said, opening the folder Miklin had prepared. “Life in the precinct follows a hierarchy. The sergeants start as corporals, work the streets, put in ten or fifteen years doing a hard beat and finally earn a promotion. The captains start out as lieutenants, and mostly come from noble stock. Once in a while, a sergeant works his or her way up. But everyone’s expected to put in their time at the bottom.”
“And you…”
“I skipped all that,” Marasi said. “I applied for—and got—an important position as Aradel’s chief aide. Waxillium makes that worse, as I’m associated with him. He’s like a whirlwind, blowing through and messing everything up. But he’s also good at what he does and a high-ranking nobleman, so nobody complains too loudly. I, however…”
“Not noble.”
“Not noble enough,” Marasi said. “My father is low-ranked, and I’m illegitimate. That makes me the available target, when Waxillium is off-limits.”
MeLaan leaned back in her chair and scanned the room. “Spook was always droning on about things like this—that bloodline shouldn’t matter as much as capability. You doing what you did should be impressive to everyone, not threatening. Hell, you said the place was egalitarian.”
“It is,” Marasi said. “That’s why I could get the job in the first place. But it doesn’t stop people from resenting me. I’m the way the world is changing, MeLaan, and change is frightening.”
“Huh,” the kandra said. “And the lower ranks just go along with this? You think they’d like you showing that someone can jump in line.”
“You don’t know a lot about human nature, do you?”
“Of course I do. I’ve studied, and imitated, dozens of people.”
“I suspect you understand individuals, then,” Marasi said. “The interesting thing about people is that while they might seem unique, they actually play into broad patterns. Historically, the working class has often been more resistant to change than the class oppressing them.”
“Really?” MeLaan asked.
Marasi nodded. She started to reach for some books on the small shelf beside her desk, but stopped. This wasn’t the time. In fact, they might be witnessing one of the exceptions to this rule, outside on the streets. And, like many upendings of the status quo, when it did happen, it could be violent. Like a steam engine’s boiler that had been plugged up, given no release until suddenly … everything exploded.
Nobody liked to realize they’d been had. People in Elendel believed they were living the good life—they’d been told all their lives that Harmony had blessed them with a rich and lavish land of bounty. You could listen to that sort of talk only so long before starting to wonder why all the incredible orchards were owned by someone else, while you had to work long hours just to feed your children.
Marasi dug into the contents of the folder, which listed the events surrounding the flooding to the east. MeLaan settled back in her seat. What a curious creature she was, sitting with head held high, meeting the glances of people who passed without the least concern about what anyone thought of her.