“I do love when anything they touch falls short of perfection,” he whispers. “Anyway. A Longhand in the Races! Some things are worth celebrating, no? What should we toast to?”
He lifts the glass intended for me. It’s nothing more than a suspicion. Daddy would like my instincts. Antonio would approve, too. This is not one of the faces I was told to trust. Emerson might be the Reach through and through. We might both sip our drinks, talk quietly for a few minutes, and move on without anything happening. All I know is the unsettled feeling in my chest and the disapproval of someone I was told to trust.
Lifting my stolen glass, I offer a toast. “To standing tall.”
He echoes the phrase and clinks his glass to mine. We both drink. It’s actually not poorly made. The taste dances a little too quickly back and forth—but there’s the trademark revolving nature that the drink derives its name from. I keep both eyes carefully locked on his.
“So,” he says. “How are you liking this pisshole?”
I can’t help laughing. “It doesn’t suit me. I feel like I’ve bumped shoulders with every single person who lives here in the past two days. Who could stand being this trapped?”
Emerson nods. “No farms. No ranges. No manors set on hilltops. It takes getting used to.”
I tilt back my drink again and take a healthy measure. He does the same.
“I’ll pass on getting used to it,” I reply. “I’m here for the ceremonies. Nothing else. Get me back in the open. Give me a bright sky. Give me enough desert to ride all day.”
“Spoken like a true son of the Reach.”
It doesn’t seem like he’s showing any signs of being poisoned at first. His hands look steady. His eyes look focused. But I finally note the glaze of sweat coating his upper lip. It is warm in here. I’m sweating enough for the both of us, but he came over without a speck on him. This time when I take a sip, he doesn’t match me. The veins along his neck have started to rise.
His eyes flick briefly down to my glass.
“What was it?” I ask.
He clears his throat. A rattling noise. “Pardon?”
“In the drink,” I reply. “What kind of poison did you use?”
I watch as the substance digs its claws into him. He’s feeling it now. Suspicion bleeds into outright panic. His eyes dart to the left—I follow his gaze but can’t find the confidant he’s looking for—and then he pinches both eyes shut in pain. It’s a pathetic sight.
“A life of service and you’ll end it like this?” I ask quietly. “What a shame. Only the Ashlords use poison. So you’ll die serving them, using their methods, drinking their poison. I can only imagine how much money they offered. Thanks for the drink.”
I finish off the untainted Revolver and set the glass back down. I can hear his labored breathing. His eyes are almost rolling back. Through sheer will, he keeps his feet for a few more seconds. Whatever he laced my intended drink with was cruel. I leave him in its grip.
I walk away and try not to let anyone see that my hands are shaking. Reality is hammering through me. This man came here to kill me tonight. I have to take a deep breath. As I reach the entrance, I hear the sound of a body hitting the floor behind me.
It’s followed by gasps. Attendants rush forward. I glance back long enough to confirm that Emerson is down. His mouth twitches. His eyes are slammed shut. He might die.
I take another deep breath and remember that could have been me.
A single thought follows: They’re afraid of me. And I smile. They should be.
It takes a few minutes for the mess to get cleared away. A little more intrigue will work its way back through the Chats tonight. You’re not sure what happened, but the Longhand emissary went down about five minutes ago, and you’re close enough to see he’s not exactly moving now.
The man was talking with Adrian. It has you shaking your head. Furia’s elite do love to plot and plan and play with their food. And you’re more than certain that Adrian Ford didn’t come here tonight with poison in hand. It’s not the way Longhands normally do business. So clearly he was supposed to be the victim. Plots upon plots upon plots. You just hope that none of their scheming gets in the way of your plans.
Attendants carry the fallen Longhand through a back door. The second it swings shut, the great entrance into the Hall of Maps groans open. All the gossip dies away.
An escort appears. “Riders step forward.”
You wink at a few of the surrounding royals before gliding forward. The rest of the contestants cut through the crowd. Ashtaki has to be redirected after stumbling into the kitchen. You roll your eyes. The board’s escort takes painstaking care to line up all of you. Cameras frame the waiting hallway. You take a deep, steadying breath. It’s important to put on a good show, of course, but tonight is the second step toward winning the Races.
Once more, you feel the weight of your competition as the escort leads you and the other ten riders forward. On into the Hall of Maps. Polished hardwood floors echo back each rider’s footsteps. Mirrors fill the spaces between the hanging tapestries and you catch glimpses of yourself in the glass. Naturally, you look more stunning than ever.
Annoyingly, you’ve been relegated to the back of the line of contestants. The camera crews flanking each side can barely get a good shot of you in this position. It’s an Ashlord habit to cling to outdated traditions like alphabetical order. The rules are upheld, even if it would make so much more sense to feature you at the front, the bright jewel of this year’s event.
The gambling lines have fluctuated all day. You’re still the favorite, but yesterday some footage of the Longhand leaked. He’s an absolute monster. Bigger than Bravos and more than competent in a duel. He rides like storms are chasing him. Maybe they are. A quick glance shows he’s walking two spots ahead of you. Ashlords are naturally tall, but Adrian Ford’s got a few inches on everyone in the room, and it’s hard not to notice he’s even more muscular than Bravos.
It’s actually very easy to notice that fact.
You smile. A rider like him doesn’t bring fear out in you. That’s not the way you’re built. Instead, adrenaline kicks to life. You want a worthy challenge. You want to beat the best.
Quietly, you run back through the math again. Eleven competitors have entered the Races. The Qualifier, who you practically chose, won’t pay the entry fee. Everyone else will have deposited their hundred-thousand-dollar minimums by now. The Empire Racing Board matches all entries, which leaves the total purse somewhere north of two million legions. If you and Bravos take the top spots, 75 percent of that will funnel into your accounts. Added to your sponsorships, that’s enough to start a real life together. You haven’t given much thought to what you’ll do after the Races, but that’s because you can’t afford to think about anything beyond these next few weeks.