“Yes. Republic History Three-oh-two.” I try to rub my neck in momentary embarrassment, but my shackles stop me. “The senior sitting next to me said I wouldn’t be able to hit the fire alarm lever with his training gun.”
“Ah. I can see you’ve always made good choices.”
“I was a junior. Still kind of immature, I admit,” I reply.
“I disagree. All things considered, I’d say you were well beyond your years.” He smiles, and my cheeks turn pink again. “You have the poise of someone much older than fifteen. I was glad to finally meet you at the celebratory ball that night.”
Am I really sitting here, eating dinner and reminiscing about good old Academy days with the Elector Primo? Surreal. I’m stunned by how easy it is to talk to him, this discussion of familiar things in a time when so much strangeness surrounds my life, a conversation where I can’t accidentally offend anyone with an offhand class-related remark.
Then I remember why I’m really here. The food in my mouth turns to ash. This is all for Day. Resentment floods through me, even though I’m wrong for feeling it. Am I? I wonder if I’m really ready to murder someone for his sake.
A soldier peeks through the chamber entrance. He salutes Anden, then clears his throat uncomfortably as he realizes that he must’ve cut the Elector off in the middle of our conversation. Anden gives him a good-natured smile and waves him in. “Sir, Senator Baruse Kamion wants a word with you,” the soldier says.
“Tell the Senator I’m busy,” Anden replies. “I’ll contact him after my dinner.”
“I’m afraid he insisted that you speak to him now. It’s about the, ah . . .” The soldier considers me, then hurries over to whisper in Anden’s ear. I still catch some of it, though. “The stadiums. He wants to give . . . message . . . should end your dinner right away.”
Anden raises an eyebrow. “Is that what he said? Well. I’ll decide when my own dinner ends,” he says. “Deliver that message back to Senator Kamion whenever you see fit. Tell him that the next Senator to send me an impertinent message will answer to me directly.”
The soldier salutes vigorously, his chest puffed out a little at the thought of delivering a message like this to a Senator. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
“What’s your name, soldier?” Anden asks before he can leave.
“Lieutenant Felipe Garza, sir.”
Anden smiles. “Thank you, Lieutenant Garza,” he says. “I will remember this favor.”
The soldier tries to keep a straight face, but I can see pride in his eyes and the smile right below the surface. He bows to Anden. “Elector, you honor me. Thank you, sir.” Then he steps out.
I observe the exchange with fascination. Razor had been right about one thing—there is definitely tension between the Senate and their new Elector. But Anden is no fool. He’s been in power for less than a week, and already he’s doing exactly what he should be: trying to cement the military’s loyalty to him. I wonder what else he’s doing to win their trust. The Republic army had been fiercely faithful to his father; in fact, that loyalty was probably what made the late Elector so powerful. Anden knows this, and he’s making his move as early as possible. The Senate’s complaints are useless against a military that backs Anden without question.
But they don’t back Anden without question, I remind myself. There’s Razor, and his men. Traitors in the military’s ranks are moving into place.
“So.” Anden delicately cuts another slice of pork. “You brought me all the way here to tell me that you helped a criminal escape?”
For a moment there’s no sound except the clinking of Anden’s fork against his plate. Razor’s instructions echo in my mind—the things I need to say, the order I need to say them in. “No . . . I came here to tell you about an assassination plot against you.”
Anden puts his fork down and holds two slender fingers up in the direction of the soldiers. “Leave us.”
“Elector, sir,” one of them starts to say. “We’re not to leave you alone.”
Anden pulls a gun from his belt (an elegant black model I’ve never seen before) and places it on the table next to his plate. “It’s all right, Captain,” he says. “I’ll be quite safe. Now, please, everyone. Leave us.”
The woman Anden called Captain gestures to her soldiers, and they file silently from the room. Even the six guards standing next to me leave. I am alone in this chamber with the Elector himself, separated by twelve feet of cherrywood.
Anden leans both of his elbows on the table and tents his fingers together. “You came here to warn me?”
“I did.”
“But I heard you were caught in Vegas. Why didn’t you turn yourself in?”
“I was on my way here, to the capital. I wanted to get to Denver before turning myself in so I’d have a better chance of talking to you. I definitely wasn’t planning to be arrested by a random patrol in Vegas.”
“And how did you get away from the Patriots?” Anden gives me a hesitant, skeptical look. “Where are they now? Surely they must be pursuing you.”
I pause, lower my eyes, and clear my throat. “I hopped a Vegas-bound train the night I managed to get away.”
Anden stays quiet for a moment, then puts down his fork and dabs his mouth. I’m not sure if he believes my escape story or not. “And what were their plans for you, if you hadn’t gotten away?”
Keep it vague for now. “I don’t know all the details about what they had planned for me,” I reply. “But I do know they’re planning some sort of attack at one of your morale-boosting stops along the warfront, and that I was supposed to help them. Lamar, Westwick, and Burlington were places they mentioned. The Patriots have people in place too, Anden—people here in your inner circle.”