Nomru and his fighters cut across the city at an angle to Rittevon's Lance, driving across Middle Town and into the Swan District, attacking guards at the checkpoints and any household troops foolish enough to get in his way. He gave the same rough treatment to anyone on the edges of the riot if they did not move when he ordered.
Everyone had plenty of light. The Honeypot was ablaze again, its fires spreading into Downwind. Isolated fires burned in Dockmarket, Market Town, and Middle Town. Aly and her group heard the roar of the riot and the shrieks of the injured. Over it all rose the eerie trill of feeding Stormwings. Lit from below, they looked like monsters from the realms of Chaos.
Once Chenaol's group reached the border between Market Town and Flowergarden, they followed the ground as it began to slope upward. There were fewer soldiers to interfere as they cut across the house and temple gardens that gave the district its name. Aly frequently glimpsed a steady flow of warriors that came from the ridge where Flowergarden met the jungles at the city's back. These people stayed clear of Chenaol and her companions. Their faces—male and female, raka and luarin—were grim and eager in Aly's Sight as they flooded into the city to do battle.
Higher Chenaol's group climbed, through a maze of cottage gardens where people grew vegetables for the city's markets. At last they crested the ridge, halting where a dirt road ended in a small shrine to the Jaguar Goddess. As they stopped to drink from their water bottles, each member of their company tossed a small token—a button, a flower, an arrowhead—down the deep well at the heart of the shrine. Even Aly contributed a flower. It was her philosophy that it never hurt to be polite to strange gods.
She heard the rustle of branches, and a crow fledgling's unmistakable call for more food, followed by the call for “friend.” Chenaol responded with a soft howler monkey call.
“You do that well,” Aly whispered as warrior shadows approached from the shelter of the trees. The sky in the east shone with a pale gray light that just touched the edges of plants and weapons.
“A misspent girlhood in the jungles of Gempang,” the cook explained.
Nawat reached them, flanked by a hard-faced raka woman and a thin, whipcord-lean man who looked as if he might be related to Nawat. He had the same nose and floppy black hair, and he sported a knot of crow feathers at the crown of his head. Also like Nawat, he carried an unstrung bow and a fat quiver of crow-fletched arrows. Without making a sound their companions drew up around Aly's group. There were nearly two hundred of them, all wearing clothes that showed signs of hard use, under mismatched and battered armor. All carried bows and quivers of black-feathered arrows, just as all carried swords, from the sailor's heavy cutlass to longswords in nicked sheaths. Like the other groups of raka fighters Aly had seen, this one was composed of both men and women.
Mother would love it here, Aly thought, then shook the notion out of her head. When preparing for combat, it was a good idea to concentrate on that and nothing else.
As the new arrivals crouched to wait with Aly's pack and their recruits, Aly beckoned Nawat aside. From her pouch she took the last darking, Quartz, and introduced it to him. Once they had reached an understanding and Quartz had settled around Nawat's neck, Aly looked at the eastern horizon. The sun was coming. Already the extra-long rays that indicated the god was locked in battle thrust into the sky over the horizon.
Positioning himself so that no one could see him do it, Nawat kissed her fingers. Aly smiled into his eyes. They said or did nothing else, but for them, that was enough.
“We go in first,” Chenaol told Nawat's assistants, her voice soft. “Then you. We'll be out doing our work for a time before we call you in—Aly will signal Nawat. Then you must come through and attack anything in a uniform.”
“Try not to kill any more than you can help,” Aly reminded them. “Particularly among the servants. It's time to start trying to live together. Tie them up or lock them in somewhere, if you get the chance.”
“What about the Gray Palace?” asked Lokak. “There are no tunnels there. How will we take the place?”
“Leave the Gray Palace to your old Duani,” Aly told him. “We haven't come so far for nothing.” Nibbling her lip, she looked at them all. She wanted to tell them to capture Imajane and Rubinyan, not to kill them. It would be nice if the new queen could show neighboring countries that the deposed monarchs had gotten a fair trial. Inspecting their faces, she realized it would be better to hold her tongue. She'd often heard her mother and other warriors say, “Never give an order if you are not sure it will be obeyed.” She wasn't sure that her position as Duani gave her the authority to issue orders at all, let alone that one, just as she knew from the grim faces around her that she would not be obeyed if she gave it. She settled for “Don't take trophies from those you slay. They never look as good as you think they will.”
A wave of soft chuckles passed through the group.
“The sun comes,” Nawat said, raising his face to its rays. “Mithros is angry.”
They all turned to look. The sun was the sun, shedding light and heat as it always did. Its rays streamed like dark orange pennants around the disk, whipping and rippling as if a hard wind blew them. The white veils of fire that had marked the Goddess in the daytime lengthened to cover the parts of the sky left to it by the sun, rippling like the sun's rays. Everywhere overhead the sparks that showed the Trickster's fortunes had expanded to the size of greater stars.
On the slopes below their position, the rebels could view the city. The Rittevon Square riot still went on. Pillars of smoke from burning buildings rose all over town.
“Let us vex the sun god some more,” said Jimarn. “Or do we wait until we die of old age?”
“No one wants to live forever,” added Yoyox.
Aly had already seen the suspiciously sturdy vine that twined around one of the shrine's pillars. Chenaol beckoned for one of the bigger fighters to help her. They hauled together on the ropy vine, teeth clenched, sweat soon gleaming on their faces. Two of Aly's pack went to help. Slowly the square of a doorway became visible in the ground. A handful of Nawat's people circled it, using blades to cut away the bush and grass roots that had woven themselves into the door's cover in the years since this exit had been used. With a last, long rip, the grassy hood pulled free. Those hauling on it dragged it back to rest against the shrine, then tied ropes around the ring in the door below. It too had settled into the ground and was reluctant to leave its bed. Growling, the warriors pulled it up.
“The one at the palace didn't give so much trouble,” Aly murmured, watching.
“We make sure of that. We've had to use the palace entry as a hiding spot. There used to be other exits,” said Chenaol, panting. “But this one is so isolated, it's hard to get at. And there's no way to keep people from coming on you here without warning.”
The door was up. Someone struck a flint to light the torches they had brought. Aly looked at the steps that led into the ground. “It's going to be nasty down there,” she whispered.
Nawat looked at her and gave his bird shrug, as if to say, Nasty is as nasty does.
“Trick, what news?” Aly wanted to know. Warriors went into the tunnel with torches and swords, clearing away cobwebs and roots. Aly, Chenaol, and Nawat followed them, ignoring the muttered comments from their people about the accommodations.
“Nomru at Rittevon Square,” the darking said as the rebels passed along the tunnel, “catching soldiers between him and Ulasim. Fesgao's fight done. They are near the edge of Flowergarden. Fesgao says Fonfalas wait for signal to attack the Grain Gate.” Aly nodded. The Grain Gate and the Gate of Carts were the side entrances to the palace, where supply wagons brought in ordinary goods for those who lived there. Ulasim and Nomru meant to attack the Gate of Victory once they combined forces.
It seemed like hours until they reached the tunnel's end at the stair that opened next to the Pavilion of Delightful Pleasures. The rebels hesitated there. If Vereyu hadn't got the message Ulasim had sent to
her during the night, they might come up among Crown soldiers, who would be able to hack at them at will. Nawat beckoned one of his people forward, a small, perky young luarin with a headful of red curls, bright blue eyes, and a whip-weal that divided her face in half. As she climbed the stairs toward the closed door, the silvery fire of her magical Gift streamed upward to wriggle through cracks in the wood.
She was nodding to Nawat—friends waited outside—when Trick whispered into Aly's ear, “Dove flies.”
Aly grinned. She wished she could see it: Dove astride the big chestnut kudarung as its great wings caught the air, carrying her over the battles in the streets. It was a risk. A well-placed arrow might ruin everything. But Aly's heart lifted at the thought of Dove in the sky, running risks so that her people might see her. If Aly were out there, fighting for the freedom of her native land, that sight would inspire her like nothing else.
Trick added mournfully, “Secret flies too. Not me.”
Aly moved aside so that some of the fighters could get under the tunnel door to push. “I'll make it up to you,” she whispered as the warriors thrust at the wooden barrier. Hearing the noise, those outside helped to raise it. Climbing the stairs, Aly looked up into Vereyu's face. “Lovely day, don't you agree?” she asked, stepping into the open air. “Perhaps we'll have lunch on the water pavilions later.”
Vereyu's face was grim and set. “Only you would make jokes at a time like this,” she told Aly.
“If not now, when?” Aly wanted to know as she brushed off her sarong, trying not to look at its bright colors. It only reminded her that she couldn't wait for the fight to be over, so that she could wear luarin quiet colors again. Eyun of Aly's pack, Vitorcine, and several of the full- or nearly full-luarin recruits wore similar clothes, the kind meant to attract attention. Two of the women who waited with Vereyu were dressed the same way. All of them had been chosen for their looks and their pale skin.
Vereyu and her companions had set a number of shallow open baskets on the ground. Most were loaded with fruit, bread, and rolls filled with slices of meat. Two baskets were full of water flasks, and had handles on either side so that they could be carried by two people.
“We did our best with breakfast in the mess halls,” Vereyu told Aly. “Plenty of the men on duty have already run to the privy. I took your advice—I didn't drug everything, so they may not suspect you. Get off the wall if they realize their problem lies in the food.” She looked down into the tunnel, where Nawat and his warriors waited. “How will we know when to turn these folk loose?”
Aly smiled at Nawat, who stroked the band around his neck that was the darking Quartz. He'd discovered the darkings' relaxing purr. “They'll know,” she said. “I hear Her Majesty has company.” The Gray Palace darkings had been announcing the arrival of loyal, panicked nobles since early the night before.
“All the rotten eggs together,” Vereyu said, and spat on the ground.
I suppose it would take an extraordinary degree of hate to serve here, day in and day out, in the hope that sometime you would be able to tell your masters what you really think of them, Aly thought. Her respect for Vereyu, already high, doubled. She would tell Dove's spymaster to make good use of Vereyu. Bringing peace to the outlying Isles would be a long, hard job once the capital was won. Vereyu would be good for the distance.
“Any parting words of cheer?” Aly inquired.
Vereyu grinned. “Get stuffed. And send anyone who needs care to the Pavilion of Delightful Pleasures.”
Aly nodded and looked at those who were playing royal servants, come to help the soldiers on the Luarin Wall as they stood guard in the hot sun. The soldiers would welcome their burdens of food and water, not realizing the annoying or, in enough quantities, deadly secret in many of the fruits, rolls, and flasks. “Ladies, shall we?” she invited.
They strolled down the Golden Road, past the servants' mess hall, and out through the Gate of Carts. That gate was nearly closed, those who kept watch on it fidgeting nervously. The Grain Gate, one hundred yards from the Gate of Carts, was shut and barred. Wagons had been rolled in front of it as an extra barrier.
Aly and her girls reached the stair to the watch posts on the Luarin Wall and began to climb. They braced their baskets on one hip, a position that ensured the bearer's gait would have a little extra sway. Once they reached the top of the wall, Aly fluttered her lashes at the tough-looking sergeant who waited for them beside the steps. “Something to wet your throat, Captain?” she asked, thrusting her basket of fruit at him with one hip. Men always liked it when a girl promoted them. The sergeant grinned and took his time selecting a star fruit. Aly's companions passed food and water to the men who watched the green belt through the crenels at the top of the wall.
“Tell me, Captain, should we be afraid for our lives?” Aly inquired, her eyes lingering on the man's face. “I've heard these wild raka are no better than animals.” He swelled with pride and self-importance, never asking why a girl like this appeared so interested in a blue-chinned fellow whose arms and legs were covered with tattoos.
“Just rabble, girlie,” he told her. “Rioting, burning up their own homes. Half crazy with snake fever, if you ask me. And make no mistake. His Majesty will come down hard on them. They'll never get the city fixed up in time for the coronation.” He tried to snag Aly around the waist.
Nimbly she stepped just out of reach, glancing at him sidelong from under her lashes. “I've work to do, sir!” she said, and put her nose in the air. Apparently relenting, she smiled and added, “Perhaps when I come round again.”
He guffawed as she ambled down the walkway. You keep laughing, she thought amiably. Things will be different when you see me next.
Slowly they worked their way around the broad stretch of wall, distributing their offerings, until they reached the Gate of Victory. Here they found a surprise. Aly did a fast count. One hundred and fifty Lancers waited on the ground by the gate, men and horses alike in battle armor. If they rode out, that would leave only fifty Lancers to help defend the palace. Behind them stood three companies, or three hundred men, of the Rittevon Guard, drooping with heat and boredom. They too were dressed for battle and stood in combat formation. The captain of the Guard and the commanding general of the Lancers conferred with each other and with messengers in the shadow of the gate. Obviously they were waiting for orders.
Aly asked Trick to pass the information to Ochobu, Ulasim, and Nomru, who were supposed to meet where Rittevon's Lance entered the open green lands around the palace. They would have to deal with these fighters. Once Trick finished, Aly crossed over the gate on a walkway, her girls behind her. There were whistles and called remarks of appreciation from the bored men below, until their officers silenced them. The young women giggled or laughed, and offered their drugged goods to the rest of the men on the wall.
Vereyu's people met them with fresh supplies by the Gate of the Sun, the closest gate to the Gray Palace. This Gate had been closed and blocked with stone, hastily laid but solid. No one could enter and leave the palace there. Aly and her women continued around the wall, joking with bored sentries whose posts overlooked little but cliffs or jungle behind the palace as they passed them food and water. The women had almost reached the Grain Gate when Trick said, “They come. Fesgao, Nomru, Ulasim, they come all together. They are on the grass.”
Aly looked at the Crown's men around the Gate of Carts. Faces were already missing, the guard smaller by a third. “Tell Nawat to come,” she whispered to Trick. To the women who followed her she hand-signaled, Retreat. Get off the wall.
On she walked with her empty basket, coming up beside the sergeant who had been so complimentary earlier. He had gotten none of the drugged food, she guessed, since he still looked hearty enough, though he sweated in the day's remorseless heat. Aly handed him a flask of water. He took it absently, scanning the merchants' road with a spyglass. “I feel like there's more to all this than a riot, even if it's just a riot close to us,” he murmured. �
��It's more than a herd of ragged beggars crazy with the summer sun.”
She sharpened her Sight. The Fonfala men-at-arms emerged from the jungle in the distance. With them were armored raka warriors, bearing a crest on their breastplates: a chest topped with a copper key. She had seen that emblem on things that Sarugani had left Sarai and Dove. It was the coat of arms of the Temaida family, the shadowy relatives who lived on other islands and waited for their last hope to become real.
The sergeant put down his spyglass and surveyed the men around him. “Where's Hessken? Mayce? Rufert?”
“Privy, sir,” called another man. “Something off with breakfast, I think. I'm not so well myself.”
“Breakfast, or . . .” The sergeant turned to look at Aly, the picture of innocence with her empty basket. The sweat on his face was heavier, the drops rolling off his cheeks.
“Let me help you, Sergeant,” she said, hooking his feet from under him with one of hers. He collided with the wall and slid down until he sat, his eyes fluttering as the sleep drug took him. When he gave her a last glance, she said kindly, “I'll look after things up here.”
“Help me!” she cried to the closest men. “His eyes just rolled up and he fell.” She went down on her knees as if to help. Two soldiers turned to come to her, only to sprout black-feathered arrows. They toppled from the wall to the ground outside the wall.
Aly ran for another stair to the ground rather than get in the way of Nawat's people as they scrambled to the wall. A few more arrows whizzed past her. She wove from side to side to throw off the Crown's archers who could still aim. Once on the ground, she raced for the cover of the trees as a storm of crows descended on the wall's defenders. In the distance Aly heard men roar as the rebels swarmed onto the green belt. She saw them in her mind's eye, carrying gates they had removed from buldings on the way here to use as bridges over the streams and their deadly occupants.
“Gate of Victory opens,” Trick informed her as she trotted down the path to Sevmire's headquarters. “Rubinyan comes with soldiers. He leads Guards and Lancers out to fight Ulasim, Fesgao, Nomru.”
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