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Quil didn’t much like cities, but Navium’s merry populace, azure coastline, and mouthwatering food made it hard to find fault. With dinnertime approaching, Quil’s stomach rumbled at the smell of lime and chili shrimp, grilled minced chicken on mountains of snowy rice, and a specialty of Navium: triangle pastries filled with smoked winter vegetables.
In one corner of the square, multicolored Tribal lanterns glowed; a Kehanni—a Tribal storyteller—performed a tale. It was one of Quil’s favorites: about heroes named Laia of Serra and Elias Veturius who, with Empress Helene, saved the world from a jinn driven mad by grief and betrayal. The audience cheered as the three proved victorious.
Beside him, Sufiyan smiled. Quil, meanwhile, scanned the crowd, the stalls that packed the square, the wagons behind the Kehanni.
There—a flash of movement from above. His shadow had taken to the rooftops.
The guards hadn’t noticed; unlike Quil, their attention was fixed on the market, which was full to bursting with travelers from all over the Empire and beyond its borders: Tribespeople from the east in embroidered road leathers, selling weaponry and silks; Scholars, who’d ruled this land before the Martials, arguing about philosophy and politics. The Martial classes were here: Mercators hawking goods; wealthy Illustrians haggling with them; and Plebeians, many of whom wore colors that identified the Illustrian families they worked for.
In some way or another, all were Quil’s people, though it didn’t always feel like it. His father had been a Plebeian, but Quil hadn’t experienced their struggles. His mother had been an Illustrian, but the upper-class families looked down on his Plebeian blood. He was raised by the Tribesfor his safety, fostered with Sufiyan’s family, Tribe Saif. But in the end, he was a Martial, a reminder of the Empire that had once ruled over the Tribes.
I belong nowhere, Quil had told Aunt Hel as a boy, back when he still shared his woes without fear of her judgment.
You belong to your people, she’d said.The people of the Empire.
Sufiyan stopped to buy a cone of pastries, flattering the pale-eyed chef with praise. A banner over her stall displayed a loaf of bread crossed with a stalk of wheat. She must have been from a bigger Mercator family—Gens Scriba perhaps, or Gens Vesta. Her gaze flicked over Quil once, then took in his guards. Her eyes widened and she curtsied.
“Your Highness,” she said, cheeks pink. Quil cursed internally, because now heads were turning. “Glory to the Empress. My thanks for your custom.”
Sufiyan rolled his eyes—he’d been the one who’d stopped, after all. But Quil smiled and moved on quickly, pulling up his hood and trying to shake off his disquiet. He missed anonymity.
“Drop back,” he told his guard captain without explaining, using the flat affect his aunt insisted on. When he was a boy, he saidplease, but that made the Masks uncomfortable.
The guard captain hesitated, as if weighing the possible wrath of the Empress later against the guaranteed anger of the crown prince now. After a moment, he and his men disappeared into the crowds. Quil’s entire body unclenched.
Sufiyan offered Quil a pastry. “Your leash is loose, and you’re fed,” he said. “Let’s focus on why we’re here.”
“To satisfy the unending greed of a ne’er-do-well acquaintance I’ve been saddled with for eighteen years,” Quil said, even as the shadow disappeared again, dropping from a rooftop into an alley.
Sufiyan shook his head. “You’re here to generously purchase a token of appreciation for the closest thing to a brother you have, to mark theauspicious occasion of his eighteenth yearfall. You unthankful boor.”
“You’re forgetting Tas. I’ve known him since birth.”
“I meant the literal closest. Since I am standing three feet from you, and Tas is skies-know-where.”
Zacharias.
His name was a whisper carried on the wind. Quil looked up, surprised. No one used his given name except Aunt Helene, or Suf when he wanted to be irritating. The prince turned to Suf, but he was busy fondling a ruby-studded dagger that probably cost a month’s pay for the entire Fifth Legion.
“A fine yearfall gift.” Sufiyan flipped the dagger deftly between his fingers. His weapon of choice was a bow, but like Quil, Suf was trained to use anything to defend himself. Once, when some Illustrian twit had mocked Sufiyan’s parentage, he knocked the man unconscious with biting nonchalance and a clay flute.
“My prince.” The dagger merchant nodded to Quil. “I thank you. My family is Plebeian—” His weathered face filled with pride as he looked over his goods. “I received a Prince’s Gift to start my business.”
At this, Quil perked up. He’d established the grant last year, after seeing so few Plebeian traders in the markets.
The merchant offered the dagger. “Take it, with my compliments.”
But Quil shook his head and dropped his voice. “There’s a woman behind me—Mater Candela. Richer than the Empress. She collects shiny things. I expect you to charge her double and get away with it.”
The merchant grinned and slapped Quil on the shoulder. “You’re a canny Plebe at heart, my prince. Always knew I liked you.”
Quil’s chest warmed at the compliment. He wondered sometimes how his people saw him. As the quiet son of a monstrous man, perhaps. Or a shadow beside an incandescent empress.Canny Plebe.Quil preferred that to either of the others.
A silver mirror gleamed the next table over, and Quil glanced in itlong enough to make sure he still had tabs on the shadow trailing him before offering it to Sufiyan. “More fitting, no? Since you’re obsessed with your face.”
“I got the looks; you got the royal title. It’s only fair.” Sufiyan examined his reflection. “Speaking of royalty. Have you talked to your aunt yet?”
The prince shook his head. Once, he’d told the Empress everything. Now he didn’t know how to begin a conversation with her. They disagreed on too much—especially his future.
