Four Dead Queens Page 9

  He didn’t understand. I was exactly who I wanted to be and had everything I’d ever desired. Everything they could never have afforded. I wanted to share that with them.

  It would’ve been a normal afternoon, the two of us bickering until nightfall. But then the boat came too close to the shore, striking a nearby cliff. I had tried to hold on to the mast, but the collision ruptured the boat, flinging us both from the deck. I landed on my father, incurring no injuries. He landed at the base of the cliff.

  I’d thought we were okay, safe from the boat’s destruction. But my father wouldn’t open his eyes. Then I saw the blood, seeping from a deep gash at the back of his head.

  I managed to pull my father’s limp body into the protection of a nearby cave. I shivered in the oppressively small space, the dampness never allowing my clothes to dry, my shuddering breaths echoing in the chamber, only the sound to keep me company.

  On the second day, I started hallucinating from dehydration. The rock walls would judder, as if they were about to collapse in on me. On the third day, I hoped they would.

  When the coastguards found us a day later, they’d thought we were dead; we were both unconscious and covered in blood. It wasn’t until they cleaned me up that they discovered the blood was all my father’s. I’d never forget my mother’s tearstained face when she saw us, the first of many tears she would cry over my father.

  And now he was dying.

  I wished I could take that day, and many others, back. I wished I’d never taken Mackiel’s hand when he offered it all those years ago outside the auction house. But I couldn’t blame him for what I’d done to my father. I’d always wanted more than my parents could offer. I’d wanted a different life. I had to live with the consequences.

  “Hey,” the messenger said, noticing my shaking. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded, pretending to shift a hair back from my forehead while I wiped the sweat beading across my brow. My damp dress was becoming an icy coffin. I focused on not gasping for large terrified breaths.

  Small breath in. Small breath out.

  The cabin wasn’t getting smaller. I would not be trapped here forever. I wouldn’t be forgotten. I would not—

  “Are you going to tell me now what you saw on the chips?” the messenger asked.

  I tried to focus on the boy in front of me. “You won’t believe me.” But that wasn’t true. I didn’t want to tell him in case he left me behind. I didn’t know if he was telling the truth about being able to rerecord the comm chips. He could be bluffing, making me spill before our deal was done.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” he asked, a tilt to his brow.

  Never give up your leverage until you have the wares safe in your hands, Mackiel would tell us dippers. A promise of a deal is not a deal done.

  I needed to get as far away from Mackiel and his henchmen as possible. And this messenger was my ticket out of here.

  “I’ll tell you when we’re at your place,” I said, ignoring the darkness creeping in at my periphery, desperate to take hold. There’s a way in, and always a way out. I gripped the door handle harder.

  “We’ll be at the Concord soon,” he said. “The quadrant authorities will let you through to Eonia, as I’m permitted to do interquadrant business; however”—he looked back at me—“while your quadrant may not care about what you wear, you won’t be allowed onto an Eonist commuter train dressed like that.”

  He was right. I’d be detained before we got close to his lodgings, being such an unsightly scandal.

  The darkness in my periphery reduced as a new target formed in my mind. My hand loosened on the door. “I’ll have to acquire a new outfit, then,” I said with a grin.

  “Acquire?” He groaned. “I’m beginning to realize that look on your face means nothing good will follow.”

  I patted his shoulder. “You’re a quick learner.”

  “If I was quicker, I would’ve avoided this mess by leaving you on your rear this morning.” There was a small raise to the corner of his mouth. He was making a joke. Oh, bless. “But spare me the details,” he added.

  I nudged him good-naturedly with my elbow. “What’s your name, messenger boy?”

  He hesitated before replying, “Varin Bollt.”

  “Keralie Corrington.” I held out my hand for him to shake. “A pleasure.”

  He didn’t take my hand. I let it fall into my lap. I’d forgotten Eonists don’t touch each other.

  “What is that disgusting smell?” he asked suddenly.

  I took a good long whiff, then immediately regretted it. “That’s horse shit.”

  “I’ve never seen a horse before.” Like a child, he peered out the window to try and glimpse the horse up front. Most of Eonia was far too cold for any animals to survive, and the rest was dense cityscape, or so I’d heard, having never visited the quadrant myself. “They’re beautiful,” he said. Beautiful. There was that word again. Before I could question him about it, he added, “But they smell foul.”

  I laughed. “They’re animals, not machines. You can’t control everything they do and when they do it.”

  Varin raised his eyebrows slightly before turning to look out the window. I couldn’t tell if he was insulted by my Eonist jibe or whether he was being aloof. I’d never spent much time around those from the advanced quadrant. They mostly kept to themselves. And it was common knowledge that they considered Torians to be meddlesome, selfish and arrogant.

  Varin brought a hand to his brow and began rubbing the bridge of his nose. Though I looked more ragged, it was clear the night had taken its toll on him too.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly, part of me hoping he wouldn’t hear, but to alleviate myself of some guilt for what I’d done to him. But this was Mackiel’s fault, not mine. He’d chosen Varin and his comm case. Even now that I understood the importance of the chips, I still didn’t understand Mackiel’s involvement.

  “What are you sorry for?” Varin asked.

  I chewed on the inside of my mouth. What was it I was sorry for again? “Um. Everything?”

  He sighed. “Don’t they teach you how to apologize in school?”

  “Teach me to apologize?” I snorted.

  “I thought all Torians go to school?”

  “Of course we do.” And I was sure my Torian education was much more expansive than one in Eonia. We didn’t shy away from other cultures. “But we don’t learn to apologize. We don’t have the pleasure of being told how to behave and what to say. We have more important things to worry about, like learning to master the ropes on a boat and learn the call of the tides.”

  “Pleasure?” He scoffed. “Tell me how pleasurable it is to be locked in a small dark room anytime you show emotion.”

  I shuddered at the image of being locked in the dark. Perhaps there was one thing I had in common with this unfeeling robot.

  “I—” But not knowing what to say, I snapped my jaw shut.

  “We’re brought up to feel as little as possible,” he said, the passing gas lamps reflecting in his pale eyes. He squeezed them shut for a moment before letting loose a sigh. “It’s seen as a form of evolved thinking. It allows us to focus on society as a whole, technologies and further advancements.”

  “So you do feel?”

  “The longer you go without feeling, the less you feel.”

  When I raised my eyebrows, he continued quickly, “There’s no crime in Eonia, no uprisings, no hate. Everyone has their role in society, and we’re paid well enough. Eonia has eradicated envy, jealousy, violence, cruelty.”

  “Not all emotions are negative,” I countered. “And you require emotion to appreciate beauty.” I waited, testing him, but his expression didn’t shift.

  “You can’t let in the good without the bad,” he eventually said.

  Would life be better if I shut off my emotions? Would it be ea
sier? I couldn’t imagine my life without feeling—the good and the bad. Would I have worked for Mackiel for all these years if I hadn’t felt a buzz when thieving? Would I have tried harder to appease my parents and learned how to sail? Or would it have been easier not to care about my family at all? I wouldn’t have minded giving up the ache in my heart whenever I thought about my parents, for one good night’s sleep.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t judge one another,” he said after a while. “I’ll help you, and in return, you’ll help me. Why don’t we agree that neither of us knows what it’s like to live in the other’s quadrant?”

  I could agree to that.

  While Varin might appear an unfeeling nitwit, there was something behind his expression and comments on beauty that made me question his claim of an emotionless life.

  * * *

  —

  “RIGHTIO,” THE DRIVER said, thumping on the top of the carriage. “We’re here. Pay up.”

  Varin flinched at the driver’s bluntness but leaned forward to part with his quartiers.

  I slipped out my side of the cabin. The tightness around my chest unraveled, like a corset cut loose. I tilted my head back and took in a deep breath. I’d done it! I’d survived! A part of me wished Mackiel had been there to see me face my fear of enclosed spaces.

  A very small part.

  I glanced up, expecting to see ALL QUEENS MURDERED splashed across the screens that surrounded the Concord. But the Queenly Reports only displayed the previous announcements: Latest Archian produce shipment delayed due to a shipping accident outside the Torian harbor. The five thousandth name has been added to the list for HIDRA, yet the queens confirm they will not be increasing the doses beyond one per year. Ludists set to cross quadrants with a new traveling show, as approved by the queens.

  The palace must be keeping the murders quiet, for fear of causing chaos.

  “What are you looking at?” Varin asked.

  “Nothing.” I stepped away from him and the carriage. “I’ll meet you at the stairs to the House of Concord.”

  “Where are you going?”

  I gestured to my clingy undergarments. “To get clothes.”

  He looked around at the darkened storefronts. Closing time had come and gone. The House of Concord clock tower showed it was nearly midnight. “From where?”

  “You don’t want to know, remember?” I said, grinning.

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Don’t take too long.”

  I curtsied, then darted off.

  Breaking into a store was easier than stealing from a person. With people, you had to observe. Observe the way they walked: Did they cling to their belongings like a child to their mother? Did they swing their arms wide, allowing a hand to sneak in underneath? Did their eyes dart about, searching shadows? Were they easily distracted, the golden palace stealing away their attention?

  Stores didn’t have thoughts and feelings, backgrounds and motives. Stores only had locks. And locks were easy to pick.

  I unclicked the lock pick from my bracelet. The weight of it in my hand released the last of the tension from between my shoulders. For the first time since the auction, I was in control. This was something I could do, something that wouldn’t go awry.

  I couldn’t speak for what else was to come.

  * * *

  —

  VARIN FROWNED AS I skipped toward him, still high from my break-in.

  “What are you wearing?” It was more an accusation than a question.

  I spun, the short layered skirt flaring out, spirals illuminating on the material as I twirled.

  “I thought it might be useful,” I said. “If we find ourselves in dark places.”

  “That’s Ludist clothing.”

  I pushed his arm as I passed. “Oh, don’t be so Eonist. There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of color and flare.”

  “Not if you’re on the run.”

  I shrugged. “No one said I couldn’t look good while doing it.”

  He looked me over. “No one said that looked good.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  We walked up the House of Concord stairs, the palace dome glowing behind it like a giant gas lamp. I ducked my head, not wanting to be reminded of what I’d seen on those chips. It wasn’t like I could go to the palace guards and tell them about the memories I’d ingested. I was a thief. I couldn’t risk it.

  “Ludists are a frivolous people,” Varin said, “caring only for what they own, how they look and their next fix of entertainment.”

  I couldn’t argue against that. Ludia was like Toria on Quadrant Day—but in a constant state of celebration. Ludists didn’t know the drawbacks of returning to reality.

  “Not everyone is blessed with superior genes.” I wrapped a hand around his arm. “Some of us have to work at looking good.”

  His face colored in the dark.

  “At least it’s less distracting than what you were wearing before,” he said finally.

  “Less distracting, eh?” I pressed up against him to see his face darken further.

  “Can you focus, please?”

  “Sure.” I winked at him. “I’m focusing on you right now.”

  He yanked his arm free.

  “Oh, come on!” I said. “Lighten up, or are you not allowed a sense of humor either?”

  He leveled his eyes on me. “Only if something is funny.”

  I clutched my chest. “You wound me.”

  He ignored my response. “Once we’re at my apartment, you’ll tell me everything you know.”

  “I haven’t forgotten our deal.”

  “Good,” he replied.

  What would I do then? Once I told Varin what he needed to hear, he could kick me out of his place and onto the streets. But I didn’t know the streets of Eonia.

  I thought of all the times my parents had begged me to stay clear of the auction house and Mackiel, asking, What do you want to do with your life, Keralie? Who you do you want to be?

  Without Mackiel, and my role as his main dipper, who was I?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Marguerite

  Queen of Toria

  Rule four: Curiosity and exploration are at the heart of every Torian. This should be encouraged to promote further growth of Toria’s burgeoning society.

  Marguerite retired to her chambers after the inspector’s initial inquiries. Normally, the queens would meet for dinner, but Lali had left a meal upon her large wooden desk. Lali had been Marguerite’s handmaiden since she entered the palace, and the older woman always seemed to know what she desired. Marguerite needed the reprieve, returning to the one part of the palace that had always brought comfort.

  Every wall in Marguerite’s chamber was covered in maps, maps of each quadrant, the palace itself and even the nations beyond Quadara. Her parents had been cartographers, and Marguerite had loved maps since she was a small child, tracing her father’s creations with her chubby fingers. Her parents had told her it was pertinent to extend her gaze beyond Quadara and understand the other nations to help inform the ruling of Toria.

  Marguerite removed her veil and crown, letting her auburn hair tumble free. While she ate the meal at her desk, the maps beckoned like windows into other worlds. She didn’t feel enclosed by the palace’s dome. She didn’t feel alone. She remembered that Toria was out there; her people a part of her, who relied on her. She would make it through this tough time; she had to.

  Know everything, and you shall know all was a favorite Torian saying of her father’s. And although she had not wanted to know everything about Iris’s death, she had stayed back to pepper the inspector with questions. She tried to forget this was her friend, and think of it merely as an interesting case. She willed her curious Torian nature to take over and force the sadness from her mind, but she struggled.

  Marguerit
e and Iris were the closest in age and had spent the last twelve years ruling together. Marguerite did not know how to accept her friend’s death. Iris had been a flame, strong and bright, and now, snuffed out.

  Marguerite wished she could be more involved in the investigation, but the inspector wouldn’t allow it. When she had offered to work by his side, he said it was better not to be tainted by her bias. Marguerite had scoffed at that. She’d spent the last twenty years in the palace. No one knew the place better than she.

  “Which is the problem,” the inspector had said. “I need to remain impartial if I’m to uncover the culprit.”

  The inspector’s presence had the palace in a spin. Perhaps it was his long fingers, or the way his eyes seemed to pierce through you, and to the truth. But his presence did not disturb Marguerite. There was something fascinating about him and the way he moved through the golden corridors with almost a mechanical determination. She’d sent her staff to tend to him overnight, ensuring he ate and drank, though she doubted he would rest. Perhaps he didn’t need to.

  After her meal, Marguerite ran her hand along one of her favorite maps. It was an outline of Toria, depicting Central Toria, or the Skim—as some Torians called it—all the way down to the docks. Her fingertips lingered. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She imagined the smell of the sea, the squish of granules of sand beneath her feet and a sticky ice cream dripping in her hand. The dock hadn’t always been tarnished by the Jetée. When she was a child, it had been a getaway from the hubbub of crowded Central Toria, a weekend escape. But the darkness and squalor were spreading. Marguerite had to put a stop to that, or her home might be destroyed by a few criminals, deviants, and frauds. Torians were better than that.

  A flap of Iris’s pale skin, leaking blood, flashed behind her lids.

  Marguerite opened her eyes and sighed. Even the maps wouldn’t calm her mind tonight. She removed her mourning clothes hastily and climbed into bed. Though the sheets were crisp and cool, Marguerite flamed hot. The image of Iris’s cold, lifeless body once again floated behind her eyelids.