We see more film stars and musicians. Some are working, but most are here as spectators. Everyone steps to the side for the heir to the Fate of Virtues, and they whisper about us behind their hands after we pass.
Drone cameras and news crews occupy live-coverage booths, and roaming commentators narrate the ongoing action for a worldwide audience. The carnival atmosphere extends to the vendors. Salloway Munitions Conglomerate has a multilevel, interactive showroom in the Trial Village, prominently featuring the latest in advanced domestic weaponry for the private sector. The featured weapon is the new Culprit-44, complete with neon-tinted energy filters that render hydrogen rounds in a variety of rainbow colors. My holographic image runs through the mock battlefield on the outside of the Salloway showroom, acrobatically maneuvering and destroying fake enemies. My cheeks feel hot as I watch it. Reykin gently squeezes my waist, but I pull away. I don’t need his sympathy. I do what I do to survive. In that, I regret nothing.
We keep walking. Around every bend is a fanciful bronze water fountain composed of statues of victorious secondborn competitors. Most are depicted in their final challenge along with the loser at the defining moment of victory. One stands before us with his bronze fist entwined in the hair of a severed head, holding it aloft. Glorious? Maybe. Gruesome? Definitely. I’m glad that we don’t linger.
We come to a restaurant in the shape of a spike of barley several stories high. Made of gold-painted steel and gold-tinted glass, each barleycorn on the stalk boasts a private room with its own chef, Grisholm informs us. We’re escorted to the golden elevator and taken up to a tear-shaped private room. An exquisite table is prepared on the edge of a balcony. The smell of fresh-baked bread surrounds us. Reykin helps me off with my jacket, handing it to a waiter. He pulls out my chair for me. I sit beside him, across from Grisholm. Beer and wine are served in abundance. Appetizers on wooden trays litter the table. Meats and cheeses melt in my mouth, and I think about how much Hammon and Edgerton would love this place.
Grisholm, Reykin, and I enjoy a quiet meal together with our security team discretely hanging back in strategic positions. Grisholm does most of the talking, discussing the champions while he devours a rare steak and a half a loaf of bread.
Reykin watches me. The candlelight of the table casts a certain smolder in his eyes, like light from the setting sun on water. Shadows play upon his black hair and the angular planes of his face. He looks dangerous.
The communicator hidden on my upper arm keeps softly vibrating, alerting me to Balmora’s attempts to contact me. Placing my napkin on the table, I murmur, “Gentlemen, please excuse me.” I rise, and Reykin does, too.
Grisholm settles back in his seat. “May I remind you that she’s secondborn?” he teases.
I follow the corridor to the bathroom. My Halo stingers scan it before allowing me in alone. Once inside, I lock the door. From inside my sleeve, I pull down the wrist communicator, its face shining with blue light, and contact Balmora.
“You’re at the Barleycorn?” Balmora’s holographic image says as soon as she answers. She’s tracking me.
“I am.”
“I’ve arranged for your transport to Club Faraway. Your contact is Secondborn Franklin Star. He’s a drone operator for the Daily Diamond. He’ll take you there in less than an hour. You have to meet him at the news hovervan.”
“You’re kidding?” I ask, frustrated. “I’m surrounded by Grisholm and his security.”
“You’re going to have to lose them.” Her voice is brittle with anxiety.
I exhale deeply. “Where’s the hovervan?”
“Sending you the coordinates now.”
I study the holographic map. It isn’t far. The problem is losing my entourage, getting there alone, and trying not to be recognized along the way. “I’m going to need a weapon—fusionblade, preferably.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Balmora says.
“I’ll be in touch with you after I make contact.” I end the transmission and push the communicator back into my upper sleeve.
Returning to the table, I find the men ready to leave. Grisholm, in particular, is anxious to get to the betting houses. He goes over his potential wagers with me while I don my jacket and Reykin pays the bill.
In the elevator, Reykin’s hand presses the small of my back. Possessive. I wonder about it until we reach the ground floor. Grisholm insists that we go to the Neon Bible, the high-end bookmaking establishment a few doors away. The indoor-outdoor betting house thumps with action. As we approach the entrance, Reykin turns to Grisholm, saying, “I have to check on something. Keep an eye on the secondborn for me.”
Annoyed, Grisholm sputters, “Can’t it wait? I want to get my brackets set before I’m locked out of the odds for the evening!”
“I’ll be just a minute. There’s a weapon at Salloway’s that I’ve had my eye on for months. Just watch her for me.”
Grisholm gives me a scowl, as if I’m some sort of child thrust upon him. “Fine, but be quick,” he growls. “I’m not placing bets for you.”
Reykin walks away with a secretive look on his face. Getting away just became immensely easier. Grisholm and I continue into the Neon Bible. The crush of people inside is harrowing. Firstborns grind against one another on tiered dance floors. Some dance above the crowd using hoverdiscs. We’re shown to a higher, more private deck several levels up. The music here is muted, but I can still watch the action below from the railing. All the men on this floor are in evening attire. Very few women are about. My attention is drawn to the dangerous men in the room, most with fusionblades and fusionmags from Salloway’s arsenals.
Grisholm begins greeting the men. I recognize Valdi Shelling’s associate, Pedar. I know him as Firstborn Albatross, the Sword-Fated man who groped me during an arms deal with Clifton almost a year ago. He appears to be the proprietor of the Neon Bible.
Pedar notices me almost immediately. Although he’s a smaller man than Valdi, he still cuts a brutally large figure. His dark hair is slicked back and well oiled. In his late thirties, he looks like he could bend steel with his bare hands. So it’s ironic when he has the same reaction I did upon seeing him—the strong man cringes a little. I nod to him in acknowledgment of the awkwardness.
Pedar turns to the nearest member of his staff and says, “Get our guests anything they want, on the house.”
Grisholm practically cackles. He rubs his hands together in anticipation and orders a “Death Defier.” When the drink arrives, it’s black, with swirls of milky-white liquid resembling a skull and crossbones. Grisholm stirs it with a long spoon and drinks it in one gulp. He wheezes a little, handing the glass and spoon back to the waiter, and walks toward the nearby holographic displays running commentary on the competitors in The Trials.
His security entourage follows. Pedar’s gray eyes catch mine again. He approaches and says quietly, “I never had the opportunity to apologize to you. I was gravely out of line.”
I lift my chin a notch, meeting his gaze. “All will be forgiven if you do me a small favor.”
He smiles slowly. “You have but to ask.”
“I need to slip away for a moment to run an errand. No one with me can know I’ve gone until I’m away. A firstborn Star will join us shortly. I need him to receive a private message.” Pedar eyes the two hovering Halo stingers behind me with a dubious look. “Don’t worry about them,” I tell him. “They’re not a problem.”
Pedar’s eyebrows rise, but he says nothing. He lifts his hand, and another burly man comes forward and listens as Pedar whispers something in his ear. The man nods, turn to yet another man farther away, and says, “Get Christof.”