The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(74)

“What is it?” Noam asked.

“Sacha’s outside.”

The shell of that soft moment they’d shared cracked. Noam straightened, tension a sudden ache in his neck.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Lehrer said.

“It’s eleven at night!”

“Chancellors don’t abide by good manners.” There was a cold set to Lehrer’s expression that Noam didn’t like one bit. Lehrer nodded toward another hall, this one heading away from the study and toward a darkened warren of rooms. “Second door on the right is Dara’s room. Go in there and shut the door. Take your glass with you. Don’t come out until I say.”

Noam wasn’t about to disobey. Even so, he couldn’t resist looking back over his shoulder as he headed down the hall; Lehrer, in the middle of the room, stood as still and perfect as a black-and-white photograph.

The interior of the bedroom was dark, but even so, Noam could tell it was devoid of any of Dara’s personal effects—Dara’s room in name only, it seemed. Noam didn’t dare turn on the lights. He just closed his eyes and leaned against the inside of the shut door, rebreathing his own humid air. Out there he sensed the movement of Lehrer’s wristwatch across the floor and down the hall toward the study. Then Sacha’s voice, with its gratingly perfect enunciation.

“Don’t look at me like that, Calix. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“It’s very late, Chancellor.”

Sacha chuckled. “And you’ve been trying to catch me alone for weeks now. Surely you won’t pass up this opportunity.”

Silence stretched out. Then at last: “Please. Come in.”

Two pairs of footsteps headed down the hall this time. Sacha was wearing that crown of his; Noam sensed it. This time he let his power skim the curve of what felt to be a steel-and-copper circlet. There was magic there, too, oddly enough, green and glimmering.

Probably to keep the metal shiny.

Lehrer and Sacha headed for the sitting room. Lehrer’s power sparked gold in the darkness behind Noam’s shut eyelids as he conjured a flame.

“Cigarette?” said Lehrer.

“I don’t smoke. As you know.”

“Ah, that’s right. Well, please, have a seat. Shall I offer you a drink?”

“How considerate of you. Gin and tonic.”

Noam’s own glass was slippery in his grasp; he caught it with telekinesis instead and sent it floating off somewhere into the room behind him. Did Lehrer know Noam could hear everything they were saying from here?

Heat flared from the other room, Lehrer taking a drag from his cigarette. “To what do I owe this rare pleasure?”

“I’m here on business, I’m afraid,” Sacha said. “We were just informed that Atlantian workers are protesting the power outages, beginning tomorrow at eight. Apparently there’s been some . . . incitement.”

The pamphlets.

Noam’s power hovered over Sacha’s phone. How much trouble would Lehrer give him, he wondered, if he just wiped Sacha’s data? Fused all the circuits, turned his phone into an expensive mess of metal?

He opened his eyes, but the darkness in the room was as heavy as ever.

“That’s a problem for the Ministry of Labor,” Lehrer said, milk-mild.

“Well, it’s about to be your problem,” Sacha said. “I’ve told your man Brennan that we’ll have zero tolerance for further violence. If these strikes lead to any kind of problem, which I’m sure they will, I’ll see the law enforced.”

“And what does that entail?”

“I want a Ministry of Defense presence at all protests and assemblies. These people aren’t citizens—if they disturb Carolinian peace, we can deport them to Atlantia. I’ll institute a curfew, if necessary.”

“Hmm. Imposing martial law over a few disgruntled refugees? Surely the situation isn’t yet so dire.”

“No more weakness, Calix. You’ve been trying to undermine my administration for years, but that ends now.” Sacha made a harsh noise, like air being forced through a tight space. Uncharacteristic—he’d always struck Noam as the consummate politician, but now . . . “You can’t control me anymore.”

Lehrer crushed his cigarette coal into a metal tray and laughed. “That’s right. You have a crown now, don’t you?”

Sacha didn’t respond to that. Noam’s magic seethed just under the surface of his skin, and he clenched his hands, worried the static might escape into the ambient air. That Sacha might feel it.

After a moment, Lehrer said, “I believe some of my orders should still be in effect. You do remember them, don’t you?”

“Doesn’t matter. Not with this.”

Lehrer’s sigh was audible even from the bedroom. Noam twisted round in the dark and held out his hand for the scotch glass, finishing what was left of it in a single hard swallow.

This could only be a good thing. If Sacha started making mass arrests, it wouldn’t be long before Brennan’s restraint over the refugees fractured. Last time that happened, rioters burned a path halfway down Broad Street. Even the university shut down temporarily, all those bourgeois parents afraid to let their kids go to school near such hooliganism. Noam had been too young to join the protesters, but his father went.