“Just fine,” he said. “It’s not like the fate of every daivyakt in this country depends on us.”
“Stay focused,” she urged him. “Don’t get in your head about this.”
When they got to the House, there were several other workers in uniform heading into the building. Keeping his head down, Hasan followed them, Harithi on his heels. When they’d initially planned this, she had suggested setting the building on fire from the outside. But the exterior was pure stone, and he did not have nearly enough daivyakhi to keep the fire burning long enough for the interior to catch.
Luckily, getting in was easier than either of them had expected. The servant tunnel opened into a room where the other servants went about storing their bags and personal belongings in cubbies before heading off to their respective tasks. None of them looked at Hasan or Harithi; if anyone thought they looked unfamiliar or wondered about the canisters in their hands, they didn’t show it.
The two of them followed the signs into the equipment room, where they stashed their canisters of gasoline on one of the service carts.
“So far so good,” Hasan said. “We should split up now.”
“Meet back here when you’re done.”
She turned and left, heading out to warn the other servants to evacuate. While Hasan knew they couldn’t inform everyone personally, he hoped to avoid killing any more innocents than he had to.
He grabbed the handle of the service cart, pushing it out into the hallway. They didn’t have a ton of gasoline, so he would have to pour the accelerant in the corridors around the Central Chamber of the House, where the vote would take place. The wheels of his cart squeaked on the wooden floors as he made his way through the west wing. For the most part, the hallways were empty?—the representatives were all in the Central Chamber by now?—but occasionally, he would duck his head when another person passed by him.
Finally, he reached the foyer of the building, slowing in front of the double doors to the chamber. He cursed silently; a bulky Welkish guard stood stationed on either side. Hasan called out to them as he approached.
“Excuse me? There’s a woman in the east wing spreading rumors. She says there’s a man in the building who’s trying to burn it down, and that we should all leave now.” The guards exchanged skeptical looks, so he added, “She said it was someone called the Jackal?”
This got their attention. “Where did you say this woman was?” the guard on the left asked, his cold blue eyes alert.
“East wing, third floor,” he lied. Harithi would still be in the west wing, where most of the servants worked. “She’s short, light skinned, with straight brown hair,” he improvised.
“You stay here,” the left guard told the other. “I’ll go check it out.”
When the other guard had disappeared down the hallway, the remaining guard said, “All right, then, get back to work, now.”
He tried to brush Hasan away, but he only sighed. “Looks like you’re the unlucky one.”
“What?—”
Hasan swung his fist around hard, knocking the other man out. He dragged his body off to the side, propping it up against one of the potted plants in the hope that no one would come by and notice it.
With the hallway left unguarded, he unscrewed the lid on a canister and poured the accelerant on the floor, taking extra care to soak the runner. While he could do a significant amount of damage on his own, even he couldn’t torch a building of this size. The gasoline would feed his fires, help them spread and keep them alive.
He finished dousing the foyer, then swapped out his canister for the next one. Moving quickly, he ran up and down the twin staircases that framed the entrance to the chamber, trailing gasoline behind him as he went. He returned to the cart for the last two canisters, then headed upstairs. He did the second floor and the next set of stairs with the third canister, discarding it on the landing of the third floor.
As Hasan went around the third floor, splashing accelerant on the wooden floors and paneling, he heard voices coming from behind a closed door. He tensed. Something was off. These rooms were smaller, designed for more intimate meetings. The House was in session already, which meant that none of the representatives would be having individual meetings at this time. And something about their voices... He strained his ears, trying to put his finger on it.Wait.... Were they speakingVirian?
He dropped the fuel canister and grabbed the door handle, finding it locked. As he rattled the knob, the voices fell silent, piquing his suspicion further.
“Who’s there?” he demanded as loud as he could without shouting. He pressed his ear to the door, listening intently.
Silence. Then, “Hasan?”
His blood went cold. He’d know that voice anywhere. But here, of all places? He must have been hallucinating. The gasoline fumes were clearly addling his senses. He released the door and took a few steps back. Before he could lose his nerve, he charged forward, turning at the last second so that his shoulder struck the wood first.
The door burst open on impact, the wood splintering as it tore from the hinges. He fell into the room, landing hard on his knees and palms.
“Hasan!”
He leaped to his feet, spinning around. Relief swept through him. He wasn’t hallucinating. ItwasParanjay. He stood in a cage, with several other Virians. Hasan recognized two other daivyakt: Kaushal and Samina. Both looked bruised and battered, sporting scabbed-over split lips and puffy purple eyes. Paranjay had thinned out completely, his once-muscular frame thin and angular. His usually well-kept beard was frizzy and uneven, and his black eyes, normally full of humor, had a haunted quality under the thick lock of overgrown hair that kept falling in them. His face was badly bruised, though from the looks of it, none of the injuries were fresh.
Hasan took a step toward the cage, curling one hand around the cold metal bars as he squeezed the other through. Paranjay reached for him, and they clasped hands. Paranjay’s skin was warm, his callused grip weak but familiar. Scabs and bruises decorated the back of his hands, extending up into his sleeves. Hasan’s eyes filled with tears. He pressed his forehead against the bars. Since Zeyar had returned Poppy to Richard, Hasan had feared the worst. His nightmares routinely featured the false Paranjay, dead on the floor in the museum. Except when Hasan kneeled to pull off the hood, it was the real Paranjay instead. Finding Paranjay alive had lifted such a great weight off his chest, it left him dizzy. Only Paranjay’s hand in his kept him upright.
“It’s actually you,” he whispered. Against all odds, Hasan had found his brother. After all these weeks, after everything he’d survived, here was his blood, in the last place he’d expected him.
