On Vicious Worlds

Book 2: The Kindom Trilogy

by Bethany Jacobs

Genres: Space Opera; Mystery; Space Exploration

Synopsis

One of the most exciting new voices in space opera returns with the thrilling sequel to These Burning Stars, the explosive space opera debut that launched the dangerous cat‑and‑mouse quest for revenge that will define a people forever.

The Jeveni have finally found freedom on the distant planet Capamame, delivered from Kindom oppression through their alliance with stoic Cleric Chono, intrepid caster Jun Ironway, and Six, the wildly unpredictable manipulator who has outwitted the Nightfoot family.
 
But when Six and Chono return to the Treble star systems, the dream of freedom meets a dangerous test. The Secretaries of the Kindom are intent on reclaiming power in the Treble, as well as control over the Jeveni. Meanwhile, Jun Ironway and Jeveni collector Masar Hawks struggle to protect Capamame from a population brimming with resentment, not to mention a faceless saboteur spreading mayhem and murder.
 
As the two groups struggle to outwit their enemies, divergent battles wend toward a climatic reunion that will spark a revolution. But over it all hangs the cruel legacy of Esek Nightfoot, whose rippling effects may prove impossible to survive. 

Praise for These Burning Stars: 

“An exciting start from a fresh talent, offering emotional and political complexity plus plenty of interplanetary action.” – Kirkus (Starred Review)

"Readers who love smart thrillers and explosive sf won’t want to miss this book." – Booklist (Starred Review) 

“Plotted like a chess match, confident and surprising as Jacobs moves each piece thoughtfully across her board ... If Jacobs’ second entry is anything like the first, we’ll have so much more to discover across her universe in the years to come." – BookPage (Starred Review) 

Release date: October 15, 2024

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 480

Sample

Barcetima

Uosti Sa Continent

The Planet Kator

It was a warm night in the Katish summer, full of dancing and music and laughter, and they used all of this as cover when they slipped into the bar and took a table by the windows. They sat facing the rest of the room and turned a memory coin in their fingers. They didn’t signal for a waiter. They had a perfect view of the road, which wended south and up—toward an estate on the hill that belonged to Ashir Doanye. From their place in the bar, they could see the estate, the grand house, its windows like yellow eyes. They flipped the coin once, but since its tail and head were the same, there was nothing to infer.

They imagined a head and tail onto the coin. If the coin landed on heads, they would give the coin to her. If it landed on tails, they would kill her.

They flipped it again. Impossible to know.

Someone jostled past them, bumping their chair. Easy as breathing, to turn toward the bump, to slip their hand into the woman’s coat and lift the coin purse off her belt. When she was gone, they held the purse under the table, digging through the contents. It was mostly Katish currency, plastic plae, but down at the bottom they found a Ma’kessn ingot. Pleased, they sat with the memory coin in one hand and the ingot in the other. One side of the ingot showed the face of the goddess Makala, fecund and lovely. On the opposite side of the ingot was an image of the temple Riin Cosas, the holiest site on Ma’kess. Heads and tails.

They flipped the ingot. Makala appeared. Hmm.

It was a noisy night, crowded. But they had picked their location wisely. The bar was attached to a very nice hotel, whose best rooms were reserved for a Kindom delegation that, even now, celebrated in the home of Ashir Doanye. A lucrative weapons contract had been signed, to the benefit of Kindom and warmongers alike. Rolling the memory coin between their fingers, they watched the road. They would be able to see the delegation come down from the estate. They would see her arrive, and slip from their table, and go to her on the street, and offer her the memory coin. Unless the ingot fell on tails. Then they’d kill her.

Flip. Heads. Hmm.

The trick was, she would be expecting it. Because she was always expecting it, always anticipating an assassination attempt. This was one of the things they had learned in the past few years of studying her life—that she never didn’t expect someone to try to kill her, and that it was this expectation that kept her alive. If they appeared out of nowhere, even just to give her the coin, she would expect a kill. So they had to be fast, so fast, faster than her. She was twenty-seven, practically old, surely not as fast as them.

Of course, if they tried to kill her and failed, she would definitely kill them. She might torture them first and figure out who they were, but what good was a failed assassin to her?

Or they might succeed in offering the coin, and still, she’d kill them. She had warned them, once, that it could go that way. Just the insult of startling her was worth a death sentence.

They flipped the ingot, and Makala’s face shone once more. They thought of the opposite side of the coin, the temple Riin Cosas. Symbol of the Righteous Hand, of the holy Clerisy. They had never wanted to be a cleric when they studied at the kinschool. Always they wanted to be a cloaksaan, even when Four tried to change their mind. The Cloaksaan, quiet and unnoticed. Brutal. That was the road for them. And it might all work out, if they gave her the memory coin and she accepted them into her cadre of novitiates.

It was all “maybes” now, and they felt somewhat clinical about the possibility of their own death. Not because they were indifferent, but because they had come up against death a dozen times. What was their alternative, now that this crucial moment had arrived? To walk away? After everything?

Yes, said Four in their thoughts, for Four was a pragmatist, and protective. Walk away.

Just then a new group came into the bar, taking the table nearest theirs with raucous laughter and congratulatory braying, saying a lot of things, like how well it went, and what a payday, and who should they fleece next? It wouldn’t have registered, except that one of them, a tall man with broad shoulders, said arrogantly, “That teacher was gagging to meet Doanye. It was a cinch, closing the deal.”

That name, Doanye, caught their attention. The man with the estate on the hill. Esek’s host, even now. The group ordered drinks, and the drinks came. But no one mentioned Doanye again, so Six lost interest and watched the road through the window. It was already near midnight. Surely the party wouldn’t go on much longer. Inside their jacket were two weapons: a pistol strapped under one arm, and a knife in an interior sheath. The knife had a long, curved blade, perfect for gutting fish.

The memory coin was another form of weapon. A crystallized moment in time. Or a half hour, to be precise. Revel Moonback, leader of the Moonback family and rival to the Nightfoots, was a cautious man, but someone betrayed him. Someone recorded him. Six didn’t even have to pay much, all things considered, and now they had a recording of him with his mistress, who also happened to be his niece.

It was sordid. And just the sort of secret that Esek Nightfoot would salivate over. If they chose to offer it to her. If they didn’t kill her instead. And she didn’t kill them.

“When do we get payment, Goan?” asked one of the saan at the table next to them.

The tall one laughed. “I already got the pay I care about. But the rest of it will be in this weekend. You mark my words; these people need us more than we need them. There’s going to be lots more contracts that come out of this.”

One of them, the smallest, said, “What do you mean you already got paid?”

A beat of silence, and the other four at the table were laughing, slapping their ignorant comrade on the back. Surly, he demanded, “Did you take another cut?”

“Just a finder’s fee,” said Goan, smug. “You know how it is with the kinschools.”

The word buzzed in Six’s ear, and though they had only been giving the group half their attention, now the saan had it all. But none of them noticed the teenager flipping the ingot.

Goan went on, “Those masters have more than money on offer, and it’s all about connections in this business. You know the right people, you get the best rewards.”

Everyone at the table seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the punch line, and Six, too, was waiting for it, wondering—

“A student,” Goan crooned.

It took a beat for his small friend’s eyes to widen in realization. “No!”

Goan nodded. “They wanted it to have an invitation to the party as well, so I asked to taste the merchandise. Sweetest thing, too. Fifteen, sixteen? Big gray eyes—like moons. Not much of a face, but those kinschool students are built like little gods.”

Six’s skin prickled with recognition.

“But it’s illegal!” the small one said.

They all laughed again. Goan was a big man; his hands were big. He squeezed his friend’s shoulder so hard Six imagined bruises spreading like ink in water.

“It’s illegal if the Kindom finds out. And the Kindom doesn’t find out because it doesn’t want to. The students belong to the schools. They can use them for whatever they want, business, pleasure, you name it. What, you think any Hand starts out a virgin? Or haven’t you ever seen the way clerics flirt? Bunch of dogs in heat. And if they’re selling, I tell you what—I’m buying. That little student made my week. I could have gone for hours.”

The waiter came back with a new round of drinks, and the saan at the table raised their glasses and toasted, and cheered Goan on as if he was a hero. Six looked up the road, toward the Doanye estate, and realized that Four was at the party with Esek. Four, who they hadn’t seen in nearly five years, but who they knew had gone out on a recruiting mission with one of the kinschool masters. They thought of Four’s rare gray eyes and strong body, which the man Goan had enjoyed so much. Four, dangerous in its own peculiar way, had never been a sexual performer. Four was quiet, reserved. Four would not have shared Goan’s enjoyment.

They gripped the memory coin. They flipped the ingot. Makala.

The night was getting later. The people in the bar were getting drunker. The revelry of the summer night was starting to affect Six, like a hot wind whipping up their emotions. If they didn’t control themself, they would lose their way. Esek Nightfoot was coming down the road soon, a red-plumed bird of prey in her cleric’s coat, and she knew nothing of Four, or of Goan, or of Six waiting for her in this bar. Their only advantage was surprise. If the coin landed on heads one more time, they would give it to her. If it landed on tails, they would kill her.

They flipped the ingot. This time, the temple Riin Cosas winked up at them.

Goan stood, bragging, “I need to piss,” and went off.

Six pocketed the ingot and the memory coin. They rose like a shadow and followed him.

The restrooms were empty, and as Goan went to the urinal and started to piss, Six stood behind him, watching. It took Goan longer to notice than it should have, but when he did, he threw a startled look over his shoulder. “What are you looking at, you little freak?”

“I heard you like them young,” said Six.

Goan barked, a sound half laughter, half scoff. “Fuck you. Get out of here.”

He was zipping up his pants. Six said, “I need money.”

Goan stopped still. Turned slowly. Looked Six over with slow, perusing eyes. What did he see? Six wondered. A tall teenager, lean, and dark-skinned as Kata—not fair like Four. Not built solid, the way Four was built. Small dark eyes instead of gray. Attractive in a conventional and generally unnoticed way. And gendermarked. Unlike Four.

“Really?” said Goan with interest. “You know, prostitution is illegal in Barcetima.”

“It is illegal if they find out,” Six replied.

A snort. “You’re a little spy, aren’t you?”

“Fifty plae,” Six said.

“Thirty.”

“Forty.”

Another laugh. “All right. Lock that door and come here.”

“Not here,” said Six, stepping back from the aggressive height of the man, who looked displeased. “Somewhere more private. The alley.”

They left the restroom together, walking back toward a rear exit and into an alley that separated the hotel bar from the housing blocks behind it. Six looked left and right, and saw no one, and already Goan was grabbing at them, pawing at their clothes. Six used the confidence of sixteen years learning to survive and pushed Goan back against the alley wall, distracting him with hands on his belt. They opened it together, and Six reached in for his sex, grasping him firmly and beginning to stroke. Goan groaned, head leaning back against the wall as he panted, and after a short while something hot and wet spilled over Six’s hands, and they stepped back.

Goan’s head had dropped down. He looked at Six with a wide, startled expression. Six held the knife in one hand, the curved blade gleaming red. Goan gripped a hand to his entrails, already spilling out of the wide slash Six had cut through him. Goan made a gurgling sound, near enough a scream that Six stepped forward and slashed out again—this time cutting through his throat. The carotid artery became a geyser, spraying hot blood over Six’s face. Six stepped back again, and watched grimly as the man clutched at his belly and his throat.

It was a messy death, a smelly death, but it went quickly, the two wounds overwhelming all Goan’s strength in moments. He slumped against the wall, and his legs went out. He fell sideways onto the ground, jerking and gagging on his own blood before at last he went still.

Six wiped a hand down their bloody face. There was very little light in the alley, but still too much. They found the nearest lamp and determined to crush the bulb and leave Goan in a blanketing darkness.

“What’s this, little killer?” said a voice in the shadows. “You’re not even going to rob the corpse?”

Six drew their gun in an instant, pointing into the dark.

“Do not move,” they warned.

In the darkness, a figure stood still. Six felt a kind of horror, as if what stood in the alley would lumber forward and be a doppelgänger of themself.

“Come into the light. But do it slowly.”

The figure obeyed, hands held out at their sides, until at last they had stepped into the shallow lamplight. A man. Shorter than Six and built of compact muscle, he looked as if he must be thirty or a little older than that. He stood and looked at Six, and his eyes were narrow and dark and caught the light with a shimmer. Six recognized him at once for a Quietan. He had deep brown skin, rough from sun and surf, and wore his hair in pristinely matted locs, which fell past his shoulders. He wore an oilskin vest over a shirt, and canvas trousers, and a double belt of small knives forming an X across his chest. He was smiling.

“That was brutally done. Are you a cloaksaan?”

Pride and bitterness surged in them, but they squashed it, remembering Four’s talent for calm. They pointed the gun at the man. They would have to kill him.

“What are you doing in this alley?” Six asked.

“It’s a public alley, nah? Can’t a man smoke in peace?”

Now Six could smell the pipe smoke on him, a salty tobacco that Quietans favored. Six had spent some time on Quietus four years ago, before indenturing with a Katish weapons merchant. Six liked Quietus, and Quietans, and maybe this was why they had not pulled the trigger. Also, the gun’s report might bring people running. Six would have to get close to the man and cut his throat. Leave both bodies in the alley. Make their way through the shadows to their room in the shanty town. They thought of Esek at the party on the hill. It would have to wait. It would all have to wait, either murder or gift, because this thing had happened.

Six holstered the gun and the knife, wanting to appear harmless. As harmless as they could with blood all over them, of course. They inched forward. The man watched them, thoughtful. “If you’re not going to rob the corpse, do you mind if I do it?”

Startled, Six said, “Yes.”

A lifted eyebrow. “Really? Why?”

Six hesitated, mouth opening and closing, some ridiculous Godtext edict about respect for the dead washing up on their memory—they dismissed it just as quickly.

“I did not kill him so he could be robbed.”

It was a foolish reason. The man laughed. “Then why kill him?”

He had the typical accent of a Quietan, clipped and musical, and it only sounded more musical for the faint mockery of the question. Six kept quiet this time, though they were thinking of their kinschool days, and Four in the cot next to theirs, and Four stealing them food from the kitchen, and Four with bloody teeth scaring off some older students.

The man gave a small nod of understanding, and Six didn’t like that. What could he possibly understand? Six took another step toward him, pretending to step away from the pool of blood. The door that went back into the bar was on their left. They could hear noise behind it—somewhere in there Goan’s friends were drinking and fantasizing about Four.

“Was he alone?” the man asked.

It was like he had heard Six’s thoughts. Six said, “He came here with friends.”

“Then his friends will look for him. And you’re covered in blood. If you go up this alley and turn right, you’ll come to a fountain. Wash in the fountain, and run. Otherwise, they’re going to find you.”

Six slid closer. “They will not find me.”

Or else they would. Let them.

The man sucked his teeth. “That arrogance won’t take you far.”

In a flash the knife was in their hand—the man was a foot away. Six lashed out, wanting to make it fast. Something jarred against their wrist. It was the leather bracer on the man’s forearm. Six stepped right, swiped in the other direction. Another block, and this time the man’s free hand came up and cuffed them so hard on the ear that their skull clanged. Startled, furious, they dove at him, a barrage of strikes and thrusts that pushed the man back into the shadows of the alley but didn’t overwhelm him. He brandished no weapon but his arms and his hands, and they were like clubs, blocking every strike and cuffing Six again, on the opposite ear.

“Stop that,” the man snapped.

Six pulled a second knife from their ankle cuff and went at the man with both hands, and this time when an arm came up, they dove under it toward his belly, saw him barely dodge, and suddenly the man had them by both wrists. They stared at each other.

“Will you stop?” he said.

They kneed him. It was a good blow, between his legs, but the man twisted somehow and got the brunt of it in his thigh. He gripped them tighter, so tight. Six choked in pain. They felt the bones in their wrists move, felt the compression like a vise, and panic went through them. They couldn’t get past him, couldn’t get free of him—

A hard jerk. The man was stronger than them and spun them around like a toy. Shoved them up against the wall. Their head cracked against stone, their back jarred badly. The knives had fallen from their choked wrists, and they were trapped. They snarled and spit like an animal, thinking of Four alone in the dark, forced to do terrible things—

“Damn you, calm down!” hissed the man. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

They felt something wet on the back of their head where it had cracked against the wall. They felt a little dizzy, and the man had crossed their arms against their chest and was pinning them like that. His belts of knives were so close. Six wrenched and fought—and had their head knocked against the wall again. Their vision went starry.

“You stop it right now,” said the man, as if from far away. “There was no need for any of this, you little fool.”

Six felt nauseated, woozy. In humiliation they realized how quickly Esek would have killed them, if they’d gone to her tonight. They were nowhere near ready for her.

The man pulled them away from the wall and threw them down onto the alley floor, right next to Goan’s fetal body. Six saw that the Quietan was holding their gun. The two knives were on the ground, by the man’s feet. Out of reach. Six lay in the blood and dust and stared up at him. He was pointing the gun at them but also swiping a hand down the front of his clothes.

“Damn you, you got blood on me.”

“Shoot me, then.”

The man blurted a laugh. “Why are young people in such a hurry to die?”

Six flooded with heat, furious to be laughed at.

“I will not be taken by the Cloaksaan!”

He laughed again, gesturing at Goan in his smelly, motionless heap. “You think a cloak is going to get involved over this fuck? He’s a merchant with his dick hanging out of his pants. I doubt the guardsaan will even care that much. You’re in more danger from his friends, and I’m not about to tell strangers I ran into some weird little assassin.”

That descriptor rankled, but Six was more focused on getting their gun back. As if he sensed it, the man snorted and tucked the gun in his belt. “I’m keeping this. You’re a good fighter, by the way, so don’t take it too hard. You just lack experience.” He kicked the knives across the ground, close enough to grab. Six was so insulted they just sat there. With a vanity that seemed out of place, he took out a handkerchief and wiped at the blood that had gotten on him. “You better not try to stick me again,” he warned. “Damn. Try to help someone, and this is what you get. Fucking kids.”

Six watched him, suspicious, and thinking the whole thing was not quite right. Guardedly, they asked, “Why help me?”

At once the Quietan met their eyes with a wide smile, as if he’d been hoping they would ask, and said all bright and cheerful, “Well, to be honest with you—I’m a bit of a talent scout. And I saw how you used that knife. Damned impressive, kid. Damned impressive.”

Six did not react. This was not the first time they’d met “talent scouts.” Most were looking for child prostitutes. One had wanted Six for their actual skills, and she was dead now. They would find a way to kill this man, too, if they had to.

“I do want to know,” he went on, still cheerfully, like this was a chat happening in the bar instead of the alley, “why did you kill him, if not to rob him?”

Six thought of Four. “He was a rapist.”

The man stopped dabbing at himself. He looked at Six seriously, in a way that said he believed them. Six had said it as a warning rather than a justification—as a way to insist that if the man was looking for child prostitutes, this was the wrong tactic.

“Well, then. I suppose that’s fair play. But you didn’t come to Barcetima to kill this fucker, did you?” Six just looked at him. The man shrugged. “I can spot the difference between a local and the just-passing-through type. So, I ask myself, what does a weird little assassin pass through Barcetima for? Why do they sit in the bar and watch Ashir Doanye’s house? Why do they do it on the night he’s got Kindom visiting him?”

A thousand icy needles swept the crown of Six’s skull as they realized that this strange Quietan had been watching them since before the murder in the alley. Following them, maybe? Were their intentions toward Esek visible on their face? Did the man work for Esek?

“Word of advice on that front,” he continued. “It’s not an easy thing, going up against Kindom all alone. They’d have you spitted and roasting before you had a chance to name the Sixth God.”

Six stood up slowly, swiping the knives. They could get another gun. For now, the blood was drying on their clothes. The shanty town room was ten blocks away, and no one would glance at blood there, but they thought maybe they should get out of town altogether. There were farms four miles outside the city center. A barn would make a good hideout for the night.

“Do not follow me,” they ordered, and took a step back.

He looked amused. “The name’s Yantikye, in case you’re interested. Yantikye the Honor.”

“I am not interested,” said Six, backing up farther.

Yantikye the Honor tsked. “Come now, little killer. Everyone needs allies sometimes.”

Spinning around, they leapt and broke the lamp bulb that illuminated the alley. Thrown under a black blanket, they ran away from the body and the Quietan man, but they heard his voice calling after them like a premonition. “Don’t forget my name! You may need it!”

Bruised and with blood on their skull, they didn’t look back.

It was months before they learned that Four became Chono that night.



For this reason, it is to the benefit of the Jeveni people and the Treble entire that no separatist community shall exceed one hundred Jeveni citizens, and the Kindom retains the right to disband these communities at will. It is better by far that the Jeveni should assimilate, and adopt the practices of their new planets and cities, for their isolation from civilization has been a blight upon them, and ultimately made them vulnerable to the genocider Lucos Alanye. Thus the Kindom intends that they never suffer such a fate again, and may the Godfire ensure it, by curtailing their pride.

excerpt, the Anti-Patriation Act, Article 3. Dated 1596, Year of the Brand.



Farren Eyce

The Planet Capamame

The body lies at a strange angle, both arms underneath his torso. Half of him lies on the landing, the other half sprawled over the last few steps of this flight of the massive stone staircase that forms the core of Farren Eyce. His neck is broken, one leg snapped at the knee. In this position, his face is hidden, but there’s no mistaking Uskel’s red hair, matted with blood.

Through Masar flashes an image of Nikkelo, lifted off his feet by the force of a gunshot, a scarlet corona spreading around his head where he fell…

“We should move him,” says Fonu sen Fhaan, the River of the Wheel, and Nikkelo’s replacement.

No one says anything. Masar’s prosthetic eye tics, a quick glitch in his vision; he rubs the corner until it resolves. He looks over at Dom, another collector, whose normally dark complexion has grayed out with shock. Nevertheless he comes at Masar’s gesture, and together the three of them crouch and gently lift Uskel’s body, carrying him down the last steps and laying him on his back. Masar’s stomach churns at the crushed ruin of his face, and Dom makes a soft, strangled noise. From nearby come more sounds of gasps and murmurs. Masar glances up. The crowd has gotten bigger since he arrived five minutes ago. It’s not even dawn, but word has already spread. A couple of the junior collectors, Qlios and Siel, stand between him and the crowd, an informal barricade.

Masar asks Dom, “When was the last time you spoke to him?”

Dom stares at Uskel, then looks up at Masar with rapidly blinking, damp eyes. “Two nights ago. We had drinks. Everything… seemed fine.”

Masar nods, and suddenly a woman in the crowd approaches. She’s carrying a blanket, and though Siel looks uncertain, Qlios stands aside for her. She holds the blanket out to Masar, her eyes fixed on Uskel’s body.

“Moon arise,” she breathes.

Masar takes the blanket. “Don’t look, Auntie.”

Her eyes snap up to his. He knows her from a little noodle shop she runs in the Market District. She says, “I saw a death like this in the factories. A woman fell from some scaffolding.”

What should he say to that? He and Dom take the blanket as Fonu watches, and they spread it out over Uskel, covering him and most of the blood. Masar turns back to the woman, who looks wan and haunted.

“May the barren flourish,” she whispers, and turns away.

For the first time he takes a good look at the crowd, sees the mix of expressions, fear and uncertainty. They’re all murmuring to one another, many staring at Masar or Fonu, rather than Uskel. Tension hangs over the crowd like the quiet eye of a storm.

Fonu mutters, “We should disperse these people. It does no good for them to see this.”

Masar gives the River a sidelong glance. Not for the first time, he considers how different Fonu is from Nikkelo, whose warmth bred loyalty and confidence in everyone he spoke to.

Dom, looking sick, demands, “Disperse them how, my River?”

His voice holds none of the reverence usually found in that honorific.

Fonu makes an impatient sound, their skinny frame tightening as they sense the rebuke in Dom’s question. “Who knows what rumors and exaggerations will spread through the colony?”

Masar pauses, glancing toward the swelling ranks of colonists. Uskel is the third collector to die in the past six months.

“It might be a bit late for that,” he says.

Fresh chatter starts up in the crowd as people stand, and Jun Ironway appears. She must have taken the elevator down from her apartment on Level 7. She looks rumpled and cross, and he can tell at once that she’s already casting, her eyes distant.

The lights in the courtyard suddenly flicker. Everyone looks up, uneasy at this latest example of a problem that’s been plaguing Farren Eyce for months. Jun’s limbs tighten. The flickering stops, and she stands beside the body.

“Can you move the blanket?” she asks, voice rough either from sleep or from her caster fugue. Masar lifts the blanket, standing between Uskel and the crowd to block their view. Dom helps. There are voices behind them, but Masar focuses on Jun. She observes the body, clearly assessing with her ocular, feeding information into a vault of evidence. She raises her eyes toward the staircase rising above them. They’re on the fourth level of Farren Eyce, and eventually Jun says, “Based on the damage, I calculate he fell from Level 8.”

A beat of silence.

“Fell,” Masar repeats.

The stone railings of the staircase are as high as Uskel’s waist.

Jun amends, “Someone… made him fall.”

Fonu makes a low, aggressive sound. “Keep your voice down. We don’t need hysteria.”

Something changes in Jun’s eyes, a flicker from distance to presence, as she turns to look at Fonu for the first time. Her eyebrows hike up in that fucking smartass way that keeps getting her in trouble with the Wheel.

“Or else he jumped. But three collector suicides in six months? I doubt they hate your leadership that much, Sa.”

Fonu’s narrow face twists. Masar warns in a rumble, “Jun…”

She rubs her eyes, clears her throat. “A few cameras caught his fall, but none of them show how it happened. He was in a dead spot.”

This is the same as it was with the other two collectors. Leios was found hanging in a gymnasium locker room with no cameras. Roq appeared to have shot themself with a nail gun in a construction zone that hadn’t yet been connected to the Farren Eyce casting net. And now, this fall in the early hours, no one and nothing to see it happen.

As if hearing his thoughts, someone in the crowd calls out, “What is this? If you can’t protect your own from murderers, how can you protect us?!”

Voices rise in agreement. Masar glances at Fonu, expecting them to address the speakers, but the River holds challenging eye contact with Jun. Masar leaves them, walking toward the crowd. To his unease, a few people step back, as if they’re afraid of him.

“I know how frightening this is,” he says. “But we’re doing everything