Chapter Forty-Two Night of Possibilities
Chapter Forty-Two
Night of Possibilities
Duke of Cloudcliff Dies Unexpectedly Amid Questions About Succession
Late last night, the family of His Grace, the Duke of Cloudcliff, informed press of his untimely passing.
While they did not reveal the cause of death, the Times of Viryana has discovered from a source that the viceroy did suffer a mild stroke earlier in the year.
While he had no natural-born children, he adopted an orphan girl after the textile factory tragedy in Andhra twenty-one years ago.
He is survived by his adoptive daughter, Poppy Sutherland, and his wife, the dowager duchess, Demetria Sutherland.
Both of them have asked for privacy while they grieve.
The duke came to power early after his own father died prematurely, becoming the youngest viceroy in the colony’s history.
Despite his youth, he guided the country to an era of prosperity.
The viceroy will be remembered by many for his revolutionary economic policies, which helped Viryana double its gross domestic product over his term in office.
He was an advocate for the ability of all men to better themselves on their own merit, his belief in the equal potential of all men to achieve greatness rooted in the writings of the Founder.
The duke’s unexpected death leaves the colony bereft of a clear successor for the viceroy’s office.
The office has always passed to a male Sutherland heir.
Until recently, most assumed that Captain Richard Montrose, police prodigy, would inherit the role given his engagement to the duke’s daughter.
Though it is unclear if the two are still set to marry after a torrential rainstorm flooded the cathedral during their wedding ceremony, Miss Sutherland has recently expressed interest in assuming her father’s mantle herself.
While the common citizens of Viryana have rallied in her favor, sources say the Council of Lords opposes the idea.
A successor will be chosen and voted upon at a formal hearing next week, following the late viceroy’s funeral.
The Duke of Cloudcliff’s legacy is one of greatness, growth, and prosperity.
While it is still unclear who is set to inherit his position, the last celebration of his life will be hosted this weekend at the Andhra abbey while the Marnapur Cathedral is under repair.
The public is invited to stand in the streets; however, due to the limited size of the abbey, only those with invitations will be permitted inside.
· · ·
That night, if the gods deigned to look down on Viryana, they would have seen the island carved into two halves: one dark and solemn, the other lit with the fire-bright light of renewed hope.
In the streets of the Virian neighborhoods, people celebrated, their joy and victory made even louder by the silence from the Welkish quarter.
They beat drums and sang loudly, dancing through the streets.
After the last few weeks of being dammed up in curfew, they burst free, pouring into the streets.
Hasan reveled among them, a bottle of lager in hand as he flowed with the crowd, moving through the streets freely.
No police tried to stop them. The entire force had gone to guard the bridge into the Welkish quarter, protecting their neighborhoods from riots, but the Virians were content to celebrate outside their own homes.
For once, it had been the other side who had lost something.
For once, the death wasn’t one of theirs.
For decades, suffering had resided on the Virian side of the island, haunting them with increasing aggression as the viceroy increased the severity of his economic policies.
Death had been the viceroy’s attack dog, and now the beast had finally turned on him.
The celebration went on for hours. Hasan wouldn’t remember most of it, but what he would recall was the dawn.
In the last hour before the sun went up, he staggered to a street food stall.
He’d lost count of how many drinks he’d had, and he’d worked up an appetite after celebrating all night.
The vendor sold kathi rolls, kebabs wrapped in parathas.
He ordered three, ravenous. The stall vendor efficiently wrapped them in a newspaper and passed them over the counter.
He wandered down the street, perching on a stack of crates left at the side of the road.
The parathas were soft yet flaky, and the vendor had added a fresh squeeze of lime to the kebab and caramelized onion filling, giving it a pleasant tang.
Once he’d finished all three, he moved to ball up the newspaper and toss it away.
He froze, his eyes focusing on the headline, stained with grease but still legible: “Duke of Cloudcliff Dies Unexpectedly Amid Questions About Succession.”
Splashed on the front page was a picture of the viceroy, in the prime of his youth, before Hasan had been born.
But what had caught his attention was a smaller picture at the bottom of the page.
Poppy Sutherland’s face stared back up at him.
She looked different in this photograph, taken at her engagement party.
Under her thick and striking brows, her eyes were wide and shy, her full, bow-shaped lips curved into an uncertain smile, as though she weren’t sure if she was allowed to be smiling at all.
This was an entirely different woman compared to the one who had bartered with criminals under duress.
Hasan’s heart twisted unexpectedly. While he’d been celebrating, she’d been mourning the premature loss of her father.
Having lost his own father to the sea over a decade ago, he knew the unique ache intimately.
He’d never forget it, never forget the way it had torn a hole in the fabric of his family.
He had never wanted to experience a loss like that again, determined to keep the rest of his family intact.
“And look how well that worked out.” He’d aimed for light and wry, but his words sounded bitter and heavy, even to him.
While Poppy’s loss had settled on his chest, weighing him down, he couldn’t make himself feel remorse over the viceroy’s death.
Sure, he could empathize with Poppy, especially as someone who had known the unique pain of losing a parent early, but he couldn’t sympathize with a man—a monster—who had never sympathized with Hasan or his people.
The paper had said his legacy was one of “greatness, growth, and prosperity,” but all of these things had come at the cost of the Virian people.
Sutherland had stolen their land, their labor, and their lives, and used them to fuel his success.
But of course, that wasn’t the only thing he had left behind.
Hasan ran his fingers over the edge of the newspaper, tracing the shape of Poppy’s photograph.
“Someone looks glum.”
He looked up. An unfamiliar man stood in front of him, holding his own kathi rolls tucked in newspaper. He smelled distinctly of booze and bonfire smoke.
“May I sit?”
Hasan shrugged, gesturing to one of the other crates.
The other man sat, sighing with satisfaction as he dug into a kathi roll.
Hasan took the chance to study him. He was on the shorter side, likely an effect of childhood malnutrition, though his build was solid, indicating that he’d since done better for himself.
His hair and beard were trimmed short. If Hasan had to guess, he’d put the man in manual labor—nothing as backbreaking as the factories, but something that required heavy lifting.
A construction worker, though he didn’t appear sunburned. Maybe a delivery driver.
The other man looked up and caught his eye. “Everything okay?” he asked. “You seem subdued. This is a night of celebration, friend.”
“You’re quick to call me friend,” Hasan remarked. “Does the word mean so little to you? Or do you not know who I am?”
He only smiled. “It doesn’t matter who you are.
I can see by your skin that we’ve lost a common enemy,” he said.
“We divide ourselves when we ought to be making friends and allies, but tonight, we all celebrate together. Daivyakt or vasudhakt, young or old, tonight, we are all friends. I’m sure that when the dawn comes and a new oppressor is chosen to rule us, we’ll go back to fighting our own. But tonight, you’re my friend.”
“A pretty speech,” Hasan quipped. The other man spoke like a politician.
In a way, he reminded Hasan of Zeyar, but without the edge.
He wondered how his brother viewed this latest development.
Quickly, he shook his head. I have no brother but Paranjay.
He glanced back down at Poppy. “What if they didn’t choose a new oppressor?
” he asked. “What if we chose someone else?”
The stranger glanced over at the newspaper. “If you’re talking about the girl, then I’m afraid I disagree. Though she looks like us, she was raised like them. She’s a tigress in sheep’s clothing, nothing more. What does she know about our struggles?”
“She’s capable of learning,” Hasan said. “She’s willing to listen.”
“And you know that how?”
Hasan struggled with an answer, then sighed. “Because I’m the Jackal,” he admitted, “and she was once my prisoner. I saw for myself how she was willing to learn.”
The other man was quiet, studying Hasan again, this time with a sober gaze that allowed him to see what he’d missed before: Hasan’s height and solid weight, the mark of a privileged childhood, his scarred knuckles, his pristine clothing.
“Who will she listen to?” he finally asked. “Maybe she’s willing to learn. But we have no representation in the viceroy’s office.”
“Then we’ll be the representation,” Hasan suggested. “What’s your name?”
The other man evaluated Hasan before answering. “Arun. Arun Dhamakha.”
“Arun,” he repeated. “Think about it—we don’t have to go back to fighting each other tomorrow. We could form a council of our own—a delegation, maybe—and advocate for ourselves. We’ve never been able to do it before, because no one would listen. But Po—Miss Sutherland would.”
“I never thought the Jackal would be an idealist!” Arun grinned. “Somehow, I thought you’d be more . . . nihilistic.”
“A lot of things have happened recently that I could have never imagined,” he said. “This is just one more impossible thing that’s now possible.”
“Even if she’s willing to listen, the odds of her being actually chosen are low,” Arun said. “They’d reject her for the same reason we want her—because she could be sympathetic to us.”
“Then we don’t give them a choice.” Hasan gestured around vaguely. “Look at the way they sent all the police to the bridge tonight. They fear us. There are more of us than them, and they know it. Every tyrant needs his subjects, but no people need a tyrant.”
Arun didn’t answer, finishing his kathi roll instead. Then, he said, “If you sober up and you still feel optimistic, Jackal, come and find me. We’ll talk about it then.”
From his breast pocket, he took out a stub of a pencil and wrote his address on a grease-free corner of his newspaper wrapper. He tore it free, gave it to Hasan, and stood.
“Good night, Jackal.” Arun smiled wryly. “I hope, when the dawn ends, we choose to stay friends.”