Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

Calla is already sweating when she finds Anton the next day, inhumanely early so that they can convene before either of their pings goes off. It’s piping hot despite the hour, the air sticky and humid. She swapped out her longer coat for a hemmed jacket and she isn’t wearing anything except her underclothes underneath the leather, but her skin still sticks to the inside of the material. At least she can put up with a little discomfort if it means her arms are protected from any flying blades.

“August is already up and at it,” Calla says when she stops beside Anton, turning her pager around.

Anton squints, trying to read the scrolling text that August has tacked on to his automatic code.

“Why’s he telling you to be careful ?”

Evercent Hotel. Number 79 , the pager says. Then: I believe he is checking in at opening hours. Be careful.

“My cousin highly regards my safety,” Calla replies. A lie. August would bite off his own hand before he urged caution for the sake of her health and well-being. Anton seems to know it too, because the dark brow of the body he’s wearing today quirks up and stays there. He’s dressed lighter than she is: a button-down with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the deep-green fabric crumpled in a manner only expensive things can manage. It seems Anton is quite fond of jumping into the rich.

Calla waves her hand at him, starting toward the Evercent Hotel. August’s code always chooses targets that are either nearby or heading toward obvious landmarks, and the Evercent Hotel is the largest building in Er. Despite being some distance away, Calla and Anton move through San quickly, weaving in and out of the slowly stirring city, then trekking onto a bridge with their weapons hidden from view. If anyone saw them from afar, one might even think they were a couple taking a brisk morning stroll.

Maybe if couples these days went for matching bloodstains instead of wedding rings.

“You take the front, I’ll go around back?” Anton suggests as they approach the hotel.

Calla purses her lips. August’s warning about Anton flashes through her head again, and she shifts the sheath of her sword so it is easily within reach.

“I don’t see anyone at the desk, though. Seventy-Nine might not have arrived yet.”

Or he could be one of the people lingering right outside. A large group waits by the door: high-class escorts, ready to be picked up at check-in like an extra towel or a pair of slippers.

“Stay undercover until we know?” Anton suggests.

“Undercover until then,” Calla confirms.

Calla enters first, smacked immediately by the chill from the air-conditioning. She breathes out with a sigh of relief, trying to unstick her armpits from her jacket. Anton is close behind, coughing loudly. When Calla glances over her shoulder with a glare, asking wordlessly why he’s making such a scene, he waves around his face and shoots a nasty look at one of the courtesans holding a cigarette. Looks like she blew smoke right into Anton’s face. Calla gives the courtesan a smile. Anton scowls.

“Checking in?” the desk attendant asks when Calla and Anton finally draw near, tapping her acrylic nails on the stone countertop. Calla takes too long to answer, making note of the lobby details and its fraying carpet. Anton leans forward instead to stall, asking about the hotel amenities and room layouts. For whatever reason—perhaps genuine nicety, perhaps swayed by Anton’s borrowed body and good looks—the attendant tolerates the questions, pulling out reference sheet after reference sheet from the drawers behind the desk. Er is touchier about the games than San. While civilians in San are suicidal enough to risk a stab in the gut for the sake of a paid hospital bill, Er will close its shops early and forbid its children from walking on the streets alone while the games are ongoing. If the desk attendant knew they were players, she would not be speaking to Anton at all.

The doors to the hotel open again, and Calla turns around.

Only to see Seventy-Nine walking in with his wristband right in the open, surrounded by an entourage of ten men.

“What the fuck?” Calla mutters, her hand snapping out to grab Anton. He swivels around too, his eyebrows shooting up at the sight. Seventy-Nine flaunts his wristband atop the sleeve of his black suit jacket, flashing with light just as the wide metal rings on his fingers do.

“Have we ever seen him in the reels?” Anton whispers quickly.

Calla swallows. Seventy-Nine is walking closer, but his attention is only on the desk attendant. As far as he knows, Calla and Anton are merely other guests, moving aside for him as he checks in. The men surrounding him have knives. She can see the bulges in their pockets. When one of them looks around to take inventory of the lobby, his eyes flash silver under the lights. A Weisanna, likely retired from the palace, gauging by his age. Heavens. This isn’t only hired help, but the best of it.

“No,” Calla answers. She tilts her head toward Anton, like they are merely discussing personal business before deciding on a room. As subtly as possible, they both slide their arms behind themselves to hide their wristbands. They would remember seeing this on the reels: a rich man walking around with others doing his bidding. “Never. Either he hasn’t killed or he doesn’t kill within view of the surveillance cameras.”

Which means the reels have had no reason to talk about him, and other players are taken by surprise when they encounter him. Playing in the games with a whole security team—what could he possibly be here for? Surely not the money.

“This must be against the rules,” Anton mutters.

“As long as the palace allows it,” Calla returns, barely audible. And it will allow whatever keeps its people entertained. Maybe Seventy-Nine has made some generous donations. Maybe he is a plant of King Kasa’s who can make sure the prize money flows back to the palace. Or maybe Seventy-Nine is doing what he wishes just because he can. The palace will still be sitting pretty when the news clamors to cover this surprise player instead of the unrest swelling in the factories.

Anton grimaces. By now, they have lingered long enough that the courtesans are glancing over, some gesturing for them to come closer. There is no way around this. They cannot fight ten highly trained men at once. The very point of their collaboration is that the two of them together are more likely to take out one player.

“We should retreat,” Calla murmurs under her breath. “It’s not worth—”

At that very moment, her wristband starts to tremble, emitting a low sound from underneath her sleeve. There’s no warning before Anton’s joins in, and then Seventy-Nine’s too. Seventy-Nine’s head whips in their direction, and recognition sparks in his eyes. He has never been on the reels, but Anton and Calla are its leading stars.

“ Run ,” Calla commands.

They dart into one of the corridors, rushing deeper into the hotel. It was too late to head for the front, so another way out it is, passing room after room—

Calla collides with the door at the very end marked EXIT . Anton skids in closely after her, and curses when he, too, realizes this is no exit at all, but a stairwell.

“Why are they marking doors as exits that aren’t the damned exits?” he bellows. “Why—”

Calla yanks him by the arm, pulling him up the stairs just as the door bangs open again and Seventy-Nine’s security detail bursts through. “Let’s go , Makusa.”

They climb the stairs and burst through the double doors at the end, emerging into another part of the hotel. The corridor here is dimmer, a soft bulb barely casting any light. Before the men can reach the end of the stairs, Calla lunges for a corded telephone by the stairwell and loops the cord around the knobs of the two double doors, holding them shut. It’ll last seconds at best, but that is enough. They each pause for a breath, pressing their wristbands to stop the ping.

“We can hide in one of these rooms,” Calla instructs.

Anton is already moving, pushing at each of the handles. They’re locked by keypad access, accessible only if the front desk has registered the room to an identity number and that same number is typed in. Just as there is a loud thudding on the stairwell door, one of the hotel rooms opens—unregistered and empty, the keypad unlocked—and Anton waves her over. He darts in and Calla hurries after him, slamming the door shut behind them. She tries to lock it from the inside, but there’s no mechanism. With no other option, Calla takes an ashtray and sets it down to act as a block. It looks ridiculous.

“We’re fucked,” Anton says. “We’re so fucked.”

There’s no window in the room. It’s also probably not an exterior wall on the far side but another room: most buildings in San-Er carve out their floor plans with maximum efficiency and don’t care about having rooms face outward. Which also means most rooms don’t have alternate routes out. Even if they smashed a hole in the wall.

“Will you calm down?” Calla says, pivoting on her heel and pacing the floor. The security team is banging with greater force at the stairwell door, certainly close to pushing through. She’s almost embarrassed to be hiding like this. She was trained to lead a battalion, and now a measly ten men have her cramped in a musty room.

A creaking comes from the end of the corridor, then: wood breaking and splintering. They have gotten through. Calla listens very carefully, trying to gauge their next move. With some muffled instructions, doors start to slam open and close methodically while the men begin checking along the rooms in the corridor. They must have a way to override the keypad lock. Does Seventy-Nine own the Evercent?

“We’ve cornered ourselves, haven’t we?” Anton intones. If their pursuers immediately started checking the rooms, then they must know that Anton and Calla are here hiding, that they could not have escaped.

“This corridor must be a dead end, yes,” Calla agrees.

The men will check their way along the floor, barging in on hotel guests one by one.

Anton releases another chain of curses. He plops onto a chair in the corner of the room and opens the newspaper he has picked up, covering his face.

“How’s this?”

“Cut it out,” Calla says. “They’ve already caught a glimpse of us. They’ll attack the moment they come in. Be prepared.”

Anton lowers the newspaper. “We can’t fight well here,” he argues. “We shouldn’t combat first. We should distract.”

Calla considers the suggestion. “How?”

“I don’t know,” Anton answers, unhelpfully. “But if their formation falters, we’ll have a better chance of taking them out.” He sets his newspaper down, seeming to acknowledge it as a foolish disguise. The moment it settles against another ashtray, however, he pauses. “I guess you could pose as a courtesan.”

Calla turns to face him, brightening suddenly. “That’s not a bad idea.”

Anton’s brows shoot up. There’s a thud a few doors down, then the sound of yelling.

“What, really?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

Quick as she can, Calla slides her sword on the floor, out of sight but within reach. She tosses Anton her wristband; he shoves it beneath the cushion of his chair.

“Because I didn’t think you were capable of complimenting me, Princess.”

“I said it wasn’t a bad idea.” She unzips the front of her jacket and peels it off, leaving only her underclothes, red silk holding her breasts in place. “I didn’t say you were a genius.”

“You didn’t have to.” Anton is trying very hard not to look. His eyes are pointed to the ceiling, even as he continues winding her up. “I could hear it in your voice. Anton, my hero, I don’t know what I would do without you— ”

Another door slams closed, much nearer this time. When Calla puts her hair up and snaps a rubber band on, she looks very different from the player that Seventy-Nine’s security team glimpsed in the lobby.

“Anton, my hero,” she mimics, slinking in front of him and positioning herself so that she conceals him from the doorway. He’s still staring at the ceiling, so she grabs the back of his head. “You’re allowed to look at me.”

His gaze snaps down in concert with her command. As soon as their eyes meet, Anton leans back into the chair like he’s trying to sink inside the cushions. Calla follows, using one leg to part his knees so she can lower herself onto the plush seat, the other leg holding her balance.

“How close do you think they are?” she asks. Her voice turns sultry as she settles into the courtesan role, smoothing a hand across his temple. She would be lying if she said it wasn’t for her own amusement too. She’s trying her hardest not to laugh. “Three rooms away? Two?”

She watches his pulse at his throat, the soft hollow beating at rapid speed. Though he’s forcing a neutral expression, he can’t keep his eyes steady or stop the parting of his lips when Calla runs her touch down his chest.

“Calla Tuoleimi.” Anton doesn’t sound like he’s teasing anymore. “This is a dangerous game to be playing while our lives are in imminent danger.”

The corridor outside echoes with more shouting, more disgruntled complaints. What are you people doing, why are you just barging in like this, no we haven’t seen a man and a woman, please get out !

Another loud slam. That’s the room next door, for certain. Calla leans over him.

“I thought”—her hand sinks farther then, the heel of her palm digging into his hard crotch—“you liked playing games.”

The low sound she draws from Anton delights her tremendously. She hopes they hear it out in the hallway.

“So that’s how it’s going to be,” he manages. He looks to the door, listening. “Fine.”

And he puts his mouth to one of her breasts, running his tongue across the tip. Calla almost strays from position, arching slightly at the wet, hot sensation despite herself. He does it again through the silk, even slower, and she would snap at him to cut it out before she’s not blocking him from view anymore, only the door bursts open at that second, heavy footsteps hurrying in before pausing at this sight before them.

Anton moves on, pretending to kiss her neck. He leans into her ear. “Three of them. Two in range, the third behind.”

As soon as he reports, Calla’s nerves sing with awareness, pinpointing the three new presences in the room, sensing their distance and their placements, halted by the doorway.

“Understood,” Calla whispers in reply. Then, she plucks out the two knives tucked in each of his pockets and whirls around, throwing them both.

One thunk after the other, they land in the two men’s throats. The third scrambles to raise the weapon in his hands, but by then Calla has already slid across the carpet and retrieved her sword. She pierces the blade through his stomach. A tug, another swing. He falls.

Anton marches across the room and retrieves his knives. He backtracks quickly for her wristband under the chair cushion and shoves it in her jacket pocket before tossing the garment in her direction.

“Don’t get cold.”

She catches it with her free hand. “When I’m with you?” Calla grins, swinging her jacket on. “Never.”

The fight resumes as soon as they reenter the corridor. One of the remaining men spots them and calls out. Before the force in the corridor have fully discerned how quickly their initial three men fell, Calla takes down two more, then kicks a third hard enough to knock him out. They jolt to attention, their attack turning coordinated. When Calla lifts her sword and tries to strike the next nearest man, she’s not only pushed back with a fast defense, but another to his left—the Weisanna—almost cuts her in half with a long blade that’s appeared out of nowhere. Calla manages to swerve; he only gets a shallow slash across her stomach. The sting is immediate, but she really should have zipped up her jacket. Calla spits a curse and swivels around, eyeing the distance back into the stairwell. Three paces away, Anton sprays blood across the wall when he gets a good hit on his own opponent. Still, they’re outnumbered, and from behind, Calla catches the blur of a blade—

“Anton, move!” Her sword slams in as interference, blocking the attack. It creates an opening through the fight, and much to her relief, Anton is fast. In the brief second while Anton is ducking away in the direction of the stairwell, Calla kicks the man back. The moment she has her own opening, Calla charges for the stairwell too and thunders down the steps.

“Front entrance,” Calla shouts. Her voice rings with an echo.

“They’ll still give chase,” Anton warns.

“Then we hide again. Any other useless observations?”

“Princess, I really thought we were getting along—”

When they barge into the lobby, Seventy-Nine is waiting there, unprotected. He stares upon sighting them, calm and unexpressive, as if he’s not an active player of the games. The desk attendant has ducked under her chair, shielding herself. The courtesans have huddled into the corner, trying to create distance from the chaos. But Seventy-Nine does nothing. He seems to think that wearing fancy clothes is all he needs to protect him from life’s woes. He looks like a fucking fool—utterly useless, asking to be slaughtered.

Calla has her sword raised before she knows what she’s doing. She lunges, metal flashing in the light, but Anton tugs her back at once.

“There’s no time. We have to go.”

“He’s right there —”

“He’ll jump as soon as you attack. His men are on their way. Now!”

Calla stops resisting, letting Anton haul her to the front entrance. They return to the streets of Er, ducking into an alley and hurrying away from the hotel. Each thud of Calla’s boots reverberates with the sound of failure, mocking her retreat. By the time they’re out of range and have evaded the risk of being chased, Calla is deathly winded, resting against the wall with her arms wrapped around her middle. Her stomach stings with its cut. The bleeding has already stopped, though, so it’s nothing she needs to worry about. She zips her jacket, covering the damage.

“Well,” Anton heaves, equally out of breath, “that certainly could have gone better. But it could have gone worse too. Good effort.” He holds his hand out for her to shake. Calla glares at him until he takes it away.

“Of all players to send us after,” Calla mutters. “August didn’t think to warn us about one with a ten-person tag team?”

Anton pulls a face. “He did it on purpose, most likely.”

Calla’s first instinct is to say that he needs her and wouldn’t send her into danger willingly. But maybe Anton is right, maybe August thought she could handle it. She left behind a whole throne room of dead bodies, after all, so what was ten men?

Calla closes her eyes and shakes her head, clearing her thoughts. She can hear the Rubi Waterway from here. They have neared the bridges that take them back to San. When she looks up, Anton is watching her curiously. He offers a placating smile.

“My apartment is not far.”

“Lead the way,” Calla says.

They’re both too tired to make meaningless conclusions about the fight they abandoned, so they walk in silence, crossing the bridge into Big Well Street and walking until the familiar brothel looms into view. Today, there are more stalls set up outside, wooden pushcarts with women behind them selling cheap shoes. Calla only peers at the products momentarily before she follows Anton into the building, because if she lingers for more than a second, there is no getting away until they have all hawked their prices.

“An unlicensed doctor rents one of the units on the floor above,” Anton says when he lets her through the door to his apartment. “If you hear screaming, that’s what it is.”

“Charming.”

Calla unhooks her sword. Tosses it haphazardly onto the couch. Then she empties her pockets too, dumping their contents onto the pillows. Unlike the first time she was here, she’s not in a rush, so she makes a slow perusal of his apartment, walking before his bookshelves. There’s another picture of Otta here. It’s more discreet, cutting off half her laughing face, but Otta always made her presence known in person, so of course the photographs that capture her are easily recognizable too.

Calla circles around the small couch and enters the adjoining kitchen. While Anton busies himself putting a pot of water on the stove, she peers into his cupboards, trying to gauge how long the candles there have gone unlit, a dusty shrine to the painted figurine of an old deity. Perhaps Anton is one of the few who still pray. If he believes that Otta Avia can be saved, Calla wouldn’t be surprised if he also believes in the old gods.

Calla touches the dust on the cutlery shelf. Just as the pad of her finger brushes over the rusting utensils, she hears what sounds like metal running lightly against the countertop, and when she feels movement by her shoulder—Anton’s arm, reaching over, holding something, holding a knife?—she snatches the first thing in reach and grabs his wrist, slamming him onto the table behind them and pressing what ends up being a fork to the side of his neck.

Anton winces. The whole kitchen echoes with the sound of his head thudding against the hollow table surface.

“Fifty-Seven,” he says slowly. The veins in his neck stand out, trying to brace against the prongs. The utensil itself is blunt, but if Calla shoves hard enough… “I was reaching for the bowl behind your head. Would you please refrain from attacking me in my own home?”

Calla’s eyes trace down the length of his arm, now splayed and pinned onto the table. There’s the knife. She had not misheard. But it’s too small and short to serve as a lethal weapon. The blade looks like it could barely cut tofu.

“Who said I was trying to attack you?” Calla asks. Her gaze flickers back to Anton. He’s close enough that she can see the ring of deep purple around his eyes, and in that flash of a second, when Calla reaches for the knife in his hand to take it away, an unspoken agreement is made: I’ll pretend you weren’t testing how fast I’d react, and you can pretend I didn’t catch your ploy.

She leans in, maintaining the farce. “You don’t want to finish what we started in that hotel?”

“Go on then,” Anton says, unfazed. He knows that she’s mocking him. But still, his eyes drop to her mouth. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Calla feels her wrist apply pressure on the fork, almost absently, pressing harder and harder the nearer they draw together. She doesn’t stop until her lips are close enough that she can feel the heat of his, and only then—only then does she come to a halt, mouth and weapon alike.

“Water’s boiling,” she says, and pushes away, tossing the fork back onto the shelf. She’s grinning when Anton straightens up, arching an eyebrow at her before retrieving the bowl and resuming his cooking. What’s the point in acting like they’re not constantly suspicious of each other? Theirs is a short-term alliance, not a permanent one. They can be friendly, as spiders and scorpions are while preying on the same nests. But let them both starve, and one will attack and devour the other.

Calla draws a chair, taking a seat. Anton finds a packet of some unidentifiable instant food and rips it open. He drops it into the water. Stands over the stove, stirring diligently. After a few minutes, he turns to find her resting her elbow on the table and asks:

“Have you dropped your guard so easily? Perhaps it’s poison I’m putting in.”

“I’m watching you make it.” The chair rocks beneath her. One of the legs is shorter than the others. “No poison so far.”

Anton shrugs, turning back to stir the pot. “San-Er adores hits made with flourish.”

“There aren’t any cameras here to catch your hit. A foolish endeavor, if you ask me.”

With a loud snap, Anton turns off the stove. The gas cuts off, its blue flame disappearing.

“Your Highness,” Anton says, presenting her with the bowl and a pair of chopsticks. He feigns a genuflection when she accepts it. “Do be careful, however. Poisoning has happened once before, eleven years ago.”

From her periphery, Calla looks at the small shrine again. “Seems you’re a fan of the games.”

“I do my research.”

Calla takes a bite of the noodles. “Because you’re intent on winning.”

Instead of sitting opposite her at the table, Anton has decided to lean against the sink. He glances over at her, faintly bemused. “Does anyone play with the intent of losing?”

“I’m sure some do.” She chews slowly. Despite all her talk, she wouldn’t put it past Anton to drop a shard of glass into the food just for the laugh. “If they only want the money gained in the Daqun. Or fame—get their name in the public eye and the reels tracking their every move.”

But indeed, most play for the grand prize. Almost every previous victor has taken their money and built a life away from San-Er: some in the nearer provinces, some farther out. They’ll take their family or their closest loved ones, fund the resources and manpower to construct a house that rivals the vacation homes of councilmembers. There may not be running water or electricity or internet beyond San-Er’s wall, but there is space and sun and quiet. So long as they have the money to acquire food in bulk, to build a well, to hire people that will cook and clean and work—it makes for a gloriously luxurious life, a far cry from the fates of regular villagers out in the provinces.

“What’s in it for you?” Anton asks suddenly, turning the question on her. “I’d assume you’re playing under a false identity. Why risk San-Er finding out about its lost murderer princess?”

Calla shoots him a cool look, stabbing at the food. She remains quiet for a prolonged moment, letting the apartment draw into silence. Anton hadn’t lied; there really is screaming coming from upstairs.

“Would you believe me if I said the greater good?” she finally replies. It’s as close to the truth as she can get. Wanting King Kasa dead is personal, yes, but this kingdom begs for him to be removed from the throne. Talin begs for change, the council eradicated and everything set ablaze, and though Calla wants to light the match just to see Kasa burn, it would be the fire that the kingdom needs.

She won’t hear of anything else.

“I believe you,” Anton answers easily.

Calla pushes the bowl away. She’s not hungry anymore. She wonders how many of these instant food packets are distributed across San-Er at alarmingly low prices, and still, people cannot afford them. Still, dead bodies rot in the corner of large buildings, unfound for weeks at a time until the smell draws the rats and the rats draw the dogs and the barking dogs finally draw a palace guard.

“Do you believe in the greater good?” Calla asks. Saving one beloved and saving the living, breathing mass of a city—do these not feel the same?

Anton scoffs. “Definitely not.”

Some other victors do. They try to use their money to lift people from debts, pay off bills, build schools. It never lasts long. The twin cities are hectic, dense, fast. People who are out of debt fall back in again. New buildings consume themselves from the inside out, robbed left and right by employees taking relentlessly from the central funds. Calla doesn’t remember it, but there was one victor who used the money to hire an army in the provinces, recruiting underpaid soldiers and untrained farmers willing to play pretend as mercenaries. He tried storming San-Er, hoping to take the city under siege and rule by coup, but it failed so spectacularly that the tale was later told at a palace dinner party over champagne.

There are more members of San-Er’s palace guard than there are soldiers in every army across Talin’s provinces. When the rebel victor stormed San-Er’s wall with his mercenaries, they didn’t even break through. The palace guard had them down in minutes.

Calla reaches for a fruit bag on the counter. Anton makes no move to tell her off for rummaging around his apartment without permission, so she pulls out a peach and bites down on it.

Even if they had made it past the wall, a coup was impossible. Who can fight a battle in a place like this? These cities are built for quick assassinations, not war. The greatest defense against an attack on San-Er’s regime is the cityscape itself.

“You are a pest,” Anton remarks lightly.

Calla offers him the peach. He doesn’t take it back, letting her have it. Again, her gaze wanders to the dusty shrine.

“May I ask,” she begins, taking another bite, “what you liked so much about Otta Avia?”

Anton freezes. It seems she has taken him by surprise, and a small part of her relishes in the shock that stills his face. Each time she sees him, he wears someone new. His eyes change shape and his nose changes length, his hair alters long and short, his height moves up and down. Yet no matter the body, his same set of expressions remains, and Calla wants to make a game of collecting them. She has seen smug. She has seen eerily calm, a feigned indifference. They are not enough. Anton Makusa is hiding a lifetime’s worth of deceit under his skin, and she wants to pick him apart, see what lies beneath. She wants to see his fullest contempt. She wants to see rage.

“August told you.” His voice is forcibly level.

“I recognized her,” she corrects. “We were in acquaintance.”

“What did August say?” Anton asks anyway.

She watches the edge of his mouth, watches him hold down the snarl that wants to curl up.

“That she was a sociopath”—his fists have clenched—“and a lying, manipulative bitch of a half sister.”

Anton cannot contain his glower. A rush like no other floods Calla’s veins.

“He wouldn’t dare—”

“No, you’re right,” Calla cuts in, examining her nails. “Those aren’t his words at all. Those are mine.”

Anton raises his hand. Calla lifts her chin, daring it to land. He’s not close enough to hit her, but maybe he’ll lunge in. Maybe he’ll snap. The scream upstairs stretches long, one split second sprawling and sprawling.

That’s when a siren blares loud, halting Anton before he can move and drawing Calla’s attention to the window with a snap. Her eyes widen. There is no mistaking that high-pitched whine. She has heard it only once before—utterly deafening and so piercing that it’s painful to the ear.

“What is that?” Anton shouts.

Calla lurches to her feet. “It’s the flood siren. San-Er is flooding.”