Tainted

Chapter Forty-Eight

I hold up the hems of my cloak and race up the stairs. Cheers reverberate around me, but I don't dare look back.

A figure steps toward me from the shadows just beyond the archway and I have to stop so as not to run into him.

"I'm so sorry, but I'm not feeling—" As I look from the man's purple silk fitted pants to the pure white ruffled shirt puffing out from beneath a matching purple tailcoat, the words die in my throat. It's the mask vendor. He smiles at me beneath a thin moustache, his teeth as white as his shirt.

"It suits you," he says, nodding at the silver mask over my face.

I say nothing. The floor swims beneath my feet and I struggle to stay standing, my heart beating rapidly against my chest.

Alani begins speaking behind us, her voice amplified.

The mask vendor curls his fingers to examine his nails. His eyes are grey and shrewd, and his face is narrow and pointed, like a weasel. He's older, with salt and pepper hair, but there's something about his face that's unnaturally young.

"It seems as if you are more in need of that mask than I am of the coin it will earn me to sell at market," the vendor says, speaking to his fingernails. There doesn't seem to be a speck of dirt beneath any of them. I glance at his left arm, but it's covered beneath layers of embroidered fabric.

I shift slightly, placing the mask vendor between me and the entrance to the arena. There are feather-plumed guards on either side of the arena entrance. They stand stoically with their hands atop sheathed swords.

I'm tempted to run. But if I start, I won't be able to stop. The guards will come after me. And then they'll know who I am.

"Oh don't leave on my account," the vendor says, as if guessing my thoughts. He rubs his nails against his lapel and looks up at me, his eyes seeming to drag as he does. He licks his teeth. "I am not a charitable man. I will give you that mask, but I require payment in return."

"I don't have any coin," I say. My voice is rough and unnatural, muffled by the silver mesh.

The vendor cocks his head, considering. "I won't ask you for your fine cloak, I know it isn't yours. Or your shoes, which I believe will be asked after by a noble seemingly without coverings for her feet. So, what can you give me that is yours?"

I shake my head and take another step back. The vendor hasn't blinked once since he started speaking to me. It's unsettling in a way that makes me afraid.

A half-smile splits the vendor's lips. "Your name," he purrs.

I stop. "What?"

"I require your name," he repeats.

There's a wild cheer from the audience, and the Death Bell tolls across the arena.

"What do you mean, my name?" I ask the mask vendor.

He shrugs. "Tell me your name, lost one, and we'll call that payment."

I hesitate. If he knows my name, he'll know who I am. He'll know I'm alive and an escaped prisoner. He'll be able to find me, and then I'll never be free.

The slippers cinch around my feet and feel as uncomfortable as the hot star-dusted cloak around my shoulders.

"Priscippa Marsh," I say, mustering as much authority in my voice as I can.

The vendor barks a laugh, and I startle, not expecting his response.

"So, I see you have stolen a name, Thief," the vendor says. His words send a chill down my spine.