“One thing’s for sure. If there’s a fight brewing in the Council, there aren’t going to be any neutral parties. In the city, or in the Council.”
“You think it’s that serious?” Emily asked.
“Maybe not yet,” I said. “But soon. Council trouble always spills out on the streets.”
“That’s how it was with the Guild,” Wilson said. “Disagreement among families, and a new ally in the Church of the Algorithm. They took a vote, and by the time the ballots were tallied there were Badgemen kicking in doors all over the city.” He nodded absently, not looking up. “It can get bad fast, Emily.”
“So what are you going to do?”
I straightened my jacket, did the best I could with my hair. Living under the streets was doing nothing for my reputation as a rogue noble.
“Time to talk to the Family, dear.” I sighed. “Time to make a little call home.”
Emily appeared thoughtful, as though there was something else she wanted to add but couldn’t decide if she should. I filed that.
“Stay safe,” she said, eventually. “And be careful who you believe.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I will.”
“I was hoping to beetle you again,” Wilson said, turning to face me. He had a small vial in hand. Something brown and shiny scuttled up its length.
“Gee, sorry to miss that,” I said. I checked the load in my revolver one more time and headed back up to the streets.
Chapter Ten
When the Manor Burn was planted, generations ago and gone, this part of the Veridon delta was nothing but mossy stones and waterfalls to carry away the heat. Steam used to billow up in halos around our house. Now we piped it away, piped it and harnessed it and sold it by the pound of pressure. The ancient, deep furnace that was our family’s ticket into the circle of Founders still burned, would always burn. Its heat blistered the rock under my feet. Most of the family’s early money had gone into making the Manor livable in the presence of such incandescent fury. The high tower of the vent stacks glittered against the sky, spilling out flakes of burning ash and coiling sparks. My mouth filled with the scent of burning air and charred stone. Good to be home. Hard to forget a taste like that.
They let me in my own house. That was unexpected. I was nervous, walking into the dusty marble foyer. They had done a bad job of fixing the banister I’d busted up, the day I walked out. The day everything changed.
“Master Burn is in the library, gathering his morning thoughts and taking breakfast. He will attend you shortly.”
“Thanks, Billy.” I surrendered my coat, but not my holster. Billy disapproved, but that was okay. Billy usually disapproved in my presence. He disappeared.
The tower looked much the same. Older. Emptier. It reminded me of a store struggling to make the lease. Sell what it had in stock, not able to replenish its wares. Starving itself off, dying, but still alive. Hoping for some desperate gamble to pay off, to turn the corner. Failing in slow motion.
“Boy,” Alexander Burn said as he walked in. He was wiping his hands on a well soiled napkin, bacon grease on the carefully trimmed curls of his mustache. His hair was falsely black. Still fat, too, but at what cost. “Haven’t seen you on the grounds in a while. Here to beg for your allowance, perhaps?”
“Doesn’t look like you could provide it, even if I asked.” I looked around the room. “Nice of Billy to answer the door, let me disturb your meal. You hoping I’ll offer a loan?”
“Careful. You’re little more than a guest here, Jacob.”
I put my hands in my pockets and did a turn around the room. He watched me walk, chewing the last of his breakfast.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re here?” he asked. “Or is this just an opportunity to show off that remarkably gaudy pistol and rub your father’s face in your new lifestyle?”
I smiled and turned to him. “Going to make me stand in the foyer all day? Father?”
He grimaced, finished wiping his fingers with an obsessive twist and tossed the napkin onto an empty coat rack.
“Fine. In here. Williamson, a coffee. Jacob?”
“Of course.”
“Two, Williamson,” he said, then left the room.
“Thanks, Billy,” I said over my shoulder, then followed the elder Burns into the ballroom.
The place was done up. Sconces hung with holly and beads, the walls draped in bright fabric. A massive automaton was suspended from the ceiling, the sort of thing that would tell a slow, syncopated story when it was in full swing. Everything was thick with dust, even the bowls of wax fruit and most of the floor space. I remembered something about the family hosting a Beggars Day ball last year. Maybe they were hoping to reuse the ornaments next year. Or they couldn’t afford the workers to take it all down.
It had just been starting, when I left. My childhood was awash in trivial wealth. Nothing about those days of summer estates and lavish meals had hinted at this end. Though, thinking back, perhaps the signs had been there; the first desperate thrashings of a dying house.
There were chairs, mismatched, pulled into a tight circle by the grand window. A newspaper rack sat off to one side, and a cart with the cooling remains of breakfast. So this was the library now. I wondered what that other room looked like, the walls of dark wood and leather spines. Did father eat here so he wouldn’t have to face those empty shelves?
Alexander indicated a chair, then sat down. I took a different seat and propped my feet against the cart. In a few minutes, time spent invested in scowling and small talk, Billy brought coffee. It was good stuff.
“So, what’s this about?” father asked, firmly clanging his spoon around the cup as he stirred in his sugar.
“Tell me about the Council,” I said.
“Finally taking an interest in your nameright? That’s nice, but it’s a little late. I’ll be passing the seat on to your brother, once he gets out of the navy.”
“Gerrald won’t take it. He’s married to the river, and that trollop from the outer banks. But that’s not what I mean. Tell me about the Council right now. The problems you people are having.”
“Problems like what?” he asked. Alexander folded his hands in his lap and looked uninterested in a carefully cultivated and well practiced manner.
“Let’s not play games, father. There’s something going on, in the Council. Either you’ve been sleeping through the sessions, or you’ve picked a side. I need to know what you can tell me about it.”
He grimaced and plucked a newspaper from the rack. Rather than look it over, he folded it into a tight square, and then unfolded it. Once it was open, he started over.
“Look, Jacob, son. This is all very intricate stuff. Yes, there’s some tension in the Chamber Massif. People are balancing obligations, weighing allegiances. Trying to get a little advantage. But that’s the way it always is. There’s nothing new about this squabble.”
“Angela Tomb shot me.” I pointed at his chest, then mimed a pistol shot. “Close to me as we are right now.”
Alexander looked at me dully. “I’m sure you’re mistaken, Jacob. I’m sure Councilor Tomb-”
“People keep saying that to me. I’m the one who got shot, father. I’m the one the bullet went into. Are you saying I mistook the bullet?”
“The bullet, no, but her intent, Jacob. Surely she didn’t mean to kill you. Perhaps the gun went off by accident? Knowing you, you probably gave her plenty of reason to hold a gun on you.”
I slammed my palm down on the wooden arm of the chair. The slap resounded through the room. Billy rushed in, a broom in hand. We ignored him.
“If not us, if not the Founders! Well, then, no one! Bang! What does that mean, Dad? What about that did I mistake?”
“Sir, if I may-” Billy began.
“Later. And my coffee’s cold.” Alexander leaned closer to me, poking his finger at my face. “We need to be very clear here, Jacob. The Tomb is a close ally of this house, and a good friend of the Family. We don’t go around shooting one another, and to say anything less is plain absurd.” He swatted the breakfast cart with the folded newspaper and stood up. “Now, unless you’re going to say something sensible, I must bid you good day.”