On that brittle yet resolute thought, Lu opened the castle doors.
Lu’s memories of the months following the revolution were patchy, filled with the haze of relief and joy and the chaos of victory. But a few events had seared into her brain: playing with a little dog in a free and safe New Deza market; Tom fixing her hot chocolate, the decadence of the treat making her want to weep; and walking with her parents and other revolutionaries through this castle entryway with the surrendered Argridians.
The castle’s empty entrance hall fanned out with glittering windows on either side of the door, the domed ceiling and marble floor accented by sea-glass chandeliers and gold conch shells. Towering white-and-gold doors marked the courtroom, well oiled so they did not give Lu away as she slipped into the ongoing meeting.
The long room’s newly polished black and white tiles glinted in the light of chandeliers. Pillars framed two sections of wooden pews, facing a dais with a table and chairs for the Senior Councilmembers—the four people who oversaw voting and motions of the twenty-four general councilmembers seated in the pews.
One of the Seniors, Lazlo Spits, flipped to a fresh page in his ledger. “Motion passed,” he declared, and made a note. The attendees showed little reaction, so the bill must not have been controversial.
General councilmembers and other politicians took up the first several pews, while the rest were open to the public. Lu knew most of the members the same way she knew Annalisa and Bianca, from back when they had all been rebels. In the first row were five people who had fought under Kari at the ambush of an Argridian storehouse on the coast; off to the left sat two women who had snuck into a Church mission with her mother and freed two dozen captive rebels.
Now the women were stoic in linen jackets and airy petticoats, the men in brass-buttoned coats and tricorne hats, all with brown skin and dark features. No one would have guessed that they had once been insurgents.
The Argridian delegates at the front of the room focused on the Seniors. Lu purposefully ignored them and the hum of discomfort that came at their presence. Enemies, instinct told her. Years of being taught to fear and fight them could not be quelled.
Lu slipped into one pew and sat, exhausted, next to her father.
Tom smiled. The Argridian red tone of his skin gave him a permanent warmth in his expression, always close to smiling or winking at her.
“We didn’t mean to pull you away from Annalisa,” he whispered. “I know you only recently rekindled your friendship with her. Madness, that two people can survive a revolution, yet an illness can strike them down within two years of each other.”
Bianca may be dead, but Annalisa is still alive, Lu wanted to say. “I don’t mind,” she lied. But which location would be less miserable—the infirmary, watching her friend suffer, or here, a stone’s throw from Argridian diplomats who had slaughtered people on her island? “Especially not for the arrest of an unaligned stream raider. What do we know?”
“Bell was in the dungeon with common criminals, and other raiders betrayed his identity.”
“What of his crew?”
Tom shook his head and opened his mouth to say more as Lazlo banged his gavel.
Like everyone around her, Lu sat up straighter. She had proven herself during the revolution by catching details from enemies, as those with something to hide often lowered their guard around children. Her parents relied on her now for the same reason—with her mother as a Senior Councilmember and her father as a general councilmember, they trusted her to hear what might otherwise go unnoticed by officials.
“The next item deviates from our negotiations,” Lazlo said, “but if our guests allow, we will sentence a convicted criminal and return to proceedings within the hour.”
Lu’s mother spun on Lazlo. “The accused has not yet been convicted. We have not even interrogated him,” Kari stated.
“What would be the point?” Lazlo consulted his ledger. “Devereux Bell is the suspect in more than three dozen counts of theft from Grace Loray. Witnesses say he stole Variegated Holly from the castle’s own stockpiles; he was also seen taking two boatloads of Hemlight, and the vessels as well; he has impersonated members of the Council—I could go on. The syndicates at least hold to certain levels of honor and do not steal from under our watch. An unaligned raider like Devereux Bell deserves no sympathy. We must condemn him immediately and return to the far more pressing matter of the treaty.”
“Bell deserves to be aware of the reason for his sentence,” Kari countered. “Our Argridian guests do not expect this country to cease proper procedures for them.”
One of the Argridian diplomats rose from the front pew. No, not one of them—the only one who mattered. Milo Ibarra, a favored general of the Argridian king.
Lu’s body went stiff. When Argrid had stopped calling Grace Loray a colony and started calling it an abomination, Milo had overseen its cleansing. Now here he was, a human embodiment of the war, returned under a banner of peace.
“Of course not, Mrs. Andreu,” said Milo, straightening his silken overcoat. “We are most eager to bear witness to how Grace Loray handles stream raiders, in fact.”
Kari’s brow furrowed. “Handles?”
“Once we finalize this treaty, threats to Grace Loray become threats to Argrid. It is no secret that raiders are a danger.” Milo took a step forward, hands behind his back. The chandeliers flared light on his greased black hair, the steep Argridian slants of his jaw and nose. “The raiders deal in the most dangerous botanical magic and spread such hazards to their corresponding Mainland countries.”
“All botanical magic trade with the Mainland is now tightly controlled,” said Lazlo, shifting in his chair. “The Council has binding trade agreements with Tuncay’s empress, Emerdon’s queen, and fifteen of the twenty Mechtland clan lords. And, after this treaty is finalized, we will be proud to add Argrid to that list as well.”
Milo’s expression was sardonic. The Argridian treaty had not yet touched on what magic, if any, would be approved for legal sale in Argrid.
“Treaties between governments will not stop criminals, Senior,” Milo responded. “The stream raiders’ threats extend beyond magic trade. They encourage disunity by holding to their countries of origin—Emerdon, Tuncay, the Mechtlands, and Grozda—and funneling impoverished immigrants between nations, which spreads diseases due to their destitution and unsanitary lifestyles. I understand you have tolerated them because of an ill-made promise during the war, but promises should not excuse crimes.”
Those around Lu shifted awkwardly, shame pinking their cheeks for the pestilence of stream raiders. But Lu was overcome with rage at Milo for ignoring why they had made a promise to the raiders at all.
“If you mean to change a way of life, you must offer a benefit the old way could not,” Lu’s mother had said. “Something more valuable, or that would solve a more immediate problem.”
Over the course of the eight-year war, Kari and the other leaders had tried numerous times to get the raiders to join forces with them. Neither Argrid nor the rebels had numbers on their side—Argrid because they were used to enacting obedience through the threat of damnation, and the rebels because they were only made up of those rare people willing to risk their lives for freedom.
But toward the end, Argrid overtook a rebel headquarters. The revolution leaders, finding their safe house and the assets therein compromised, grew desperate. They didn’t have the numbers to retake the safe house from the majority of Argrid’s forces—and so Kari and a handful of revolutionaries told the stream raiders that if they helped end the war, they would have a place in the new government. The raiders, eager to have unmatched control over Grace Loray, agreed.
Despite months of negotiations after the war, the raider syndicates scoffed at the proposed system of laws, demanded anarchy, and retreated to their declared territories when they did not get their way.
Unity with the raiders should have happened. Without laws keeping them in check, they were what Mil
o said: a constant source of danger and threat, a drain on the economy.
“That promise was not ill made,” Lu’s mother said. Lu smiled—trust Kari to always advocate for Grace Loray’s best interests. “The raiders’ support allowed peace to come between Grace Loray and Argrid. Their existence speaks to cultural differences we should embrace, and we will treat raiders, including Devereux Bell, as the worthy citizens they are.”
Milo scoffed. “The only thing criminals like Devereux Bell are worthy of is death, Mrs. Andreu. I have been under the impression that you wanted us to see Grace Loray as a functioning nation, not as an embarrassment.”
Lu’s hands fisted around the strap of her satchel, her mind echoing with a childlike plea.
Leave, please leave, get off my island, leave us in peace—
Kari’s golden-brown skin paled, the only sign of her displeasure, and she didn’t engage Milo further. The rest of the Seniors remained silent, whether in fear or shame Lu wasn’t sure.
A moment, and Kari waved to a soldier standing by a door behind the dais.
“Bring in Bell,” she said in the voice that reminded everyone of her moniker during the revolution: the Wave. She could break with unstoppable fervor and be completely unmoved, no matter the opposition.
The mood of the courtroom changed. People rose, angling to see the doorway. Lu couldn’t help but think of Teo, how he would have reacted to Devereux’s entrance with the same desperate curiosity.
The soldier opened the door. Another entered, blocking the man behind him, trailed by a final soldier. Two more followed—which felt extreme for the guarding of one man, chained at the wrists and ankles with irons that rattled, but Devereux Bell’s notoriety made them cautious.
The men stopped in front of the Seniors, the soldiers blocking Devereux from view of the room. A waist-high beam with an iron loop at the top had been set into the floor before the dais. One soldier linked Devereux’s wrist manacle to the post, and the soldiers stepped to the side.
Devereux Bell, his back to the room, stood like a man well aware of the power he wielded, leaning his weight casually on one leg. He was wiry but tall, and his dress was what one would expect of a raider: threadbare pants, knee-high boots, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, in varying shades of black and speckled with patches and stains. Unlike most men, he did not wear his hair tied back—the black strands hung loose to his shoulders.
Collecting botanical magic from Grace Loray was not without its dangers—most plants grew deep in the riverbeds, and only explosives could dislodge the rarest specimens. This resulted in wounds like the one Devereux was known for: his missing right eye. He pivoted his head to the left, a glance over his shoulder, but all Lu could see were the muscles in his jaw. Was he smiling?
He looked straight ahead again.
Kari gaped. Even Lazlo looked flustered, his eyes shooting once to Milo, who stood close enough that he could make his voice heard should he wish to weigh in.
Lu realized how hazardous this trial would be. Milo would be satisfied only if the Council proved its authority over raiders by condemning Devereux Bell to death—a sentence the Council had not yet passed on anyone. What would it mean to the Council’s tentative peace with the syndicates if their first death sentence was a raider? But would it come to that?
“Devereux Bell—” Lazlo began.
“Vex,” Devereux countered.
Lazlo gave a look that said he was not, despite how appropriate it might be, going to call the raider Vex.
Lu shifted. Exhaustion from so many stresses in one day made her falter. She steadied herself on her father’s arm. Tom gave her a questioning look, but she shook her head.
“You are the suspected perpetrator of forty-two counts of piracy against the Grace Loray Republic, ranging from black-market trades to theft,” Lazlo began. “How do you plead?”
Devereux snorted. “Only forty-two official counts? Damn, I just lost a bet.”
Lu’s grip on her father’s arm tightened. That voice. The flippancy.
It was Kari who asked, “Only forty-two? How many should we have on record?”
“That’s a loaded question. Might as well ask how long I want to be imprisoned. Though, if it means getting to see such a fine specimen again, I might confess everything.”
Lazlo banged his fist on the table. “How dare you speak so about a woman of such esteem!”
“Presumptuous, sir. I meant you.” Devereux made a crude gesture with his arm and fist.
Kari dipped her head while the rest of the Seniors dissolved into outrage. Lazlo jabbed a finger at Devereux but said nothing; his jowls swung, but again, he said nothing; spit flew, and still, he could not think of a retort to the raider’s insinuation.
Lu’s exhaustion crept over her in a horrifyingly unexpected way.
An effervescent sensation started in her belly, and before she could gather her wits enough to reason that it was not funny, seeing Lazlo so flustered—she laughed.
All attention swung to her, four rows from the front with her hands over her mouth.
Devereux turned at long last, searching the crowd for the laugher. He didn’t find her straightaway, allowing Lu time to study him, and her suspicions were confirmed.
Devereux Bell had tried—and failed—to pick her pocket that morning.
She knew now what had troubled the Seniors. The crimes Devereux had committed, the way he had spent the past year escaping justice—everyone had expected to find a weathered outlaw, but this man couldn’t have been older than twenty.
Kari put her hand on Lazlo’s arm to pull his attention away from Devereux—and Lu, now. The motion woke Lu out of her trance, and the weight of her actions settled on her.
The Seniors regrouped around her mother. The rest of the room expressed their disdain for Lu’s outburst with snide expressions—none more so than Milo.
Lu willed herself to look at him. His scowl mirrored those around him, but it held disgust. To him, she was a lady who had breached propriety. Nothing more, nothing less.
Lu exhaled, but relief didn’t come. She glanced at Tom, who stared at Devereux.
“Father?” she whispered.
He shook his head and clasped her fingers. “Too much excitement for you, Lulu-bean?”
He hadn’t called her that in five years, since the revolution. Since he had entrusted her with special missions that not even Kari had known of, and tapped her nose with a smile.
“You’re my Lulu-bean—you can keep a secret so well it’s as if you’ve taken a magic plant that sealed your lips. I trust you. You can do this.”
All the blood in Lu’s cheeks rushed for her heart. “Are you all right?”
Tom nodded before she finished the question.
Was her father unsettled because he shared an ancestry with Devereux? She had been annoyed by it in the marketplace too, that someone of Argridian descent would encourage prejudices that were so difficult for people like her father to overcome.
When Lu faced the front again, she found Devereux watching her.
She glared back at him, and he started in response.
“Our law states that crimes such as those committed by Devereux Bell are punishable by death,” Lazlo declared. “I move for death by hanging. Is there a second?”
Vex grinned. The girl was here. She wore the same nondescript gown from their encounter this morning, but she held herself differently, shoulders hard and chin level as if she one day intended to rule something.
But Vex’s nose still smarted where she’d hit him. And she’d laughed at his joke—then glared at him. Not an annoyed glare like the ones he’d received from Nayeli and Edda more times than he could count. One that said, in no uncertain terms, murder.
She was getting more and more interesting by the second.
One of the Seniors—Lazlo, a guard had said—was talking again.
“ . . . death by hanging. Is there a second?”
Vex spun forward. What? Already?
“Seconded!” a councilmember called from somewhere behind him.
Another of the Seniors leaned forward. “Are we certain that this is Devereux Bell?”
Vex sighed. “It’s my hair, isn’t it? People always expect me to be blond.”
The courtroom doors bounced off the walls and a different voice intervened. “It’s him.”
Vex shifted with the rest of the room to look at the new guest: Ingvar Pilkvist, Head of the raider syndicate that called New Deza its home port.
Pilkvist had the pale skin of those with Mecht ancestry, but if his hair had been Mecht blond, that had been years ago. Wooden beads decorated the gray clumps that hung to his lower back, and he wore a vest of crocodile skin holding dozens of knives, but the rest of his image countered the usual undertakings of stream raider syndicates—stealing magic, selling the most dangerous plants, murdering whoever got in their way. Pilkvist’s was the face that first drew people in, a caring grandfather who promised fairness and security.
Pilkvist stopped at the front of the room. He’d brought three lackeys with him, all glowering at Vex. One had an odd-looking scarf of crocodile skin looped around his neck—
Shit. Not a scarf. An actual crocodile hatchling hissed on the raider’s shoulder. Vex swallowed and forced himself to smile at Pilkvist.
“Milkfist! It’s been too long. When did we last see each other—a shipment of Aerated Blossoms was involved, aye? I’ve been meaning to pay you back for it.”
Pilkvist ignored him, but Vex caught a flush along his cheekbones. “I move that you turn Devereux Bell over to me,” Pilkvist said.
“The Council is not in the business of giving prisoners to the raider syndicates, Head Pilkvist,” one of the Seniors said.
“The Council isn’t in the business of keeping its promises either.” Pilkvist heaved forward, and the Council soldiers matched him. Pilkvist’s raiders grasped their weapons.
“Head Pilkvist,” another Senior tried. “Please—”
“No,” Pilkvist said. “When you dragged my syndicate into Grace Loray’s revolution, you promised we’d have a say in our government. Five years, and all you’ve done is ignore our demands and steal our money. Stop pretending we’re not separate.”