His gaze lands on the floor. “After she—fell, Dalca picked me out of the trainees.”
“Lucky you.”
I’ve said the wrong thing. He scowls, pinning me with those golden eyes. “Yes, lucky me. Because of her, I’m working to change things for our people. Remind me, what have you done?”
Izamal’s got a strange, fiery temper, but he’s not wrong. The look in his eyes makes me want to do more. “I haven’t. But I will.”
He softens.
“But first I’m going to save my father. Can you—will you help?”
He nods. “You want to save him from Dalca’s clutches. I want to save us all from Dalca’s clutches—and that’d be a lot easier with a powerful ikonomancer like Vale on our side. It seems our desires align. But there’s a price.”
I bite my tongue: he’s wrong about Pa. Pa’s not joining any more revolutions. But he doesn’t need to know that. I nod and bring out the gold coin.
“Not that. Notmoney, for Storm’s sake. What I mean is—you help me, and I’ll help you.”
“Help you with what?”
He grins. “The cause.”
“I’ll help you,” I say. “Help me get close to Dalca—help me save my father, and I’ll do whatever you ask.”
He raises an eyebrow, and his eyes twinkle. “Whatever I ask.”
“For the, er, cause.”
“We’ll figure that part out. But first—how do we get you in?” He leaps to his feet and paces back and forth. “Cleaning wouldn’t get you close enough. Maybe as a trainee? But you’re so scrawny. We could get you into the armory, maybe—they’re always running through recruits...”
He taps his chin, handsome face screwed up in thought. He’s so animated—it’s like he’s twice as alive as the rest of us. “Oh. But of course. You’re Vale’s daughter. You can do ikonomancy.”
I don’t correct him, though I have a feeling he doesn’t mean the handful of paltry ikons I know. “Where can that get me? The ikonomancers take apprentices, right?” From the Ven, I could surely keep watch on Dalca.
“Yes,” he says slowly, drawing out the word into a purr. “I wonder. Well. Problem one, they’ve seen you. Problem two. Will they take a fifth-ringer?”
“There’s a face-changer in the gray market,” I say, only half following his train of thought.
“Oh good, that makes things simpler.” He tilts his head at me. “What if you’re a third-ringer?”
“That would be nice, I’m sure.”
He gives me a withering look. “Casvian won’t take a fifth-ringer. He will take a third.”
“I can play a part,” I say. “How different can they be?”
He laughs. “You’d be surprised.”
It’s unreasonably late when I return to the gray market, but only a few shops have shut for the night. The face-changer sips a cup of sundust as I approach her.
“Have you ever been to the third?”
“Sure have, love.”
“Can you change me? Make me look like I belong there?”
I show her the gold coin. She waves me in.
An old woman sits on a crate, working at a small loom. Her face twists into a frown as she sees me. “Another vain fool?”