by Tara Sim
She stared at him in confusion, but eventually she shook her head. “Well, who am I to dissuade you from community service? Just don’t, you know, kill anyone in the name of the law or something equally ludicrous.”
“I’ll try my best.” Already his mind was racing with ways he could find dirt on the Slum King. “Do you have any leads for where I can start? Something the officers may have found before putting the case on hold?”
“I don’t have access to that information, but my best guess would be to find any sailor who’s spent a long time at sea and made port within the last few months.”
“That certainly narrows it down, thank you.”
She gave him her sharp grin again. “Hey, it’s all part of the job when you’re a for-hire detective.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Actually, I do have a lead for you. We picked up someone not too long ago who had counterfeit coins on him.”
“Who is it?” he urged.
She hesitated, a conflicted look on her face. “It’s probably not connected, but he was employed by your family until recently,” she admitted. “He claimed he was retired when we picked him up, though, so I doubt there’s anything there.”
“Employed? How?”
“He was the captain of a ship called the Brackish.”
Cayo frowned at the familiar name. The Brackish was like a ghost ship following him around, haunting him. “How many counterfeit coins did he have?”
“Just a dozen or so. Claimed he won them in the Vice Sector. There was no reason to think otherwise, and no hard evidence, so we had to let him go.”
Cayo nodded. “Thank you for the tip.” He stood up, preparing to leave.
“Cayo.” She hesitated, looking uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. About Soria. If there’s anything I can do…”
“Just promise there’ll be a fat reward for me when I bring the information you need.”
She huffed out a relieved laugh. “Deal.”
The best place to start, Cayo figured, was his father’s records. Kamon kept meticulous notes on all of his employees, and information about the Brackish’s captain would surely be in there.
Mercado Manor was eerily quiet as he padded down the hall to his father’s office. Cayo was used to seeing maids scurry about and hearing the sounds of the kitchen staff preparing the day’s meals, as well as Miss Lawan’s voice as she instructed Soria on subjects like poetry, arithmetic, and etiquette. All they had now was a cook who only came to make dinners; the carriage driver; and the footman, Narin.
Narin had been on his father’s list of those to let go, but the man had been in the Mercados’ employ ever since Cayo could remember. Instead, Narin had offered to take a reduced pay, which Cayo found distinctly unfair given the fact that he also had to help take care of Soria now that Miss Lawan was gone.
When Cayo peeked into his sister’s room, he was shocked—and elated—to find her sitting by the window instead of in bed, a pamphlet open on her lap. Narin was preparing tea for her and nodded in greeting to Cayo when he walked in. Soria turned her head and smiled weakly.
“You’re up early. Oh,” she said, noticing his party clothes, “or should I say, you’re up late.”
“It’s been a long night.” But strangely, he didn’t feel tired—his deal with Nawarak had given him new energy. He bent down and kissed the top of her head, briefly feeling the heat that radiated off her. “What are you reading?”
“The new designs coming in for next season. Look at this.” She practically shoved the pamphlet under his nose. “This is an unconscionable amount of lace.”
Cayo swept his eyes over the dress in question, wrinkling his nose. She was right—much too much lace when a simple satin sash would work better. Then he noted the designer. “Well, what else do you expect from Girald? He wouldn’t know fashion if it rose out of the sea and bit his backside.”
Soria giggled as Narin set her tea before her. It wasn’t her usual Kharian black, but some swampy-green brew that smelled like grass.
“A message came for you, my lord,” Narin said, handing him a small envelope. The seal of red wax was stamped with a curly Y. Cayo broke it with his thumb and pulled out the paper inside.
“Who is it from?” Soria asked.
“Countess Yamaa.” He narrowed his eyes at the elegant script, a blush heating his face at the reminder of their encounter last night. “She wants to meet at Laelia Teahouse later today.”
Soria gasped. “I’ve wanted to go there for months!”
“Well, don’t be too jealous. The countess is…ah…” Really, what word could best describe her? “Eccentric.”
“I want to meet her,” she whined. “And drink tea that doesn’t taste like bathwater. Not that you don’t make excellent tea, Narin.” The footman gave an amused half bow. “But why does the countess want to see you? Do you think she’s taken a liking to you?”
He choked. “Absolutely not.” Not after all the things I said about her—to her face. “I might not even go. Now come on, drink your bathwater.”
Cayo encouraged Soria to keep taking sips of the medicinal tea as they went through the pamphlet together, dog-earing their favorite pieces even though they both knew they could no longer afford them. For the first time, Cayo noticed a ring on her finger, a band of green rock.
“Where did you get that?” he asked, worried that she’d recently bought it.
“This?” She glanced at the ring. “It’s been in my jewelry box for forever. I think Father gave it to me as a present a few years ago.”
He deflated in relief. “Oh. Good.” Before, the purchase of a ring would have been of little consequence. Now it sent panic coursing through his veins.
Eventually, Soria’s energy flagged and she went into a coughing fit. Cayo and Narin helped her back to bed, where she fell into a light doze. Cayo kissed her forehead and stole into his father’s office, determined to find a lead that would help her.
He spent the next hour going over his father’s records, often glancing at the door in case Kamon walked in. He had to weed through the most recent documents first, some of them detailing his father’s attempts to purchase unclaimed Widow Vaults, possibly as a means to inflate their coffers a bit. It wasn’t an uncommon practice to bid on a Vault that couldn’t be opened by a blood heir once its statute of limitations was up.
Finally, he found the workman records. But after several minutes of scanning the sheets, he came up frustratingly empty-handed.
Then he realized it wouldn’t be in the current employee records, but in records of sale.
Cayo searched for the transaction document and found it near the top of a stack of papers to be filed. It detailed the passing of ownership of the Brackish from Kamon Mercado to a nameless buyer from the Ledese Islands.
The Brackish—that was the name of the ship that Countess Yamaa owned. Then why would it have been bought anonymously? Unless the countess wanted to be discreet for some unknown reason.
Although he found it odd, all his attention turned to the ship captain’s name: Zharo. There was an address scribbled underneath in his father’s handwriting, an address here in Moray. Now all he had to do was pay the captain a visit, ask him how he acquired his counterfeit coins, and follow whatever new lead that gave him.
A grin split his face as hope surged within him. This was going to be easier than he thought.
Half an hour later, Cayo stood outside the address he had copied onto a scrap of paper, blinking at the swarm of officers and curious onlookers who flocked around it.
The midmorning sun was bright and hot, making it painful to look at the lime-green apartment building on the outskirts of Moray. Cayo had to squint to make out the officers on the balcony above the street coming and going via an open apartment door.
The same apartment where the former captain of the Brackish was supposed to live.
Cayo approached the nearest officer who was keeping curious citizens away. “Excuse me, what’s going on?”
/>
“Investigation,” the officer said. “There’s been a murder.”
“M-murder?”
“If you have a queasy stomach, best leave now,” the officer said, looking toward the balcony. “They’re removing the body.”
Cayo followed his gaze. Two officers were carrying a large body on a stretcher. It was shrouded, but as they went down the stairs, an arm slid off the stretcher, revealing a heavily ringed hand.
Cayo stepped back as they passed and caught the unmistakable scent of blood. His gorge rising, Cayo turned away from the murmuring crowd and walked back to the carriage.
His best chance at a lead, and now the man was dead. He couldn’t even enter the apartment, swarming with officers as it was. The capatain’s death seemed too close to his arrest to be a coincidence. But who would want to kill him?
And then he realized: the Slum King. Salvador had to be behind this—nothing else made sense, not with the coincidence of the counterfeit coin and Zharo being briefly held by the Port’s Authority. It would be little effort for the Slum King to cover his tracks and do away with one of his unwilling peddlers.
He sat in the back of the carriage for a moment, thinking about what to do next. When the driver popped his head in, he startled.
“Sorry, my lord, but you haven’t said as where you’d like to go.”
“Oh. Um…” He could go back home to get some much-needed sleep, wait for his father to leave the house again before he dove back into his records. Frustrated, Cayo reached into his pocket to double-check that he had the right address, but the paper he pulled out wasn’t the captain’s address—it was the countess’s invitation.
“My lord?”
Cayo hesitated. His father’s words came back to him, the idea to try to flirt the countess out of some pocket change. After all, if his plan to dethrone the Slum King worked and his engagement to Romara was severed, he would need to get the money for Soria’s medicine some other way.
“Laelia Teahouse,” Cayo told the driver. “But take the long way. I’m going to take a nap.”
A lady must always keep her guests engaged. Begin by inquiring after their day, or offering them tea. Please note that the offered tea should not be steeped too long, lest your guest become as bitter as the drink.
—A LADY’S GUIDE TO ENTERTAINING
Laelia’s was the finest teahouse in Moray, frequented by the gentry and those who saved up for special occasions. Amaya had a vague recollection of passing by with her mother and being stunned by the beauty of it, but when she’d asked if they could go, her mother had laughed and claimed she could make better tea at home for a sixth of the price.
Now Amaya sat in one of the most coveted spots within the teahouse, a round glass table on a mezzanine overlooking the main floor. The railing was low and crafted of gold-veined marble, affording a grand view of the rest of the teahouse. She had to admit, it was absolutely stunning—from the domed glass ceiling to the moldings of leaves and flowers along the walls, it was easy to see why so many longed for a few hours within this place.
She had almost not come. She had almost dressed in disguise to visit Zharo’s apartment, to confirm what she already knew: that he was dead, and he was never coming back.
But she had to do her part in learning more about the Mercados. She had to follow Boon’s plan in getting closer to the son, Cayo, in order to create a door to Kamon Mercado.
And besides that, since returning to the estate last night Amaya had been in a mild state of shock, even when Liesl helped her wash off the blood and gave her a mugful of warm milk with a pinch of turmeric. Sleep had evaded her, making her toss and turn. She kept seeing Zharo’s murky, lifeless eyes. Kept smelling his rancid odor on her clothes, in her hair.
Amaya scratched the back of her hand, still a little raw from all the times she’d washed it last night.
Trust me, you don’t know what it means to kill a man—to have someone’s blood on your hands. You aren’t ready to face that yet.
Amaya bared her teeth. Liesl was wrong; it should have been her work. She had not only been robbed of the opportunity to find out where Roach was, but her revenge had gone unfulfilled.
She closed her eyes and sent up a quick prayer for Roach, willing him strength for whatever had befallen him. Apologizing for the delay in finding him.
A scrape and a call made her open her eyes again. On the ground floor of the teahouse, men were setting up a dais against the left wall. Once it was in place, they brought up a podium, as well as easel stands hidden by sheets.
“Excuse me,” she called to a passing server, “what’s going on?”
“Ah, today’s an auction day,” the server said. “They’re usually held in the Business Sector, but once every few months we get to host them at the teahouse.”
“And what is an auction day?” She tried her best to keep her voice level and snippy, an heiress demanding answers rather than a curious orphan peeking into another world.
“You’re aware of the Widow Vaults here in Moray?” She nodded; they were purchased and handed down from family to family. “Every so often a Vault is left abandoned when an heir doesn’t claim it. About a month after it passes that mark, the Vault is up for auction to the highest bidder. That is, unless no one gets wind that it’s for sale and swoops in to buy it for themselves.”
Amaya tried not to frown. “Why is it auctioned?”
The server’s eyes widened slightly, as if unable to fathom her ignorance. “There’s all sorts of treasure in them, of course. I’ve never seen the contents of one myself, but I’ve heard rumors—rich silks, forbidden spices, blood jewels, even parts of ships! And gold. Piles and piles of gold.” He was nearly salivating at the idea.
“I see. Thank you for the explanation.”
He nodded and hurried away to the next table. Amaya shifted in her seat, suddenly overcome by a heavy curtain of sorrow. She had lost everything of her parents—their belongings, their clothes, their furniture. They had never been wealthy enough to afford a Widow Vault, and she wondered now what she could have reclaimed of her past life if they had.
Sighing, she leaned forward to take in the sea of lovers and friends at the tables below. The riot of flowers and potted ferns around the teahouse made for a fragrant atmosphere when combined with the aromatic steam and the underlying scent of fresh baked goods. The chatter of the patrons was a soft background roar interspersed with the twinkling chime of teacups and saucers, occasionally interrupted by a man who kept coughing into his napkin.
“You look besotted,” Avi mumbled from his place near the railing, acting as her bodyguard and footman. “Don’t tell me you of all people enjoy places like this?”
Amaya leaned back from the railing with a scowl, heat crawling to her face. “No. It’s just…a different experience.”
Besides, so what if she liked it? She was fulfilling a wish from her childhood. But with her lingering rage from last night paired with the unexpected grief of this morning’s reminder of all she’d lost, she was finding it difficult to properly enjoy herself.
“Well, save some of that for the boyo,” Avi said, jerking his chin toward the spiral staircase. “I’m sure it’ll do wonders for his ego.”
Amaya turned. Cayo Mercado was being escorted to the table by one of the servers, who was dressed in the pink-and-white uniform of Laelia’s. Cayo, in contrast, wore a jacket of deep navy and dark breeches. They were colors that must have matched his mood, for his eyes were glazed and his brow furrowed until he looked up and spotted Amaya.
The server held out a seat for Cayo, who took it with the ease of one who was used to having others pull their chairs in and out for them. Amaya’s fingers twitched in irritation under the table.
“My lord, my lady, welcome to Laelia’s,” the server said. “We have an excellent array of blends today, a fresh shipment straight from the heart of Khari. I personally recommend the white starlight blend, which carries notes of lemongrass and mallow blossoms.”
Amaya put on a bland smile as the server spoke, unable to resist studying Cayo as he politely gave the server his attention. Up close she could discern the bags under his dark eyes, and the way his hair had started to droop out of its styled look. A black strand of it had fallen across his forehead, curled and stiff with pomade.
Although the lines of his jaw and nose were sharp, there was something almost soft about him, the more she stared. Perhaps it had something to do with the tender slope of his neck, or how his lips weren’t as thin as most boys’. Or maybe it was just that he was sleepy, blinking slow and often as the server went on.
The show of weakness only stoked her rage. To him, she wasn’t a threat.
Not yet.
“Do any of those strike your fancy, my lady? My lord?”
Amaya shook herself. “The last one, please,” she said with a smile, although she had no idea what she was ordering.
“And I’ll have your strongest blend,” Cayo said.
“Excellent choices. I’ll return shortly.”
Once he was finally gone, Amaya turned her smile to the young Lord Mercado. Cayo glanced at Avi before offering her one of his own smiles, somewhat forced and guarded.
“I’ll admit, Countess, that I’m surprised you asked to see me.”
His voice was like the rolling of a gentle wave, mild enough to disguise the strength that hid beneath it. She would have to tread more carefully than she thought.
“Well, you made such an impression at my party,” she said. “I couldn’t help but be curious to find out more about you.”
“I’m really not that interesting.” One of his eyebrows lifted. “Not as interesting as a countess who dives into a pool to save her servant.”
“Would you have preferred the girl to drown?”
“Of course not. Although it might have been avoided altogether if you didn’t hire children in the first place.”
Shaky as she was, she grinned. He was ready to spar today. And that was just what she needed: to let loose some of the tension coiling within her.