“I did, thank you.”
He gave a curt nod. She returned to her chair and settled back to watch him work. Were all archangels so self-important? It seemed like a lonely existence, though he probably liked it that way.
After a while, he looked up again. “I plan to be here all night. It will be quite tedious to have you sitting there watching me the whole time.” He glanced at the floor-to-ceiling shelves. “Perhaps you’d care to read a book?”
“I don’t read books.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” he murmured, returning to his document.
“Why not?” She had no idea what he thought of her and was genuinely curious.
He set down his pen. “I only mean that you seem like more of a . . .physical type.”
She thought of Mercy. “You mean nature hiking?”
He shrugged a wing, exasperated.
“Oh, I don’t climb mountains,” she said. “I just break legs.”
He seemed unsure if she was joking. When he buried his nose in the papers again, Cathrynne allowed herself a tiny smile.
Mercy relieved her at three a.m. Both women were cranky and tired when dawn broke and Yarl informed them that they were heading back to the Red House. The three-hour time difference with Arioch made it feel like the middle of the night. Naturally, Morningstar looked as fresh as if he’d slept on the clouds wreathing Mount Meru.
As before, he sat at the dead man’s desk—the Magistrate’s Throne, Cathrynne thought of it—while Yarl recorded witness testimonies in a big book. A parade of delegates and staffers shuffled in throughout the morning. None admitted to knowing anything about Casolaba’s death. None seemed grieved by it.
“Did you notice any unusual visitors in the days before the murder?” Morningstar asked a round-faced clerk with who worked in an office a few doors down.
“No, my lord.” The clerk’s eyes darted to the smirking portrait of Casolaba and then to the window, as if seeking escape.
Lying, like the rest of them.
“And what was your personal opinion of the consul?” Morningstar pressed with an almost evil glint in his eye.
“He was always friendly. An effective leader,” the clerk replied primly.
Lies, lies, and more lies.
Cathrynne’s knees were stiff from standing. Her eyelids drooped from boredom. Just as she considered how much trouble she’d be in if she dozed off, the door burst open and Levi Bottas rushed in, his cheeks pink and hair poking out in all directions. “Sir, you must come down to the Assembly chamber.”
Morningstar’s jaw tightened at the interruption. “Why?”
“Just come!” Bottas beckoned urgently.
He rose with a flinty expression. Cathrynne trailed his billowing black robes down the stairs, Mercy and Yarl behind her. The Assembly occupied a large oval room with tiered seating above the main floor. A gallery circled the chamber where spectators could observe the proceedings. Bottas led them past a bunch of scribblers with pens and notepads who eyed Gavriel appraisingly.
On the floor below, Luzia Bras stood at the speaker’s podium, hands gripping either side. She seemed to be enjoying herself. “I won’t compare Primo Roloa to a whore,” she declared, “since that would be an insult to the hard-working prostitutes of this city?—”
Shouts erupted from the benches of the Freedom League.
Luzia raised her powerful voice above the din, “—who are more honest, sincere, and forthright than the acting consul, and certainly give better bang for your copper than he ever could!”
The scribblers in the gallery burst into laughter, as did the opposition benches. Primo Roloa merely shook his head, an indulgent, slightly contemptuous smile on his face.
“The Miners’ Union demands a snap election to choose a new consul,” Luzia continued, slamming a palm against the podium. “The people deserve better than a puppet whose strings are pulled by the mining conglomerates!”
More shouts, both in support and protest.
“And while I have the floor,” Luzia’s voice hardened, “I demand an investigation into the death of a boy from my district found floating in the river yesterday with a burn mark on his back from lithomancy!”
