by Kaylin Lee
Sebastian stood. “It’s late, Ruby. I’ll walk you back.”
I managed not to groan aloud. Just what I needed. More conversation. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
Grandmother held up a regal hand. “Not so fast, dear. Sebastian, you may wait for Ruby outside.”
Sebastian raised one dark eyebrow and grinned. “Happy to.”
I’d never seen another writer get along with Grandmother so well. He didn’t even seem to mind her ordering him around. If I could get over my annoyance, perhaps I should start taking notes.
When the front door clicked shut behind Sebastian, Grandmother lowered her eyebrows. “Sit.”
I descended onto the stool and tried to keep my expression blank. “What is it, Grandmother?”
“Sebastian told me you didn’t show your face in the office once today. Not once! And don’t tell me you were chasing down sources.” She scowled. “You were at the Falconus studio, weren’t you?”
Thank you, Sebastian. “Yes.” The word sounded painfully guilty.
Grandmother sniffed. “I’ve told you how I feel about you going there. How many times now have I told you?”
Many, many times. I tried to look contrite as she continued.
“You’ve such a gift. An incredible, beautiful gift with words, and a gift for connecting with sources, understanding people. I cannot bear to see you squander your talent entertaining rich Procus ladies with that frivolous, escapist nonsense!”
I felt heat rush to my cheeks. “That’s not—”
“Ruby.” She gripped my hand where it rested on the table on the table. “Aurae is poisoning our city. It rips apart families, leaves children hungry and alone, and even kills our commoners. I know you love this city and its people, just as I do. How can you devote yourself to such silliness when we have yet to discover the true source of aurae? Please, help me understand. Why would you do such a thing?” The genuine pain in her eyes squeezed my chest so I could barely breathe.
Lord Falconus and his people appreciate what I can—
The darkness in this city is breaking my—
If I don’t create something beautiful, I’ll—
“I don’t know.” The dread that had been twisting my stomach all day seemed to triple in weight. I could never tell Grandmother what Lord Falconus had offered me. She’d be horrified that I’d even considered it. “I’m sorry.”
Chapter 3
True to his word and against my many protests, Sebastian walked me back to the dormitory.
“Your grandmother’s something, isn’t she?” He shot me a sideways look that I was too tired to interpret.
“She certainly is.” I kept my voice bland and hoped he would drop the subject. I was in no mood to sing Grandmother’s praises tonight.
“Did you know that she hired me when I was fresh out of higher academy? I knew next to nothing about the business of newspapers or the craft of writing, for that matter, but she…”
I tuned out his rambling voice as we exited a narrow alley onto Maragos Street then stopped beneath a street lamp beside the dormitory’s front door. Words, words, words. After all the listening I’d done today, I wasn’t sure I had room in my head for any more.
“…need to think it over? I completely understand, if that’s the case.”
“I … ah … I’m sorry, think what over?”
Sebastian faced me, his hands in his pockets, his expression earnest. “You and me, Ruby. Dinner tomorrow.” He rocked back on his heels and smiled wryly. “My treat.”
Really? I felt moisture gather in the corners of my eyes. I was so tired, so utterly drained. When would everyone stop wanting things from me? He probably thought courting me would ingratiate him with Grandmother. It wasn’t the first time a fellow reporter had pursued me, and I knew enough about office politics to doubt there was any sincere affection behind his pursuit. “I do … um … You were right, I do need to think about it first. If you don’t mind?”
“Of course, of course.” Sebastian pulled the door open for me and gestured for me to enter. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I dragged myself up the stairs and stopped in my dorm room to grab a blanket before continuing up the stairwell to the roof. The sounds of city traffic buzzed in the street below, but distance softened their jarring noise. And here, on the quiet, deserted terrace, I was finally alone.
I flicked on the small luminous lantern I kept there and dropped onto my blanket beside it, resting my aching lower back against the low, stone wall that ran around the edge.
A smattering of stars peeked from behind low clouds as the cool, evening air sent a shiver across my arms. I set my notebook on my bent knees but didn’t open it. Frivolous, escapist nonsense. I shut my eyes and tilted my head back, cringing as shame heated my cheeks once again.
Why did I want nothing more than to write fanciful stories and drink coffee with Mage Fortis in her art studio? How could I stand to invest myself in anything other than the truth, which Grandmother daily risked her life to publish on the legendary pages of the Asylian Herald?
What was wrong with me?
~
I stepped through the door of the small River Quarter shack and squinted as my eyes adjusted to the dim light inside. Just behind me, the Theros River, swollen and speeding from the early autumn rains, rushed through the southern part of Asylia. Shouts from the nearby docks filled the air, and the sour smell of spoiled garbage along the riverbank stung my nose.
Inside the cramped, windowless dwelling, a rusted, lopsided luminous lantern on the home’s single table failed to banish the gloomy shadows.
Mistress Reta shut the door behind me, barely quieting the sounds of the river outside, and stepped to the small stove in the corner. “Coffee?” Her voice was tight.
From the sparse furnishings and empty pantry shelves, I doubted she had any to spare. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
She poured a hot, steaming cup anyway and handed it to me, her spine stiff and straight. Her fingers brushed mine as I took the cup, my pale, freckled hand forming a stark contrast with her tanned, callused fingers, and she yanked her hand back reflexively, like I’d hurt her.
The coffee sloshed at her jerky movement, burning my hand. I kept my smile fixed on my face and ignored the discomfort. “Thank you, Mistress.” Years earlier, her late husband had been the dealer’s right-hand man, or so her neighbors whispered. I needed her story. I was too far behind schedule to bother taking offense.
We sat at the table, taking each of the two chairs.
“Tell me about your husband,” I said, keeping my voice even and my expression neutral. “What was he like?”
“My Adrian…” She trailed off and shook her head. I watched Mistress Reta’s face as she sipped her coffee. “Adrian worked hard. He used to, I mean. Before.”
“Before when?”
Her face hardened. “You should know. Before the plague.”
I kept my expression blank and ignored the indignant sting her words provoked. I took out my notebook and pen. “And how did the plague change him?”
“He had a job in the wheat fields, just outside the city. He got on that fomewagon every morning, rain or shine. Never missed a day of work. The stipend was small, but it was enough to get by if we were careful.” She frowned and took another sip of her coffee, avoiding my eyes, her gaze fixed on the scuffed, uneven table between us. “Then the plague came. He lost his brother. The pain of it … it hit him hard.
“He stayed home with me and the baby, and we stayed inside. We tried to keep the plague out, but it wasn't enough. It came to our neighbors first. The coughing, the pressure in their lungs, squeezing their lives away in the space of a few days. Then it came to our home. Our little girl…” She shook her head abruptly and pressed the heel of her palm against her chest.
I waited for a long moment, but she didn’t continue. “You don’t have to talk about it,” I said softly. After the day I’d spent recording stories of suffering in the River Quarter, I
wasn’t sure I could handle another one, anyway. My head ached, and my thoughts whirled with echoes of the devastating words I’d been immersed in all day.
The woman blinked, her gaze unfocused. Had she heard me? I cleared my throat. “What happened to your husband after … after that?”
She rubbed the edge of her coffee mug. “It was too much for him. Too much pain. Too much loss. He tried to get work in the fields again, but by then, the trading routes had all closed. There were no imports coming in, no exports going out, and no jobs in the city. Everyone wanted a job in the Asylian fields, but our fields have always been small and our grower mages too few. Too many workers, not enough work. We moved three times in the space of a year. From a nice, cozy place in the tenements by the market, and, eventually, here.” She shot a disgusted glance at the door, where the sounds of the river and the noisy docks buzzed relentlessly just outside.
“We did our best, but before long, we were living on victus like everyone else. I was just grateful to be alive. We still had each other. But he … Well, just surviving wasn't enough for him. He needed more. And that’s when the rat stepped in.” Her nostrils flared as she clenched her fist around the handle of her mug.
“The rat. Do you know his name?” I’d been searching for Sebastian’s notorious aurae dealer for two days. He sold aurae in the seediest, oldest part of the River Quarter, a collection of sordid alleys, empty warehouses, and tenements where the Sanitation Ministry apparently declined to operate.
Mistress Reta nodded curtly. “Hal Dukas. The Rat King. That’s what his men call him. Ridiculous.” The woman’s thin upper lip curled. “If I had my way, purifiers would have exterminated him along with the rest of the rats long ago.”
“Why is that?” I had a feeling I already knew, but it wasn’t my job to put words in her mouth. Trust the process, Ruby. I’d done this for countless aurae sellers already, following the pattern that had served Grandmother so well at the Herald—follow the lead, interview the victims, identify the criminals, and tell their story in excruciating, painful detail on the pages of the Herald so the local Quarter Guard would be forced to intervene. She had to be brave enough to speak out. I just had to be strong enough to hear it. I gripped my pencil so tight my fingers throbbed, and I forced myself to relax my grip.
“First breath. That’s what they call it, isn’t it? The Rat King gave Adrian his first breath. Gave it to him.” She snorted. “The way I hear it, he practically forced it in his face. My Adrian never stood a chance. I know that now. None of them do.” Her proud, straight shoulders slumped slightly. “Laid off from his labor in the fields. All the time in the world and no work to do. Death and loss and pain everywhere he turned, with his wife living off of nothing but victus and water, no end in sight. His baby girl gone.” Her voice was dry and raspy. “He didn't stand a chance,” she repeated. “And along came the Rat King, waving those little vials around like they held the cure to the plague or eternal life itself.
“My Adrian … he fell for it. He wanted a way out, so he found it. A little breath at first, then more and more. A quarter vial one week. A whole one the next. He couldn't afford it himself, so the Rat King put him to work to earn his share. He stopped coming home. He said being home with me made him feel worse. Outside, working and … and breathing …he felt good. The Rat gave him purpose, and aurae gave him peace, he said.”
She fell silent. I waited, keeping my expression even and my body still, as though I could wait for her story all day.
The woman finally met my eyes, and the raw fury in her gaze made my skin prickle. “Then he brought a little vial of aurae home to me. He wanted me to try it. He said it would help me stop mourning. Help me forget our little girl, forget how it went at the end.” Her eyes glistened. “I threw it in his face and kicked him out. It was easy to shove him out the door. He’d lost so much weight by then, he weighed even less than me.” She clenched her hand around the coffee mug. “I’ll never forget my girl. Never.”
I nodded when she didn’t continue. “What happened next?” If she noticed the wobble in my voice, she didn’t show it.
She shrugged, the casual gesture at odds with the heavy lines of grief creasing her face. “Oh, they found him later that night, glowing in an alley not far from here, lighting up the darkness like a lantern.” The bleakness of her tone made my eyes burn. “The Rat King finally gave him more than he could take.”
I’d spent the last two days documenting tragedies I could hardly find words to describe, searching for details to include in my story on the aurae dealer—the Rat King, apparently. I’d seen men missing hands, ears, arms—punishment meted out when they crossed him or simply failed to obey his orders fast enough. I’d seen packs of children scavenging among the trash that washed up on the river banks, their parents drifting in a haze of aurae sold by his men, too lost to even bring victus rations home.
I’d be ready to draft my article soon, and the project would be done. But I’d be having nightmares for weeks.
Mistress Reta broke eye contact, rose abruptly, and took my coffee mug. “Any other questions?”
I stood slowly, recognizing my dismissal. She’d already said more than enough. I caught sight of a tiny pair of shoes tucked, undisturbed, beside the closed door, and I jerked my eyes away. “Just one,” I said. It was the last thing I wanted to know, but Grandmother would never accept my story unless I at least attempted to speak with the dealer himself. “Where can I find the Rat King?”
~
According to Mistress Reta, Hal Dukas currently held court on the top floor of the oldest high-rise building nearby. By the time I’d climbed to the top of the towering, unevenly built tenement, I was gasping for breath. My legs burned as I forced myself up the final flight of stairs.
When I reached the door to his apartment, I paused in the empty, oddly clean hallway. I pushed my hair back into a neat bun and wiped the sweat from my brow. Outside, the autumn air had been crisp and sunny, refreshing after the soggy heat of summer. But inside the tenement, the lack of proper ventilation made the stairwell hot and stale. I glanced down and straightened my sweat-damp blue dress as best I could.
I adjusted the strap of my satchel on my shoulder, went to the apartment Mistress Reta had directed me to, and knocked.
Floorboards creaked as footsteps approached the door. I held my breath. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.
A wide, muscular man with a stubbled jaw raised an eyebrow. “A Westerner, huh?”
I shifted my weight. “Hello, sir. I’d like to speak with Master Hal Dukas, please.”
The man looked me up and down with hooded eyes. “And who shall I say is asking?” The inflection in his words mocked my polite introduction.
“Ruby Contos, from the Asylian Herald.”
“Let her in,” a man barked from somewhere in the apartment.
The intimidating man grunted and stepped back, allowing me to enter. He jerked his head in the direction the voice had come from. “He’s back there. Through the kitchen, down the hall.”
I blinked against the silvery glow that filled the enormous kitchen. This wasn’t a typical River Quarter tenement apartment at all. They must have renovated it, so that the single unit now took up the entire top floor of the building. It smelled of rich, floral goldblossom perfume, just like the Falconus studio, but the luxurious scent was at odds with the distinct way aurae made the air tingle uncomfortably against my skin.
Three slender, beautiful women sat quietly at the huge, polished kitchen table, their skin glowing steadily. Two simply leaned back in their chairs with serene smiles. The third had her elbows on the table and was resting her chin on her hands, staring dreamily off into space. Behind them, an older man without a halo scrubbed diligently at a small stack of dishes in the sparkling-clean sink.
My eyes watered from the bright light coming off their skin. I turned away uneasily and entered the hallway that adjoined the kitchen. The narrow space was dark by comparison, and after a few st
eps, it opened into a vast sitting room with three wide windows on one wall. Several fine, bloodred leather sofas filled the center of the room. The sitting room was the size of several tenement apartments put together.
A group of men sat on the nearest sofa hunched over a low, ornately-carved, wooden coffee table as they removed small crystal vials from a crate and set them carefully into another. I stood awkwardly just inside the room. The men glanced at me, then went back to their work without speaking.
“A Westerner, sure enough.” A man’s deep drawl startled me. “Come in, Ruby Contos from the Asylian Herald. Welcome to my humble dwelling.” My eyes finally adjusted. A thin, sharp-eyed man with bronze skin and smooth, jet-black hair sat in a chair beside the sunlit windows. “Sit. Join me.”
I didn’t know what I’d been expecting from the Rat King’s lair, but it wasn’t this. “Thank you, sir.” I took the chair opposite his. “Are you Master Dukas?”
He leaned back in his chair. “The one and only.” He studied me, a smile playing across his lips. “The Rat King, at your service.”
I pulled my satchel onto my lap and removed my notebook. “I’ve been tasked with writing an article about you, sir.” I kept my voice quiet and respectful, matching a tone that had won me interviews with scores of attention-hungry criminals already. “I’d like to know your story, so I can tell it in the Herald.”
“It’s about time. I’d be happy to tell my story, Miss Contos. In fact, I’m surprised the Herald hasn’t sent anyone sooner.”
I opened my journal to a fresh page and pulled my pencil from my bag. “And why is that, sir?”
He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out under the table. “You’d think the lazy fools in this city would show a bit of interest in getting to know their new king.”
Chapter 4
My stomach twisted uneasily. “Their new king?”
Dukas’s lips twitched. He gestured to the windows beside the table. “That view sure is beautiful, isn’t it, Ruby?”