by Tara Sim
When he was done, they shared another moment of stillness. Then she reached for the hollow of his throat, the triangle of skin revealed above his shirt where he hadn’t done up the last button.
She had touched him before, at Laelia’s. She had forced herself to do so, uncomfortable with her skin meeting his, this stranger full of secrets and tied to the man she detested most.
But Cayo no longer felt like a stranger. Their words had built a bridge between them, one that Amaya thought she could finally cross, a small step at a time.
She placed her fingertips on the space between his collarbones. He shivered beneath her touch, and it intensified the heat in her chest, made her as drunk as the wine would have. She didn’t dare look at his face; everything would shatter if she did. Instead, she focused on crafting the symbol at the base of his throat, the traditional Kharian design that meant protection.
What she was protecting him from, she wasn’t entirely sure. His father, perhaps. The Slum King.
Herself.
When had he gotten so close? She dropped her fingers and finally looked up at him, the rawness in his expression beckoning her to cross the bridge between them faster, to meet him in the middle.
Before she could, a shout emerged from the rain.
“Move it, vandals! I’ll drag you home to your parents if I have to!”
Cayo’s eyes widened. “Shit,” he hissed before he took her hand, and they ran back out into the rain.
“The city guard patrols even during a storm?” she called as they ran deeper into the park.
“I didn’t think they got paid enough for that,” he called back with a sheepish laugh.
They didn’t stop until they were hidden in a copse of aloe trees, rain sliding down the long, thin leaves. Amaya held her palms out and let the water wash away most of the clay.
“I guess they really do hate vandalism,” she said.
Cayo laughed again, but it was quiet. He nervously shifted on his feet, lifting a hand to run it through his hair, but winced at the motion.
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
“It’s nothing.” He rubbed his shoulder. “Some old man clobbered me with his walking stick yesterday. Must have been in a bad mood.”
Amaya’s lips parted. Yesterday, Weevil had come back to the estate with a bruise on the side of his head, a hand curled protectively around his stomach. When she had demanded to know what happened, he’d admitted to scouting the Business Sector for easy targets.
“I was just going to pick a couple of pockets,” he’d murmured into the tea that Cicada had made for him. “I didn’t know that old man was strong enough to wallop me.”
Amaya had pinched the bridge of her nose. “You don’t have to resort to thieving like you did on the Brackish, Matthieu. I told you, once this job is over, all the Bugs will have enough money to get home.”
“How’d you even get away without getting arrested?” Cricket had asked Weevil.
He’d sniffed, his nose running from the steam of the tea. “A man stood in front of me. Got walloped for his trouble, too. If he hadn’t done that, I’d likely be scraps on the street.”
Amaya stared at Cayo, her lips still parted. His eyebrows lowered in confusion.
“It was you,” she said softly. “You helped Wee—I mean, Matthieu.”
“What? Who’s Matthieu?”
“The boy who was pickpocketing in the Business Sector. He works for me at my estate. He said a man got between him and his attacker. That was you, wasn’t it?”
He blinked, trying to absorb the information. “Oh. I guess it was. I didn’t know he belonged to you. I mean, not belong as in you own him, or at least I hope not, just that if he works for you—”
He was rambling again. She put a hand against his chest, leaving reddish fingerprints on his shirt.
“Thank you,” she said.
He nodded, as if he didn’t know what to say. What design had the gods woven to keep bringing this boy back into her life in unlikely ways? Amaya didn’t understand it, this push and pull, this interlocking of fates. It was too big for her to comprehend.
Maybe she wasn’t supposed to. Maybe she was supposed to allow herself to be shipwrecked, to find someone who could help her through the jungle. To help her step out of the past and remain in the present, to turn her eyes to a future she’d thought she didn’t deserve.
“I’m glad,” he said suddenly, “that you came to Moray.”
Her breath shuddered out of her. He took a step closer, the rain washing off the clay from his cheek but not touching the symbol of protection at the base of his throat. She was hyperaware of his body so close to hers, how he breathed and moved, the heat trapped under his coat.
“Can…” His eyes dropped to her lips, longing. “Can I kiss you?”
From anyone else, the question would have sounded innocent, imploring. But in Cayo’s voice, it was a question that burned through her. In just four words he had opened a door to his desire, allowing her to see it. To do with it what she would.
Wordlessly, she nodded.
She thought it might be a sudden thing, but Cayo was slow, careful, as if he had spent a long time thinking of this moment. One of his hands settled at her hip, and heat spiraled from the touch, coiling in her stomach. His other hand cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing the skin beside her ear. She shivered at the sensation, almost angry with herself for the involuntary admission that he was doing something to her that no one ever had before, that she had never wanted before. Until him.
When he touched his lips to hers, she was shocked by the softness of it, the tentative heat and exploration. As if he had guessed that this was all new to her, that she had no idea how to navigate these waters. The second brush of their lips was more insistent, and Amaya found herself clutching her shawl, trapped between Cayo’s hands and having no idea what to do with her own.
He pulled away a little, and she opened her eyes to find his half-lidded. Waiting. Patient. She nodded again, and he brought her in closer, fusing their mouths together with such intensity that she gasped against him.
The surrender was terrifying, but she let herself melt into it, into how Cayo’s hand swept up her back and cupped the other side of her face, his fingers scrunching into her hair. She let go of her shawl and clung to him instead, feeling the expanse of his chest as he breathed, the frantic beating of his heart.
His tongue brushed her lips, and she staggered against him. Her head was hot and light, and she barely understood what she was doing when she opened to him, some animal instinct taking over.
You can’t, a part of her cried. Remember who he is. What you have to do to him.
What was she doing?
Amaya pulled away, pressing a hand against her mouth. It was warm and buzzing, her lips carrying the impression of Cayo’s.
He stared at her, out of breath, as rain rolled down his stunned face. The water ran over his throat, breaking the symbol of protection she had made.
He took a concerned step toward her. “Ya—”
“No.” She held a hand up to stop him, to prevent him from calling her a name that was not her own. When he had held her, she had forgotten about Countess Yamaa, about Silverfish, about what she had come here to do.
She had been Amaya, a seventeen-year-old girl with hopes and desires, and she had been free.
But she wasn’t free. Not yet.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
She turned and ran from him. Breaking through the copse of aloe trees, she headed out of the park, wiping the rain from her face and forcing herself not to look back. If he followed, she couldn’t hear him, and she would lose him within the alleys anyway.
She couldn’t do this much longer. She had to use Cayo to get to Mercado, to turn his desire into a weapon for vengeance.
But as she tried to look to the future that had seemed possible only moments ago, she saw nothing but a barren orchard, the memory of Cayo’s lips on hers grown cold.
Do not b
e afraid to fold. Do not be ashamed to walk away. We all must know our limits, and to recognize when we have been beaten.
—THE INS AND OUTS OF TABLE BETTING
Cayo didn’t chase after her. He had seen the spark of something in her eyes—not regret, exactly, but something close to fear, or surprise.
When he had kissed her—I kissed her, he thought in wonder—he had sensed that she had never done this before. With a boy, or with anyone. He still remembered his first kiss, an awkward exchange between him and some merchant’s daughter, and he had been just as stiff, just as unsure.
But then Yamaa had eased against him, her lips pliant and allowing it to happen. He could still feel that phantom touch, bright and sparking against the rain.
Cayo closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The rain washed over him, and he longed for it to strip away his doubts and shame, to leave him with a new skin that only knew the touch of Yamaa’s.
Her words blazed within him like a brand.
You have to stop them. Even if you love them. Even if it means they’d die.
Cayo had been sitting in his indecision for too long. Love and loyalty had restrained him, kept him from doing what had to be done. But no longer. He had to be someone as strong as Yamaa thought he could be—someone just as resolute as she was, made of salt water and steel.
He had the means to put a stop to this, to drag the truth into the light and do something good, for once. Something that could actually benefit others.
He had to turn his father in.
Opening his eyes, Cayo barely felt the tear on his cheek before that, too, was washed away.
He walked all the way home. As he crossed the threshold, sodden and shivering, Narin exclaimed his dismay.
“My lord, you’ll catch sick! Let me draw you a warm bath and bring you some tea.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have time for that,” Cayo said. “Can you tell the driver to bring the carriage around?”
The footman hesitated, his eyes pinched. “I’m sorry to say that your father dismissed the driver yesterday, my lord.”
“What?” Cayo rubbed his hands against his face, his shoulders tightening with stress. “Then can you please find a carriage to take me to the Business Sector?”
“In this weather, my lord? Surely it can wait—”
“It can’t,” he snapped before he could rein it in. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to find the calm that Yamaa had instilled in him. “I’m sorry, Narin, but I must go immediately.”
The footman gave a small bow, his eyebrows furrowed in worry. “I’ll see it done.”
Cayo bounded up the stairs, his heart climbing into his throat. The walls of the manor seemed to press against him, as if it wanted to trap him here, prevent him from doing what had to be done. As he peeled off his soaked clothes and put on a fresh, dry outfit, his stomach churned the way it did when he knew he was on the losing side of a game. That dreadful anticipation sank fangs into his gut, clawing at his ribs and hips.
He held on to the side of his dresser and bowed his head, his hair still dripping water onto the floor. He focused on breathing, on calming the anxious monster curled up within him.
Kamon believed his son was the sole cause for the gradual decline of their family, that his time in the Vice Sector had put them all at risk. Perhaps Cayo had had a hand in this, but he hadn’t been the one to put flame to the pyre, to see everything Kamon had worked for go up in smoke and ash.
Cayo could still save himself and Soria from that pyre.
He went to his sister’s room and found her reading in bed. She looked sleepy, likely from the weather and her spirited conversation with the countess that morning. When she saw him, she smiled and put the book down.
“Did you and the countess go for a walk?” she demanded. “What happened? Tell me everything.”
Cayo’s heart gave a hard, mournful thump, and he wished he could simply sit and gossip with Soria like they used to. Swallowing, he sat in the chair beside her bed and clasped his hands between his knees.
“We talked about stories,” he said quietly, over the gentle patter of rain on the window. “A bit of the past, and a bit of the future.”
“Are you going to marry her?”
Cayo shook himself in surprise. “What?”
“It seems the sort of thing Father would want. Especially after…” Soria averted her eyes in shame, likely remembering Gen Hizon and how her illness had ruined their engagement. “And besides, she seems fairly well off.”
“That would be an understatement,” he murmured. “I…I don’t know.”
Even as he said it, he knew it couldn’t be. Not only would their lives be changed once he revealed the truth about their father, but the Slum King would kill him in an instant if he married Yamaa instead of Romara.
“I think she enjoys your company,” Soria said with a teasing grin.
Normally, he would have been pleased to hear it, but instead he just nodded, feeling the ghost of Yamaa’s lips on his.
Soria frowned at his solemn demeanor. “Is something the matter?”
He shook his head. “No. Or at least, not for much longer.”
“You’re acting strange.” Soria noticed his outfit. “You’re dressed to go out again? It’s getting late. And Father said he’ll be home tonight so the three of us can have dinner together.”
Cayo closed his eyes tight, clenching his jaw.
You have to stop them. Even if you love them.
“Cayo?”
He looked at his sister, wanting to tear apart the world and remake it for her, a world where she was healthy and happy and nothing bad could ever touch her.
Reaching for the handkerchief on her bedside table, he dabbed at the sweat lining her brow, then kissed her forehead.
“It can’t go on this way,” he whispered. “But no matter what happens, I’ll protect you.”
She called his name when he turned to leave, then dissolved into a coughing fit. Cayo gritted his teeth and hurried out of her room, down the hall, to his bedroom. Throwing open the closet, he stared at the chest, panting for breath and delirious with purpose. When he grabbed it, the discs inside rattled like bones.
“There’s a carriage waiting for you at the front, my lord,” Narin said as Cayo came downstairs. “It’s a bit battered, but it was the closest one I could find at such short notice.”
“That’s fine. Thank you, Narin.” Then he stopped, looking at the footman who had been a part of this household ever since Cayo could remember. What would happen to him? Guilt tightening his throat, Cayo put a hand on the man’s shoulder, squeezing. “Thank you.”
Narin still wore his confused frown. “You’re quite welcome, my lord.”
Cayo gave the driver his instructions and then ducked into the carriage. It bumped and rattled its way into the heart of the city. Cayo hugged the chest the entire time, staring numbly down at its stained lid, enveloped in the smell of wood grain and vinegar.
When the carriage rolled to a stop, Cayo barely paused to pay the driver with the little spending money he had left before storming his way into the offices of the Port’s Authority.
“I need to speak with Petty Officer Nawarak,” Cayo demanded of the person at the front desk. “Now.”
The doors opened, and Cayo strode straight to Nawarak’s desk toward the back. She was standing with a hip leaning against the side of the desk, her arms crossed as she spoke with another officer, laughing at some joke.
When she noticed him, her eyes widened in surprise. Before she could say anything, he slammed the chest down onto her desk.
The sound it made was like a door slamming shut. Final. Decisive.
He met Nawarak’s gaze, his own burning.
“I have the evidence you need,” he said.
As I lay upon my father’s grave, the map of my bones above his, I felt what it was to love and hate at once.
—FROM PATHWAY OF STARS, THE MEMOIR OF CHAIRAK BOUGHN, CELEBRATED REHANESE ADVENTURER
In Viariche, Amaya had been miserable. Her feet were constantly sore from high-heeled shoes, her ribs crisscrossed with the impressions of corsets, and her scalp always stung from having to pull her hair up all the time.
At first she had borne it in silence, conditioned from the Brackish to keep her head down and say nothing lest Captain Zharo find an excuse to throw her overboard. But as the weeks went by, her frustration grew, her useless rage sitting like boiling water under a lid.
One night, she had come home from an art gallery showing in near tears. Her feet had been throbbing, her toes almost entirely numb. As soon as she’d entered the apartment, she had thrown her shoes at the wall with a loud bang.
“Gods above, it’s like the siege of Gravaen in here,” a familiar voice had rumbled from the depths of the apartment.
Amaya had frozen. Boon rarely came to the apartment, choosing instead to prowl the waterfront. She’d limped into the main sitting area and found him lounging by a small fire he’d built in the hearth, nursing a bottle of wine. He looked ragged and torn, like he’d just escaped a street brawl.
“What are you doing here?” she had demanded.
“Relax,” he’d muttered, taking a swig from his bottle. “No one’s seen me. ’Sides, not like I’ve got broadsheets up with my face on ’em in a place like this.” He’d appraised her then, dark eyes scrutinizing even when glazed with drink. “You’re home early.”
Amaya had sunk into one of the chairs and pulled her right foot toward her lap, hissing as she began to massage it. “I had to. I was going to fall over otherwise.”
Boon lifted an eyebrow at her stockinged feet. “Thought you’d be used to the shoes by now.”
“Well, I’m not.” Suddenly, inexplicably, tears had begun to prick her eyes. Amaya drew in a sharp breath and scowled, disappointed in herself for acting this way over something so trivial. “They hurt. Everything hurts, and I have no idea if I can even pull this off, and…” She’d stopped, knowing if she kept going, then the dam would break.
Boon was silent a moment, drinking and staring into the fire. She’d thought he would reprimand her like he usually did, but when he spoke, his voice was quiet.
