King Of Fools (The Shadow Game series, Book 2)

by Amanda Foody

  “Her father—my uncle—created the blast that blew open the National Prison’s gates during the Revolution and freed Chancellor Semper,” Narinder said, as though he could hear Levi’s thoughts. That explained the reason Tock had been spared.

  “Impressive,” Levi told her. “Do you have any leadership experience? Done any casino work?”

  She inspected her fingernails with disinterest. “Nope.”

  With her talent, if Tock approached the Orphan Guild, the Doves or the Scarhands would fork over a fortune for her. But she hadn’t gone to the Guild, and judging by her current bored expression, Levi had no reason to believe she actually wanted this sort of work.

  “Narinder, can I talk to you for a moment?” he asked. Narinder followed him out into the hallway, and Levi hastily shut the door behind them. “Is she really the best you’ve got?”

  Narinder looked away sheepishly. “I promise you—she’s good at what she does.”

  “She doesn’t seem to want gang work.”

  “She does. She’s just...like that.” He gestured toward the door helplessly. “She’s wanted to do something like this for months. I’m finally giving in.”

  “Giving in?” Family members didn’t normally encourage each other to join the gangs.

  “Well, I’m tired of her blowing my things up. This cathedral has stood for four hundred years, through fires and disasters and revolution. But it’s never had to face Tock when she’s in a mood.”

  “You’re not really selling her,” Levi said warily. “And I’m having a hard time believing that you’d put your cousin at risk with this job.”

  “That’s always been my fear, but I know Tock is capable of protecting herself.” His eyes fell on the bruise around Levi’s eye. “Far more than you are.”

  Levi ignored the gibe. “If she really wanted this, I’d think she’d act a little more interested.”

  “She knows you’re broke,” Narinder admitted. “She thinks she wants volts and thrill, but I know her better than that. She’s not shallow. And the way you talk about Olde Town... I think this would be good for her. That’s the only reason I’m okay with this. Because it’s not the other gangs—it’s you.”

  Maybe he did have a heart of gold, because Narinder’s words struck Levi in all the right places. And whatever his thoughts about Enne and his promise to Jac, he liked Narinder. Narinder’s help might’ve been freely given, but Levi wanted to do something for him in return.

  “Fine,” he breathed, praying he wouldn’t regret it.

  Narinder sighed in relief and kissed Levi in a way that said thank you. Levi decided he could, as it turned out, grow fonder of doing business this way.

  They returned to the room, and Levi announced, “You’re hired.”

  “I am?” she asked.

  “Yep. You can start immediately. If you want the job, that is.”

  Tock straightened, her surprised expression turning smug. “Doing what?”

  “You’re going to round up all the Irons around Olde Town, armed with that natural intimidation you wear so well. And you’re going to make it clear to the whole neighborhood that Chez Phillips is gone, war is coming, and I’m the only chance they’ve got.” He hid a smile. His little speech sounded pretty impressive, if he said so himself.

  “You sound as desperate as you look,” she said. “And that job sounds pretty boring.”

  Levi’s irritation rose. “Joining a gang is cause for execution these days. If you were scared, I’d understand, but exactly what about this is boring?”

  “I don’t get scared,” she said.

  “Well, you should,” he snapped. He’d spent the past two days—before and after the Shadow Game—scared out of his mind. Every day working with Vianca was a day lived in fear. He might’ve been the youngest street lord by at least ten years, and he might’ve been so injured he could barely walk, but of all the things he could be belittled for, he wasn’t a coward.

  “The Orphan Guild was attacked last night without warning, with automatics that fire five bullets a second. The Guild might work primarily with the gangs, but you know where else the workers go? Casinos. Dens. Bars. Night clubs.” He lifted his arms up, gesturing to all of the Catacombs. “I’m willing to bet someone who works here has a past. I’m willing to bet gangsters find their way here every weekend, just like any other patron. The wigheads are only going after the gangs now, but at some point, what they call a gangster just means a criminal. Then what they call a criminal means an accomplice. Then what they call an accomplice means a bystander. Sit it out, if you want. But the life I want for the people loyal to me isn’t one of violence. Sorry if that’s boring to you. Maybe one day, if they ever come for this place with automatics or matches, you’ll get to see something exciting.”

  Levi clenched his fists and whipped around, if not to storm out the door, then to drag Narinder back into the hallway and ask for someone better. He didn’t care if she could blow up the entire South Side—maybe the violinist or the pianist would have more moral fiber.

  But before he could leave the office, he was grabbed by the shoulder. His knees nearly gave out with the sudden pain of it, like a bolt of lightning straight to his ribs. He shouted out a curse.

  “Muck,” Tock said, startled by his volume. “You’re delicate.”

  “And you’re—”

  “Sorry,” she said, cutting off the insult before he spat it. “I’ll take the job.”

  “What job?” he growled, turning around.

  “Convincing people you’re a smart-ass, or whatever you said,” she said. Narinder’s face, which had seconds ago brightened, slid back into a scowl. “Not being a bystander when the Great Street War happens all over again. I don’t care that the Chancellor is dead, or that you and this Séance person killed him. I don’t think anyone in the North Side cares about politics and the laws that doesn’t affect them. But like you said, it’s the whole North Side that will go to war.”

  Levi had heard far better apologies. “Is that the best you can do?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry I called you delicate.”

  He cringed. That wasn’t what he meant, but it did strike him as just absurd enough that he could laugh. “How do I know you mean it?” Levi asked.

  “Because I’ll say the oath.”

  If Tock grew up in this city, then she knew the legends of the North Side. When you swore a street oath to your lord, it wasn’t simply for show. There was a power to the words. It wasn’t like the omerta, which was power taken. An oath didn’t force you to do someone’s bidding. An oath was loyalty given, a solemn promise not to harm the lord or others who had sworn to them.

  Levi nodded. “Go ahead then.”

  She crossed her heart and recited the words. “Blood by blood. Oath by oath. Life by life.” When she finished the rest of the speech, there was an unmistakable tingling in the air. If Tock noticed it, though, she paid it no mind.

  “There’s a tattoo parlor across from St. Morse,” he told her. “Tell her I sent you, that you need a diamond and a ten. She’ll do it no charge.” At least, with the papers saying what they did, he hoped that was still the case.

  Tock’s gaze flickered to the set of tattoos on Levi’s forearms: the black A and spade. “What does the suit mean?”

  “Diamonds mean you’ll get to blow things up.”

  She grinned. Then she took the saxophone off her shoulder and heaved it ungraciously onto the couch. Narinder winced and picked it up.

  “After you get your tattoos,” Levi continued, “find Mansi Chandra, at the Sauterelle. She’ll help you find the others.”

  Mansi was a card dealer in the Irons. Levi had always considered her his protégée, and she’d once looked up to him like a little sister. Then she’d betrayed him and sided with Chez. That blow had hurt more than any of the ones Chez had landed.

  Levi should’ve been angry with her. But really, he just wanted her admiration back.

  “Yeah, I know the Sauterelle,” Tock said
. “So I find your gangsters, I give them your message, and then what?”

  “We’ll all meet tomorrow at the abandoned art museum,” he said. If Levi was going to lead differently this time, then he needed to appear more present in the Irons than before. He’d been too distant, and he wouldn’t make that mistake again. “Seven o’clock. Make sure they know.”

  “And for the ones who say no?” she asked.

  Unlike the Scar or Dove Lords, Levi swore he’d never run his gang on fear. But the Irons had betrayed him, and there had to be a better line between being weak and being a monster.

  “They bear the tattoos, which means they each have bounties on their heads,” he said. “Tell them, as long as they stay in Olde Town with me, they have my protection.”

  “And if they leave?” Tock asked.

  Levi didn’t know what he’d do if the Irons left. He couldn’t help Harrison. He couldn’t help Olde Town. He might not like it, but in New Reynes, power wasn’t a commodity freely given. If he wanted it, he had to take it.

  “Then they can face the gallows.”

  JAC

  By eleven o’clock the next day, Jac had smoked another half a pack of cigarettes—far more than he typically burned through in a morning. Every time he finished one, after twenty minutes or so passed, his fingers started to tremble and his heart palpitations sent him reaching into his pocket for another. All his new clothes already reeked of smoke.

  He’d left Zula’s nearly as soon as he’d woken up, and the walk to the eastern side of the Casino District had cleared his head. For a while, he stood outside Luckluster Casino, staring at its slick black stone and flashing scarlet lights, and thought about how choosing a don for Harrison to sponsor would only help the Family to survive.

  Jac would prefer to see them burn.

  But Jac was one man against the entire Torren Empire. That included Luckluster Casino, the only other casino in New Reynes as large as St. Morse. It included the profits of drug sales all across the North Side, particularly its two most popular substances: Rapture and Lullaby. It included thirty-four different pubs they’d bought and converted into smaller gambling enterprises or drug dens. It included hundreds of employees, thousands of addicts, and millions of volts.

  And he was just one man.

  At eleven thirty, Jac slid into a yellow phone booth and called St. Morse. He knew Levi had scheduled a meeting with Enne around now, but it wasn’t Enne he wanted to talk to.

  “’Lo?” Lola answered. Her voice sounded strangely on edge.

  “It’s me.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something? Who is this?”

  Jac choked in surprise and coughed out a puff of smoke. “It’s Jac. Why do you sound all wrung out? What’s wrong with you?”

  “I just spoke to my bosses, and now we have an appointment scheduled later today,” she explained. Jac supposed her bosses meant Bryce Balfour and the two others who ran the Orphan Guild. Judging from what he’d heard about that trio, that seemed a reasonable excuse for anxiety. “Why do you sound all wrung out?” Lola asked snidely.

  If Jac explained all that over the phone, he’d run out of volts to feed the call. “Can you meet me?”

  “Now? Where?”

  “At, um...” He gave the first cross-street he could think of in this neighborhood that wasn’t near a Torren place. “18th and Rummy.”

  “Fine,” Lola huffed. “But you better not be in trouble, because I really don’t have time today to save you.”

  * * *

  There was a bench on the corner, just as he remembered. He sat on it, his back to the building, trying to convince himself to wait an hour before his next smoke. He stared at the line of pubs across the street, a sight that had once been the view from his cramped bedroom window for nearly eight years. From here, it was a short walk to the factory where he’d worked. Jac imagined one of the wardens walking past him on the sidewalk, not recognizing him with his dyed hair or glasses.

  It made him feel powerful.

  It also made him feel like a ghost.

  Lola appeared across the street. Even though no cars were coming, she waited for the light to turn before she crossed over. For nearly a whole minute, Jac watched her just stand there and thought...maybe she’d gotten herself lost. But when the light finally flashed green, he realized she was actually a rule-abiding, knife-collecting fraud.

  Lola sat on the bench beside him. She wore her usual top hat, but it was strange seeing her hair down, now that she no longer needed to hide it in public.

  “You’re less scary with the red hair,” he commented.

  She frowned. “It’s blood red.”

  “It’s...cherry red.”

  “Why are we here?” she asked, ignoring him and turning around to look at where the address had brought her. “Is this some kind of school?”

  “It’s my old One-Way House,” Jac explained.

  Because many had fled the city during the Revolution, the wigheads had started shipping in children from orphanages across much of the western coast about two decades ago, in an effort to bring workers and “community” back into New Reynes. Most of those children ended up in One-Way Houses like the building behind them.

  The worst part of the One-Way Houses wasn’t the work—it was the debt. From the moment Jac arrived when he was six years old, he was given a tally. Everything he was provided had a price, and the earnings he made at the factory were supposed to pay for his necessities. But within months, the charges quickly surpassed his earnings. Once in the indenture, it was nearly impossible to work his way out. Jac finally managed it when he was thirteen, through the volts he’d earned helping Levi with his schemes.

  Lola crinkled her nose and turned back around. “Well, that’s depressing.”

  “I’m going to tell you a few things that you have to promise not to tell Enne,” he said. He remembered how she’d ratted him out about the teacup, but he liked to think that’d been a joke. He liked to think that he could trust her.

  She sighed. “Why not?”

  “Because none of this can get back to Vianca.” He rubbed his hands together. Even talking about the donna made him nervous.

  “Fine,” Lola said, though she didn’t sound happy about it.

  And so he told her everything that Levi had confided in him last night—and what he’d asked Jac to do.

  “What happens when everything doesn’t go to plan?” she demanded once he finished.

  Jac pursed his lips. “It’s a gamble.”

  “It’s a disaster,” she hissed. “You’re right—Enne can’t know about this. So why are you telling me?”

  Because he didn’t have anyone else to share the burden with—not that he would admit that.

  Lola took off her top hat and ran her fingers nervously through her hair. The shade from the buildings behind them was creeping back, and now that they sat in the sun, both their faces were slick with sweat. “This will end badly.”

  “Your catchphrase,” he muttered, because he couldn’t help himself.

  “And when Levi’s deadline with Vianca expires? How is he going to help Harrison then?”

  “I’m honestly not sure,” Jac answered. “Which is why the most important piece is the Torrens. If anything happens with Vianca, or if—muck—if Levi loses this wager, at least there’s still the Torrens’ vote. At least Harrison could maybe still win. And then the wager won’t matter, because Vianca will be dead.” It was an awful lot of pressure, far more than he felt he was capable of taking on. His fingers shook as he reached for another cigarette, hating himself for it.

  Lola stared at her knotted fingers for several silent moments. Finally, she looked up, her expression dark.

  “Was it Rapture or Lullaby?” she murmured.

  Jac’s fingers slipped as he flicked the lighter. He hated the idea that she could know such a thing by looking at him, but he also suspected she’d known for a while.

  “Lullaby,” he admitted. “I’m two years sober.”


  He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. It was almost too hot outside to take a full breath. He hated the stifling feeling of smoking in summer, but he didn’t feel like he could breathe without the nicotine.

  “I have it all figured out,” he said quickly, coughing a bit. “There’s this place that’s Torren-owned. It’s called Liver Shot. It’s the only den that—” he counted off on his fingers “—one, has a boxing pit. An easy way for me to get an in. And two, that sells exclusively Rapture, not Lullaby.”

  “And you’ll... What? Fight your way into getting a job? Is that how that works?” she asked.

  “That’s about as far as I’ve worked out, yeah.”

  “Muck, Jac, you can’t do this. The fact that Levi even asked you is... It’s repulsive. He knows, right? Of course he must know—”

  “Levi literally pulled me out of a Lull den when I overdosed and saved my life,” he told her seriously.

  “That makes it even worse, and you shouldn’t be defending him,” Lola chided. “You might have this all planned out now, but you don’t really know what sort of situation you could walk into. If this family feud gets messy, you’ll be right in the middle of it. It’d be dangerous for anyone, but for you—”

  “Well, it’s not like Levi has anyone else he could ask, does he?” Jac snapped. Maybe Lola was right. Maybe he shouldn’t defend Levi, but he still felt he had to. “Anyone else could handle this better, but instead, he has me. Unlucky for him, I’m the only friend he’s got.”

  He threw the stub of his cigarette behind him, toward the One-Way House. “I grew up in that place, trapped by a debt I never thought I’d escape until I met him. And I think all the time about how easy it is to get trapped in this city. How my first real job after that really wasn’t any type of improvement. How I kept feeling trapped, so I took the Lullaby when they offered it to me the first time, and then I trapped myself when I kept going back.

  “I might be the absolute worst person for this job, but he’s my best friend. If it means he’s not trapped anymore, then maybe it’s worth it.”

  Lola leaned back on the bench, still knotting her fingers together. “You realize what this means for the city—for the whole Republic, right? An election that the monarchists could actually win?” She shook her head. “It’s just one seat, but that isn’t what matters. What matters is that, ever since the Revolution, we’ve pretended this is peace. But there are talents that don’t exist anymore because people were systematically killed by the First Party. And not just Mizers—anyone with true power, anyone who could be a threat. That’s been the heart of the monarchist platform for years. That this is not peace. That we cannot stop changing. And to think—the fate of an entire history-altering election could rest on your shoulders.”