by Tara Sim
“Between you gambling away all your savings, and bad weather in the south delaying some important deliveries, there’s nothing left to spare. Things…have been a little tight lately.” Kamon looked furious to admit it out loud. “And now that Soria’s engagement to Gen Hizon has been called off, we have no access to their fortune.”
But he’d seen what his father had been saving for Soria’s wedding day, a chest full of golden coin and fine foreign silks. “Soria’s dowry—”
“Already spent for her medicine.”
Cayo’s mind was reeling, but he remembered a fragment of the conversation he’d had with the mysterious girl at last night’s party. “You had a sale recently. The Brackish?”
Kamon looked surprised, which was a feat in itself. He took a moment to respond, and Cayo wondered if he was deciding whether to reveal that he hadn’t wanted Cayo to know about this particular transaction.
“It went cheaper than it was worth,” Kamon said at last. “Honestly, I was looking for an excuse to get rid of the thing.”
“Father…” Cayo swallowed. “Does it—or did it—use children?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.” His father took a long sip of coffee as Cayo stared blankly at him. “Whether or not it did, it’s not under my name anymore, and good riddance. But that’s beside the point. The point, Cayo, is that even with making transactions like this to help pay off your debt, there’s still barely anything left for Soria’s medicine. Do you see where this is going?”
“No, I don’t.” Cayo’s voice crept higher, louder. “What do you mean?”
Kamon sighed and looked up at the ceiling, as if to fortify himself.
“Today I’ll be dismissing Miss Lawan and the kitchen staff, as well as the maids,” he eventually said. “We can’t pay their salaries any longer.”
Cayo’s chest tightened. He already felt nauseous after being up all night, but now that feeling grew, the revelation dawning on him like the unmistakable glare of the sun at his father’s back.
His mother used to sing a song about a farmer whose crops all withered. When he asked her once why she sang it so often, she had shrugged and told him that it was the way of life. Nothing could stay; everything was temporary. You could never trust what you had, only what you were capable of.
They had been rich. He had grown up receiving everything he could possibly want.
And now they had nothing.
“We…We have to do something,” Cayo croaked. “We can sell the manor, or—”
“Cayo.” Kamon took another long breath. “The fever has already progressed quite a bit. We didn’t catch the early stages in time. Even if we sold everything we own, what good would it do? Buy Soria a few more months? A year, at most? She had her shot with the Hizons, and the sickness took that from her—from us. She is the sea on a windless day, preventing our ship from going forward. Do you understand?”
Cayo sat there with his lips parted. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, thought that maybe he had gotten drunk at that party and everything around him was only a blurred distortion of reality.
“What are you saying?” he whispered.
“I’m saying that, though I love Soria dearly”—Kamon paused, his jaw tight and his throat working to swallow—“I have another child to think about, a blood heir who can inherit our family’s Vault when I’m gone.”
Cayo pushed himself to his feet, knocking back the chair. His father looked up, startled.
“How can you think this way?” Cayo spat. “Are Soria and I nothing but a business venture for you? One of us has been a spare all along?”
“That’s not how I meant—”
“If you truly loved your daughter, you’d be fighting tooth and nail for her!”
“You don’t think I know how to fight tooth and nail?” His father stood as well, his eyes bright with fury. “I did that in order for you to live the only life you’ve ever known, one filled with velvet and gold. I did that to buy this manor, to give us status, to bring us up in the world. But you, Cayo—you know nothing of fighting. You simply take and spend. And now here we are.”
Cayo stormed out, slamming the door behind him. How dare his father insinuate he was the reason Soria could die? He wouldn’t let her. He refused to let ash fever take her from him. They had already lost their mother to sickness. Cayo could not survive going through it a second time.
Dizzy, he leaned against the wall and slid to the floor, resting his forehead on his knees.
Just don’t fall back into bad habits, all right?
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the hallway. To Soria. Because he knew there was only one way to get the money he needed—only one way to save her life.
He had to once again play for the Slum King.
When Neralia fell from the kingdom in the clouds, she held her hands out to the stars who had forsaken her. Their winking gazes turned away, and the water rose to claim her, sheltering her from their disdain.
—“NERALIA OF THE CLOUDS,” AN ORAL STORY ORIGINATING FROM THE LEDE ISLANDS
It was strange how seven years could fit inside a pack.
Silverfish looked around her hammock for the fifth time, but everything she owned had been stuffed inside her bag already: a hairbrush, a change of clothes, a rock that was shaped like Moray’s Crescent Bay.
Her stomach was a squirming mess, her head buzzing from lack of sleep. She tried to tell herself it was a good thing—her body recognized an opportunity. But it mostly set her teeth on edge, the anticipation tingling down to her fingers.
Today, the Brackish was docking in Moray.
Today, she would be free.
Just in time for her mother’s birthday.
Silverfish unwound the frayed linen bandage from her swollen hand, revealing the small knife tattoo on her wrist. Flexing her fingers, she checked the cut from the rockfish, red and puffy yet on its way to healing.
Survive.
For seven years, she had survived. She had done anything she could to dance out of death’s way in preparation for this moment. And now her reward would be her mother’s face when she saw her daughter walk through the door.
Some of the Water Bugs were already awake and watched her in the predawn light. She smiled, but most didn’t smile back. Beetle, however, scrambled off her hammock and ran to her. The little girl threw her arms around Silverfish’s legs, her thin body shaking as she hid her face against her thigh.
Silverfish’s hand hovered above the girl’s back. After a moment, she settled it on Beetle’s shoulder.
“Don’t go,” the girl whimpered against her leg. She could feel Beetle’s hot breath through the tattered fabric of her trousers.
Silverfish took a deep breath and sank to one knee before the girl.
“One day you’ll be able to leave this ship, too. It won’t be today, or tomorrow, but that day will come. And you’ll walk away with your head held high.” Silverfish gently jostled her shoulder. “Remember that, all right?”
Beetle pressed her lips together to prevent them from trembling as she nodded. Silverfish briefly cradled the side of her head, not remembering until after she pulled away that that was something her father used to do.
“Anyway, I’m not gone just yet,” she told Beetle as she headed for the door.
She lingered in the companionway, wondering if she should check on Boon. His words still whispered in her mind, following her into nightmares of treasure chests filled with nooses and gambling halls soaked with blood.
Gritting her teeth, she turned away from the stairs leading down to the cells. He wasn’t her problem any longer.
Out on the deck, she took a deep breath of clean salt air. The morning waves danced silver; last night’s wind had settled into a light breeze. It carried the distinct scent of land, dry and green and oddly foreign. A ship was never quiet, but in the early stages of dawn it was the calmest it would be before the Bugs swarmed the deck and Zharo began to bellow orders.
Roach was already up; she wondered if he’d also had a hard time sleeping. He leaned against the railing, his back to her. She passed under the debt board to reach him and couldn’t help but scan it for her name. Her sum had been set to zero—the pearl had been enough. Something large and messy swelled within her at the sight, a relief so strong that it threatened to consume her.
Roach turned when she was close. His expression was complicated. She could tell he didn’t want her to go, though he would never admit it out loud. Her only regret escaping the Brackish was leaving him behind.
His seven years would be up in six months. He would make it until then.
He had to.
She raised their two-finger salute, which he returned before taking her hand in his. Calluses hardened his palm and fingertips, his knuckles protruding like mountains. She brushed her thumb across their peaks and valleys, and he smiled sadly.
“You’ll meet me in Moray?” she asked.
“That’s the plan.” He enveloped her in a hug, and she allowed herself to be engulfed by it, closing her eyes and holding him tight. He was her best friend on these waters. Her only friend.
“Silverfish!”
They both started and pulled away. Captain Zharo emerged from the cells, screaming her name like he was a demon she had tricked out of consuming her heart. When he stormed up onto the deck, the Bugs tentatively followed, their eyes wide and fearful. When Zharo finally spotted her by the railing, he pointed a stubby, grimy finger at her, a silent summons written across his flushed face and the stiff set of his shoulders.
Roach grabbed for her hand, but she shook her head and he inched away. No doubt the captain wanted to frighten her one last time. She would not give him the satisfaction.
“Today is a big day for you, Silverfish,” the captain said, one hand lingering near his hip as he leered at her. They were situated under the gutting deck, the smell of dead fish overpowering. She doubted she would ever get the stink off her. “Or it would have been, had you not double-crossed me.”
She tightened a hand around the strap of her pack. “I don’t understand.”
Zharo bared his decaying teeth. “D’you honestly think I’d let you off this ship? After you done let a spy escape?”
Boon. He must have used her shucker to free himself before anyone had woken.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, trying to keep her voice from wavering.
“Your little catch,” he said. “The spy you plucked out of the waters. He’s gone.”
“He’s not a spy,” she said, “he’s Landless.”
“With those gold buttons? Don’t think so. And guess what, Silverfish? Your debt’s gone up again.” He hungrily licked his bottom lip, his dark eyes as heavy as a touch. “No fat pearl’s gonna do it this time. But I’m doin’ you a favor, see? You finally get to see your mama.”
Zharo took out his pistol and aimed it at her. The Bugs who had crowded against the railing behind him yelped and scampered away. Roach cursed and edged closer to her.
But Silverfish was frozen before the pistol’s black, hollow eye, sighting her right where her heart was beating a frantic rhythm in her chest. The iron muzzle glinted gold in the waxing dawn light.
Her breath came faster, rattling in her chest, but she refused to step back. “Wh-what do you mean, get to see my mother?”
He tsked. “Forgot to tell you, didn’t I? She breathed her last three years ago. A nice peaceful death, in her sleep. Or so they told me.”
A ringing started in her ears. Silverfish numbly looked around, as if seeking someone to confirm if it was really true. The Water Bugs were still cowering, Roach looking on in terror. He met her eyes and shook his head.
Dead.
Her mother was dead.
She couldn’t be. Silverfish was going to come home for her birthday. They were going to walk through the gardens of Moray and eat the fruit off the trees. She was going to become Amaya again, a girl curled up in her mother’s arms, safe from what the world demanded of her.
But the world was empty and cold, and she was alone.
She finally took a step back. Zharo chuckled and took one forward.
“I would’ve told you sooner, but you were such a hard worker,” Zharo said. The satisfied way he said it, almost like a compliment, was like a hand squeezing the nape of her neck. She shuddered in revulsion. “Was even able to scrape off the top of your earnings for myself. And I would’ve let you off this ship if you hadn’t gone and rescued that bastard. Really, you brought this on yourself.”
She had often wondered what she would do if the captain ever attacked her with serious intent, had taken to practicing the motions with Roach or when she was alone: grab his gun, hit his arm where it was weakest, force him to drop his weapon. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t send a message to the rest of her body to cooperate.
The sun was beginning to rise, deepening the thin dawn light to a fierce, burning orange. The waves caught the light and turned the sea into a roiling fire.
When the water turns orange, remember to swim down.
That was what Boon had said, after all his talk of treasure and finding out the truth about her father. Silverfish took another unsteady step toward the railing until it hit her back, and again Zharo pursued. She could hear the ocean churning below.
“Your seven years are finally up, Silverfish,” he said. He cocked the pistol’s hammer back. “Be sure to send my regards to your mama.”
He pulled the trigger.
The Bugs screamed at the bark of the pistol, but Silverfish had already launched herself over the railing. She fell for what seemed an eternity before she hit the water, knocking the breath out of her.
Remember to swim down.
Silverfish had dived for enough pearls—she knew how to swim down. She kicked her legs furiously behind her, her arms stretching, reaching toward the depths. She left the orange waves behind and swam into the gloom, the water growing dark enough to become another enemy.
Her sense of direction was scrambled; her lungs burned for air. Even as the pressure grew in her ears, even as spots flew across her vision, she kept swimming. Bubbles escaped the corners of her mouth, her chest seizing painfully.
Internally, Silverfish was screaming. She had nothing. No one. And now she was going to die because some Landless nobody didn’t know what he was talking about.
No.
She did have one thing left: a new goal.
If she lived, she was going to kill Captain Zharo.
Survive.
Silverfish used her fury and her grief to keep swimming, to slice through the water like a blade. Her limbs were cramping, her vision darkening. Still she swam down, consciousness leaving her bit by bit.
Then she felt it—a tug.
A riptide.
Her father had once told her that you could only see the way forward when all other options have failed you.
Silverfish didn’t hesitate. She flung herself into the riptide’s path, letting the water whisk her out of the dark and into the unknown.
The rules of Scatterjack are very simple: five cards to a hand, two cards to trade, and a knife up your sleeve if the game goes sour.
—THE INS AND OUTS OF TABLE BETTING
Before she died, Cayo’s mother had often told him that he was born under the sign of Luck, the glittering constellation that greeted his arrival into this world. She used to trace it for him with her finger, following the stars that made the shape of a crown.
“He who is lucky is a king,” she would tell him as she rested a hand on his shoulder. “And like a king, he must always watch for usurpers. Those who are not lucky will succumb to envy and seek his power for their own.”
Cayo wondered now, as he sat across the desk from the Slum King, whether the man had also been born under the sign of Luck—or if he was one of the usurpers.
His office was within the Scarlet Arc, a gambling hall that the Slum King owned. Although his name wasn’t on the dee
d in case the city guard—lazy as they were—decided to use a paper trail to find him, everyone knew who truly ran it. Despite its respectable name, nothing respectable happened within the red-painted walls of the Arc. It was undeniably one of the most dangerous halls in the Vice Sector, rife with murderers and thieves.
Although Cayo had realized just this morning that he needed to return, he was fast coming to regret this decision.
The Slum King—also known as Jun Salvador—sat in his maroon wingback chair and steepled his fingers on the desk, eyeing Cayo with something that looked deceptively like patience. His dark brown hair was thin, combed into a stylish swoop above a large forehead. He was impeccably dressed as always, a trait that Cayo had once appreciated, yet now made him all the more conscious of his mussed hair and rumpled clothing. The man was lean and trim, but corded with muscle that he didn’t bother to hide under his expensively tailored shirt and waistcoat. His face, however, was haggard and scarred, a long silvery line going from forehead to chin and a pinkish crater in his right cheek where someone had carved out a hunk of flesh.
“Well,” said the Slum King. “This is the part where I’m supposed to say I’m surprised to see you, but that would make me a liar.”
Even hearing his voice again sent a shiver down Cayo’s spine. Low, steady, and rough from years of cigarillo smoke, it was the sort of voice that could convince you to trust it, that could lead you through a den of vipers simply because it asked nicely. It was the sort of voice that made you want to impress its owner.
Cayo had wanted to impress him, once. And he had.
And then he’d lost everything.
Now he was on that precipice again. But Soria’s life was on the line. This was the only way he knew how to save her.
Even if he had promised her he would never come back here.
For a brief moment, Cayo wished Sébastien were with him. Bas had always been good at making the Slum King laugh, at defusing the tension in any given situation. Cayo hadn’t heard from him since giving him the last of his month’s allowance, but then again, he hadn’t expected to; he’d made it clear that Sébastien could expect no more help from him. Still, he hoped he had done enough.