“The stories don’t lie,” he says.
“That’s what a story is,” Madrid says. “A bunch of lies by no-good gossips with too much time on their hands. Right, Captain?”
I shrug and pull the pocket watch from my jacket to check the time. It’s the one present from my father that isn’t gold or new or even princely. It’s plain and black, with no ornate swirls or sparkling stones, and on the inside of the lid, opposite the clock face, is a compass.
I knew it wasn’t an heirloom when my father gifted it to me – all Midasan heirlooms are gold that never lose their shine – but when I asked my father where the watch came from, he simply said that it would help me find my way. And it does just that. Because the compass doesn’t have four points, but two, and neither represents the cardinal points. North is for truth and South is for lies, with a resting place between that indicates either may be possible.
It’s a compass to split the liars from the loyal.
“My information is solid,” the man says.
He’s one of the many who approached me near closing, guaranteeing information to hunt down the mighty Princes’ Bane. I put the word out after the ball that I won’t stop until I’ve found her, and any clues leading to that will be met with a heavy reward. Most of the information was useless. Descriptions of the siren’s burning hair, talk of her eyes or seas she apparently frequents. Some even claim to know the location of the underwater kingdom of Keto, which my compass was quick to see through. Besides, I already know where the kingdom is: the Diávolos Sea. The only problem is that I don’t know where the Diávolos Sea is. And neither does anyone else, apparently.
But this man piqued my interest. Enough so that come midnight, when Sakura announced she was closing and motioned for everyone to leave, I gave her a nod and she proceeded to lock the doors with me and my crew – and this strange man – inside, before heading to the back room, for whatever it was she did when princes commandeered her bar.
The man turns to me. “I’m telling you, Lord Prince,” he says. “The crystal is as real as I am.”
I stare at him. He’s different from the usual caliber I see in the Golden Goose, refined in a way that is forcibly precise. His coat is made of black velvet and his hair is combed into a tidy ponytail, with his shoes polished to gleam against the crusty floorboards. But he’s also uncommonly thin – the lavish coat swallows his pinched shoulders – and his dark skin is quilted red by the sun, like my crew when they’ve spent too long on the deck after a hard day’s sail.
When the man taps his fingers on the table impatiently, the ends of his bitten-down nails catch in the cracks of the wood.
“Tell me more.”
Torik throws his hands up. “You want more rubbish to line your ears with?”
Kye produces a small knife from his belt. “If it’s really rubbish,” he says, thumbing the blade, “then he’ll get what’s coming to him.”
I turn to Kye. “Put it away.”
“We want to be safe.”
“Which is why I’m telling you to put it away and not throw it away.”
Kye smirks and places the knife back into his belt.
I tip my glass toward the man. “Tell me more.”
“The Crystal of Keto will bring peace and justice to our world.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Will it now?”
“It’ll save us all from the fire.”
I lick the liquor from my lips. “How does that work?” I ask. “Do we clutch it tight and wish upon a star? Or perhaps tuck it under our pillows and exchange it to the fairies for good luck.”
Kye pours some liquor into a shot glass. “Dip it in wax and light it up to burn away the flames of war,” he says, sliding the glass over to Madrid.
She laughs and brings the glass to her lips. “Kiss it and maybe it’ll turn into a prince who doesn’t speak such drivel,” she says.
“Or throw it into the pile of shit that it was made from.” This is from Torik, whose perfectly neutral face only makes me laugh harder, until the only sounds that can be heard are our snickers and the sharp bangs as my crew slaps their hands against the tables.
Then, amid it all, a deathly quiet voice: “By killing the Sea Queen.”
I stop laughing.
My gaze snaps back to the man, and I pull my knife from my belt loop, feeling its thirst for a kill. Slowly, I bring it to the man’s throat. “Say that again.”
He swallows as the tip of my blade presses against his jugular. He should be scared. He looks scared; his eyes squint the right way and his hands even quake as he picks up his glass. But it seems rehearsed, because when he speaks, his voice is smooth. No sign of fear. It’s as though he’s used to having a knife at his throat.