Jude stiffens but clearly knows better than to comment out loud as I point to the scarce shelf of Eleutheraen gold vials and say, “One will do.” It’s only a matter of time before Jude schemes his way to escaping, and I’m done taking chances.
It feels fitting, handing over money Sil gave me in exchange for Eleutheraen gold. Though, given the shocking price, it suddenly isn’t hard to believe the North is in low supply. I roll the bottle between my fingers, watching it shimmer through the glass.
“And one dilution blend,” rasps Jude. He’s reeling in his voice as much as he can, but between that and the hood over his head, his subtlety is a hard sell. He had to duck to avoid hitting the doorframe on the way in.
The man across the splintering table sets his hands on his apron, mark at his throat gleaming beneath the dim light of his shop. Finally, he retrieves what Jude asked for.
I turn to Jude. “Whatare you doing?” I whisper.
He glares at the wall behind the counter. “You’re planning to poison me, yes?”
“Yes. And?”
“And if you force pure Eleutheraen gold down my throat, you’ll kill meandyourself and everyone within a few miles of us.”
The man returns and pushes a second dark bottle holding clear liquid over the counter. I push the money across the surface and swipe the dilution blend before herding Jude out.
Then I hear it as we step onto the street. Two words pulled from the frantic chatter surrounding us:Missing Player.
We need to get out of here. Now.
Intermission: Scene II
“How quaint,” Jude comments as I hurry us into the Diolkos station.
I take in the vaulted ceilings clad in stone, the high glass windows dotting the walls. A clock tower ticks at the center of the open space, reminding me that time is a luxury we can’t afford right now.
Hurrying Jude ahead of me, I note a series of seven platforms that line the Diolkos railways, their timber tracks laid in stone. Nestled on three of them are enormous carriages that look more like ships to me, their sides polished and reinforced with oak. I follow the thin retractable sails secured to their tops with my gaze, curious how they operate.
I’ve often wondered what else was lost during the time that the first Players walked freely, maiming and destroying as they wished. But they left the things they liked: printing presses to report on their movements. Limelights to illuminate their stage. Solagraphy to capture stills of their faces.
The piercing whistle of a departing train makes me cringe as we shuffle past the wooden timetable braced over the clock. My first ride aboard the Diolkos was meant to land me at orientation week for the Orkestrian Academy.
Instead, I’m herding a disguised Player to almost certain death while he complains about his shoes being uncomfortable.
“You should have let me change,” he says. “Cicero must have sworn vengeance on me while making these boots. If I lose a foot, it’s on you.”
My own costume boots make a conspicuous clip-clopping sound on the stone as I drag Jude to a small booth across the station and request two tickets to Syrene. The woman behind the counter sorts quietly through a stack of envelopes, though her eyes flip up to Jude more than once. And I do meanup.
“Runs in the family,” I blurt. “Giants. All of us.”
Though it hits me when she smiles a littletoofriendly in his direction for the second time that she isn’t concerned with his height. She may not recognize Jude as himself in this condition, but it’s done little to hurt his looks. And his charms are apparently not limited to Player magic.
Noticing the attention, Jude snaps his smile into place.
Gods help me. I roll my eyes. And do a very good job of ignoring a weird twinge in my gut when Jude leans into the wall and begins asking the girl if she always wanted to work in a ticket booth, because he “knows a place that might be hiring.” I elbow him.
This girl isn’t the only one who’s taken notice of Jude and his unusual height. And, for the record, mine.
A man with watery silver eyes and jet-black hair has peered in our direction more than once from the second platform. The first thing that registers is just how much I do not like his smile. The second is that he’s missing an ear.
The third is that he’s still staring.
With the exchange of another chunk of my Playhouse money, I swipe the tickets from the counter and nearly throttle Jude for suggesting the girl wear her hair down more. “What?” Jude asks as we hurry across the station. “If you had big ears, I’d tell you, too.”
“Quiet,” I snap as we head to the third platform.
“Ticket—thank you,” I hear ahead of us. It feels like I’m in a race with my own breath as we move up in line on our platform, until we’re called next by a stout man with beady black eyes.
