Carnival of Lies (2 page)

He didn't look her way. Instead, he started withdrawing masks and holding them up to her face. It felt oddly reminiscent of the way the dressmakers eyed her as they held up bolts of fabric. After rejecting several, he held out a mostly plain black mask with ridged brows.

Aya accepted it and put it to her face. “It's a precautionary mask.”

“Ah,” he said, as if he heard such things all the time. He took the mask from her, exchanging it for one that curled around her cheeks. Dangling black feathers hung from the sides.

“If you decide to don it,” he said as he studied the mask she now held in front of her, “come round at the start of the carnival or the start of the Night Market. I accept small requests that aren't worth the attention of the ones who are barely masked.”

“I see,” she said. She didn't though. This wasn't the sort of business she knew how to handle. She'd figure it out, but she was still trying to find her footing. Ruling-caste girls were raised to learn how to support their spouse, protect their young, mind their spouse's mother, and manage a household once they were old enough to take over the duty from their spouse's mother. They weren't taught the intricacies of contracting for murders.

The vendor took in her expression and added, “If they're wearing only the small masks, they're better than you and I could ever be. The kind of jobs that those 'uns take are handled through the Conflict Resolution Centers.” He grinned at her, revealing several teeth that looked like they'd never been cleaned, and added, “A lady like yourself would want a different kind of job, a softer one.”

She didn't correct him, so he kept talking as he shuffled through his stores of masks again. This time when he withdrew his hand from the options he held one up with a triumphant smile.

She accepted it and brought it to her face. This mask hid her mouth behind lips carved in what looked to be a kiss-in-progress. It was feminine, with narrow arched brows and high cheekbones. It looked like everything a delicate woman should be, and to further hide her face, it came with a black cowl that fell over her hair, effectively shrouding everything above her shoulders. A dusting of black stone was mixed into the paint, giving the illusion of glints of shadow on darkness.

“This is the one,” he said. “Murderous lady.”

“Accepting only female clients,” Aya said in a moment of sudden clarity, her face still hidden behind the black mask. “At my discretion. Nothing petty.”

The vendor's smile widened. “A killer with a cause . . . and the rate?”

“Depends on the case, the caste, and the coins she can access,” Aya said. A part of her wanted to say that she'd do it for free if the case was extreme or that she'd do it for the practice to prepare for Marchosias' Competition. The more cautious side of her reminded her that she might need to do it for coin to survive. If her father's orders were that she be left penniless if she ended her betrothal, she might need to be more flexible.

She lowered the mask, and the vendor accepted it to wrap it in soft paper. Anyone seeing her with the package would assume she'd bought a blue mask—which she also had.

As she paid the man for her new black mask, she wondered how different her life would be right now if her birth secrets hadn't ever been revealed to her. She told herself that she'd still have had hesitations about the lot in life that had been doled out to her, but she couldn't truly know that. If she were simply another ruling-caste girl with a handsome, loving daimon—one destined for power and position—would she be buying a black mask? Would she be entering Marchosias' Competition?

W
HEN SHE RETURNED TO
her family home in the section of The City reserved for the oldest, most respected of the ruling-caste families, she wasn't surprised to find her mother waiting in the sitting room. She was well aware that her mother had a thriving network of spies, as was appropriate for a woman of her station.

“Alone, Aya? You'd go
there
alone? What would Belias think?” Her mother remained seated.

Aya took the seat beside her mother. As much as she wished she could stand calmly, say her piece, and leave, she knew that to do so was impossible. She couldn't tell her mother everything, but she also couldn't refuse to talk to her.

“It's not going to be any of his concern soon,” Aya said levelly.

Her mother's pretty face was marred by sudden wrinkles as she frowned in confusion. “Because you won't be going around on your own?”

“Because my betrothal is ending,” Aya corrected.

Her mother reached out and patted her hand. “Is this about mistresses? I know it's troubling, but they need looking after too. Belias can shepherd several women. He's a good leader.”

“No, Mother.”

“Is he being cross with you? You can be a trying child. Men do not like obstinacy in their wives.”

Aya closed her hand around her mother's, preventing her from patting Aya again. “I'm breaking the engagement because I want to make my own decisions.”

Her mother laughed, and Aya didn't know how she'd cope if her mother rejected her completely. She knew that this woman hadn't given birth to her, although
she
didn't know that, but she'd raised Aya. In all ways but biology, she was Aya's mother.

“You always overcomplicate things,” she said. “Either persuade him to let you have your way or accept that he has a good reason for refusing.”

“Because you and Father selected him to marry me?”

“He comes from a good family, Aya.” Her mother paused, and then delicately asked, “Is he . . . unsatisfying in some way? Is this a rebellion?”

Aya sighed. “It's not about Bel. It's about me.” She paused, weighing the risks of admission, before adding, “I'm going to enter the competition.”

Her mother shook her head. “You always were your father's daughter.” An admiring light filled her eyes. “He
was
a wonderful fighter.”

And Aya wished that she were her father's true daughter, but the father who raised her was no more her father than her mother was. They'd been bespelled to believe she was their own child after their infant had been killed. Her father had gone to his death still thinking that she was of his blood, and Aya was going to do whatever it took to preserve that secret for her mother and for herself. Doing so meant never having children of her own because unlike the witch who gave Aya life, she had no ability to hide another's magic.

Gently, her mother pointed out, “You need to take quarters of your own if you do this. The shame of it will cause troubles for your brother, so we need to appear as if you've been cast out of the house.”

Mutely, Aya nodded. She stood, kissed her mother's cheek, and left. Her family wouldn't abandon her, not completely, but they weren't going to be a party to her scandalous behavior either. It wasn't an unexpected reaction.

But it still hurts.

S
HE WAS IN HER
quarters gathering the things that she could take with her to her new apartment, when Belias came to stand in the doorway.

“So that's it? You walk away from the marriage that we've both been expecting since you were born?”

“Yes,” she said as steadily as she could.

“And I don't even get the courtesy of a conversation?” Belias' hands were talon-tipped now. He rarely lost control of his shape, but his anger was clearly consuming him. His hands curled, and the end of each finger extended in a glinting talon.

“There are rules, Belias. I filed the forms, told my mother, and it was left to you to determine if you still spoke to me after the dissolution.” Aya's gaze dropped to his talons, and she wondered if he'd strike her in anger. He'd never done so before, but she'd never rejected him before either.

“Undo it.” He took three steps into her room, nowhere near within touching distance, but at least he'd moved away from the doorway finally.

She didn't step back. “No.”

He watched her from unreadable eyes, and not for the first time, she realized that the daimon before her would be as much a force within their world as his father had been. Belias was meant for power, had always been, and if she were able to hide the secret of her heritage, he'd be the perfect mate.

“I will enter the competition; I won't be
ordered
to obey.” Her own hands were now tipped with the same sharp talons he had.

“Are you going to fight me, little bird?” The shock in his voice hurt. They'd never fought with talons.

“If I must,” she whispered. If he did fight her this way, she'd lose. This, too, would have to change. She needed to be able to fight against claws and talons in the competition—and for potential black mask jobs. She needed to be able to stand in such fights if she was to survive the competition.

“If I agreed to you entering the competition, would you—”

“Don't.” Aya stalked toward him. “Don't try to lie or trick me, Bel. Once I became your wife, you'd make the decision for me. I know it, and you know it. Don't insult me by pretending any differently.” Tears trailed down her face. “Let me keep the trust we've shared.”

Belias laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “You severed our engagement without a word to me. I'm not sure how much trust is left.”

Then he was gone, and she was alone in her childhood room packing her most essential possessions. She was unwed, without family, without everything that she'd thought would be hers—all because she was the spawn of a witch.

A
LTHOUGH SEVERAL DAYS PASSED,
Aya felt like it was but a moment before she stood in the center of the carnival. She'd settled into a tiny apartment in the part of The City where ruling-caste men kept their preferred mistresses. The looks that were sent her way were filled with knowing that was unjustified. Belias hadn't come to her, even after she'd sent a note to his home with her address. She trained in different fight centers, and she studied the most lethal of the daimons who moved through the carnival. No mask work had come her way, but she would be ready when it did. She'd be ready to fight in the competition too. For the past several days, she'd enjoyed a strange freedom she'd never known. That would change after the fighters were all entered into the competition, but she had both the blue masks of customers and her black mask if she needed anonymity to watch the goings-on of others. She'd already begun to hire street scabs to fetch small details about those likely to enter the competition—not all of them, of course, only the ones who were worthy fighters.

As she walked toward the meeting place for contestants, the matchboard loomed large in front of her, and the desire to see her name in one of the coveted top six spots blossomed in Aya. She looked around at the rest of the competitors. Some had the soft look that told her that they'd not make it past the first few rounds. A few fighters—mostly curs—looked like they were willing to eat everyone else alive just for the shock of it. One, Kaleb, was a black mask of a not insignificant reputation. She'd already started gathering information on him. He flashed teeth at her in a smile of sorts as their gazes connected. He was surveying the competition as she was.

They were all here for the same thing, but most of them would die over the next year. Some would forfeit mid-fight, but not all fighters accepted a forfeit—and some fighters would sooner die in a sure loss than consider offering forfeiture. There were a few women, but no other ruling-caste woman. There never had been. A few ruling-caste men were here. She looked over them, noting the ones she recognized and a few she'd seen in fight clubs. Then, she stopped. Her gaze caught on the one person she'd never wanted to see in this crowd.

“Belias,” she whispered.

He stared only at her. The arrogance in his posture, a well-deserved arrogance at that, said that he needn't bother studying the other fighters. He was better than them, stronger and faster. Few daimons would dispute that. Fewer still would live if they did dispute it.

She eased through the crowd until she was at his side. “What are you doing?” she demanded in a low voice.

“Thinning the herd.” He looked around him. “You're mine, Aya, and I'm a better fighter than most of them.” He didn't bother lowering his voice. “Anyone that faces you needs to know that I'll kill them if they walk out of the ring and you don't.”

Voices blurred together, a buzz of sounds as his statement was repeated.

“Stop this,” she hissed at him.

“Withdraw.”

Aya grabbed his forearm and tugged him toward the edge of the crowd. He didn't resist, but he didn't hurry either. To anyone watching, he'd still appear indifferent to the entire situation.

Once they were farther away from the other fighters, not outside the crowd but on the very edge of it, she released him. She pursed her lips and glared at him. There wasn't a single sentence she could think of that would resolve this to her satisfaction. She
had
to fight—and win—in Marchosias' Competition. If she didn't, her secret would be revealed, and she'd lose everything. If she won, she'd have a chance of survival.

Belias reached out and trailed his thumb down her jawline. “Withdraw, and we'll leave.”

“I told you: I can't.” Aya let herself lean into his caress. This, too, would end. Until then, she'd treasure these few remaining touches while he still thought he could convince her to change her mind.

“You don't need to prove your strength to anyone, little bird,” he said in a low voice. “You're strong and fierce. No one doubts that.”

“It's not that simple.” She turned her attention to the center of the carnival where their ruler was stepping up to a raised platform. Marchosias was a fearsome daimon, a daunting leader whose scarred skin and corded muscles were almost enough to convince others to forget that he was as canny as he was deadly.