43. Kieren

In the backstage of the debate studio, Kieren Zaman saw Arslan Qusbecq lean on his hip against a vanity, his arms across about his chest. 

A half smile touched the lord's face. "There he is," he said. Straightening himself, he walked over to Kieren and clapped him on the back.

"You think it went ok?" Kieren asked, his brow furrowing. While he thought he had dodged the bullet, something didn't feel right, and he couldn't pin it. 

"I wouldn't sweat it." Arslan shrugged, his head cocking as he slid his hands into his pockets. "It's the past, and the past should be left behind. Let's focus on what comes next."

Kieren sank his teeth in his bottom lip. Had he not known Arslan Qusbecq, he would have taken it as a pass. But when the lord told him to look forward without even the slightest hesitation, it meant only one thing: he had blundered. Over the years Kieren had worked with Lord Qusbecq, the man never wasted a second on what he couldn't change, and never did he regret. Wherever he erred or failed, he got up the next minute, spat on where he fell, and moved on with a face of contempt. 

What's done is done, as per his catchphrase. 

Never had he betrayed an ounce of emotion more than necessary to get his message across, and even the finest bulletproof vest couldn't be as impenetrable as the demeanor of Lord Qusbecq. A born leader, composed despite what was thrown in his face – Kieren respected that, and the respect inspired fear. Grateful as he was to Arslan for mentoring him all these years, it bugged him why the man never thought of running himself. Sure, he was older, but spry also, with the charm of poise that could very well sway the younger audiences. Kieren couldn't help feeling off. Compelling his focus to the present as the lord suggested, he ran the plan for the next ten days before the election in his head. Immediately after tonight, he would fly to Enkera for the last campaign there. While his performance in the swing city wouldn't decide the outcome of the election, the voter turnout tomorrow in the second-largest city could be a reliable indicator. 

"About what's next," he said, turning his eyes to meet Arslan's. "Any advice before I fly out?" 

Arslan chuckled. "I wouldn't sweat it." He drew a cigar out of the chest pocket inside his suit jacket and beckoned Kieren to follow him outside, a drink in his other hand. 

In the moonlit ally in the back of the broadcast studio, Arslan put his glass on the ledger and struck a match. The flickering flame silhouetted his elegant features against the backdrop of the night. He leaned his back to the wall. Indigo tendrils of smoke rambled the air between them. 

"You sure you don't want one?" A smirk narrowed his amber eyes, his brow cocking. 

Kieren smiled but firmly shook his head. It had been eight years since he cleaned up, and yet he could still remember every scream he swallowed at the rehab. "Eight years, Arslan. I haven't even had a cigarette, and I'd like to keep it that way." 

"Who was asking you to smoke a cigarette? That cheap shit is filthy." Lord Qusbecq offered a dismissive shake of his head, his brows elevating. Taking another draft, he continued, "You need to loosen up a little about your past. So what you were a junkie and a drunk? It doesn't matter now. And if you really have cleaned up, a smoke or a drink now and then shouldn't put you on full alarm. That you're too careful draws attention to where you don't want people to look." 

Kieren only smiled. Standing next to Arslan, he slid his hands into his pockets, his eyes lifting at the gibbous moon peering from a patch of cloud. He tapped his pate on the mortar wall. "I can't risk it." 

"Everything worth having in life comes with a substantial amount of risk." 

Kieren lowered his head. He wished he had a father like Arslan while growing up instead of the coward who never risked anything. Genuflecting to everyone and anyone at work, his own father found his manhood only at home. Casting a sidelong glance Arslan, "Thank you," he said. 

The lord scoffed, "What for?" 

"Your wisdom," he jested, his waning smile despondent. 

The lord let out a cackle. "Too bad wisdom is the kind of wealth you can't pass on. It dies with us while the next generation has to grow and age, making the same mistakes all over again to see for themselves the wisdom before the curtain falls on them, too. So on and so forth. The circle of life is such an intellectual waste. Imagine what we could, should we be able to build on wisdom." 

Kieren pursed his lips for a moment. "I never thought about it this way."

"Do you agree, then?"

Averting his eyes, he faltered. It would have worked in theory. But if the old didn't go, there would be no room for the new, and without new ideas, what was there to build? "Yes and no," he said. "But I won't argue with you. I've argued enough. And I find it a disgusting habit." 

Lord Qusbecq chortled, "I give you that." 

Too bad he's made a career out of a disgusting habit, Kieren thought. A sneer quirked his lips. He could use a drink or smoke. "What about Vittorio Lori?" he asked instead, keeping his mind off the glass on the ledger behind him. "After his endorsement, there is a surge of support for the Globalists. Shouldn't I address that?" 

"What's there to address?" Arslan took another puff. "Engaging with a pop demi would only make you look petty."

"So, we just sit and watch them have it?" 

A quizzical smirk lapped over half of the lord's face. "Which is called patience, my dear Kieren. There are many forces in the world. Some we can see, but it's those that lurk in the ravines you should watch out for." Skewing back to the wall, Arslan picked up his drink and nipped, his face winced. "What kind of unholy is this?" He threw the rest to the heel of the wall, his eyes rolling. "The studio could have been more considerate with their guests." 

A beep on either of their watch turned their heads. 

Kieren unlocked the screen. His brow furrowed. Multiple accounts on Public Square were reporting the videos they received from different anonymous sources. "Is that…" He gawked, his eyes slowly turning to Arslan, who gave an impression of mild shock. 

"I hope they put on the mosaic," Lord Qusbecq hissed with a dry cackle. "You wouldn't want children to stumble on those."

"Did you…" Kieren cut himself off. He'd be a fool to believe it was only a coincidence. 

"Did I what, Kieren?" Lifting his chin, the lord slowly faced him, with one brow jutting over the other, his eyes a cold squint. "I very much dislike it when people speak halfway." 

Kieren jerked his lips to a smile that died before reaching his eyes. "I just realized halfway through my sentence that the question is pointless. The past is the past, right?" 

The wind rose, ruffling the leaves. The clouds scattered overhead while the gibbous moon spilled on the solemn face of Arslan Qusbecq. Arrogant and defiant, he looked like the sculpture of an old god from prehistoric times. "You wanted to ask if I were behind it," he stretched out his words. "Is that it, Kieren, my friend?"

"It all seems too convenient, no?"

"The videos were from years ago," the man snorted, his smile patient albeit skin deep. "How could I have predicted that Kadin Bashara would become a senator, or that pretty boy would shoot to fame? Yes, it's convenient, but do I look like some greenhorn who'd commit the gaffe of making myself the prime suspect?" When Kieren didn't come up with a reply in time, he continued, "As I've said, there are forces unbeknownst to us. Perhaps it leaks the videos now to work up a turmoil. Or perhaps it's a favor we'll have to repay once you're in the office." Then, tilting his head, he drew another draft on the cigar. Threads of smoke spun and entwined like the many schemes working at once. "Go home and rest, Kieren." Arslan patted him on the side of his arm. "You had a long day." 

Kieren savored the bitterness in the smile that hung heavily on his lips. He might be able to overlook the past, but how could he rest knowing that every step ahead awaited his nemesis, and he was throwing darts in the dark? But he nodded. "Aren't you coming inside?"

"And waste this baby?" Arslan chortled, holding up the cigar. "Nope."

"Well, don't stay out too long. It's getting cold. And you aren't a young man anymore, Arslan." He returned a clap on the other's shoulder. 

"I thank you for your concern." 

***

After a few fitful hours of sleep, Kieren got ready for the airport. 

The voice in his head grew only louder with every passing minute that something had gone terribly amiss. 

Reclining in the backseat of his sedan, he put on the earpieces and studied the media accounts that released the scandalous videos. None were the original sources. It appeared that videos flooded the web from many ghost accounts which had been deleted soon after the videos began trending. 

An operation well planned in advance. 

Kieren scratched his brow, his eyes lifting from the screen, his brows drawing close. "The road is empty," he said, uncertain whether it was to himself or his chauffeur. "How come?"

"It's the DEA," the chauffeur replied, flicking his eyes to the rearview mirror. "They got a lead on the Phantom Lord's shipment and blocked civilian access to the airport highway two hours ago while you're still asleep. I had to call them to make you an exception, Sir." 

"An exception, huh?" Kieren tugged at his tie; disquiet gnawed at him like many ants crawling under his skin. "How long have you been working for me, Mr. Lambert?"

"A month or so." Maurice Lambert cast another glance at the rearview mirror. "Why do you ask, Sir?"

Kieren thought about his predecessor whom he had fired for drinking before coming to work. While the man denied it, insisting that he was framed, Kieren lost his patience upon catching his liquor-ridden breath. Chewing on his thumb now, he felt the cold sweat prickling his back. Was it Arslan Qusbecq who recommended Maurice Lambert? "Very fastidious of you to have called in advance, Mr. Lambert. Your referee didn't lie." 

"Call me Maurice," Lambert smiled. "Lord Qusbecq has been kind." 

"Hasn't he?" 

Before the chauffeur could convert his thoughts into words, the sedan came under an overbridge, and the rear tire blasted. At over a hundred and forty miles, the sedan spun and screeched, smashing into the railing.