And then the room went white and glaring, as if I had been dropped onto the surface of the sun, as Morlak dragged the Beacon from its foil wrapping, cursing amazedly, and I stepped back, blinded.
I collided with the door and, sightless, fought for the latch. I heard him behind me, shouting and stumbling about, but I had the door open and he was—I was almost sure—at least as surprised by what he had uncovered as I was. I ran. On the second step, I missed my footing, and fell headlong, the satchel spilling open beneath me. Pain burned bright as the Beacon in my head, but I fought to right myself and my already bruised legs felt unbroken. I half ran, half fell down the stairs.
I could still see nothing.
I blundered into a doorjamb, dimly aware of another male voice, dull and confused by sleep, at my elbow, but I kept moving. Eyes squeezed shut, I recognized the smell of the weavers’ shed, the edge of oil and unwashed bodies, and I made for it, feeling rather than seeing the cavernous space open up around me. I faltered for a moment, trying to get my bearings in the unnatural darkness, then plunged on. Somewhere a door opened and a boy cried out, “Who’s there?”
I adjusted, then picked up speed, heedless of the damage I might do to myself if I ran into something, or somebody. Farther back, still on the stairs, I could hear Morlak bellowing curses.
I ran into the wall, taking most of the impact on my outstretched arms. I felt the brick and, gazing into the blackness, caught the merest shadow of difference two yards to my left. I made for it, and my hands found wood and the metal fittings of the alley door.
I pressed the latch and shouldered it open.
Instantly, the darkness grayed a little, which was enough. I could have walked these streets blindfolded.
I burst into a hard run, feeling nothing because to feel anything would have made me stop. They would come after me, but I had a head start, and they would not know where I was going.
As I ran, I replayed the one thing I felt sure of in my head.
It’s not about the Beacon. It never was.
It was about money, of course, and about the deaths of a boy and an old man who no one thought worthy of attention. These were what really mattered, and I felt suddenly ashamed that it had taken me so long to recognize as much.
*
SUREYNA WAS WAITING FOR me at her spot on Winckley Street. The lamps were still lit, and the dawn was, for the moment, cool and fresh, but there was broken glass in the street, burned-out carriages on the corner, and shops with their windows shattered and shelves ransacked. And blood. Not a lot. Not yet. But there would be more. “Unrest,” the papers would call it, if there still were papers. The protests were souring, the city splintering along lines of race and faction, and Willinghouse’s dire prophecies were coming true. We were falling over the brink, and the blood would run in rivers through the streets long before the Grappoli ever got here.
Mnenga’s among them.
The idea shocked me, but a part of me was sure it was true. The city blacks would revolt against the rich whites who were leading them into war, and the Unassimilated would come to their aid, bringing spears and hide shields to fight men with machine guns. For a second, I could see his face in the crowd, proud and open and strong even as the gunfire rang out.…
Sureyna looked anxious and checked over her shoulder as I approached. I spoke urgently, telling her what had happened at the warehouse, all I knew and suspected, so that she took out her pencil and started scribbling.
“You need to go to the police,” she said.
“That’s your job,” I answered. “There are some things I have to do first, and not all of them are strictly legal.”
“Why am I not surprised?” said Sureyna.
I gave her a bleak smile. “I have no choice,” I said. “I have to end this before anyone else gets hurt. And, Sureyna?”
“What?”
“This is not about the Grappoli. It never was. Say so. Say it clearly.”
She nodded with grim understanding, then—as if remembering something important—snatched one of the newspapers from her stack and thrust it into my hands. “There’s a follow-up piece in there you are going to want to read.”
I looked at the cover story. For a long moment, the headline stopped my breath and closed my eyes. It read:
SECRET LAND DEAL COALITION CROSSES PARTY LINES
And there were photographs.