Chapter Eighteen

Matthelm normally slept hard after a good day’s work, and this definitely qualified. He had been up late ensuring the Speaker was prepared for the King’s impromptu midnight meeting, a damned silly idea if the King had ever had one – which, of course, he hadn’t.

So he slept happily in his small dormitory. He had seen inside the delegates’ dormitories before, and they were much nicer, but that was to be expected. At least he didn’t have to share, like many other Service members. That was something. It was something to know one’s place.

So he slept, soundly, and hard, and right through the insistent bleeps of his own device. If he’d been conscious and listening, he would have heard it go off once before four a.m. and then again ten minutes later. Then it would be a constant stream as the would-be contact sent a new message every few seconds, then tried a direct call, then a video call, then more messages., All through it Matthelm slept. He had, in his waking moments, wondered if the noise of the blasted devices had conditioned him to always be alert, like the experiment with the dogs and the bell. If he had been awake at this moment, he might have been pleased to learn that the noise had not stirred him from his sleep. But the paradox therein went unnoticed.

The noises stopped, and it was silent again for another half an hour. Then, if he had really been concentrating hard, he might have heard a faint buzzing outside his door. It grew louder and louder as the source drew closer and closer, and was met with a harsh grating noise as metal sparked and melted. Even this was not quite enough to stir the restful assistant.

What did it, in the end, was the slamming of the now-melted door lock out of its place, and the subsequent crashing open of the door. He bolted upright with a start to see two burly men standing behind a muscular woman, who pointed a finger at him. Before he had the chance to say anything, or even properly return to wakefulness, the two men had him by the arms and were hauling him out of bed.

“Now look here!” he managed to splutter.

“Matthelm Shaw?” the woman asked, ignoring his protestations.

“Yes! What on Earth is going on?” he said.

“We’re placing you under arrest on charges of murder,” she said.

Matthelm suddenly looked very ill. “M-murder? I don’t understand. Where’s the Speaker?”

She didn’t reply, instead gesturing to the two men carrying him. “Take him.”

“You can’t do this! You can’t do this!” he yelled. They pulled him out of his dormitory, and he made enough of a racket that other Service members who had been sleeping in their own rooms poked their heads out into the corridor to see what was wrong. Matthelm knew that the woman was head of Security here, but she didn’t have the right to arrest him. He was fairly sure. So he said as much, no longer yelling. “Ms… I’m sorry, I don’t remember, but I know you’re the Security chief. Whatever’s happened… you can’t do this – I know you can’t.”

“I know,” she said. “But this is a desperate time, Mr. Shaw, and I need you to cooperate.”

Matthelm didn’t understand, but there was little point in saying so. He stopped making noise and let the men drag him into an elevator and up to the Speaker’s office, where he was pushed inside. The terminal and monitor had been removed, as well as some of the furniture. Matthelm realised they were going to hold him here, and the Chief saying “Wait here” as he was thrown in was only a formality. They were going to stay outside to ensure he didn’t try to leave.

He sank to the floor. Something had gone horribly wrong, but he couldn’t begin to guess what. And whatever it was, they suspected him.

The door slammed closed.