Scavenge the Stars

by Tara Sim

  “I took her away from a violent lifestyle,” she said. “And this is how she wanted to repay me.”

  Cayo frowned at that. “What do you mean, a violent lifestyle?”

  The sound of wood knocking on wood echoed through the teahouse then, saving her from answering. They looked down as a man in a nice suit stood at the podium, his spectacles gleaming with the light coming through the glass dome.

  “Good morning, fine patrons of Laelia’s. As you must know, today is considered an auspicious day in the Rehanese calendar, one that promises fortune and favorable odds. It only comes once per month—which is why we conduct our auctions on this specific date. This month, we’re delighted to partake in this day with you in the hopes of bringing you the wealth you desire.”

  There was a polite round of applause, peppered with coughing. Amaya suspected today’s patrons were frequent attendees of these auctions. Contempt simmered low in her gut as she considered them, dressed up and glittering like a magpie’s den, having nothing better to do than to flaunt their expendable wealth.

  Briefly, the image of Zharo’s ringed hands flashed through her mind. She winced even as she fisted her own hands under the table.

  “We have two Widow Vaults to auction off today,” the auctioneer went on, signaling to his workers to unveil the easel stands. They held canvases with paintings that depicted vases, golden statuettes, jewelry. “Vault one contains an exquisite collection of artifacts from the second and third Yomir eras, which I think will impress quite a number of you. I’m looking at you specifically, Lord Nadim.” A gentle wave of laughter rose from the crowd.

  As the auctioneer began to list the items, Amaya again took a moment to study Cayo as he watched the goings-on below. His question still rang in her head.

  She wondered how he would react to the truth.

  “The girl was sold by her parents to a debtor ship,” she said.

  He blinked and swung his gaze back to her. “What?”

  “The girl in my employ. She spent quite a few months on a debtor ship before I came upon her. It was on the Brackish, actually.”

  The name sparked something in him, and she felt her chest go cold. Something like muted horror crossed his face, and she realized then that she had made a mistake.

  “The Brackish,” he repeated slowly, sitting back. “Your ship, you mean.”

  “Yes. When I bought it, I knew I wanted to provide a better life for the children who were being subjected to cruelty on a daily basis. So I gave them a choice: work for me, or continue to gut fish until their indenture was up.” She shrugged. “It wasn’t a difficult choice.”

  He took a moment to reply, the auctioneer’s steady, fast-paced voice filling up the silence. “Why do you care about the children but not the rest of the debtors?”

  Amaya took a breath to steady herself, knowing a boy like this would never truly understand the next words out of her mouth.

  “Because children are the victims of their parents’ crimes.”

  He thought on that as his attention seemingly drifted back down to the auction. Amaya continued her unabashed study of him, wondering if he had any idea what his father had done. Her fingers tingled in her lap; her chest tightened with inaction. She needed to get up and walk away, she needed to yell at the auctioneer below to shut up, she needed to pick up the small knife beside her plate and—

  “Did you hear the news this morning?” he asked suddenly. “The former captain of the Brackish was found dead in his apartment.”

  The cold in her chest spread. Waves beat against her ears, the deafening madness of the sea at night. She breathed hard through her nose as she fought against it, tried to clear her vision and compose herself before he knew, before he guessed.

  Amaya forced her hand up to her throat, widening her eyes in what was only a partial imitation of shock. “You…You can’t be serious.”

  “I am. I…” He cleared his throat. “I saw the crime scene this morning. They brought his body out on a stretcher. You knew nothing about it?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Why in Trickster’s name were you there? she wanted to growl. He was no business of yours! “I’ve never even had contact with the man. I heard he was vile, though. He beat the children on board and worked them to the bone.”

  “Do you think he deserved to die, then?”

  The tone wasn’t accusing. It was curious, almost dispassionate, as if the act of discussing murder over tea wasn’t a new experience for him. It was a question she had asked herself before—if the punishment truly fit the crime, if Zharo’s conduct could have only been balanced with death.

  “Perhaps the gods were only meting out justice,” she said at last.

  He frowned but was prevented from asking about it further when the server arrived with their teas. They were each given a teapot and cups painted a delicate shade of green. It reminded Amaya of the color of Zharo’s apartment building, and a sudden wave of nausea overtook her. She began picking at her fingernails, certain they still smelled like blood.

  The server poured their teas with an expert hand and gave them a three-tier tray of pastries and fruit, then bowed and took his leave. Cayo waited until the server was on the stairs to address her again.

  “Are you well, my lady?”

  Amaya stilled her hands in her lap. “Perfectly fine, my lord. Although you seem the worse for wear. Did you have too much fun at my party?”

  “One could say that,” he muttered. He lifted his cup and took a sip even though steam was still billowing out of it. “You seem to have had a sleepless night yourself.”

  “It’s difficult work, playing hostess.” She lifted her own teacup, willing her hand not to shake. The tea smelled of jasmine, and when she took a small sip, the heat nipped her tongue.

  I have to kill him, before he suspects.

  The thought came unexpectedly, like a rock smashing through a window. She wasn’t even sure if the thought was actually hers—it almost sounded like Boon’s voice, whispering in her ear. There had been moments when he’d done that during her training, when he had placed a callused hand on her shoulder and murmured directions.

  Try to take that lad’s coin purse, he would instruct while they were out walking at night, teaching her the ways of deception. Compliment that woman until she gives you her address. Rip your dress and run up to those guards, pretend you’ve just been mugged, and then knock ’em out.

  Amaya set her teacup down a little too hard, making Cayo and a couple of nearby patrons turn their heads. Her whole body flushed, but not with embarrassment—with an almost feverish conviction.

  Liesl had prevented her from acting last night in the way her body craved, yanking her revenge out from under her. Her limbs jumped and twitched with it, and without her realizing it her hand drifted to the small knife on the table, caressing the blade with a thumb.

  She could do it in a multitude of ways. She could lure him outside, or follow him back to his manor. Or she could simply lunge across this table and cut a line across his throat, watch it yawn open as he choked and stained the tablecloth.

  “—bolt from the northern province of Rehan, highly valued for its durability and shine.”

  Cayo was in the middle of placing a berry tartlet on his plate when his attention quickly returned to the auctioneer. Amaya forced herself to do the same and saw a painted depiction of fabric on one of the easels.

  “This blend of silk is one of the finest you’ll find on the continent,” the auctioneer said. “Valued at a thousand senas per bolt.”

  “He could have at least brought one to show,” Cayo muttered to himself. “Some of the tailors in Moray could benefit from using a higher grade of silk.”

  A surprised laugh bubbled up in her throat. She couldn’t believe it; Cayo Mercado enjoyed fashion?

  “Is this…an interest of yours?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light, trying not to reveal the darker thoughts lurking beneath the surface. “How did you get involved in such a thing?”
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  You’re supposed to be asking him about his father, she reprimanded herself. Not about his hobbies.

  Cayo shrugged. “I’ve always admired clothes, I suppose. When my sister was growing up, I’d help her pick out dresses.” He glanced at what Amaya was wearing today, a lavender dress of typical Kharian design, with a length of fabric draped over her shoulder and embroidered with golden suns. “I was fascinated by tailors and how they worked to create such beautiful pieces with just a needle and thread.”

  Amaya’s throat tightened unexpectedly. She thought of her mother sitting bent over coats and skirts, her needle glinting like a miniature sword as she sewed.

  She struggled to regain her voice. “I…take it you go shopping often, then?”

  “We used to.” Cringing as if he’d said the wrong thing, he took another sip of his tea and turned his gaze to the patrons below.

  Amaya felt a flutter of opportunity seize her. She recalled the battered state of his carriage, and the fact that he had once been a frequent gambler. Were the Mercados not as wealthy as they led others to believe? Her heart quickened at the thought.

  “Tell me more about your family,” she said. Feeling Avi’s watchful eyes on the back of her head, she slowly let her hand drift away from the knife and instead take up the silver tongs. She carefully selected a chocolate-drizzled pastry and put it on her plate. It was filled with a decadent cream spotted with black vanilla bean. “You mentioned you have a sister?”

  “Yes.” He used a tiny fork to spear a glazed strawberry on his tartlet. “She’s a couple of years younger than I am.”

  “How come I haven’t seen her at my parties?”

  His fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He hesitated, then followed through and took a bite of the glistening fruit.

  “She’s been ill,” he said after swallowing. “But should hopefully recover soon.” He gave her another forced smile, showing off a dimple.

  “Oh.” Amaya leaned back against the chair, disappointed to feel a spike of regret cut through her lingering rage. Wracking her brain for one of those ridiculous phrases Liesl was always making her recite from a book on etiquette, she added, “Please give her my regards.”

  “I’m sure she would be thrilled, my lady.” At the sound of a patron coughing down below, his shoulders tightened. It was then that Amaya saw through the polite veneer of Cayo Mercado and glimpsed a boy who, despite his smooth words, was afraid.

  Just how ill was his sister?

  And then another part of her—the Silverfish part of her, perhaps not so dead after all—wondered how she could use that to her advantage.

  “I can’t imagine the worry you and your father must feel,” she went on, digging into the sore spot as far as she dared. “To have someone you love so much be in the clutches of such a serious illness. It is serious, isn’t it?”

  “One could say that,” he murmured down to his tartlet. Whatever intentions Cayo had brought with him today, they seemed to be unraveling. Which told her that she was right—it was much more serious than he let on.

  She knew about the deadly sickness running through Moray; she and the Landless had been checked by a doctor when they docked at port. It wasn’t that big of a leap to conclude the girl likely had ash fever.

  But should she play that hand now, or wait until she could use it as leverage? It was no surprise the family didn’t want the news public. To have someone like Countess Yamaa know, with the possibility of spreading the gossip among her many acquaintances like a dandelion spreading its seeds, would have been a living nightmare.

  She was tempted to blurt out that she knew, to figure out if her guess was correct, but the look on Cayo’s face stopped her. There was a muted terror there, in the wariness of his eyes. In the tight way he held his mouth.

  It chipped back her rising bloodlust, still roiling and unsated. Her anger turned from him to herself—for showing her own weakness, the way her misery made it easier to detect it in others.

  Children are the victims of their parents’ crimes.

  No, she decided, she would not kill Cayo Mercado. She would reserve her vengance for his father alone.

  Cayo picked up a small silver spoon and began to nervously dance it between his knuckles. Amaya blinked. The young Lord Mercado may not have been good at concealing his emotions, but he was certainly skilled with his hands. She wondered if it was a result of his interest in tailoring.

  “I would appreciate it,” he finally said, his voice low, “if you kept my sister’s illness to yourself. My father…We can’t…”

  “I understand.” She was only too eager to have information on the Mercados no one else had.

  Another brick in the foundation of their ruin.

  When you go after the boy, be sure to lay it on thick, Boon had told her. Trust me, most young bucks have mud for brains, and a lotta them hunger for the touch of a pretty girl.

  Amaya steeled herself before reaching over the table and touch-ing his hand. She wasn’t used to touching people she did not know; it had taken her almost a year to be comfortable enough to hug Roach. But when Cayo looked up, surprised, she knew she had made the right move.

  “I admire how you care for your sister during this difficult time,” she said.

  He stared at her hand, somewhat darker than his. Cayo took a deep breath, shedding even more of that veneer of detachment. Good.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to help her,” he said to the tabletop.

  Keep going, Boon’s voice whispered in the back of her mind. Her fingers slid across his skin until she was clasping his hand. Cayo hesitated, then returned the soft pressure. His touch was warm and dry.

  “I hope things improve for her,” she said, and was distantly surprised to realize she meant it. “And for your family as a whole.” That, she did not mean.

  “Thank you, my lady. I’m beginning to learn the only way to move forward is by confronting the mistakes of one’s past.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Otherwise history will just repeat itself, and everything falls apart again.”

  This boy was full of curiosities. But before she could prod more into what he meant, the auctioneer banged his gavel against the podium.

  “Vault one is sold to Mr. Hirana at twenty-one thousand senas! Please come up, sir, and sign your name on the contract of transfer.”

  The crowd erupted into gentle applause as a man stood from a table and made his way up to the dais. It was the same man who had been coughing since she arrived at the teahouse. He was coughing even now, the noise muffled by the napkin pressed to his mouth.

  When he pulled it away, it was speckled with blood.

  The man wobbled and fell against a table, knocking over cups and plates that smashed on the floor. People yelped as he toppled over and lay unmoving, sprawled against the marble.

  Amaya tore her hand away from Cayo’s and leaned over the balcony. The man’s companion rushed forward to put his head on her lap, and that’s when Amaya saw it.

  A splotch of gray on the man’s neck.

  “Ash fever!” a patron screamed, knocking their chair back.

  The teahouse erupted into chaos.

  The greatest key to pulling off a con is misdirection.

  —A HUNDRED AND ONE VICES FOR THE EVERYMAN

  Cayo walked the counterfeit coin across his fingers, watching it roll as fluidly as any normal sena would.

  It was amazing, he thought, how easily a simple disguise could fool so many people.

  Sighing, he pocketed the false coin and gazed at the mouth of the alleyway. The familiar din of the street beyond made his blood sing, his fingers buzzing with excitement, with the promise of chance and fortune.

  But Cayo had not returned to the Vice Sector to play. He had come here to find clues with which to take down the Slum King.

  Straightening his jacket, he stepped out of the alleyway and onto Diamond Street, the central artery of the Vice Sector. The bright multicolored lanterns dazzled him and made him blink, and the riot of the crowd
stirred the nervous energy inside him. The people were a curious mix of seasoned locals, grubby alley dwellers, glitzy nobles, and naive tourists. It was the only part of the city where one could find this unexpected assortment of Moray’s citizens, the only part where luck mattered more than status.

  Cayo had once considered it more home to him than Mercado Manor, a place where he could be unapologetically himself. Where excitement nipped his ankles and fed the flame of his recklessness. He remembered first feeling that recklessness after his mother died, an urge to fling himself into danger and fun—to distract his broken heart with broken morals.

  He didn’t quite feel the same now, walking down Diamond Street with his hands in his pockets, keeping an eye out for thieves. It was as if that recklessness had evaporated off him, leaving him tired and unsatisfied.

  “Cayo!” someone cried down the street. A petite woman with short, curly hair waved at him and grinned. He recognized her as Mariposa, a gambler roughly his age who had often sat at the same tables with him. Her girlfriend, a tall Rehanese girl, glowered at him, no doubt remembering his penchant for flirting. “We haven’t seen you in so long! Welcome back!”

  His neck heated under his collar. “Well, I actually…” He shook his head; they didn’t need to know this was hopefully a onetime visit. “Have you seen Romara?”

  Mariposa made a long-drawn-out sound of delight. “Of course you’re here to see your fiancée. She’s in the Hart and Bell.”

  Cayo cringed before thanking Mariposa and continuing on, passing street musicians who flooded the air with brash drums and shrieking fiddles. One of them even had an old-fashioned Rehanese lute that warbled over the babbling crowd.

  So the gossip had spread about him and Romara. That meant he only had so much time to tell his father about the arrangement. If Kamon heard it from someone else first…

  But if Cayo succeeded in finding a link between Salvador and the counterfeit, then he wouldn’t have to. The engagement would be called off, Nawarak would give him a reward, and he could take care of Soria.

  Thinking back to yesterday, to the man who had collapsed in the teahouse, he shuddered. It had reminded him too much of how Soria had fallen at their dinner with the Hizons. He and Countess Yamaa hadn’t said a word to each other as the fallen patron had been carried out on a stretcher. At least, not until the countess had laid out the money for their tea.