Lila winced as she came upon Bullstow in her Adessi roadster. The stone wall encircling the compound had been pockmarked by hundreds of pebble-shaped dents, dents not made by gunfire or acid but by a bomb. Across the street, the law offices of Slack & Roberts had been cordoned off, construction equipment and wrecking balls already chipping away at the skeletal remains. The few walls left standing had been knocked into a pile, the occasional back of an office chair or picture frame protruding from the mess of wire and concrete and sooty insulation.

Engine grease and gasoline covered most of the smell of the perfumery next door, but the discordant mix curled Lila’s restless stomach. She rolled up her window, muting the incessant beeping of trucks reversing for another load. While she waited to be waved past, she tapped her steering wheel. At least traffic was light

this morning, for the businesses around Slack & Roberts had closed down while the demolition teams worked.

The job would be completed soon, though, what with her father using his connections to rush the work. In a few more days, the office would be completely leveled, and a different set of people would come to the site to rebuild. All evidence of Tristan’s bomb would be erased.

Few people would know the real story.

Even the conspiracy nut-jobs hadn’t gotten close. The blogosphere had already divided themselves into two camps: those who believed Peter Kruger had earned his rescue by following a missive from King Lucas, and those who believed Bullstow had set it up to drag the country into war. Lila had used a fake account to stir the latter group up and make them look more idiotic.

None had managed a peek at Tristan’s AAS flyer. If they had, they might have realized that the law offices had been misusing their poorer clients, fabricating evidence against them, and providing nothing more than a fumbling defense at court. After Bullstow arbiters pronounced their judgments, the client could be sent to the mines. They’d die slowly, black lungs suffocating any proclamations of innocence.

Tristan’s heart had been in the right place when he detonated the bomb that destroyed the building, even though his methods had not.

Someone honked behind her, and a workman with a green sign waved her on, barely managing his jealous stare at the roadster.

Lila snaked around Bullstow’s north gate, her engine rumbling while she waited in line to enter the compound. Oaks and maples peeked over the stone wall and the estate’s familiar marble buildings, all cut with well-worn stairs, thick columns, grand arches, and thin-slit windows. Ivy crept where it was allowed, embracing the cold buildings within. The dome of the legislature rose above it like royalty lifting its scepter for another day at court.

Withdrawing her palm from her pocket, Lila checked for updates from her spies, but she’d only received the first wave of messages from the Randolph security office. She replied to as many as possible, yawning as a knuckle rapped on her window.

“ID?” a young blackcoat asked as she rolled it down, his chin too soft for the first stirrings of a beard. He scanned her ID, then blushed furiously when he saw her name.

“Chief Randolph.” He dropped his palm computer, which skittered on the asphalt. After a quick bow, he snatched it up again and typed madly upon the screen. He barely looked old enough to have reached his senior year, much less complete his cadet training. “Are you here to see Chief Shaw or the prime minister?”

Lila rested her elbow on the roadster’s window frame and said nothing, wondering where Sergeant Daniels had wandered off to this morning. He usually worked the gate in the mornings, and now he’d left his rookie to work the gate alone.

Slack & Roberts hadn’t even been demolished yet.

Very sloppy.

“I’m supposed to keep a record.” The rookie blushed again, his finger poised over the screen.

“And I’m supposed to get tetchy about it,” she countered, finally feeling sorry for the poor kid. “I’m here to see my father. I’ll be in Falcon Home this morning.”

The boy typed in her license plate number, a relieved grin twisting his face. “I saw you on the news last night.”

“And?”

The boy’s mouth worked as though he didn’t know what to say. “We live in interesting times. Made me want to join up, I guess.”

“Join the army?”

“I’d be promoted directly to officer after boot camp. Right on time, too. War is coming.”

“Who says that?”

“People here and there.”

“People have been saying war is coming for a hundred years.”

“Doesn’t mean they won’t be right this time.”

“What does Chief Shaw say about that? Or your matron?”

“Does it matter? The army needs those of us with militia training.”

“No, they don’t. The army needs people with military training. There’s a difference between those of us who keep the peace and those of us who don’t.”

Tags: Wren Weston Fates of the Bound Crime
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