by Tara Sim
“The siege of Gravaen,” he had said. “Have you heard of it?” She had shaken her head. “A years-long campaign against a city fortified with an impenetrable wall. They held all the world’s knowledge—a library so big it could likely block the sun. Even the gods were jealous of it. The demon Arjar, though, he wanted all that knowledge for himself. So he set his hordes of minions upon the city to break down the wall.”
Amaya had stopped kneading her foot as she listened, caught within the simple cadence his voice had taken. She had heard of Arjar before, once or twice, in the Kharian myths her father used to tell her: a demon king in constant opposition to the gods.
“Arjar called on all he had at his disposal,” Boon went on, still staring at the fire as if hypnotized. “Shadow beasts, ifrits, the ghosts of murderers. They launched themselves at that wall, but it still stood firm. At night, wraiths would sneak into the city and take children from their beds, and Arjar held them hostage in exchange for the library. But the city refused, and every day they refused, Arjar ate another child.”
Amaya had shivered. The stories her father had told were fanciful, mysterious, and full of magic. This story was darker, stranger, but nonetheless held her in its thrall.
“This went on for so long that nearly all the children in the city had been eaten, and the wailing of their mothers could be heard all over the world. Finally, the gods saw fit to intervene. They met with Arjar and his demonic hordes on the field outside the city and battled. The demon king was defeated, and withdrew.
“The city thanked the gods and promised to build them bigger shrines, but that wasn’t enough for ’em.” Boon had taken a slow pull from his bottle. “The gods wanted access to the library.”
Amaya roused herself. “What did the gods do with the knowledge?”
“Hells if I know. They were probably so disgusted with us by then that they decided we were on our own.” He’d finished his wine, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and set the bottle down carefully beside him. He clicked his tongue a few times. “Don’t blame ’em, really.”
There was something sorrowful about him in that moment, and suddenly Amaya realized that he’d never told her who he had been mourning the day she rescued him at sea, covered in marigold petals.
“So what’s the point?” she’d asked. “All stories come with some sort of lesson. What’s the lesson of this one?”
Boon had sat so still and silent that she almost thought he hadn’t heard her. Then he took a deep breath, looked at her, and grinned wide enough to show wine-stained teeth.
“That knowledge comes with a price.”
Water lapped gently against the side of the porcelain bathtub, spirals of steam lifting the scent of rose from the surface. Amaya leaned back and watched those ghostly tendrils and their lazy movement, not quite seeing, not quite feeling.
Her mind was a labyrinth of nightmares. Zharo’s death-glazed eyes. Melchor’s bloody chest. The last hug Roach had ever given her. Boon’s story of child-eating demons. The feeling of Cayo Mercado’s heart under her hand.
If only she had reached in and squeezed it to pulp. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about him; she wouldn’t keep touching her lips and remembering the shape of his.
Liesl entered the bathing room with a soft knock. As soon as Amaya stumbled into the estate, Liesl had practically screamed at her condition: wet, bedraggled, mud-stained, shivering with cold and shock. The Water Bugs had gathered curiously, looking on in amusement and confusion as Liesl had shepherded Amaya upstairs, grumbling at her recklessness.
“I don’t know how many times it needs to be said,” Liesl had growled as she none too gently helped Amaya out of her soaked and torn clothing, “but you need to remember that you are a countess. And countesses don’t run around in the mud and muck!”
Amaya had stayed silent, not even daring to tell her about Cayo. It still felt too close to her, a secret that could tear the world apart if she so much as whispered it aloud.
Liesl now came to sit on the stool by the tub, removing her fogged-up glasses to wipe them on her skirt. When she replaced them, Amaya noticed the look on her face wasn’t disapproval but rather trepidation.
“There’s been some news,” the girl said. “The Prince of Moray has succumbed to ash fever. He’s dead.”
Amaya frowned. Her first thought was, Who cares? That means nothing to me. But then she remembered the Bugs talking in the kitchen, about how the tension between the empires was escalating again, with Moray sitting helpless between them. A pawn ripe for the taking.
If the ruling figurehead of Moray was gone, with no successors or replacement chosen, what did that mean for them? Was the treaty of neutrality dissolved?
“One of the empires might try to install a regent, or a governor,” Liesl answered Amaya’s unspoken question. “They both want access to Moray’s waterways. They want a claim on the best trade routes. The city will be batted around like a mouse between a cat’s paws.”
Amaya took a deep breath of humid, rose-scented air. “We’ll have to leave before that happens.”
“I agree. Now get out of that water before you get wrinkles.”
Liesl helped her into a robe. As soon as it was tied, the door pushed open to reveal Deadshot, a letter clenched in her fist.
“News,” the girl gasped, shoving the letter at Liesl.
“Is it about the prince? I’ve already told Amaya—”
“No.” Deadshot shook her head, pushing the letter into Liesl’s hands. “Read it.”
Liesl did so; her eyebrows lowered. Then they lifted in shock.
“Is this true?” she demanded. Deadshot nodded fervently.
“What is it?” Amaya clutched the front of her robe. “Are the empires already making a move?”
“No, it’s…” Liesl’s gaze strayed from the letter to Amaya, disbelieving. “It’s Kamon Mercado. He’s been arrested.”
Amaya’s knees weakened, and she sat heavily on the stool. Her head was full of fog. “On—on what charges?”
“The manufacture of counterfeit money.”
Amaya withdrew into herself as Liesl and Deadshot speculated how this had come to pass, remembering Cayo’s words about someone he cared for doing a bad thing. Asking her what he should do about it.
Cayo had turned in his own father.
It was exactly what Boon had wanted: turning the Mercados against one another, using the son to take down the father. Mercado’s name was now ruined, his prospects destroyed. Whatever wealth he still possessed would be taken away, and Amaya and the others would divert it into their own pockets. She would have enough to send the Bugs home.
So then why didn’t she feel victorious?
There was nothing but a hollow gnawing in her gut, in her heart. She realized it was because nothing had changed—all her questions had gone unanswered. She still didn’t know why her mother had sold her. She didn’t know why her father had had to die.
In all this time, she had not yet faced Mercado, but now she found she had no other choice.
In order to get the answers she craved, she would have to confront him. Not as Countess Yamaa, or even Silverfish, but as herself. Amaya, the girl who had helped plot his downfall and urged his son to betray him. If she didn’t, she would never know the truth. She would forever be wrapped in falsehoods and lies.
She was the greatest counterfeit of all: a ragged girl masquerading in gowns she should never have been able to afford, the pieces of her sewn together like a patchwork doll.
Slowly she stood, gaining the attention of Liesl and Deadshot.
“I’m going to the Port’s Authority tomorrow,” she said. “And I’m going to end this.”
Although the rain had stopped by early afternoon the following day, the sky was still bruised with clouds, the air heavy and thick. Almost as if it expected that change was coming.
The city seemed affected by it, the people talking in hushed voices and throwing uneasy glances over their shoulders. Mourning flags had bee
n raised outside of homes and shops, white pennants and banners bearing the crest of Moray: a cutlass crossed with a rolled-up scroll.
Amaya wondered why they were mourning a man revealed to be a fraud when she remembered that the prince was dead. Now Moray felt like a held breath, a deep inhale before a plunge.
She noticed all this as she walked to the Business Sector, her boots splashing through puddles and her hair frizzing out of her braid from the humidity the storm had left in its wake. Liesl had tried her hardest to get Amaya to take a carriage, but she had refused.
“I can’t go as Countess Yamaa,” she had insisted. “I’ll attract too much attention.” And besides, she wanted to speak to Mercado without pretense, so he could see what had become of her.
“Fine,” Liesl had sighed. “But Deadshot will be following behind, and I’ll have Avi on standby just in case.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“Don’t let your guard down just because Mercado is behind bars,” Liesl had warned her, eyes flashing. “This news on the heels of the prince’s passing is going to throw an unexpected wrench in the gearwork of this city. Stay sharp.”
Amaya was breathing harder by the time she reached the Port’s Authority, but not from the walk; the more she imagined facing Mercado, the more her stomach shrank in on itself in a writhing, confusing mess. She had imagined this moment in many different ways—stealing through his window and putting a knife to his throat, confronting him at the docks, walking into Mercado Manor beside Cayo. Never like this, in broad daylight, with bars separating them.
But when she asked the receptionist at the front about visitation, she only received an odd look and was told to sit on a bench and wait. She sat there for nearly half an hour, her legs jogging with nerves, until the doors opened and an officer stepped out.
“Mercado?” he repeated when she told him her reason for being there. “He was released this morning.”
The floor tilted beneath her. “What? Why?”
“Not enough evidence yet to prove anything. The case is still open, though. If he really is guilty, we’ll bring him back in.”
“But he could escape the city! He could cover all his tracks and—”
“Miss, this really isn’t the time or place,” the officer said, glancing at the folks still waiting on the benches, listening in. “The city is in mourning. Once things calm down a little, we’ll be picking up where we left off.”
Amaya couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She turned on her heel and stormed out, fingernails driving into her palms. All her work, for nothing. Mercado had still slipped free, and she still had no answers.
Damn it. Damn him.
She wasn’t going to let this go. She was going to play out one of her fantasies after all: barge into Mercado’s house and use that as her battleground, the stage for the revenge her blood cried for.
Before she could even reach the end of the street, a familiar figure barreled around the corner and nearly ran into her. Avi, out of breath and shimmering with sweat, grabbed her arms.
“Mercado,” he gasped out. “He’s been released.”
“I know,” she growled, ripping out of his hold. “I’m about to break down the door of his house.”
“He’s not there. Liesl—she found out—he’s at the Vaults,” he panted. He must have run straight here from the estate. Deadshot trotted up to them from where she had been stationed on the street. “The Widow Vaults.”
She frowned. “Why would he go there?”
He wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand. “There’s a Vault he’s been trying to buy for years. The statute of limitations for its heir to claim it ended today.”
“So?”
Avi exchanged a look with Deadshot, whose hand rested on one of her pistols.
“The Vault belonged to Arun Chandra,” he said.
Her ears roared. She was running before she could fully process what he’d said, the other two calling after her.
Arun Chandra.
How had she not known that her father owned a Vault? Why did he even have a Vault? He had died penniless, in debt to Mercado!
She found the familiar building and raced up the stairs, still slick with rain. Stumbling through the open front doors, she looked around for some sign of Mercado, unsure what she would do once she saw him but knowing that she had to face him.
“Can I help you, miss?” asked a startled guard by the doors.
“The Vaults,” she gasped. “Where are they?”
He pointed to a marble staircase leading down to an underground floor. She sprinted for it, ignoring his call asking if she was all right.
Amaya nearly fell down the last few steps, gripping the banister before she could break her neck. She barely even noticed that it was colder down here, the walls made of limestone and the floors shining marble. Her boots squeaked as she hurried down the corridor, passing wide, gleaming metal doors that had been painted gold.
The sound of crashing echoed down a nearby corridor, and she turned the corner to find one of the Vault doors thrown open, a collection of papers and junk piled in the hall. Men were hauling it out from the Vault and placing it into stacks. They didn’t notice her creep closer, eyeing the things they were handling so roughly.
Her father’s things. Hers to inherit, by birthright.
It didn’t amount to much. Just some old furniture, most of which she recognized from her home, and papers. So many papers and files and ledgers, stacks and stacks of them.
Amaya knelt and grabbed the nearest file, flipping through it quickly while the men went to grab their next armfuls. It contained reports and transaction receipts and handwritten notes, some in her father’s hand, some not.
She stopped when she saw the name Jun Salvador. The Slum King.
Cold washed over her. Individually, the papers didn’t make sense, but together they painted a terrible picture: Kamon Mercado had been, or perhaps still was, in business with the Slum King. The file contained various accounts of their dealings within the Vice Sector, from Mercado liquidating gambling dens that were taking profit away from the Scarlet Arc to the Slum King supplying thieves to hit Mercado’s biggest competitors.
The most recent transaction was dated the year of her father’s death. He had scrawled a note over it that read:
Thousands from Mercado to Salvador for use in the Arc. Fake coins. Distribution?
Amaya’s teeth chattered as she stared at the note, then at the mountains of paper before her.
Blackmail. All of it. Her father had been gathering it for years, all to take Mercado down and expose him for who he truly was.
And Mercado had killed him for it. Not because Arun couldn’t repay a loan, but because of the havoc that would be unleashed with this information.
The men’s voices snapped her out of her thoughts. She stood, only slightly comforted by the weight of the knife at her wrist.
Then she walked into the Vault.
She recognized him not because he looked like Cayo, but because of the way he stood, the arrogance of his expression and the indifferent crossing of his arms. Cayo had the same dark, teardrop-shaped eyes as Kamon, but that was where the similarities ended; Kamon’s hair was deep brown, not black, and his features were broader.
He was directing his men with words only, not bothering to lift a finger to help. When he saw her, though, his arms dropped and his carefully blank face folded into a frown.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
He said it as if he knew her, as if she were a pest he couldn’t get rid of. Amaya stood her ground and forced herself not to flinch, to look her father’s murderer in the eye. Her blood ran hot, itching under her skin.
“Because you weren’t where you were supposed to be,” she growled. “In a cell.”
One careful eyebrow rose. “They released me because there’s no substantial evidence.”
“That they know of,” she countered, lifting the file she’d taken. “
Now I have all the proof I need to show the city who you really are.”
“We seem to have fallen into quite the predicament,” he said, signaling his confused men to wait outside, “as I could say the same of you, Countess.”
Amaya swallowed her gasp and fisted her free hand, the other holding tighter to the file.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied.
He laughed. It was an unnervingly attractive laugh, all low and controlled, meant for dinner parties and soirees.
“Countess Yamaa,” he murmured to himself. “I doubt Yamaa is even your real name. When my son began to take an interest in you, I made sure to do my research, and guess what I found? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Countess Yamaa only came into being a little over a month ago, when she docked in Moray. Before then, she may as well have not existed.”
Amaya tried to swallow. She and the other Landless had worried about being found out, recognizing that they only had a certain amount of time before it became an inevitability. Still, to have it happen now, falling from the mouth of her enemy, sent thorns of panic tangling around her spine.
“A fake name, a fake reputation, and I’d even wager fake wealth,” Mercado went on. “My dear, the only counterfeit you should be worried about is yourself.”
She bared her teeth at him. “What do you mean, fake wealth?” She didn’t bother to try to lie—it would have been pointless.
He shook his head, almost as if in pity. “It was a good job, I must admit, to have lasted this long. The coins are barely distinguishable from the real thing.” His eyes gleamed with sudden intent. “Tell me, who are you working with?”
“I don’t…”
“Whoever they are, I can offer you protection from them. But only if you give me a name.”
She stared at him blankly. What was he even talking about? She had hoped to enter this arena on even playing ground, but everything Mercado said was tripping her and making her stumble.
“You’re…just trying to evade blame,” she said. “To pin your crimes on others, like you’ve always done.”
