Page 86 of Immortal Longings
“You’ve been staring at that wall for an hour now.”
August barely stirs at Galipei’s voice, not acknowledging that he’s heard him. His eyes stay pinned on the glistening golden wallpaper in his study, face turned toward the open window where the warm evening air floats in. He’s thinking about Leida’s capture, about how easily she let them take her down. But that’s not the detail that has snagged him: it’s Calla.
“I deactivated Six from the games,” August says in lieu of a reply. “We are down to five players.”
“Oh, so we’re just bringing up random matters now?” Galipei jibes. “Very well. My second cousin reassigned the palace guard into new units, in case there was further collaboration with Leida inside the ranks.”
August’s attention snaps to him. “Is there a power vacuum opening up?”
“No, don’t worry.” Galipei leans back onto the desk, his legs crossing at the ankles. “The heads of each unit will simply report to you now, I suppose. Unless you are opposed.”
“No,” August says. “I’m not.”
A loud ruckus floats in from the window. They’re clearing out the market below, getting the coliseum ready to be used for the approaching Juedou. The stalls nearest the center can remain functioning until the last minute, but the ones on the outer circle must move so the palace can set up the audience ropes. A final battle needs its spectators. What fun are the king’s games if not witnessed by all, plucked straight from the reels and pushed into reality?
“You’re still looking rather pensive.”
August clasps his hands together over his stomach. Tightness thrums there—this unsettled feeling is not new, but it is more prominent today. Five players left. There is only so much time before the games wind down, before Calla takes her victorious title, before she is brought into the palace and fulfills August’s plan.
Sheneedsto fulfill his plan.
“I’m concerned,” August admits.
Galipei uncrosses his ankles, pushing off from the desk. He walks over to where August sits and crouches beside him so they are eye to eye.
“About Calla,” he guesses.
August nods. “She’s too attached to Anton. She thinks she can avoid killing him.” He tips his head up, lolling his neck onto the plush chair. “He may kill her instead, and then where will we be?”
The question is rhetorical, but Galipei thinks it over nevertheless.
“You said Calla proposed a different plan.”
“It won’t work. Especially now, with the palace guard so on edge. She cannot possibly bypass them to get to Kasa.”
“She could jump. She’s royal blood. She’s strong.”
August sighs. For whatever reason, Calla Tuoleimi has always refused to jump. He used to think she was brainwashed by the palace’s teachings, yet from what August had witnessed, Calla never regarded the palace’s other rules that highly anyway. She would smuggle food to her attendants when she thought no one was watching; she would be handed the responsibility of sorting through petty theft charges in Er and shrug indifferently when whole piles of claims went missing. Her refusal to jump is a mystery, but August supposes it doesn’t matter much. If one could get away with killing King Kasa by jumping into the throne room, he would have done it a long time ago. The king has Weisannas surrounding him at all times. The only solution would be jumping into Kasa himself and using Kasa’s own hands to take a knife to his throat, but August doubts even he has that ability.
“It won’t work,” August says again. “Nothing will, except the plan we started with: Calla winning the games and brought in to greet a willing king.”
They won’t be expecting her. With her face obscured by a mask, she presents as just another one of the masses. And as far as the rest of San-Er is concerned, Princess Calla Tuoleimi is dead. Number Fifty-Seven is only an extremely rule-abiding civilian who has played heartily for the kingdom’s greatest monetary prize.
The marketplace outside hushes in volume, more of its groups ushered away to make space. Galipei taps his fingers on the armrest, mulling over the matter. August, on the other hand, has already considered it thoroughly. He has pondered every angle and come to one conclusion.
“She’s going to disobey me. I know my cousin.”
Galipei looks up sharply. His jaw tightens. “Do you want me to put a stop to it?”
After a pause, August nods.
In synchrony, Calla’s and Anton’s wristbands begin to tremble.
They jump up from the shop stoop they were resting on, weapons raised in seconds, looking around wildly. But there is nothing on their screens. No directions, no display of how far away the approaching player is. Both wristbands shake against their skin, first at a light scale, then so vigorously that Calla wants to tear the thing off.
“Finally,” Anton says. “I was starting to think these things were broken—”
“Anton, to the right!”
