by Tara Sim
Somehow that made her even more nervous than the mission.
Amaya had gone by several names throughout her life: Amaya Chandra—shisa to her mother, which meant lemur, and thikha to her father, which meant blossom—Silverfish, Countess Yamaa.
Yet when she saw herself the next night in the cloudy mirror hanging by the bedroom door, all she found was the countess.
Liesl, who had helped her into the blue dress, stepped back as Amaya approached her reflection. The skirt rustled pleasantly against her legs, the gems glittering along her brown arms. Her shoulders and collarbone were exposed, and Liesl had decided to curl and pin up her hair to show off her neck. A couple of strategic curls framed her face, which was touched lightly with the makeup Liesl always brought with her.
“If I had my whole collection, I could have done a lot more,” Liesl said, sounding wistful. “It’s probably gathering dust in that Moray estate. Let’s hope the gentry of Baleine appreciate a subtle look.”
“It’s perfect.” Amaya admired the sharp points of kohl at the corners of her eyes. Liesl had brushed blue powder on her eyelids, a bit of rouge on her cheeks, and finished with a touch of red on her lips. Amaya didn’t think it was subtle; she thought it was like war paint, declaring her ready for battle.
Her spine straightened, her chin lifted. Being Countess Yamaa had taught her a bit about power: who wielded it, and how, and why. It had shown her that most people thought women only invested themselves in finery and frivolity, but that wasn’t always the case. Their clothes, their makeup, their jewelry, their smiles—they were all weapons unleashed on unsuspecting opponents.
Amaya liked these weapons. They were much harder to use than the knives hidden under her dress, and took more time to master, but they were just as effective, if not more so.
She felt dangerous. Unstoppable.
“I wish we had some jewelry,” Liesl said as she fretted with Amaya’s hair. “Your collarbone looks so bare.”
“Because it is bare.” Amaya was surprised by the smile she wore. “It might be better without, anyway.”
“True. You don’t need any more glitter to be enticing. Are you all right with that, though?”
Amaya shrugged. “The countess is.”
“I see.” They shared a small, secretive smile. “To be honest, I’m rather jealous. I wish I got to dress up tonight.” She ran a hand over her black outfit. “It’s been so long since I’ve had the chance.”
Amaya took the makeup kit from the bed and opened it, revealing the powders and creams within. She chose one of the small containers of lip paint and handed it to Liesl. “Just because you’re on a stealth mission doesn’t mean you can’t look nice while doing it.”
Liesl laughed. “You are absolutely right.” She accepted the lip paint and approached the mirror to apply it. “Go check on Cayo. He’s been nervous all day.”
Hearing that made her nervous, but Amaya obediently walked across the apartment to the boys’ bedroom. The door was already ajar, so she pushed it open farther, only then realizing she still held the makeup kit in her hands.
She nearly dropped it when she saw him. For the past few weeks, Amaya had acclimated herself to seeing Cayo in regular clothing—stained shirts, roughed-up breeches, threadbare coats. He had strangely worn them well, as if the clothing were transformed from ordinary to statement piece as soon as it came in contact with his body.
But he wasn’t wearing regular clothing tonight. He stood beside his bed as he did up his cufflinks, gleaming golden at his wrists where a hint of a white satin shirt poked through. His suit was black and hugged his body in the right places, showing off the plane of his shoulders and the slope of his thighs. The lapels on his jacket were a wet-looking silk, the right one punctured by a golden brooch in the shape of an arrow.
Cayo spotted her and froze, face slackening as his gaze roamed over her. Amaya lit up like a torch, stealing all the air in the room.
“You…” Cayo cleared his throat, his voice hoarse. “That dress is…”
“Blue,” she said, then cringed.
Movement stirred in the corner of the room as Avi got off his bed and headed for the door.
“I’ll, uh, go see if Deadshot needs anything,” the man muttered as he made a hasty exit.
Silence settled between the two of them. Cayo nervously checked his cufflinks, something she had only seen in clothing from the Rain Empire.
“Martisse,” he blurted suddenly. “That dress. I recognize her style.”
Amaya had no idea what he was talking about at first. “Oh, you mean the designer.”
He nodded. “Sometimes Soria and I received catalogues from the Rain Empire. We always liked her collections a lot. Soria wanted one of her dresses for her wedding. But that was before…” He trailed off, biting his lip.
Amaya took a couple more steps inside. “You… You pull off the suit nicely. You must have missed wearing them.”
His eyebrows twitched, no doubt wondering if she meant it as a compliment or an insult. Frankly, she wasn’t sure, either.
He gestured to the makeup kit in her hands. “Do you need help getting ready?”
Of course Cayo knew how to apply makeup. Amaya swallowed her frantic laughter and came to a swift and startling decision. “No. Sit on the bed.”
His dark eyes met hers, just as startled as she was. Amaya added a hint of a smile, already employing her arsenal. Cayo hesitated, then turned and sat on the edge of the bed. She set the kit down beside him.
“Be sure to find something that matches my complexion,” he said. His tone was joking, but his nerves made it fall a little flat.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Her fingers hovered over the different powders, enticed by their brilliant colors. Finally, she selected a compact of glittering red. “Close your eyes. And don’t move.”
Cayo did as she asked, a rush of satisfaction flowing through her at the obedience. She took a moment to watch him like this, sitting before her, eyes closed, vulnerable. Trusting her, even though he had no cause to.
It was more than she would allow herself.
Amaya swiped one of Liesl’s small brushes through the red substance. She tapped it to release the loose powder—something she had seen Liesl do numerous times—and bent over Cayo, putting her face close to his.
His breath caught when she put the brush to the inner corner of his eyelid. His lashes trembled, black and straight so that when his eyes were open, it almost looked as if he had none at all. She swiped the brush cautiously over his eyelid; since there was no crease, she spread the red powder in an arch reaching toward his eyebrow. Then she made it fan out at his outer corner, a mirror to her black kohl daggers.
Her hand shook slightly as she did the other eye. She realized she was standing with one leg between his, that his own breath hit faintly against the side of her jaw. A shiver ran down her spine, almost messing up her work.
Amaya glanced down at the exposed length of his neck, the soft, defenseless skin of his throat. She could have wrapped her hand around it and squeezed, listened to him gasp and feel him writhe helplessly against her, torn between fighting back and allowing it to happen.
It would be a kindness.
“Amaya?”
She realized she had stopped moving, her breaths coming quicker. She stepped back.
“All done,” she croaked.
Cayo’s eyes fluttered open. He gazed up at her, and she was stricken by what she’d done. The red complimented him nicely, highlighting the darkness of his eyes and the soft tan of his skin. It gave him an air of flirtation, of confidence, an obvious message to anyone who looked at him that he knew what he could do with just a grin and a wink.
She had given him a weapon to use tonight as well.
And if she wasn’t careful, one he could use against her.
The magician climbed the slope of the mountain, the tourmaline glittering and cold under his feet. He peered at the stars high above, wondering when, and if, he would reach the
m. But the wind blew frigid in his ears, pushing him back, back, cutting through him like a knife. And the magician knew: He had to keep going, or else fall like Neralia had, into the crushing dark of the sea.
—“NERALIA OF THE CLOUDS,” AN ORAL STORY ORIGINATING FROM THE LEDE ISLANDS
Cayo had debated bringing the gun with him, but Deadshot advised against it.
“It’ll be bulky in your pockets,” she’d said, indicating how his trousers weren’t exactly spacious. Then she’d grinned. “Unless you’d like to make a suggestive statement.”
“That… won’t be necessary.”
As the carriage approached the lit-up manor, though, he couldn’t help but feel defenseless. His hand kept straying toward his hip, as if expecting to find the pistol’s wood-and-pearl handle there.
“Do you think someone’s going to jump you in the middle of a party?” Amaya muttered. “You’ll be fine.”
“You’re wearing your knives!”
“Because they’re easier to conceal than a gun. But someone wasn’t very good with knives, was he?”
Cayo actually welcomed the jab; it helped negate the sudden and unwanted flare of desire at seeing her in that dress. When she’d walked through the bedroom door, he had almost thought of her as Countess Yamaa, the disorientation riding on the wave of awe that had struck him down.
But it had lasted only a moment. He had more important things to focus on than the curve of Amaya’s collarbone, or the way a curl of hair fell against her neck, or how she smelled of lavender and fresh linen.
“Here’s where I leave you,” Jasper called from the driver’s seat as the carriage rattled to a stop. “Let’s start the show.”
Cayo’s mouth dried when he opened the door and stepped onto the cobblestone outside the manor’s open gates. He turned and held his hand out to Amaya, who had been gathering her skirt in her hands, prepared to step down on her own.
Her eyes darted to the partygoers on the lawn. Swallowing, she slid her hand into Cayo’s and allowed him to help her down.
“Don’t get too wild,” Jasper said with a wink as he flicked the reins and the carriage took off.
Cayo presented Amaya with his left arm. She hesitated again before she took it, their sides brushing as they strolled toward the manor. He ignored the tremor that spread across his ribs in favor of getting a good look at their surroundings, wanting to be able to describe it to Soria when he saw her next. She would demand as many details as he could remember.
He had seen his fair share of manor homes in Moray, enough to know that André Basque had not skimped on presentation. The manor lay on the outskirts of Baleine, providing enough space for a winding drive that led from the black iron gates to the manor’s entrance. When they passed through the gates, Cayo noticed a crest split down the middle on either gate, a ship and a cloud stamped in gold.
“Basque owns a fleet of debtor ships,” Liesl had explained to them yesterday. “That’s partly how he came into his wealth. He also rubs elbows with the nobility of the Rain Empire, and he hosts fundraisers like this often to appear empathetic to the civilians.”
“Does it work?” Cayo had asked.
“He isn’t dead yet, so I’d say so.”
“I thought the people here hated the rich.” He thought back to the other day in the fish market, how everyone had scowled at the young woman in the pink dress.
“Oh they do, make no mistake. But at least Basque makes a pretense of giving back, unlike the others.” Liesl had shrugged, her eyes cold. “They don’t know he likes to skim a percentage of the profits for himself. Like scooping the top layer of cream from a bottle of milk.”
“The best part,” Avi had agreed wistfully.
There were guests milling about on the front lawn, a wide courtyard with a stone fountain in the center and four patches of perfectly manicured grass. Spruce trees lined the property, giving the night air a fresh scent that was a pleasant escape from the usual smells of the city. Light spilled from the windows of the manor, a large stone construction with steep gables. The entrance was held up by marble columns, reminding Cayo painfully of the entrance to Mercado Manor.
The guests were already holding gleaming flutes of golden, sparkling wine. Some of them glanced curiously at him and Amaya as they passed, and Cayo automatically sent them his best grin, the one that showed off his dimple. They smiled back, then resumed their conversations.
“You’re far too good at this,” Amaya murmured. “I thought you said you didn’t have any practice at pretending?”
“This is a different kind of pretending.”
They passed through the wide, open doors into the antechamber. The walls were sculpted with exquisite carvings, and standing candelabra burned in every corner, showing off a grand marble staircase. A set of doors was open to the left of the stairs, where most of the noise was emanating.
A servant in livery waited on the threshold. Cayo handed him the invitations Liesl had procured from her contact, and after a cursory look the servant swept a low bow, ushering them inside.
Amaya’s grip tightened on Cayo’s arm as she took in the splendor of the ballroom. The walls were more gold than plaster, and crystal chandeliers hung in two even rows from a ceiling painted with a wide, breathtaking pastoral scene. The marble floor was crowded with people in flowing dresses and fitted suits, the tinkling of porcelain and the flutter of laughter rising above the crowd like cigarillo smoke.
It took Cayo a moment to realize he was smiling. He’d felt anxious on the way here, but now… now he was in an element he recognized. For the past several weeks it had been nothing but new experience after new experience, and it had worn down his spirit and his confidence. This, though? This, Cayo understood.
But a thread of worry stitched across his chest all the same. Not for him, but for Amaya. Her grip remained tight as they entered the ballroom. They received more curious looks, and a couple broke off from their conversation to join them.
“We need you two on the floor to make sure that André Basque doesn’t vanish,” Liesl had told them earlier. “If he leaves the ballroom, give a signal to Avi. He’ll come and warn me. But don’t forget to charm the guests who try to speak to you. Your covers can’t be blown.”
“Pardon me,” one of the men said in Soléne, “but I couldn’t help but wonder if that’s from the Martisse line?” He indicated Amaya’s blue dress.
She was making quite the spectacle in it, earning looks ranging from envious to ravenous. The fact that she wore no jewelry, forcing the eye to gaze upon her glittering arms, only enhanced the effect.
Cayo opened his mouth to reply for her, but Amaya took a step forward with a sweet smile.
“It is,” she said in her shaky Soléne, her accent rough. “I’m impressed with your eye, sir.”
The man straightened a bit at the compliment. “And I’m impressed with your taste, my lady. Tell me, are you new to Baleine?”
“Fresh off the ship,” Amaya answered. She put a fond hand on Cayo’s chest. “We’re originally from Rehan, where we were just married. This is our honeymoon.”
“Ah, so romantic! Baleine is a fantastic destination for such a trip. The shopping districts are not to be missed.”
“Are there any shops in particular we must visit?”
As they continued their chatter, Cayo could barely pay attention. He was mostly focused on the spot on his chest where Amaya had placed her hand, his stomach curiously light and warm in the aftermath of her words.
“—sure my husband would agree.” Amaya’s eyes flashed in his direction. “Wouldn’t you, dear?”
Cayo started, unsure what was being discussed. “Oh, yes. Of course.” Husband. He knew it was their cover, but it felt different hearing her say the word out loud.
The couple exchanged a pleasant goodbye with them before moving on. Cayo took a deep breath, fighting not to loosen the collar of his shirt.
“You know more Soléne than I thought,” he said with a quirk of his eyebrow.
Amaya’s easy smile was gone, but he was sure she was ready to turn it back on in an instant. “It’s easier to learn when you’re surrounded by it. And Liesl practiced some conversations with me. People like this are so predictable, they’re easy to fool.”
Cayo stiffened. He had been one of those fools once. She had acted just like this back in Moray, and he had fallen for it.
She felt his tension and let go of his arm. “Cayo…”
But another group of partygoers was making their way toward them. They put on their best smiles and pretended that everything was all right.
The entire time, the spot on Cayo’s chest continued to burn.
Cayo watched Basque hold the attention of a group of nobles. They laughed at some joke of his, and a young woman was bold enough to put her hand upon his arm. As a widower, Basque was a prime target for marriage, for alliance. Cayo wondered how many attendees had been ordered by their families to flirt with the man.
Basque was handsome—Cayo couldn’t blame them. He was tall and broad, his manner commanding without being overbearing. His dark brown hair was streaked with gray, but it only added to his stately appearance.
Cayo was continually amazed at how the worst of people could appear so striking.
He checked on Amaya, who was holding her own little court nearby. A group of women were fawning over her dress and wanting to know more about Rehan. Amaya kept sending him pointed glances to come help her, but he ignored them.
People like this are so predictable, they’re easy to fool.
Gritting his teeth, Cayo turned and almost ran into a server.
“My apologies, sir,” said the server. “Would you care for a drink?”
Cayo stared at the serving tray, at the flutes filled with that golden, bubbling wine. For an instant he heard Soria’s disapproving tone, which fizzled away in a surge of irritation.
Fuck it, he thought viciously as he took a flute and nodded his thanks to the server. Cayo stalked the edges of the party, sipping at the wine and keeping an eye on Basque. The man had moved on to a group of men, shaking their hands and patting their backs in easy camaraderie.
