by Rae Carson
“I mean, how do you keep a place like this a secret? It’s a whole village!”
“Only the empress’s inner circle knows about it,” I say. “And the villagers who live here get to do business without guild fees and regulations in exchange for their silence. Now, hurry.” I grab the rope ladder that hangs down the wall and start to pull myself up. “Only one at a time on the ladder,” I call down.
I reach the landing and its resident hut and step inside to find yet another ladder along the back wall, leading to a trapdoor.
Everyone is strong and fast. Within minutes we are through the trapdoor and gathered inside a typical Wallows hovel with a dirt floor, driftwood walls, and a palm-thatch roof.
“Now what?” says Arturo, breathing hard.
“Is this the Wallows?” asks Rito. “I hear it’s the most dangerous quarter of the city.”
“I grew up on the border of the Wallows and the Fishers’ Quarter,” Pedrón says. “It’s not so bad. Just keep your eyes down and don’t make trouble.”
“We have to run for the palace,” I say. “The road zags all through the Wallows and then curves around the palace outskirts, so we’ll have to run fast to make it to the prince before the Deliverance blessing begins. But we’ve all run the walls, and this is nothing compared to ten laps around the palace grounds, right?”
“Right!” they answer in unison.
“We’re prepared for this, right?”
“Right!”
“Let’s go.”
We set off at a fast jog. The streets of the Wallows are narrow, crooked, and steep, lined by ramshackle huts pressed together so tightly it seems as though you could remove one plank and bring the whole neighborhood down. The gutters smell of rotting fish and refuse. At least the streets have gutters now, thanks to a huge project undertaken by Elisa in the third year of her reign.
We pass a woman beating dust from a rug. Her skin is like leather, and her feet are bare. A man in ragged pants repairs the thatching on his roof. Three children—two boys and a girl—kick a ball through an alleyway; the ball is made of old linen scraps rolled together and tied.
Everyone ceases what they’re doing to stare as we run by. Some of them, the lucky ones, will get a Deliverance Day gift from a loved one today. An extra helping of fish, maybe, or a doll made of sticks and scraps. But no one here in the Wallows cares about the palace gala that is the entire focus of our rushed journey. They’ll never see the inside of a ballroom, never eat date and honey scones, never wear silk.
We turn a corner and lurch to a stop. A damaged cart blocks our path. It rests at an odd angle, one cartwheel shattered. Coconuts have tumbled into the alley. The coconut seller waves his hat at several children who dart in to steal them.
Iván says, “There’s no way around.”
He’s right. And we’ll lose precious time backtracking.
“We’ll have to climb over.”
Pedrón is the first to clamber up. The coconut seller waves his arms and screams obscenities at him as more coconuts tumble to the ground in his wake. Pedrón reaches down to help the others up. Several coconuts are squashed, their filmy milk soaking everything. I’m the last to climb over. I fish out one of the silver coins I got from trading my baby rattle gemstones and hand it to the seller.
“Happy Deliverance Day,” I say. It feels less happy every time I say it. He grabs the coin, but I feel his cold anger on my back as we sprint away from him, down the alley.
The palace complex looms over us, perched on the highest hill of the city. Traffic thickens as we approach—carts and carriages, people on foot, children playing in the streets. It’s a holiday for most citizens of Brisadulce, and many people are trekking through the city streets to gather with friends and family. We are forced to slow our pace.
“We’re not going to get there in time,” says Iván as he dodges a cart horse.
“Just keep pushing forward,” I say.
The line of carriages along the Avenida de la Serpiente is at a near stop, for each carriage must be checked by the palace watch before dropping off passengers or entering the plaza. We don’t have time to wait our turn.
“Get to the front of the line!” I yell over the cacophony of wheels and horses and bellowing carriage drivers.
Arturo leads the recruits now, and he shifts to the side of the road in an attempt to skirt some of the larger carriages. The other Basajuan boys are close on his heels, followed by Pedrón and the army recruits, and finally Iván and me.
Townhomes line the Avenida this close to the palace—luxurious, multistory stone edifices with silken banners draped from window casings, proudly displaying house sigils to all the passersby. A flurry of activity draws my attention to one.
“That’s a lot of guards for one townhome,” Iván observes.
He’s right. Soldiers scurry in and out of the front door, many hefting bulging burlap sacks. They’re dressed in the colors of the palace watch, except . . .
“Look at their shoes,” I say.
They all wear those hefty sandals, the same ones the mercenaries in the Sky Wing were wearing.
“Isn’t that the mayor’s house?” Iván says.
“He and Lady Jada live there. They’re important allies of the empress.” I still remember the man who stood and proclaimed in favor of my adoption.
“I think it’s being looted,” Pedrón says.
“We have to hurry,” I say, and I press forward. It goes against everything in me to pass by, to do nothing, but reaching Rosario must be our priority.
As we near the gate, it becomes clear that the mayor’s home isn’t the only one. I recognize the sigil of Lord Liano of Altapalma, then that of Lady Pilar of Lagunas Azules. Both friends of the empress. Both with an inordinate number of foot soldiers wearing not-quite-right uniforms. It’s a subtle thing. There’s no yelling, no clashing of weapons. Anyone not paying close attention would never know that a takeover is happening right under our noses.
“Red,” Pedrón says at my back. “There may be hostages inside those townhomes.”
“That’s because they plan to take the whole city,” I tell him. “But there’s nothing we can do about it now. And none of it will matter if we don’t save the prince.”
Iván grabs Pedrón by the collar. “We’re the Royal Guard, not the City Guard. Our only job is to protect the prince. Got it?”
Pedrón swallows hard, but his back straightens with resolve. “Yes, sir.”
Ahead, Arturo has reached the gate, a giant arched portcullis with speared points that could crush a person’s head if it was ever lowered quickly.
“Do you think they’ll just let us in?” Iván asks. He’s as breathless as I am. Even though we’re well practiced running the walls, running uphill has made my thighs burn and my lungs ache.
“No. I don’t know. I still have Rosario’s letter. Maybe we can talk our way in?”
“What if we can’t?”
“We have to. We don’t have time to figure out something else.”
Iván and I sprint to catch up, dodging horses, ignoring the angry shouts of people accusing us of skipping the line.
“. . . out on maneuvers,” Arturo is saying to one of the palace watch officers. “We’ve just returned and are ready to report to the barracks.”
“You’re not reporting to the gala for duty?” the watch officer asks.
“No, we’re just first-year recruits. See? We don’t even have weapons.”
“She does,” says the officer as I come up behind Arturo. He indicates the small sword hanging from my hip.
“She’s the only one,” Arturo says. “Because she’s our squad leader.”
“It’s barely more than a toy,” I tell him. “A sign of my station more than a real weapon.”
The watch officer considers. My face flames. I just told a huge lie, straight out.
“Fine, go ahead,” he says, waving us through.
We dash into the plaza and step off to the side, out of the wa
y of traffic.
“That was easier than I expected,” Arturo says.
“Too easy,” says Iván.
“They didn’t bother searching us for hidden weapons,” Pedrón says. “Don’t they always search for weapons on Deliverance Day?”
“Lords and ladies are allowed some small personal weapons,” I say. “You can even buy them here in the market stalls. But that was still too easy.”
“They aren’t even asking for invitations,” Arturo says. “I listened very closely. Two carriages ahead of us were allowed to drop off their passengers without any questions at all.”
“They want everyone here,” I say. “As many people as possible.”
“Why?” says Pedrón.
“I have no idea.” My brain races through the possibilities, none of them good. “But I don’t like it.”
“To the ballroom, yes?” Rito says.
“Yes. But first . . .” I put my hand on Rito’s shoulder and look him dead in the eye. “I need you to do something heroic.”
“Just me?” he says, his voice edging higher.
“I overheard those mercenaries saying they would attack when the bells ring. They’re waiting for a signal. If they never hear the signal—”
“Then they won’t attack,” Pedrón finishes.
“Exactly. Rito, I need you to return to the barracks and find anyone who is not poisoned. Itzal, maybe. Tanix and the second years. Check the kitchens and the storerooms too. Surely some of them heard the rumor and refrained from eating or drinking today. Find them all, and get them to the bell tower. Make sure that signal never happens. Can you do that?”
“What if I can’t find anyone?”
“Use your best judgment. Stop that signal if possible, but don’t get yourself killed for no reason. Lay low until this is all over if you have to. Don’t do anything dangerous alone.”
He straightens. “All right, Red. I’ll find everyone I can. If there’s any way to stop that signal, we’ll do it.”
“Good man. The rest of us will make for the ballroom.”
We say our goodbyes to Rito. Arturo wraps him in a tight hug and kisses the top of his head. “Be careful, Rito,” he says.
Rito lays his palm against Arturo’s cheek. Then, with a nod to the rest of us, he dashes away toward the barracks.
The way to the grand ballroom is across the plaza and through a wide tunnel. The tunnel is jammed with lords and ladies in their Deliverance garb, all awaiting entrance. The sun is low, but the air is still hot and dusty. Several people fan themselves as they wait. Serving staff with trays skirt the crowd, offering cold water and hors d’oeuvres.
“I wonder if that food is poisoned,” Pedrón says, staring mournfully at a tray of tiny meat pies garnished with parsley.
“If we stand in line, we’ll never get in before opening ceremonies,” Arturo says.
Iván leans down and whispers in my ear, “Do you know of another way in?”
Only through the Sky Wing, which is swarming with mercenaries. If I lead a bunch of unarmed recruits that way, not only will we never reach Rosario, we’ll never reach tomorrow.
“I’m thinking,” I tell him.
In very short order, I realize I don’t have any ideas.
24
Now
“IT doesn’t have to be complicated,” Pedrón says. “Let’s just shove our way in.”
We can do that? Obviously, I am the wrong size to think of some solutions.
“They’re nobles,” Pedrón explains. “They’ll be angry and make all kinds of threats, but they won’t push back.”
“It’s better than any plan I have,” I say.
“Maybe if we yell ‘Make way for the empress,’ they’ll get out of our way faster,” Iván suggests.
Pedrón nods enthusiastically. “That’s really smart,” he says, and starts heading for the door.
I grab him and pull him back. “We can’t yell that. It will draw all the mercenaries and everyone else who’s part of the plot to come and stop us. We need to delay that as long as possible to give us the best chance of reaching Rosario.”
“So what’s the plan?” Iván asks. He bounces on his feet. We’re all anxious.
I take a deep breath and motion for everyone to come in close. “Pedrón, you, Luca, and Andrés are the biggest. You form a wedge and lead the way. Iván, Arturo, and I will be right behind them. The rest of you crowd in behind us.”
Everyone nods, so I continue.
“We don’t know what we’ll find when we get inside. If we get separated, everyone make their own way to Rosario. We’ll surround the steps at the bottom of the dais, so no one can attack him.”
Iván adds, “But if trouble starts, you find the nearest mercenary or fake Guardsman, anyone we don’t know and trust, and you take their weapon.”
He means “Dispatch them,” but there’s no need for me to clarify. By the looks on their faces, everyone understands. I might be the only one here who has ever had to kill someone, and even I don’t feel prepared.
I’m suddenly as scared for all of them as I am for Rosario. The prince is so determined to be brave, to go through with the ceremony; I’ve no doubt he’ll proceed even though we’re not there to protect him. And once he begins, he’ll be completely exposed.
“Everyone knows what to do,” I say, shoving Pedrón toward the door. I try not to let anyone hear the words catching in my throat. “Let’s go!”
Crushed in the middle of this mob, I can’t see a thing as we surge forward, but I hear all the protests and ultimatums that Pedrón predicted. I hold on to Pedrón’s belt as I’m jostled and stepped on. But we do not wait our turn, we do not care if anyone complains to the Guard, and we do not stop shoving.
The moment we are through the door, we get separated. The army boys surge ahead, leaving me behind. I reach after Iván, but I get bumped aside by a group of southerners who followed us through the door.
I spot the tops of Iván’s and Pedrón’s heads, and start weaving my way toward them, but I’m not moving fast enough.
The ballroom is massive, even longer than our training arena. The air is rich with flower scent, for rose garlands sweep from crystal chandeliers, running the entire length of the hall. Candelabras are aflame in high balconies, and vases overflow with night bloomers just now opening their glowing stamens to mark the night. Tables clothed in bright silk line the walls, laden with silver platters heaped with appetizers. Men in Royal Guard uniforms stand along the wall at regular intervals, but I don’t recognize a single one. They are all imposters.
I’ve attended galas over the years as the empress’s ward, but never have I seen such a crowd. There must be a thousand people here, all milling about in their annual finery, laughing and chatting and displaying themselves just so. Servants dart everywhere, clearing empty platters and picking up spilled crumbs. We weave through them all, trying to avoid the gazes of the imposter Guards, trying to reach the Hand of God, where Rosario will officially open the festivities.
The viheulas and dulciáns in the corner go silent. A hush descends.
I hear the prince before I see him. His voice rings out. “Lift up your heads in honor of our Deliverance.”
We are too late.
He begins reciting the Deliverance prayer.
“In you our ancestors put their trust,
They cried out and you delivered them.”
I lose track of Iván and the others as I push through a thick forest of silk and satin. Someone grunts; I’ve stepped on their foot. A large man tries to block my way. I bump the back of his knee so it buckles and slide past him as he teeters off balance.
I can see the prince now. Rosario sits exposed and alone, cupped in the Hand of God, a giant sculpture carved centuries ago by the great artist Lutián of the Rocks. Sitting in the Hand is an annual tradition, to remind us all that God’s righteous right hand delivered our ancestors from annihilation.
“Yea, from the dying world they were saved;
In you they trusted and were not put to shame.
Bless us, O God, as we remember your hand;
Your righteous right hand endures forever.”
“Selah!” the crowd responds in unison. I’m almost there. I scan the high balconies for crossbowmen as Rosario steps down from the Hand with the help of Efren and Iago, and returns to the dais.
The people in front of me have closed ranks, making it impossible to proceed. I spy a possible route to the right, nearer the wall, where fewer people congregate. I edge in that direction, leading with my shoulder.
My sense of urgency fades a little, because now that I’m close enough to see the dais, it’s clear Rosario is surrounded by friends. Lady Carilla has taken Rosario’s arm, and she gazes up at him adoringly. Beside them, Lord-Conde Tristán of the Quorum of Five is holding hands with his lover, Iladro. Iván’s brother Juan-Carlos is there too, whispering something to Songbird, the elegantly attired Invierno ambassador. Father Nicandro stands before them all, leaning on his cane. The priest wears a robe of pure white to mark the occasion.
Conde Astón has a place on the dais as well; as speaker of the chamber of condes, it’s his right. But he stands off to the side, creating a cushion of rejection between him and the others.
Several attendees shift. A path clears, and I dart forward.
A heavy hand descends on my shoulder, grabs me, yanks me backward. A vambraced arm wraps my neck. My back is pulled against an armored body, and hot breath fogs my ear. “Going somewhere, little mule?” says a low male voice.
It’s Beto, one of the boys who attacked me. Now an imposter Guard.
Of course he would be.
I dip my left shoulder, preparing to drop and twist free, but a sharp point sticks into my side.
“Don’t even think about it,” says another male voice. Sancho.
Valentino said these rejected recruits joined the army. So does this mean the army has been compromised? Maybe they’re mercenaries.
It doesn’t matter. All they are is an obstacle.
“Just wait,” Beto says, twisting my arm up behind my back and turning me toward the stage. “You’re going to love this.”