The realization hit him just as the door opened and Tenik reappeared: Everyone here thought that Michel was responsible for Yaret’s death. He felt a trickle of sweat roll down the small of his back, and the behavior of Tenik—and the angry stares of the guards—now made so much more sense. This bank was the Household’s staging point, where they’d all gathered to recover. Michel was the man responsible for this, or so they all thought, and he had little doubt who’d spread that rumor.
Tenik stood in the open doorway for a moment, his expression troubled, obviously trying to read Michel. For his part, Michel could do little more than sweat openly, knowing how pale and frail he looked. He knew what guilt looked like, and it wasn’t all that different from a man trying to keep himself together when he is physically and emotionally empty.
“All right,” Tenik said, “come in.”
Michel stepped through the door and into the bank manager’s offices, which he could tell in a single glance had been co-opted by whoever was taking over Yaret’s position as the head of the Household. Michel wondered briefly how the line of succession affected the Name, and if Yaret would fade into obscurity, forgotten by all but a few dusty history books.
It was with some surprise that he entered a second doorway and found Yaret himself sitting behind the manager’s old desk, leaning forward, fingers steepled, brow furrowed as one of his cupbearers spoke earnestly. At the sight of Michel, Yaret raised his hand, and the woman beside him fell silent.
There were four other people in the room besides Michel, Tenik, and Yaret. Michel recognized each of them as Yaret’s top lieutenants. He tried to figure out who was missing and couldn’t come up with anyone. Had none of them died in the bombing? His pleasure at the news—and the sight of Yaret alive and well—was tempered by the fact that everyone in the room looked at him with the same weighing, anger-tinged way the guards outside had. He was, he realized in an instant, on trial.
“Michel,” Yaret said by way of greeting. “We’re all rather surprised to see you alive.”
Michel was about to answer that the feeling was mutual, but realized how bad that would sound before the words left his mouth. Instead, he just nodded. “I have the feeling I’ve missed a lot.”
“Indeed. There are quite a lot of rumors swirling around about you right now.”
Michel glanced at Tenik, but the cupbearer was clearly going to be of no help. He felt a spark of anger and grabbed on to it, using it to prop himself up in the face of silent accusations. He didn’t know exactly what was going on, but he had a pretty good guess. He’d almost killed himself just attempting to warn them of the bombing, and here they were turned against him. “I’m going to guess that those rumors include my involvement with the bombing of your Household.”
“Do you deny them?” Yaret asked.
Michel glanced around at the hostile faces. He’d begun to think of these people as his colleagues, Tenik even as a friend. He didn’t deserve this. He was too tired, in too much pain. “Of course I deny it. You want an explanation for my absence the last week? Here it is.” He launched into a quick summary of his adventures, starting with his search of Forgula’s house, then his shooting by Hendres, and his recovery with Emerald. He finished with his attempt to warn Yaret about the bombing, and his time spent locked in Ichtracia’s townhouse. He glossed over a few key details, like Emerald’s name and occupation, but kept everything fairly true to reality.
Yaret and his people listened without interrupting, watching him carefully throughout the whole story. Michel ended with a sigh and, without being invited, took an empty chair from the corner of the room and dragged it over in front of Yaret’s desk before collapsing into it.
“Ichtracia saved you from Forgula?” Yaret asked.
It was not the first question Michel expected to be asked. “She did. I have no idea why.”
“She’s taken a liking to him,” Tenik interrupted, clearing his throat. “She has ever since Michel tagged Forgula at the war games.”
Yaret snorted, burying a half smile, the closest thing to humor to enter this room since Michel’s arrival. “No telling what’s in a Privileged’s head. Especially that one.” He squinted at Michel, then suddenly produced a piece of paper. It was hastily scrawled with the words Evacuate Household. Bomb.—Michel. He set it in the middle of the desk so that Michel could see it. “That,” he said, “is the only reason you’re standing there right now, and not already handed over to the bone-eyes for questioning. Because of this note, we were able to get everyone out of the townhouse in Chancellor’s Court before several barrels of gunpowder were detonated in the basement. The house was destroyed. The Household was saved.”
There was a note of gratitude in Yaret’s voice that made Michel’s heart sing. He reined in his elation. This was still a trial, and it could still go bad.
Yaret continued. “Forgula has openly accused you of being responsible for the bombings that have taken place across the city. She and several witnesses claim you were present just before the destruction of my house. From your explanation—and from this note here and the witness of the child who brought it to me—you were attempting to warn us.”
“I was.”
“Good. Then I think we both see what Forgula is up to. Without evidence, though, Sedial will demand that I hand you over to the bone-eyes for questioning.”
Michel glanced between the faces. They were all a little gentler, but cautiously so. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think you do understand what Forgula is up to.”
“Oh?”
Michel produced the list of addresses that he had taken from Forgula’s house. The paper was stained black with his blood. He handed it to Tenik, who examined it with a frown. “That,” Michel said, “is what I found among Forgula’s papers. It struck me as important at the time, so I confiscated it, but I was shot before I could give it a second thought. In my weakened state, I didn’t grasp the significance of the addresses until the morning of the bombing, and that’s when I attempted to reach the house to warn you.”
“What is that?” Yaret asked Tenik.
Tenik’s eyebrows rose. “It’s a list of addresses—corresponding to every single one of the bombings, including the one that destroyed our house.”
“You’ll find that the handwriting matches the writing in Forgula’s pocketbook,” Michel said, trying not to sound smug.
Three of Yaret’s lieutenants began to mutter. A fourth gasped openly. Yaret stilled them with a raised hand. “And?”
“I propose that Forgula has been working with Marhoush and the Blackhats. She struck a deal with them to kill as many of Sedial’s enemies as they could. I have no idea what the Blackhats are getting in return, but it’s clear from that list of addresses that she knew ahead of time where they would occur. I’d be willing to bet that Marhoush or je Tura has a matching list.”
Yaret nodded at Tenik, who slipped out of the room without a word. Michel opened his mouth to ask where Tenik was going, but Yaret cut him off. “You’re accusing Ka-Sedial of treason.”
“I am,” Michel said. “Forgula ran the errands, but it’s too convenient of a pattern for Sedial not to have given the order.”
“Would he dare?” one of the lieutenants asked.
Yaret tapped a finger against his chin, staring over Michel’s shoulder at nothing, a scowl etched on his face. “Sedial has dared an awful lot. He would never risk the empire—if all of this is true, he probably has a plan to eliminate the Blackhats as soon as they’ve served their purpose. But he has never been above destroying his enemies.”
“All of that was supposed to change with this war. We were supposed to be united,” another of the lieutenants growled.