Second of all, the Dancing Seal was less a restaurant and more a public experiment in what happened when too much wine and a complete lack of morals coexisted for too long. In the hour or so they had been there, Malik had already witnessed three fistfights, two poorly delivered proposals, and one questionable business deal involving something called a python bird, a creature Malik dearly hoped he would never cross paths with. The rafters were home to a family of barley spirits and one mournful ghoul who wouldn’t stop weeping, as well as the ever-present wraiths who had crowded into a corner near the back. All in all, it was a little too similar to the kinds of establishments Malik had seen during his journey through the Odjubai, and the similarities were dredging up memories he was not ready to remember.

But third, and worst of all, was the fact that every person in the restaurant was dressed as a Champion. A whole group of Drisses sat at one table debating whether the bush walker incident would derail the plans for the Second Challenge, and a scarily accurate Dedele was leading a group of Tundes and Khalils in a rousing rendition of “The Ballad of Bahia Alahari,” in honor of some musician who had played at the restaurant on Solstasia Eve. There were numerous Adils running around, wearing wigs of his iconic fluffy hair, which Malik, the real fake Adil, found simultaneously flattering and insulting.

Malik should have expected this. The Solstasia Champions were celebrities, and it was only because so many “Champions” were swarming this place that the three real ones could relax without the safety of their guards. But the dregs of the panic attack remained, casting a sinister air over everything around him. Malik tensed at every laugh, ducked his head low at every shout, and tried hard not to dwell on what might be happening to Nadia at that moment. He had to snap the band on his wrist and take several deep breaths before he could return to the conversation with Tunde and Driss.

“So I’m standing there covered in tar, half the cake still in my hands, and the old man says to me, ‘I don’t care if you’re the Great Mother herself in a wig. Give me back my cake before I knock the gap straight out of your teeth.’ Now I am rather fond of my tooth gap, so of course I flee like a demon from a prayer circle. I haven’t been back to the cobbler’s souk since, but Susono damn me if that cake wasn’t worth it.”

Stories were Malik’s forte, but even he was only able to follow about a third of the fast-paced tales Tunde told. Tunde’s world was filled with the kinds of hijinks only money could smooth over, and he chatted in the effortless way of someone who was going to speak whether the people around him were listening or not. It was strangely comforting; someone wanting to talk at Malik was a welcome change from people trying to kill him.

Tunde stretched in his chair. “So that’s the story of why I’ve been blacklisted by half the cobblers in Traders’ Haven. More wine?”

Driss, as he had the last four times Tunde had offered him a drink, replied, “I’m good.” And same as the last four times, Tunde snapped his fingers in the air and called out in awful Darajat, “Here, boy!”

Malik cringed. Here, boy was what Tunde was trying to say. What he literally said was something along the lines of Bring your location hither, tiny male creature, and his Darajat accent sounded like a warthog imitating a gargling bird.

But their Eshran server—who was clearly a middle-aged man, far from a boy—understood Tunde’s intent and brought new glasses for all three of them. Though he tried not to be obvious about it, Malik couldn’t help but sneak glances at the man. He wore no regalia that aligned him with any Eshran clan above another and he was darker than Malik, though that didn’t mean much—like the Zirani, Eshrans ranged in skin tone from the lightest honey brown to deep shades of black. If they spoke in Darajat, Malik could pick out from the first word just which valley this man had called home. They could discuss the lives they’d both left behind, and if doing so had been worth it to come to this strange place that simultaneously needed and hated them.

Instead, Malik kept his gaze fixed on their filthy table until the server left. Though the Zirani liked to claim otherwise, there was no physical trait all Eshrans shared, so it was unlikely the server would recognize him on sight. But it still felt wrong being served by a member of his people when he was pretending not to be one.

“Fascinating language, Darajat,” said Tunde, passing Malik and Driss their drinks. “My first nursemaid was an Eshran, so she taught me a few words.”

Domestic labor was one of the few industries in Ziran that hadn’t shunned Eshrans prior to the quarantine, and many of Malik’s people had been caretakers for upper-class children like Tunde. The fact that the Zirani considered themselves superior to the Eshrans yet were more than happy to trust their children with them was just another one of the many contradictions on which this city ran.

Luckily, Driss moved the conversation away from the uncomfortable topic of Eshra. “Did you really drag us halfway across the city to talk about your nurse?”

Malik had no idea why the Sun Champion had even agreed to come tonight when all he had done so far was glare and grunt. It didn’t help that something dark glinted in the boy’s eyes every time he looked at Malik. It was a look he knew well—the same one the bullies of his childhood would level on him before attacking, the gaze of a lion figuring out the best way to corner its prey. If only Driss knew that Malik was the last person who could pose any kind of threat to him.

“I did not, though my nurse was worth all the praise I could lavish on her. But let me cut to the real reason I brought us all together.” Tunde leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “I’d like to propose an alliance among the three of us.”

Malik and Driss stared at the pleased grin on Tunde’s face.

“Is that allowed?” Malik asked.

“It isn’t explicitly not allowed. And it happens every Solstasia,” said Tunde. “Two Champions will be eliminated after the Second Challenge. Given that there are five of us left, that means one of the three people at this table is guaranteed to move on to the Final Challenge, where they’ll have a one-third chance of becoming the next royal consort. Don’t we all have more to gain in the long term working together than against one another?”

It was moments like these that Malik’s lack of formal education worked against him, and he struggled to conceptualize the odds Tunde spoke of. You multiplied a third by another third and you had . . . more than a half? Less? He wasn’t sure. But he was sure that what Tunde was suggesting sounded risky, and he was not one for risks.

“Why are you proposing this?” asked Driss.

Tunde took a long swig of his drink before replying, “Because the truth is, I already know I’m not going to win.” He set down his glass. “Water Priestess only named me Champion because of my family’s long history of donations to the Water Temple. I begged her not to choose me, but here I am. And, given the nature of this year’s prize, I am even less inclined to win than I was before.”

It was the first time Tunde had mentioned Princess Karina all night, and hidden beneath his light tone was a hint of the yearning Malik had sensed during the Opening Ceremony. He sat up straighter. Here was his chance to make up for his earlier failure during dinner and learn something that could help Nadia.

“Do you not want to marry the princess?” Malik asked, silently cursing himself for not wording his question more subtly. Tunde’s smile never fell, though there was a tightness to it now.

“Princess Karina and I were . . . involved in the past. But we had differing views on our relationship. I wanted to start the process for a family-approved courtship; she wanted to grind my heart into dust beneath her feet. You know how it is.”

Malik did not actually know how it was, but he nodded anyway. Much like making friends or having money, all Malik’s experiences with romance were through stories. Unlike the Zirani, Eshrans were traditionally patriarchal, so it was understood that Malik would marry before Leila despite not being the oldest; indeed, Mama had not been shy about mentioning which of the girls in the village she would enjoy having as a daughter-in-law.

However, being the village pariah had severely limited Malik’s romantic options, and the few attempts Mama had made at securing him a bride had fizzled before they’d begun. While the other people his age in Oboure had been having their own romances—even Leila had had a fling with the miller’s daughter, though Malik suspected that had ended when they’d left town—Malik had stayed indoors with his Nana, sewing and whiling the hours away on his own.

But his heart raced whenever he thought of the epic love the old stories spoke of. Love so strong people would cross oceans and face down gods just for the chance of it—that was what Malik wanted. But he was too anxious, too poor, too strange to ever have something like that, so wanting it would have to be enough.

“So you’re not going to try to win, even if it means watching the princess marry someone else?” The question was out before Malik could consider the implications.

“I’d rather not try at all than tie myself to someone who doesn’t care about me as much as I care about her.” Awkward silence fell over the table. So even rich people had problems money couldn’t solve.