3 #2
“News?” She clucks her tongue and takes the cigarettes.
“The same news is everywhere tonight. The royal family slaughtered, both the Molloi and Arbogast lines wiped from the world. Wretched business, if you ask me, although some folks seem a little too excited. They think change will bring good things for us here in Brasspool. Not likely. It’s all rich bastards swapping around titles and wealth while us regular folk keep our heads down and survive. ”
“Too true.”
She sets two bowls of cheesy noodles in front of us, and when I pull mine closer, her eyes drop to my glyphs. Her gaze lifts, suspicion and jealousy replacing her former friendliness. “You look like you’re doing pretty well for yourself there.”
“A gift from an uncle,” I say. “Nearly worn off, unfortunately, and I won’t ever have a full set again, most likely.”
“How about your friend?” The seller eyes Vawn. “Doesn’t he like noodles?”
“He’s not hungry.” I drag his bowl toward me. “Do you have any idea who might have organized this whole thing? Assassinating the royals?”
She shakes her head. “They wore purple uniforms, a shade not belonging to any noble house in the land. No foreign insignia either, just a few thin chains on the shoulders and chest. And they wore helmets covered in tiny crystals. No one’s ever seen the like. Custom-made, I’d say.”
“But everything is traceable,” I muse. “There has to be a tailor who created those uniforms, and a source for the fabric, dyed in that specific shade.”
“What’s your interest in all this?” asks the woman.
“Same as yours,” I reply lightly. “Has anyone claimed the throne?”
“The palace is locked down, guarded by the purple ones. No announcements yet, but I’ll wager there will be tomorrow.” She casts another keen look at Vawn. “What’s wrong with him?”
I glance over. Two liquid lines have slipped from beneath Vawn’s mask, glimmering wetly on his exposed mouth.
Tears.
I have to get him out of here.
“Thank you for the food.” I rise abruptly and hustle him out of the patio area.
“But you didn’t eat anything!” calls the woman.
I march Vawn down the street and steer him into an alley. Light from a nearby street lamp filters in, but the shadows are deep enough that we should be safe for a moment.
The prince tears off his mask and flings it down. He props himself against the alley wall and bends forward, clasping both thighs and sucking in harsh breaths. Each one rattles in his throat and shakes his shoulders. The speed of his breathing frightens me.
“They’re gone,” he says. “Fuck. All gone. It’s true, it’s true, they’re gone. Terith would have loved those noodles.” His face crumples, and he muffles a wrenching sob with his hand.
Terith. The sister born a year before him. The second princess.
The prince goes rigid, his body tight as he struggles with his agony.
“I can’t—” he gasps. “I can’t—can’t breathe—”
In one of my classes, the professor taught us to deal with what he called “panic spasms.” I can’t remember any of the solutions—except one.
I grab the prince’s jaw, pull his face up, and kiss him firmly on the mouth.
He shoves me away, coughing. “What the fuck? Why would you—Why?”
“I’m sorry!” I cover my mouth, wincing. “I thought that would help!”
“You made—it—worse. I think—I might—pass out.”
“Not here. Alleys like this are covered in piss and shit.”
“Ugh.” The prince shudders, pushing himself away from the wall he was leaning against. Oddly enough, the thought of tumbling into someone else’s fecal matter seems to snap him out of his frenzy. His breathing is still rough, but it’s slower.
Or maybe the kiss did work.
“You need time to grieve,” I tell him quietly.
“But I can’t give you that. Not yet. Mask or not, it isn’t safe for us to stay out on the streets tonight.
As the word of the coup spreads, there will be more unrest. And the assassins aren’t going to stop looking for you.
They will know that the best place for you to hide is in the city, among the people, so that’s where they’ll look.
We need shelter, money, and a destination—anything far from here.
So I’m going to have to ask you to take your grief, pack it up, and put it away.
Just until I can get you somewhere safe. ”
He releases a shaking breath. “You sound as if you’ve had experience with this type of thing.”
“With the destruction of the monarchy—no. With the postponement of grief—yes.” As my own emotions start to intensify, I press them into their closet in my mind and hold the door shut. “I know where to get money, but can you think of a destination? Somewhere you might find refuge?”
“I would say with family, but—” He presses a fist to his forehead, frowning deeply as if it’s painful to think. “Possibly Lord and Lady Kaenan at Anyssir Castle, in the Grey Province. They’re almost family.”
“That’s on the way to Tularesk, the kingdom to the north of us,” I muse. “I heard they’ve been in talks with your father about an alliance. Do you think they might be willing to make an arrangement, maybe help you take back the kingdom?”
He gives me an odd look. “Maybe, but I’d rather not.”
“Xarsi to the east is insular, and they don’t have much of an army. There’s the ocean to the west—no help there, only pirates and monsters. And Kredissia to the south is busy fighting their own war with Mondeid and the Ferran Confederation. I think Tularesk is your best option.”
“How do you know so much about politics?”
“I like to stay informed.” I pick up the mask and hand it back to him. “We have a destination and a plan. The carpet can transport us, but we’ll need money for food, lodging, and necessities, including warmer clothes. It’s still cold in the north at this time of year.”
“So we head to the Pink Lycan first?” Vawn asks.
“Yes. My license chip is still good there.”
“License chip?”
“You can’t just walk in off the street and perform at the Lycan,” I explain. “You either have to participate in open tryouts, or you need a reference from a performer.”
He nods. “How long will it take to earn what we need?”
“Eight to ten hours if I just do peep shows.” I pick up the mask and hand it to him, avoiding his eyes. “It’ll be faster if I do one of the touch pods.”
“Twice as fast with two of us, though.” He pulls the string of the mask over his head and fits it above his ears.
“Two?”
“Of course. I’m performing as well. You can give me a reference.” Shock paralyzes me for a moment, and the prince gives a humorless chuckle. “I’m not about to let you do something I’m not willing to do myself. Won’t we earn the money faster if we both perform?”
“Yes…”
“And I assume performers are masked?”
“Always. And if they have glyphs, they’re given false nails to cover any distinctive glyph work. You don’t have tattoos, do you?”
“Of course not. You know as well as I do that they inhibit the accumulation of magic.”
“Yes, but you’d be surprised how many people still get them.” I peer at the inscrutable surface of the pink mask. Does he understand what he’s doing, or does his nonchalance about selling his body stem from shock and grief?
Raucous shouts from down the street set my nerves alight, and I grasp Vawn’s arm. “We’ve lingered here too long. We have to go. Quickly, but not so quickly as to draw attention.”
“A purposeful stroll, then.” He struts out into the street, pulling me with him.
“Change your posture,” I hiss. “It’s too wealthy.”
“My posture is too wealthy? How?”
“I don’t know—I can’t describe it. There’s an arrogance. A casual sort of…” I groan inwardly, knowing how the next word will feed his ego: “…sexiness. Tone it down.”
“Consider it toned.” He slumps his shoulders, letting his head hang forward a bit. His entire stance and his gait are still too theatrical, but I let it go.
As we weave through the Brasspool District, the unrest I predicted becomes reality.
Groups of young men run past us while clusters of citizens argue with each other in hostile tones.
The window of a shop shatters, and youths charge in, seizing the wares with yells of triumph.
When a pair of night watchmen intervene, a fight breaks out.
I hurry the prince past the conflict, through the increasing chaos of the streets.
The people of this district are determined to use the potential anarchy of an impending regime change for their own benefit.
I don’t blame them, but instead of stealing from the true perpetrators of economic inequality, they’re stealing from each other.
They’re ruining the businesses and the lives of their friends and neighbors, just because those shops stand within easy reach.
It’s foolish and stupid, and I hate that I can’t stop it.
We cross the bridge over the southwest branch of the river into the Vermilion Quarter and step onto Goldcherry Street.
On the right-hand corner, pink lanterns adorn the eaves of a large building that extends for half the block.
A few masked patrons are slinking out the side entrance, above which creaks a wooden sign in the shape of a wolf’s head, daubed with glowing pink paint.
I take Vawn around back, along the narrow riverwalk behind the Pink Lycan.
Wrought-iron tables sit on a patio of octagonal pavers.
Moths flutter near the strings of pink lamps swinging overhead.
It’s a pretty area to sit and sip drinks, but during the wee hours, on a chilly night like this, the patio is empty.
Vawn stays close to me as we enter by the back door. His nearness throws my mind off track—or maybe I’m just unsettled from everything we’ve been through tonight.
“Sugarcat!” The voice of the Pink Lycan’s owner, Bridah, travels easily from the very end of the back hallway. A couple of performers, leaning against the wall and chatting, turn to look at me.
“Sugarcat?” murmurs Vawn, smirking beneath the edge of his mask.
“My performance name. Shut up.”