Scavenge the Stars Page 11

  Philip Dageur looked over his shoulder and, seeing Cayo, sighed in vexation. He turned around and rested his elbows on the railing behind him, leveling a glare in Cayo’s direction.

  “I saw you at Countess Yamaa’s party,” Philip said, his words inflected with a slight accent from his parents’ homeland. It galled Cayo to admit it, but he was unquestionably handsome, his features soft yet refined, his sorrel-colored skin glowing with health. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t see me. Or follow me. Then again, you were always a bit creepy.”

  Cayo held back from making an immediate retort. He and Philip had never gotten along, much to Bas’s frustration. Cayo had always assumed that Philip was jealous of his friendship with Bas, and how they were always prone to some level of flirtation, even when Bas had gotten together with Philip.

  But he didn’t have the time or energy for that sort of drama right now.

  “Tell me,” Cayo demanded. “I need to know.”

  “Know what, exactly? I can’t read minds—and even if I could, your skull would be too thick to penetrate.”

  “If he’s alive.”

  Philip stared at him from under his eyelashes—scheming or seething, Cayo couldn’t tell. And he didn’t care. He was too focused on the labor of his heart, the desperate hope that shortened his breath.

  Finally, Philip said, “He’s alive. Barely.”

  Cayo nearly staggered back with the force of his relief. He shut his eyes for a moment of thanks, still seeing the flashes of the lighthouse behind his eyelids.

  “Do you know where he is?” Cayo asked, once he’d collected himself.

  Philip regarded him for a moment as the lighthouse flashed above them with the rhythm of a heartbeat. He took a long drag off his cigarillo, no doubt reveling in the way Cayo clenched and unclenched his hands, at the mercy of his information. And whether to divulge it.

  After he sighed out a cloud of smoke, Philip said, “Bas is no concern of yours.”

  “Wha—Of course he is! He’s my friend, he—” He came to me when he was in trouble, and I didn’t do enough to help him. “Look, I know he’s hurt. I know what the Slum King did to him.” At the reminder of those beautiful eyes floating in that jar, he shuddered and pulled his jacket closer. “Just…tell me he’s all right. Please.”

  “Why do you think I owe you that?” Philip snuffed the rest of his cigarillo against the railing before approaching him. He was shorter than Cayo, but his dark eyes blazed with contempt. The smell of smoke and alcohol had woven itself into the fabric of his jacket, his hair. “Why do you think you have the right to ask anything of me?”

  “What is your problem?” Cayo growled. “I have the right because I’m his friend and I’m worried—”

  “A friend?” Philip’s eyebrows rose. “Is that all?”

  Cayo groaned and raked his hands through his hair, the strands slightly hardened from the product he had run through it before the party. “Are we going to do this now? Seriously?”

  “You were always leading him on, and you never acted on it. He came crying to me once, drunk and stupid, saying that you didn’t want to be with him because he didn’t come from wealth or carry any status.”

  “What? I never—”

  “You didn’t say it, maybe, but that’s what he thought.” Philip crossed his arms. “Eventually, he came to his senses and moved on. But even when he was with me, you were still too close for comfort. Of course, you were far too dense to see any of it.”

  “I thought…” Honestly, he hadn’t thought much during those times. He’d always been in a haze, whether from drinking, taking part in Romara’s stock of jaaga, or from the high of winning. The whole point of his existence had been to feel good. And whenever Sébastien had wrapped an arm around his waist, or planted a playful kiss on his cheek, Cayo had greedily accepted it without question.

  It was no wonder Philip hated him. He hated himself, too.

  “Whatever may or may not have happened between us,” Cayo said, “we were still friends, and I deserve to know where he is. He came to me for help, but it…” His voice broke, and he roughly cleared his throat. “It wasn’t enough.”

  Philip let out a huff of laughter. “Nothing is ever enough where you’re concerned.” Still, he mulled it over, the sound of the ocean’s waves like an encouraging whisper. Finally, he turned back to the railing and pulled out another cigarillo. “Bas is leaving Moray for good.”

  “Leaving? To go where?”

  “He came to me, because he had nowhere else to go.” Philip paused lighting the end of his cigarillo to throw another glare over his shoulder. “I told him he could go to my family’s estate in the Rain Empire. At first he refused, but I made him come around. He’ll be safe there. And he can heal.”

  “The Rain…” Cayo’s gaze drifted east, where the cliffs of Moray gave way to the expanse of coastline outlining one of the vast empires that hemmed them in. “Where?”

  “Soliere. Where my parents are from.”

  The country of Soliere—long since subsumed into the Rain Empire—was on the complete opposite side of the continent. Cayo swallowed against the tightness of his throat. He had experienced this before, suddenly having one of the constants of his life ripped away, but it never got any easier.

  “Don’t pretend to care so much for him now,” Philip sneered, watching his reaction. “Or are you just like those other rich children, crying over a toy they can no longer play with?”

  Cayo briefly considered pushing Philip over the railing. Taking a steadying breath, he squared his shoulders. “When does he leave?”

  “At dawn.” Philip hesitated, the smoke from his cigarillo drifting upward in a thin plume. “He’s taking the Sovereign.”

  Cayo blinked at him, wondering if he was lying. At Cayo’s shocked silence, Philip scoffed.

  “I’m not telling you for your sake,” he said, “but for his. For some reason I still can’t comprehend, he cares for you.” Philip took a long draw off his cigarillo. “He’ll want to say good-bye.”

  For the first time, Cayo heard the misery in his voice. He lingered there a moment, wondering if he should apologize, if there was anything he could say that would help. But in the end, he figured the best thing to do was to leave Philip alone.

  “Thank you,” he murmured before heading back for the carriage. Philip gave him a rude hand gesture in farewell.

  Bas was leaving at dawn. Cayo had only a few hours to figure out what he was going to say to him. He paused halfway down the road to stare at the ocean’s restless surface, the lighthouse behind him flashing its warnings into the dark. Toward the places he would never see.

  The Sovereign was a midsize galleon sporting the flag of Moray, as well as blue-and-silver pennants that represented the Rain Empire. Cayo only spared it a passing glance as he ran full tilt toward the dock. He had only just arrived and had had to scan the board outside the Port’s Authority offices to figure out where to go.

  The horizon was limned in dusky red, casting a pink glow over the harbor. It made Cayo feel as if everything around him were surreal, from the cry of the gulls to the creaking of the ships.

  And the form of Sébastien just ahead, about to step onto the gangplank.

  “Bas!”

  His friend froze at the sound of his voice. There was another person with Sébastien, dressed in Dageur livery—no doubt sent by Philip to help Bas with the journey—who whispered something in his ear. As Cayo stumbled to a halt, gasping for breath, Bas murmured something back to the servant and nodded. Then he turned and made his careful way back to the dock, where Cayo waited.

  A violent curse nearly tore from Cayo’s mouth before he reined it in. He had tried to prepare himself, in the hours leading up to dawn, for the consequences of the Slum King’s wrath. But the reality was so much worse.

  Sébastien was sallow and wan, his hair lacking its normal luster, and his clothes—or perhaps they were Philip’s clothes—hanging baggily on his frame. And then there was the linen ba
ndage wrapped carefully around his head, hiding his eyes, or rather, where his eyes had once been. Although the bandage looked fresh, it was already stained with discharge, and the set of Bas’s shoulders told Cayo of the pain he was trying to hide.

  Cayo felt unable to move, like the shock of being plunged into icy water. It was one thing to imagine violence; it was another to see its result, to have to accept the messy aftermath. And to imagine it being done to Bas…Cayo choked on a gasp, a hot flash of horror replacing the ice in his veins.

  “Bas,” he finally whispered, reaching for his cheek without thinking. Bas flinched back at his touch, and Cayo dropped his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

  “What are you doing here?” Sébastien’s voice was low and rough, as if he were recovering from a sleepless night in the Vice Sector.

  “Philip told me you were leaving. I’ve been trying to find you for days. I knew what happened, but…”

  “Yeah?” Bas spat. “Did you hear about it from your new fiancée? Am I supposed to congratulate you for marrying the daughter of the man who did this to me?” He pointed at his face.

  Now it was Cayo’s turn to flinch. “It’s not like that! And how do you know about Romara?”

  “Back-channel gossip. They may have taken my eyes, but they didn’t take my ears.”

  “I…I didn’t know what he did to you until after I agreed to the engagement. Bas, I’m sorry. I know that isn’t enough, that it doesn’t really make a difference, but I am. I’m so sorry.”

  Bas turned his head away, seething. Cayo could see it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his fists shook at his sides. Cayo couldn’t stand that he was contributing to his pain, to his fury, to his spite for this city and the terrors that hid within it. He took a step forward, hand hovering in the air between them.

  “I’m going to touch you again,” Cayo murmured. “Is that all right?”

  Bas nodded stiffly. Cayo wrapped his hand around Bas’s wrist, feeling the strain there, the tendons pressed stark against his skin.

  “What happened, Bas?” he whispered. “How did it get so bad? Was my help…Was it not enough?” It was all he’d had to spare at the time, but he should have done more.

  “Stop making yourself out to be the cause of this,” Bas snarled. “Your guilt doesn’t allow you to become the victim here.”

  Cayo swallowed. “You’re right.”

  Bas took a few deep breaths, and Cayo could feel him trembling. Suddenly, he deflated. “It wasn’t anything you did, Cayo. You…You did what you could. But this was bigger than borrowed money.”

  Cayo stepped closer to him, gently squeezing his wrist. “What happened?”

  Sébastien used his free hand to pull something from his pocket. It was small and round and oddly flat, like a piece of charcoal that had been compressed. He held it out, and Cayo warily took it.

  “What is this?” Cayo asked, rubbing a thumb across its surface. It felt almost like graphite.

  “What does its shape remind you of?”

  Cayo studied the small object. Then he noticed the little ridges etched into its sides, almost like…“A coin?”

  “A gold sena, to be exact.” Bas had dropped his voice to a whisper. “Or rather, it was when I lifted it from the Slum King’s tables.”

  Cayo frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “I was scared when I took the money, so I spent the night with Philip.” Bas swallowed. “We played a game. The one where you put a coin at the bottom of a wineglass and have to drink all of it to get the coin. Except we ended up falling asleep, and I never finished my last glass. When I fished out the coin the next morning…” He gestured to the black sphere.

  A cold sweat had broken out on the back of Cayo’s neck. “It’s a counterfeit,” he whispered in realization.

  “And I’m sure it’s not the only one.” Bas’s head twitched, as if he’d been about to look around before remembering he no longer could. “The Slum King must have thought I was the one planting the counterfeit money in his dens, or that I was at least part of the scheme. That’s why he wanted to make an example of me.”

  Nausea gripped Cayo’s stomach, and he tightened his hold on Bas’s wrist. “You weren’t part of it, were you?”

  “Of course I wasn’t!” He ripped out of Cayo’s grasp. “You’re a jackass. A complete…utter…” His breathing stuttered, and he bared his teeth in pain as he pressed a hand to his forehead. “Whoever is in charge of this scam, I hope they give the Slum King what he has coming. I hope they take their sweet time with him.”

  Cayo’s eyes stung. He almost apologized again, wanted to apologize a hundred times, but he knew it would only make Bas angrier. Instead, he slowly leaned in and kissed the fever-hot skin of Bas’s cheek.

  “Thank you for telling me,” he said softly. “Bas, if you…if you want to stay…”

  Bas choked on a pained laugh. “I can’t, Cayo.”

  Cayo nodded his understanding even as sorrow dug a trench inside him. “I’ll miss you, Bas.”

  Sébastien sighed, leaning into him for just a moment. Then he pulled away, signaling for the servant to help him up the gangplank. Cayo watched them leave, then stood back and watched the ship prepare to set sail.

  He even watched the Sovereign depart the harbor, carrying one of his oldest friends away. A friend he had failed in so many ways. A friend he might never see again. Dawn had grown stronger around them, gilding the water and lengthening the shadows, and Cayo couldn’t help but see the painting it would make, a composition pieced together with regret and mistakes.

  Finally, he turned and walked away from the docks. Realizing he was holding something in his hand, he unfurled his fist and saw the remains of the counterfeit coin.

  Bas said he had lifted it from the Slum King’s own tables. Bas’s theory was that someone was trying to thwart Jun Salvador from the inside, but what if Salvador was fully aware of the counterfeit?

  What if he was the source of it?

  It wasn’t that big of a leap, knowing the Slum King’s penchant for controlled chaos. And if Cayo exposed him, or at least made enough of a case against him, it would break off his engagement to Romara. He could even get a reward from the Port’s Authority for exposing Salvador’s crimes.

  Which meant finally breaking free of the Slum King’s threats.

  The carriage driver stifled a yawn and opened the door for him as he approached. “Home, my lord?”

  “No.” Cayo clenched his hand around the fake coin. “We’re going to the Port’s Authority.”

  SOLAS: What miseries, then, have you endured to become so heartless?

  BRAEGAN: You must look to your own heart, for the answer lies within.

  —THE MERCHANT’S WORTH, A PLAY FROM THE RAIN EMPIRE

  The building was painted a shade of green that reminded Amaya of unripe guavas, and it left the same unappealing taste in her mouth. She crouched in the shadow of a balcony, dagger in hand, and stared intently at the street. Waiting.

  She had been waiting now for two hours; the son of a bitch was likely in the Vice Sector, or whatever ale shop was lowly enough to accommodate the likes of him. But he had to return sometime, and when he did, she would be here to greet him.

  Amaya hadn’t been to the outskirts of Moray yet, where the smell of the sea was diminished and the wind carried instead the verdant scent of the jungle to the northeast. The breeze was warmer here, too, and sweat began to crawl down her ribs and between her breasts.

  Finally, when the moon had fully crossed the sky, she spotted a dark figure lurching down the street just beginning to lighten with the silver threads of dawn. Gripping her knife hilt tighter, she watched the figure stumble up the shoddy iron stairs leading to the balcony. He fumbled for the key to the hideously green door and pushed it open with a squeal of its hinges.

  Amaya melted out of the shadows and slipped through the door behind him. He didn’t notice, rubbing a hand over his face while mumbling nonsense curses.

  He di
d notice her boot kicking him to the floor.

  Before he could cry out, she had the point of her knife pressed to his meaty neck.

  “If you so much as move, I’ll nick an artery,” she warned.

  “And I’ll blast a hole through your guts,” he growled back. Only then was she aware of the pistol trained on her stomach. She had underestimated his reflexes, even when he was sodden with drink.

  Amaya cursed and backed away. He stood and dusted himself off, leering as he kept his pistol aimed at her.

  Captain Zharo—except he wasn’t a captain anymore, she realized—had been obviously enjoying his new life of retirement. Although his shirt was stained with sweat, drink, and food, it didn’t have holes or tears like his shirts on board the Brackish. He had also added a couple more gaudy rings to his collection, fat bands of gold and gemstones twinkling against the weathered brown skin of his hands. A cursory look around the apartment showed a sparse yet decent setup, from the four-poster bed with mosquito netting to a kitchen area stocked with plenty of provisions. A door leading to another room had been left ajar, affording her a glimpse of a desk.

  All paid for with Boon’s gold.

  “Didn’t think I’d see you again, Silverfish,” Zharo rumbled. “Thought the ocean had swallowed you right up.”

  “It did,” she said, eyeing the barrel of his pistol. “It spat me back out.”

  “Not surprised, given how bitter you must taste.” He grinned again, all rotting teeth and malice. “You here for revenge, then?”

  It sounded so basic when he said it out loud, almost childish. Silverfish—No, I’m Amaya, my name is Amaya—gritted her teeth.

  “Go ’head and drop that toothpick,” Zharo said, indicating her knife with a wave of his pistol. “And let’s get this over with.”

  When your opponent is cocky, you use that to your advantage, Boon had told her during his training. Make ’em think the advantage is theirs, then swoop in and grab it for yourself.