we’re born and branded red with Lust

we break when we can’t bend

we pray to Love, in her we trust

that Death will bring our end

excerpt from “The Street of Sinners,” a Valenèsisan ballad

The last time Ila got sick, the cathouse’s midwife told me little girls know when they’re about to die. Impending sense of doom, she called it. Their throats stop working except to scream. They throw punches at men who aren’t there. They thrash and sob as Lady Death grabs their pigtail braids and drags them to the afterlife, leaving tiny corpses in her wake.

Healer Waverly is blessed with many gifts. A good bedside manner isn’t one of them.

Things are bad when I get home from school. I go straight to the floor mat and kneel at my sister’s side. Waverly shoots me a look that lets me know I’m in her workspace. I can win her over by being helpful, so I pull Ila against me and press a cloth to her mouth. She coughs up yellow-green phlegm and I dab away the slime. I press a kiss to her forehead. Her skin is hot beneath my lips.

“Would you like a drink?” I ask. “I could make tea.”

“No.” Ila’s voice is muffled by my wool sweater. “I want something else.”

I don’t hesitate. “Anything.”

“I want a pet cow,” she says. “His name would be Lord Beef. He’d be the best brother I could ask for.”

She sticks her tongue out at me. I can’t tell if the fever is messing with her head—maybe she’s being a crazy kid. Either way, I can’t get her a bull for her tenth birthday. We live in a one-room flat. There’s nothing in here except for us, the floor mats, the shuttered windows, a milk box, and a cast-iron coalpot. Behind us is a rickety wooden door that leads out to a balcony. Blankets are shoved beneath the frame to keep out the afternoon heat. Across the room, hanging on an ash-white wall stained with dry rot, is the frayed curtain that marks off the washroom. Low voices murmur from within.

I shouldn’t entertain this conversation, but I’d do anything to distract Ila from the coughing spells. I never knew a little girl could make such hoarse, choked sounds.

“Why do you want to replace me with a cow?” I ask.

“He’d be useful, Ko,” she says. “He’d give me milk.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Boy cows don’t make milk.”

“This one would,” she says. “He’d also cook me oats.”

“I make you oats.”

“You aren’t a cow.”

I can’t argue with that logic.

“Would he fit in the coalpot?” I ask. “We could get a few coins for the steaks.”

“If you tried to kill Lord Beef, he’d beat you up,” she says sweetly. “His feet are swords, and he breathes fire.”

That’s some cow. I twist my fingers into her stomach. She rasps out a giggle. Maybe she’s out of jokes, or maybe I am. Silence falls either way. There’s nothing I can do but hold her.

“Am I going to die?” Ila asks.

“Of course not.”

“I think I’m going to die.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

Ila’s breathing evens out. I tuck another blanket around her in the hopes of breaking the fever. She squirms, but she doesn’t open her eyes again. Waverly looks at me for a long time. She lights more prayer candles.

###

I pull back the washroom curtain. Akeeva leans toward the mirror. Her face is in her hands, and blond curls explode around her ears. I massage the back of my neck and watch her breathe. She held my hand as I took my first steps, trimmed my hair every time it needed a cut, taught me how to talk and when to stay silent…the list goes on. She still patches the knees of my trousers when I muck them up even though she’s working twelve-hour nights. Ila calls her Mother and sometimes I do too, but we’re half siblings and she’s only twenty. Sometimes I forget how young she is.

“Keev?”

She’s shorter than me by at least six inches, but you wouldn’t know it by the way she reaches out. I fall toward her. She pulls my head against her chest, strokes my tangled hair, and presses a kiss to my temple. I let her pet me. I’m a month away from adulthood, but Akeeva’s hugs aren’t getting less comforting as I age. Maybe they never will.

“Tell me how to help.” My voice is muffled by her cotton top.

Akeeva pulls away. I mourn the loss of her warmth.

“Ila needs something to break the fever.” My other half-sister, Felicity, leans against the tub and doodles on a sheet of grasspaper. “Not the marked up weeds they sell in L-Street markets. Willow bark—maybe elderflower. Caressa says that worked on her boys.”

“I could go uptown.”

Felicity snorts a low, dark laugh. “They check wrists at the door.”

“I’ll tell them it’s an emergency.”

“Ko.” Akeeva’s voice is gentle. “You’re a Whoreson.”

The pain in Akeeva’s voice when the tat comes up—as if she thinks it’s her fault we were branded at birth—burns a rank hole in my gut. She didn’t choose this caste any more than we did. When she was my age, she was working full time. Child codes weren’t as strict six years ago. Then again, they’re not overly strict now. If you get IDed some whips arrest you, others take a cut from your pimp. When I think about it too hard I have to go outside and kick a tree.

“How long until the fever breaks?” I ask.

Felicity’s fingers are steady as the feathered pen scratches grasspaper. She’s not brushing me off—she doesn’t like to talk when her hands are still. She’s drawing a little girl, I think. One with closed eyes and tangled hair…

“Do you think there are cows in the afterlife?” Felicity says.

“Absolutely,” I say. “I think when the God King created The Fjords, He thought to Himself, you know what would make heaven better? Livestock.”

For a second, I think she’s going to grin. I should know better. She never smiles anymore, save for that cruelly affectionate leer that pops up when she’s teasing me. I can’t remember the last time I’ve heard her laugh. Not since she started at the cathouse, at least, and that was two years ago. She was fifteen. Or maybe it was before that, back when I was ten and she was thirteen. Maybe she hasn’t laughed since two of Lady Death’s guardsmen showed up at our door to tell us our mother wasn’t coming home. Killed in combat, they said. They said other words, too. Vanguard. Blitz attack. Frontline.

Brave.

Tragic.

Our mother’s commanding officer—a morose, balding man with a gleaming sword strapped to his back—gave us a stipend that ran out in two months. He also gave us her battlechains. Felicity still wears them around her neck. Ironic our mother escaped the birth caste to be struck down by Xobrites within two months of enlistment. Maybe when she left, she thought we’d be fine without her. Maybe she was so focused on her future that she didn’t care about her past.

“Let’s start simple,” I say. “Why does Ila keep getting sick?”

“We’d have to take her to a medic to know for sure,” Akeeva says. “A real medic, not a midwife.”

“How much would that cost?”

Felicity sketches a calf on the girl’s sweater. They don’t answer. They don’t have to. There are a few good clinics uptown, but they’d take one look at our clothes and know we couldn’t pay. That’s if they didn’t check our wrists, which they would.

“There’s nothing we can do except wait and see what happens,” Akeeva says softly. “Hope for the best and expect the worst.”

“I’ll hop a train at the Second Terminal and go to the black market in Grelles,” I say. “They’ll sell to me there.”

My sisters exchange a glance. Akeeva shakes her head. “Biters will tear you apart in the deadlands.”

A slight flaw in an otherwise flawless plan. “Do you have any money?”

Akeeva hesitates. Felicity fishes around in her powder bag. She pulls out five francs. I tuck them in my pocket.

“We’ll come with you,” she says.

“And leave Ila?”

Not to mention the cuts they’ll take from their pimp if they don’t show up at work tonight. That’s better left unsaid. My sisters know who owns them—they don’t need the reminder.

“Five franks won’t get you anything in Grelles,” Akeeva says.

“I’ll make it work.”

“We emptied the last of your uppers fund to pay Waverley.” Her voice cracks. “I’m so sorry, Ko.”

“We’ll pay it back.” Felicity’s eyes have a glassy lens. “I’ll clock sixteen hour shifts every day this winter. We’re sending you to a knowledge center, even if I have to fill the fund with my own blood.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say.

The milk jug beneath the floorboard where Felicity and Akeeva stash spare coins is the last thing on my mind. It’s their money, their dreams for me. I accepted years ago that despite their assertions, I’m never getting off the strip. Besides, Ila is more important. Maybe the three of us can save enough to send her to school someday, buy her an apprenticeship at the very least. To do that, we have to keep her alive.

I run through my mental checklist of everything I have to sell. A few cans. The coalpot. The sword in the scrapyard. My virginity—maybe there’s a brothel in Grelles that will take me on for the night. The idea feels foreign despite my lineage. Surreal, like prodding a tooth that wasn’t sore yesterday. Prostitution is illegal in the Third Circuit—child proz doubly so—but there are always sketchy houses if you know where to look. I can’t imagine there’s a demand for scrawny, insecure street rats, but who knows?

“I’ll do anything for Ila,” I say.

“We know, love.” Akeeva’s hand brushes my cheek. “We would too.”

###

The scrapyard is at the far end of downtown Valenès, twenty minutes from the temporary housing unit. I jog by a row of eateries, pawn shops, cathouses, and nightclubs. A man lingers on the corner of Fifth Avenue and L-Street. A leathery gimp mask clamps his jaw shut. A few girls flank him. I avert my eyes. One of the ladies yells something obscene.

Two of Lady Death’s guardsmen—whips—lean against the boarded-up windows of an eatery, distinguishable by their gray leathers. The spears strapped to their backs identify them as low-ranking lancers.

A half-rotted sign marks the end of the strip—Leisure Street // Stay Safe. I cut left through a dry agricultural field. Yellow grass crunches under the heels of my boots. At the spiraling cul-de-sac that surrounds the common grave, a morguesman leans against the quad’s iron gate. He raises a flask.

When I get to the scrapyard, I hop the fence and clamber up a mountain of junk. Most of the stuff is from the pre-bunker era. There are old motor vehicles that bleed oil, blocks of machinery that haven’t worked in two centuries, and a couple of metal homes that were dumped here after the world was blown to pieces. The heap is rounded out by miscellaneous piles of garbage. Everyone who has something to get rid of leaves their stuff here. I live in fear of finding a corpse stashed in the rubble, but that’s stupid. It’s easier to ditch bodies in the common grave. No one asks questions. Not on Leisure Street.

Still, you can find some decent stuff in the trash if you know where to look.

I yank the lid off a moldy barrel and pull a dull sword from within. Akeeva found it a couple years ago and wrapped the blade in canvas so I could mess around with it. I’d take it home, but there isn’t room to practice my footwork indoors. I don’t want to be the guy who carries a broadsword down L-Street twice weekly on my way to the backfields. Corroded swords aren’t a rare commodity, and it’s coated in flaking rust. At best it will give me a fighting shot at getting through the deadlands and be something to sell when I get to Grelles. At worst it’s extra weight.

There’s a family crest on the pommel, a pair of goat’s horns encircled by a sleeve of roses. The family maxim has been gritted off the central ridge, but the owner’s battle cry is engraved on the fuller.

Se battre comme le Diable. Whatever that means.

I catch my breath and plan my route. There are six miles of uncivilized territory I need to cross. Death’s guard has issued a surplus of patrols across the Second Circuit, so I shouldn’t have to worry about Xobrite brigades coming down from the mountains to accost me. I worry anyway.

When I’ve caught my breath, I hop down the mountain of scraps and vault over the fence. Keeping the sun over my left shoulder, I turn toward the open expanse of desert.

It’s a four hour walk to the terminal in Bathune.

If I run, I can do it in two.

###

I make it to the outskirts of Roanoît, the farming city that marks the halfway point in my route. I’ve been jogging through the desert wilderness for an hour. Beige, lifeless sand stretches in all directions. Despite the frigid breeze, sweat sticks Akeeva’s sweater to my back. I cough. My throat is drier than the sand beneath my boots. I find myself thinking about how fantastic water would taste…

A scream pierces the air.

My muscles freeze. I stop jogging without making the conscious decision to do so. Maybe I imagined the cry in a fit of dehydrated delusion.

It comes again. Young. Female. Frightened.

I change direction, barreling southeast toward the call. My heart throws itself against my rib cage, and my sword thwacks my side. My lungs ache. Sharp bursts of pain shoot up my feet and shins.

It takes me four minutes to sprint to the commotion. Getting closer doesn’t help me figure out what’s going on. Steeds kick up clouds of dust. I find myself looking at a dozen men, all on horseback. Half are clad in bronze chain-link armor—Xobrite armor, I realize with a jolt of terror. Red stains the sand. Two men lie motionless on the ground. Blades whiz through the air. I spot a flash of colored armor from the guardsmen.

Black leather.

That can only mean one thing.

The soldiers who are fighting the Xobrites are the highest tier in Lady Death’s Guard. They’ve earned elite status.

I take in the symphony of yells, screams, and battle cries.

“Left, left, left!”

“WHERE’S MY DAUGHTER? BARD, I CAN’T SEE HER! WHERE’S—?”

“On your right, Segolé!”

“GET TO HER! BARD, LINDEN…FIND HER, DAMN IT!”

The scream comes again. I turn my back to the battle and scramble up a mountain of boulders one hundred feet away. I slide down the other side of the rocks. Skin scrapes off my left forearm, leaving a snail-trail of blood on the stone. I land in a heap, sending a wave of powdery sand into the air. The impact steals the oxygen from my lungs, and I lie motionless on the ground. My head spins. I spit out a mouthful of dry, tasteless dirt.

Somehow, I push myself to my feet.

A small girl stands a dozen paces away. Her fists are cocked. Two biters circle her—adolescents, judging by the fact that they’re only ten feet long. Their green, serpentine bodies writhe as they draw closer. Their teeth are the length of my forearm.

The girl hurls a rock at the larger of the mutant snakes. It draws back, milky eyes wide, hissing furiously. Yellow toxin drips from its jowls—egad. One drop of that fluid could paralyze a grown man. Younger serpents have deadlier venom. The horses must have scared them up from underground nests, and that means more could be coming. We had infestations in the basement of the temporary housing unit. The bastards killed three residents before Felicity and I exterminated the last one. They laid eggs in the walls—it took almost a year to clear them out.

The girl picks up another rock. The smaller snake approaches her. Its teeth slash forward.

She screams something.

The world slows around me.

My sword is drawn. I’m in front of the girl, pushing her toward the rocks, putting myself between her and the biters. One strikes. I parry.

My blade slashes. Once. Twice. Three times. A snake falls, its body sheared clean in two. The girl screams again. I call out to her. Yell something. I don’t know what. I think I’m asking if she’s all right.

The other snake is in front of me, moving too quickly to track. It’s to my right, then my left, then behind me, moving straight for the girl. My hand flashes out and grabs the tail, wraps around a textured rattle, and squeezes. The snake turns toward me. Its mouth opens into a deranged hiss…

Its head lands at my feet.

My body shakes. The sword dangles limply in my grasp. Breathing is agonizing, and my head feels like it’s about to float away.

The girl looks at the snake carcasses, then at me. Her mouth moves. I can’t hear her. Blood pounds through my head. Yells echo toward us from beyond the mountain of boulders.

“What?” I ask.

“I said I’m not going to thank you!” she screams. “I had the situation handled! I was going to kill them with my bare hands! Damn you and damn your father! Damn your sweetheart! Damn your horses!”

I take a step back. “…What?”

She takes a long, slow breath.

“Thanks for the sword, knothead,” she says.

She snatches the blade from my hand and throws herself toward the boulders.

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I look down at my empty fist and frown.

What in Hel?

Who is this girl?

Fuming, I throw myself after her.

I grab the wrist that’s holding my sword. She spins around, and her other hand smashes against my cheek. It’s a well-aimed slap. Tingles shoot down my face and neck. I drag her onto a rocky outcropping halfway up the boulder pile. It’s a miracle neither of us fall. She’s flailing, and she’s hurling obscenities that would make Akeeva blush.

“Let me go, you gutter-crawling cur!” she snarls. “You mangy mutt! You touched me without a written troth notarizing consent… I’m a vestal in the court of the Septemvirate! My father’s going to kill you! He’ll flay you alive and wear your skin as battle armor!”

I force her into a seated position, snatch the sword from her grasp, and move it out of her reach. When she tries to stand, I push her down—not hard, but she gets the message.

I brace myself for another avalanche of insults.

Instead, her face twists.

She bursts into tears.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say.

My voice is kind. Gentle. It’s the same tone I use on Ila when she gets worked up.

“As if you could,” she snaps.

Tears continue to stream from her tawny, almond-shaped eyes.

“You said your father is out there?” I wait until she nods. “Why don’t we wait here until he gets back? We’ll be fine. I promise.”

She looks at me, eyes streaming, nose running, hatred in her gaze.

“You aren’t going to help him?” she demands. “Are you some sort of weakling? Do you get off on the idea of cowering like a trench rat while noble fighters die for you?”

I try to figure out how to respond.

“Fine.” She tosses her hair behind her shoulders. “I’ll help him myself. Return your sword to me, you lily-livered craven!”

What’s up with the way she talks? I squint at her, trying to organize my thoughts.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Old enough!” She beats her chest with a tiny fist. “I’ve been professionally trained. I could kill you in three seconds if I wanted to! I could rip the skin off your bones and hang you with it!”

I look her up and down. She’s small, and she really might be a vestal in the Septemvirate. She’s wearing a lacy pink dress. The cut is modest, and a silver chain knots around her waist. White flowers are braided into her hair.

If she’s a vestal, our divine decorum standards must be a total joke.

“Are you eight?” I guess. “Nine?”

She cocks a fist and throws it at the pressure point below my knee. I get my leg out of the way in time—barely.

“I’m eleven, you starveling bull’s pizzle!” she says. “Old enough to feast upon your entrails like the man-eating vultures of lore!”

“Fantastic.” I manage to keep my voice kind. “Also—gross. What’s your name?”

She bares her teeth into the most twisted smile I’ve ever seen. Her eyes narrow to slits. Her lips curl back, displaying two rows of frighteningly sharp canines.

“My name is Brid Naya’il di Vivar,” she says. “Fighter extraordinaire, fear-bringer to my enemies, rightful general of tomorrow. Bow before me, or I’ll leech the blood from your veins!”

Something is seriously wrong with this child. Still, I place a fist over my heart and dip my head.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Vestal Brid,” I say. “I’m Ko.”

Her surname sounds vaguely familiar—her father’s an elite guardsman, so he’s a famous fighter. If my head wasn’t pounding, I could probably figure out who he is.

“I didn’t need your help, Ko,” Brid says again. “I had the beasts handled. Thanks for nothing.”

“You were screaming.”

“I was striking fear into the hearts of my conquests.”

“You certainly struck fear into my heart,” I say. “Next time I’ll sit back and let you protect me.”

“Don’t patronize me, knothead.” She pushes herself to her feet. “Let’s go help Da.”

She starts to climb the heap of rocks. I grab her by the collar of her lacy dress, and once again, she turns that feisty glare on me. I raise my hands in surrender, and, miraculously, she doesn’t shoot away the second I release her.

“Why don’t we let your father do his thing?” I rack my brain for something that might subdue her. “We could watch from the top of the rocks and assess the enemy’s battle formations?”

She stares at me.

“Defense patterns?” Now I’m just throwing out words that sound warlike. “Blade techniques?”

After a long pause, she nods.

“But the second Da needs help…” she begins.

“Sure,” I say, hoping her father—whoever he is—will subdue the Xobrites quickly. “If he needs reinforcements, I’ll help him.”

“We’ll help him.”

“Um,” I say. “Okay.”

We climb up the rock pile and huddle against a boulder, hiding in the shadow it casts. I take care to keep the sword out of Brid’s reach, and I don’t miss the way she eyes it when I set it aside. Even so, once she turns her attention to the battle, she can’t pull her gaze away. She props her head on her hands and kicks out her legs. Her eyes widen, and she exhales a soft sigh.

“Which one’s your dad?” I ask.

She points to the center of the battlefield. A looming hulk of a man in black leathers is dominating three Xobrite fighters. The scythe blade of his ebony bistaff twirls through the air like a snake’s tail. One of the Xobrites falls, screaming a death shriek.

“That’s Uncle Bardic flanking him,” she says, beaming. “He’s Da’s most trusted fighter and the greatest medic in the realm. They’ve been best mates since they were boys. Bardic’s like a second father to me—that’s how close they are. They’d marry, but that would bring down two churches and end the realm as we know it. Politics, amirite?”

“If you say so.”

“Lanista Segolé’s on the white horse,” she continues. “He’s old and kind of mean, but I like hanging out with him—he knows all the best swears.”

“Segolé’s wearing black leathers,” I say. “Isn’t he an elite guardsman?”

“Aye—he’s the oldest staffmaster alive and practicing.”

“You called him lanista, not staffmaster.”

“Lanista means teacher.” Her voice is slow, as if she thinks I’m stupid. “He’s the headmaster of L-DAW—Lady Death’s Academy of Warfare—and he’s a mentor figure. Either epithet applies.”

I rub the back of my neck.

“On the other side of Segolé—see the pretty one?” she asks. “That’s Staffmaster Linden. He’s the youngest elite right now. He’s only twenty-two!”

Linden ducks under Segolé’s outstretched arm, slicing a horse from under a Xobrite. Only two of the chain-link fighters are left, and most of the guardsmen have begun to fan out. Bardic kneels by the fallen swordsman, gripping his hand. Brid’s father moves off to the right, spinning his horse in a circle and peering toward the deadlands. He’s clearly looking for her. I open my mouth to suggest we move out of the shadows, but Brid hasn’t stopped her commentary.

“Zounds,” she squeals. “Did you see the rainbow arc Linden just pulled off? It’s a tough move because you have to keep the scythe balanced. Otherwise, you slice off your toes, and then your father takes away your bistaff because you’re irresponsible and reckless and carrying a blade is a privilege.”

“You cut off your toes?”

“Only two of them. Look at Lindy’s technique! He’s great with a scythe. Isn’t he magnificent? …Don’t ever tell him I said that.”

“How long has he been an elite?”

“Da swore him in nine months ago.” She tilts her head. “He had dinner with us last night.”

“Us?”

“Me, Da, Bardic, and my twin, Miro. And Grandfather Médéric.” Her arms tighten around her legs. “Grandfather’s a bully. I don’t like him. Then again, I hate everyone. I especially hate you. You stole my glory. You’ll be my nemesis until the day you die. I’ll slaughter rabbits on your graveplot for luck.”

Bold of her to assume I can afford a graveplot. “I’ll haunt you forever.”

“You do that,” she says, delighted. “The way to a lady’s heart is by haunting her post-mortem! Everyone says so. Anyway, I like you more than I like Grandfather. Da won’t let him watch us anymore. He broke both of Miro’s hands three years ago. You should’ve heard the snap. Miro screamed and screamed…I wouldn’t have done that. I would’ve taken it silently.”

“Egad.”

“That’s why Da says we can’t be alone with him.” She nods importantly. “Last night, Da and Bardic had to take off after the first course, so they made Lindy babysit. I woke him up at midnight to make me a snack, and he did it. He didn’t whine or anything. Miro would’ve whined like a little bitch.”

“I think the battle is over,” I say dryly.

“Oh, good,” she says. “All the Xobrites are dead. Long live the God King, Father of stars and lamps of fire, who breathed life into the Seven Circuits of L’Anglimar! May the fruit from His seed speak through our Lords and Ladies, guiding our journeys as we walk His vineyard. Huzzah!”

That’s some prayer—maybe she made it up herself. She slides down the rocks and tucks into a roll when she hits the sand. Her skirt fans behind her like a deadcrow’s wings. Grinning, she sprints toward the fighters.

The man on the massive black stallion—her father—flies toward her. He dismounts in one fluid motion and yanks her against his chest. She throws her arms around his neck.

When he pulls back, his expression is grim. He says something. I think he’s chastising her. The other men gather around Brid and her father. There are six fighters in the brigade, not including the dead man on the ground. Linden, Segolé, Bardic, and two swordsmen Brid didn’t bother to name. Bardic moves a finger in front of Brid’s eyes. She lunges forward and pretends to bite his hand off. He ruffles her hair. She lets him.

He tilts his head to the side. I think he’s asking her a question. She points in my direction. One by one, the men turn to stare at me.

I lean out of the boulder’s shadow and wave.

Brid’s father barks out orders. All his men except for one—Bardic—mount their steeds and charge in my direction. I’m back on the ground by the time they reach me, my sword clenched in my hand. They circle like a pack of mutts, their weapons pointed at my face.

“Drop the blade,” Segolé growls.

Mouth dry, I drop it.

Linden dismounts and picks it up. One of the swordsmen gallops around the mountain of rocks. His steed returns in seconds.

“Two venombeasts, both decapitated,” he says.

Segolé scrubs a hand over his gray beard. He turns his gaze to me, and I shrink in on myself.

“I assume you killed the venombeasts?” he asks.

“The what?” I ask.

“The biters.”

“Brid did most of the work.” I cross my arms over my chest. “She eviscerated them with her words. I just finished them off.”

I expect the joke to fall flat—my underarms are soaked—but instead, Linden bursts into laughter. The swordsmen chuckle too. Even Segolé favors me with a thin smile.

“The boss wants to speak with you.” Segolé tilts his head toward Brid’s father.

“No problem,” I say.

Big problem. If I survive this encounter, there’s no way I’ll be able to hop the train to Grelles at 1800. I’ll have to wait until the 2300 departs, and night caravans are harder to jump unnoticed. The guard shift doubles at sunset.

If I get this over with quickly and sprint to Bathune…no. My body is tapped, and the punch of adrenaline is dissipating. My shins and ankles throb, my forearm aches, and my head pounds. I’m going to run myself to death if I’m not careful.

Segolé studies me.

“Sit down, boy,” he says. “Have some water.”

The tension disappears from my body like it’s been yanked away with a rope. My knees hit the ground. Linden presses a chilly flask into my hand. I sip it gratefully and study him while I drink. Long, dirty blond hair, pointed chin, gray eyes…he could make good money in the cathouse.

I decide not to tell him that.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Anytime.” Linden’s smile is radiant. “Briddy said your name was Ko?”

I take another sip of water and find myself chugging. The icy liquid numbs my cracked lips and sore throat.

“Go slow or you’ll cramp.” Linden studies me. “What’s your family name?”

“Whoreson.”

One of the swordsmen coughs. It might be a snicker. To his credit, Linden doesn’t react.

“I assume you’re from Valenès, then,” he says. “Where’re you headed?”

I don’t have time to answer. Brid, her father, and Bardic approach us. She’s riding sidesaddle atop the fattest pony I’ve ever seen. Her pink skirt splays across her lap. She looks down at me, distain scrawled across her features.

“You’re filthy,” she says. “Your pants are rags, and you’re wearing a woman’s sweater. What do you have to say in defense of your appearance?”

Her father casts a swift glance in her direction. She falls silent but doesn’t look away from me. The intensity in her gaze is painful, and I’m uncomfortably aware of how I look. I’m skin and bones, my unwashed hair must look like a terror from my run, and the stubble on my chin is sporadic. Akeeva tried to teach me how to shave a few days ago, but her blade was rusty and meant for legs. I almost cut my lip off, and it’s still a little scabbed.

Brid’s father and Bardic dismount. Muscles screaming, I rise to my feet and force myself to meet her father’s eyes. His expression is emotionless. I place a fist over my heart and lower my gaze to his feet. To my surprise, he returns the gesture, jerking his head up instead of down.

“Your name?” His voice is low. “Full name, please.”

“Kolton Whoreson,” I say tiredly. “I go by Ko.”

His expression doesn’t change.

Remember your manners, whispers a voice in my mind that sounds suspiciously like Akeeva. I swallow, wishing I hadn’t chugged the rest of the flask.

“What’s your name, sir?” I ask.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Brid didn’t tell me,” I say. “It’s an honor to meet you, whoever you are.”

I’m sure elite guardsmen get finicky when they aren’t recognized. As they should. I try to remember everything I’ve learned about the elites, but the letters in my schoolbooks rearrange themselves when I sound out words. They’re the highest whips in Lady Death’s guard—right now there are eight of them. They’re battle strategists, militant leaders, and consultants in the Septemvirate. They join the frontline during pivotal moments in combat. They’re the reason the realm is still standing despite relentless Xobrite assaults.

I need to watch my mouth.

“Are you a guardsman?” Brid’s father asks.

“No, sir.”

“Then you may call me Killián,” he says. “The pleasure is mine.”

It clicks.

Killián. Killián di Vivar. I jerk to attention—I recognize Brid’s surname now. I must have been shaken after facing down the biters or I would’ve placed it immediately. di Vivar—that’s Yosif the Great’s patronymic. Yosif the titan, the God King’s second-born son, who passed the divine right to lead Lady Death’s army down to his progeny. Every general in history has been a di Vivar by blood or marriage.

This man—who I’m apparently on first-name privileges with—is General Killián, Lord of Death. Killián the Killer. He’s not in the elite guard. He runs the elite guard. He’s one of seven in the Septemvirate and answers only to the king—the Lord of Love. I’m facing down a royal. Here, in the deadlands, an hour’s jog from the city of sin.

What in the Seven Circuits? Also, why me?

I take a long, slow breath. Ila’s counting on me. Whatever I’ve stumbled into, I can’t let it distract me from the task at hand. I need to get to Grelles.

“This was fun,” I lie. “I should get going. Safe travels, Lord.”

Killián’s eyebrows creep further up his lined forehead.

“We’re going to Marbecante,” Brid says. “We’re going shopping for my L-DAW leathers!”

Killián throws a sharp look in her direction. “For your finishing school dresses.”

“That’s what I said,” she says primly.

Killián turns his attention back to me.

“I haven’t visited Marbecante in a decade,” he says. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to lead us north of Roanoît?”

He phrases it like a request, but a royal sovereign asked me for a favor. Egad, egad, egad. Sweat pools behind my ears. I open my mouth to reply. A choked exhale comes out.

Linden and Segolé exchange a glance. Bardic folds his arms over his chest. The swordsmen linger a respectful distance away. Even so, I can feel them watching me. Which one laughed at my matronymic—Redhead or Spectacles?

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Truly, sir. But I can’t.”

“Better places to be?” Killián asks.

“Yes,” I say emphatically.

Silence falls, taut as a swinging noose. My face burns.

“My sister has a fever,” I explain. “I’m on my way to Grelles to buy willow bark and elderflower.”

I shouldn’t be talking about a black market with a royal. The Septemvirate has spent the better part of a decade trying to regulate hubs. Moreover, it’s terrifying how little I know about what’s wrong with Ila. What if Felicity is guessing, or Caressa’s boys had a different bug? What if Ila needs something with a stronger kick?

“She’s a few years younger than Brid.” It comes out in a rush. “I think she’s dying. Taking you to Marbecante isn’t high on my list of priorities.”

That came out disrespectful. I lose all coherence.

“Not that your problems aren’t important,” I babble. “You’re the general of Lady Death’s Guard, a lord and shit. Sorry, I shouldn’t swear. Is it unholy to swear? Am I going to Hel? Here’s the thing—”

“Take three deep breaths for me,” Killián commands.

My body responds without me telling it to do so. I take three deep breaths. When Killián speaks again, his voice has lost the authoritative edge.

“Bardic will see that your sister is taken care of,” Killián says. “He’s licensed by the healing boards in Ávila, and he’s been a medic for twenty years. She’ll be in capable hands.”

“What are her symptoms?” Staffmaster Bardic’s voice is kind.

My vision blurs. In the distance, the snowy peaks of the Volterras wriggle like froth in a washtub. I manage to stay on my feet.

“It’s been one thing after another since last fall,” I say. “The fever is taking her out right now. She has a cough too.”

“Thick mucus?” Bardic asks. “Yellow phlegm?”

“Yes!”

“Slime lung,” he tells Killián. “It’s not uncommon in the slums—comes from rats. To the healthy it’s no worse than the flu. To those with compromised immunity it can be deadly. There’s an epidemic in Riogoza, but I haven’t heard of an outbreak in Valenès.”

Killián’s face is stoic. “There’s no treatment?”

“Of course there is.” Bardic’s smile has no mirth. “Antibiotics derived from ascomycetes—a common shroom in these parts. After fermentation it’s a matter of extraction, purification, and formulation. Mass production and distribution would be difficult. Not impossible.”

“Why haven’t accelerated protocols been put into place?”

“Not why, who,” Bardic says. “I’ll give you a hint. His name starts with J.”

Killián makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“He’s also your brother,” Bardic says helpfully. He raises his hands and wiggles his fingers. “Vive les di Vivars.”

“Your attitude is unnecessary and frankly unwanted,” Killián says, fondness beneath the exasperation. “Where’s the nearest center?”

“Saint Vandame’s has solvent extraction equipment.” Bardic glances at the sky. “It’s not far from L-Street. I could have the child there by dark, Ladies permitting.”

“Ila’s marked with Lust’s brand.” I tap my sleeved wrist, feeling equal parts desperate and humiliated. “They won’t treat her at Saint Vandame’s.”

“Don’t fret about that.” Bardic tugs his braid. “What’s your address?”

My heart hammers in my chest. Every beat reverberates through my body. Can Bardic really get Ila into a hospital? Collectors would chase us for the rest of our lives. Then again, existence isn’t worth a franc if something happens to my sister.

“Downtown Valenès,” I say. “Leisure Street and Fifth Avenue. Temporary housing unit, apartment 213. It’s across the street from Kolton’s Kitties.”

Staffmaster Linden raises a polite hand. “Did you say Kolton’s Kitties?”

“My mother named me after her pimp in exchange for a cut of scag.” My gaze flits between Bardic and Killián. “Are you seriously willing to help my sister?”

“Da, what’s a pimp?” Brid reaches out to tap Killián’s shoulder. “Also, what’s scag?”

I clamp my hand over my mouth.

To my surprise, Killián’s gaze is steady. He exchanges a glance with Bardic, then turns to face his daughter. Standing straight, he’s the same height as she is mounted.

“A pimp looks after courtesans and handles their clients in exchange for a cut of their earnings,” he says. “It’s another way of saying souteneur. Scag is an addictive, injectable drug brewed from mutant mushrooms. It causes aggression, hallucinations, and substance dependency. Do you have any other questions?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “If the Ladies love us, why do children get sick?”

“That flask of maggots is better left corked, mon ange.”

She sighs. “In other words, you don’t know.”

Killián turns back to his men. His elites have managed to keep stony faces throughout the encounter. They could dominate the gambling clubs.

“Leisure Street and Fifth Avenue…” Killián surveys me. “Bardic, take our swordsmasters with you. Don’t turn onto L-Street before you have to.”

They exchange a long, lingering look.

“Stay safe,” Killián adds dryly. “Also, no brothels.”

“You ask too much of me.” Bardic pats Brid’s pony as he passes. “So long, Briddy. I love you. Be good.”

“I’m always good,” she complains.

“Crab apples.” Bardic mounts his horse. “Look out for your da.”

“I always do that too.” She sniffs. “Farewell, Uncle Bard. Don’t die while you’re away. I’d have to pick up your bistaff, don your healer’s cassock, lead your fighters to the frontline, bathe myself in Xobrite blood, and vanquish an army of foes! I might have to withdraw from finishing school to get all that done. It would be a terrible tragedy.”

“Pause to breathe once in a while,” Bardic says. “It’s good for your lungs.”

He blows a couple of kisses at her, then calls the swordsmen to him. Their steeds flank his mount. The swordsmen exchange wary glances, but Bardic calls out a few commands, and their horses are off. Dust billows in the wake of their stallions.

“Linden.” Killián snaps his fingers. “Get Swordsmaster Nordic’s mare. We’ll deploy lancers to retrieve his corpse once we arrive in the city limits. May his soul ascend in peace.”

Linden leads a red horse in front of me. He uses the sleeve of his armored jacket to wipe a smear of blood off the reins. What in Hel is happening?

“Do you know how to ride?” Killián asks.

“No, sir,” I say warily. “I’ve never been near a horse.”

“That’s fine,” he says. “Ignorance is not a crime. So long as you never lie to me, so long as you remain as honest as you’ve been henceforth, you and I won’t have any problems. I can forgive any sin if it’s put forth candidly. Is that clear?”

I nod.

“Good,” he says. “Linden, teach Ko how to mount.”