The Night Court

Chapter Three

Looks were deceiving. Perhaps Mikolaj would never know for sure what outsiders said about Gegraens and how they ran their country, but they liked rules. They liked order. They liked a myriad of strict social etiquette one could only learn by living and watching those who came before them. And so when an auction ended, the winning bidders were taken to a separate room to closely inspect their new wards.

Except in their case, there was no winning bidder. And so another game began.

They were trapped in a sitting room with Lord Gurka. Marian Zych behind him, legs crossed as he sat in a pompous chair. Something about him was irritatingly regal. He didn't sit like a bastard, or someone with Renya heritage in a country stained with its blood, or even like a courtesan. He sat like a prince, closely inspecting his nails as if nothing in the room interested him. His face was stone. His future not the least bit concerning. One arm slung over his chest, used to prop his other elbow up so his hand waved before his face with minimal effort, and he kicked his foot in an almost mocking circle.

Madame Kubas' face must be turning red underneath her layers of powder. She fumed, spittle leaving her mouth as she kept raising her bets.

But she faced a legend. A woman so infamous it left Mikolaj cowering in the corner in case he was unlucky enough to meet her eyes.

Madame Lega was ancient, and her name would be written in history books. Surely. She was a queen of their trade. An old, dark-eyed woman who sucked the soul out of every room. Every move she made soundlessly, fingers curved like a Highland witch. By the Saints, she was rich. Her courtesans could outnumber an army and they'd once ruled the city.

Ten years ago.

Her courtesans owned Jelberok.

And one's name was still whispered as a cautionary tale.

She was no stranger to the trade herself. Mikolaj heard stories, rumors more likely. Madame Lega had been young once, and some theorized complicated family trees where she'd given birth to half a dozen bastards, princes, and even the current Justice.

Madame Kubas' fame only ran back as long as he'd been around, but The Night Court won popularity quickly.

Lord Gurka looked smaller and powerless between them.

"I will give you two-hundred thousand visech!" Madame Kubas wagged her finger in the air.

To his right, Olaf sputtered. He clutched a hand over his heart. Two-hundred thousand visech was a lot of money. Madame Kubas had only bid fifty thousand on him. He'd used it to buy himself a good coat, custom shoes, a few baubles of jewelry, and the softest sheets money could offer. With two-hundred thousand he could buy his own mansion. Mikolaj eyed Marian Zych.

He gulped.

Grey eyes stared back at him.

He huddled behind Olaf.

Could anyone be worth two-hundred thousand? Even the bastard of Arleta Zych? Could blood be worth that much? The short glimpses he got of Marian, he supposed he was attractive. Tall and strangely handsome in a way that almost unsettled him. Curved, pink, and irritatingly symmetrical lips. His skin a paler tan, eyes that looked vague and almost empty.

Perhaps he was too quiet?

He sat so still. Mikolaj doubted he even saw his chest rise and fall with each breath. Did he breathe?

Madame Lega raised a thin eyebrow. "You raise bets you can't back, Teodora. This one is mine." Madame Lega hooked a jeweled hand under her chin, and she smiled down at Madame Kubas with a haughty curve of lips so thin they were barely there.