Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

For the first time in five years, Calla steps into San’s coliseum marketplace, and she hasn’t missed it at all. The stench of fish hits her first: salt-soaked, laid out in rows by the entrance with their guts scooped out. She adjusts her mask over her nose when she enters, both to hide her face from the coliseum’s surveillance cameras and to protect her nostrils from the pungent scent.

High noon. Though the clouds are thick, the marketplace is awash with light, and Calla almost has trouble opening her eyes fully. She’s not used to unobstructed daytime actually reaching the ground, each of her steps made cleanly and not in guesswork. It’s strange to be seeing where her feet should go instead of listening to the beating pulse of the city, stepping where it tells her, trusting its growths and dips.

Calla pauses. She checks her wristband. No pings yet, but she doesn’t know whether that’s by chance or if August decided to pause them when she asked to meet.

“A treat?”

The voice is startlingly close, and Calla twitches, looking over her shoulder. There’s an old woman standing far too close for Calla’s liking, but before she can reach for a weapon, her eyes flicker to the woman’s arms. Visibly bare—no wristband, no weapon, no tattoo. Calla relaxes. The woman, with her sleeves rolled to her elbows and fingers covered in flour, reaches out and grasps Calla’s wrist, likely taking the lack of resistance to be a good sign.

“We have a dozen good treats back here, anything to your liking,” the woman goes on, hauling her in front of the stall. It’s not enough to set Calla there: the woman takes her by the shoulders and leans her close to the offerings too. “Plenty of flat cakes, glutinous rice cakes—”

“Yes, yes, I’ll take some,” Calla cuts in, nodding at the rectangular jelly cake in front of the woman. She can’t remember the last time she had one. It was far too low-class for the Palace of Heavens. The provinces are filled with these cheap treats, rolled out on a cart in the middle of the village square, an elderly shopkeeper dicing the cake into neat rectangular helpings with a piece of string. They can’t be cut with a knife. The blade would move in every which direction, gliding through the gelatinous blob until some pieces are as large as rock and others are mere speckles. They require something a little rough.

The woman hurries behind the stall and pulls the string taut. Her hands are steady as she cuts a perfect four-by-four, sliding each piece away from the others as they wobble and glimmer under the lightbulb hanging from the top of the stall. While she’s wrapping one in tissue paper, Calla digs into her pocket for a handful of coins and passes them over just as the woman is offering the cake.

Calla takes the cake. The woman, meanwhile, has frozen.

“Are…” Calla looks at the coins in her fingers. “Are you all right? Is this not a sufficient amount? I have more, hold on—”

She drops her coins in the hand the woman already has outstretched and digs back into her pocket. The woman finally breaks from her daze, shaking a lock of white hair out of her face before gasping, “No, no, this is sufficient. This is more than sufficient.”

Oh. Is it? Prices at the market have really nose-dived. Calla is hardly carrying around much cash in her pocket to begin with.

And yet, as the woman stares at the coins in her hand, she begins to tear up.

“Well, don’t cry ,” Calla chides, shifting on her feet. “If you cry, I’ll have to empty my whole pocket on you, and what good will you be for the next customer, sobbing all over their cake?”

The woman’s next inhale is a sudden guffaw, and she wipes at her eyes. Behind her, a boy hurries by wearing a pair of thick gloves, handling some squirming animal, but he pays them no mind and carries on, cutting a path through the other stalls. Another child walks through seconds later, wires and screens tangled in their arms, but like the first boy, as long as the market’s affairs have nothing to do with them, even when there’s a sobbing shopkeeper, they keep moving without another glance.

“Forgive me,” the woman sniffs. “This stall is closing tomorrow, so we’ll be without means soon.”

Calla blinks. “Closing?” she echoes. Her eyes trace the row of stalls, the iron carvers and gadget builders and dumpling makers. “Why?”

Another sniff. At the very least, the woman is no longer crying. “It’s—I won’t bother you with the details, but the council has brought in new rules. Higher fees and different regulations. They’re trying to drive us out, I’ve no doubt. They want to clean up the market, get the odd businesses out and bring in the people they know. But who will accuse them of doing so?”

I will, Calla thinks immediately. Don’t worry. I will.

A sudden bang sounds from the next stall over, and Calla turns sharply. It’s only a rack that has collapsed, but her gaze catches on a figure standing nearby. An unfamiliar face, but a familiar set of black eyes with a cold, even stare. Prince August, causing a commotion and waiting for Calla to take note of him. Without confirming that she has indeed recognized who he is, August turns on his heel and begins to walk away.

Calla curses under her breath and takes a big bite of the jelly cake she has purchased. Then, wiping her hand clean, she scoops out the rest of the coins from her pocket and sets them on the stall table.

“Take them, you need this more than I do.” Then: “Don’t you dare cry. Suck those tears back in right now.”

The woman can only nod, making a valiant effort to follow instructions. Calla offers a salute, merging back into the crowd to follow August. She has to shake her head at the other stall hawkers waving their hands for her attention, though she falters every few steps, wondering if they all have the same story. Hundreds and hundreds set up shop here at the rise of dawn, then pack away only when it seems the crowds have filtered thin. It will never be entirely empty in the marketplace, only empty enough when sleep deprivation isn’t worth a sale. Hundreds here, at the mercy of whatever decision the palace feels like making. Thousands more, scattered in the buildings of San-Er.

Calla lifts her head. The palace’s turrets rise higher than anything else in San, looming over the stalls like some foreboding watchtower. Gold-plated tiles and polished wooden whorls interrupt the walls of the coliseum, making the Palace of Union look like some miracle growing out of the ugliest crevasses. There’s movement, on the nearest balcony. Someone—Galipei, most likely—lurks in the throne room, keeping an eye on August.

Calla comes to a stop beside her cousin, who is examining a display of newspapers. The selection is sparse. Paper has been trickling out of fashion ever since televisions grew more affordable, and even those who can’t afford a television would rather stand outside a barbershop to catch the reels.

“So,” August begins. His eyes dart to her rapidly, then back to the papers. Slowly, he retrieves one and feigns reading. “This better be good.”

A cloud clears in the sky, letting down a brighter sunray. Calla visibly winces, buying time by glancing up and holding a hand over her face.

“I need your help,” she says. There’s no use beating around the bush when August knows she wants something. “I think there might be another way to go through with our plan.”

August spins on his heel. In one sharp and precise turn, he is facing her, the newspaper rustling in his hands.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I—” Calla pauses. In that second, every variation of her idea sounds ludicrous to her ear, each suggestion halting and curdling on her tongue. Sweat gathers at the small of her back, and it only presses more slickly against her shirt with the jostling of the crowd behind her.

Let me keep him, she wants to say. Let me have this one thing.

She can still feel the press of Anton’s lips kissing her goodbye before she left the rooftop. She can feel the twist in her heart, that persistent prodding at the back of her mind when she looked at him, knowing there were only so many ways this could play out. He gazed at her with such abandon, like anything she said would come to fruition by her mere utterance of the words. She isn’t sure she deserves it. If it comes down to it, if their end goal requires sacrificing everything, will she do it?

“I have an alternate proposal to get Kasa off the throne,” Calla settles on saying, swallowing hard. “If I pull out from the games, I can make my hit during the Juedou. He’ll be in the throne room. I just need you to get me in.”

August’s expression furrows.

“That’s entirely unnecessary,” he says. “In fact, it’s seeking trouble where there needs none. Stay with the original plan. Await being crowned victor and make the hit inside the palace.”

While Calla grasps for a suitable reply, a shopper suddenly bumps her arm, distracting her attention. She turns a glare over her shoulder, making eye contact with two girls walking together, both of whom stop dead in their tracks when they sight her. Though Calla thinks little of the encounter and turns back, she’s listening just well enough to hear one whisper, “Isn’t that Fifty-Seven? The one who doesn’t jump?”

Calla whirls around again. The two continue strolling, but it doesn’t stop their conversation, voices wafting over as if the subject of their gossip doesn’t stand a few feet away.

“Who is that with her? Eighty-Six?”

“Maybe. It’s sad they’ll probably end up fighting each other, though.”

The two girls are swallowed by the crowd, disappearing deeper into the market. Calla takes in a shallow breath. Sometimes she forgets that these games are televised—that she lives, even in blurred, pixelated form, on every television set across San-Er for entertainment. While she bleeds and fights and risks her life to get into that palace, the rest of the twin cities see only a game. Either she is good enough to claim victory, or she will die to the sound of their cheering.

“You’re not hearing me,” Calla manages carefully, pushing the words through her teeth when she finally collects her thoughts. “I… I don’t want to kill every player.”

Doesn’t she deserve something selfish? Something as Calla—not as a princess, or as player Fifty-Seven. She wants to pose the question aloud, but she already knows August’s answer. Golden, noble Prince August.

He casts her a steady look. With that alone, she knows he has heard exactly what she refuses to say.

“Anton,” he guesses. “You’ve gone soft for Anton.” August folds the newspaper in his hands and sets it down. Mutters, “I thought you were smarter than that, but I suppose I should have pushed you away from him earlier.”

Calla blinks. “Pushed me—” Her outraged echo fades off. Eno’s face flashes in her mind. “It was you . You sent people after me.”

Prince August doesn’t bother denying it, nor does he appear to have any shame in admitting to it.

“You were sitting idle for too long. I needed you back on track.”

Eno, ambling after Calla with a shine in his eyes, convinced that she could keep him safe. He could have pulled the chip from his wristband at any moment and walked away from the games. Calla should have yanked off the damn thing and demanded he go find a safe place to sleep, and even if he hated her in that moment, it would have saved his life.

“What logic was going through your tiny brain?” Calla hisses. “Slit my throat and let my floating qi do your dirty work?”

“They wouldn’t have killed you, Calla. You’re too well trained for them. They were mere threats in your path.”

Calla lunges forward and seizes him furiously by the collar, uncaring if she makes a scene. The rest of the market hardly casts a glance over. August, meanwhile, narrows his gaze, tipping his chin toward the palace balcony. It is both a warning and a threat. He might not push her off, but there’s someone waiting in the shadows who will.

“I thought we were in cooperation.” Calla’s fist tightens. “Instead you’re testing me.”

“I’m reminding you. This isn’t just another year of the games. This is high treason for the throne, and you’re gallivanting around like it’s no life-or-death matter. Remember what we are working for. Your resolve cannot falter.”

How dare he speak of her resolve. She wants to strike his cheek, feel her knuckles make sickening contact with bone. If she doesn’t release her cousin in the next second, Galipei will come charging down, and then there will really be trouble. Calla almost welcomes it. Let a fight begin, and she can explode outward, draw the attention of the entire fucking twin cities. Set destruction upon everything in her path, level San-Er’s buildings until she is surrounded by rubble, and maybe then the kingdom will finally build anew without the misery that their every selfish ruler has given them.

But Calla releases August’s collar slowly, lowering her arms back to her sides and tamping down her rage. Not now. Not yet. August smooths his shirt, looking nonchalant.

“I will see King Kasa dead if it’s the last thing I do,” she manages evenly. If it weren’t for the twitch in her jaw, it would be impossible to know what seethes inside her at that moment. She knows August sees it; he pretends not to.

“Good. Then you’ll also accept my reminder, I hope, that we are to depose Kasa by whatever means necessary. And that includes following the plan with the highest chance of success. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Calla turns toward the palace. She traces her sight along the top of the coliseum walls and wonders how quickly someone could climb them.

“Do not mistake my tolerance for weakness, August,” she says quietly. “Do not forget who you’re talking to. You’ve gotten used to ordering people around, I know. Day in and day out, they must heed what you say, because you are the crown prince, and they cannot offend such a man.” Her eyes flicker back to him. “But I am Calla Tuoleimi.” The lie no longer feels like a lie. “I am a princess who sacrificed my own throne for this kingdom. You do not order me around.”

A beat passes. August shakes his head.

“I’m not ordering you around,” he counters. “I am telling you quite vehemently that it’s a mistake to try to find an alternative when this is a very simple task.”

There is no winning this argument. August will not allow her plan; Calla does not wish to carry through anything else. All they can do is stare one another down, neither willing to relinquish. August may issue threats, but they will be empty. Before they collaborated on treason, perhaps he could have hauled her in. Now, too much blood has spilled between them. All this messy, traceable evidence—the reek of the kills he made on her behalf staining his hands. August has everything to lose, and Calla has her righteousness.

“We can resume this discussion another day,” Calla finally says. “There is still some time before the Juedou.”

August is silent for a long moment, surrounded by the sour aura of his displeasure. Instead of agreeing or disagreeing, he squints at a digital clock inside the stall and says, “Meet me at the wall tomorrow near sunset. I require your help with something.”

The change in topic makes Calla blink. She scrambles to make sense of the instructions. Funny… the stall has been empty for some time now. She doesn’t know when its keeper wandered off, leaving his newspapers for anyone to take.

“What sort of help?”

“Something strange is going on. I don’t want to use the royal guard.”

“Something strange?”

“Yes,” August says coolly. “Regarding San-Er’s alleged intruders, who may not be intruders at all.”

Calla makes a thoughtful noise, then glances at her wristband. “Very well, I suppose.” She flicks her finger at the newspaper rack and takes a step away. “I won’t keep you for long. Tomorrow, it is—”

“One more thing,” August cuts in. He remains facing the stall, speaking quietly. Calla watches the back of his head and the clasp of his hands behind him. No one else in the coliseum can hear him save Calla, and still he lowers his volume. “Mark my words, Calla Tuoleimi. When it involves Anton Makusa, what you have is not love. It is obsession.”

A hot flush spreads down her neck and across her chest. She keeps her expression neutral against such brazen words, though her skin dances again with the urge to lash out, to use violence where she knows her words would fail. August might win every argument he picks with her. But she can still tear him apart in retribution: she can tear apart anyone who tells her what she doesn’t want to hear.

“What,” she spits, “would you know of love?”

Calla turns and leaves, her throat scalding. She has spoken with such vehemence, leaving no doubt that she thought August was full of shit. All the same, as she pushes through the coliseum, emerging from its walls and into the darkness of San’s streets, his words echo after her, trailing her all the way back to Anton.