Now, however, those eyes were pinched in fear.
“Cayo,” Sébastien whispered, “it’s the Slum King.”
Those last two words made a pit yawn open in Cayo’s stomach, devouring him from the inside out.
He grabbed Sébastien by the shirt and pulled him close. “Tell him no,” he growled in his face. “I’m done. I’ve paid my debts.”
And he had the empty ledgers to prove it. His shoulders tightened miserably at the thought of his depleted bank account, every drop of his fortune bled into the Slum King’s coffers. But at least he was free—he had cut all the strings tying him to that monster.
Sébastien was shaking his head, sweat rolling down his temples. “I’m not here to collect for him, Cayo.”
Panic was replaced with dread. Cayo let go of Sébastien’s shirt. “What did you do?”
Sébastien licked his dry lips. “I…might have pocketed some of my table winnings. A few times.”
Cayo sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bas.”
“I know, I messed up! But my rent was due, and I didn’t even have enough to buy food.” Tears welled in his beautiful eyes. Cayo did notice that his frame seemed thinner than usual. “He cut back my hours because I wasn’t dealing well enough, so what was I supposed to do, huh?”
“I don’t know, Bas—maybe not steal from the Slum King?”
“I had no choice!”
Cayo bit back the curse that rose to his lips. Unlike Cayo and the others, Sébastien didn’t have the luxury of wealthy parents to bust him out of trouble. He’d been an orphan for years, only making a living in the casinos under the Slum King’s employ.
It was the side of Moray that everyone chose to ignore, the grit under the glitter. People came to visit Moray for its grandeur, for its casinos, for the lavish veil it draped over the mundane. They didn’t expect that lifting the veil revealed the hard truth: That extravagance existed side by side with destitution. That the casinos they loved to frequent caused people to turn out their pockets and become bankrupt, or worse, end up on the debt collectors’ lists. The unlucky ones, if caught, found themselves on debtor ships.
Sébastien scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Cayo, if he finds out, I’m dead. I’m worse than dead. I already spent the money. It’s gone.”
“What about Philip?” Sébastien’s ex-lover was of the lower gentry, not well known but still affluent enough to help.
“He’s already given me too much, and I squandered it. I can’t go back to him again.” He grabbed Cayo by the shoulders. “Please, I need something.”
Cayo took a small step back, breaking out of Sébastien’s hold. He worried that if he let Sébastien clutch on to him a second longer, Cayo would allow himself to be steered right back to the Vice Sector. “You’ve come to the wrong person. My accounts…” He swallowed. “I have nothing.”
“But your father—”
“You really think he’s going to let me touch his money? After what I did?” He gestured to the Miscreant behind him. “It took ages just to convince him to even let me work for him.”
Sébastien dropped his gaze. “Can’t you do anything?”
Cayo closed his eyes, but it only made him more aware of the growing sense of dread that had been building in him ever since Sébastien had uttered the words Slum King.
He didn’t have time for this. He couldn’t associate with Sébastien anymore, not if he hoped to win back his father’s trust.
He reached into his pocket for the few silver drinas he had left. They were supposed to last him the entire month, according to his father’s budget. He pressed the coins into Sébastien’s trembling hands.
Sébastien let out a quiet sob of relief. He tried to kiss Cayo’s hands, but Cayo pulled away.
“Don’t come to me again,” he said.
Sébastien nodded and hurried away, not even looking back.
Before Cayo could contemplate the stupidity of what he’d done, his carriage driver trotted up and touched the front of his tricorn.
“Pardon, sir, but we should be heading back now. The lord’ll be expecting you.”
Cayo opened his mouth to respond when a shout rose behind him. He turned back to the Miscreant, where a couple of dockworkers were forcing a man back onto the ship. The first mate.
“I’m fine!” the man shouted, struggling against the dockworkers. The captain of the Miscreant kept the rest of her crew from coming to the first mate’s aid.
The doctor wiped sweat from his brow. “We can’t risk anyone with early stages entering the city proper. Cases have already doubled, and we can’t have it spreading further.”
Ash fever.
Cayo knew how much his father’s men made. He also knew how much the medicine cost.
As the first mate raged and fought, Cayo had to look away. His gaze landed on the decaying squid stuck to the side of the dock, now swarming with seagulls.
As he watched, a seagull plucked out and ate its eyes.
Mercado Manor was like a pearl rising from the bed of an oyster, all white and gold and gleaming. It rested on a gentle hill that overlooked the Merchant Sector, which gradually gave way to the harbor and Crescent Bay, flanked on either side by flora and the tall, spidery forms of palm trees.
By the time Cayo’s carriage rattled up to the entrance, the sun was mostly gone and the bay gleamed purplish blue. He stiffly emerged from the carriage, sore and a little sunburned.
The footman came out to greet him. “Good evening, sir. We expected you home much sooner.”
“I know, I know.” Cayo hurried past, the footman keeping up behind him. “I was held up.”
“A change of clothes has been laid out on your bed, and there’s a basin ready for you to wash before dinner.”
“Bless you.”
Cayo took the front entrance stairs two at a time, passing under the jutting balcony supported by fat, curling columns of white marble. The iron chandelier above was already lit warmly for the night.
Bursting into the antechamber, he made to run for the stairs when he caught sight of his father on his way to the dining room. Kamon Mercado raised a hand that forced Cayo to skid to a breathless halt before him.
It was easy to see why the workers were skeptical of Cayo when they compared him to someone like Kamon. Tall, handsome, and stern-faced, he was a man who looked used to command. When he wore his finest blue suit and slicked his hair back, it was impossible to ignore the aura of power around him.
Kamon, his hand still raised as if needing to keep the mayhem of Cayo as far from him as possible, looked his son up and down.
“You reek,” his father said. “You were supposed to be home an hour ago.”
“I know, I’m sorry. There was a mix-up down at the—”
“Excuses don’t matter. Get changed, quickly, and come down to meet the Hizons. They’ll be here any minute.”
Cayo’s boots squeaked against the gold-veined marble of the antechamber as he hurried up the stairs. Soria was already descending, an amused tilt to her mouth after watching the exchange. His sister was lovely in a gown of sea-foam green, the waist swathed in green ribbon and her shoulders covered with a small jacket of cream lace. Her long black hair had been half pulled up, the rest of it cascading down her back in elegant waves. She’d even applied glittering powder above the hoods of her eyes, teardrop-shaped and dark like his own.