“This is a bad idea.”
“This was your idea.”
“Was not,” Selah shoots back, one eye keeping watch on the open road. “I wanted to go alone. This—this is a risk, and not a necessary one.”
“Beg to differ on that,” Tair pants from some ways behind her. “I’ve got more skin in this than you. I want to hear everything he says, exactly how he says it.”
She’s about to argue, but a jumbling clang of overturned trash echoes up from the alley somewhere behind her, followed by a loud string of highly creative swearing, and Selah can’t help but smother a laugh even as her eyes stay fixed on the broad cobblestone street. But then Tair steps out from the nook in the alleyway and taps her on the shoulder, and she has to swallow a breath of shock.
“What d’you think?” Tair asks, piling her long hair into a black scarf high atop her head. “Suit me all right?”
Vernae don’t wear uniforms, mostly. Their ear cuffs indicate status well enough. So Selah’s never actually seen Tair like this—in basic service blacks stolen off a laundry line in Pantheon Park—and no, they don’t suit her in the least. Selah wants to rip them off. Burn them. But they suit the role, the insane role Tair’s insisting on taking upon herself despite the danger, despite every instinct in Selah’s body screaming at her that this is a bad idea, that she needs to stay safe.
They’ve had this argument already. Tair may be convinced that no one ever looks at servae long enough to really notice them, but if she gets caught, Selah will never forgive herself.
Catching her disquiet, Tair takes hold of her wrist, gentle but firm, and says, “Hey. My choice, my risk.”
There’s no room for argument in Tair’s eyes, but she knows a test when she hears it. She can give Tair that. She has to, actually.
“Yeah,” she agrees. Then, hating it: “You’re missing something.”
Tair frowns, and Selah reaches up to the tiny red wisps escaping her scarf before thinking better of it. Barely an inch away, she pulls back, and pulls at the soft ridge of her own ear instead. Grim understanding sets itself along Tair’s jaw, but she nods all the same. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out that old, familiar glint of silver. After all these years, Selah doesn’t ask her why she kept it.
Belamar sits farther inland than Breakwater, contrary to what the name might suggest—pristine white columns and floor-to-ceiling windows tucked neatly into the rolling hills. New money, people had sniffed, back when it was first built a scarce century ago. But its upkeep had proven too much for the original owners to handle, and no one could remark on the Palmar pedigree when the familia made it their Luxana residence.
The atrium smells of rosewater and cloves, and some unidentifiable cloying smell that manages to somehow be both stale and sour at the same time. Selah barely manages to keep from coughing when the doorman lets her in, and her eyes are still watering by the time she’s shown into the parlor. She wants to glance back at Tair, trailing a few paces behind—to see if she’s faring any better, to roll her eyes in that way they have, the one that says, Is this place for real? But she can’t. Not if they’re going to pull this off.
She studied theater arts, once upon a time in her superior. She can act the role. She has to.
Cato Palmar smiles wide when she enters the room, a predatory thing beneath his enormous mustache, and savage Quiet but how had she ever thought he looked like someone’s kind grandfather? Sunlight filters in through high windows so that the parlor itself is almost blindingly white, all marble and dried flowers, and that smell like old potpourri wafting across in sickening waves.
Reclining back in his chaise like the emperors of old, the Consul clearly likes to surround himself with beautiful things. Intricately painted tea tables. An afternoon jacket of Songket brocade. And each serva—of which there are many, a display of living statues—fine-featured and clad in dark, draping cloth that amounts to little more than wisps of silk. It’s not inappropriate, per se, just not what Selah would ever have called service blacks. The whole garish sight makes her stomach turn.
She’s never been inside Belamar before. Her parents never brought her along on one of their rare social calls whenever the Consul was in town. She realizes now that may have been deliberate.
Biting down her disgust, she forces herself to stand a little taller, chin lifted slightly, willing that alien sense of status to overtake her. Cato Palmar is a lecherous old man, but she is the Imperial Historian. They’re colleagues, now.
“Lady Historian,” says Palmar, in that smooth voice, and Selah has to force herself to take his outstretched hand in hers, to tamp down the shudder that wants to run through her when his lips brush an old-fashioned kiss to the soft skin there.
He thinks he’s being charming, playing the passé old man to her bright young thing. A stark contrast to the dismissive politician she met at the viewing the other night. She makes herself smile.
“Consul—”
“Cato, I insist.”
“Cato,” she amends, taking the proffered chair of handsome wood and chintz.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Tair take up position against the wall behind her, next to one of the other attending servae—eyes down, though she knows her ears are perked to hear every word. Her stomach lurches again. Servae at Breakwater don’t behave like that. It’s not what’s expected. There’s decorum, of course, but it’s not the same. It can’t be.
But it is.
She forces her attention back to her host.
“Cato,” she says again, edging her mind into that particular kind of patrician propriety, that kind of cadence that always makes her think of Mima’s friends. She’s not a politico, but she’s turning into an actor. Maybe it’s not far from the same thing. “Thank you for receiving me on such unforgivably short notice. I’m sure you have your hands full.”
“Not at all.” He waves her away. “I’m really only in town still to address this terrible business with your father. And, as I recall, I did ask you to come visit me sometime.”
“And I’m so glad you did. I feel you and I perhaps got off on the wrong foot. I’d very much like to rectify that.”
“Lady Historian—”
“Selah. Please.”
“Selah,” he says, something of a purring cat in his manner. “You’re young. You’re going to have all sorts of high ideals that, while admirable, aren’t exactly practical in context of the real world. That’s only to be commended. I don’t think we got off on the wrong foot at all.”
“But that’s just it. Everything I said, about the judicial system and education reforms and the like . . . you don’t really think I meant it, do you?” Palmar’s brows rise. Selah forces herself to keep her steady gaze on him, smiling. “My mother has a reputation to uphold, Cato. I take that seriously. But I’m not her, and I’m certainly not my father. I have very different ideas when it comes to what I want out of life.”
“And what,” Palmar asks, “might that be?”
“I should think that’s obvious,” she says, casting her eyes appreciatively around the room. “I’m here, aren’t I? You demand the very best. The best parties, the best diversions. Why wouldn’t I want to be part of that, now I’ve come into my majority?”
Palmar’s eyes light up at that, that grandfatherly look not disappearing exactly, but becoming something altogether more predatory. “Well, then,” he says, “you must be my guest at the Leontine Club soon. Perhaps next week?”
Selah has no idea what the Leontine Club is.
“I would love to.”
“And your mother would have no objection?”
“My mother may object to whatever she likes. She isn’t paterfamilias.”
And at that, the look Palmar gives her is almost conspiratorial, though the predatory gleam hasn’t faded. He laughs instead, stretching out again on his chaise, and gestures carelessly for a nearby serva. The young woman materializes out of nowhere to refill his cup of tea. Palmar barely glances at her. Selah has less success, not when she glimpses the butterfly burned into the flesh just below the woman’s clavicle. A brand, out in the open for everyone to see. She nearly chokes.
“See something you like?”
Now Palmar is smiling at her in a way that she emphatically Does Not Like. A way that seems to recognize a kindred spirit. “Selah Kleios,” he says, rolling her name between his wrinkled lips, glancing between her and the retreating woman. “What a delightful surprise you’ve turned out to be. There have been the rumors, of course. Your fine taste in women. It seems I’m not the only one who demands the very best of life.”
What?
“I—”
“Oh, don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” he says, and takes a sip of tea, utterly unaware of Selah’s reeling. “You’ll marry some proper familia’s younger son, I’m sure, to keep tongues from wagging. I understand. My Cornelia was the same way. A sweet thing. A good wife. But they simply don’t . . . scratch the same itch, do they? I hear you keep your crim girls very close indeed.”
There is a very, very good chance that Selah’s about to be sick. She prefers women to men, that much is true, that much only even becomes scandal if she doesn’t eventually do her duty as paterfamilias to continue the Kleios line. But she’d had no idea that she had somehow become the subject of Luxana’s rumor mill. No idea there were people out there—her friends, even, maybe, because who else could have told?—speculating about her private life like that. Except it’s worse than that, even, because she has never . . . not once . . . would never force herself on anyone who didn’t want it. The very concept, the very idea that someone out there has been poisoning her name with the suggestion . . . Patricians talk, of course they do, but Selah always considered herself firmly on the outside of the gossip mill. She’s absolutely seeing red.
But Palmar isn’t done, evidently taking her enraged silence for some kind of self-satisfied acquiescence. “Yes, very fine taste indeed,” he says, and now he’s looking at someone over her shoulder. “Girl, come closer. Let’s have a look at you—”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Selah snaps, a little harsher than she should, because that is not a road they’re going down. Forget the bile that wants to rise in Selah’s throat. Palmar does not get to touch Tair. He does not get to look at her.
So then, hating herself—“Certainly you don’t expect me to believe half the rumors I hear about you?”
The baiting is intentional, the way her coy voice lilts as if to say, Of course it’s true. It’s all true. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. But she needs to steer his attention as far away from Tair as she can. She needs for this to have been worth it.
“If I did,” she continues, “I’d be much more cross with you at the moment.”
“Whatever for, my dear?”
“For all the noise on the street. Do you have any idea how far out of my way I had to go to avoid the rabble all but conducting martial law around the city? Evidently they’re up in arms over the deaths of your clavaspher player and his sister.”
“Are they?” Palmar asks, mildly interested, mildly amused. “Well, I couldn’t imagine what that has to do with me. I’m certainly not the one who sent him into a poppam den.”
A jolt of excitement thrills down Selah’s spine, something cutting through the rage and disgust, though she knows from here on she’ll have to play her cards very, very carefully. “Of course you weren’t,” she says. “I saw him play, you know. Those muscles . . . mmm. Divine. Marten, was it?”
“Miro. A fine specimen.”
“And such a waste of an investment. Have you managed to recoup the loss?”
Oh, and she does not like the satisfied smile that curls across his powder-caked face when he says, “Quite nicely, in fact. So much so that I’m not quite sure I could be pressed to call it a loss at all. A . . . metamorphosis, perhaps.”
“How intriguing.”
“Indeed. He’s being put to far better use.”
Miro is alive. Miro is alive. Under a visage of vague yet carefully crafted interest, Selah’s heart is racing. “Oh?” she asks, and quirks a casual brow.
“Oh, indeed. You would be interested in such a thing?”
Selah hasn’t got the first idea what such a thing is, but the light in her eyes and the firm nod are no act. She’s very, very interested in such a thing.
Palmar purses his lips. “Your father never seemed to think much of our circle—as though he had any right to judge, with the living proof of his own diversions walking around in plain sight for all the world to see.”
Bastard. Like he knows anything about her family.
“I’m not my father.”
It’s not a lie. Not really. She misses Dad every day, would give anything to have him back. But he didn’t fight for Tair, and he didn’t fight for Arran. Not really, in the end. And he wouldn’t be here, using lies and veiled truths and the power of his office to bring justice to a missing plebeian boy and his murdered sister. He had too much faith in the Imperium for that.
Cato Palmar regards her for a long, drawn-out moment, and Selah wills herself to regard him right back. Young and beautiful and vibrant, playing with the lives of others so casually you could forget they have wills of their own. He’ll give her what she wants. She repeats these things back to herself, forcing herself to believe them, these truths belonging to the arrogant girl she could have been in another life. She waits.
Then he smiles—that cracked, horrible thing—and she knows she’s got him. “No. You’re not your father at all.” And then: “Paper,” he says, to no one in particular, and a moment later a serva is handing him a crisp vellum notecard and pen.
She doesn’t look at whatever it is he scratches out on the card. Doesn’t trust herself not to look overeager, not to glance back at Tair in anticipation, not to give herself away. Instead, she leans back, casual and beautiful and bored, and becomes very interested in the state of her nailbeds until a cough begs her attention again. Palmar is holding out the notecard between two knobbly pale fingers, appraising her with some strange mix of fondness and triumph. She takes the card.
“Keep that safe now,” he tells her, picking up his teacup again. “That’s your ticket inside. His next match is tonight.”
“Yes, of course.” His horrible lips curl into a smile. “I’ll escort you there myself.” Then, snapping his fingers as if he’s just had the most ingenious idea, Palmar adds, “Speaking of your father’s verna son, why don’t you bring him along?”
It’s only by the tiniest fraction of a second that Selah catches herself from freezing on the spot. Why in the savage Quiet would Palmar invite Arran of all people? But she’s got him, she’s so close, and Miro is alive.
“What an idea,” she says faintly, noncommittal, and takes another sip of tea.
“I thought you’d like that,” he says. “I heard about the boy’s run-in with the Publica the other day. How very embarrassing for you. And on the day of your father’s viewing, too. Shameful behavior. Maybe in the pits you’ll find a better use for that fighting spirit.”
This time, Selah actually does freeze.
No. No way.
“He’s a freedman,” she makes herself say, the only protest she can think of.
“I’m aware.” The Consul leans back in his chair, rolling his eyes. “Your father’s incessant whining saw to that. But he’s dependent on your goodwill, isn’t he? I’m sure he’ll do as he’s told.” Cracked lips curl back into an unpleasant smile. “Oh, I admit I’m now rather looking forward to tonight. Our Miro will be making his thraex debut, you’ll be pleased to know. No chest armor. Those muscles you so admire on full display.”
There is a very distinct possibility that Selah has swallowed her own tongue.
Pit matches. Thraex armor. Missing athletes. And now her brother.
Gladiator games.
• • •
“Slow down,” Tair hisses, the moment they’ve rounded the corner. Out of sight from Belamar, onto the main thoroughfare of the Arborem, and straight into the shaded cover of the trees where they can’t be seen. Vaguely, Selah is aware of the number of Institute Civitatem sentries marching along the street, their numbers filled out by green-clad Publica. Normally, she might find this strange. Right now, she’s too angry.
She shoves her, hard, and Tair stumbles back.
“What the fuck, Selah?”
“You knew.”
Bewilderment colors the older girl’s face. “I knew?”
“You knew.” Her entire body is vibrating with rage. Not at Tair. Not really. A general rage, at the Arborem and Cato Palmar and everyone who ever propped him up to believe he was worth so much as a ceres. At reeducation and attollos and her own beloved Archives, fast crumbling to dust. “I don’t know how, but you knew what kind of place that was. You knew . . . you knew.”
Tair stares at her for a moment, face blank, then shrugs. “Yeah, obviously I knew.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would it have made a difference?”
And Selah wants to scream. Because the answer is yes. Yes, it would have made a difference. But she wants to scream just as much because the answer is no. It wouldn’t have made any difference at all. She still would have walked in there, forced herself to pretend to be someone she wasn’t—only this time she would have known Tair was prepared for it. That nothing the Consul said could surprise or faze her friend, because it was a familiar world. Dress a serva up in a silk chemise or linen slacks, brand them where all the world can see or hide it away to pretend it isn’t there, force them into service with impossible laws or at the end of a sword, at the end of the day it’s the same result. And Selah had always thought that Breakwater was so different. So civilized. Her familia. Her family.
She wants to scream.
“Gladiator games,” she says, stone faced.
“Apparently,” Tair responds, grim.
“Gladiator games are ill—”
“Illegal. Yeah. That’s why they’re underground, Selah.”
They can’t call the Publica. Of course they can’t. The Consul all but admitted to kidnapping Miro Ontiveros to fight in the pits, and the Publica isn’t just letting it happen, they’re actively covering it up. If they want to find Miro, they’ll have to see this through themselves.
“I can’t drag Arran into this,” Selah says, a sinking feeling in her gut even as Tair purses her lips.
“You may not have a choice.”
“What difference does it—”
“You said you would bring him,” Tair cuts in before she can finish, a surprising urgency in her voice. “I know it seems like nothing, but I’ve spent my whole life watching people like Palmar, staying out of their way. Maybe he wouldn’t care, but he’d definitely notice. You don’t want that. You can’t give him any reason to think you’re up to something.”
Selah wants to pull away from Tair’s unexpected ferocity, tell her she’s being overdramatic. But this is her world, and the fervor in her words is matched with absolute concern, and that, if nothing else, is enough to make Selah believe that they are true.
She cares about Arran’s safety, of course she does, but she’s also seen the way he fights. He’s good. Better than good. He can hold his own. That’s not what’s making her feel like she could projectile vomit at any second now. It’s what she said to him the last time they saw each other.
I’m paterfamilias, and you’re a fragging client.
She hadn’t meant it. She hadn’t wanted to have meant it. She can hardly fathom that it’s been less than a day since those poisoned words left her mouth.
Well, she won’t do it. She can ask, but it’s got to be his choice.