Page 11 of Between Smoke and Shadow
She died when I was eight.Your laws killed her.
Then about my father.
He was afailedcriminal. The crown executed him.Maybe it was me.
Finally about my skills.
I am capable of working long hours.I am capable of plotting revenge.
I am an obedient servant.I am an excellent liar.
I have no aspirations beyonddismantlingthe crown.
By the end, I’m smiling and shattering and imagining Sorace’s blood on my hands. I force myself tolookcalm, so that he might believe I am. I don’t let myself break—I’m not sure I want to. I’d rather scream than cry, rather lunge than cower.
I should ask Sorace how he’d like to share his secrets, his family’s shame. How he would feel about claiming his ancestors’ guilt as his own. I want to know how he thinks a failed thief compares to his line of merciless killers.
But I don’t.
I answer his questions and nod and keep my voice light. Because Vale needs me to, because this is our best chance.
“Your interview is complete,” says Sorace. He retrieves a flat red token, marked with a complex pattern, and slides it across the table. “Your new quarters. Fifty-one CC.”
“You’ve chosen me?” I ask, unexpected pride swelling in my chest. “I have the position?”
Sorace doesn’t reply. He barely moves, nothing but a downward twitch of his mouth. I glance sideways at his guard.Hehasn’t moved since I first arrived.
“Thank you, my lord,” I say, lurching to my feet.
I grab for the access key, only to let out a yelp when it attaches to my skin. Scalding heat grips the pad of my thumb, burning my flesh to the point I can smell it. I should have known it’d be laced with magic. With an embarrassing cry, I flail my hand until the token clatters back to the table.
For the first time, Sorace lets out a soft chuckle. He snatches the enchanted token and easily returns it to his pocket.
“Your thumb is the key,” he tells me.
“Thank you, my lord,” I say again, voice wavering for the first time.
I wait for him to nod his dismissal and then hurry from the interrogation room. My steps quicken, and before long, I’m running. I hit the stairwell, going down, down, down, until I realize I’m running toward nothing. My roommates will be thrilled to have the extra space, and I don’t have any belongings. Even the clothes on my back are borrowed.
I lean into the corner of an unmarked landing. Dozens of servants filter past me, juggling buckets of cleaning supplies and trays of dishes. None of them look at me.
Despite the swelling, I can already see the changes on my thumb. I stare at it, trying to bring back the pride I felt only minutes ago. Many servants work their whole lives for this, for a chance to earn a decent wage, to live amongst the important people.
But this is not a token of honor or a triumph. This is yet another brand tying me to my captors—and a reminder of why I must fight.
After five daysas Lady Saskia’s handmaiden, I find myself on yet another military level. I stand behind her, juggling her water stein and heavily jeweled clutch. She’s already threatened twice to take my finger if I steal anything. Now though, she’s too distracted to harrass me. She sits to the right of Lady Viana and to the left of another well-dressed elite. There’s an entire line ofthem, over twenty elite ladies and gentlemen, all vying for their shot at royalty.
No, not just royalty. Thecrown.
All the elites look nervous, even Saskia and Viana, who take turns fidgeting and picking at their skirts. Like the others, they’re here to watch the crowned siblings train, or more realistically, to watch them show off. They sit near the center of the room, facing an elongated window. Through the glass, the training arena stretches in a wide rectangle of concrete walls and black-matted floors.
Dozens of weapons, almost all foreign to me, hang along the room’s interior walls. They’re different sizes and shapes, some with glowing magic, others without. Swords and knives, shields and gloves, oblong darts and sharpened rings. I survey the dangerous objects and wonder if Caleah’s doing the same. Though she stands beside me in the line of servants, she hasn’t moved since we arrived. Not a twitch or a glance or even a hitch of her breath. Acting unaffected comes naturally to her, but it takes every ounce of my effort to keep from peeking at her.
A sharp horn sounds over the intercom, announcing the arena’s first arrivals. Unconsciously, I lean toward the glass separation. A troop of twenty-five low guards, some with descendant insignias and others without, take their places around the massive room. They stand, tensed and ready, facing away from us.
“Wench,” Saskia hisses, stealing my attention. She’s painfully ordinary for an elite. Unremarkable features, lifeless hair, a round face. I wonder if she doesn’t use magic to enhance her appearance, or if she typically looks even worse. She whips toward me, arm reaching. “My bag, wench!”
I don’t have time to move before she surges over her seat, snatching the clutch from my hand. Then she turns to Viana again, and the girls hastily apply blood red lipstick.
