Scavenge the Stars

by Tara Sim

  Amaya forced herself to toss the knife between her and Zharo, then lifted her hands as if in surrender. As Zharo approached, bending down to pick up her discarded knife, she kicked him in the head. He dropped to the floor with a grunt and she was on him within a second, pinning his arm down with her knee. She unsheathed the tiny knife hidden in her bracer and poised it above his left eye.

  “I was going to do this quickly, but now I’m beginning to change my mind,” she said. She rested the tip of the knife against the corner of his eye, and he flinched. A shiver of delight ran through her at that flinch. “Do you remember threatening to carve out Termite’s eyes when she accidentally let a net of fish drop back into the sea? I do. I remember every single threat, every single punishment. I can re-create them all tonight.”

  She went into free fall, remembering the way his hand struck her face, his boots catching her in the ribs and stomach, his gravelly voice telling her that she was nothing. The way he laughed when she was forced to eat bugs in her starvation. The way he ordered her to smile while she worked.

  This hadn’t been her plan—she had wanted to get it over with, to feel some measure of relief at knowing this man’s life had been erased from the world. But the more she opened herself to that familiar anger she had felt every day aboard the Brackish, the more she began to realize that Zharo was not worthy of the mercy of a quick death.

  Zharo glared up at her, teeth half-bared. “You can try, Silverfish, but you’ve not the stomach for it.”

  “Let’s find out together, shall we?”

  “Or,” he said, a hint of a smile in his voice, “I can tell you where your precious Roach is.”

  Amaya froze. Roach. The other Water Bugs didn’t know what had happened to him, or what had caused his sudden disappearance. The worry had eaten at her ever since they’d acquired the Brackish a few months ago.

  “Tell me,” she said, surprised at how calm she sounded, “or I pop this eye out of your skull.”

  “I know some folks what’ll have the right connections to find out where he is. But it’ll take a day or two to get.”

  Amaya narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t be sure if he was telling the truth, and her instinct told her to simply aim for his heart and be done with it.

  But if there was any possibility of finding Roach…

  She increased the pressure of her knee on his arm until the pistol fell from his loosened grip. She grabbed it and stood, aiming it at his chest. Although she had never shot a pistol before, Zharo didn’t have to know that.

  “Up,” she ordered. “Come with me.”

  She forced him to walk into his office, where she found a chair covered in red velvet. This is what he spends his money on? she thought as she made him sit in the chair. Taking the rope she had coiled at her belt, she lashed his thick wrists together behind the chair’s back. She tried not to shudder in revulsion whenever her fingertips grazed his skin.

  “I’d almost say I’m proud of you, Silverfish,” the man drawled. “Never thought a girl who whined at a coupla lashings could dole it out herself.”

  Amaya gritted her teeth as she felt the echo of his belt on her back, raising welts on her skin. She tightened the rope around his wrists and was satisfied with his grunt of discomfort. Then, pistol still in hand, she began to rummage around his office.

  “These people you know who can find out where Roach is. Who are they?” she asked as she checked the cabinet. “Where can I find them?”

  Zharo gave a single bark of laughter. “You think I’m dumb enough to let you walk outta here with that information? Why don’tcha untie me first and we’ll make a deal.”

  “I’m not making a deal with you.” Amaya looked through the cabinet’s contents and found multiple ledgers that Zharo had kept on board the Brackish, documenting debts. She briefly flipped through them, glowering as the numbers went higher instead of lower.

  “Only a few months on land and look at how rebellious it’s made you,” Zharo mumbled. “You were better off scrubbin’ decks and shying away from my hand.”

  Amaya didn’t respond. She told herself it was because she had risen above his threats, that she could handle his taunts. In reality, her mind went pure white with rage, so strong and bright that the only way to control it was to sit perfectly still until it faded. Breathing deeply, she shut the cabinet door and turned to his desk next, opening drawers and pulling out files. Zharo frowned at her, nonplussed by her silence, no doubt expecting her to have risen to his bait.

  Silverfish would have. Amaya had bigger worries. She looked through invoices and receipts of the things he had bought within the last six months, including a document detailing the sale of the Brackish to a nameless buyer. Boon. Still, she saw nothing that would be of help to her.

  “I still remember the day you were dropped off at the docks,” Zharo went on. “Miserable, skinny thing that you were. All elbows and teeth and those big, hauntin’ eyes.”

  Amaya ignored him, feeling around the drawers for secret compartments. She found one and popped it open, revealing another ledger underneath the false bottom.

  “Wasn’t even expecting a shipment that day, but there was a special seller who said it was a rush case. Guess your folks must’ve gotten on the wrong side of the wrong man. But then when I saw you, I knew you weren’t nothin’ special—another family lookin’ to throw a hungry mouth away. Happens more often than you’d think, parents getting sick of their brats and doin’ anything to get rid of ’em.”

  Amaya’s hands tightened around the ledger, but she kept her face blank. Zharo’s words poked and prodded at the soreness around her heart, the unanswered questions that dogged her day and night: Who had sold her, and why? What were the debts attributed to her father that her sale would have paid off?

  But there had never been any indication that her father had raked in debts, or gambled. He’d always had enough money to feed her and her mother, and even to buy her a small present every month if she had behaved well.

  The people around her—Boon, Zharo—didn’t know the full truth either, and that was the whole point of why she was doing this. She would clear her father’s name and restore her family’s dignity.

  But first, she had to restore her own dignity.

  She flipped through the pages of the ledger until she came across some familiar names. Looking closer, she tried to decipher the numbers underneath them, as well as the names she didn’t know.

  Fredrique G. (Scarab)—4,500 senas, A. Zhang

  Yaomin X. (Mantis)—3,000 senas, J. Vedasto

  Fera B. (Beetle)—2,000 senas, C. Melchor

  Amaya’s stomach churned. Scarab had been the Water Bug who had given her the tattoo on her wrist. Mantis had fallen and died aboard the Brackish. And Beetle…

  Zharo kept talking, but she paid him no attention. The price next to their names was undoubtedly the price paid for taking on these Bugs, and the names next to them had to belong to debt collectors. She scanned the rest of the ledger for her own name, but it wasn’t listed. Just dozens upon dozens of children with prices affixed to their names. As if they were mere objects instead of living, breathing people.

  Her heart pounding under the swell of her anger, she ripped out the page with Fera’s name and stuffed it into her pocket. She wasn’t sure yet what she would do with the information, but she knew it couldn’t hurt.

  Amaya stood and walked around the desk. She met Zharo’s gaze and held it.

  “I’m going to give you one last chance,” she said, leveling the pistol at his head, “to tell me how to find Roach.”

  But Zharo only grinned, and she didn’t know why until he launched himself from the chair and slammed into her.

  She fell with his weight on top of her, crushing the air from her lungs. The stink of sweat and alcohol filled her nose as he reached for the pistol—he must have been loosening the rope while he spoke to her, to cover up the sounds of his rustling—and Amaya gagged as she twisted futilely under him.

  She ha
d had endless nightmares of being helpless and in his grasp. Her lungs tightened and her breathing stuttered, the same terror that took hold of her when she dreamed of being unable to run, unable to fight back.

  But now she knew how to fight back.

  Lesson number one, Boon had told her on the island, is to always aim for the cock and balls first.

  Pivoting her hips, Amaya jerked her knee up and between Zharo’s legs. The man wheezed and fell to his side, allowing her to wriggle free and whip out a knife from her boot.

  This was it. In one thrust of her arm, she was going to put an end to this wretched chapter of her life. Zharo would no longer be the author of her misery. He would never hurt her or the other Bugs ever again.

  Zharo heaved himself up and cocked the hammer of his pistol back, just like that fateful day on the Brackish. “I’ll see you in the hells, Silverfish.”

  But before he could fire or she could stab him, he convulsed with a strangled yell. He twitched once, twice, then fell back onto his side, the light leaving his wide, murky eyes.

  Amaya panted as she stared at him, uncomprehending. A voice wormed its way into her head, until it was practically yelling in her ear.

  “Amaya!”

  She started and swung her knife up, but it was blocked by another. Liesl stood before her, dressed in black as Amaya was. The knife she held was dripping blood onto the floor.

  “You really should have told me you were planning this before going out on your own,” Liesl said, gesturing to the still body of Zharo. A pool of blood was spreading from his corpse, inching toward Amaya still sprawled on the floor.

  “Wh-what—” Her mind struggled to catch up to what had happened. “You killed him?”

  Liesl shrugged and offered a hand to help her up. “Boon said not to leave any witnesses.”

  Now that the shock was beginning to wear off, Amaya bared her teeth and smacked Liesl’s hand away. “He was supposed to die by my hand!”

  “What difference does it make? Look, he’s gone.” She nudged his body. “You don’t need to worry about him any longer.”

  Amaya got to her feet, shaking. Nausea gripped her stomach, and looking at Zharo’s body didn’t help. “It was supposed to be me! He was—He was always—”

  She couldn’t tell her that it wasn’t so easy to simply not worry about him any longer. He would always be there, laughing at her, taunting her, ready to remind her she was nothing. Maybe, if it had been her hand on the knife, she could have severed that connection with him—but now she would never know.

  “Amaya.” Liesl looked her in the eye. Although Liesl was a girl who loved frills and flowers, Amaya could see the steel in her, hinting at a difficult life. “Trust me, you don’t know what it means to kill a man—to have someone’s blood on your hands. You aren’t ready to face that yet. For now, you just need to be Countess Yamaa and focus on charming the city. Leave the dirty work to us. That’s why Boon sent us with you.”

  Amaya was breathing hard, the room flooded with the metallic scent of Zharo’s blood. It coated her throat and choked her. She swayed on her feet, and Liesl took her by the arm.

  “Let’s get you home and cleaned up,” the girl soothed. “We can discuss this later.”

  As Liesl led her from the room, Amaya looked over her shoulder at the remains of the man who had helped ruin her life, the pitiful mass of useless flesh he left behind.

  Then Liesl gently closed the door, putting an end to Silverfish for good.

  If opportunity does not find you, you must create your own.

  —THE DEVIOUS ART OF DICE AND DEALING

  The office of the Port’s Authority was situated in the Business Sector, its facade of marbled columns and elaborate window fittings blending in perfectly with the rest of the buildings along the main, cobbled thoroughfare. Golden letters gleamed in the dawn light above the entryway, spelling out the name of Moray’s infamous system of authority.

  As Cayo climbed out of the carriage, he was hit with the same disorientation he experienced every time he visited the Business Sector. Most sectors in Moray harkened back to a time when the city state was a part of Rehan, but after its colonization by the Rain Empire long ago, there were areas—like this one—where the architecture was so extravagant and pretentious that Cayo had to wonder if he was even in the same city.

  He told the exhausted carriage driver to find some tea and take a break, and the driver touched his forelock in thanks. Cayo then turned to the office’s wide double doors, the counterfeit coin held snug in his fist.

  The main floor was quiet, the benches on either side mostly empty save for a woman with a black eye and a couple of men with crossed arms speaking in low tones. Cayo approached the young man at the desk near another set of doors.

  “I’m looking for Petty Officer Nawarak?”

  The young man waved him toward the doors beside the desk, not bothering to look up from his book.

  Unlike the main floor, the back area was bustling with workers shuffling papers and running files into offices, all overlaid with the din of officers talking and cursing and laughing. It smelled strongly of parchment and burnt coffee. Cayo asked around until he found Nawarak’s desk near the far wall.

  She was sitting with her head propped on her hand as she glowered at a file spread before her. Although she was only in her early twenties, a wrinkle was already beginning to form between her eyebrows due to all her frowning. Her bluish-black hair was tied into a tight braid, showing off a round, pleasant face that clashed with her no-nonsense eyes.

  She flicked that no-nonsense gaze up to him when he sat in the chair before her desk.

  “You smell like alcohol,” she said before he could greet her. “Good night, or rough night?”

  Cayo thought back to the troubling events of the countess’s party, his encounter with Philip, saying good-bye to Sébastien. “Rough.”

  “You’ll get no sympathy from me.” She leaned back and closed the file she’d been studying. “Although I hear you’ve reformed your ways since I last saw you. I’m sure your father is thrilled.” She grinned, but like her eyes, it held no warmth. “Then again, knowing him, he’s just found another thing to be disappointed in.”

  Cayo couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or sigh. Nawarak had always been like this, ever since they were children. She was the daughter of his mother’s best friend, and his mother had always called Nawarak his cousin despite the lack of blood connection. And, much like a cousin, Nawarak took pleasure in finding any opportunity to poke fun at him.

  “I’m not here to listen to you trample on my character,” Cayo said.

  “Then why are you here? And at the ass crack of dawn, no less?”

  Looking around to make sure no one was watching, Cayo leaned forward and placed the black lump of the counterfeit coin before Nawarak. She lifted an eyebrow at it.

  “Wonderful. I just cleaned my desk, but please, feel free to sully it again.”

  “Do you know what it is?” he asked in a hushed voice.

  She picked it up and inspected it. After a moment, she used her thumb to flip it up into the air and caught it.

  “Counterfeit sena,” she said.

  “Yes!” He gripped the armrests of his seat, leaning even closer. “And I can tell you where it came from: the Slum King.”

  He held his breath, the weight of potential crushing his lungs. The potential to put an end to the Slum King’s reign and make sure that nobody else ended up like Bas. The potential to sever his engagement with Romara.

  Then Nawarak shattered that potential with a laugh.

  “Cayo, we already know.” She flipped the fake coin at him, and he fumbled to catch it. “We were on a lead with the case, but it’s been put on hold.”

  “Put on hold? Why?”

  “Ash fever.” Nawarak leaned back in her seat, looking tired. “Some of the officers have it, and two have already died. One of them was actually on the counterfeit case. About a third of us are looking into the origins
of the fever, in the event this is some sort of pathogen-like weapon being wielded by the Rain or Sun Empire.”

  A wave of cold swept through Cayo’s body. “Why would they attack us?”

  “You know they hate each other.” She shrugged. “And they’ve been fighting over Moray for dozens of years. The city is a pawn to them.”

  “But isn’t there a…whatever it’s called, a statement of neutrality?”

  The Prince of Moray was often called a figurehead, although his family were the last remaining vestiges of Rehanese royalty. When Rehan became a republic, the family had been able to buy the colony of Moray from the Rain Empire on two conditions: that they demilitarize, and that they remain neutral between the empires. Naturally, the Sun Empire didn’t take kindly to this, and skirmishes had cropped up over the years.

  But thanks to the prince, the casinos in Moray had flourished, bringing in enough money to rebuild the colony into a proper city-state. Over the last few years, though, Cayo had noticed wealthy citizens without business ties leaving Moray’s shores. Something had changed—the first cracks in the gilded facade of the city, a rot hidden under the cobblestone.

  “Good to know you paid some attention during your home-schooling,” Nawarak drawled. “But neutrality means nothing when a multination world power wants control over the best trade routes.”

  “So you think they’re preparing for another war?”

  “I don’t know. All I can say is that we have more serious issues to face than some fake gold cycling through the gambling dens.”

  Cayo looked down at the black disc in his hand. This small, worthless thing had cost Sébastien his eyes. Had driven him to pain and fear and suffering, and now self-imposed exile.

  “What if I help with the case?” he asked. “I have plenty of contacts in the Vice Sector, including the Slum King himself.”

  Nawarak tried to hide her surprise. “You fancy yourself a for-hire detective?”

  “Maybe not that, but someone who’s invested and wants to bring Salvador down. Also…if I bring you information, I want to be compensated for it. Like a reward.” Enough to buy Soria’s medicine.