Sutherland sniffed. “I’ve had quite enough of Captain Montrose’s company.”
Conversation in the club had petered out as the attention of the other members converged on their table. Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d gambled incorrectly when he’d chosen Hazelwood. Still, he tried to salvage the situation.
“Wait!” He thrust the pages at Sutherland. “Trust me. When you hear what I’m about to tell you, you’ll be thanking me for warning you. You have to hear me out.”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” Sutherland sighed. He picked up his cutlery, turning his attention to his steak. “I don’thaveto do anything you tell me.”
The guards each took one of Richard’s arms, yanking him upward with so much force, the chair toppled. “Hey!” he barked. “Don’t touch me.”
The guards didn’t listen. The other patrons stared openly. Word about this would make its way around society like wildfire. The bigger the scene, the faster the rumors would ripple. The only option left to Richard was to retreat?—quietly.
“Very well! I’ll go,” he relented. “Let go of me. I’m going.”
The guards released his arms, though they made it a point to walk side by side with him until he reached the parking lot, where his Peregrine sat waiting.
He got into his car and tore out of the lot, the roar of the engine barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears. The smell of burned rubber filled the air, but he hardly noticed.
The duke could not name Poppy. After all this, if he lost the viceroyship to her, he would never live it down. He would rather die than be governed by one of her kind. What had the world come to, where the shepherds appointed the sheep to give them orders?
In front of him, traffic had slowed to a stop. He laid into the horn, venting his anger through the blaring noise.
“What’s the holdup?” he shouted, craning his neck. The sound of the blockade reached him before he saw it.
“Poppy, Poppy, Poppy!”
A small group of people had gathered in the center of the road, with cheap cardboard signs riddled with spelling errors. Something about the sight caused Richard to snap. He yanked open his glove compartment, pulling out his badge and gun from within. Killing the engine, he leaped out of the car and advanced toward the crowd, brandishing both badge and weapon.
“Disband, by order of the police!” he shouted. “You are creating a public disturbance, and I order you to stop.”
Some of the people stepped back warily at the sight of the badge, but others continued to chant, ignoring him.
He lifted the gun, firing two shots just above the crowd.
Thatgot their attention. They scattered like a flock of pigeons taking flight, shrieking as they disappeared into the side alleys. He fired a final shot at the stragglers, then turned and got back into his car, fuming.
This was the result of weak leadership. The very foundations of society were crumbling. If Poppy became vicereine, it would shatter irreparably. The old man was delusional about his daughter. And if he wouldn’t take Richard’s warning seriously, then he would have to hear it from someone he couldn’t ignore.
Richard made a sharp turn at the next intersection, heading east, toward the Marnapur Telegraph Office.
• • •
TO: LORD T. GRANFORT, GREENHART, WELKLAND
C. SUTHERLAND TO NAME DAUGHTER AS NEXT VICEROY. DAUGHTER HAS SUSPECTED TIES TO CRIMINAL ACTIVITY. THE EMPEROR’S INTERVENTION IS APPRECIATED.
FROM: R. MONTROSE, MARNAPUR, VIRYANA
Chapter Forty
Impossible Decisions
The day of the vote, Hasan and Harithi each took turns making naumya. Hasan had already forsworn revenge on Zeyar at his mother’s pantheon in Sanivali, but to that sacrifice he added several drops of his own blood. They left the apartment before dawn, dressed in dark, unremarkable clothing, with one duffel bag and four empty canisters between them. The plan was simple: Get to the House of Representatives, break in, burn it to the ground, and get out, all before the vote began.
They stopped at the gas station first, where Harithi filled the canisters with gasoline. Then Hasan drove them a block away from the House of Representatives. They took turns changing inside the car. When the transformations were complete, both of them looked entirely different from how they’d appeared that morning. Harithi, in a drab beige apron with her hair tied into a tight knot under a hairnet, looked exactly like the maidservants who scuttled around the Lower House, keeping the desks dusted and the meeting rooms stocked with tea and biscuits. Hasan was similarly dressed, in a beige shirt and overalls, standard dress for the repairmen who maintained the plumbing and electrical lines within the building. Each of them picked up two of the gasoline canisters and began walking toward the House.
By now, the sun had fully risen. Sweat trickled down Hasan’s spine. For all his impulsive deviations and improvisations, this was the first real job that he had ever done without the support of his brothers. Doubt and an impending sense of failure loomed over him like storm clouds. He shoved them back, marching harder, as though he could somehow outpace his worries, his knuckles white on the canisters of gasoline.
“Doing okay?” Harithi asked.
