Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

The palace goes into lockdown.

Anton wandered off at some point after being deposited into his rooms, taking advantage of the distraction among his guards while they argued about who they needed to report to. Under their new quadrant system, there’s no particular guard in charge of the palace, only multiple Weisannas who have opposing opinions about how the halls should be searched and little difference between them in rank. They’re scrambling around the atriums and hallways, inefficient in their delineation of roles while combing through the Palace of Union to find Leida Miliu. All exits have been sealed and windows monitored, so it is not as though she can escape. Calla has disappeared too. On the lookout for Leida, probably. Maybe she’s already found her and refuses to report to the Weisannas or Anton. Fine—the farther Calla stays from him, the better.

Anton gargles, then spits out the water that’s crept into his mouth. His rinsing finally runs clear down the sink, and he closes the tap, marveling at how quickly the pipes in the palace respond. In his apartment on Big Well Street, sometimes turning on the tap meant listening to it creak for a full minute before a light trickle appeared. Sometimes turning off the water had no effect, either, and he had to practically unscrew the spout in order to close the valve.

He leaves the bathroom, scrubbing a towel through his hair. No one has used these in years. What was once soft fabric has turned harsh from time, the threads scraping at him as he returns to the rooms and comes to a stop in front of the mirror.

After a generous amount of black dye and a small brush to reach every strand, Anton has gotten the hair on his head back to its natural color.

August would be furious. All those hours committed to climbing palace ranks, trying to set himself apart from the other leg-huggers. All that time spent ensuring his face was the one that people summoned in their mind’s eye when they thought of the kingdom’s inheritor, someone to appeal to the rich and grant promises to the poor, perfectly suited for the palace to the council’s eye and, to the city’s, a faultless outsider who worked for his stature. August Shenzhi wanted to appear hand selected by the gods.

Now, he looks just like everyone else.

“Your Majesty.” The main door opens before Anton can give an answer. Immediately, the staleness inside the rooms alleviates, cleared by the air-conditioning in the hallways. “You cannot slip away from us when you please. It is a matter of safety—”

The guard halts midstep. Her silver eyes move back and forth in rapid succession, from Anton before the mirror to… Anton Makusa, lying on the bed. His birth body, at least. An unoccupied vessel.

“Seiqi, was it?” Anton asks, unbothered. “How did you find me?”

Seiqi Weisanna is still staring, her jaw slightly agape. She must recognize the face, if not the photos of the Makusas around the four-poster bed. These were Anton’s rooms after his parents were killed: a corner section in the east wing, barely connected to the rest of the palace and placed as far to the wayside as possible. They have been left untouched since Anton’s exile, with the exception of occasional cleaning, it seems. Past the thin layer of dust, the deep-green curtains still fall to the floor the same; the three ceiling bulbs still emit a hum when the brightness lever is set to low, the electric current pulsing through the wiring in a way that Anton has always suspected is too strong.

Despite everything, these rooms still feel like his. He can’t say that about anything else in San-Er.

“How I found you,” Seiqi repeats, trying to prompt herself out of her stupor. She shakes her head, her long braid flying over her shoulder, and says, “Um, we realized you left, so I looked at surveillance footage of the hallways.”

Anton remains silent for a moment. Then:

“I may have to reevaluate the order of the royal guard, given how long it took you to find me. I’ve been away for quite some time.”

Enough time to fetch dye from the palace tailor. Enough time to have his birth body moved out of storage and brought here, freshly dressed and arranged on the white sheets, looking to be merely asleep.

“I’m not sure that an unannounced test is fair, Majesty. Especially given the situation.” Seiqi, even in the dim light, has turned visibly pale. Her eyes flicker to the door. She regrets coming to find him without backup. “Galipei was very concerned. I can fetch him.”

“No need. I’ll make my way out now.”

Seiqi casts another glance at the door.

“Otta Avia is here for you too.”

That takes him by surprise. His instinct is to decline seeing her, bid her come back later, and let later never arrive. The less time he spends with her, the less likely he will be caught out. Then again, there’s no reason why August would decline seeing her in this moment.

“Otta shouldn’t be walking around while we’re under lockdown. Leida could be in any of these rooms.”

“Yes, well”—Seiqi clears her throat and steps out into the hallway, gesturing for, presumably, Otta waiting nearby—“as we have observed, the guards couldn’t exactly stop you from walking around either. I’ll take my leave.”

The mirror flickers within his periphery. Under better circumstances, Anton would be wearing his birth body instead of fetching it from palace storage, brushing off the dust that had gathered on his shoulders because his body became a forgotten insurance policy jammed between the discarded vessel of a councilmember’s son and a stack of books about the war. August would be standing beside him as flesh and blood, rather than the light reflecting from silver and glass. And when Otta prances in to say hello, her skirts too long and trailing after her on the floor, her feet bare, it would be as casual as anything.

“Oh, goodness.”

Otta draws to a halt.

But because these are the circumstances he has been given, he turns to get August’s face out of his view. The clock is only counting down until one of them remains.

“So, the gala is proceeding,” Otta says. Though she pivots, her eyes are still on Anton’s body upon the bed. “The council doesn’t think it necessary to call it off. An internal palace event won’t be affected by a lockdown, anyhow.”

“The council would do anything to avoid the appearance of conflict.” Anton pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to lessen the tension in his head. August barely has any space up on his thin, delicate nose. It’s near-impossible just to pad two fingers down on both sides.

“Including keep all of Kasa’s secrets.”

“Indeed.” Did you know? Anton wants to add. When Kasa killed my parents, did the Avias hear about it over dinner one night? Did you keep the unthinkable from me, caring just as little about the matter as August did?

Soundlessly, Otta slinks up to his side. Her hands run along his shoulders before she presses a cold touch to his neck. He doesn’t trust Otta. He doesn’t know anything about her intentions upon waking except that scheming is in her nature, that maneuvering her way into importance is as instinctive to her as breathing. All the same, he relaxes into her without thinking—he exhales fully for the first time in weeks. Anton feels young with her, responsible for nothing except the assignments he needs to hand in at the academy. He feels as though it doesn’t matter that he has no family in this kingdom, because he has her, and she needs him.

“August,” Otta says. Her voice is soft. “Why did you ask about the Makusas in the meeting room?”

Anton freezes. His instinct is to cover his tracks with anger, spout out some disparaging remark he would expect August to say. Then his eyes drift to himself on the bed, and there is little he can feign when this evidence lies before them. He wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t care to know.

“Don’t you miss him?” he returns gently. It’s a careful line to walk. He hasn’t a clue how August and Otta left off with each other before Otta fell ill. “I do.”

Otta touches his ear. “You’ve never shown it, to tell the truth.”

“He was my best friend.”

“You thought he was weak. You said if his parents hadn’t died, he never would have learned to jump, because his only motivation was anger and loneliness.”

It takes everything not to react. Anton’s neck flushes slowly, reddening with every new word. Weak. August thought him weak because his parents were murdered, their bodies shredded to such a state that the funeral proceedings were forced to cremate them ahead of time, leaving nothing but a canister of ash to mourn.

“In fact…,” Otta goes on, pulling away and drifting across the room. She taps a finger to her chin. “It was you who always warned me not to be with him. You said he would discard me eventually, once the wind changed direction. People like him only know how to run.”

Anton snaps. He doesn’t know what he means to do as he marches forward. His arm outstretches, reaching for Otta, and she pivots so fast to face him that her skirts swirl in a frenzy of reds and golds.

“Don’t say anything,” she hisses, and her demeanor changes entirely.

Oh, Otta. How I have underestimated you.

“I wasn’t going to,” Anton replies. His arm returns to his side. He smooths down his jacket. It is a performance, but no longer for the girl in front of him.

Otta tilts her head toward the door.

“They’ve put new cameras here. Let’s go elsewhere.”

In the surveillance room, Matiyu Nuwa taps through the palace feed, idly keeping an eye out for Leida Miliu. He doubts that the former captain of the guard would be so stupid as to get caught on camera, so he isn’t taking the task seriously, even though the entirety of surveillance was put on the task. One of the Weisannas will find her soon, surely. It’s not as though Leida can hide for long when the exits are sealed and the guards are sweeping through each wing.

His cubicle phone rings. He brings it to his ear, throwing the long handset cord over his shoulder. “Hello?”

“Matiyu. A favor, possibly?”

Matiyu frowns at the voice. He recognizes it instantly. “How did you get this number?”

“Anyone can call the palace and request to be put through. I said I was your sister. The Weisannas aren’t going to screen me for a phone call.”

They should. Taking people for their word seems like bad security practice.

“I won’t lie, Woya: I thought you were dead.”

“Nonsense,” Woya says, offended. “I’m in charge of the Hollow Temple again, I’ll have you know. Our time under Pampi Magnes was a temporary hiccup.”

“A hiccup that caused half your numbers to be jailed?”

“Says you, deserter—” Woya coughs, cutting himself off. Clearly he’s called because he needs something, so it isn’t smart to go offending Matiyu. “I heard you work in palace surveillance now. I need you to check on something very, very small for me.”

“I’d rather not,” Matiyu replies. “I’m not trying to get into trouble.”

“How many times did I watch your back in the temple, hmm? I only need a yes or no from you—yesterday, sometime in the morning, did San-Er receive an entrant through the wall?”

Matiyu frowns and tuts, even as he types in a search for the footage Woya is describing. “There are no entrants into San-Er while the wall is undergoing construction.”

“Just check the footage.”

When Matiyu pulls up the camera pointed on San’s wall, he realizes it won’t catch any entrant, because the gate is on manual operation. After a quick calculation, he finds another camera, farther away but at a higher angle, pointed at a side path. He rewinds. Fast-forwards.

“Doesn’t look like it. I’m only seeing guards.”

The line stays quiet. Matiyu pulls the receiver away from his ear, checking the sound quality. If Woya hung up on him…

“Oh.” Woya’s voice returns, breaking the silence. “Hmm.”

Matiyu presses the receiver back to his ear. He taps his keyboard, cycling through the other cameras nearby for the sake of it. “You know the surveillance room has technology that issues alerts when there’s irregular movement by the wall, right? If it were that easy to sneak into the capital, there would be chaos.”

“People do sneak in,” Woya says, sounding defensive.

“Sure.” Matiyu rolls his eyes. He resets his feeds, letting it return to live time. “As I said, there’s no—oh. Oh, wait.”

The line rustles. On the other side, Woya either sat up really quickly or dropped something. “What? What is it?”

“What the fuck?” Matiyu says.

The shoe is what catches his attention. The live footage on Gold Stone Street captures only a small part of the trash heap in the corner—there are cameras installed on just about every alley and street in the city, but they’re not all actively playing on the surveillance room’s screens, or else the people working this room would be overwhelmed by far too much useless footage. Camera three tends to remain active in the surveillance circuit for a broad view into the street. But that shoe is sticking directly up, and it can’t really reach that angle without a foot in it, so if Matiyu activates camera four for a lower angle on the trash pile…

“Oh, fuck .”

Swallowed within the trash, a dead man lies on his side, wearing the uniform of a palace guard. He couldn’t have been left there long, given the color that remains in his face, his expression frozen in surprise.

The most bizarre part, though, is the yellow umbrella stabbed through his middle, both his hands curled around its handle as if he was attempting to tug out the weapon shortly before death.

“I have to go.”

Woya splutters. “Wait, what did you—”

Matiyu hangs up the phone.

“Guards!”