Luckily, we’ve got one more show for them.
I unsheathe a blade from my hip, take two steps, and let it swing. The metal shines a silver arc before stopping an inch shy of Sweet Maggie’s throat. The room takes in a breath. The other Maggie stands, pistol rising to my temple, her eyes a storm.
“You’ve got that aimed at the wrong person,” Daddy tells her. “Sweet Maggie’s been sliding secrets back to the Empire. Informing for the Ashlords since the incident in Vivinia. I always did wonder how you slipped your charges on that nightmarish expedition.”
Bad Maggie’s still got her gun to my temple, close enough that I can smell the loaded powder. But I was taught to show no weakness. Give them nothing. So my blade hangs steady over Sweet Maggie’s blotchy throat. After a second, Daddy stands, angry at this show of distrust.
“Unless you are her accomplice in this betrayal,” he says, “set the gun down.”
Bad Maggie’s reply is mostly spit. “Like hell. She wouldn’t.”
“She would. She did,” Daddy says. “Set it down.”
“He’s right.” Sweet Maggie can pick someone off from a hundred paces, but she’s too honest to carry a lie. “Ashlords snagged me. I should have told you, Mags, but I thought it’d be easier this way. All I sent them was a few notes. The information wasn’t even that good.”
There’s a few seconds where the tension holds. Bad Maggie makes a noise, no doubt feeling fouled by it all, then lowers her gun. My eyes flicker to her for a second, and that’s as long as Sweet Maggie needs to go for her knife. It’s off her hip and driving toward my stomach, but I’m quicker. I slam the grip of my sword down and crush her at the wrist.
She fumbles the knife and I bring my elbow up and across. The blow sends her staggering to the ground. Before she can even think to reach for her fallen weapon, I have the sword at her neck again. She goes still, her chest heaving, eyes wide and defeated.
“It was confusing enough having two of you,” Daddy says. “Get her out.”
Antonio Rowan sweeps up from his chair. Bad Maggie’s still fuming, like she’s angry at the whole world, but her pistol’s back on her hip and she’s punishing the back of her chair instead of me. I sheathe my sword as the traitor is escorted out. Daddy nods approvingly at the decision before turning back to a room full of rebels and warlords.
He sets his hat on his head and smiles recklessly.
“Well,” he says. “Who wants to go to war?”
You hit the replay button again. Stylists are arranging your curls and fussing over your makeup, but you’re too fixated on the screen to care. The Chats lit up this afternoon. Everyone and their mother’s sharing the Alchemist’s video. It’s not hard to understand the obsession. You watch the girl leap from the horse’s back. She vaults through the air like a dancer. The horse vanishes from the ridge and appears beneath her. She sticks the landing, and gods does she look shocked when she does, then grins at the camera like a fool.
It’s not half bad for a Dividian, you think. A glance shows the video’s been watched two million times. A clip of you dancing on the beach last week had double that number, but still, not bad for a Dividian.
“Stage in twenty seconds,” Zeta announces.
You nod, shedding stylists to glide through the backstage labyrinth. You like the quiet darkness, but you like the bright chaos even more. A thousand cameras flash as you take the stage. You brush a dark lock behind your ear because you know Bravos is watching, and he’ll love that little display of calm control. When you flash your commercial smile, the media attendants swoon. Automated applause echoes out from each of the metallic chair mannequins.
Life has readied you for the stage. You know to keep your eyes level, your back straight, and your legs crossed. The designer’s auction only finished an hour before the interview. Seven thousand legions pile into your personal account from some off-brand company just so you’ll wear their jacket during the live feed. It has the most absurd silver loops you’ve ever seen for buttons and a vintage collar. Not really your style, but the video will feed through the Chats and before long you’ll see it featured in storefronts on Promenade Avenue. A little sacrifice for a little pocket change never hurt.
House lights come up and you get your first look at the audience. People are still bidding for seats, so the faces and clothes keep changing inside the vacant, crystal mannequins. Bidding on the front row’s even fiercer than usual. You watch the faces change. Bearded men replaced by bald women, diva stylists outbidding political dignitaries. Everyone wants a taste of you.
Overhead, a clock ticks down bright-red numbers. When it hits zero, the auctions will end and the interview will begin. Only the back row’s not subject to the grappling of public hands. You promised yourself you wouldn’t look there before the interview, that it’s the grown-up thing to do this all on your own, but you can’t help it. You’ve always needed them.
Father and Mother sit in their customary seats, back left. Father’s hair is swept into a traditional topknot. So old-fashioned, but he makes it look classic somehow. You know most men who’ve won the Races put on weight as the years pass. Fifteen years of endless training lead to fifteen years of banquets and parades. But not for your father. In the same way his haircut and uniform are timeless, so is he. A mark of something better, something the years can’t wash away.
Beside him, your mother. That famously pointed chin, those famously watchful eyes. After her victory in the Races, women actually purchased illegal surgeries, hoping to look a little more like the famous Prama. The government agencies had so much trouble regulating the industry that they just changed the law instead. For three years in a row, your mother was Going Girl magazine’s “Most Desirable Bachelorette in Furia”!
Until she married your father.
The perfect couple.
Which left you with only one choice: to follow in their perfect footsteps.
The red numbers vanish. You lift your chin and turn as the crystal mannequin in the opposite seat animates, filling with color. A blue suit and pink buttons. The famous showman, Maxim, sweeps a robotic hand through his perfectly combed hair and smiles for the cameras.
“We’re back and live with our coverage of this year’s Races. But there are some people who would argue that our coverage is only beginning as we arrive at the interview that everyone in Furia has been waiting for. Gods be good, Pippa, you look astonishing.”
Smile once at the audience, once at Maxim, prepared answer.
“All thanks to the designers at Press Emporium and the unbelievable makeup artists that Flight Forever sends over before every interview. Where would I be without those girls? They’re the ones who inspired my catchphrase, after all. You remember it, Maxim?”