by Tara Sim
He smiled, or tried to. “Fresh out of those, I’m afraid. Suppose the only choice you have left is whether you want it to be quick or slow.”
“What?”
Carefully, he reached for his right sleeve with his shaking left hand. She pressed the blade against him harder, but he didn’t pull out a knife. Instead, he pushed the sleeve up.
All along his forearm was a patch of gray.
Amaya stared at it, wondering if it was real. But she could hear the rattling of his lungs, the fever turning his body into a furnace.
“All those years makin’ counterfeits did its toll on me,” he said. “Started out as little tics and tremors, now this.”
Amaya’s mind was wiped blank. The only thing that filtered through the void was: unfair.
A father who was dead then not, soon to be dead again.
Unfair.
He suppressed another cough as he looked up at her. She couldn’t meet his eyes, so much like her own.
“So.” He wrapped a hand around the one holding the hilt of her knife. “Do it or don’t. I won’t blame you either way.”
Amaya struggled for breath. His hand was large and rough against hers, like when they had gone out on his ship and he had shown her how to pull on the sails. Like when he had held her hand as they walked through the park, or she had tugged him toward a food vendor selling confectionaries.
Tears blurred her vision. She could still remember the bone-jarring impact of her knife hitting Melchor, the hot blood that had spurted onto her hand. The way Zharo’s eyes had stilled and dulled as he died on Liesl’s blade.
Amaya backed away, stumbling over the detritus on the floor and falling. Her wrist snagged on a piece of broken glass. Boon reached for her, but she flung herself at the door, scrabbling at the handle until she was half tumbling onto the street.
That day on the Papaya, her father had caught her when she leaped from the mast. She had trusted him to save her, and he had, because he was her father and that was what fathers were supposed to do.
Now she was falling with no one to catch her, with no one to trust except herself.
Unfair.
She collapsed to her knees and finally let out the wail that tore up her insides, shredding her throat and numbing her mind. She screamed and let the night take the sound, making the stars tremble with the force of it. If she could extinguish every last one of them, she would. She would breed a playing ground for the dark, let it close in on the world until it was smothered and still.
Maybe then the gods would see fit to start over, try harder.
Or maybe they would consider it a blessing.
She didn’t realize she had stopped screaming until she heard footsteps on her right.
“Miss? Are… Are you all right? Do you need help?”
Amaya didn’t bother to look up. She only gripped her knife and half lifted it, a silent warning to back away. The person swallowed a gasp and smartly left her to herself.
She pushed to her feet, the world hazy and dull around her. Her throat was sore, but her mind was clearer.
If she accepted the truth, she would be admitting that everything she had known until now had been a lie. It could unravel her, unmake her.
But she couldn’t afford to be unmade, not when they had a mission. Not when so many lives were at stake.
So she had to let it go. She had to keep going and pretend that nothing had happened.
Amaya took one step. Another. Kept moving forward, because it was the only thing she could do in a world that made no sense.
Then she looked up and saw the moon’s position.
Midnight.
Her rib cage shuddered with horror, another cry wrenching from her torn-up throat.
Cayo was gambling without her.
What is the difference between winning and losing? Sometimes, it’s as small as a penny. Sometimes, it’s the cost of all you hold dear.
—THE INS AND OUTS OF TABLE BETTING
Sweat ran down Cayo’s neck as he studied the table. It was round and lined with blue felt, crowded with cards and a pile of coins, jewels, and bank notes. The gamblers seated around the table ranged from flinty to cocky, from blank stares to dimpled smirks.
He remembered this the way one remembers the feel of water, the smell of jasmine, the taste of wine. Heady and sensory, a fleeting pleasure. This was walking back into a dream of how things used to be—the way the crowd was hot and noisy, the way the air carried the scent of cigarillo smoke and perfume.
Cayo licked his lips and glanced at the woman two seats down from him. Robin Deirdre had dressed in green tonight, her sleeves gauzy, her bodice soft with crushed velvet. The collar was high, an echo of Rehanese fashion, with the double row of buttons down the front that was typical in Chalier suits.
Her eyes were bright and her mouth gave nothing away, not even the slightest twitch of satisfaction or displeasure as she studied her cards. Long, gloved fingers held those cards with the confidence of a woman who had been gambling nearly her whole life. It was no wonder she had been asked to participate.
The other gamblers were a mix of highbrow and commoner. They had all needed to confirm with the casino workers that they had enough to wager tonight; several had been turned away for not having sufficient funds, for having concealed weapons, or even for the amount of wear and tear on their clothing.
Cayo had only just gotten through, after a rather sour-mouthed dealer eyed the faded cuffs of his jacket. But his winnings from the other night had been more than enough. If they had found Jazelle on him, it would have been a different story.
There were two games slotted for the night. The first one, the one that Cayo had been assigned to, started at midnight. As he sat there and eyed his competition, his fingers twitched toward his pocket watch that was no longer there.
Amaya hadn’t been in the apartment, and she hadn’t been waiting for him here. Where in the hells was she?
His heart fluttered as the man beside him laid down a card. Cayo was not overly familiar with the game that had been chosen for the night, something called Both Sides. It relied on trading cards with the players to your left and right, but Cayo had a distinct feeling the woman on his right was cheating. How, he wasn’t sure yet, but she had been quiet and withdrawn the entire time they’d sat here.
“Those earrings are exquisite, my lady,” said the man who had just given Cayo his bad card. Cayo suppressed the urge to sneer as he picked it up and added it to his less-than-impressive hand. “May I ask which jeweler you commissioned?”
Deirdre shook loose curls from her shoulders, revealing more of the triangle-shaped earrings. They glimmered attractively against her soft brown skin. “Do you know of Bovrelle?”
“Ah yes, I’ve had some handsome cufflinks gifted to me from Bovrelle! I did not know their craft extended so far.”
Cayo picked his weakest card and foisted it off on the woman to his other side. Her mouth tightened, barely perceptible. All the while his insides roiled unpleasantly at the syrupy, saccharine tone the man was giving Deirdre. She was no doubt used to it—hells, Cayo was used to it, having had no shortage of Moray gentry try to curry favor with the Mercados—but it seemed such a waste of time for a woman of her ambition.
Deirdre smiled through it all. She was an excellent actress, he had to admit.
How was he supposed to get anything out of her?
He received yet another bad card. Gritting his teeth, he glanced over his shoulder. The crowd watched while sipping their drinks and murmuring among themselves. Amaya wasn’t there.
She had promised she would be here.
He forced himself to take an even, controlled breath, then put on his best smile.
“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but that dress is from Gohmer’s collection, is it not?” he asked of Deirdre.
The woman’s head jerked up, as if startled to find him speaking directly to her. Her black lashes framed dark blue eyes that studied him with an intensity he didn’t like.
/> “My,” she said with that small smile, “you’ve quite an eye on you. Are you familiar with Gohmer’s work?”
“Only a touch,” he admitted, being sure to employ his dimpled smile. “My sister is the true fan. She admires how Gohmer uses both Rehanese styles and those from the empires to create unique pieces.”
“Indeed, that is what draws me to them as well.” Deirdre received a card from her neighbor and barely looked at her hand before passing on another. “I’m also quite fond of Martisse.”
Cayo did his best to keep his shoulders relaxed, his face from flinching. Was that a direct hint that she had seen him at Basque’s gala with Amaya? Or was it simply small talk?
Sweat tickled the back of his neck as he received his next card. He had to suppress another flinch. He was receiving more bad cards than he could give away. If this kept up, his hand would suffer significantly.
“Martisse is quite lovely, although a bit too grand for me,” he said carefully. “I think I prefer Gohmer.”
“I see.” She offered him another smile, which he returned. “You look and sound as if you come from Rehan. Is the way Gohmer meshes cultures together something you find particularly appealing about their line?”
His chest grew tight. He couldn’t help but feel as if he were a mouse being idly played with by a cat.
“It does make for some unconventional designs,” he said at last. “They’re unique.”
“I agree.” Deirdre ran fingers along her high collar. “Though I can’t say I’m particularly fond of Gohmer’s political ideologies.”
Cayo frowned. He knew about Gohmer’s stitching techniques, yet nothing about their political ideologies; what could that possibly mean?
The man who had inquired after her earrings forced a laugh even as he handed Cayo another lackluster card. “Come now, my lady, where’s your patriotism? Gohmer clothes the emperor himself, you know.”
Deirdre’s face barely altered, but Cayo was good at reading the subtle signs of gamblers. Her left cheek twitched just below her eye, so quick that he nearly missed it.
“Too true,” she murmured, focusing once again on her cards.
Cayo studied his own, mind racing. Back in Basque’s office, she had laid down claims of supporting the Rain Empire, of using the alchemists to create weapons for them.
But if she was this upset about a single mention of the emperor…
The woman beside him cleared her throat loudly, and he jumped before handing her one of his cards. His chest grew tighter; his hand was getting worse and worse. The pile of money before him gleamed innocuously—money that he had planned to use for Soria.
Glancing toward the entrance to the casino for the hundredth time, he swallowed a curse. Amaya still wasn’t here.
You promised, he seethed, fingers denting the cards.
They had gotten to the point where players had begun betting their watches and jewelry in addition to what they’d put down. There was even a pair of gilded opera glasses.
Had this been worth it? Was there still time to bow out?
“Sir?”
He was so used to being called my lord that it took a moment to realize the server was speaking to him. She bore a silver platter upon which sat a variety of drinks.
He opened his mouth to decline, his hand moving to wave her away. But muscle memory made him grab the nearest glass instead, its liquid sloshing gently.
The server moved on, and Cayo stared at the drink. It smelled like vorene and citrus, sharp and familiar. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, willing himself to put it down.
Instead he took a large gulp, the vorene burning down his throat. Amaya had told him not to drink, but she wasn’t here, and he was losing badly, and what else was he supposed to do? He had a luck ritual to honor.
He could cheat—he wanted to—but he couldn’t risk getting caught. Not when there were so many eyes on him. Not when Deirdre was here.
Cayo’s leg jostled under the table, his temples damp with sweat as the feathery sound of cards overwhelmed him. The light was too bright in here, the room far too hot with the crush of bodies watching from the sidelines. Were any of them watching him? No doubt with pity, no doubt wondering what in the hells he was doing.
He didn’t know. He didn’t know.
Cayo finally managed to snag two good cards, but it wasn’t enough. The man on his right handed him a lower card, and Cayo reluctantly took it. Cayo returned fire by handing the woman beside him his lowest card, but even that had been higher than the one he’d received.
I can’t lose, he thought desperately, watching the other players reveal their hands. I can’t let this all be for nothing.
He had to win. For Soria. For himself.
But then the cards stopped circulating, and the players were asked to show their hands. Cards fell to the table. They tumbled from Cayo’s fingers.
“And the pot goes to Lady Deirdre,” the dealer announced, bowing to the woman before raking up the money—including Cayo’s pile—and pushing it toward her. Deirdre flushed prettily, almost as if on command, and inclined her head in gratitude. The crowd applauded as the other players sighed or swore or joined in on the applause.
Cayo was numb.
“The proceeds of tonight will be going toward a charitable cause,” Deirdre announced. “The search for the cure for ash fever, headed by myself and Lord André Basque.” The crowd clapped and murmured in appreciation, some even whistling their approval.
“The second game will take place in a half hour,” the dealer called over the noise.
But he had nothing left to bet. All the money he’d won—gone.
He was back in his father’s office, Kamon bearing down on him with all the force of his rage, demanding how exactly an entire life’s savings went missing.
“Cayo!”
Amaya burst from the crowd, gasping for breath. Her hair was windblown, her clothes torn, and there was blood on her sleeve. She took him in as he sat there, with nothing before him other than the dregs of a strong drink.
“What happened?” she demanded.
Cayo didn’t answer. He reached for his glass and realized it was empty.
“Cayo,” she said again, her voice quavering.
“Sir,” the dealer said, “if you’re unable to bet, I must ask you to vacate your seat.”
Cayo stared at the dealer, who shifted uncomfortably. Cayo grinned, then laughed, getting unsteadily to his feet.
“Yeah, I’ll leave,” he croaked. “I’ve got nothing anyway. That’s what you bastards wanted, isn’t it?”
“Sir—”
“Fuck you.” Cayo turned and threw the glass on the floor. It shattered, making those around him cry out at the noise. Amaya might have yelled something, but Cayo couldn’t hear it, his laughter drowning everything else out.
The casino guards grabbed him and pulled him toward the exit. Cayo fought against them like a panicked animal, growling and spitting until they threw him out the doors and into the street.
“Don’t come back here,” said one of the guards, pointing a meaty finger at him.
Cayo lurched to his feet, swaying. “You think I want to, you oversized boar? Fuck you.”
“Hey, fuck you.”
Amaya pushed past the guards and approached him, her eyes alight with a furious fire. She said nothing, merely grabbed his arm and dragged him down the street, away from the noise and the heat and the humiliation.
She found a wide alleyway and pushed him against the brick wall.
“What happened?” she growled.
Cayo’s head spun. He’d drunk that alcohol too fast, and nothing in the world made any sense. “I lost.”
“That’s obvious.” Her nostrils flared—another tell, he thought distantly. “You said you could handle this. You promised not to drink, or to gamble without me there!”
“What exactly was I supposed to do, then?” he retaliated. “You promised me you would be here, and instead I was left to make an ass of mys
elf!”
“You were supposed to wait. There’s still another game, and we could have played that one. Instead, all your money is gone. You know what that means?”
“No, please, tell me,” Cayo drawled. “Of course I know what it fucking means!”
His voice broke on the last word. Amaya moved away from him and began pacing the alley with her arms crossed tight against her chest. Cayo glared at a faded poster for a cabaret show on the wall, blinking hard against his blurry vision.
“Where in the hells were you?” he demanded.
She stopped pacing. She leaned a hand against the wall, her fingers covered in dried blood. Her entire body was stiff and trembling, her eyes wide, vacant. Spooked.
“I can’t tell you.” Her voice was strangled. “But it was important. I… I lost track of time. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you’re sorry?” Once, he would have loved to hear it. Now it only fueled his rage. “You can’t even tell me what was so important that it made you abandon me? I didn’t know what to do; I barely even got anything out of Deirdre—”
“Which is why you should have waited.” The faraway look morphed into something harder, and he could tell that Silverfish was coming out to speak. “You don’t learn. No matter what happens, you always remain the spoiled, selfish boy who grew up with your father’s influence.”
Heat burned in Cayo’s chest as he pushed off the wall. “Shut up.”
“You’ve suffered. You’ve experienced hardship. But that hasn’t made you better, has it?” She also pushed off the wall, her gaze wild, her mouth open, hungry for his suffering. “Face it. You don’t know how to do anything on your own because you’re pathetic without someone there to hold your hand.”
“Shut up!” He turned and drove trembling fingers through his hair. “I wasn’t doing this for me, I was doing it for Soria!”
“If you were really doing it for Soria, you wouldn’t have—”
“Stop it, just—stop telling me what I should or shouldn’t have done! I know I could have done better in there. If you’d just been here on time, this wouldn’t have even happened! All those games I won the other night… you… you were part of my luck ritual.” Although his vision was still hazy, he could make out the expression of disbelief on her face. “And because you weren’t there, I lost everything.”