And then I’ll break the whole damn thing.
More of the circus.
I stand in a sea of Ashlord nobles. How they glitter and shine. There’s a high-rise table in front of me. I rest my forearms on it, thankful for the distance it puts between me and the rest of them. Not that they’re here to talk with me. Mirrors run down the full length of one wall. An endless number of chandeliers cast swirling light over everything. I’m sweaty and bored.
My mind is fixed on what comes next. We’re about to walk into the Hall of Maps. All this talk and chatter? None of it matters. But the Unveiling? That does matter.
I am more than muscle. Daddy made sure of that much. Every hour spent on the training floor was matched by an hour doing memory exercises or logic training. He reprinted the last fifteen courses used in the Races and had me break them down and memorize every detail. After, he had them reprinted with slight changes and he made me find the flaws. Hopefully, the Ashlords will look at me and see only muscle. If they make the mistake of underestimating me, it might mean the difference between winning and losing.
The other riders move in and out of sight. Revel stands the closest. A pair of much older Ashlord women swirl their drinks, eyes glittering, as they hang on every word he says. Ashtaki stumbles past their table, already slurring his words. The siblings share a table in the corner. Capri’s posing for pictures with a few young fans. His half sister—Thyma, I think—catches me glancing their way and actually bares her teeth. How charming.
My gaze finally settles on Pippa.
As always, she’s surrounded. The flattering nobles drift apart long enough for me to get a full glimpse of her. I’ve been searching for weaknesses, but I haven’t found one. Her opening rebirth flashes confidence, and looking at her now, why shouldn’t she be confident?
The daughter of champions. It would be one thing if she were just a pretty face. The rider in me sees the truth. She has the perfect build for long distances. The slender frame, the coiled muscles, all of it. Nothing about the girl is wasted. I was half hoping I’d come to Furia and discover that all the rumors were nothing more than myth. She lets out a bright laugh, and it’s clear that she’s very, very real. The thought has me gritting my teeth. Our revolution starts with beating her at a game she was born to win. I force myself to look away.
The bright evening continues mercilessly on.
My eyes keep trailing back to the main entrance. I just want to get on with things. I know we’re waiting on the pleasure of the Brightness, the Ashlord king, a direct link to the gods. He’ll reveal the map himself. What an honor. I lift a forearm to wipe sweat away as someone finally slides free of the crowd. The man makes his way straight for my table, two drinks in hand, like both of us came here together or something.
A Longhand. Most Dividian think we look just like our Ashlord cousins, but if someone grows up in the Reach, they can spot the differences a league away. He sports a fashionable cowboy hat that no Ashlord would be caught dead wearing. His skin is slightly paler, his fingertips slightly rounder, and his eyes a few shades lighter. It’s only as he stops a few feet away that I confirm my guess with the final detail. Ashlords are warm. There’s a heat on their breath, along their skin. They claim it’s a sign of their link to the gods. And this man doesn’t have it.
“Adrian Ford,” he says with a smile. “In the flesh.”
I raise an eyebrow as he sets both drinks down on the table. He slides one across to me. It’s a familiar muddy color that brings a smile to my face. I lift the glass to inspect it in the light.
“You ordered me a Revolver? In this place?”
The stranger lifts his own glass. “Well. It’s their excuse for a Revolver. I highly doubt they got the ratios right, but I figured you deserved a proper drink. Something from the Reach. I know you’re heading for the Hall of Maps. So it’s just a taste. Don’t want your head spinning.”
I nod my thanks. Revolvers are a classic drink. Daddy doesn’t like them, but Antonio has something of a thirst for them. It takes true craft to get right. Each sip should revolve. A taste of ale, a taste of firespice, a taste of ale. On and on until it’s time for the second round. I’m barely old enough to drink, but knowing which drinks are which is a rite of passage in the Reach.
I might recognize the drink, but I don’t recognize the man. “Who are you?”
He sets his glass down again. “Didn’t think you’d remember me. I’m an old friend of your father’s. Ben sent me to this city twenty-three years ago.”
I take in his features again and try to match them with the story he’s telling. An image of an old painting appears. I’ve seen it every time I’ve been inside the capital courthouse. It takes some mental digging but I finally pull the name that appears at the bottom of that placard.
“Emerson.”
That easy smile returns. “You’re Ben’s boy, after all. That man never forgot a name.”
“None worth knowing at least.”
It takes a second to settle all the pieces mentally into place. Lefty Emerson. I’ve heard Daddy talk about him before. Emerson went to Furia on his orders. He’s been the unofficial emissary between the Empire and the Reach for a long time now. It’s not hard to hear it in his half-faded accent. He’s even adopted some of the quickness and fire of Ashlord speech. Daddy’s never spoken ill of the man, but there’s one other detail that stands out above all else.
He is not one of the ten faces Antonio showed me in that wine cellar.
I do not know his favorite food.
Which means he is not to be trusted.
“Well, I pulled a few strings to be in this crowd,” Emerson says. “The first time in twelve years that a Longhand rides in the Races? I was thrilled. I’m sure everyone at home…I couldn’t resist coming over to buy you a drink. The Ashlords will hate me for it, naturally….”
As he talks, my eyes drift briefly over his left shoulder. People are laughing loudly, crossing the room, offering toasts. The woman’s stillness sets her apart. She’s a waitress. Her back is set against the wall right near the kitchen entrance. Her eyes are on us.
And unlike Emerson, she’s one of Antonio’s trusted ten.
Elizabeth. Her favorite food is smoked granola. When she’s dead certain that she’s caught my eye, she gives the slightest shake of her head, picks up her tray, and moves away.
My eyes lock back on Emerson. He’s still talking.
“…and that’s the way it always is with their kind, isn’t it?”
His half-heard question hangs in the air. I’m saved from answering by a tray that crashes to the floor. Elizabeth stands over the mess, looking properly embarrassed. It’s the kind of clatter that briefly draws every eye in the room. Emerson turns long enough to inspect things, and I move faster than a slickback snake. It’s a trade. My drink for his. She gave me just enough time to pull it off. I hide the movement by raising his glass into the air and by the time he turns back around, the sight of the drink in my hand brings out a smile.