Antonio points to the Dividian on the far right.
“Quay,” the man says.
And the next.
“Elizabeth.”
“Darby.”
“Atl.”
He works down the row, then asks me to repeat each name. When I can’t, he has each person say their names a second time. This time I pay attention and when he asks, I can repeat them easily. But Antonio’s careful, because Daddy’s taught him how to be. He has the group say their names a third time, then shuffles the order.
I go down the new row and nail every single one. Then Antonio turns me around. He has them all say the word freedom. Without looking, I’m supposed to identify them by their voices. I get a handful right, but Antonio turns me back around, has them say their names and listen to their voices before running me back through it again.
The whole thing takes an hour, but by the end of it, I know their names, their voices, their faces, and their favorite foods. Antonio doesn’t explain why the last one’s necessary; he just wants to make sure this is a dossier I’ll have in my head forever, because there isn’t a scrap of paper he’d dare write any of this information down on. These are the Reach’s spies. When we’re set, he tips his dirty hat to them and we watch as they ascend a stone staircase.
“Those are your people,” Antonio repeats to me. “I’ll leave the city when the Races begin, but they know the extraction plan. Each of them has come over to our side—for one reason or another—and your daddy’s set each piece spinning into motion just to make sure he gets you home safe. Arranging all this has cost money and lives. Do not forget those names. Do not forget those faces. And when you cross that finish line, don’t you dare trust anyone whose favorite food you don’t damn well know.”
A storm wouldn’t be all that fun without a little noise.
—Gold Man Jones, spoken three minutes before his death at the Battle of Oranges
A polite knock wakes me up. It really is polite, too. It’s not paired with a raised voice or drunken laughter or anything. Silence follows. I roll over, squint through the half-opened window, and realize the light funneling into the room is not from the sun. I grumble out from under the covers and throw a shirt on before opening the door.
Ayala is there. “Good morning!”
She smiles and I like her a little less. I actually raise a hand to shield my eyes from the glow of the hallway behind her. How is she dressed already? Is she wearing makeup?
“Huh,” I say.
It’s not a real response. It’s not even a word, just a half-formed grunt. She continues smiling, maybe waiting for something more eloquent, but it’s so very clear I have nothing else to offer her. It takes me a few seconds to figure out that I’m blocking the doorway.
“You’re coming in?” I nod to myself. “You’re coming in.”
She laughs as I step aside. In the time it takes me to close the door, she already has both lamps on in the room. I guess I’m waking up now. Stumbling over to the table, I plunk down in the seat opposite her. She’s busily setting out packages and bags that I didn’t even notice she was carrying. I’m staring at them helplessly and trying to figure out how she carried them all with just two hands when my eyes find the most important thing she’s brought me.
“Coffee!”
She slides the cup across and starts to scold me about the heat. Too late. I’ve already disappeared behind the mug’s alabaster rim. It tastes rich, smooth. A little weaker than what Father makes, but that doesn’t stop it from feeling like a step in the right direction.
Ayala waits for me to resurface. “I’ve brought a few training gifts.”
From one of the bags, she removes a set of clothes. I see three pairs of riding pants and matching tops to go with them. At the bottom of the pile, an official Empire Racing Board jacket.
“Looks fancy,” I manage to say.
“Expensive,” she counters. “All the very best gear. The undergarments are a new flame-resistant line from Dominus. It might take you a few days to get used to reading your phoenix’s temp with them on, but it saves you from the wear and tear of a full day’s ride. Each of the shirts has breathable hoods to shade the sun. I’d guess you recognize the riding jacket.”
Of course I do. It’s the same one that’s been worn for the last two decades. A simple black piece with the Empire Racing Board’s echoing horse emblem on the right breast. The joints and shoulders are made of a stretching, smoke-gray material. Protection without sacrificing flexibility. It’s the kind of outfit I’ve seen in all the pre-race advertisements. Only the models have always been Ashlord racers: Pippa, Bravos, Revel, Etzli.
This set belongs to me.
“Do they fit?”
Ayala looks offended. “No, you’ll have to roll up the sleeves a few times.”
I almost snort my coffee. Standing, I unfold one of the shirts. Ayala did her homework. The sleeves ride out perfectly. Even accounted for my shorter torso.
“It’s a reactive fabric,” she says. “It will wick your sweat during the day and keep in the warmth at night. On the house. But the last gift is something to borrow. I’ll need it back.”
She slides a wooden box across the table. The coffee is starting to kick in. I suppose if I have to wake up before dawn, I’d rather do it by opening very expensive and thoughtful presents. I’ll have to let Farian know that a new bar has been set for our morning adventures.
My fingers find the edges of the wooden lid. It slides down along carved grooves and reveals something I’ve been waiting to get my hands on since arriving in Furia.
“A switch.”
My fingers heft the weapon into the air. I marvel at the weight and balance of it. There’s no question of the weapon’s authenticity. It is a Race-standard switch. Not the knockoffs I played with as a little girl. The baton runs about the length of elbow to fingertip. It’s polished brightly, and the wood is that clearly burned color that looks on the edge of flame. Only trees from the Burning Forest look that way. Cheaper vendors will use birch or oak and do their best to dye the material the same color. I’ve owned enough of them to know the paint peels after a few weeks. My fingers settle on the leather grip. I tilt it to get a look at the stamped V at the base of the handle. Versa’s patented sweat-resistant leather. It’s a thing of beauty.
“Give it a try,” Ayala encourages.
I double-squeeze the grip. Ashlord magic snakes through the material and the wooden frame retracts. A leather whip shakes out to the floor. Light catches on the little glass claws dangling dangerously from each strand. I let them dance along the floor before squeezing the grip again. There’s a zip noise as the whip returns to baton form.