“Anything else? Maybe it could make them fly?” Loot drawled at her. “It’s not possible, Sylah.”
“Make it possible.” She’d poured out the purse Gorn had given her. A thousand slabs clattered across the table, the whitestone currency making a satisfying echo in the Belly. Some of Loot’s Gummers shifted in the shadows.
“That’s a lot of money there, Sylah. Found a new profession?”
“Can you do it?”
Loot flicked a wrist and Fayl appeared.
“Darling, would you mind collecting up the slabs Sylah brought? They’re ruining our tea party,” Loot said.
It was a vaguely concealed threat, as Sylah hadn’t sipped her tea yet. She took a gulp from the flowery teacup, wondering, as usual, what game Loot was playing that day. Was there poison in it or not?
“Come back in three days.”
“Loot, that’s a long time. Can you speed it up?”
He picked up his teacup and ran his finger along the rim.
“Sylah, have you heard of yambrini?”
She shook her head.
“It’s a poison extracted from shrimp. It’s clear”—he flicked out a manicured nail—“fast acting, tasteless, and odorless.” Four fingers hung in the space between them. Then he crushed his fist together and slammed it on the table. “But ain’t nobody waking up from yambrini.”
He smiled, and Sylah sunk deeper in her chair.
“How about the fruit of the water mint, heard of that? No? Well, let me tell you, it’ll put someone to sleep in under ten minutes, but guess what? Tastes and smells like mint.”
“Okay, I get it.”
“Do you? Because if you did, former champion of mine, you would understand the insult in your words.” He leaned back and surveyed her. “Three days is not a long time at all.”
“Three days.”
Sylah stood up and held out her hand. Loot held out the antidote for whatever poison he had put in the tea. She drank it and left.
—
Three days later Sylah rolled two clear vials around in her palm. Loot had said he had to distill both pepper flower and grass root to make the concoction, which he’d named sleepglass. All that time Anoor was still locked up in her cell. Three days in the darkness with no food or drink, no sliver of light. The thought of her discomfort, her thirst, was enough to set Sylah’s heart racing.
She’d survived Uka’s discipline—no, her abuse—and would survive this too.
Sylah thought of Papa Azim and wondered if that was his intention. She wondered if he relished their pain like Uka did, or if it pained him too. She wasn’t sure which was worse, the delight in violence or the premeditated nature of crafting the Stolen to become survivors.
Either way, he didn’t deserve to die.
There were only three competitors left. Jond had been the last to beg his way out after two and a half days. Sylah visited him in his home that morning.
“You look like shit.”
He smiled weakly.
They were lying in his bed facing each other. It felt strange to be fully clothed on his sheets.
“How was it?” Sylah asked.
“Dark.” He reached out to tuck a small curl behind her ear. Sylah knew her hair had gotten too long, but Gorn didn’t mention it, and Sylah enjoyed the small act of rebellion.