by Tara Sim
My invitation, my treat, she’d said in response to Cayo’s protest, paired with that small, secretive smile she was so good at.
Well, he had wanted to see if he could weasel some money out of her, hadn’t he?
Still, even the idea had sat wrong with him. Cayo rubbed a thumb against his palm, remembering the countess’s touch. How she had shown sympathy instead of scorn.
He stopped in front of the Hart and Bell, recognizing the bronze sign above the door of a stag wearing a bell on its collar. His mind still spinning, he drew a deep breath to prepare himself and walked in expecting the worst.
The den was lively with the sounds of rolling dice and shuffling cards under the roar of the losers and the cackles of the winners. The layout of the Hart and Bell was open and spacious, affording him a view of crowded tables and a long bar in the back.
He spotted her almost immediately. She was near the bar, in the nook of couches and chaises that were usually reserved for the den’s most frequent—or richest—players. She was sprawled on a cream-colored chaise, swirling a red drink in her hand. As he watched, she threw her head back and laughed over something a young man sitting on the arm of the chaise had said. There were three others with her, all with the same hungry look that Cayo was used to seeing on the Slum King’s followers.
Cayo clenched and unclenched his hands, stretching out his neck in an attempt to look more relaxed. Plastering on his dimpled smile, he approached Romara’s makeshift court.
She was taking a sip of her drink when she spotted him over the lipstick-stained rim of her glass. Her eyes narrowed.
“Romara,” he greeted her, not bothering to spare a glance at the others. “I—”
“Stop.” She pointed a gloved finger at him. “Not another word out of you. I know exactly why you’re here.”
His heart gave a violent lurch. How could she already know what he was up to? “You—you do?”
Romara waved impatiently at the young man sitting on the arm of her chaise, who stood and rounded up the others to slink back into the hubbub of the den. Cayo didn’t miss the nasty looks they gave him as they passed.
Once they were alone, Romara draped an arm above her head and sipped at her drink, gazing at him like a hawk sizing up a mouse. Her black-and-purple dress spilled across the chaise in a waterfall of silk and tulle, and she was barefoot, her black heels discarded haphazardly on the rug below. Her eyes were rimmed in kohl that winged out into sharp points.
“I know you’re here because you don’t want to get married,” she finally said. “But just so you know, I have every intention of having this wedding.”
Cayo was momentarily struck speechless. Out of everything he had expected her to say, that had been at the very bottom of the list. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, you’re playing the prim-and-proper boy now, are you?” She revealed her teeth in a grin. “Have you been spending too much time with your dear daddy?”
“Looks like you’ve been doing the same,” he muttered, glancing at the vacated seats. He was stalling for time, trying to wrap his head around this new direction.
“I don’t need that fool to tell me how to make a name for myself,” she said. “I can do that just fine on my own. In fact, it’s why I need this wedding to happen.”
Cayo crossed his arms. “I thought neither of us wanted that. That we were going to play along until we found a way out of it. Or did I misunderstand?”
“You didn’t misunderstand anything.” She sat up slowly, making sure her drink didn’t spill. “I merely changed my mind.”
“But why?”
“Because Daddy Dearest is playing a game with me, too. I didn’t see it at first, but now I know the stakes. If I marry you”—she stuffed a hand into her décolletage and pulled out an iron key—“then I get the key to the business. Literally.”
That explained her growing number of followers. But more importantly, Cayo had finally found an opportunity: He had to get that key from her. It no doubt led to the Slum King’s office, where he could find all sorts of incriminating evidence.
He watched as Romara shoved the key into a pocket, immensely thankful she hadn’t put it back in its original holding place. Putting on his dimpled smile again, he sat next to her.
“If that’s the case, then I agree with you,” he said. “We should go through with it.”
She gave him a skeptical look, sipping again at her drink. “What’s with the eagerness all of a sudden?”
“Profit,” he said, shrugging. “If you become the next Slum King, then as your husband I’d get a cut of your earnings. You already know that my family’s purse strings are drawn tighter than they used to be.”
She hummed in thought. “And in exchange, I get more status among the gentry.”
“Exactly. It’s a win-win situation.” Cayo tapped back into the flirtatious manner that used to come so naturally to him and leaned into her, wrapping an arm around her waist. He rested a hand on her hip. “We could be the most powerful couple in Moray,” he whispered into her ear, his lips skimming the outer shell. “We could run this entire city.”
Romara shivered at the prospect. Cayo sat back, still maintaining his smile. She was flushed, but not from his embrace—from the promise of power at her fingertips.
“I’m glad we’re in agreement, Cayo,” she said, breathless. “And to think, here I was worried you would be shaking in your shoes.”
“I’m craftier than I look.”
“So I’m learning.” She lifted her glass to his lips. He obediently took a sip of the fiery drink before she took one of her own. “Here’s to tearing apart our fathers’ legacies.”
“May it be swift,” he added, feeling the impression of the key within his fist.
The sun and the moon play an eternal game,
A celestial chase, one after another,
Never knowing the tricks they play,
Never knowing each fools the other.
—FROM “THE LIGHTS OF THE NORTH,” A REHANESE POEM
The garden was still littered with party debris. The hanging lanterns waved gently in the sea breeze, some having fallen into bushes or onto the ground. Glasses had been left on tables, several only half-drunk, and an errant garland had drifted into the pool to float forlorn and forgotten.
If the estate had been properly staffed, Amaya supposed that all this would have been taken care of already. As it was, she only had a small detail of spies and a crew of children at her disposal. She herself had been too preoccupied to do any cleaning, especially since meeting with Cayo Mercado a couple of days ago at Laelia’s.
He had mentioned something about confronting the past to prevent history from repeating itself. Since then, she had become obsessed with the list of debt collectors taken from Zharo’s apartment, now her only link to figure out what had truly happened.
She looked to the list she had brought out here with her, weighted down with a rock so it wouldn’t fly away. The inked words glared up at her, almost taunting her.
Amaya had had Liesl reach out to all the listed debt collectors under the guise that the countess had an important, undisclosed job that needed doing, and she was searching for the right candidate. In reality, Amaya would use the countess’s influence in order to get at the heart of what she wanted: information about why she had been sold all those years ago.
She had to move forward with Boon’s plan. But first, she had personal business to settle.
Footsteps sounded behind her. Her hand drifted to her knife by instinct, her shoulders stiff.
But it was only Cicada. She relaxed as he gave her one of his infectious grins, a flash of white against the striking darkness of his skin. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and stretched the white tattoos on his upper cheeks. Amaya tried to return it, but it sat weak on her face.
“You only picked at your breakfast, so I figured you might be wanting for something else,” he said, placing a silver tray on the glass table beside her. It contained a small teapot, a c
up, a plate of fried plantains, and a bowl of colorful fruit.
Unexpectedly, Amaya’s eyes began to sting. It may have been a small kindness, but it felt so much bigger. It reminded her of all the times he snuck her a bit of what Zharo ate—always better than what the Bugs got—and how that, to them, was only one method of survival.
This, though—it wasn’t survival. Not really. It was merely kindness and friendship, and Amaya had no idea what to do with either.
The Brackish had taught her that such things were practically nonexistent; that the world was cruel, and it forged cruel people to inhabit it. It had been a miracle that she had had Roach, considering how many of the older Bugs grew to turn on each other. Once, a Bug had told her that if she snuck one of the fish she gutted down her shirt, she could dry it in the Bugs’ cabin for jerky. But Zharo had seen through that in an instant and given her a black eye. The Bug had merely shrugged and said, “I wanted to see if it would work.”
People were not designed to be trusted.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “How…How are the others?”
He shrugged and took a speckled piece of pitaya from the fruit bowl. “Managing. Waiting. The smaller ones seem fine, but the older ones are itching to get home. I try to keep them busy with housework and meal prep and the like.”
Amaya didn’t blame them for being impatient. Again she thought of Roach, missing him desperately and wishing he were here to tell her what she should do. He had always been much better with the younger Bugs than she was, telling them fantastical stories and pulling laughs out of them when he could.
“I appreciate you looking after them,” she said. “Just let me know what else I can do.”
“You’re already doing plenty.” He gave her a mock salute before heading back inside.
Amaya sat back with a sigh, nibbling on a plantain. She didn’t feel like she was doing plenty. She felt like she was swimming in circles, knowing that as soon as she grew too tired she would drown.
Sunlight filtered through the overhead branches, spangling the ground and her table with coins of gold. A thin breeze ruffled the wide leaves of the palms surrounding her, creating a susurrus that kept her calm as she cycled through her troubled thoughts.
She didn’t hear Liesl until the girl was standing beside her. Jumping halfway out of her seat, Amaya dropped the plantain and pressed a hand to her chest.
“What in the hells, Liesl!”
“I apologize. I should have stepped on a twig to let you know I was coming.”
Amaya caught her breath and glared up at Liesl. One of these days she was going to ask the girl how exactly she had come to learn all these unique…skills.
“Is the first candidate already here?” Amaya asked, looking for the sun’s position. It was far too early for them to be starting.
“No, it’s not that.” Liesl hesitated, keeping her hands clasped before her. Amaya noticed then that she held a folded piece of parchment. “You asked me to look up your father. Arun Chandra. I went through some public records, pulled some things from his business that might be of note.”
Amaya’s heart beat faster. She had worried about asking this favor of Liesl, not wanting Boon to know that she was poking into places he didn’t want her poking. But she had to know what had happened to her father, and why the Port’s Authority would go after him the way they had.
That, and she wanted to prove Boon wrong.
“What did you find?” she demanded.
Liesl looked down, the sun glaring off her glasses. She handed the parchment to Amaya, who took it with shaking fingers. As she opened it, Liesl explained at her elbow.
“Chandra’s Pearls was making good income for a few years, and then something happened to create a significant dip in earnings. I don’t know if it was because of loss of business or some other factor—debts, perhaps”—Amaya flinched at the memory of Boon telling her that her father had gambled—“but he was in need of a loan to keep the business afloat.”
Liesl paused, then sighed. “He took out a loan with Mercado.”
Amaya’s fingers went cold. She scanned the words and numbers on the page before her, though she could barely understand them.
“That isn’t everything,” Liesl said, gesturing to the parchment. “Just the initial loan.”
“What…what does this mean?”
The girl moved to the seat on the other side of the table, fanning out her blue skirts before she sat. “Arun Chandra took out a loan with Mercado, and there was a plan to pay it off over the course of five years, plus interest. Merchants, you know—they’re greedy. Your father was able to pay off the first year, but after that…”
Every man carries his sins a different way.
“I couldn’t find every record, but from what I could gather, your father fell further into debt with Mercado. A debt he couldn’t repay.”
The parchment crumpled between Amaya’s hands. She stared blankly at the garden before her, revelation opening a pit under-neath her.
She didn’t want it to be true. She didn’t want to have something in common with Boon, hatred toward a man who had torn their lives apart.
“I’m sorry,” Liesl said when Amaya stayed quiet. “The fact that Mercado was tied to this is…Well, it doesn’t surprise me, but it can’t be easy. At least we’re going to be striking back. That’s the whole point of coming here, isn’t it? Boon gets his Landless status revoked, we get paid, and you get revenge for your father.”
So simple when she said it. It wasn’t simple where it sat in Amaya’s chest, a tangled ball of rage and grief that threatened to grow a briar around her heart.
Had Mercado been behind all of it? Her father’s debt, his punishment, her being sold?
“We don’t have to go through with this today if you don’t want to,” Liesl said, tapping the paper that Amaya had taken outside with her. “We can reschedule.”
Amaya took a deep breath, her chest shaking under the weight of this new information.
“No,” she said, standing. “This is perfect timing. Now I know specifically what to ask of them.”
Liesl nodded her approval. “I’ll go prepare, then.”
Amaya still had no definite answers to her questions, but that was going to change. Today.
A few hours later, Amaya ran her thumb over the crinkled edge of Zharo’s list, glowering at the far wall of the sitting room as she slouched in her cushioned, gilded chair. She was fairly certain the furniture under her backside cost more than the Brackish had, and it only worsened her mood.
At the doors to the sitting room, Liesl was busy ushering away a stocky man. “We thank you for your time, Mr. Vedasto,” she said in her best lady-in-waiting voice, all musical and charming. “We will contact you if you seem to be the right fit.”
Amaya watched the man leave. He passed by Deadshot standing guard at the door, the mercenary trailing his movements with hungry eyes, as if itching for any excuse for a fight.
Liesl waited until the man was gone before pecking Deadshot on the cheek and walking back into the room with a sigh.
“Boon has trained you well,” the girl said, pouring herself some tea and splashing in a bit of brandy from the drink cart. “If it were me, I’d have stabbed one of these bastards by now.”
“Yes, you’re very good at stabbing, aren’t you?” Amaya muttered.
“Shush.” Liesl took a moment to sit and rest, sipping daintily at her tea. “I did you a favor with Zharo.”
Amaya ground her teeth together and looked over the list in her hand, already crinkled from her handling throughout the day.
“We’ll find something,” Liesl said. “One of these men ought to have a lead.”
But they had been at it all afternoon—a steady stream of investigation under the pretense of Countess Yamaa conducting interviews. So far, there had been no luck. Every man who was shown into the sitting room left roughly ten minutes later, confused. The most recent debt collector, Jin Vedasto, had blinked vapidly at her unde
r thick, wiry brows as she asked him questions.
“Who was your employer? How long did you work for them? What would you say was the most fulfilling aspect of your former employment?”
Vedasto had given slow, drawn-out answers, as if he suspected this to be the trap that it was. Then Amaya had gone for the final blow.
“I’ll be honest, Mr. Vedasto. I was given your name by Lord Mercado,” she said as Countess Yamaa, her hands folded in her lap to disguise how her fingers tightened. She hoped the name would inspire them to discuss the merchant in more detail. “He knows I’m searching for someone with your specific…talents. I’ve done some research on your past jobs, though I couldn’t help but wonder if you knew anything about a certain job that wasn’t documented. Specifically, the sale of a child from a family named Chandra.”
Vedasto had swung his head from side to side. “Beggin’ your pardon, lady, but I don’t know nothin’ about that.”
So Amaya had signaled Liesl to see him out, the sixth debt collector she had dismissed that day. She didn’t know how much more she could take.
“It makes me sick to sit across from them,” Amaya said. “Knowing exactly what they did but having to look into their eyes and pretend that I admire their actions.”
“And many are retired now,” Liesl observed, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Must have been good money, selling children.”
Amaya exhaled through her teeth.
“We have three more to go. The next one is waiting in the foyer. Should we tell them to come back tomorrow?”
Amaya took a moment to look up at the ceiling, at the intricate golden designs and dark wood paneling. Although the sitting room was spacious, it felt cramped with all the elegant furniture and molding and the thick bluish-green rug of Rehanese design under her slippers.
