Ghosts of Koa, The First Book of Ezekiel (24 page)

"I want your signature, Micah," Sal continued. "I want you to support the repeals of the Articles39."

Burke crossed his arms. "You'll have better luck finding support for Billings' man-boobs than getting me to sign that piece of shit legislation. Not after last spring."

Sal sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "This again, Micah?"

"Last spring, Sal."

"Yes, yes, April showers and May flowers, it was beautiful--"

"You sonofabitch!" Burke seethed. "I had to watch shop owners beg as their livelihoods were stripped away from them without warning. Civilian lawyers, up my ass about the violation of Civilian rights to bear arms. Threats filling my voicemail box to the brim. 'Death to the Besieger', nailed to my goddamned door! And now you would have me serve them yet another injustice?"

Burke could tell from Sal's patient smile that he wasn't moved. In fact the only thing that moved on Sal's body at all were his hands and arms as he poured the steaming black coffee atop a thick layer of cold condensed milk.

"Act 948 was a necessary measure," Sal said finally, topping off his coffee. "An
unfortunate
measure, from which not one of us at the Halls of Deis derived a single pleasurable moment."

Burke sneered. "You're so full of it. Talking so much crap you could open a shit farm, easy."

"I regret putting the task of 948 upon you, dear friend. That's why I'm here, to offer you recompense. Councilman Billings and I are more than prepared to support you in the restoration of your alchemic titles, if you would but choose wisdom over passion."

Burke narrowed his eyes. Passions his finely-dimpled ass. Cowering before child demons was one thing, but there was no way he'd let this scummy low-level tax jerker come in and throw his meager influence around. Sal Morgan didn't call shots. He was a lap dog at best, but
he
-- Micah Pencham Burke-- was a Vassal. No matter what Billings or anyone at the Halls of Deis said, he'd earned his titles. He'd never beg or sell out to get them back.

So he squared his shoulders. "No."

"Will you sit on it, at least?"

Burke paused for a minute, rubbing his jaw with a thumb. "Yeah, sure. I'll sit on it," he said, finally. "I think I'll wipe my ass with it a couple times too, for good measure."

Sal put his empty mug down and regarded him for a minute-- impatience finally creeping around the edges of his gaze-- until he let it go. The man never lost his cool, it seemed, not even when he was losing a battle. Finally, he shrugged.

"You've always had a knack for poetry, dear friend. Despite your reservations, I believe that you'll want to meditate on this for a bit. You should watch how the world around you turns before you put in your final word. Keep an eye on your little garden, perhaps?"

Burke felt the color drain from his face as he watched Sal's mouth tighten with that cocksure smile. What the hell did he know about the garden? Unless...

"It was you. It's been you all along."

"Me?" Sal said, feigning innocence. "What, pray tell, have I been doing?"

"At best? Prying into business that isn't yours." Burke stepped towards him, feeling vicious. "And at worst--"

"Please, Micah, your proverbial muscles are outgrowing your tiny T-shirt." Sal waved off his advance as though he were a fly. "I haven't done a thing except ask the right questions of the right people. I mean, really. You didn't think that you-- demoted and on the brink of disownment-- could go to an Azure psychiatrist and still maintain any sort of privacy, could you? It's no small secret that one of the Order's former finest is cracking up."

"I am not cracking up!" Burke snapped. In spite of himself, though, he began to relax. So it wasn't Sal who had raised the dead in his garden. But someone-- likely Dr. Jacobs or one of his assistants-- was flapping his gums about it.

"So, then?" Sal poured himself another cup of coffee. "If you aren't losing your mind, then tell me. Are the rumors true?"

"You seem so informed lately. You tell me."

"Well, one can only speculate as to the goings-on of the great House of Burke, now can we? But if I
were
to speculate, I'd say that your recent experiences are more than just a clash of PTSD and delicate faculties. Someone of import seems to be quite interested in making a point."

"If you know who's doing this, I'd appreciate a straight answer rather than all your damned riddles."

"Truth be told, I haven't the slightest idea. But I'm sure you do, Councilman. I'm sure you know exactly where these 'telegrams' are coming from."

Burke set his jaw.
 

"If you would only divulge your suspicions, perhaps we can help you. It would come at a cost, of course, and we have already named our price."

Burke raised an eyebrow. We? Since when was Sal Morgan a part of the fold?

"Oh. You haven't heard," Sal said. He looked pleased beyond words.

Burke eyed him warily. "And I'm not sure I want to."

"I'm afraid Councilman Clegg has tendered his resignation as of late. I will be representing the Fifth Demesne as its new Councilman."

"What the hell are you talking about? Elections aren't for another seven months."

"And yet recalls know no schedule, it seems."

Burke looked off, unbelieving. Recalls. Ones that
no one
had even heard about. Not even him. The Alchemic Order controlled a lot, but this level of treachery bit the artery. He thought at least the political system of the Civic Order was still insulated. He thought the Civilian officials still had procedures, protocol. Did the Alchemic Order's influence really reach this far?

Sal smiled, seeming to enjoy Burke's reactions. "It's a lot to take in, I know. I can barely believe it myself. But when one is called to serve, he must do his duty. Who was I to say no? I am but a humble civil servant."

Burke looked back up, the anger simmering. "How?"

"Quite a messy business it was," Sal said. "And yet, recalls of men in power can crop up so suddenly, especially when Koan terrorists slip in under guarded walls and slaughter nine Civilian lots all at once."

"Eight," Burke snarled.

"Sorry?"

"Eight lots. Nine were attacked, but one survived. As new Councilman of the Fifth, you should commit that to memory. Maybe even do something charitable for the ousted people of your Demesne. Celebrate the resilience of Lot Three to give your people hope. Civic duty, and all."

Sal put down his coffee cup. "Ah yes, the valiant Lot Three. Spared by all manner of luck and pluck. How fortunate for your precious gunsmith Merconius Anon and his two little girls... what were their names again, I can't quite remember..."

"I'm sure you remember well enough."

"You pick the strangest allies, my friend. The weakest allies."

"Yeah? Is that why you stole the Fifth Demesne? Is that why the Anons' shop was the first on your list to shut down? Because they're weak?"

"No. Because you are."

Burke huffed and turned away.

"I ask a favor of you in the Fifth, and you handled it with the barest of Azure confidence. You dropped to your knees before the Civilians, before the Anons, begging for forgiveness like some scarlet woman. I've always wondered at the strange indebtedness you bore towards Merconious and his ilk. As painful as it was for you, however, I'm glad to have helped relieve you of that debt. In coming here, I had hoped you would allow me to relieve you of yet another."

"I owe no debts to you or to the Order."

"Debts are my speciality, my friend. From my count, you are very much in arrears. Very much alone."

"You don't scare me, Sal. I
have
people on my side. Real friendships extend beyond the Alchemic Order--"

"Nothing extends beyond the Alchemic Order. Whoever your allies may be, they can't be of much import. As I said. You are the rotting apple, and only maggots make homes with the dead." Still calm, Sal reached inside his inner jacket pocket and took out a long silver pen with a matching writing stone. "The repeals of the Articles39. You have a month from today to reconsider my offer. Your titles in exchange for your signature and public support. It's an important decision, Burke. Meditate on it." Sal placed the writing stone on the countertop, and Burke glared at it, seeing that his name had been carved into it in beautiful cursive.
 

"You remember how to use these, yes? I trust you haven't forgotten everything that makes you an Azure Alchemist."

"Only as much as you've forgotten what makes you human, Sally."

"You serve your justice, I'll serve mine. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the Guild of Almaut."

"Auditing?"

"Adopting, actually. Two orphans in need of a home. Civic duty to my Demesne, and all that."

Burke raised an eyebrow. "Didn't peg you for the fatherly type."

"Well, I'm not a total monster." Sal smiled. "Good day, Councilman. Thank you kindly for the coffee. It was... refreshing."

He left, and as soon as the front door closed behind him, Burke hurled the writing stone and pen off the counter. The stone cracked, the jagged and toothed bits of it scattering like a crushed headstone, his name scrawled across the pieces.

When Zeika jogged up to the Guild, pulling Manja behind her, she slowed, her eyes stuck on the bustle in front.

What the...

Buses were lined up, but the path to them was blocked off by thick police tape. A massive crowd, teeming and angry, was being held back by a line of APs with assault rifles.

"This is bullshit!" One crowd member near her roared. "We're all citizens of the Civic Order! You can't leave us here!"

In the distance, Zeika could see that a line of people, many of them wolf-moons, filing out of the Guild and boarding each bus. From the murmurs of the crowd, she picked up that the buses were going to take the members to the edge of Demesne Six, where they would then grab the ferry to the Island. To the side, Mama standing on her tip-toes, wrapped in a shawl. Her eyes darted back and forth, searching the crowd.

Zeika hoisted Manja onto her shoulders, and Manja began waving her teddy bear bag. Mama caught sight of them and beckoned. The two picked their ways through the crowd until they reached the tape, but when they ducked under, an AP stepped forward.
 

"Stop right there." He didn't lift his rifle, but two of his comrades did, aiming right at them.

"They're mine!" Mama stumbled forward. "They're guildmembers."

Zeika showed their member cards, and the AP signaled his team to stand down. The girls ran forward, hugging their mother for the first time in days. Mama's bones practically cracked beneath Zeika's embrace. Her skin lay warm and sweaty over the brittle branches of her frame, her entire body slick like Amazonian wood. She was in withdrawal.
 

When they parted, Zeika looked around. "Baba?"

Mama's head trembled. No.

She nodded, her throat tight with tension. Their escape wasn't like they had planned, but at least they were getting out of here. That was first. Then, they could reunite with Baba on the Island and plan the next step. Things were going to be fine.

A social worker walked down the line, double-checking each member off a list and running identifications. When he got to them, he narrowed his eyes at Zeika and Manja.

"The emergency evacuation is for special-needs members only."

"They're mine. Mine, minors." Mama took a step in between Zeika and the social worker, cutting her off from the burn of his gaze. "I'm all they got."

Zeika put a hand on her mother's back. Jesus. Mama's bones shook with each pound of her heart. She was coming down hard. Too hard. She was shaking, barely able to string words together.
 

The social worker sniffed and flipped the pages on his clipboard. "Ah yes. I see here," he said finally. "My apologies, Mrs. Anon."

Mama cast her eyes down at the social worker's feet and smiled, and as they walked forward, Zeika began to relax.

"Wait." He was looking at the clipboard again, his eyes alert. "Mrs. Anon, do you mind stepping over here for a moment, please? Your children too."
 

Zeika and Mama exchanged glances, but did as they were asked.

In a low voice, the social worker began. "My apologies. I didn't see the note on your file. According to the Guild's records, because you've been repeatedly committed for drug rehabilitation, the Guild of Almaut cannot recommend that your children stay in your custody. We cannot release them to your care unless their father is present."
 

Mama's eyes widened and her lips parted as though to speak. Nothing came out. Zeika stared at her, her heart kicking up its beat as her gaze begged Mama to break the silence. Still nothing. Whatever she might have said stalled, traffic-jammed in her throat somewhere far behind synapses burnt dead by kunja.

Even the social worker creased his brow at Mama's silence. "As the primary center for social services," he continued. "--the Guild will remand your children to its custody until their father claims them. If not, then they'll be remanded to foster parents until you have reached a reasonable rehabilitative state, at which point they will then be returned to you."

"Mama--" Zeika turned to their mother, her face desperate.
 

Confusion clouded her mother's face, a sunken and gaunt face, blued at the cheeks... the blush of the dead. Mama looked haunted, cold turkey.

No.
Zeika's mind corrected her.
High.

One of the buses rumbled to life, and Zeika couldn't offer another thought to Mama's condition, not when every second mattered. She pushed past her mother, stepped up to the social worker. "She wants us in her custody. Right? Mama?"

Mama's eyes darted around, from the social worker to Zeika to Manja. Her thin, cracked lips opened, trying but not succeeding. The social worker's face relaxed, as though his suspicions were being confirmed.

"Our father isn't absent," Zeika protested. "He's just stuck in Demesne Six. The quarantine!"
 

The social worker sighed, shook his head, and turned his eyes back to his clipboard before walking away.