Page 56 of Immortal Longings
“—she expects you atnine, don’t forget. Your mother is—”
Anton removes the cellphone from his ear, making a guess as to which button cuts off the grouchy voice. The body he just vacated is blinking, red-orange eyes bugged wide in an attempt to recollect how he ended up at the hospital, but Anton feigns ignorance, and merely offers a half smile before scooping up the knives and shaking them into this new body’s fancy suit sleeve. He feels refreshed. Alert. At some point, he—his qi, his spirit, his essence—will need sleep, but as long as he keeps jumping, he can push it off, like a wound sealed over with tape instead of new skin.
Anton secures his wristband into place again. With new vigor, he pushes through the hospital’s front doors, merging into the rest of the busy building.
August flips a coin, then catches it smoothly in his hand. The bar bustles around him, each seat filled with regulars. Snake Station is a hole-in-the-wall—or three holes in three walls, to be precise—that involves picking through a series of obscure passageways before reaching the infamous locale. Palace guards frequent these booths often, coming in when they’re on break and even when they aren’t.
The bartender puts a drink in front of August. Wearing a stranger’s body, August nods, tossing the coin forward. Tonight, he gets to the bottom of this mystery. No more talk of foreign intruders. No more lies about rural invaders. Something about this has always felt off to him, but he cannot put his finger on what it is. Something feels… orchestrated. Murky, improbable motives. Logic failing to follow through.
Calla reported in this morning. She was attacked yesterday by someone who likely intended to make her another victim of the yaisu sickness.
There was no light when he jumped. There was nobody nearby when he disappeared from the body. How is that possible, August? Since when could Sicans change the rules like that?
Except that’s the problem—he doesn’t think impossible things can be explained away by blaming what is foreign. There is more to it.
“You hear anything about this?”
The two palace guards sitting around the bar startle at August’s voice, but quickly follow his finger to the small screen propped in the corner. The muted news broadcast is talking about the deaths again, showing a grainy picture of one of the dead players doing the Sican salute. August was allowed to release only the blurriest photograph so the people of San-Er could see this was the work of an amateur, someone who didn’treallyknow what the Sican salute looked like. The newscasters on screen hurry to assure that it is false, intended to sowdiscord in San-Er. That part, at least, hedoesbelieve: this is not the work of real Sicans. He just cannot fathom it being the rural Talinese either.
“We know about as much as you do,” the palace guard replies. He doesn’t look suspicious in the slightest, and if he has noticed August’s pitch-black eyes, there is no indication. August presents in every other way as a regular concerned civilian.
“I’m surprised it’s being blamed on outside intruders.”
“Oh?” August says.
The second palace guard nods. “The wall has been infallible this long for a reason. It’s an excellent system. We watch every section. If anyone climbed in, we wouldknow.”
August agrees. Which is why he has been hopping bars all night, talking to every palace guard he can find. Because that leaves one more option.
An inside job.
He hasn’t decided yet what that would mean. A security breach? Perhaps a whole watchtower is turning a blind eye, or someone in the ranks is opening the doors to the outside. But that still leaves major gaps, like how one might procure identity numbers and evade surveillance cameras.
August jumps. He slams into a body across the bar, and the flash is swallowed up quickly, merely another strange blip ongoing in San despite being the herald of illegal activity. The palace guards here are mostly off the clock; they have no desire to police jumping. Despite that, they’re still easily spotted by their uniforms, swathed in black, so August slides into a booth opposite another guard in his new body.
This guard doesn’t look up when he arrives.
“Not interested in the news?”
“Mind your business,” the guard retorts.
August tilts his head. “Don’t you think it’s your civic duty to apologize for rural intruders in San-Er? How can you wear your uniform so proudly? How are you to represent the throne of Talin?”
The guard looks up now. With a delayed beat, August realizes he recognizes him, or at least the greenish blue of his eyes. This is one of Leida’s closest men, responsible for filling in when she is outside the palace walls or otherwise off-duty.
“What are you so mouthy for, huh?” the guard—Vaire, that’s his name—demands.
August waits a beat. “Why so defensive? Are you the one who let in the intruders?”
Vaire lunges, left hand clenching around August’s collar. He hauls him close, spittle frothing at the mouth. His other fist is already coming up, in a trajectory to land upon August’s jaw, but then Vaire’s arm halts like it has met an invisible barrier. The sight is almost comical.
“Your Highness,” Vaire says quickly. Ah, so he has noticed the eyes. “I apologize profusely.”
“Oh, no need,” August replies. “Iwasbeing irritating, after all.” He shakes off Vaire’s grip, and Vaire snatches both hands back at once. August stands, lips pursed in absent thought. “See to it that you report to your shift nice and early tomorrow.”
He can feel Vaire staring after him as he walks out of the bar. As soon as the guard identified August, he clammed up, so there’s no use trying to ask anything else. Nevertheless—why the adverse reaction when asked about the wall? Vaire is not usually inclined toward violence. He’s levelheaded and calm, as all palace guards must be when they are selected for duty.
Outside the building, August pauses, turning over his shoulder. He watches the final door swing. His gaze moves up, going to the second floor where a club pulses, the third where a laundromat rumbles on, the fourth floor where a noodle shop is operating at high capacity.
