by Tara Sim
“No, I—” It emerged through the fog then. He’d been drugged. “Someone slipped me something.” No wonder he felt so terrible, like his limbs would pop off if he moved wrong.
Romara cursed and crossed her arms over her chest. She wasn’t wearing a dress today, but rather tight red hose and a black, high-collared Rehanese tunic.
“You know better than to get yourself in a situation like that,” she said. “What were you thinking?”
“That’s the thing,” he murmured, squinting at the nearest window to gauge the time of day. The light was gray yet bright, either late morning or early afternoon. “I didn’t want to think.”
Rolling her eyes, Romara stepped forward and helped him up. Their movement prompted the curiosity of the nearest dogs, who barked playfully. The sound sent peals of pain through Cayo’s head, and Romara snapped at them with a command to be quiet.
He shuffled after her out of the kennel, across a damp alleyway, and into the back of the Scarlet Arc. The dogs must have belonged to Salvador, then. But any fear of running into the man was absent, likely because the thought of a swift death at the man’s hands was oddly comforting.
Romara led him up a flight of stairs near the kitchen, to the place where she and her father lived. It was surprisingly modest, with touches of Rehanese art on the walls. Cayo felt like an intruder, like his presence here was a strangely intimate experience.
“Go wash,” Romara ordered, pointing to the bathing room. “There’s some clothes in there for you.”
“Wait. What happened to my friends?”
She shrugged, looking irritable. “Does it matter? You must have gotten separated from them somehow. I found you last night stumbling around near the Gauntlet, babbling to yourself. You didn’t even recognize me.”
Cayo winced with embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, too, now that you smell like dog.” She pointed again. “Wash.”
The tub was half-filled with lukewarm water. Romara had prepared it for him, had likely been ready to drag him here if she needed to. Cayo felt an unexpected surge of gratitude toward her, even if she was one of the many people determined to ruin his life.
He scrubbed away the dirt and grime from the night, hoping to wash his shame along with it. Dried and dressed in clean clothes that were slightly too big for him—hells, did they belong to the Slum King?—he sheepishly shuffled into the main sitting room.
Romara was drinking a cup of black coffee and staring out the window at the street below. She saw him, gestured to the pot of coffee in a silent invitation to help himself, and continued her observation. Cayo was thankful to taste something strong and bitter to wash away the horrible staleness in his mouth.
As soon as he sat on the chair across from her chaise, she turned to him. “Well,” she said flatly, “congratulations. You’ve ruined everything.”
Cayo blinked. “What?”
“Don’t play ignorant. We heard about the warrant for your father’s arrest. I did some digging this morning and found out that you had a hand to play in it.” She leaned forward, slamming her empty cup on the low table between them. “Now my father wants nothing to do with you or your messed-up family. In fact, in all his raving and ranting he may have mentioned something about sending his goons after you, to teach you a lesson like he taught Sébastien.”
The center of Cayo’s chest went cold. He imagined his eyes floating in a jar next to Bas’s.
“He…” Cayo looked around, as if the Slum King were about to materialize from the walls. “He knows I’m here?”
“No, he’s out all day visiting contacts to erase the trail. If I’d known this last night, I wouldn’t have even bothered dragging you into the kennels. It would have been better for everyone if you’d just died of exposure.”
Cayo leaned back with a sigh and closed his eyes. “I had to do it, Romara. He’s the one behind the counterfeit.”
“So’s my father, but you don’t see me marching to the Port’s Authority!”
His eyes snapped open. “What?”
“You were right, to a degree.” She crossed her legs and stared him down. “About him being involved in the counterfeit. I dragged it out of him this morning. Your father provides the coins, and mine is responsible for distributing them throughout the casinos in the Vice Sector, like the Arc. They’ve been in business together for years, apparently.”
He felt as if the air had been knocked out of him. Kamon Mercado and the Slum King—business partners.
All this time, and he’d had no idea.
“I suppose this’ll make it easier to break the news of the engagement to your dear old daddy,” she said with a twist to her mouth.
“Engage—I thought your father wants me dead?”
“That was just him being cranky. I convinced him to let me keep you.” As if he really were a puppy, or some trivial possession. “In fact, he’s agreed to speed up the wedding date to next month instead of next year.”
“Hold on…” Cayo held his aching head in his hands. His thoughts were sluggish, struggling to keep up. “How were you even able to do that? I thought that with my father in custody, he didn’t want to have anything to do with my family?”
“Ah, but your father’s not in custody anymore. He was released early this morning, thanks to a generous donation by Jun Salvador.”
Broken. This whole city was broken.
And if his father was free, that meant there would be repercussions waiting when he returned home.
Home. Soria was no doubt worried about him. He had to go and see her, and try to avoid his father, if he could.
“This will be a good thing, Cayo,” Romara said. “Together, you and I could be powerful enough to run this city. Especially now, with the prince out of the picture.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He died last night, from ash fever.” She leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Moray is poised on a knife’s edge, Cayo. It’s ready for change. We could be that change.”
His head swimming with the news, Cayo decided that Romara was a lot scarier when she was sober. He dragged a hand through his wet hair and shook his head.
“Romara…I can’t marry you. My life is in shambles. My father will very likely disown me. If it weren’t for my sister, I would have probably left Moray by now.” Like Bas.
Her head snapped back slightly, as if dodging a slap. “Are you serious, Cayo? You’re this close to achieving power, and you just don’t care?”
“I don’t care,” he agreed. “I just want to be left alone. And I want my sister to live.”
Romara looked at him as one looks at a bug, unimpressed and having no clue how he’d gotten into the house. Sighing, she rubbed the space between her eyes with a knuckle.
“You really try my patience, Cayo,” she said. “You know what? Fine. I can let you out of this engagement, but considering you need to repay the price of my dowry, it’ll cost you something.”
“Of course it will cost me.” He sighed. “What do you want?”
“The recipe for the counterfeit. Is it a type of paint? Is it alchemy? If you can get it from your father, I’ll tell mine to leave you alone, to cut you free.”
Then he would just be making the situation worse. There was no way to tell how much of the counterfeit had already spread across the city; with Romara at the helm of the operation, how much more would be dispersed? The economy would go under. They would be ripe for the picking for either of the empires.
“Come on,” Romara purred with a suggestive smile. “Isn’t there something you’re still willing to live for? Something you’d be willing to stay in Moray for?”
His thoughts flitted to the countess, to the feeling of her lips on his. Her demeanor like salt water and steel, the conviction and mystery that surrounded her like layers of a dress. He wanted to slowly peel them away, to find the heart of the girl buried underneath.
Cayo’s shoulders slumped as he said, “I’ll see what I can do.�
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“There’s a good puppy. Now get out before you start tossing up your stomach again.”
He stood, resigned, and was halfway to the door when she called him back. She walked to him with something held fast in her hand. When she pressed it against his palm, he could only stare down at it in confusion.
It was a black disc, just like the one Bas had given him. Like the ones he’d used as evidence against his father.
“Where did you find this?” he asked.
Romara’s smile showed her teeth. “Your countess.”
Startled, Cayo couldn’t even muster the words to reply. He only slipped it into the pocket of his borrowed trousers and grabbed his coat on his way to the door, heart racing.
Had Yamaa managed to get caught in the counterfeit scheme, too? Was she one of the many victims of his father’s ploy? He could barely think as he weaved through the city streets, head down, eyes on the ground. Everything hurt. He had to stop to throw up again, battling the urge to just lie down until his body felt substantial.
Climbing the hill to Mercado Manor was torture. He finished it on hands and knees, doused in sweat and shaking with exhaustion. Pushing himself to his feet, he stumbled toward the doors, his need for water and a bed just barely eclipsing his fear of his father.
But when he walked into the manor, the back of his neck prickled. He stood there a moment, wondering at this odd feeling, until he realized that Narin wasn’t there to greet him like he normally was.
The footman was likely taking care of Soria. Cayo slowly climbed the stairs, the air around him unnervingly still, his skin gone taut from apprehension. Any moment, Kamon would round the corner and spot him. He just had to make it to his room first. He had to send a message to Yamaa that he had to see her, to warn her about the counterfeit before it was too late.
He smelled him before he saw him—the scent of seawater and an unwashed body. Pushing open the door to his bedroom, Cayo walked in and froze, unable to make sense of the man waiting there for him.
The man was Kharian, his skin brown and weathered from a life on the sea. He was stocky and middle-aged, his black hair shaggy and unkempt, his clothes torn and ragged for all they looked like they had cost a bit of coin. Upon seeing him, the man nodded in solemn greeting.
“Cayo Mercado,” he said, his voice gruff. He made a series of clicking noises with his tongue.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to settle a debt.”
A scream echoed down the hall from Soria’s room. As Cayo turned to run to her, figures hiding in the shadows jumped forward and knocked him to the ground. He yelled and tried to fight back, but his body was weak and his head was spinning. The masked figures yanked his arms behind his back and lashed his wrists together, then stuffed a gag in his mouth when he kept calling Soria’s name.
He was yanked up onto his knees, swaying woozily. The Kharian man stood before him, hands behind his back. The man’s head twitched once, twice.
“Don’t worry, we won’t hurt her,” he said, but in that rough, gravelly voice, it was difficult to believe. “Or you, for that matter. We’re only using the two of you as leverage, see? Mercado’ll want his precious heirs back.”
Cayo tried to scowl at him around the gag. Little did this man know that his father was already willing to let one of them die.
But the Kharian man interpreted his look a different way. “It’s simple,” he said, spreading his callused hands. One of them held a tremor. “As soon as he reinstates my good name, you’ll be free to go. I’ll no longer be Landless, and he gets his darlin’ children back.”
Cayo breathed heavily around the gag. There had to be a way to warn someone—Yamaa, Romara, someone—but the man only grinned at him with stained teeth, as if he knew as well as Cayo did that there was no escaping this.
“Let’s go check on your sister, huh?” The man walked by and patted his head like a dog. “This’ll all be over soon.”
SOLAS: A crow’s caw. Either the gods laugh at us, or they warn of ruin.
—THE MERCHANT’S WORTH, a play from the Rain Empire
You might want to double-check with whoever told you that was true, Mercado had said, because they’re lying. In fact, they probably know how your father truly died. They’re probably the one who killed him.
Amaya had to stop and rest against the rough bark of a palm, barely able to take a full breath. Avi and Deadshot lingered behind her. They had been stopped from going down to the Vaults by Mercado’s men, but when Amaya had burst out of the building, they had followed and tried to get her to tell them what had happened.
But she couldn’t. The implication, the consequences…
Was Mercado right? Was Boon’s money all counterfeit?
Did he know how her father truly died?
Wiping a sleeve against her eyes, she turned to the Landless. They regarded her warily, unsure if she would bite.
“We need to talk to Liesl,” she said.
The estate loomed against the dark backdrop of the sky, the evening made of somber clouds. Although it had stopped storming, the air was still charged, raising the hairs along her arms and legs. She was a lightning rod prepared for the strike.
Or at least, she thought she was. She stopped before the double doors, staring at the lock that had been broken, the scratches and splinters surrounding it. The way the right door was open a crack, revealing a line of inky dark beyond.
The tension from Avi and Deadshot at her back made her shoulders tighten. She turned to look at them, to gauge if they had had anything to do with this. But Avi was ashen, and Deadshot already had two of her pistols out.
Amaya unsheathed her knife and pushed inside. The entryway was dark with shadow, the window on the left wall smashed open, gauzy curtains fanning out in the breeze. It was the only movement in a room full of destruction.
She inhaled a sharp breath. Pottery lay smashed on the marble floor, houseplants overturned and spilling dirt, the walls peppered with bullet holes.
And lying near the stairs…
“No,” she whispered, rushing forward. She sank to her knees in the blood that had spread from Spider’s body. He was on his back, his arms spread at awkward angles, staring lifelessly at the ceiling. A bullet wound marred his thin chest.
Spider. Only eleven years old, and yet he had never complained. He had helped Cicada in the kitchens and had been teaching Fera how to swim.
Not Spider—his name was Nian. He was a boy named Nian who had been taken from his family, and now he was dead.
Avi joined her. He stared down at Nian, horror tightening his mouth. Deadshot raced past them, up the stairs. “Liesl!” she called, desperation cracking her voice. “Liesl, where are you?”
“What the fuck happened?” Avi asked hoarsely. “We were…We were just here. Who…?”
But Amaya knew. The coldness within her thawed to simmering rage, and she gritted her teeth even as she kept staring at Nian, at all the possibilities of his future that had ended with his final breath.
“Silverfish!”
She whirled around. Weevil stood in the entrance to the kitchens, pale and shaking and eyes wide as coins. He sobbed and ran to her, grabbing her with scratched-up hands. She barely caught him, so stunned at the sudden burst of life when all around her screamed death.
“Matthieu,” she whispered. “Matthieu, tell me what happened. Who did this? Where are the others?”
He hiccuped and wiped his face with trembling hands. “That man,” he choked out. “The one from the ship.”
The confirmation stoked her rage into a furnace. Boon. She would find him and rip him apart, feed his bones to the gulls.
“The others hid,” Matthieu said, tugging her toward the kitchens.
She and Avi followed him inside. The pantry door was wide open, and inside lay Cricket’s body, slumped against the shelves. Her blood flecked the jars and vegetables around her. Avi swore and Amaya felt herself grow distant, unable to properly
digest what she was seeing. She could not give in to grief now; it had to wait until this fire within her was extinguished.
Matthieu pulled open a segment of the floor, which Amaya guessed was used for storing root vegetables. It blended in so well that she hadn’t even noticed it until the boards came apart, revealing the rest of the Bugs underneath.
“Thank the gods.” Avi knelt to pull them out. Cicada helped him from below, lifting up the smaller Bugs, his face tight and blank with shock.
As soon as Fera was out, she scrambled to her feet and raced for the entryway. “Nian!” she called.
Amaya ran after her, but it was too late. The girl froze at the sight of his body, her own held stiff. Slowly, so as not to scare her further, Amaya crouched and wrapped her arms around the girl, rubbing her hands against the cold skin of Fera’s arms.
“I’m sorry,” Amaya whispered. “I wasn’t here to protect you. I’m so sorry.”
Deadshot reappeared at the top of the stairs. “Liesl!”
Amaya turned her head and saw the girl standing in the entryway, gaping at the scene before her. Her glasses were askew, the hem of her dress stained. Before she could say anything, Deadshot bounded to her and wrapped her up in her arms with a relieved cry.
Amaya stood but kept her hand on Fera’s shoulder. Fera was still staring at Nian’s body, her eyes glassy, uncomprehending.
“What happened here?” Amaya demanded. “Did you know this would happen?”
Liesl untangled herself from Deadshot and took a few staggering steps toward her, out of breath. She saw Nian and put a hand to her mouth.
“Answer me,” Amaya growled.
Liesl lowered her hand and shook her head, tears shining in her eyes. “I didn’t know. None of us did. I left the estate because I had word that Boon was in port, but he wasn’t supposed to arrive yet, so I went out to get information.” The tears fell from her eyes, and she heaved a shuddering breath. “This wasn’t supposed to happen, Amaya. None of this was in his plan. He lied to us.”
“Why is he here, then?” Avi asked as he left the kitchens. “His name hasn’t been cleared yet.”
