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Soon the pair reached an unmarked, dilapidated structure, not unlike the buildings they’d trudged through all morning, except that this one had been cared for and cared about. Though the wooden building had weathered and warped over the years and needed a fresh coat of paint, Lila couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been made to look that way.
Tristan led her through the swinging front doors. The walls had been painted in pastel blues and greens, hung with black-and-white photographs of Mexico City, the capital of the Mexican Commonwealth. Banners honoring their ancient gods hung beside saddles pegged to the wall. Stained glass filled the window, tiled into portraits of flowers and ivy.
Lila slid into a booth, making sure she faced the wall in case of spies. Tristan sat across from her and pushed a menu forward. “They have the best queso and fajitas in Saxony.”
“And the worst architect.”
“It’s not as if the lowborns who run this place had a great deal of capital, Lila. Fry and Dice helped build this place.”
“They should have helped more.”
Tristan poked her on the nose. “Hush. It matches the picture of a little restaurant in Mexico City, a tribute to the owner’s great grandmother. She opened the first El Dorado a hundred years ago.”
“Sentimentality has no place in business.”
“You’re so highborn sometimes. Dice’s little sister is probably in the back ordering the poor cooks around. She’s married to the owner.”
“His sister is gay?”
“No, the owner is male. She moved up in the world and became lowborn by marriage.”
Lila raised a brow. “Interesting,” she said as a young waitress stopped by their table.
She let Tristan order for them both, as she didn’t know enough about the place to pick wisely, and she wasn’t even sure that she was hungry. But when the waitress brought out a bowl full of queso, her stomach changed her mind. Even though it was the spiciest queso she’d ever eaten, she kept shoveling chip after chip into the golden sauce.
“Told you.” Tristan slid his palm across the table.
“What’s this?” Lila said, munching as he spun the device and tapped the screen. A video of a red-nosed Peter Kruger filled it. The camera quickly pulled back. The small man stood next to a mound of dirt with King Lucas, a golden shovel in his unsteady hands.
“A photo op?” Lila squinted at the captions that flew along the bottom. Her father had been forced to attend such occasions for years, usually to break ground on some major project for Unity or for a highborn family that he had tied himself to by seed. “Why am I watching this? It’s just the empire, breaking ground on some government building.”
“Keep watching,” Tristan said, and sipped his water.
King Lucas finished his short speech and handed the microphone to his elder half-brother. Peter gripped it as though it were a weapon. He made a far different image than the budding revolutionary he’d been a week before. Gone was the mysterious, passionate twist to his face. Gone were his workmen’s boots. His clothes had been tailored to fit his form. They might have fit better if he stopped fiddling with his collar and tie.
His eyes were bloodshot, too. Lila didn’t need to understand German to hear the slurring.
“He’s drunk,” she said after the short video played out.
“Yes, but that’s not the point. Watch his hand.” Tristan tapped the screen, replaying the video.
As Peter spoke to the crowd, he tugged at his ear. Not just once, but on three separate occasions. “That was the sign, wasn’t it? He’s asking you to take care of his kids.”
“Partly. To be more specific, he’s signaling that Germany is unsafe for them, at least for the moment. I’ve seen him do it in the last two videos as well. We have to find Oskar, Lila. I promised Peter that I’d look after him. As much as I hate the guy for trying to kill you, he did save my people from Bullstow’s attention.”
“That makes you even, not indebted. I want to find Oskar as much as you do, but not for his father.”
“I know. It could make us all safer, though. If Peter did get into power, perhaps he’d end this stupid war once and for all. It’s always my people who pay when war thickens.”
Lila wanted to disagree with him, but she could not. The workborn filled out the military, though a quarter came from the oracle children, the extended families of the oracles. Many left their compound to join, staying with the army until retirement. Most lowborn stayed away from conflict altogether, choosing to grow their family’s business.
Almost no soldiers came from the highborn, not unless they’d been promoted directly to officer, and usually only if they’d been disgraced, exiled, and had nowhere else to go. Only the highborn senators participated in war, offering a hurried debate in High House whenever the Roman Empire poked a little too forcefully at the Allied Lands.
“Oskar and Maria aren’t safe here, and they aren
’t safe in Germany,” Lila said. “Where’s safe?”
“Nowhere. That’s why I’m going to make them disappear.”
