Page 23 of Immortal Longings
It’s not just dangerous; it’s unheard of. No one would enroll with such a disadvantage—no one except Calla Tuoleimi, apparently.
“Yes, well”—Calla flicks her hair out of her face—“it is what it is.”
This is her body. It belongs to her. Itisher more than any collective identity.
“You didn’t tell me your name,” Eno says when the waiter sets down two bowls before them. Eno peers inside to find wonton noodles, then digs in immediately.
“Chami,” Calla replies after a moment. She retrieves a pair of chopsticks from the dispenser and sticks it into her food. “So. How do you know who took my wristband?”
Eno’s eyes light up. For the briefest second, there’s hesitation in the posture of his shoulders, in the grip he has on his utensils. Though she says nothing, Calla makes note of it, tucking it away with the other tidbits in her mental inventory.
“I’m part of the Crescent Societies,” he says. “Well… a new initiate. They let us keep a portion of the earnings if we run enough—”
“The point, please,” Calla interrupts.
Eno clears his throat. “Right, right. The temples catch wind of which numbers are making which kills before the news broadcasts it. I heard through our network that Eighty-Six took Fifty-Seven’s wristband.” He looks Calla directly in the eye, as if to assure her he isn’t lying. “I gather there aren’t too many players who’ve lost their wristbands.”
Calla leans forward, jabbing at the wontons. Eighty-Six graced the newsreels prominently right after the Daqun, his kills putting him among the group that are fighting for second place below Calla. It’s not as if any of them can really upstage her when she’s cheating, but it’s still early days in the games.
“Who is Eighty-Six, then?” she asks.
“Oh, I know him. We’re friendly. His name is Anton Makusa.”
Calla’s hand stops, frozen over the chopsticks. She has never met Anton Makusa, but she knows the name. She heard it often during her delegation visits to San. He was a palace brat, August’s friend before Otta Avia caught the yaisu sickness. His parents were killed when he was young, but that wasn’t what made his reputation in San-Er. It was his notorious jumping, flouting the rules andexemplifying the hypocrisy of palace elites by receiving only light punishments each time he was caught.
“He uses one fake identity or another most of the time, though, so you didn’t hear it from me. I happened to snoop through his mail once. He lives near the Rubi Waterway, on San’s side,” Eno continues, not noticing Calla’s reaction to the name. “Do you know Big Well Street? Three floors up from the brothel.”
Calla leans back into the booth, mystified. She digs into her pocket for a cigarette. Strikes a match and lights it, taking one drag before tipping the ashes into her half-eaten bowl. Eno watches with explicit horror, aghast that she is wasting perfectly good food, but Calla’s attention has drifted elsewhere.
How didAnton Makusaend up living above a brothel, playing in the games?
“Why are you helping me?” Calla asks suddenly. She blows smoke onto the table, and Eno flinches, coughing. “I hope you realize that you’re allowing me to play again. One more contestant back in the ring.”
“You were leading the scoreboard,” he replies, “and you have some link to Prince August. I don’t think you’re out of the ring yet.”
“Officially speaking, I am.”
“But you’re going to get yourself back in. And if I do this now, you’ll help me later in the games, won’t you?”
Calla makes a thoughtful noise from the back of her throat. It comes out rough, sprinkled with gravel. It’s awfully bold of the kid to assume that she’s the type willing to repay a favor. “You know there can only be one victor.”
Eno sticks his nose into the air. “I still intend to give myself the best possible chance at winning. That victor could be me.”
Calla snorts. Eno deflates a little. “Okay, well”—he lifts his wristband and taps at the spot where the chip is inserted—“at least I can opt out at any time.”
At fifteen, some people haven’t even finished developing their jumping yet, never mind honed it enough to compete with a bunch of killers. Calla doesn’tlike how casually he treats the matter, as if this is some playground adventure instead of a battle to the death.
“Why are you in the games anyway?” she asks. She douses her cigarette in her soup. “You may as well pull that chip now.”
“No,” Eno says immediately. He’s almost at the last scraps of his bowl, still digging away. “My mother is in deep debt. Sooner or later, I’ll be dead—if not by starvation, then by menial labor with no end. Might as well take the chance to make some cash.”
Of course. These stories are as commonplace as rats in the alleys, and yet Calla still finds herself flinching every time she hears one.
“That’s terrible.”
Eno shrugs. “What else am I supposed to do? Even the Crescent Societies are no help so far. I’m bound to inherit her collectors one way or another.”
She could try to imagine how a debt so large had piled up, but the possibilities are endless. Hospital bills, rent payments, bank loans for rash ideas that the people of San-Er chase to try to survive. Even if Eno hasn’t done anything on his own, it’s easy to be born into a dark hole of accounts and dues.
