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  "Shoot, Al!" Tanner cried.

  Someone else started firing from above. A bullet knocked Aldren's hat off. Tanner and Erin were shooting up at the newcomers along the catwalks as the woman in the Warsuit swung its massive arm again.

  This time, it had a hitchhiker.

  Shany clung to the mechanical limb. Shimmying up it even as it moved, he pulled something free of his tattered rags and threw it into a gap in the Warsuit's armor at the shoulder joint. Then, he leapt free, crashing into a box of scrap parts.

  The arm came swinging again, but didn't make it a meter before Shany's grenade detonated.

  Heat wafted over Aldren as the roar of fire and the clang of broken metal filled the space along with the orange flash of the explosion.

  It all passed within moments. Coughing, Aldren looked to the Warsuit through the smoke. Its arm hung limp, the place where it connected to the rest of the machine rendered a twisted mess.

  The cockpit was empty.

  "Shit. There has to be a back door!" Tanner shouted. "Come on!"

  Aldren and Shany followed him. Shany had a gash across his forehead and a swollen eye, but was otherwise not the worse for wear.

  "You fellas go after 'em,” Erin called. "Leon's bleeding bad."

  "Alright, patch your man up and hold the fort." Tanner gave Aldren a scathing look before leading the way.

  They passed through a narrow corridor, checking each door with their weapons raised. Aldren was amazed he could even walk, with how unsteady his legs felt. He didn't know if he could shoot. Not that he'd done much of that to begin with.

  Office spaces, a storeroom, a begrimed washroom. All unoccupied.

  An engine revved somewhere ahead.

  "Shit!" Tanner dashed the rest of the way down the hall and kicked in the door there. He fell back at the sound of more gunfire. Tires squealed.

  When Tanner passed beyond the door unharmed, Aldren dared to follow alongside Shany. A garage door had been opened. Outside, a dark gray truck sped down a muddy slope, headed for a dirt road that cut through a copse of trees.

  The woman poked her pale face out of the truck bed and raised her middle finger to her would-be captors.

  "Bitch!" Tanner threw his gun down and spat every curse Aldren knew of.

  When he was done venting his frustration at the fleeing vehicle, he rounded on Aldren, expression livid.

  "Why," he snarled. "Why didn't you fucking shoot her when you had the chance?"

  Chapter 12

  Samuel Mutton had always hated these galas.

  After the Xang War, on his path to becoming senator, he'd despised the handshaking and fake smiles, loathed watching his every word and act, on edge for what his opponents might try to use against him.

  Now, he was running for president against Elliot Salkirk, a man who'd roped him into participating in the most shameful act of his military career. Elliot Salkirk, in whose mansion Samuel now sat.

  This was going to be a rough evening.

  Samuel sipped from a glass of champagne, trying to let the orchestra's mellow tones soothe his nerves. But every time he felt himself relax, even a little, all it took was a glance at his wife across the table to set Samuel back on edge.

  He'd released Leanne from her unofficial house arrest the moment the North surrendered and had stopped having her followed less than two months after that.

  Maybe she'd be able to forgive him for the weeks of confinement. But Samuel didn't know if his wife could ever forgive him for what had become known as the Quarrystone Massacre.

  After all, why should she, when Samuel had yet to forgive himself?

  "Is the food to your liking, Dear?" he ventured to ask.

  Leanne shot him a cold look as she lifted her fork to her mouth. "I'll know that, Husband, when I've had the chance to eat in peace." She took a bite and washed it down with her wine.

  You look lovely, he thought but didn't say. Complimenting her would do no good. Savior above, how he'd tried.

  Samuel caught glances from nearby tables. People turned away as soon as they saw him notice, leaning in to talk to one another in whispers.

  Across the room, Salkirk sat at the head of the only rectangular table in the large room, looking nothing if not smug in his gold-leaf suit. He managed to be the running favorite in the North, despite being a former Lytan lord and Imperial sympathizer during the Revolution, as well as a vociferous anti-Industrialist in the Civil War. Such was what happened, Samuel supposed, when one's opponent committed wholesale slaughter.

  The man demonizes the North, manipulates me into committing a war crime I'm bound to tell no one was his idea, then gets the northern votes by default after the fact. Samuel drained his glass. What can I hope to do against that? The better question was, did Samuel even want to win? Half the time, he wondered why he'd entered the race to begin with. The other half, he was convinced he ran solely to keep Elliot Salkirk out of power. That was as noble a cause as any.

  "Might want to slow down with the champagne, Samuel," Leanne said. "I'm not carrying you to the hotel."

  Samuel smirked. "That's what I brought Paulson for." He poured another glass from the bottle chilling in a bucket of ice in the center of the table. "If anyone would know how to deal with a drunk, it'd be him."

  "I do wish you'd let someone else be your driver, even if you insist on keeping that miscreant around," said Leanne.

  "And I wish my wife would stop treating me like a piece of crud on her shoe, but I guess we can't all have what we want."

  They looked away from each other and resumed their mutual silence.

  He would have liked to continue talking, even to be insulted more. The papers ran rampant with stories about the Muttons and their souring marriage, spawning all sorts of rumors. But he would have her belittle him in front of every journalist in the world, just to hear her voice. That was, if his nation's future were not tied with his career.

  Samuel put his glass down and leaned forward. "Do you want to just get the divorce and be done with this?" he asked. "If it's money you're worried about, I promise you'll be well taken care of."

  It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it in an instant. The coldness in Leanne's stare morphed into something hot and vehement. "Do you think that's why I'm still with you, Sam?" She let her fork drop with a clatter.

  Samuel winced. From his peripheral vision he saw curious heads swivel their way.

  "Of course not. That's not what I'm saying at all—"

  "Really? Because that sounds like exactly what you're trying to say." Leanne threw her napkin over her plate and stood. Leaning forward, she hissed: "If you want a divorce so bad, Samuel Mutton, you go ahead and ask for one. But I won't let you insinuate that I'm some gold-hungry w—"

  "Damn, you'd think a man with this much money could afford larger portions," Paulson interrupted, appearing between them. "You done with that, Mrs. Mutton?" He gestured at her plate with the tip of an unlit cigar.

  Leanne looked taken aback for a moment. She got over it soon enough and sniffed in derision. "Go ahead. You can have the chair, too.”

  "Leanne, wait."

  "I'll see you at the hotel, Samuel." She trotted off, head held high even as people snickered behind their hands in her wake.

  Across the room, Salkirk leaned over to whisper in the ear of a young lady on his left. His beaming gaze, however, was reserved for Samuel's table.

  On the senator's right side sat Darian Gaul, his expression impassive as he chewed methodically at his food. Samuel wondered if bloodshed was the only thing the murderous cur was passionate about, remembering the laughter emanating from Southern Virtue at Quarrystone.

  Paulson pulled Leanne's vacant chair back and sat as though nothing were amiss.

  "You were supposed to stay in the car," Samuel pointed out. "Did they even let you in here, after that stunt you pulled last time?" Samuel had to feign anger. Paulson had likely just saved him from a very public blowout with his wife. Say what one would about Edmund Pa
ulson, the man had timing.

  "Stunt?" Paulson lit his cigar with a wooden match. "You've lost me, Senator."

  "You pulled a gun on Elliot Salkirk!"

  "Oh, that." Paulson blew out a ring of smoke. "Well, technically, I didn’t. But that might explain the guards' foul moods when I came in."

  As if on cue, a pair of sour-faced men in black suits appeared in the gala hall entrance, staring daggers at Samuel's secretary.

  "Don't worry, Sam." Paulson popped one of Leanne's abandoned shrimp into his mouth and talked while he chewed. "I didn't force my way in. Told the boys I had an urgent matter to discuss with my employer. Emergency, life or death, all that."

  "All so you could eat some leftovers. Put that down, for God's sake!"

  Paulson seemed to seriously consider disobeying, but he set down the glass of wine he'd lifted with a sigh. "I wish that were the case, Sam—"

  “Mr. Mutton, or Senator, here," Samuel insisted. "Now, whatever this is about, let's hear it before I lose my patience."

  "That smarmy..." Paulson shot a look toward Salkirk's table. He picked up the wine again and raised the glass to their host in a silent toast, flashing his toothiest, most insincere smile.

  Salkirk responded with a cool nod. There was no love lost between them, since the execution of Yannick Mal.

  Samuel didn't bother chiding Paulson when he tossed back the wine. The man was incorrigible.

  Paulson took a folded newspaper from his coat and slid it across to Samuel. "Got that off one of the carriage drivers."

  "If this is another trash journalist speculating about my marriage, Edmund, I'll make you eat that newspaper."

  Paulson's easygoing facade faded, leaving a somber visage in its place. "Like I said, my friend. I wish it was only that."

  Samuel knew his secretary well enough to recognize when to take him seriously. He took the paper and scanned the headline.

  By the time he was done, Samuel's fingers had tightened into fists, crumpling the printed pages.

  For the past year, Nathaniel David's administration had peddled narratives about what happened at Quarrystone and why. A scouting mission gone awry when Northern Warsuits attacked nearby civilian domiciles and got innocents caught in the crossfire. A flanking maneuver from the east, backfired when a rear ambush forced Southern Warsuits into the hapless camp. A dozen or more variations of the same excuse, an excuse Samuel had trouble thinking anyone really believed, but one that had managed to preserve his good name to some extent.

  And all that effort, all the lies to protect his reputation and the president's, had just been put to waste by one lying snake.

  Salkirk had put a statement in the Arkenian Star, the newspaper he all but owned. A statement claiming the entire assault on Quarrystone had not only not been an accident, but had been Samuel's idea, carried out in direct defiance of presidential oversight and Salkirk's own advisement.

  "Not a good idea," Paulson warned as Samuel stood up. "Much as I'd like to see him without teeth."

  Newspaper still clutched in one fist, Samuel wove his way between tables, his eyes glued to the gold-bedecked owner of the mansion.

  "Murderer," someone hissed. "Butcher." Not every look Samuel received was a mocking one. There were vehement glares. Some of these people hated him.

  As I knew they would. Samuel had been under no illusions. He'd known the dam would burst one day, that his hens would come home to roost. He'd been prepared for it. But this. This, he would not stand for.

  The guards who'd followed Paulson rushed to intercept Samuel, blocking his path to Salkirk's table a mere few feet away.

  "It's alright, lads. He is a guest, after all," said Salkirk.

  The guards stepped aside but made it clear with their body language and identical scowls that they were ready to move on Samuel on a moment's notice, if their boss changed his mind. Darian Gaul crossed his arms, giving Samuel a flat stare.

  Samuel crossed the rest of the distance and threw the crumpled newspaper on the table, knocking over a glass of wine belonging to the young woman on Salkirk's left. She must have been half the senator's age, but by the low cut of her dress and the hand she placed on Salkirk's arm, there was no question about the nature of their relationship. Perhaps Salkirk and Davids had more in common than Samuel thought.

  Red wine flowed around the paper like blood.

  "You son of a bitch," Samuel said, oblivious to the indignant exclamations of the other guests. "You dare print this garbage, while you sit here with this pet monster of yours?" He jerked his chin at Gaul.

  "Calm down, Samuel." Salkirk snapped his fingers, summoning a servant who mopped at the spilled wine with a white rag. "If you wish to sit and have words, you need merely ask."

  "I won't sit at your table, lying cur," Samuel hissed, gripping the edge of the table and leaning forward. "You know what you did, and what I did not do."

  "Are you denying your part in the Quarrystone Massacre?" Salkirk raised an eyebrow. "Darian here attests to your insistence on lethal force, even on Northern civilians who happened to be in your Warsuit's path. He also recalls your orders for secrecy, which his good conscience would not allow him to acquiesce to." Salkirk's voice heated. "That you not only defied the laws, but roped an unwitting man into the crime alongside you is just another atrocity laid at your war-mongering feet!" He was nearly shouting by now, voice carrying through the high-ceilinged room. "So please, Senator Mutton, enlighten us as to what it was I did."

  A hand gripped Samuel's shoulder, and he nearly came about swinging before realizing it was his secretary.

  "Come, Sir," Paulson whispered. "We should take our leave."

  Samuel turned back to Salkirk. The man still leaned forward, glaring in anger. But his lip twitched in unmistakable amusement. Because Salkirk knew Samuel couldn't reveal the truth, not without dismantling the legitimacy of Davids and the entire war. Not without causing untold civil strife that could ignite a whole new armed conflict between two halves of a nation only recently made whole.

  Salkirk had thrown him to the wolves, and there was nothing he could say in his own defense.

  Samuel pushed himself from the table. "My apologies, Senator," he said. "But I'm afraid I must excuse myself early this evening. Thank you for your hospitality."

  "Of course, Samuel. You're always welcome beneath my roof. Oh, and do drive carefully, Mr. Paulson," Salkirk added, his dark eyes flickering to Samuel's secretary. "I know how accident prone you can be."

  "You'd know all about being clumsy, Salkirk. I've seen how fast you drop to the ground." Paulson took a biscuit from the table. "Much obliged."

  Samuel nudged Paulson.

  "Maybe leave your dog in his kennel next time," Paulson said, jerking his chin toward Darian Gaul. "It's unsanitary."

  Samuel pushed his secretary along. They crossed the room, stiff-backed, with the eyes of over a hundred politicians, journalists, and high society socialites on them. Pens scribbled furiously on notepads as reporters penned what would no doubt be tomorrow's newest scandal piece on Redstripe Mutton and his drunken secretary. This disaster kept getting worse.

  "Your wife wished me to inform you she's taken a carriage back into town, Senator," the concierge at the double-doored entrance said as he handed Samuel his coat and saber.

  "Very good, thank you." Leanne was a problem for another night. Samuel's entire campaign was crumbling around him, and only his ability to hold it together could help keep Elliot Salkirk from becoming the most powerful man in Arkenia. Needless to say, Samuel wasn't off to a good start.

  The night sky was clear beyond the doors of Salkirk's mansion, the country air clean and crisp in early winter's chill.

  Valets and chauffeurs loitered around parked vehicles while carriage drivers fed and brushed their horses.

  Then, there were the photographers.

  A flash blinded Samuel. He put a hand up to shield his eyes as more cameras flared.

  "Senator Mutton!" Several reporters converged on Sa
muel and Paulson, notepads at the ready. "Can you comment on the recent statements Senator Salkirk made about the Quarrystone Massacre? Does your opponent know something the people don't?"

  "How did it feel to dine in your opposition's house after he implicated you?"

  "Your wife left early, is there a potential divorce on the horizon?"

  "Is it true that Leanne Mutton remains an Industrialist sympathizer to this day?"

  "You vultures can leave my wife out of this," Samuel growled. He shouldered his way through. Next to him, Paulson took a particularly zealous correspondent by the collar and flung him aside, kicking his notebook into the dirt.