Four Dead Queens(10)

“Finally, my business and my service”—he grinned at the audience, his eyes glimmering—“and my presence are a luxury only Torians can enjoy, and should not be taken for granted. Remember, my name and my dippers’ names are never to be spoken outside of my house. This is of the utmost importance.”

The bidders grew restless as his speech wore on. They’d heard it before. They wanted to see what was up for auction. What relic or prize from other quadrants could they get their grubby hands on? Something to improve their life? Medicine, perhaps? Something trivial to sit upon their mantelpiece, which they could brag about to friends?

Or comm chips—allowing them a glimpse into life in another quadrant—the perfect prize for any Torian.

My undergarments clung to my sticky skin. Come on, Mackiel. Get on with it.

“All right, then,” he said, finally. “Enough business. On with the show!”

The crowd burst into applause as Mackiel yanked back the curtain to reveal the first item for auction. The early wares moved slowly: woven Archian blankets, handkerchiefs and scarves, and Ludist paintings, jewelry and hair tints. Hands rose in reluctance. No one wanted to spend their money too early. There weren’t many bids for Kyrin’s watch—the most common of pickpocket items. I chuckled under my breath. Kyrin wouldn’t earn much tonight.

Frustration darkened Mackiel’s expression, his brow low over his eyes. He wanted the best. But that was why he had me.

The bidders grew restless. They wanted more. Something they’d never seen before. Something from Eonia, the most different of all the quadrants. I shuffled my feet side to side to see between hats. I had no doubt Mackiel would leave my comm case—his top prize—till last.

The audience shifted like a disturbed sea as Mackiel unveiled the next item. A torn sleeve of a dermasuit. Not very useful, but at least more interesting than a watch. The crowd leaned forward for a better look, before raising their hands in earnest. I ducked to the side as the man beside me lifted his dank armpit in my face.

That was when I saw him.

He stood still in the middle of the crowd as everyone moved around him. A scuffed top hat was pulled low over his black hair, and he wore a blue vest over a crumpled white shirt. But I knew who he was—his dermasuit was peeking beneath his collar.

The messenger.

He was here for the comm chips.





CHAPTER FOUR





Corra


   Queen of Eonia



Rule two: Emotions and relationships cloud judgment. Eonists must concentrate solely on technological advancements, medicine and the community as a whole.


The news of Iris’s death was whispered in Corra’s ear the moment she twisted in her bed, her eyes flicking open. She sat up in shock, her dreams fading into the dark bedroom. She’d retired to her room for an afternoon nap once court had concluded; the pretenses often exhausted her.

“What?” she asked, facing her fleshy advisor. He loomed over her, his hands stiff by his sides. “What did you say, Ketor?”

“Queen Iris is dead, my queen,” he repeated, his eyes darting away from her bare brown shoulder. Sleep was the one time Eonists didn’t wear their dermasuits, and it was a freedom Corra enjoyed, if not reveled in. She knew it wasn’t very Eonist of her—she should be coy and conservative—but she didn’t care. Especially not now.

“No,” she said. “That’s not possible.”

“I’m afraid it’s true, my queen. She was found in her garden a few hours ago.”

“The doctors couldn’t save her?” Corra’s voice trembled.

“They were too late,” he said, eyes downcast. “She was already dead.” Even Eonist doctors could not resolve the finality of death, although they had tried. Once.

Corra drew herself from her four-poster bed, not caring her naked body was on display as she reached for her gold dermasuit, which lay across her dressing chair. It wasn’t like the suit covered much more. She pushed her arms and legs through the tight-fitting material, the suit fluttering against her skin as it adjusted to her curves. She realized her handmaiden was also present, a young Archian woman with red blotches on her cheeks and glassy eyes, no doubt from crying over the news of Iris’s death. Most of the palace staff were Archian, for they were no-nonsense, hardworking people.

Corra picked up her small gold watch—a coronation gift—from her bedside table, slipped the chain over her head and tucked it under the material. She turned to allow her handmaiden to knot her thick black hair into a bun and secure her heavy crown with pins. While her face was hidden, she squeezed her eyes shut, willing her emotions away.

“How did it happen?” Corra asked, turning around when she was composed.

Iris was still a young woman and her health was as strong as her resolve. Corra had never seen Iris sick, even with her Archian upbringing, which had sheltered her from all mainland viruses.

Surely this is a nightmare. Simply a vivid dream, she thought.

She wanted to climb back into her bed. Iris could not be dead. She was as permanent as the gilded walls surrounding her—protecting her—or she should’ve been.

Ketor was silent for a moment, drawing her eyes to his. His ruddy cheeks were absent of tears. “She was murdered, my queen,” he said.