There are plenty of Dividian. The women wear fine business dresses. The men too-tight suits. They weave in and out of everything like this is their city, but every time an Ashlord strolls down a sidewalk, or prowls into a bar, they fade to background noise. I listen as the owner of a nearby restaurant tries to lure a passing couple in with the promise of the finest food in Furia. They smile their no to him with divine elegance.
“Come on,” Ayala says. “Your room’s ready.”
The entire interior is carpeted. Not even our town hall has carpet. Just some fancy rugs here and there. I glance down at my dirty shoes and dusty ankles, but Ayala smiles again, leading me off to one side. A trio of Dividian men stand there in neat bow ties. The other Ashlords sit first, letting the men slip off their shoes one at a time. The trio works fast. One scrubs away mud and polishes each riding boot. Another takes a wet rag and wipes the dust from Ashlord ankles. The third sizes up their feet and provides them with a pair of the hotel’s complimentary slippers.
Ayala gives me a shove forward when the other two Ashlords are finished.
“Do her next,” she orders.
Her fellow escorts lift an eyebrow at the decision, but the Dividian rush to obey Ayala’s request. I’m helped into a high-backed chair. They remove my tattered riding boots and get them as clean as they’ve been since I first found them. Something snakes through my gut as the second man starts rubbing away at toes and ankles. There’s something wrong about being made clean, made like the Ashlords. He sees my frown when he’s done and whispers up to me.
“The dirt’s gone, but don’t worry, I couldn’t get rid of the calluses.”
We share a grin. The third Dividian steps forward, sliding slippers over both of my feet. I thank them all so profusely that Ayala has to pull me away.
My heart beats in triples. Then skips beats. It’s the first time I’ve seen it all so clearly. There are two worlds, and I know exactly which one I belong in. Even if Ayala’s offering me a temporary glimpse of their world. The men bow as she leads me off through the hotel.
The other Ashlords abandon us. She nods them off before escorting me to the third floor. “You have a corner room,” she says. “It’s quite a view.”
She swipes something by the handle and the door whisks open without a touch. I follow her in, feeling as disoriented as I felt that morning, like the world’s started spinning just a little too fast. Ayala shuts the door behind us. As she does, the casual calm leaves her face and she steps closer. I can smell some kind of cherry tobacco on her breath.
“I need to know,” she says. “Do you want to be in the Races or not?”
I stare at her. “I thought—Isn’t that why I’m here?”
“But do you want it? Qualifiers get hurt, you know? It will be hard riding, hard fighting. You’ll have to be smarter than all of them. I need to know if this is what you really want.”
It is what I want, what I’ve wanted since I was little. Martial always terrified me. Not because he’s scary or anything ridiculous like that. Looking at him is like looking at the impossible. Farian and I could play as riders on holy days, but I never let myself believe it’d be anything more than a game. “Yes,” I finally answer. “This is what I want.”
Ayala smiles. “Good, because you’re the one, Imelda. There have been discussions all day. The Empire Racing Board wants you to be the scholarship rider in the Races. The others will interview tomorrow, but you’ve already been chosen. You’re going to ride in the most prestigious event the Empire’s ever known. We start training tomorrow. And with my help?”
She sets a firm hand on my shoulder.
“I think you could actually win it.”
Furia.
The whole place is a clogged artery. Bodies, people, noise. Antonio’s standing out on the balcony of our hotel. Daddy’s tasked him with getting me to the start of the Races in one piece.
We arrived a few hours earlier by carriage, which felt every kind of wrong. Sitting and bouncing around in a box? Antonio’s just being smart about it. We don’t need every news outlet outside the hotel before I can settle in. Half the waitstaff is already casting sideways glances at us.
Besides, the carriage was practice for the city. The whole place is just one big box. Our room’s tight as a noose. The hotel’s in a confusing borough of claustrophobic streets and shops. We’re on the top floor, but you look out and all you can see are more buildings. It’s like a million people forgot the beauty of open space. Antonio saw I was restless and offered to take me out for a stroll, but I told him I’d rather sit in bed than knock knees with half the world.
When night comes, the noise is still there. Voices echo up from the alley below. People shouting and laughing, flirting and yelling. The Reach settles its bones before dark. If there’s something that needs doing, it can be done at dawn. I lie there, turning from side to side, until Antonio knocks on my door. I glance out. It’s still the middle of the night.
He looks in. “It’s time. Come with me.”
We walk through empty hallways. The front desk attendant has vanished. The lights in all the common rooms are low. Only our boots make any noise. Antonio leads me to the kitchen. It’s empty, too. Great rows of plates and piles of spoons are set out to dry. He kneels in front of a brick-fire oven and lifts the latch. It leads down into the dark.
Antonio doesn’t say a word as we descend. Every foul scent imaginable turns beneath our feet. Our movement stirs it all up, and before long I’m hacking coughs. Antonio just keeps moving through the labyrinth like he’s walked this path a hundred times. I’m still coughing when the darkness ends. Antonio climbs a ladder and I follow.
Another hatch opens into a wine cellar. The place is bright with light. Ten men and women stand there waiting for us. They’re bunched together, whispering, but at the sight of Antonio, everyone straightens. They line up, set their jaws, and wait for him to speak.
“Take a good long look, kid.”
I do. There’s a little bit of everything. Six are Dividian. Four are women. One’s an Ashlord, which sits uncomfortably in my gut. He styles his hair in a faux-hawk, but he’s a little old for the look. Next to him, a pair of Longhands grin out from among the rows of shining, corked bottles. I take time to look at each face, to memorize each detail. Freckles on noses, hats on heads, and all the little nooks every face has.
These are Daddy’s people, which makes them my people.
“This is your extraction team.” Antonio gestures at the standing group. “If something goes wrong or if something happens, you are to trust only these ten faces. You might have some smooth talker come up to you at the pre-event galas. Or after your victory. Whatever. If their face isn’t in this room right now, you do not trust them. The only people worthy of your trust over the next few weeks are these ten faces.”