Page 7 of Soul Hate

B utter melts to blistering blue above our heads. The sun shoots beams of canary around the winding streets of Halice, pooling stark shadows in tight crevasses around murals and carvings as I walk.

Halice is waking up.

Fresh bread carries on a dreamy breeze. Chatter hovers around my ears. People fill the streets, winding around each other on their way to their daily calling. Some travel by long public wagons that carry people all over the city.

I need to be seen to be doing things normally. People need to see me alive and well and most importantly, not bothered by this turn of events. This public stroll to the Garden is a great way to do just that.

“Signora Di Maineri! Wait up!” calls a young voice. I pause amongst the crowd, turning as a group of young boys run over.

“Morning, signora!” says one boy excitedly. His bright brown eyes are wide, as a toothy smile fills his freckled face. The three other boys smile at me too, one shyly waving.

“Well, good morning to you too,” I smile. “Are you off to school?”

“Yes! Will you be there today? The new library is finished, and Teacher Veletor said you were going to open it!”

They must go to the New College—one of the three schools my father founded in his early days as an Electi. He founded it with family money, appointed the teachers himself and paid for most of the upkeep out of his own pocket—at least early on in their creation. Over his long career he’s successfully campaigned to get most of the running costs for all the schools in Halice covered by High Chamber funding. But any upgraded equipment or buildings sometimes still require a family donation. This new library was my idea, having seen just how small the last one was. The funds are an investment in our children, and in turn in the future of Halice.

“Not today boys, I have to be at the High Chamber,” I say apologetically. “But I will be there next week, when it’s properly opened for you.”

“We have to wait a whole week for the books?” says the boy, frowning. Fate’s Mercy, he sounds like me at his age.

“If that’s what your teacher says, you must listen. The teachers are very smart.”

“I know,” he says, bottom lip pouting forwards.

“What’s your name?” I ask, hands going to my hips.

“Maso,” he answers instantly, puffing out his chest.

“Well, Maso. If you promise to be good for your teachers all week, when I see you next week, you can show me what books you want to read. Sound good?”

“Who will open it if you lose your duel?” Maso asks. My heart sinks, though I refuse to let it cross my face.

“Where did you hear about that?”

“Mum was talking about it. You and Idris Patricelli are Soulhates. You have to fight now,” Maso says matter-of-factly.

“Well, we actually won’t be fighting so you don’t need to worry. I’ll be there.”

“Really?” Maso frowns, “Mum said you have to fight. You have no choice.”

“Well, it’s more complicated than that. You’ll understand when you’re a bit older.” I force my tone to be light and problem free. “Now, you don’t want to be late. Off you go and I’ll see you all next week.”

“Bye, signora!” they call in unison before racing away through the crowd. I shake my head, a fresh smile lurking around my lips.

I turn back towards the Garden, striding for the artisanal paradise.

I pass through the open gates, pushing through a curtain of cool shadows as I head down the path. Our best and brightest are up already. Some lounge outside with steaming tea between their fingers, others are setting up for the day, one or two are out for an early stroll.

That’s when I see her waiting.

Emilia sits under the tree where we agreed to meet. Her long legs are pulled tight to her body, the pretty yellow dress bunching around her middle. Her dark hair is pulled on top of her head like a bird’s nest and her brown skin glows in the sunshine filtering through the fluttering sage ceiling overhead.

The architect has a pencil between her fingers, her lips pursed tightly as her eyes flicker over the bundle of papers before her. My gut squirms when I spy smudges of purple around her dark eyes.

“Knock knock?” I tease, patting the tree. She jumps, head twisting up.

“Sorry, Renza!” she laughs, shoulders dropping again. “Just making some final adjustments.”

“No worries. This is a lot of work, Emilia, you didn’t stay up all night, did you? I only need a rough idea so I could plant a seed today at High Chamber.” I slide down the tree and sit with her. The grass’s clammy fingers seep through my dark trousers, the rough tree bark digging ridges into my back.

Emilia pushes the binder of papers to my lap.

“I repurposed an old project,” she says matter-of-factly. “I conducted this thought experiment about two years ago: how cheaply could I build a decent abode?”

“Oh that sounds promising!” I mutter, scanning the drawings. I take one of the pages, turning it around. Wait, that doesn’t seem right? Does it?

“I’ve made some modifications, given they’ll be that close to the docks,” she says. “I was also thinking about the space situation.”

“The space situation?” I frown, turning the drawing again. That can’t be the right way up .

“Well, the docks are one of the main employers and it’s only growing by the day,” Emilia reasons, “but there’s only a finite amount of space for accommodation close to the docks. What we don’t want is for demand to push the prices so high it’s unaffordable for the workers they were designed for. So, I considered stacking them.”

“Stacking?” I repeat. She nods, taking the page in my hands and turning it so the terraced houses might line up on top of each other. “The floorplan for the home is on one level, so we can stack them on top of each other. There would be stairs going up the outside, so they can reach their level of the building. On a plot where there was previously one house, there would now be four. That way, although we have the same square footage to work from, we can house more people than before.”

Fate’s Fury, she’s talented. These look amazing—more than I could’ve asked for.

“Stacks. That’s … brilliant!” I laugh. “You’re a genius, Emilia.”

Her cheeks go red as she shrugs, reaching for the pages with her pencil again.

“It’s just an idea.”

“Better housing and more of it without sacrificing on space? You’re handing me a winning vote,” I tease gently. Her cheeks are flaming as she refuses to meet my eyes, but the smile fixed on her soft face is everything.

“Come on. Time for you to get some sleep, and time for me to start winning hearts and minds.” I get up, offering her a hand. She stands a good head taller than me and delicately wipes her skirt down, as we head back down the path at a strolling pace.

“I hear the Library at New College is done?” I ask. It’s another one of Emilia’s projects. Her genius will shape much of this city before the end of her career. She nods.

“Yes, there are a few tweaks here and there. Michelle provided some paintings for it that are still with Giles, the woodworker, to frame.”

“I know Giles. His work is great. I look forward to seeing your masterpiece in person,” I chuckle. Emilia nods. Uncle Ruggie stands at a table clothed in damp shadows, backlit by the crimson of his forge. Next to him is the unmistakable figure of Serra Stacano; the two are bent over a drawing. Uncle Ruggie stares at me in open shock as Serra waves me over. Uncle Ruggie wastes no time folding me into a hug, and squeezing tightly.

“What are you two concocting?” I ask, patting his back.

“Serra needs some metalwork done for her contraption. Oh it’s good to see you,” Uncle Ruggie chuckles, releasing me. He takes my forearms, looking into my face. “You look okay.”

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

His weathered brow puckers as if I’ve gone mad.

“Patricelli…” he says slowly. Oh Fate’s Fury, of course. He must be thinking about Fausta again. I’m such a thoughtless idiot.

“You heard,” I sigh, folding my arms.

“Are you kidding? Everyone in the city had heard before lunch even rolled around!” snorts Serra, leaning against the table, crossing one dark leg over the other. “Nothing spreads like gossip in this city, particularly around the Patricelli and Maineri.”

“So, he really is your Soulhate?” asks Uncle Ruggie. I nod.

“Yes.”

“And you beat him?” frowns Uncle Ruggie, well aware that my only experience with a blade was at a dinner table.

“No. No, we decided we aren’t going to duel.”

There’s a moment of silence as shock ripples around the group. Uncle Ruggie steps back, mouth hanging open. Emilia’s eyebrows shot up, nodding slowly. Serra whistles, shaking her head so her dark curls bounce from side to side.

“You disapprove?” I challenge, straightening my back.

“Of course not. It’s… You do what’s right for you.” Uncle Ruggie nods with a tightness to his words. I know Fausta is weighing on his mind.

“Are you sure?” Serra frowns. “I mean, we’re Fated for a reason.”

“Are we? Or is that something the Church tells us because it sounds nice? What evidence is there? Perhaps we’re Fated by random. Perhaps rather than having a plan, Fate binds us together at their whim for entertainment,” I debate. “I refuse to be a killer because Fate decided he’d enjoy the drama.”

“Trust you to pick a fight with a god,” snorts Serra, rubbing her brow.

“Why should she kill him? He’s done her no wrong,” Emilia pipes up. “This is just a horrible situation.”

“Exactly.” I smile at her. “Who knows why we’re Fated? No one; it’s all guesswork. We will never know why we’re Fated. But Idris Patricelli isn’t guesswork. He’s real. Fact: he’s done nothing wrong. Fact: he has a family that loves him. Fact: killing him would cause that family immeasurable pain. I won’t be the cause of that grief.”

“You’re Fated. It’s inevitable,” Uncle Ruggie laments softly. “The bond will force it one way or another. Bad things come for those who refuse Fate.”

“Superstitions,” I rebut. “Anecdotal stories based on confirmation bias.”

“Besides, if anyone can fight it, it’s Renza. Even if it’s just for a couple of days, surely the effort is worth it. Right?” adds Emilia. “Intention matters, even if the end result is the same.”

“I just… Good luck.” Uncle Ruggie surrenders, worry still glinting in his eyes as he forces a weak smile and walks away to his forge. My gut squeezes. I’ll be alright. I have to be.

Serra purses her lips, but I can see the mirth twisting the edge of her mouth.

“Don’t,” I warn. Serra’s control slips, her shoulders shuddering with humour.

“Fated with a Patricelli! Oh, even you have to admit it’s funny.” Serra barks with laughter.

“Serra,” gasps Emilia, more scolding than shocked.

“Oh come on , you must see the irony here. You’re always the one who says Fate doesn’t decide for you. Perhaps it’s your blasphemy that’s sent you this.” Serra’s wicked grin displays her perfect pearly teeth. I scowl, looking for something handy to throw at her smug face.

“Not helping, Serra,” I glower.

“Oh please,” Serra chortles. “Emilia, back me up. It’s funny!”

“I mean, it could be worse.” Emilia detours quietly. “Would you prefer he was your Soulmate?”

“Ew!” I shudder. The only thing worse than Fate-sent hatred is a Fate-sent infatuation.

“Exactly. It could be a lot worse.”

I can only imagine. What must it be like for those who find their Soulmate? The overwhelming loathing at the merest sight of Idris was like I’d lost my mind. My hands shake at the memory.

“Wait, you don’t want to meet your Soulmate?” frowns Serra. “Think about the sensation of it, the purity. Imagine being loved that intensely.”

“That’s not always a good thing, Ser,” Emilia says quietly, folding her delicate arms. “A Soulmate is a person like any other, what if they’re bad? They could be violent, or a criminal. And, even if they aren’t all those things, just because they supposedly love you doesn’t mean they’ll be good to you.”

Of course Emilia would feel that way. Something cracks inside me, and my fingers itch to comfort my friend.

Emilia was born Emilio, in one of the farthest villages from Halice. When she started to recognise her truth, her father went from loving to violent. Thankfully Emilia’s mother defended her, and the two ran away to Halice and have never looked back. Her parents were Soulmates. But that didn’t stop her father’s violence towards Emilia or her mother.

Emilia had embraced her true self long before I met her, and is one of the most impressive young women in Halice. But the scars of her father’s sudden brutality still haunt her.

Fate’s Mercy, I hope someone will be able to ease the fear one day. Someone just as gentle and caring as Emilia, someone who can hold her and make her feel utterly and completely safe.

“Anyone who doesn’t like you is an absolute fool,” I tell her softly.

“Yeah, and they’ll have us to contend with,” Serra promises, raising two fists like she is prepping for a fight. Emilia flashes a weak smile.

“My point still stands. The Fated aren’t perfect. We still have our choices.”

“Valid. But I still wonder about the experience, you know?” Serra waves off. “Either way, take this.”

She pulls something off her belt and hands it to me. I look down to see a small dagger wrapped in thick brown leather with slithers of sharp metal glinting in the early morning sunshine. The wooden handle looked worn and comfortable in Serra’s grip.

It would look good protruding from Patricelli’s skull.

I swallow, shaking my head.

“I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“It’s easy, you stick the sharp end in the bad person,” Serra teases.

“I’m not a fighter. Not like that anyway.” I take a step back.

“You fought yesterday—pretty well from what I hear of it,” Emilia muses.

“People will stop me. Him too.”

“Will they?” Emilia asks, her quiet voice a few shades darker than normal. I meet her warm, brown gaze as a long beat passes between us. She has a good point.

While Halice is no longer ruled by the Holy States, the Holy Faith still has a strong grip on many of its people. If Idris and I can’t control ourselves, many will simply stand back and wait to see the outcome, believing in repercussions for themselves if they get involved.

“It’s just a precaution, Renza. I’m not hoping you’ll need it, and I’m not pushing you to use it. But at least you’ll have it,” says Serra stepping forwards, seriousness fleeting across her incredible dark eyes as she pushes the dagger into my fingers. “I need you to be safe.”

We might not be together anymore but she loves me still, as I love her. Warmth ripples across my chest as I soften my words for her.

“You’re not allowed to die, you understand?” Serra instructs. “We need you, Maineri. Halice needs you.”

“Halice is strong enough to stand without me. But the sentiment is sweet,” I chuckle, as Serra straps the dagger to my belt. “Speaking of the people, they expect me to work today and I won’t be late. Goodbye, ladies.”

“Remember, don’t kill him,” shouts Emilia.

“Unless you want to!” Serra adds. I shake my head, turning to make my way down the cobbled path, my new dagger pressed against my waist.

* * *

A pale caricature stares back at me from the small window of a shop. I’m standing, inspecting my reflection in a narrow alleyway outside the High Chamber, in my last moment of privacy before the pandemonium begins. My dark waves are pulled back into my signature low ponytail. My smart blue dress fits loosely, its silky hem swaying around my knees. But there are dark circles hanging under my eyes, undeniable proof of how evasive sleep was last night.

I look powerful, confident and, most importantly, like nothing has changed. Appearances are a weapon and I will wield them to my full advantage.

My fingers brush my mother’s brooch, sitting in pride of place over my heart. The bejewelled blue and gold butterfly is like having her with me. I take a deep breath, dropping my hand and pulling the binder containing Emilia’s drawings closer to my side.

Let’s do this.

I step out onto the creamy pavement and unfiltered sun begins to bake the bridge of my nose. I’d give anything for a cool hand to wipe the beads of perspiration beginning to dampen my hairline as the sun’s vicious glare bounces off the gilded columns and stained-glass.

Despite the unrelenting solar attack, the High Chamber is mesmerising. The building shines like a rainbow made solid. Every inch of its domed roof is gleaming in all the colours of creation.

I tuck the housing plans under my arms, climb the vibrant steps and cross the High Chamber’s threshold. Inside the quiet chatter drops like the crowd are witnessing a catastrophe. Everyone stares, the air thick enough to shatter.

“How many of you bet I’d be dead?” I only half joke to the audience. Every High Chamber session is open to the public. Everyone is allowed to watch and contribute to the discussion if invited by an Electi to do so. So it’s common for us to have spectators. The dagger on my belt feels heavier. A hot gaze falls on my face and my eyes snap to the source.

My knuckles go white as I clench my fingers together. Idris’s hazel eyes blister, before cutting to the floor. My blood screams in my ears. My heart thumps hard, each beat whispering.

Kill.

Kill.

Kill .

“Don’t look,” hisses Jacopo, eyes narrowing and making to step between us.

I grit my teeth, forcing my eyes away from Idris. The fire in my blood drops; instead of an inferno, it’s an unpleasant warmth that has me shifting on my feet. I can’t get comfortable. My throat is still swollen but at least I can think. I force myself to breathe long and slow. I will separate my own thoughts from the feral violence.

“Fate’s Fury, that helps,” I mutter, trying to calm my thumping heart.

“This is madness,” breathes Electi Morteselli, turning to my father in horror. “We can’t have them both in the High Chamber. Tomas, you can’t be serious about this?—”

“My father supports my decision,” I say as pointedly and politely as I can muster. “My choices are my own, Morteselli.”

“You cannot both be in this chamber,” Morteselli shoots back instantly.

“Why not? This is my job, and he’s a citizen. We both have every right to be here,” I rebut with no humour.

“This is the High Chamber, not a colosseum!” Morteselli puts his hands on his waist, narrowing his eyes. “There will be no bloodshed here.”

“Then we’re agreed. No one will die here today.”

Morteselli stammers, somewhere between angry and appalled. “Fate is clear. If you ignore his design, then great anguish will fall upon you both. You should go outside and finish this?—”

“No.” Another voice rings in tandem with mine. Idris. I grit my teeth, a flare of anger flooding up my throat.

Outrage hovers on Morteselli’s tongue. “One must die. It has been decreed.”

“I’ve never been one to blindly do as I’m told.” I march past the crowd of people staring, towards the seats.

“That’s foolish and blasphemous. Fate has their will known?—”

“My will is stronger!” My voice rings against the domed roof. The silence soaks into the air, brittle like a single whisper would echo like a thunderclap. I take a deep steadying breath, looking Morteselli dead in the eyes.

I want to scream about how my personal decisions are none of his business, that he should keep his ideas of faith to himself. But I can’t, insulting him would come back to bite me in the next vote—in the plans I’m presenting today and probably for weeks to come.

Instead I continue in a level tone. “Member Morteselli, I understand your concern. However, our decision has been made and for now we are sticking to it. Please be certain that if we feel the choice was a mistake, we will change our minds. That is the beauty of choice. We can try it, for better or for worse. Now might I suggest we all take our seats and we call this session to order? I would hate to waste any more of the city’s time and attention on my personal matters.”

I am perfectly capable of being an Electi despite having a Soulhate.

People slip into movement. The other Members take their seats. The audience of citizens sits in the circular rows of chairs.

I keep my eyes on the seat that’s been my home for the last two years. The beautiful pink and blue window glows, the colours so calming as they ripple over the dark wood of the chair.

I walk past my father, his hand gently squeezing my shoulder on the way. Our eyes meet.

“Well done,” he whispers softly.

“Don’t congratulate me until session end.”

I slide into my chair and set my papers upon the table, shifting in the familiar seat.

Every move Idris makes feels like a blister at the edge of my vision. I’m fixated on every detail, like how he sits as close to Jacopo as the spectator seats will allow. How he’s positioned right in front of my favourite yellow window. How people are muttering, looking between the two of us and spinning the gossip mill further. An uncomfortable heat writhes around my fingertips, taunting me. I force myself not to look up from my papers, willing myself to focus on anything else.

“I call today’s session to open.” My father opens the floor, and five choruses of “Agreed” roll around the room in a quick fashion.

Before Father can get to his feet, Morteselli bolts out of his seat and my head snaps up at the sudden motion.

“I should like to bring the first order of today’s session before the High Chamber.”

A rare moment of confused silence lingers in the room.

Why have none of us heard about this before now?

“Member Morteselli, please, present your order,” says Jacopo, distaste evident in his words. Morteselli has held his seat for almost fifty years. Backwards, resistant to real change—a swing vote that is difficult to crack. Normally he’d be thick as thieves with Cardinal Bellandi.

“I present a new motion to the floor. As many of you know, Cardinal Bellandi was recently called to the Holy Capital of Kavas at the personal invitation of the honourable Holy Mother. He has written to me of a request that her spiritual majesty has to make of our city.”

My jaw sets.

This does not sound good.

“As you know,” Morteselli continues, barely pausing for breath, “the Holy States pay for the upkeep of our curates, bishops, spiritual buildings, and other holy works here in Halice. This is a great expense to the Holy States.”

I hear a derivative snort from across the room. Instinctively, my head whips across and I’m hit with instant regret. Yellow light bounces off Idris’s blond head and sharp jaw. I grit my teeth, every muscle in my body tense. I turn away, sucking in a deep breath, followed by another. It’s like swallowing hot ashes.

“The Holy Mother,” Morteselli continues without noticing, “asks that we provide a percentage of our income to go towards these ever-growing expenses. This would allow our citizens to continue to receive the best spiritual enrichment, here in our city, and lessen the burden on our ally.”

“A percentage of our income?” Member Yaleni frowns.

“Yes. A percentage of the net income this city generates every year,” Morteselli explains brightly, trying to garner support from the other Members. “No matter whether Halice’s income goes up or down, faces famine or war, our services will be the same. The gesture would go a long way in securing our alliance with the Holy States?—”

“We are already allies with the Holy States,” argues Member Gattore. “Unless they intend to break that longstanding agreement now.”

“How big a percentage?” My father’s tone is unwelcoming, but far friendlier than the disgust that erupts from Jacopo at the same time.

“Taxes? For the Holy States?” Jacopo almost growls in outrage. It’s predictable, even if his rage is uncharacteristically sharp. Fifteen years ago, half the seats in here would have been filled by some bishop or cardinal—the change is mostly thanks to Jacopo and his insistence that religion has no place in politics.

I’ll easily admit it’s for the better. Cardinal Bellandi and Morteselli are the last remnants of the old ways still standing, both men extremely popular with the religious groups and elite wealthy families in the city.

Morteselli holds up his hands as if to calm the room.

“The Holy Mother suggests a settlement as low as seven per cent.”

“Seven per cent!” my father shouts in shock. I’m right there with him, instantly shaking my head. There are a few more shouts of ridicule and outrage amongst the crowd.

“Settle! Settle!” comes Yaleni’s voice, hand slamming on her armrest. The din of voices starts to drop, but not before Jacopo’s fierce anger cuts across them all.

“Absolutely not!” He scowls at Morteselli, leaping to his feet to be the first to argue the proposal. “Halice, and all the Independent States this side of the Argenti Straight, earned its freedom from the selfish whims of the Holy States over three hundred years ago. When Church infighting almost tore the Holy Faith apart, it was the Independent Alliance that secured our freedom by blade and blood. The Holy Mother’s demand is an insult to the liberty of our city!”

It’s an interesting take on our history, though not necessarily wrong.

The independent cities and fiefdoms today, collectively known as the Independent States, did indeed form an alliance … to do nothing . At the time we were all a part of the sprawling Holy States Empire. But we decided to leverage the whole religious mess to our advantage. It was a masterful move of international diplomacy and cooperation called the Independent Alliance. We aligned ourselves with Holy Father Benignus, but we refused to send anything for the war effort. Not a single man, blade, or grain of rice, not unless he guaranteed our independence. And it worked. Our resource-rich territories became the key to turning the tide and winning the Civil Holy War.

Jacopo’s take on history might hold some questionable dramatic flair, but he also isn’t that far wrong.

“It’s not a demand, but a request?—”

“And how long until we’re paying the Holy States thirty, fifty, seventy per cent?” Jacopo interrupts. “Just to provide a spiritual service to our people? How long until we’re swallowed up into the Holy States again and this High Chamber is little more than a footnote in history?”

“I, for one, agree with Member Patricelli, though perhaps not his hyperbole.” I jump to my feet, signalling my demand to speak and bring some of the process back to this debate. “Halice is not a Holy State. We are not the subjects of the Holy Mother. We are a free, independent, true republic. All the wealth this city has and creates is built by the sweat of our brows and the burden of our backs. The reward that effort reaps should go back into the pocket of the people, not lining the pocket of an already rich principality who did nothing to generate it.”

“Member Di Maineri, you surprise me.” Morteselli scowls, turning to look at my father. “Is this really your view, Tomas?”

I slam my hand onto the arm of my chair more harshly that strictly necessary as I stare down this old man.

“Who cares? It is mine. What’s more is that it shouldn’t be a surprising one,” I answer swiftly before my father can speak. “The Holy Mother chooses to provide these, as you call them, ‘spiritual services’ in Halice. She makes that choice of her own volition. Should she wish to remove them, that is also at her discretion.”

Morteselli huffs, giving me a cold look as he turns to my father only to be met with the same steely blue. I stay standing, refusing to back down in the wake of his anger. In the past, Morteselli has seen us as an ally against Jacopo’s purge of the Church, perhaps even playing my father by using their rivalry as bait. But not today.

“This donation?—”

“This tax,” counters Jacopo.

“This donation,” Morteselli continues irritated, “would go towards the upkeep of the Holy Order within our own city, the connection between us and Fate. The interpretation of Fate’s will amongst?—”

My teeth snap shut as a bitter wave rolls over my tongue. My low laugh does nothing to rid me of the taste.

“Forgive me, Member Morteselli, but if you think bringing up Fate or his twisted wills, on today of all days, is helping your case then you’ve gravely misread the room.”

I sit back down, hating that I can’t look around to read the faces of my fellow Members. I have to make do with a smattering of “hear, hear” and the slamming of open palms on the table.

“Every person in our city benefits from the spiritual nourishment of the Church,” Morteselli appeals, disapproval swelling in his eyes as they flicker around the room. “Is it not right that we support those who dedicate their life to the service of others?”

“Then let’s fund the Guard, to reduce violent crimes in our city,” Idris Patricelli chimes in, like acid eating away at my threadbare control. He hasn’t specifically been invited to speak but he is Jacopo’s son. There’s no point challenging it when Jacopo will just invite him to speak anyway. “Or create a public fund to care for the sick so the poor can receive affordable treatment. The money you propose to remove from our coffers is not finished being spent here.”

Wait. What?

Amongst his voice triggering my gag reflex … something stuck. A fund for the sick? What is that? Can medicine be done differently? Jacopo hasn’t mentioned anything like that before. Or is the idea all from Idris? Much as his presence is corrosive to my mind, and my stomach churns admitting this… I’m intrigued.

“Our coffers? A bit presumptuous of you, Patricelli the younger,” says my father, standing up. “You’ve been in this city for less than a day and already you’re trying to spend its money?”

“I was born here.”

“You were raised and educated in how many countries was it again?”

“My heart has always been in Halice.”

“And my son’s education is not the point of this conversation, Di Maineri,” Jacopo snaps back.

“He’s not an Electi.”

“Anyone may speak during the session?—”

“Why are we arguing?” Frustration raises my voice to ring around the room. I take a long deep breath, rubbing my brow and taking a minute to let the quiet settle. I don’t stand to speak, now at a far more reasonable volume. “This might be the one thing the chamber majority agrees on without the need to discuss. Let’s settle the vote and move on to something worth debating, as I also have a bill to put forward today.”

The silence lingers. I smile, lifting my head from my hands. A smirk flirts with my lips, as I look around my fellow Electi, meeting all their eyes.

“If another Electi feels differently, then speak now. Otherwise we might as well consider the vote already cast and the proposal rejected?” I offer. I meet the gaze of Members Gattore and Yaleni.

“Excellent. Motion denied,” says Father with finality. “Let’s hear some other ideas.”

I catch sight of my father in his seat, who gives a long encouraging nod. I swallow tightly, forcing my chin up as I get to my feet. I take my papers to the central stage.

“Esteemed Members, I put before you a new trade agreement with Nimal, our neighbours on the north-eastern border. In addition, I would like to proprose a strategy on how we would spend this new revenue, by improving housing and hygiene for those who live near the docks.”

I hear Idris muttering to his father from the other side of the room. I clench my fists together, nails digging into my palm as I try to force any discomfort from the smile on my face. That dagger at my hip is calling to me, an imperceptible whisper telling me to launch across the room.

Fate’s Fury, this is going to be a long session.