XII
JUDGMENT
“The first casualty in the Revolution
wasn’t a rebel—it was a bystander.
Remember that.”
Ventriloquist. “Establishment Day.”
The Treasonist’s Tribunal
6 Nov YOR 3
HARVEY
Harvey had gotten good at washing dishes. He volunteered to do them every day because Narinder always kept his office door ajar, and Harvey could look in, from the sink. Narinder hummed while he worked—Harvey didn’t even think he realized it. He tapped his pencil rhythmically against his ledger.
Harvey wished he had a talent like that. Music. Sometimes he felt like there were some talents in this world that suited good people.
Not his.
“Will it be busy tonight?” Harvey asked.
“Probably not,” Narinder responded from his office. “It’s a Wednesday.”
But it’d been consistently busy, since curfew had been lifted. Narinder didn’t like to talk about politics, Harvey had learned. He didn’t listen to the radio, didn’t subscribe toThe Crimes & The Times.Even when the other musicians had discussed the National Bank and whether or not the wigheads should’ve pardoned Séance, he never joined in.
When Harvey had explained the rules of Bryce’s game to him, Narinder had asked,Why me? I’m not a player.Ever since then, it was as though he was performing. Keeping his head down, his nose in his ledgers, his hands busy with his violin. As if trying to prove the city had made a mistake.
It made Harvey feel bad for watching him like he did.
Complicit, his conscience whispered.
The phone rang in his office. “’Lo?” Narinder answered, while Harvey scrubbed the grease off a skillet. “Why are you calling me? Is it Tock? Is she all right?”
His voice was sharp, like a broken harp string. Harvey turned off the faucet to listen.
“It’s been months,” Narinder snapped. “I don’t play host anymore. Or boyfriend.”
Now Harvey was more than curious. He stopped scrubbing.
“I don’t care. Call someplace else.”
Narinder hung up and sighed deeply. Harvey stuck his head in and smiled. Notsmiledsmiled—he hadn’t used his talent since he’d left the Guild, not even when Rebecca came in January—but he wanted to show support. “Who was that?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice nonchalant.
“Pup,” Narinder answered. He rubbed his temples. “He wants to...” Then his voice trailed off, and he glanced at Harvey warily. Harvey didn’t like that look. “Never mind.”
“Never mind because it doesn’t matter? Or never mind because you don’t trust me?”
“It’s about the game.” Narinder dropped his gaze, and so Harvey realized it was the latter. Then Narinder stood up and brushed past Harvey, squeezing through the narrow kitchen. “Forget about it. I should get ready for tonight.”
“Wait,” Harvey said, following him. “If it’s about the game, I want to hear it.”
“Of course you do,” Narinder muttered.
“What does that mean?”
