Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

The palace has begun preparations for a celebratory banquet, readying for the moment the Juedou is called and the final two of the games are summoned to the coliseum. King Kasa oversees these matters personally each year, taking pride in his selection of curtain colors and matching tablecloths. He has more passion for directing where the chopstick holders should be placed than understanding food shortages in San-Er, and August watches with disgust. Each second spent here is oil pumped into his stomach, turning him utterly nauseated. But until King Kasa is gone, he will not throw up. The kingdom of Talin must likewise be patient.

Number Eighty-Eight was found dead last night, hands placed in the Sican salute. It feels like an ill omen.

“Your thoughts, August?”

King Kasa turns around, showing August the two trays in his hands.

“The left one is more fitting for a grand occasion,” August replies easily. King Kasa nods his approval and echoes the same sentiment to the advisor waiting with a notepad in his hands. August almost frowns, but he holds it back, as he has done for years upon years. He cannot falter when he is so close. He can almost imagine it: the fear in King Kasa’s eyes when he grabs his father’s silk collar and hauls him away, the glee in the servants’ eyes when they set down their bowls of fruit and step aside, when they push the king toward his execution and let his blood run in rivulets down his body, along the marble floor, out the balcony. Let it color all of San; let it gather so thickly on the streets that it overpowers the stink in the city.

August swallows hard, his throat burning. But it cannot be him. How would that end? The councilmembers calling for answers. A power vacuum in San-Er, both palaces fallen and controlled by incompetent nobility. There are no other heirs left. Royal blood has dried up on both sides of the waterway after Princess Calla disqualified herself by committing parricide. He must not rush. He must not slip up for fleeting gratification. There’s no pleasure to be had in stepping on King Kasa’s neck and spitting in his eye, in monologues or great big theatrics. King Kasa will not see it as justice finally catching up to him; he does not understand that he is anathema to this land.

He will have no regret for his reign. He will only think it a wrongful coup. And when he dies, despite how good it would feel for August to stand over him and see the terror set into Kasa’s eyes, August knows there will be none. Calla can make the cut. He’ll stay out of range to avoid the blood spray. That’s how he will save this damned kingdom.

“Your Majesty,” August says, “would you like me to check on the food deliveries?”

They’ll be coming in from the rural provinces today. Quotas to be filled in villages that can barely feed themselves. Rations taken from those who need it more.

“Excellent idea,” King Kasa says. “Ask about the fish, would you? We want one for every banquet attendant.”

“Of course. I’ll be right back.”

August turns on his heel, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. He wipes at his mouth when he exits, like he can wipe the grime off. When he rules, there’ll be no such silly matters. When he rules, he’ll do good—spread his resources, spread his education to every corner it is needed.

August finds his way to one of the kitchens. The palace is unlike the rest of the city. Its tables are clean; its floors are always mopped. The machines rumble loudly to pull noodles and scale fish, yet the smell is free of damp flour stink and putrid sea salt. Although the atmosphere is just as busy—and August is nearly bowled over when he opens the door, having to quickly assure a cook that it’s all right, that there’s no need for prostrating on the floor in apology—the people here are different. No one is worried about going as fast as they can to make their next meal.

“Your Highness,” Galipei greets when August appears in front of him. He offers a spoonful of the bowl of stew in his hands. “Would you like some?”

August waves it away. “What’s the situation at the hospital?”

“It’s always work with you, no fun.” Galipei tips his head back, eyeing their surroundings. In the time that he takes for observation, three kitchen hands walk by—one with a basket full of vegetables, imported from the provinces; one with a giant fish, brought in from the bays of San-Er; the last with a sack of rice.

Galipei continues speaking without fear of being overheard: “I’m working on it. There are a lot of moving parts if we’re trying to make it look natural.”

“Don’t fret too much about that,” August says. “Who’s to prosecute us if it looks like foul play? Maybe the hospital itself made the decision out of mercy. Or because she’s been there for too long—bed space is precious.”

“Hmm.” Galipei spoons another dollop of stew, then puts it in his mouth. He’s not dressed for work today, which means he’s skirting tasks from Leida. August will pretend not to notice, as long as his tasks are fulfilled.

“So, what does she have on you?” Galipei asks.

August narrowly stops himself from balking. Instead, he reaches over and slaps the stew out of Galipei’s hands. The plastic bowl is almost empty already anyway. August kicks it beneath one of the tables and hauls Galipei off by the wrist toward the doors.

“Not here,” August hisses under his breath. “Have you lost your mind?”

“How am I supposed to protect you from threats when you omit information, Your Highness?” Galipei replies evenly. He doesn’t resist being dragged, though he could easily exert his superior strength and halt their progress.

The doors give way, leading them into the quieter corridor. A golden light fixture dangles above them, crystals twinkling when it senses the disturbance in the air.

August continues onward until they come up to a window. They’re on a lower floor, so the view is half stone, half gray-hazed light, the roof of the apartment complex beside the palace marking a perfect red line in the middle. He pushes the window open. A warm breeze blows in.

“You might as well tell me,” Galipei says when August remains quiet for a long moment. “You have sent me on many strange tasks, but none as insane as killing your half sister who has been in a coma for seven years.”

August sets his elbows on the windowsill, his face inclined toward the light. His shoulders are tense, held together by a contradiction of steel bones and brittle tendons. No matter how strong he makes himself, it will not take much to pick him apart entirely.

“Perhaps I am less sane than you know,” he says.

Galipei frowns. “Do you doubt whether I know you well enough? You are mine to guard, August. I know you, under any circumstance. Tell me what’s going on.”

August considers refusing. Stubbornly, he wants to hold on to this secret, but Galipei looks at him now with an expression bordering on defiance, and he cannot allow this. In his mind’s eye, he sees the two of them spending their late nights in the palace turrets, going over the cities’ problems and peering down at San-Er as if they are the only people who remain awake. Very little sound makes its way up to the turrets when they are so far above San. The cities become a picture of stillness, separate from the work that August and Galipei do, separate from the world they create together.

There’s not much that August has all for himself. But he has Galipei, who was made for him, not for the kingdom, and if Galipei is drawing away, then he must be reeled back.

Prince August turns to his bodyguard levelly.

“I fear,” he says, “that Anton will find some way to wake her.” August pauses, considering his next words very carefully. “I don’t know how, or if it is even possible. But if he manages it before we seize power, then we are in trouble.”

Galipei leans his shoulder against the wall. He folds his arms. “Otta was on your side before she fell sick.”

“Otta was never on one side,” August returns. “She did whatever she pleased for whoever pleased her most. She should never have seen—” August breaks off with a frustrated noise. He doesn’t speak again until he has found his composure. “It is better if you don’t know.”

“Why are you making that decision for me?”

August shakes his head. “She can procure evidence that I have always been trying to uproot the king,” he says. “What more do you need? If I point you to see what she saw too, then it is one more burden you must bear.”

The window shudders, impacted by someone slamming a door inside the neighboring apartment complex. There are always palace guards in droves watching these nearby residences, making sure there aren’t any troublemakers climbing the walls and lunging for the palace. They would be whipped for even attempting it.

Galipei pushes away from the wall. He doesn’t look pleased, but he won’t complain. “Nothing of yours is ever a burden,” he says. He turns on his heel, waving over his shoulder. “I’m off. Page me if you need me.”

August stares after him, eyes narrowed. When he catches his own reflection in the window glass, he’s convinced he sees a stranger, though this is his birth body.

I know you, under any circumstance.

“Do you?” August asks the now-empty corridor.

Be careful coming around now people weird I can get my own lunch its okay love you

Yilas leans on her hand, her elbow resting upon the desk. The diner remains closed after yesterday’s scare, so she clicks through her pager messages in the back office, filtering through her brother’s last few.

“I’m going to check in on Matiyu.”

Chami looks up, her nail filing coming to a halt. Her birth body is upstairs, tucked in bed, a bandage over its neck while the skin knits together. Damaged vessels heal on their own, but it is a slow, arduous task. It relies on the presence of its base qi, rather than the swirling, active qi of an occupant, where the stronger they are, the faster they can urge their own wounds to close. Chami could jump into her birth body early and go around wearing a bloody bandage to speed up the process, but since she has a spare body to mooch around in anyway, it’s better to let hers heal on its own and avoid unnecessary exertion.

“Hasn’t he warned you to do the exact opposite?” she asks.

Yilas is already on her feet, searching for her keys. “Yes, but…” She finds them under a stack of papers. “I want to get a few of those pendants the Crescent Societies sell. The ones they say protect against jumping.”

“Yilas.” Chami reaches out, gingerly stopping Yilas in her path. She doesn’t close her fingers all the way down when she catches Yilas’s wrist, as if she’s afraid of tightening her unfamiliar grip too much. “It’s okay, love. We’re going to be okay.”

“I know,” Yilas says, and it is not entirely a lie. But she doesn’t just want to be okay; she wants to keep Chami safe. And that is a mighty big ask in San-Er, so she can only try for a smile before shaking Chami’s grip loose and heading out the door.

Though the news stations have declared there to be rebels in San-Er, the streets remain raucous with activity. The same crowds flock around the gambling dens, the same elderly pull their chairs out to smoke outside a corner shop.

Aren’t you scared? Yilas wants to ask. There have never been infiltrators past the wall before. Perhaps there’s something assuring about the numbers game of the twin cities. The odds say that today is not the day you will die, that San-Er has far too many people to make you the target of an attack. Perhaps that’s why the crowds of San don’t stay indoors even when the games are at their height. Blood doesn’t spill only for entertainment; it spills in factory accidents and robberies and random waves of plague. If they live in fear, then they might never emerge.

Yilas lets out a deep breath, but it doesn’t ease the twisting pain in her stomach. A drop of dirty water falls from the air conditioners above, and she wipes it off her neck.

The Hollow Temple is busier today, to the point that the front doors are left wide-open. Yilas flicks at a piece of the chipping red paint as she steps in.

She’s met immediately with noise.

“You’re not finding the right ones! I’m sure of it!”

“And so? How many times do we keep trying?”

Yilas eyes the two arguing men, then turns away. A fight might break out any second, and when they pull the chains attached to their belts, Yilas doesn’t want to be nearby.

But she doesn’t see Matiyu either. As cautiously as she can, Yilas wanders about the temple, trying to blend in with the rapid activity. There must be some event underway. Or perhaps a new goal for the team in this territory, Crescent Society members preparing to send reinforcements onto the streets.

Eventually, Yilas wanders to the back of the temple after finding his room empty too. He wouldn’t be at their parents’ cramped apartment during these hours. His job is to stay in the temple, in this Crescent Society sector’s home base, and run their inventory. The only place left to check is the storage room Matiyu took her to last time.

Yilas shoulders open the door, already calling out, “Matiyu? You really made me look up and down—”

But this room, too, is empty and dark. From the door, she can see an array of boxes left hazardously in the middle of the room, papers scattered on top. Yilas gropes around for a light switch, and when the room is bathed in an off-putting yellow, she inches in. What was it that Matiyu was so curious about last time? Something about wrong numbers…

Yilas picks up the papers. These aren’t the same storage logs. These are printed maps—all time-stamped in the corner—looking like second-by-second screenshots from the palace’s surveillance.

It’s their log of the games and the movement of each player.

“What the fuck?” Yilas says aloud, leafing through the papers. At random, she retrieves one where 57 and 86 are marked with two dots in the corner, circled in red.

But before Yilas can fold it up and take the map with her, something comes over her face from behind, turning her world dark.