by Shannon Hale
The Bayern crossed paths with others they knew from the palace. Even Ledel was there, though Razo recalled Vic-tar saying that Ledel often disappeared on feast days. Razo checked that his sling was at hand.
Victar and his friends were holding their oil lamps aloft and singing a grape walker’s song: “Let it gush through your toes till it pleases the nose. What I crush with my feet will be bitter and sweet.” Dasha pranced from the head of the group back to Megina, then out to skip beside Victar and his friends, full of song, her hands sticky with grape juice. Razo realized he was aware of her even when she disappeared from view. It was a pleasant, subtle sensation, like being in a noisy tavern but through the clatter and roar still being able to recognize the intonations of a familiar song.
The festivities massed along the banks of Ingridan’s three central rivers—the Autumn, the Heart’s Finger, and the Tumult—and the romp of the crowds pulled the company to the shores of the latter. The tiled banks were full-moon white under the eerie light of the oil lamps. Hundreds of tiny candles floated in hollowed apples, darting through the water’s ripples.
Razo stood well back from the edge, remembering his last encounter with a river, the blinding impact that had seemed to yank his body from his soul, and the peculiar noise of deep water—
“Hello, tree rat!”
Razo leaped back, terrified of plummeting into another river. His legs slammed into something solid, his balance surrendered, and he found himself sitting in a fountain with a soaking bum.
Dasha applauded. “You seem to do that a lot, falling backward.”
“Just around you, apparently.” He squeezed some water out of his leggings and sat on the fountain rim, Dasha beside him. She wore the front part of her hair knotted on top of her head and stuck with a silver pin. He was tempted to pull the pin and let her hair fall. “Did you make me stumble into the fountain?”
She laughed. “I might be able to coax some water over the side, but I can’t force a person to throw himself in. Besides, with you I wouldn’t need to.”
Her tone was so happy, he wondered why he had been avoiding her, then recalled that she was a royal bride-to-be. Not that it changed anything for him.
“I see the whole lot is out tonight,” she said. “I am surprised you came, actually. Aren’t you worried about Lady Megina?”
“She’s as safe as a bunny in a box.” Razo squeezed water from his tunic and nodded in Megina’s direction. Finn stood to her side, his gaze wary. Enna loafed on her other side, laughing at a three-woman theater troupe’s farcical reenactment of childbirth.
“Finn may be the best swordsman in the Own,” said Razo, “and that Enna-girl . . . well, if I were a tick, I wouldn’t bite her ankle.”
“Are you jealous of Finn?”
The question was quick and flat, and it made Razo blink.
“Because he’s a swordsman? No, he works hard—”
“Not that, because of Enna.”
Razo barked a laugh. “Enna? Hardly.”
“But you seem so fond of her. You give her a nickname, and nicknames are always a sign of affection.”
“What, Enna-girl? That’s just because of my sister. I’m the youngest of six boys, and when Rin was born, the family and neighbors were so elated not to have another boy, everyone took to calling her Rinna-girl. When I first met Enna in Bayern’s capital, she reminded me of my sister—a bothersome, nasty little thing you can’t help liking.”
“So why don’t you call me Dasha-girl?” she asked.
“Because you don’t remind me of my sister.”
For some reason, that made Dasha blush. She flicked water in his face, though she had not dipped her hand into the fountain. “You’re gaping at me again, tree rat.”
“Wait, wait,” he said, wiping his face. “You just said that nicknames are a sign of affection. Well, you call me tree rat. . . .”
Dasha stood, pulling off Razo’s green lummas and wrapping it around her own neck. “Aren’t you hungry? I think you should buy me some toasted cheese.”
Razo dashed over to Finn and Enna first to see if they wanted anything, as they could not leave Megina’s side. Enna looked to where Dasha was hopping on her toes by a group of musicians.
“I don’t trust her, Razo,” she said.
“So you told me.” That Enna did not like Dasha, that Dasha might not be what she seemed, made him feel black and crumbly inside. He’d already decided to trust her, and that was that. “Do you want toasted cheese? Or anything else?”
“No, thanks, I’m not—”
Razo felt heat. It surged past him like a livid wind, singeing the sleeve of his tunic. He gasped at its bite and stumbled back. The barrel beside him exploded into flame.
The music yelped and ceased as though stopped by a hand around the throat. Hundreds of Tiran turned to the fire and stared.
“Enna, that must’ve been a fire-speaker.”
“I know,” she whispered back.
Razo dropped on his belly as another scorching gust swooshed overhead. Had he been the target? Behind him was a wooden stand spilling fruit. For a frozen moment, he saw the round woman who kept watch at the stand, a little boy reaching for a bunch of blue grapes, and he shut his eyes, afraid to see them seared.
Then, wind. From beside him. He opened his eyes. The fruit stand did not burn.
More heat followed, more wind chased it away. Nothing was visible to the eye, but Razo knew what Enna could do. She was anticipating each barrage of heat; she was winnowing it from the air, scattering it before it reached its target and became fire. He watched her, the way her gaze sought the sky as though counting stars, her fists clenched and unclenched, her breath held each time she sensed new fire on the air.
Razo wondered what it must feel like, to know the voice of fire and wind, to sit inside them, feel them coming, heave them into motion, stamp them out again. It was a power that he knew he would never share. No voices of wind or fire or water reached for him. Watching Enna, he thought it must be a marvelous thing to be able to do so much, to feel so powerful.
The flows of heat stopped. Enna wiped her brow, blinked long, holding still as if listening with all her skin. Finn was beside her, holding her arm in case she was weak, but Razo thought she glowed with contentment.
“Good work, Enna-girl,” he whispered. No one was burned, and no one knew who she was. Slyly done.
“I think he’s out,” she whispered. “The fire-speaker. He’s probably new at this. You can burn for only so long before you can’t hold any more heat and need a rest. I think he’s done for the night.”
The fruit merchant dumped a bucket of water over the barrel fire, but no one else moved. Razo felt the eyes of the crowd on them, a new and unpleasant touch of heat. A horde of Bayern standing in front of a mysteriously charred barrel had to look bad.
“I am so sorry!” Dasha addressed the food vendor, gesturing grandly as though to draw attention. “I am so sorry. I tripped and my lamp dropped. The wine had saturated that barrel, and it just took to flame. Did you see that?” She looked at Razo, tilting her head, her expression innocent.
Razo jumped to his feet. “Oh yes, that was a thing. That wood must’ve been soaked clean through. You’re a clumsy bit, aren’t you, dropping your lamp like that?”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “I tripped.”
“Yes, a rather ham-fisted thing to do,” he said, staring right back, daring himself not to smile.
The merchant glanced between them. “Well, my barrel is ashes now, and I—”
Dasha handed the lady a coin. The crowd lost interest, conversation renewed, music breathed merriment back into the night.
“Well done,” he said.
“Did Enna . . . ?”
He nodded. “Stopped it cold. Now at least we know this isn’t some lunatic sticking people in his kitchen hearth. We’ve got a genuine fire-speaker on the loose.”
He examined the crowd. Most of Ledel’s men were interspersed with the Bayern, in
cluding Victar. Tumas stood on the fringes, glowering, his horde of hulking friends on hand. Ledel himself was no longer in sight. Searching for Ledel, Razo caught sight of a man watching a troupe of actors. He was thirty or so years old, his hand was drumming the cloth at his waist, and his hair was cropped short. On one finger, Razo thought there was a band of green skin, like the stain a copper ring would leave behind.
“Enna, see that fellow over . . .”He started to point when the man began to walk forward, all the while keeping his eyes on the actors. “Shh, pretend not to see him.”
The man shouldered his way through Ledel’s men. He was steadily approaching Megina.
“It’s one of them, I’m sure,” Razo whispered. “If we stop him before he attacks, it’ll look like we’re just attacking random Tiran, but if we don’t, he could hurt Megina.”
Enna nodded. “I can do this. Finn, be ready, so I don’t have to go all the way. Please.”
The man edged in, his eyes averted, his expression casual, but Razo noted that his whole body was tense. Then, like a snake, he sprang.
“Manifest Tira!” The man pulled a very long dagger from his belt.
Razo felt a whoosh of heat at his side. The man yelped and dropped the dagger. Finn kicked him in the chest, sending him to the ground, his sword at the man’s throat. The Bayern made a tight circle around Megina, Talone shouting instructions.
Razo was watching Enna. Despite the attempted assassin at her feet and the crowd simmering around them, she leaned back her head and smiled right up at the stars.
Megina sighed. “And I guess that’s the bell for bed.” She waved at the crowd and shouted, “We’re all fine! Thank you. Enjoy your festival!”
Patrol guards removed the dagger-happy fellow from beneath Finn’s boot, tied and took him off, and the crowd jeered and threw grapes and melon rinds. Razo wondered if they despised him for attempting to kill the ambassador or for failing.
Dasha returned to Thousand Years with the Bayern, yawning behind Razo’s nicked lummas. “I could be banished from Ingridan for getting sleepy at a midnight festival.”
“Really?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes as though imitating his own oft-used expression.
“Well, you never know, my lady, different cultures and such, and what with the baby eating . . .”
They did not talk again as they walked home, the surging crowds of the streets conversing for them. He did not feel tired. A fire-speaker among them. Burning barrels in a crowd. Willing to kill Tiran citizens in order to make the Bayern look guilty. And another assassin.
Were Manifest Tira and the body burner connected? He considered how Manifest Tira always went right for the ambassador, whereas the fire-speaker had targeted items near the Bayern. Manifest Tira fanatics were bold, throwing their own lives in peril just to get a swipe at Megina; but the fire-speaker struck from the shadows. It seemed Talone’s guess had been right—the two groups must be separate. So who was the fire-speaker?
Razo listened to the muttering roar of the crowd and heard no answers.
23
From the Spying Tree
Razo could not sleep. Festivity rattled and clanked in the city, vibrations of merriment running under his cot, up into his bones. He stuck his head under his pillow but could not stifle the jangle of music as it staggered on with punchy energy.
His cot began to feel like an enemy holding him captive but refusing him sleep. Four days left, he kept thinking. So he left the sputtering snores behind and climbed his spying perch in the tree outside Ledel’s barracks. He leaned his spine against a branch, holding himself steady with his feet against the trunk, and stared at the shredded blackness the leaves made of the night sky. The bells tolled the time: two hours before dawn.
Razo was in the blissful inebriation of half-sleep when a grating whoop shocked him awake. Three of Ledel’s men slurred and shouted their whispers, lurching into their barracks. Razo’s skin was clammy with dew, and he thought he had best get down in a hurry. He did not want to risk waking in the tree after sunrise, Tumas at sword practice under the branches.
He was rubbing his arms and warming himself enough to move when a creak made his skin feel alert. Someone was emerging from the back of the barracks, pushing a small cart like the ones the gardeners used. The wheels groaned, speaking of too much weight, then stopped cold with a screech of metal. The cart apparently would not budge. The someone lifted the cargo out of the cart and threw it over his shoulder.
Razo struggled to see in the gray rind of moonlight. Hanging from under the canvas was a shadow the shape of a limp hand. He could not see color in that muted light, but the raised hairs on his arms told him it was most likely burned black.
This is it, this is it, he chanted to himself. He had caught the murderer in the midst of the dirty deed.
The someone steadied the weight on his shoulder and started toward the Bayern barracks. Razo sat up, straining for more detail to identify the man. He held another branch to catch his balance and leaned forward. And heard the branch whine.
The someone stopped. He threw the body back in the cart and came toward the tree.
“Something up there,” he said in the singsong way a father talks to little children. It made Razo’s stomach try to flee up his throat. There was a rasp to his voice Razo knew. There was the outline of those bulky shoulders against the thin moon peering. That hair that Razo remembered was a dirty yellow was loose and hanging over his shoulders, looking strangely feminine on the warrior.
Ledel moved closer to the tree, his steps making no sound.
“I can see you up there. You don’t look like a branch, and you make too big a bird. If you are one of mine, I promise not to bite.” He snapped his jaw twice.
There was no room up the tree to swing a sling, and Razo guessed the captain could burn him out of it at any moment. His only option was to run.
Razo scampered through the branches and dove onto the barracks roof. He bounded across the apex until his foot slammed down and his leg disappeared into splinters up to his knee. He pulled it out, leaped off the far side of the roof, and, ignoring a twisting pain in his ankle, ran like a squirrel from an errant sling stone.
He did not dare stop at the Bayern barracks and instead tried to lose Ledel by weaving between buildings, behind trees, never giving the pursuing murderer a chance to get a good look. He hoped.
His frantic heart pounded vigor into his body; his terror gave him an eerie thrill. He could not escape into the palace without the sentries stopping him for questions. The palace gate with its many guards was uncomfortably near now, so he zigzagged and crisscrossed and finally ducked into the stables. Bee Sting would whine if she saw him, but he knew Enna’s horse, Merry, was peculiarly calm, considering her rider, and slept like a buried stone. He dove into her stall, covering himself with straw.
His breath would not slow and made him wish he were still running. Stupid choice, Razo, he thought. Hiding meant staying in one place where big brothers or burning men could eventually come.
And then, a heavy breath and footsteps. A pause. The steps resumed and paused again, as though examining every stall. And kept coming nearer. Razo tried to hold his breath, but his lungs heaved as his heart raged. His panting rustled the straw, sounding like the crackling of a fire. He stuffed his mouth into his elbow and tried to time his breathing with the horse’s gusty inhales.
The footfalls stopped for a longer moment, and a horse grumbled for a treat. That would be his own Bee Sting. He heard a pat as if Ledel stroked her neck, and then the steps passed by. After several moments of silence, Razo allowed himself to scratch his nose.
Slowly, he started to ease upright. A crunching sound set his heart pounding even harder, and he hesitated. Silence. He had to get out and hide that body before others found it. Again, he began to rise from the straw. A twitter, a growl, a hush. Silence. Razo pressed a fingernail into the skin of his forehead to keep himself sane. He had to go, now. Go! He heard a squeak and
eased himself back under the straw.
I’m in a cursed stable, he thought. It’s never going to be totally quiet. Just go.
Silent as a cat (or so he hoped), Razo ascended from the straw, crept from the stall, and slammed right into someone. And squealed. A shrill cry of surprise answered his squeal. It was not Ledel.
“What’re you doing?” asked Razo. “You likely stopped my heart, sneaking around like that.”
“I work the stables,” said the Tiran boy, his eyes still wide. “I should call a sentry, you know. What were you doing in that stall?”
“I was . . . I . . .”He sneezed, and a flake of straw flew out of his nose. “Uh, the festival. Didn’t quite make it back to my cot, I guess.”
The boy squinted. “You’re Bayern. You the one who goes around with the prince? I heard someone tried to kill you right in front of him.”
“Nothing happens in Ingridan but everyone knows,” said Razo. He stared out the door, wondering if the body would still be there. “Sorry about the startle. I’ll go now, if that’s all right.”
“Go ahead. I’m not going to rat on the prince’s friend. Um, did you know you have hay in your hair?”
“Of course I do. It’s fashion.”
Razo plucked the straw from his hair when he was well out of sight, removing an impressive handful.
Sneaking back to the barracks took a painfully long time, hiding from workers and sentries and from the sun as it shuffled over the horizon. There was no need for stealth by the time he reached the Bayern barracks. The soldiers were up and outside, milling around, tension humming in the air. A few of Ledel’s men stood off, whispering to each other, as if trying to figure out what was going on. Razo found Talone under his spying tree.
“A body,” Talone whispered. “A sentry found it beside a gardener’s cart, covered it up, and sent for Lord Belvan. Ledel showed up soon after, helped Belvan’s men get it out of sight. You look surprised.”
“Just about Ledel helping to hide it.”