Four Dead Queens Page 4

  A groan shuddered the building. The bidders quickly shuffled a little more to the left to balance out the weight.

  “Welcome to my house!” Mackiel boomed, his voice filling the theater. “For tonight, you and I are family. And my family deserves the best!” It was his father’s line, but the crowd still lapped it up as if hearing it for the first time.

  His father had built this black market business from nothing. As a young man, not much older than Mackiel was now, he saw the opportunity to capitalize on the curious nature of his fellow Torians who couldn’t afford to own a boat or purchase interquadrant approved goods. Instead, he provided the goods at a much lower price.

  “You’re in luck tonight,” Mackiel continued, “for we have our best selection.” He said this each and every night, but tonight it was true. Second only to the thrill of acquiring the wares was the clamor during an auction. I grinned in anticipation. The perfect distraction from my mother’s letter.

  “Before we begin, we must cover the auction guidelines.” The crowd spread a groan like fleas on a stray dog. “Now, now,” Mackiel tsked. “First business, then pleasure. That’s what I always say.” He grinned, and the crowd was back in the palm of his hand. Mackiel’s proclivity for spectacle had increased the bidders by dozens, ensuring they didn’t stray to his competitors after his father’s death. In fact, some of his competitors were here for the show, keeping their quartiers warm in their pockets.

  “Right then, as you know, we don’t trade in full payments here; it’s too tempting for those with sticky fingers.” Laughter circulated through the crowd, the audience knowing full well how Mackiel “procured” the auction items, and the hypocrisy of it all. “That said, a ten percent down payment will be required to secure the bid. At the end of the auction, my darling dippers will follow the highest bidder home to collect the remaining quartiers. If you can’t find the funds, the dipper will return with the wares, and the rest of you will have the chance to bid for it tomorrow night. But I don’t give second chances to those who play games.”

  What Mackiel withheld from the audience was that his dippers had one hour to return with the payment and then we were given a five percent cut for our troubles. New dippers often tried to pocket more than their cut or keep the stolen valuables for themselves. Mackiel used to banish any disloyal dippers, leaving no quartiers to their name, but now he used his henchmen to enforce his law.

  A shiver ran down my back at the thought of their skin on mine, or worse, their whiteless black eyes upon my face. It had been two years since Mackiel had hired them and I was still not used to their presence. And I couldn’t deny the impact they’d had on Mackiel. As a boy, he used to rescue rats from the Jetée sewers; now that was where he dumped the bodies of those who betrayed him.

  “The henchmen got a little carried away,” he’d say. But the darkness behind his eyes made me question who had in fact done the deed. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the truth.

  Mackiel continued with the rules. “There will be no further negotiations after the auction is complete. If I see the ware appear at another house, well, let’s say you’ll never set foot in here again.” He smiled widely, though the message was clear: the day you cheated him would be your last.

  “Finally, my business and my service”—he grinned at the audience, his eyes glimmering—“and my presence are a luxury only Torians can enjoy, and should not be taken for granted. Remember, my name and my dippers’ names are never to be spoken outside of my house. This is of the utmost importance.”

  The bidders grew restless as his speech wore on. They’d heard it before. They wanted to see what was up for auction. What relic or prize from other quadrants could they get their grubby hands on? Something to improve their life? Medicine, perhaps? Something trivial to sit upon their mantelpiece, which they could brag about to friends?

  Or comm chips—allowing them a glimpse into life in another quadrant—the perfect prize for any Torian.

  My undergarments clung to my sticky skin. Come on, Mackiel. Get on with it.

  “All right, then,” he said, finally. “Enough business. On with the show!”

  The crowd burst into applause as Mackiel yanked back the curtain to reveal the first item for auction. The early wares moved slowly: woven Archian blankets, handkerchiefs and scarves, and Ludist paintings, jewelry and hair tints. Hands rose in reluctance. No one wanted to spend their money too early. There weren’t many bids for Kyrin’s watch—the most common of pickpocket items. I chuckled under my breath. Kyrin wouldn’t earn much tonight.

  Frustration darkened Mackiel’s expression, his brow low over his eyes. He wanted the best. But that was why he had me.

  The bidders grew restless. They wanted more. Something they’d never seen before. Something from Eonia, the most different of all the quadrants. I shuffled my feet side to side to see between hats. I had no doubt Mackiel would leave my comm case—his top prize—till last.

  The audience shifted like a disturbed sea as Mackiel unveiled the next item. A torn sleeve of a dermasuit. Not very useful, but at least more interesting than a watch. The crowd leaned forward for a better look, before raising their hands in earnest. I ducked to the side as the man beside me lifted his dank armpit in my face.

  That was when I saw him.

  He stood still in the middle of the crowd as everyone moved around him. A scuffed top hat was pulled low over his black hair, and he wore a blue vest over a crumpled white shirt. But I knew who he was—his dermasuit was peeking beneath his collar.

  The messenger.

  He was here for the comm chips.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Corra

  Queen of Eonia

  Rule two: Emotions and relationships cloud judgment. Eonists must concentrate solely on technological advancements, medicine and the community as a whole.

  The news of Iris’s death was whispered in Corra’s ear the moment she twisted in her bed, her eyes flicking open. She sat up in shock, her dreams fading into the dark bedroom. She’d retired to her room for an afternoon nap once court had concluded; the pretenses often exhausted her.

  “What?” she asked, facing her fleshy advisor. He loomed over her, his hands stiff by his sides. “What did you say, Ketor?”

  “Queen Iris is dead, my queen,” he repeated, his eyes darting away from her bare brown shoulder. Sleep was the one time Eonists didn’t wear their dermasuits, and it was a freedom Corra enjoyed, if not reveled in. She knew it wasn’t very Eonist of her—she should be coy and conservative—but she didn’t care. Especially not now.

  “No,” she said. “That’s not possible.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true, my queen. She was found in her garden a few hours ago.”

  “The doctors couldn’t save her?” Corra’s voice trembled.

  “They were too late,” he said, eyes downcast. “She was already dead.” Even Eonist doctors could not resolve the finality of death, although they had tried. Once.

  Corra drew herself from her four-poster bed, not caring her naked body was on display as she reached for her gold dermasuit, which lay across her dressing chair. It wasn’t like the suit covered much more. She pushed her arms and legs through the tight-fitting material, the suit fluttering against her skin as it adjusted to her curves. She realized her handmaiden was also present, a young Archian woman with red blotches on her cheeks and glassy eyes, no doubt from crying over the news of Iris’s death. Most of the palace staff were Archian, for they were no-nonsense, hardworking people.

  Corra picked up her small gold watch—a coronation gift—from her bedside table, slipped the chain over her head and tucked it under the material. She turned to allow her handmaiden to knot her thick black hair into a bun and secure her heavy crown with pins. While her face was hidden, she squeezed her eyes shut, willing her emotions away.

  “How did it happen?” Corra asked, turning around when she was composed
.

  Iris was still a young woman and her health was as strong as her resolve. Corra had never seen Iris sick, even with her Archian upbringing, which had sheltered her from all mainland viruses.

  Surely this is a nightmare. Simply a vivid dream, she thought.

  She wanted to climb back into her bed. Iris could not be dead. She was as permanent as the gilded walls surrounding her—protecting her—or she should’ve been.

  Ketor was silent for a moment, drawing her eyes to his. His ruddy cheeks were absent of tears. “She was murdered, my queen,” he said.

  “Murdered?” Corra’s hand flew to her mouth. No queen had ever been murdered within the palace. Attempts had been made hundreds of years ago, when the Quadarian monarchs were free to roam their quadrants and the Quadrant Wars savaged society, but that was before Queenly Law had been established. Now to leave the palace was to forfeit the throne—ensuring the queens followed this crucial law. It was not only for their safety but to guarantee they were not influenced by the voices of the people. For the unhappy always spoke the loudest.

  “I’m sorry to say it’s true,” Ketor continued. He remained distant, seemingly uncaring. Like Corra, he was Eonist. Queenly Law dictated a queen’s advisor share her quadrant of origin, protecting the quadrant’s integrity.

  “Queens above,” Corra said, leaning slightly against a bedpost to stay upright. Surely shock was allowed? “How did this happen?”

  He cleared the discomfort from his throat. “It’s grisly, my queen.”

  When he didn’t elaborate, she said, “Tell me.” This was Iris. She had to know.

  “Her throat was cut, my queen.”

  A gasp ripped through Corra’s body before she could stop it. She shut her eyes briefly once more to center herself and stabilize her emotions. Her chest felt unusually tight.

  “Don’t be vulgar, Ketor!” Corra’s handmaiden admonished.

  Corra shook her head, knowing her advisor was simply being honest. Eonist. “That’s all right. I wanted to know. What’s the protocol?” She needed to play along until her advisor left her side. Then her real emotions could show.

  Grief. She’d never felt the weight of it before. It was rare for someone to pass unexpectedly in Eonia. Due to Eonist advancements, their lives were long, not cut short by illness or old age. Some had shorter lifespans due to genetic abnormalities, but their deaths were still not unexpected. Little was unexpected in Eonia. Corra would rule till her death date in her ninetieth year, although she was allowed to abdicate, if she so desired.

  “The queens have been called to court before the nightly meal to discuss who will inherit the Archian throne,” Ketor said.

  Corra wouldn’t have time to grieve.

  “She has no direct heir,” Corra said. Iris had claimed she couldn’t find an appropriate suitor, no matter how many men had been paraded in front of her.

  Ketor nodded.

  “What will happen in the absence of an heir?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, my queen.” His expression was frustratingly calm. “We must attend court at once.”

  While Corra’s heart was splintered by the news of Iris’s murder, she would not allow her stoic mask to crumble. To grieve was not Eonist. It implied feelings beyond general associations. Eonists were a unified people, but distant. It provided an environment where logic and knowledge reigned.

  “Lead the way,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  MARGUERITE WAS ALREADY upon her throne when Corra entered court. She wore a traditional black Torian dress for mourning with a veil attached to her crown that covered most of her face. Corra wanted to run to the eldest queen, but she forced her footsteps to steady. Stessa had yet to arrive, no doubt ensuring her death mask was painted on in perfect detail, the Ludist custom of showing respect for those who had passed. The girl was always late to meetings, but for once, it didn’t aggravate Corra. Sixteen was far too young to deal with such monstrosities.

  When Corra neared the dais, Marguerite lifted her veil. Corra startled. The Torian queen’s usually clear alabaster skin was blotchy, and her sharp features were softened from puffiness. She looked older than her forty years.

  Marguerite stood and embraced her. Corra didn’t register the contact until she was surrounded by her floral perfume.

  “Are you all right?” Marguerite asked. “Have you eaten? You look unsteady on your feet.” She pulled back, searching Corra’s face. Corra willed herself to be calm, then nodded. The tightness around her chest had moved to her throat. Marguerite gave her arms a squeeze. Corra wished she could feel the warmth of the older woman’s hands through her dermasuit.

  “We must take care of ourselves, and each other, now more than ever,” Marguerite said. “We are all we have.” Sadness pulled at her brow and mouth.

  “Yes,” Corra replied, her gaze steadying on Marguerite’s as she ignored the swirl of sorrow inside her.

  The advisors had arranged three thrones close together on the dais to face one direction—Iris’s quadrant. Corra had only seen the thrones encircling the Quadarian dial. She hesitated, unsure which throne to take. They all looked the same, and yet foreign, in that moment.

  “Next to me, dear,” Marguerite said, nodding beside her. Corra stared blankly. Iris should have been between them. Marguerite took hold of Corra’s gloved hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. Corra pressed her lips together—not quite a smile, not a frown. She could sense Marguerite’s disappointment; she wanted someone to grieve with.

  She wouldn’t get that from an Eonist. Emotion clouded thoughts, muddying logic and intellect, and that got in the way of progress.

  Corra took a deep breath and sat down. Immediately, she was affronted by the view. Every day, Corra sat facing north and the beginning of her quadrant. Although there were no walls inside the throne room to segregate what was and wasn’t Eonist, she believed she could sense where her quadrant began and ended. She loved Eonia, and it didn’t feel right facing toward the west of the room—toward Archia and neighboring Toria. She could see the Torian crest painted on the floor, depicting a boat crossing an ocean. Framing the boat was one large fishhook, and on the other side, a spyglass—symbolizing the quadrant’s focus on trade and exploration. Next was the Ludist section of court, denoted by a painted crest of ribbons, garlands and gems encircling the sun and moon—the picture of frivolity.

  Corra pressed her fingers to the crest stitched on the shoulder of her suit: a strand of DNA twisting together to form a loop—symbolizing community—and willed stillness to settle upon her skin.

  Beyond the painted crests stood the advisors. They were all talking at once, their faces drawn in concern. There had always been an heir to inherit the throne before the passing of a queen—part of Queenly Law. A queen must give birth to a girl before she turned forty-five. Even Corra’s future daughter would be required to have her own baby girl before this milestone, ensuring the royal line.

  Without a queen per quadrant, the borders that had safeguarded Quadara for decades would fracture and blur. No one wished to see the nation return to its combative past, and it was believed the quadrants, and their respective queens, maintained the peace. If Quadara weakened, they risked other nations turning their attention to the wealthiest continent. The palace, and the governing advisors, could not risk Quadara’s future.

  The advisors hushed as Queen Stessa made her entrance. Her short black hair was twisted and curled around her gem-laden crown, reminding Corra of a bird’s nest. Dark red lines were painted in intricate patterns across her copper skin, leading down to her neck, where a ribbon was tied to symbolize the injury that had taken Iris’s life. The rest of her outfit was subdued—for a Ludist—a simple brown dress to represent the earth to which Iris would be returned, although metaphorically in this instance. The queens were laid to rest within the Queenly Tombs, hidden in the labyrinthine tun
nels beneath the palace.

  Stessa bowed to her sister queens, shutting her brown eyes briefly to reveal red-stained lids. The death mask complete. A shudder ran down Corra’s spine. She was glad Eonists didn’t have such strange and opulent customs. To draw attention to yourself was disrespectful; you should be staying quiet and contemplative when faced with loss.

  “Apologies for my tardiness,” Stessa said, taking her throne. And though her face was an image of grief, Corra could see no lines pulling down the corners of her lips. The youngest queen appeared to be the least affected of them all. Perhaps it was because Stessa had known Iris for only a year? Or perhaps it was because Ludists took pleasure in the strangest of things. Everything a game, a reason to celebrate, flaunt an elaborate outfit and eat a wasteful amount of food.

  Would Stessa fear her own death? Or would that be considered part of the game of life? Corra wondered. As an Eonist, Corra shouldn’t believe in the queens above or life after death, and yet she did, hoping she would one day be reunited with her mother. And now Iris.

  “Let’s begin,” Marguerite said in her commanding voice. It felt wrong to begin without Iris, as though they were sullying her memory. The advisors took their seats. While Marguerite’s presence was reassuring, it was clear no one knew what to do or say.

  “Well?” Stessa asked after a moment of silence. “What do we do now?”

  Iris’s advisor, a tall and stern-looking woman with a wisp of white hair, stepped forward. “I will speak for my queen and for Archia.”

  The sister queens glanced at one another before nodding.

  “Go ahead, Alissa,” Marguerite said, her shrewd eyes prepared to analyze.

  “Thank you, Queen Marguerite,” she said. “As you all know, Queen Iris did not have a female heir. She was trying for children, but she had yet to have a fruitful match.”

  A lie. The truth was that Iris never even tried to find a match.