“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.