NOW
It didn’t quite hit Nhika how many months she’d missed until the rain came in—autumnal chills, when it should’ve been the middle of summer. Looking out her window now, she found the dirt road out of this manor muddied from the downpour. There came a sense that she was waiting for someone to arrive—Kochin, Trin, anyone. Or perhaps, she was waiting for a moment to leave.
A knock on her door drew her attention from the window to her doorframe, where Mimi stood with a long gown in her arms. The girl herself was still dressed in mud-spattered trousers, having just come back from some field test with Andao.
After she entered, Mimi hung the gown on the door of Nhika’s wardrobe, its red skirt waterfalling down into deep purples and the thighs slit to reveal matching purple pants beneath. Gold flecked the hem like splattered paint—or spilled blood—and the outfit came with glittering golden gloves. Though they were meant to tie the outfit together, their solid shine made them stand out. It looked beautiful. It looked wrong.
“I had it tailored,” Mimi said. “I wanted you to have something to wear for Commissioner Nem’s party.”
Nhika was looking forward to Nem’s party—but not for her usual reasons. The Congmis didn’t know what had happened to Kochin, but someone did. She had to believe a man of his stature couldn’t simply disappear.
And … a naive part of her hoped to find him at the party, dressed in a vest suit with bare hands and a bold smile—I’ve been looking for you, Ms. Suon. If she could find him unharmed, she might even forgive him for disappearing on her.
“Where is the party?” Nhika asked. After the air raid drill, she feared returning to Central.
“Nem has a home nearby, in Western.”
Western Theumas was as far from Daltanny as anyone could get, so she couldn’t blame those with the wealth to relocate. But she imagined her old life in the Dog Borough—imagined watching those warships leave the harbor every morning. She was eighteen—old enough to be placed on one of those ships, even. Being able to escape the war was a luxury Nhika had never expected to possess.
With a sympathetic look, Mimi took a seat beside her. “I know it’s a lot. The world you left is not the same world you’re returning to, is it?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Well, when my father died and Hendon was injured, you helped us heal. I don’t know if it’s against your heartsooth sensibilities, relinquishing yourself to the care of another, but I’d like to return the favor.”
More than ever before, Mimi looked so genuine and earnest, and Nhika realized she was finally seeing the girl beyond her grief and anger. And there was something precious about her intent—healing Nhika, when Nhika had always managed fine on her own. “You’ve done enough.”
“No,” Mimi said. In a quieter voice, she added, “Andao has me on Trin’s old duties now, and every time I balance the ledger, I know there’s an invisible debt there, one we owe you. I wish we could pay it back with chem—at least that’s something we know how to do.”
“I’ll take chem,” Nhika joked. “Now that I think about it, I never did get paid for healing Hendon, did I?”
Mimi laughed. It sounded like music. “I suppose not. We can make good on that debt, too.”
Nhika looked Mimi over. She was still the delicate smile, lotus petals on untouched water. Still the bashful doe eyes, the cherub cheeks, pinned hair. But, as with everything, she’d been changed—touched by the selfsame melancholy that had transformed the household and Theumas itself. After sitting through that air raid drill, Nhika was beginning to understand it. It was a different kind of grief than losing a loved one—it was the kind that mourned a life they’d never know again.
“Food, shelter, dinner parties with commissioners,” Nhika said. “It’s a good start.”
The playfulness returned to Mimi’s expression. “I’m glad you’re coming to Commissioner Nem’s party with me—so I won’t have to be the only one pretending she’s someone she isn’t.”
“And who are you pretending to be?”
“The Congmi heiress.”
“You are.”
“Then it’s working.” Mimi sighed again, looking tired beyond her years. “Funerals and parties—at some point, they start feeling the same.”
“Don’t get me too excited.”
“I’m only joking. Mostly.” Mimi clapped her hands against her lap as she stood, something to dispel the sentimentality. “Besides, it’s a dinner party. At the very least, I know you can enjoy the dinner part.”
Ah, well, Nhika couldn’t argue with that.
Nhika learned the hard way of Mimi’s latest venture: learning to drive. In the night, Mimi sped them toward Nem’s party in one of Mr. Congmi’s old autocarriages, the pale tree trunks of the forested roads blurring by like upright skeletons. At times, Nhika was sure that all four wheels left the ground, but she made no comment—that was for Andao and Hendon to do, both clutching their chairs with white knuckles.
Thankfully, the trip was just a town over. When they reached Nem’s property, Mimi finally slowed to join a line of autocarriages at the gate, which rounded the courtyard of Nem’s gorgeous countryside villa. Though it was already sundown, the mansion glowed gold with lights—gas lamps at the door and electric spotlights showering the stone facade in honey gold against the darkening blue of the sky. The villa was larger than the Congmis’, with a towering central body and expansive wings on either side, cradling the courtyard and gardens in their berth. The architecture was everything she might expect from a commissioner: the perfect symmetry, the many balconies and pinnacled roofs, the sweeping staircase and pillared entryway. Nhika figured she should’ve been accustomed to buildings like these by now. Perhaps she’d have to reacclimate to wealth; dying had reset her progress.
When they reached the front of the line, Mimi passed the ignition key to the valet. A butler swooped in to escort her and Andao toward the villa.
The guests strutted up to the mansion like peacocks, each taking a moment to flaunt their dresses or suits at the top of the stairs. Though Mimi had given Nhika a beautiful gown, it didn’t quite compare to some others: dragging capes bejeweled like a puddle of the night sky; gloves scaled with delicate plates of metal to mimic dragon skin; or fabric that shimmered with the iridescence of hummingbird throats. Lights flashed, and Nhika took a moment to recognize the cameras of photographers, who’d found time to come out to Western Theumas to capture poorly lit photographs of Theumas’s wealthiest.
Mimi was right. Funerals and parties did look the same with this company.
As she neared the top of the stairs, Nhika felt oddly shy. Mimi, walking before her, linked arms with her brother as they both turned toward the photographers. She wore a youthful gown, white melting into threads of gold as it unfurled like the tail of a betta at the hem. Andao wore gold trim to match her. A couple reporters asked about Trin, upcoming marriage plans, but Andao turned away without answer.
Noticing Nhika’s discomfort, Hendon shielded her from the vulturelike photographers as much as his thin frame could; they entered Nem’s open doors without stopping for pictures.
Inside, a sizable attendance had already gathered in the entryway. Champagne overflowed from glasses and gown trails swept the ground, while buoyant conversation and tipsy laughter created a general air of revelry. Nhika found herself scanning the crowds for a face, coiffed hair and antagonizing smile, but of course Kochin wouldn’t be here. It would be strange, attending such an event without his opposition. And she’d dreaded it so much before.
At some point, Andao was called away, and so was Mimi, with Hendon following her—leaving Nhika alone before a crowd of people she barely recognized, who hardly paid her a second glance. It had been so fun to pretend she was a part of this company when she’d first joined, but then she’d learned that a mask could be as simple as a pleasant conversation and a business card. The bullet wound in her shoulder, hidden behind beautiful silk, was a reminder that the prettiest snakes had the most venomous fangs.
The only thing that kept her here was opportunity—not the same kind she’d sought before, the desire to wheedle her way into this society like a wood louse beneath mahogany floorboards. But, certainly, among all these people, at least one person would know what happened to Santo’s aide.
The first person to catch her eye was Nem. Or, Commissioner Nem. His station far outweighed even her fake identity now, but Nhika strode boldly toward him—until she saw the pistol holstered at his waist, a jarring accessory to an otherwise sharp outfit.
Her muscles froze, breath catching. Nhika wasn’t sure when she’d become afraid of guns—certainly not when Kochin had pointed one at her. It wasn’t the pain that scared her. It was what the weapon meant. A chunk of metal and gunpowder that could kill a heartsooth—proof that she could die and had died. All her bravado from earlier disappeared, and she turned her sights on someone else: Mr. Ngut, head of Ngut Inventions, trying to enjoy an open bar in peace. Discarding etiquette, she hitched up her dress and strutted toward him, though she could tell he was attempting to avoid her eye.
“Mr. Ngut,” she said, bowing, and he gingerly lowered his drink to bow his head. “It’s been a while.”
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to remind me your name.”
Her cheek twitched with a smile. “Suon Ko Nhika.”
“Ah, Ms. Suon, of course,” he said. “Pleasant party, isn’t it? So kind of Commissioner Nem to find time in his schedule to host.”
There was resentment there, and she remembered they’d both been leading candidates. Seemed Mr. Ngut hadn’t been taking the loss well. “Yes, so kind—anyway, I wanted to ask you a question.”
Mr. Ngut downed his drink. “I’m sorry, Ms. Suon, but I’m afraid I don’t have any positions avail—”
“When’s the last time you heard from Ven Kochin?”
At that, Mr. Ngut froze. “Now, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.”
“What do you mean?”
“Last we talked was months ago. He gave me a call.”
“What about?”
Mr. Ngut pinched his chin, as though trying to remember. “He was asking about one of my long-distance dirigibles. Wondering if I could muster a crew to take him to Yarong, if I remember correctly—of course, that was impossible, so—”
“Why?” Nhika interrupted, and Mr. Ngut gave her a piqued look. “Why was he going to Yarong?”
“Guilt, would be my guess—what with his old employer’s penchant, to, ah…” He eyed her over, as though remembering the Yarongese could exist off the island, and cleared his throat. “I should probably get going. Would hate to leave the wife to fend for herself.”
Mr. Ngut left his empty glass and fled, and Nhika let him; he didn’t have the answers she was searching for. But it was a hint: Kochin had gone to Yarong, despite the island being under Daltan rule. She wanted to believe it was about soul-searching—that, after she’d died, he’d been inspired to learn more of their culture.
Somehow, she knew the answer wasn’t so pretty.
“Let me go!”
Nhika turned, following the cry—because it had sounded familiar. It sounded almost like the way her grandmother would say it, the way Kochin’s mother might say it. It sounded Yarongese.
There, at the entrance, a Yarongese girl was being detained by Nem’s security detail. Skin the color of honey, high cheekbones, dark brows—she was tall and elegantly sculpted, but her clothing betrayed her. Despite the shawl she wore, Nhika still spied the plain yellow gown beneath, a shoddy mimicry of the true golds worn by others.
By Nhika herself.
“I’m expected,” she protested indignantly, but the guards didn’t loosen their gloved holds.
“I’m not seeing a Lana on the guest list,” one was saying.
“It’s Lanalay,” the girl corrected in a condescending tone. She spoke her full trisyllabic Yarongese name like a beautiful melody. It compelled Nhika closer, though other guests shied from the scuffle. The commotion attracted eyes, and her thoughts were on the gun at Nem’s waist, wondering how he would take to a trespasser, especially one that looked Yarongese.
“Well, Lanalay, you haven’t been invited,” the guard insisted. “You can either go peacefully, or I can call local authorities to make you cooperate.”
Nhika cleared her throat. Eyes turned toward her, and before she understood what she was doing, she said, “Excuse me, officers.”
“Ms. Suon.” The guard bowed deep, though his apprehension didn’t lift.
“She’s a friend of mine and the Congmis’,” Nhika said. “If her name’s not on the guest list, it’s simply because no one could spell it.”
Lanalay gave her a wary look. Nhika had been hoping for something more appreciative.
“Is that so?” the guard asked.
“Yes. Let me call Congmi Quan Andao over and he can confirm it,” she bluffed, pretending to scan the room. Luckily, he was nowhere in sight—but even if he was, she imagined she could bully him into playing along.
The guard waved his hand. “It’s our mistake, Ms. Suon,” he said, then turned to Lanalay. “And apologies, Miss…”
“Numathai,” Lanalay responded, brushing off her gloves as though he’d sullied them with his touch. Yet, they were of the cheap cotton variety, the kind worn for weather rather than fashion.
“Our apologies, Miss Numathai. Please, enjoy the party.” The guard waved them in, and Lanalay strode into the foyer at Nhika’s side.
“You have my thanks, Ms. Suon,” Lanalay said once they were out of range, but her tone was more practical than grateful. She started to leave, but Nhika grabbed her arm.
“Hold on a moment,” Nhika said. She eyed Lanalay up and down. Gaudy clothing, the kind of stuff Nhika used to think was fancy growing up in the Dog Borough—bold colors but cheap material; all the right pieces, but none of them matching. “You weren’t actually invited, were you?”
“As you said—if they forgot my name on the guest list, it’s because they could not spell it.”
“Numathai Lanalay,” Nhika remembered. “Is that even your real name?”
“Suon,” Lanalay returned, looking Nhika up and down. “Is that even yours?”
This was no way to repay a favor, but Nhika let the contentiousness slide. More than anything, she was intrigued—why a girl with a Yarongese accent wanted to sneak into a commissioner’s party, and how she thought she could do it dressed like that.
Mother help her, she was starting to sound like Kochin.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I am here for the food. The drink. The company,” Lanalay said, but it was a plain lie. “May I leave now?”
“Seeing as I’ve basically sponsored you in, I just need to make sure you’re not—I don’t know—planning to assassinate anyone.”
Lanalay looked unaffected by the accusation. “I am not,” she said, the sentence coming out prideful. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Suon Ko Nhika. I’m here with the Congmis,” Nhika replied. She was used to condescension, but usually it came from people above her station. If Lanalay had snuck into high society—well, then they were in the same exact position. “If you have ill intention with this crowd, I can call those guards right back over. Now that I think about it, maybe I mistook you for someone else.”
Lanalay’s eyes narrowed, like she wanted to call Nhika’s bluff, but she said, “Very well. If you must know, I was not invited. Your commissioner has no business with a translator from Yarong, but I have no plans on stirring trouble here.”
Yarong. Nhika’s suspicions were confirmed; Lanalay was from the island itself. But they must’ve been around the same age, so for her to have left Yarong meant Daltan had lowered its isolationist policies. Either that, or—
“Ms. Suon!” boomed a voice to her left. Nhika turned just as Nem approached, his arms outspread and a glass of champagne between his fingers. Though he still looked kempt, the gelled hair and a suit already decorated with wartime medals, the redness in his cheeks suggested early stages of inebriation.
“Commissioner,” Nhika greeted, bowing low. She looked toward Lanalay, trying to coax the same formalities out of the stowaway, only to find her missing.
Before Nhika could question it, Nem said, “How are you enjoying the party?”
“Just fine, Commissioner.” Her eyes scanned the crowd. How much could a girl in yellow blend in?
“And how has your recovery been?”
Nhika gave the commissioner a wary look. “Fine. Why do you ask?”
“The Congmis are my dearest business partners. Any friend of theirs is a friend of mine.”
Nhika remembered Andao mentioning the partnership. Nem was a brute, she decided, celebrating the alliance when it clearly brought Andao so much shame. “Would you consider yourself their friend?”
“Something better—their ally. We all have the same goals, do we not?”
“I think that depends on what you fight for, Commissioner.” She studied him, the deep trenches of his laugh lines—though he hardly ever laughed—and the hard-set, unyielding eyes. She was looking for a mask. Surely, a man who made his fortune selling armaments fought for different reasons than a man simply defending his lover.
“Peace and freedom,” Nem responded. Nhika felt something tight wrap around her chest, but those words sounded different coming from a commissioner’s lips than Kochin’s. Here, they sounded like lofty, weaponizable ideals. When Kochin said them, they just sounded like quiet ambitions, the same prayers one might send to the Mother.
When she didn’t respond, he said, “What do you fight for, Ms. Suon?”
Nhika’s eyes scanned the room for Andao or Mimi, someone who might save her from this conversation. Perhaps he was making small talk, but Nhika was growing wary of those who sought out her company. Nothing ever happened in this society without motive.
But there was no rescuing her, so she responded, “Myself.”
Nem snorted. “Your honesty is refreshing.”
She was born of war. It had driven her family to Theumas. It had razed her culture and her roots. It had forced her grandmother to teach her heartsoothing off stolen textbooks. It was the reason she could only remember past matriarchs by their bones in her ring—and now, not even that.
“It’s just that war has never been kind to my family,” she said—and realized her guise had slipped, just a little. “I’m not very fond of it.”
“The war you’re thinking of is war as the Daltans knew it—spreading an empire like a disease, wanting to control the land and seas. I’m not fond of that war, either,” Nem said, and there was verity in his tone. “But when war is brought to you, there are only two options: survive or surrender. It’s the surviving that I’m fond of.”
“Do you believe we can survive it, Commissioner?” she asked, feeling a little concerned herself. Before that night in the Theumas Medical Center, she’d felt … invincible. She’d survived house fires and Butchers and illness. She’d been shot and scraped and bruised.
But then, she’d learned her gift was not bottomless, and this technocratic city did not have enough metal to build walls over its mountains and skies. Nhika had died made of marble, and she’d awoken flesh and blood.
“Yes,” he said, his familiar confidence returning. “I can guarantee it.”
“That’s bold,” Nhika blurted before she remembered who she was talking to. “I mean, how can anyone guarantee the tides of war?”
“I have a weapon,” Nem responded, a grin peeling back his lips. “A weapon unlike anything anyone’s ever seen before.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll learn—when the white flags wave over the Gaikhen Mountains, when our soldiers come back safe. You’ll know.” With that cryptic language, he gave her a deep bow. “As much as it’s been a pleasure speaking to you, Ms. Suon, I have others to entertain.”
He started to leave when Nhika remembered her quest. “Commissioner, one moment.”
Nem paused, turned. It was a daunting thing, being the sole object of his attention.
“There’s someone I’m looking for, Santo’s old aide,” she said. “Do you remember Ven Kochin?”
“Ven Kochin,” Nem repeated, like he was surprised to hear the name. “Yes. I remember him.”
“Do you know where he went?”
His eyes wandered somewhere past her, like he was trying to conjure the details. “Camp Majora. Northernmost tip of Yarong. He was stationed there as a combat medic,” he said, as though reading off a document.
“And where is he now?”
Something rueful came over Nem’s expression, but she couldn’t read it before his stoniness returned. “I wish I could tell you, Ms. Suon. There are many who served overseas or in our mountains. I regret that I can’t know all their fates.”
He left Nhika with her feet welded to the ground. So, he’d been drafted, just like Trin. They’d met each other on the island—she’d theorized just as much. And … and somehow, her body had traded hands, though Nhika wasn’t sure how.
She caught a spot of yellow out of the corner of her eye, drawing her back to the present: Lanalay, coming down the stairs. There was nothing upstairs that should’ve interested a partygoer, and the girl slipped through the crowds and turned the corner.
Nhika followed.
Lanalay snuck through a closed door. Throwing a glance over her shoulder, Nhika did the same. She crept through just in time to find Lanalay disappearing into a study. The door remained ajar, and the light moved with shadows as Lanalay explored the room.
That was Lanalay’s first mistake, trying to hide from a girl with an unhealthy amount of curiosity. Her second was doing something so damned curious—Nhika couldn’t help herself.
She snuck forward. Shadows moved. This house no longer belonged to an entrepreneur; it belonged to a commissioner. That meant there could be political secrets within these walls—so how treasonous would it be, Nhika wondered, if she’d let in a spy. Could the Congmis protect her then?
Nhika prepared for a confrontation, but when she opened the door, all she found was an empty room with an open window and a draft.