Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,14

from the fake blue sky.

But no birds fell.

Because the Patriarche had missed again.

“Damn the Sols,” he roared, yanking the antique hunting gun from his shoulder and snapping it open again. With chubby, agitated fingers, he jammed more cartridges into the chamber.

Marcellus felt General Bonnefaçon wince and stiffen beside him. It was one thing Marcellus had in common with his grandfather: They both hated meeting with the Patriarche while he was hunting. Marcellus hated the echoing gunshots, the terrible flutter of the dying birds’ wings, the frantic yapping of the bloodthirsty dogs.

And his grandfather simply hated the distraction.

“Monsieur Patriarche,” the general called out before the Patriarche could raise his gun again. “As I was saying, you put in an order for a fivefold increase in droid production at the fabrique.” He pointed at the TéléCom unfurled and glowing in his hand. “I don’t remember us discussing this incr—”

“This is no time for discussions,” the Patriarche barked. “I’m done with discussions, General. This planet is falling apart at the seams and we need a stronger military presence in the cities. The other planets in the System Alliance are starting to get worried. Our ambassador just returned from Kaishi this week and said there was ‘talk’ of instability on Laterre. Talk, General! We simply can’t have this. In case you’ve forgotten, my precious daughter—the only heir to the Laterrian Regime—has been killed. The Matrone is sick with grief. She barely gets out of bed. And now the Vangarde have attacked one of my fabriques!”

His hands shook furiously as he tried to close his gun. Pascal Chaumont, the Patriarche’s most-trusted advisor, stepped wordlessly forward to assist him, snapping the weapon closed with an efficient click and handing it back to the Patriarche, before returning to stand with the rest of the green-robed advisors.

“I agree this is the moment for action—” the general began to say, but the Patriarche didn’t allow him to finish.

“What is the status of the investigation?” he asked, turning toward Marcellus.

Marcellus stood up straighter, shifting his rifle to his other hand. “I have been interviewing workers and foremen at the TéléSkin fabrique for the past two weeks, but so far no one seems to know who set off the explosif. I have more interviews scheduled for tomorrow, but based on the evidence we’ve collected, we believe someone broke into the fabrique—”

“I know exactly who set off that explosif!” the Patriarche roared, as though Marcellus’s update was a massive waste of his time. “It was that Citizen Rousseau woman! She’s responsible for all of this. I just know it.”

Marcellus opened his mouth to reply, but the general stepped in. “I assure you, Monsieur Patriarche, Citizen Rousseau is not a danger to us. She remains in maximum security lockdown on Bastille, where she’s been for the past seventeen years.”

“Until those Vangarde monsters tried to break her out!” the Patriarche reminded him.

“Tried,” the general emphasized. “And failed.”

The Patriarche harrumphed. He had become unbearably paranoid in the past few weeks, convinced that Citizen Rousseau had somehow orchestrated everything that had happened on Laterre—the murder of his only child, the riots in the Frets, the bombing of the TéléSkin fabrique—all from solitary confinement. Which, of course, was ludicrous. Solitary confinement meant no contact with the outside world. But it didn’t stop the Patriarche from spending his days watching security footage of Citizen Rousseau’s cell.

Even if Marcellus hadn’t been the lead officer on the investigation, he would still be willing to bet his life that the Vangarde had not orchestrated that attack. The problem was, he still didn’t know who had.

“Regardless,” the Patriarche snapped, “this planet needs to be brought to order. And clearly, I have to do that myself.” He tossed a furious glance at the general before raising the weapon to his shoulder again and peering up at the sky.

Marcellus braved a look at his grandfather and immediately noticed the general’s jaw tensing. This had become the new way of things around the Palais. Since the Premier Enfant’s funeral, the Patriarche had started taking matters of state into his own hands, making important decisions on a whim and changing protocols whenever it struck his fancy, all without the general knowing about it.

And Marcellus knew this would only make the general more desperate. More eager to push his plans forward.

“He’s building a weapon.”

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

The gunshots shook Marcellus from his thoughts. They were followed by the maniacal yapping of the hunting dogs who, once again, had no prey to chase for. The Patriarche’s bullets had