by Tara Sim
He shook himself at Soria’s words and saw a few drops had fallen onto the sheet of her bed. Cayo cursed and reached for his handkerchief before realizing he had given it to Soria.
She handed it back to him silently, watching him tip his head back to make the flow stop. Cayo closed his eyes and pressed the handkerchief to his nose, annoyance humming through him like a struck chord. The others were already moving about and yelling commands on deck.
“I think it’s the air,” Soria said, her voice weak and cracking. “It’s much drier here than it is in Moray.”
He’d noticed it, too, when he had stood at the railing. Whereas Moray was always wet and humid, the climate here was cooler, drier. Even the sea was darker.
Cayo swallowed, tasting copper. By the time he removed the stained handkerchief, the bleeding had already stopped.
“Sorry,” he murmured, stuffing the handkerchief in his pocket. “I’ll find you another one.”
Soria smiled and shook her head to say it didn’t matter. She tried to speak but ended up coughing instead. Although the sound was familiar by now, it still filled the small cabin like a storm siren, wrenching itself from Soria’s chest with ragged inhalations and shuddering gasps.
Cayo held her hand through it. It was the only thing he could do. Dolefully he gazed at the gray splotch behind her ear, creeping its way down her neck and over her throat like a possessive hand.
It would strangle the life out of his sister eventually.
He aggressively shoved the thought down, down, into a locked box between the ones he reserved for Amaya and his father.
When Soria’s fit was over, he held a cup of water to her lips. Her lips were dry and chapped, her throat struggling to swallow as she took tiny sips. Her silken black hair—hair she had been proudly growing for years, dutifully maintained with coconut oil and sedr—was disheveled and damp with sweat. He would have to cover her head to make sure she didn’t get chilled.
“I’m sorry,” Soria whispered as he helped her sit on the side of the bed. Her body shook as she tried to support her own weight.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” His voice came out rougher than he wanted it to. “I don’t mind, Soria. You’re not a burden to me.”
She had admitted this particular fear during their week at sea, crying in frustration that she could no longer do simple tasks on her own, that she had to rely on him for almost everything. That because she had done something as silly as running her fingers through the golden coins of her dowry—all counterfeit, all made by their father—she had ended up like this.
“I want to take care of you,” he said, gripping her shoulder—as much for reassurance as to keep her sitting upright. “I want to make sure you get the help you need. If you start up that nonsense again, I won’t hesitate to cut your hair.”
She gasped slightly, reaching for her long locks. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. Now let’s get you dressed.”
He helped her into a plain woolen dress and a pair of worn leather slippers, then covered her with a cloak, pulling the hood up to shield her from the wind. When they were ready, he cast around the room to make sure there was nothing they were forgetting.
But he had left Moray with no possessions. He had nothing.
Nothing except Soria, who was already shuddering with cold as he lifted her into his arms and climbed up onto the deck.
Their small crew was busy with preparations. There was Avi, the Kharian man whose sole purpose in life seemed to be making Cayo do chores; Liesl, the young woman who knew far more than she ever let on; and Deadshot, the half-Ledese, half–Sun Empire sharpshooter who only showed a hint of softness when speaking with Liesl, her lover. There was Remy the naval soldier, a former inhabitant of the debtor ship Cayo’s father had once owned and Amaya’s oldest friend.
And then there was Amaya herself. Not Countess Yamaa, as Cayo had known her in Moray, but a stranger who had wrapped them together in lies and deceit.
Cayo stood useless and flustered in the middle of the commotion, not quite sure what to do as the ship neared the docks. Remy waved a small blue flag from the prow, which was answered with a similar flag from the docks.
As Amaya helped Deadshot roll out the anchor, Cayo couldn’t resist watching her, her movements strong and sure, arms flexing and hair swaying. When she felt his gaze she tilted her face up to meet it, eyes dark and searching. It was a punch to the gut, a shot of confusing, nausea-ridden desire.
Cayo turned his head away. Soria noticed and sighed.
“I know,” his sister said, her voice hoarse from coughing. “It was difficult for me to forgive her, too.”
Cayo scoffed. “She’s the reason we’re in this mess.”
“Father is the reason we’re in this mess.” Soria shifted in his arms, expression bitter at the memory of Cayo telling her what exactly Kamon Mercado had done to the city of Moray. To them. How he had been willing to let his only daughter die to cover up the secret that he was behind the counterfeit currency. “She lied to us. She spread the fake money. But you know as well as I do that she wasn’t the mastermind behind this. She’s hurting as much as we are. She did what she had to do for her family. You’d do the same.”
Cayo tried not to think about how he had gone crawling to the Slum King to help pay for Soria’s medicine. “It’s not the same. And besides, how do you know?”
“I spoke to her,” Soria said, her tone light.
“You—what? When?”
“Does it matter? I like her. I can see why you do, too.”
“I don’t like her.” Cayo forced himself not to look in Amaya’s direction again, even as he felt her glance like the too-close brush of a flame. “Maybe I did once, but she isn’t the person I thought she was. I don’t know who she is now.”
“Then maybe you should make the effort to find out.”
Cayo frowned, but before he could reply there was a call to haul out the gangplank.
They had officially made it to Chalier. The Rain Empire.
Moray’s enemy.
Remy greeted the dock inspector who boarded the vessel and took stock of the ship. Cayo noticed Liesl twitch, as if resisting the urge to cross her arms defensively. A bead of sweat rolled down the young woman’s temple as Deadshot stepped closer to her, protective.
Remy took out the envelope from his officers and presented it to the dock inspector, who merely skimmed its contents. The inspector’s eyes narrowed on Soria, still held in Cayo’s arms.
“Li gres?” the inspector asked of Remy, who nodded and replied in Soléne, the common language of the Rain Empire. Cayo had learned some Soléne as he was growing up and was able to catch a few words: sick, orders, hospital.
The inspector shook his head. Remy launched into an argument Cayo couldn’t follow. Liesl tensed, and Deadshot grasped her elbow as if to prevent her from leaping over the railing.
Finally, the inspector approached Cayo and Soria. Cayo forced himself to stay still as the man pinned a square of yellow cloth to Soria’s cloak.
“It’s to let others know she’s infected,” Remy explained. “They’re starting to buckle down on quarantining sick travelers, but they’re letting us through since I’m with the navy.”
Soria sighed. “Yellow’s not my color.”
The inspector gave Remy a slip of parchment, no doubt a docking permit. Then they were allowed to descend to the port below, Liesl exhaling in relief.
“At least this is good for something,” Remy said to Amaya, tapping the chest of his naval jacket.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she said. “It’s big enough as it is.”
“I’ll have you know my head is the perfect shape. Artists come from all over wanting to study its exquisite form.”
Cayo tried to block out their easy banter by getting his first look at Baleine. Evening had begun to settle in, the gold of sunset washed away with mellow blues and grays. Cayo was used to the smell of docks—the briny air, the damp wood, the decomposing sea li
fe—but somehow here it seemed stronger, the odor practically attacking his nose.
“What is that?” Soria asked as she pinched her nostrils closed.
Once they moved away from the docks, they got their answer: There was a massive fish market up ahead, taking over the entirety of the square that led to the harbor. They gaped at the size of it, at the people rushing to purchase fish for dinner, at the fishermen only just beginning to put out their catches after a long day at sea. Wooden crates and barrels were filled with melting ice, displaying everything from bass to oysters to crabs, all lined up in neat rows. Cayo peered into a barrel full of lobsters that snapped irately at him as he passed.
There were plenty of fish markets in Moray, but none of this scale. Typically fish were bought in bulk there, the majority of the goods purchased from debtor ships.
At the reminder, Cayo snuck a look at Amaya. She glowered at the fish around her, fingers twitching as if longing to hold something—or perhaps simply remembering the shape of a gutting knife.
Past the fish market, the wind picked up and graced them with fresher air. Soria shivered at the chill.
“The military hospital isn’t far,” Remy said over his shoulder. “Just stick close to me. And… don’t stare.”
Cayo didn’t ask for elaboration. They walked down a cobblestone street lined with shops, lanterns hanging above the doors, highlighting signs and store names in an amber glow. They passed a wine shop, a tailor, and an apothecary, their windows revealing tantalizing displays of what waited for customers inside. One of the shops bore a symbol over its doors instead of a name: a circle containing a star. Cayo stared in curiosity at the hanging herbs and sachet bundles in the window, the jars of black sand and hunks of granite. They told him nothing of what sort of shop it was.
“Oh,” Soria breathed suddenly, clutching her chest.
Cayo saw where she was looking and felt his stomach twist. There were people sitting slumped against a store front, their clothes ragged and torn, the hoods of their cloaks pulled up to hide their heads. They held hats and bowls in their laps, silently begging even as wary citizens gave them a wide berth.
Their hands were splotched with gray.
Feeling their gaze, one of the cloaked figures lifted his head. His face was mottled with gray, one of his eyes completely overtaken with veins of silver and black. It was as if he were already in some state of decay, his skin slowly withering and rotting.
Soria shuddered and hid her face against Cayo’s chest. Remy shook his head.
“I told you not to stare,” he muttered.
“I didn’t think it would be this bad,” Cayo said, still in shock as they passed the beggars. “I haven’t seen any cases of ash fever this extreme in Moray.”
“They keep them better quarantined there,” Remy said. “That’s what they did with the prince before he died. But now that we know the handling of coins is linked to the fever, I’m not sure how much good it will do.”
“But you’re sure that we can find help here,” Cayo said, half a question.
“Certainly more than you could find in Moray. It looks bad on the outside, but the experimental treatments the alchemists are working on do more than the medicine currently being produced in Moray.” Remy hesitated, then put a hand on Cayo’s shoulder. “Your sister will be in good care.”
Cayo still didn’t quite trust him, but he hoped he was right.
After another minute of walking, Remy led them down a side street that ended at a wide white stone building. There was a crest above a set of double doors: a cutlass and a bayonet forming an X within a circle of stars. The symbol of the Rain Empire’s military.
All along the narrow street hung thuribles that released a sweet-smelling smoke into the air. Cayo, already breathless from carrying Soria, coughed as he got a good lungful of it; it smelled like fermented berries mixed with a bitter herb.
“What are these for?” Avi asked, poking a thurible. It swung on its iron peg.
“Just a preventative measure,” Remy said. “The doctors think the incense will help keep the fever from spreading. No idea if it actually works, but at least it’s calming.” Then he turned to Cayo. “You’ll have to go by a fake family name. You and your sister both. I’m afraid of what might happen if the name Mercado gets passed around here.”
Cayo and Soria exchanged a look.
“Lin,” Cayo said. “It was our mother’s maiden name.”
“Perfect. Let’s go.”
Cayo took a deep breath of that sickly sweet air and followed behind him, the others deciding to wait outside.
Except Amaya. She trailed after them, her face unreadable. Cayo almost told her to go back to her coconspirators, that he didn’t want her to come, but he couldn’t do it. Some part of him knew it would be a lie, his own personal betrayal.
The hospital was completely overrun. As soon as he stepped inside, Cayo was assaulted by the warmth of the place, the oppressive heat of bodies burning with fever. Although the scent of incense lingered in his nose, it couldn’t cut through the odor of sweat that permeated the building, carrying undertones of laundered linen and urine.
Dozens of beds crowded the walls, and cots and pallets had been dragged out into the middle of the floor to form haphazard rows. Nurses wandered through the maze as they tended to the soldiers and service members turned patients, reminding Cayo of the gardeners at Mercado Manor as they watered the flower beds. His ears flooded with the din of coughing, groaning, and crying, making him hold Soria tighter against his chest.
He was supposed to leave his sister here?
“Remind me why we can’t go to a normal hospital?” Cayo asked of Remy.
“The civilian hospitals are even worse than this,” Remy replied with a hint of ice in his voice. “Which is why so many of the afflicted have taken to the streets.”
“Gods,” Amaya murmured behind Cayo. She watched a nearby nurse spoon feed a gray-splotched man. The nurse looked as if she hadn’t slept in years, her blue uniform rumpled and stained. “How can it be this bad already?”
“It’s a city. What’s more, it’s a port city.” Remy shrugged, but Cayo noticed the worry in his eyes. “It spread with a vengeance.”
“Officer Aldano,” said a rich, smooth voice. “Welcome back.”
The owner of the voice was a large, handsome woman with black skin and her hair done up in a crown of braids. There were small white dots tattooed in semicircles under her eyes, as well as on her knuckles. Although she wore a similar uniform to the nurses, hers bore a badge with that same crest above the archway outside.
Remy pressed a hand to his chest in a sign of respect. “Mother Hilas. You’re looking well.”
The woman arched a thick, dark eyebrow at him. “I’ve had two hours of sleep in the last two days and no time to bathe. I look like shit.”
Amaya snorted, trying to hide it behind her hand.
Remy didn’t falter, putting on a thousand-sena grin. “Always right to the point. In that case, I’m afraid I have a favor to ask of you.”
The woman, Mother Hilas, took in Cayo and Soria. She sighed.
“What about your mission?” Mother Hilas said. “When the officers told us you were going to Moray, you promised us results.”
“And you’ll get them. I need to report to my superior officers, but before that, I had to get her settled.” Remy gestured to Soria. “The Lins. Brother and sister. They came all the way from Moray for help.” He clasped his hands together. “Don’t make them have traveled all this way for nothing.”
The woman glared at Remy, muttering something at him in Ledese. Then she sighed again and turned to Cayo.
“How long has your sister been sick?”
“A-about two months, I think.” Cayo’s voice came out hoarse, but he didn’t think it was from the incense. “I’ve been giving her prescription medicine from Moray, but it only staves off the symptoms. It doesn’t cure it.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Mother Hilas said. �
�There is no cure. Not yet, at least.” She looked pointedly at Remy.
“My findings are going to pay off,” Remy assured her.
“If you say so.” She turned on her heel. “Follow me.”
She led them out of the main hospital floor, up a flight of stairs to a quieter, darker wing. She opened a door for them and Cayo walked in, Soria wheezing and half-asleep in his arms.
The room was small, but at least there was a window facing the street. There were two beds, one in each corner, but only one of them was occupied. A boy a few years younger than Cayo was asleep in the bed nearest the door, his entire chin and lips covered in gray.
“We keep these rooms for afflicted family members of military personnel,” Mother Hilas explained, her voice soft so that she didn’t wake the boy. “We can place your sister here, as well as care for her, but you will have to pay upfront.”
“I could claim her as a family member,” Remy offered.
“Even the families have to pay. The hospital needs to keep running somehow. I’ll go fetch the administrator and we can discuss.”
Cayo wandered over to the bed by the window. He gently set Soria down, arms aching from carrying her through the city. Her eyes were closed, but when he smoothed away her hair they fluttered open.
“Where are we?” she mumbled sleepily.
“In a safe place,” he answered. “They’ll care for you here while they work on a cure.”
Soria struggled to suppress a cough. “But what… about you?”
He took her hands in his to warm her cold fingers. “I’ll be fine. We’ll figure something out.”
A presence at his side made him look up. Amaya had her arms crossed, but she tried to smile for Soria.
“Will you be all right here?” Amaya asked her. “I know it’s not ideal.…”
Cayo frowned, but Soria gave a weak laugh and nodded.
“Definitely better than the boat,” Soria croaked.
“Ship,” Amaya corrected, lips quirking upward as if it were a shared joke between them.
Mother Hilas returned with a thin man with reddish hair and a pointed chin.
“I hate to be the messenger of doom here,” Remy whispered, “but how exactly are you going to pay?”
