The door swung open, releasing the sounds of lust and mirth into the Paper City twilight. Two laughing girls shoved past me, arms twined and heads close together. I took the opportunity to slide into the hallway past them. Inside, a fête raged. Drunkenness smeared faces into masks, blurring between parchment circles and opalescent lamps etched with the mysterious Moon.
Of all the places—
“Can I help you?” A tired-looking bartender accosted me.
“I’m looking for someone. A Monsieur Balquinal. He’s been boarding here for a week or more.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“We’re friends,” I tried to explain. “His mother’s name is Rina—her chartered ore convoy travels from Dura’a to Piana. His little brother’s name is Vesh. I need to ask his advice.”
She shrugged, and pointed up the stairs. “Luca’s lucky with the ladies tonight.”
Ladies … plural?
I hurried up the stairs and knocked roughly on a narrow door. Luca answered, laughing. His smile fell away when he saw who it was, his kembric eyes widening in his bronze face before narrowing with surprised mirth.
“You?”He propped a lean arm against the jamb. “Consider me astonished.”
“Were you expecting someone else?”
He laughed, and I smelled alcohol on his breath. “No.”
I pushed past him into a tiny garret apartment—little more than a narrow bed, a closet privy, and a bare kitchen. Its only redeeming quality was the view—a fair-sized window looked out across a sea of rooftops. I eyed a half-full bottle of liquor languishing between two chipped glasses.
“I hope I’m not interrupting something.”
“You’re not.”
“A nice place you’ve got here.”
“It’s cheap,” he said. “And usually no one bothers me.”
I held up the letter he’d sent just after the coup. “If you didn’t want me to bother you, you shouldn’t have included your address.”
“Sylvie.” My old name in his mouth sounded strange. I noticed he no longer wore his tri-metal signat—the mark of his erstwhile profession as an ore trader. “Did youreadthe letter?”
Of course I’d read it. Luca had managed to escape the ruin of the palais the Nocturne of Carrousel along with Oleander and me. The three of us had fled halfway to Belsyre, where we’d met the first of the Loup-Garou, summoned by Sunder in anticipation of our failure. We’d waited for the rest of the militia to join us before marching on the city. But Luca had never cared for our cause—his group, La Discorde, had been slaughtered in the coup, and he had little love for the aristocracy or the monarchy. Which, these days, meant me. So he’d left without a goodbye sometime during the fighting. A week later, he’d sent me a note:
I hope you will be a better empress than your sister. No matter what happens, I will always be your friend.
Luca.
“So that offer of friendship no longer stands?”
“A Tavendel always keeps his promises.” Luca rinsed out the glasses and plunked them down on the table. “So what do you want?”
“What makes you think I want something?”
“You,” Luca said, with something resembling a smile, “always want something.”
I tossed my cape over the back of a chair. “I wanted to ask you some questions.”
“You don’t get to barge into my apartment in the middle of Nocturne demanding answers.” Luca sloshed amber liquid into the glasses and pushed one toward me. “And friendship isn’t an interrogation. It’s a conversation.”
The liquor smelled like anise and bitter almond, cheap casks and young hops. I crinkled my nose. “I don’t want to drink this.”
“It’s fourth Nocturne.” Luca smiled his broad white smile, but it looked forced. “And you have some catching up to do. How about a game? You aristos seem to love those. You want answers? Fine. But for every question you ask me, I get to ask one of you. And if I don’t think the answer you give is true, you have to drink until I believe you.”
