Scavenge the Stars Read online

  The early signs were dangerously subtle, a fatigue that eventually came with all the chills and aches of a normal fever before gray spots began to bloom on the afflicted person’s skin. The only common factor among the victims was that when the fever finally took hold, it began to congeal the blood in their veins, turning their skin an ashen gray. The sickness had started as a small strain people hardly even noticed, until it proved fatal.

  Although a tincture had been made to stave off the worst of the effects—available only to those who could afford it—a cure hadn’t yet been found.

  Sighing, Cayo checked the time on his fob watch. It was his duty to make a manifest of everything they hauled from the holds of their sleek galliot cargo ship, but with everything running way off schedule and the examinations chipping away precious time, the crew still had yet to unload.

  His head throbbed and his pulse picked up as he speculated how his father would react to the dock switch. Kamon Mercado did not take kindly to insults.

  Cayo glared at the foreign galleon that had commandeered the Miscreant’s spot, at the billowing purple sails that had nearly blocked out the sky as it had approached. It was drawing all manner of attention from dockworkers and sailors bustling under a fierce midafternoon sun.

  Although he hated to admit it, the ship was impressive. The sides were painted with swirling Kharian designs, but the flag it flew from its bow was that of Moray, a cutlass and rolled-up scroll on a background of green and blue.

  A lone figure stood at the bow, staring out at the city that sat in the curve of the harbor like a smile, its multicolored buildings rising victoriously above the crystalline bay. Strange timing, for a foreigner to visit during an epidemic. Perhaps they didn’t understand the meaning of the black flags flying over the harbor.

  The dock switch didn’t bother Cayo, but he knew his father would be displeased. Kamon Mercado conducted business through commands, not requests, and expected his only son to follow in his footsteps. So Cayo had complained about the last-minute change with the harbormaster, with nothing to show for it other than a worsening pressure in his temples. At this rate, he was going to be late for dinner tonight.

  Then again, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

  He began to inspect the few boxes now sitting beside the Miscreant, the dockworkers having pried open their tops: bags of spices, a trove of silver amulets marked with the Kharian gods, multihued jewelry boxes studded with tiny mirrors, medicinal herbs and roots, pearl-handled knives, and even a cache of leather-bound books.

  When he was younger, Cayo had dreamed of jumping onto one of his father’s ships and sailing around the world. Of collecting treasures from the rain forests of the Rain Empire, the lush valleys and harsh deserts of the Sun Empire, the plentiful farms along the Lede Islands.

  But that wasn’t the life of a wealthy merchant’s son. His life was here, under a sweltering sun, trying not to breathe in the stink of the harbor while the workers around him eyed the golden embroidery on his coat.

  “The master not coming down today?” asked one of the dockworkers.

  “I’ll be handling shipments for the foreseeable future,” Cayo said.

  The worker raised an eyebrow, looking amused. “That so? Mind you don’t dirty those pretty boots, then.”

  Cayo pressed his lips together, fighting back the urge to say something he would later regret. Cayo doubted the man would recognize fashion even if it whacked him in the face and insulted his mother. He knew full well he didn’t have the respect or reputation of Kamon Mercado.

  “Do you know who that galleon belongs to?” Cayo asked instead. Might as well start trying to earn their allegiance.

  The dockworker shrugged. “All I’ve heard is rumors. Folks saying it belongs to a Kharian noble, maybe even a royal spare. Me, I say it’s a spy from the Rain Empire all fitted up like they’re from Khari.”

  Cayo tried hard not to roll his eyes. Although Khari had helped Moray fend off the colonialist control the Rain Empire had once held over the city, he found it exceedingly difficult to believe that a spy would make such a grand entrance. Since Moray was situated between the Rain and Sun Empires, it had proclaimed neutrality for decades, trying to stay out of the empires’ multiple wars over the years. But because they had a hold on the best waterways, Moray was still expected to “play nice.”

  Cayo checked the doctor’s progress, the crew impatiently waiting their turn for inspection, before turning back to the dockworker. “Do you think…”

  But the words died in his throat when he glanced at the end of the dock. Standing there was a familiar figure—one who brought back the smell of smoke, the taste of gin, and the nausea of regret.

  Sébastien.

  The sun turned his hair bronze and kissed his light brown skin into a golden shade, but as bright as he was, he still symbolized everything that Cayo had given up to be standing where he was now. Although the two of them had flirted plenty in the dens, often sharing a cigarillo out in the alleys, Sébastien had always been more of an enabler than a lover. He was one of the regulars who would join Cayo in the Vice Sector. And that made him bad news, just like the rest. Just like Romara.

  Sébastien gestured frantically at him, and Cayo froze, his fingertips buzzing. When he realized the dockworker was staring at him, he cleared his throat. “I’ll be right back.”

  Clenching his jaw, he walked down the dock to where Sébastien stood. Before he could speak, Cayo snapped, “What are you doing here?”

  Sébastien swallowed hard. He was perspiring in the heat, his hair curling over his ears. Cayo was always caught off guard by the intensity of his eyes, round and heavily lashed and the most arresting shade of bluish green. Impossible to read a hand in those eyes—impossible to read anything but a reflection of the sea that Cayo so longed to explore.

  Now, however, those eyes were pinched in fear.

  “Cayo,” Sébastien whispered, “it’s the Slum King.”

  Those last two words made a pit yawn open in Cayo’s stomach, devouring him from the inside out.

  He grabbed Sébastien by the shirt and pulled him close. “Tell him no,” he growled in his face. “I’m done. I’ve paid my debts.”

  And he had the empty ledgers to prove it. His shoulders tightened miserably at the thought of his depleted bank account, every drop of his fortune bled into the Slum King’s coffers. But at least he was free—he had cut all the strings tying him to that monster.

  Sébastien was shaking his head, sweat rolling down his temples. “I’m not here to collect for him, Cayo.”

  Panic was replaced with dread. Cayo let go of Sébastien’s shirt. “What did you do?”

  Sébastien licked his dry lips. “I…might have pocketed some of my table winnings. A few times.”

  Cayo sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bas.”

  “I know, I messed up! But my rent was due, and I didn’t even have enough to buy food.” Tears welled in his beautiful eyes. Cayo did notice that his frame seemed thinner than usual. “He cut back my hours because I wasn’t dealing well enough, so what was I supposed to do, huh?”

  “I don’t know, Bas—maybe not steal from the Slum King?”

  “I had no choice!”

  Cayo bit back the curse that rose to his lips. Unlike Cayo and the others, Sébastien didn’t have the luxury of wealthy parents to bust him out of trouble. He’d been an orphan for years, only making a living in the casinos under the Slum King’s employ.

  It was the side of Moray that everyone chose to ignore, the grit under the glitter. People came to visit Moray for its grandeur, for its casinos, for the lavish veil it draped over the mundane. They didn’t expect that lifting the veil revealed the hard truth: That extravagance existed side by side with destitution. That the casinos they loved to frequent caused people to turn out their pockets and become bankrupt, or worse, end up on the debt collectors’ lists. The unlucky ones, if caught, found themselves on debtor ships.

  Sébastien scrubbed
his hands through his hair. “Cayo, if he finds out, I’m dead. I’m worse than dead. I already spent the money. It’s gone.”

  “What about Philip?” Sébastien’s ex-lover was of the lower gentry, not well known but still affluent enough to help.

  “He’s already given me too much, and I squandered it. I can’t go back to him again.” He grabbed Cayo by the shoulders. “Please, I need something.”

  Cayo took a small step back, breaking out of Sébastien’s hold. He worried that if he let Sébastien clutch on to him a second longer, Cayo would allow himself to be steered right back to the Vice Sector. “You’ve come to the wrong person. My accounts…” He swallowed. “I have nothing.”

  “But your father—”

  “You really think he’s going to let me touch his money? After what I did?” He gestured to the Miscreant behind him. “It took ages just to convince him to even let me work for him.”

  Sébastien dropped his gaze. “Can’t you do anything?”

  Cayo closed his eyes, but it only made him more aware of the growing sense of dread that had been building in him ever since Sébastien had uttered the words Slum King.

  He didn’t have time for this. He couldn’t associate with Sébastien anymore, not if he hoped to win back his father’s trust.

  He reached into his pocket for the few silver drinas he had left. They were supposed to last him the entire month, according to his father’s budget. He pressed the coins into Sébastien’s trembling hands.

  Sébastien let out a quiet sob of relief. He tried to kiss Cayo’s hands, but Cayo pulled away.

  “Don’t come to me again,” he said.

  Sébastien nodded and hurried away, not even looking back.

  Before Cayo could contemplate the stupidity of what he’d done, his carriage driver trotted up and touched the front of his tricorn.

  “Pardon, sir, but we should be heading back now. The lord’ll be expecting you.”

  Cayo opened his mouth to respond when a shout rose behind him. He turned back to the Miscreant, where a couple of dockworkers were forcing a man back onto the ship. The first mate.

  “I’m fine!” the man shouted, struggling against the dockworkers. The captain of the Miscreant kept the rest of her crew from coming to the first mate’s aid.

  The doctor wiped sweat from his brow. “We can’t risk anyone with early stages entering the city proper. Cases have already doubled, and we can’t have it spreading further.”

  Ash fever.

  Cayo knew how much his father’s men made. He also knew how much the medicine cost.

  As the first mate raged and fought, Cayo had to look away. His gaze landed on the decaying squid stuck to the side of the dock, now swarming with seagulls.

  As he watched, a seagull plucked out and ate its eyes.

  Mercado Manor was like a pearl rising from the bed of an oyster, all white and gold and gleaming. It rested on a gentle hill that overlooked the Merchant Sector, which gradually gave way to the harbor and Crescent Bay, flanked on either side by flora and the tall, spidery forms of palm trees.

  By the time Cayo’s carriage rattled up to the entrance, the sun was mostly gone and the bay gleamed purplish blue. He stiffly emerged from the carriage, sore and a little sunburned.

  The footman came out to greet him. “Good evening, sir. We expected you home much sooner.”

  “I know, I know.” Cayo hurried past, the footman keeping up behind him. “I was held up.”

  “A change of clothes has been laid out on your bed, and there’s a basin ready for you to wash before dinner.”

  “Bless you.”

  Cayo took the front entrance stairs two at a time, passing under the jutting balcony supported by fat, curling columns of white marble. The iron chandelier above was already lit warmly for the night.

  Bursting into the antechamber, he made to run for the stairs when he caught sight of his father on his way to the dining room. Kamon Mercado raised a hand that forced Cayo to skid to a breathless halt before him.

  It was easy to see why the workers were skeptical of Cayo when they compared him to someone like Kamon. Tall, handsome, and stern-faced, he was a man who looked used to command. When he wore his finest blue suit and slicked his hair back, it was impossible to ignore the aura of power around him.

  Kamon, his hand still raised as if needing to keep the mayhem of Cayo as far from him as possible, looked his son up and down.

  “You reek,” his father said. “You were supposed to be home an hour ago.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. There was a mix-up down at the—”

  “Excuses don’t matter. Get changed, quickly, and come down to meet the Hizons. They’ll be here any minute.”

  Cayo’s boots squeaked against the gold-veined marble of the antechamber as he hurried up the stairs. Soria was already descending, an amused tilt to her mouth after watching the exchange. His sister was lovely in a gown of sea-foam green, the waist swathed in green ribbon and her shoulders covered with a small jacket of cream lace. Her long black hair had been half pulled up, the rest of it cascading down her back in elegant waves. She’d even applied glittering powder above the hoods of her eyes, teardrop-shaped and dark like his own.

  “Is that a Vritha design?” he asked. He recognized the seamstress’s style in the jacket and the scalloped hem.

  “I thought it would be appropriate for tonight,” she said, spreading the skirt of the dress as if to curtsy. “Not too much, not too little. Subtle.”

  “It works. Next to you I feel like a dirty shoe.”

  “Whose fault is that?” his sister said with a playful wrinkle of her nose. Despite her light tone, Cayo noticed she was pale.

  “Are you nervous?”

  Soria bit the inside of her cheek. She was only sixteen, but when she did that she seemed much younger.

  “A little,” she whispered. “I’ve been faint all day.”

  “It’ll be all right.” He took her hand and squeezed. “They’ll love you. Impossible not to.”

  Kamon cleared his throat loudly, and they both started. Soria gave Cayo a small, crooked smile before continuing down the stairs.

  He didn’t even bother to shut the door to his rooms before stripping and pulling on his good suit. He washed his face and combed his hair, then sprayed a good amount of Ladyswoon over himself, hoping to cover up the smell of sweat and salt.

  By the time Cayo returned downstairs, the Hizons had arrived. Kamon and Soria stood at the front to greet them.

  “Ah, and here is young Lord Mercado,” said Duke Hizon. He was a portly man of Rehanese ancestry, by the look of his light brown skin, curved eyes, and thick black hair. He, like his wife and son, wore his best: a black suit with a purple silk undershirt, complete with a traditional Rehanese wrap over his shoulder. His son, Gen, was dressed similarly, while Duchess Hizon wore a Rehanese-style dress of purple silk with a high collar. “Enjoy making an entrance, do you?”

  “On a cloud of cologne,” the duchess added sotto voce, delicately waving her hand before her nose.

  Cayo forced a breathless laugh. “You caught me, Your Grace.” He added a little bow. “I hope it was to your liking.”

  His father flashed him an annoyed look before showing the Hizons to the dining room. Cayo scowled at their backs; Soria saw and hid a laugh behind her gloved hand.

  Cayo took a seat between his father and sister at the long mahogany dining table and immediately guzzled his water, parched from long hours in the sun. He didn’t need to turn his head to know that Kamon was glaring at him again. One of the dining staff quickly came forward with a pitcher to refill his glass; he made sure to take more respectable sips this time.

  “We almost have the deal cinched,” his father had told him last night, after looking through his ledgers. “The Hizons are one of the oldest families of Moray and acquainted with the prince. Once your sister marries the duke’s son, she’ll have a higher status and access to the Hizon fortune. We only need to secure her dowry and set th
e date.”

  He had stared at Cayo then, his face hard and unreadable. It was difficult to find in him the man his mother had once loved, difficult to remember a time his father had actually smiled.

  “Do not ruin this for us,” Kamon had warned him.

  Cayo prepared himself for an uncomfortable dinner. Gen Hizon sat across from Soria, occasionally meeting her gaze before looking away again, shy. He seemed altogether too moody and quiet for someone like Cayo’s sister, and Cayo held no real affection for him. But Soria seemed content with the match, and he had even caught her and Gen walking through the garden a couple of weeks ago, his sister holding on to Gen’s arm.

  Tonight, though, Soria wasn’t herself. She was likely nervous now that the duke and duchess were there to evaluate her. Cayo didn’t blame her; he could feel their judgmental stares across the table and did his best to hide his face behind one of the flower vases.

  Thankfully, his father kept them busy with talk of the current political rumors drifting through Moray. Cayo thought back to the ship with purple sails and wondered how long it would take for the city to find out who owned it. As he made his way through the first course, a light stew of scallops, clams, and fried sage, his mind returned to the events of the day. The first mate. The smell of death. Sébastien.

  Had he been too harsh with him? He had been furious at the time, but now…Cayo knew what it was like to be in that position. To turn every corner expecting a knife to slide between his ribs.

  He heard his name and looked up to find everyone staring at him. Duchess Hizon was studying him over her wineglass, her painted lips puckered. It emphasized the wrinkles around her mouth, two deep trenches on either side of a battleground.

  “The duchess was kind enough to inquire about your work at the harbor,” Kamon murmured beside him. Only Cayo recognized the warning under his words.

  Do not ruin this for us.