by Liz Flanagan
Instead, she commanded her feet to keep moving, crossed the kitchen yard, leaping over Skalla, the massive kitchen tomcat, and ignoring his hiss. The hens scattered in her wake, scolding her with a flurry of indignant clucks. The orchards spread away to the west along steep terraces, and the goats tethered there stopped grazing long enough to glare at her through yellow eyes. Milla used an ancient gnarled olive tree as a ladder to scramble onto the wall of the practice yard. She knew better than to open the gate unannounced—you lost fingers that way.
She paused to catch her breath. The image of the dead man rose before her once again, and this time the tide of nausea won. She turned and vomited down the practice-yard wall. Afterward, she spat hard, panting, and wiped her mouth on her tunic sleeve. She hoped no one would notice the watery, orange-flecked mess, and then she focused again on her task.
Two people were fighting in the walled yard. Their swords sang and clashed; their feet danced and scuffled in the sandy earth. They both wore helmets and practice leathers that covered their chests and thighs. Richal Finn, Nestan’s head guardsman, was dueling with his best-trained student. The student was almost as good as Finn. Milla knew, because she’d been talked into being a duel partner when Finn wasn’t available. She had the bruises to prove it. Milla watched as Finn’s blows were blocked, dodged, and matched.
Milla made a small move with one hand, tilting her head backward, to draw Finn’s attention and remind him what his student was actually supposed to be doing right now. It worked.
Finn narrowed his eyes, focusing harder. He saw his chance and took it, lunging faster and flipping his opponent’s sword away with his, so it clanged against the stone wall.
“That’ll do for today,” he said. “I’m needed by the master. Sir.” He took off his helmet—showing his bronzed and balding scalp—and bowed briefly, before slipping past his pupil. He looked up on his way out and caught Milla’s eyes with his intense blue gaze. He seemed to be assessing her, checking for something.
Milla nodded to thank him. Finn was no fool. He’d been teaching both twins for more than ten years. He knew exactly what was happening here. The new regime of lessons permitted only Isak to learn how to fight. So, out of loyalty and affection for the twins, Finn kept up the pretense that he was teaching only Isak. If he was challenged by Nestan, he could always claim not to have known the truth.
Finn nodded back and left.
“What? But we’ve only just started, Finn! You were late!” his student called after him, arms wide, baffled at the abrupt end to the session. The helmeted figure caught sight of Milla crouching on the wall like a cat. “What are you doing up there, Milla?”
“It’s time, we have to hurry!” Milla jumped down into the yard and started unbuckling the leather armor. Concentrating helped her feel calmer. She could almost ignore the tremor in her legs. She could almost ignore the way the silken bag called to her. “I’m supposed to be dressing you for the ball! What are you doing down here, today of all days?”
The warrior lifted the leather helmet, freeing a mass of tousled blond curls framing the beautiful face of Tarya Thornsen—dressed as her brother, Isak.
“I’m sorry, I know how important today is—I do! I just lost track of time. I didn’t mean to cause you trouble. But if I have to behave like the perfect young lady all evening, I needed to let off steam first. Now you can dress me in pearls and silks and I’ll be good, I promise!”
“The thing is, Isak’s just run off. He was shouting at your father.”
“Isak was? Are you sure?” Tarya asked. And then, more gently, “Hey, what’s wrong? You look terrible.”
“Nothing,” Milla lied, and ducked her head, fumbling with a stiff buckle. There wasn’t time for this now. Besides, she’d whispered a promise to a dead man’s blood. In Milla’s mind, promises were binding.
“Right, but leave the armor; I can run in this. We’ll have to hurry if we’re to find Isak in time.”
Bilge buckets!” swore Tarya. “Why now? He picks his moment, that brother of mine!”
Headstrong was how Nestan described his daughter. Stubborn was what Isak called his twin. Fiery, the servants might dare, as they rolled their eyes. Milla would choose different words: She’d say loyal. She’d say brave.
Tarya’s eyes were as blue as the darkening sky above, as she checked how late it was. “Usual place, you think?”
Milla nodded. They both knew Isak was happiest on board a ship or, failing that, at the harbor.
“I can be there and back before sunset. Maybe. If we’re not on time for the duke’s stupid ceremony, we’re all blacklisted.”
“You’re not coming,” Milla said quickly. “I’ll go. You need to get ready: I’ve laid the rose silk out on your bed …” The thought of running down to the harbor and back again made her sway with exhaustion, but she gritted her teeth. “Besides, there’ll be patrols out. You don’t know all the shortcuts.” Milla knew the winding streets of Arcosi like a cat, all the snickets and secret ways.
“No, I’ll do it!” Tarya said. “He’s my twin. It’s my family’s reputation at stake. Besides, you’re trembling like a leaf and you’ve got sick on your tunic. Are you ill?”
“I’m fine, and that’s just orange,” Milla lied again. She didn’t want to be left at home tonight. She stood up straight, willing her legs to stop shaking.
“Fine,” Tarya huffed. “Don’t tell me what’s wrong! But at least let me come with you. Me and my friendly blade?” She tapped the pommel of her sword, eyebrows raised. She was still humming with energy from her unfinished fight with Finn.
“Fine,” Milla echoed. “Follow me.” She led Tarya back up onto the practice-yard wall, circled away from the house, and showed her the jutting stones they could climb, two stories down to the next street. “But we’ll need to go the quick way.”
“How did I not know this secret entrance to my own house?” Tarya demanded, starting after Milla.
It was usually an easy climb, but Milla’s legs still trembled slightly, and her left foot slipped, leaving her hanging by her fingertips. “You know it now. Come on, we need to run.” She dropped the last stretch, landing lightly and throwing herself onward down the narrow lane.
Milla stuck to the shadowy back routes. Without Isak’s helmet, Tarya was far too recognizable as her father’s daughter. Almost half the city had worked for Nestan at one time or another, and he had loyal friends in every quarter who might challenge them now and ask why Tarya was heading in the opposite direction of the palace.
“Wait!” Milla said, as they neared the main street that encircled the island like a coiled snake. “We have to cross here,” she told Tarya. She took her hand and started walking down the wide paved roadway, feeling exposed. They joined people in their best clothes: some headed up to the palace for the ball, others down to the docks for the street party.
“It’s fine. We have every right to go for a walk,” Tarya said, tossing her head back. “Two friends, out for evening air … What’s wrong with that?”
Milla glanced at her friend. Did Tarya really believe that? She stayed quiet and hoped her happy illusion wasn’t about to be shattered.
A man’s voice yelled the words Milla was dreading: “Patrol! Get back.”
The noise of marching feet echoed off the high sides of the houses lining the road.
Milla dived back against the wall, pulling Tarya after her, and tucked her arms and feet in tight. Next to her, a young mother ran forward and dragged her toddling daughter out of the roadway, clutching her tight to her chest and scolding her in relief: “Don’t you ever wander off again. You see soldiers, you stay close to me, all right?”
The little girl started bawling loudly.
The soldiers marched toward them with no break in their rhythm, adjusting their stride to the steep hill. They faced unswervingly forward, in silence but for the thump of their boots and the metallic clank of sword and shield. Milla stared at the soldiers as they approached, trying to see the
m as individuals. She knew they were only people—that young lad with the sunburned neck, that burly older man with the bushy beard—but in this large mass they seemed like something else: something more powerful and more terrifying than ordinary men.
They were almost upon them. Just one more moment; in another, they’d be past. As long as no one moved, or gave them reason to—
“Halt!” the captain ordered. “Checkpoint formation.” The men stopped as one. Turned, stepped sideways, stopped again, blocking the street just above them. “Citizens! Show papers!”
Milla cursed under her breath, sending up a hasty prayer for inspiration. They were trapped, unless she could find a way out quickly.
The woman next to her sighed and rummaged under her cloak. “Again! Third time today. As if I’ve had time to put a foot wrong when they keep checking on us constantly.”
The soldiers acted like a human barrier, sweeping slowly down the main street, checking papers as they went, challenging each person to prove their name, address, and family origins.
“What do we do? I’ve brought no papers with me,” Tarya hissed, gripping the hilt of her sword. “I didn’t know I was leaving the house. If we’re arrested now, we’ll never make the ball, and my family will be blacklisted for sure.”
“Norlanders, blacklisted? Never …” Milla said, cursing herself for leaving in such a hurry. She never forgot her papers.
“It happens!” Tarya said. “My friend Anna’s family lost everything.”
“Let me go! Get off me. I’ve done nothing wrong,” a young man protested as two soldiers grabbed his arms. He looked barely older than Isak, with a mess of dark brown hair that fell in his eyes.
“No proof of identity? That’s an offense under the duke’s law, as you well know. Sir.” The captain added this last word as a taunt.
“It was in my pocket. It must have fallen …” The young man started begging as he realized what this meant. “I can show you where I live. You can ask my parents! They can’t afford the release fee. Please!”
“Bring him in.” The captain didn’t even watch as his men dragged the boy away, struggling and protesting his innocence. He’d already turned away to the next terrified citizen, his hand out for their papers.
Milla glanced around the woman’s shoulder. There were only four more people to be checked before the soldiers reached them. She looked in every direction, searching for an escape route. There! Between the houses. There was a tiny gap, just wide enough to fit through. Not for the first time, Milla blessed the original inhabitants of Arcosi, who’d laced the city with smugglers’ secrets and hidden passageways.
“This way!” Milla grabbed Tarya’s arm and tugged her backward into the gap, where a tiny alleyway zigzagged back on itself, leading to a steep flight of stone stairs, squashed between the houses. “If we’re fast, we can beat the patrol and loop around it on the way back.” Her feet pounded on the worn steps, and they flew down, tumbling out at the harbor.
“There he is!” Tarya overtook Milla with a final burst of speed.
As they had predicted, Isak was leaning on the harbor rail, staring at the newest arrival moored before him: a sleek, two-masted schooner, still being unloaded. Gulls scrapped and screamed over a basin of fish waste dumped from the market stalls that fringed the upper quayside.
“Isak, what are you playing at?” Tarya didn’t waste any time on greetings. Her anger melted into concern when he didn’t answer. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”
Isak turned and eyed his sister up and down, the sunset reflected in his glasses. “And you’re dressed as what, exactly? Warrior scarecrow? You’ll be turning heads at the duke’s ball, all right.”
Behind Isak, the protective arms of the harbor wall held dozens of boats safe: Arcosi’s fleet of fishing boats and the taller merchant ships. Through the harbor gates, Milla saw the last bright sliver of sun drop below the rim of the sea, like a coin into a pocket. “It’s sunset. Hurry!”
“Oh, so it didn’t just slip your mind, then?” Tarya was saying, running both hands through her curls and shaking out the dried leaves and stalks that she found there. “Because I didn’t spend all month practicing dance steps and helping you learn that oath for nothing. Now hurry up, or we’ll be late and have to spend the rest of our miserable lives regretting the insult to the duke.”
“Since when did you care so much about it?” Isak lashed out. “What’s in it for you? I haven’t noticed you sticking to any rules lately, unless it pleases you …”
“Stop it! What’s wrong with you?” Milla put herself between the twins. They didn’t do this. They took each other’s side. Always. She longed to tell them everything she’d just witnessed, but they were upset enough, and time was running out. “Look! Sunset. We don’t have time for this!”
“I’m coming,” Isak said. “Well done, little goatherds …”
That stung. “We didn’t have to come after you.”
“Sorry,” Isak mumbled, not meeting her gaze.
Tarya grabbed Isak’s hand. “Just stay close to me.” She spun on her heel and started striding back toward the smugglers’ steps. “There’s a patrol headed this way, which I think we’d rather avoid.”
As she hurried after them, passing the newly moored ship, Milla paused, then caught the sleeve of one of the boys unloading crates. “Hey, did you bring in a passenger?” she whispered. “An old man in a dark blue cloak, carrying a large silk bag?”
“Yeah, glad to see the back of those two! Bad luck. Brought us an east wind. Not surprising, they was jumpy as cats the whole sailing,” the lad muttered back, pulling away from her.
Those two? Milla wondered. Who had the murdered man been traveling with? And where was this person now?
Milla led the twins home using the smugglers’ steps and hustled them upstairs to get changed. Nestan was pacing by the front gates, leaning on a finely carved, silver-topped walking cane. He spun around when Milla and the twins finally emerged, dressed in their finest clothes. Richal Finn stood waiting by the wall, in the formal suit of a sword-bearer, his cropped hair gleaming with moisture as if he’d just dunked his head in the well.
“And just where have you been?” Nestan asked quietly.
Milla knew that tone. Nobody answered. The three of them stood very still on the upper level, clutching their masks and trying to steady their breathing.
Nestan’s searching gaze passed over each of them in turn. Tarya was wearing her best rose-silk dress. Milla had hastily tamed Tarya’s blond curls into a high knot threaded with a string of glass beads, and clasped her mother’s pearl necklace around her neck. Isak stood stiff and resigned, looking handsome but uncomfortable in his cream silk shirt and formal suit, holding another glass vial of his medicine in one closed fist.
Milla tugged her plain purple dress straight. Even maids had to look their best tonight, so she had borrowed one of Tarya’s outgrown gowns. It was the finest thing she’d ever worn, with matching shoes that didn’t quite fit. Her fingers lingered covetously over the silky fabric.
Milla peered back at Nestan from under her lashes, praying they would all pass his scrutiny. Isak and Tarya needed to be at the ball. Milla didn’t. With one snap of his fingers, he could summon Lanys instead.
Lanys would love that. She was always flirting with Richal Finn.
“You look well, Tarya,” Nestan said finally. “The pearls suit you.”
Isak stood straighter, waiting for his word of approval.
“Isak? Don’t disgrace us up there.”
Milla felt him slump with disappointment next to her.
“Your faith in me is so reassuring,” Isak muttered under his breath.
“Shh,” Tarya whispered back. “He didn’t mean that.”
“Sounded like it.” Isak’s face was crumpled and miserable, but Nestan didn’t seem to notice. His gray-bearded jawline was clenched tight. He wore the usual sword at his belt and a not-so-usual spare blade bulging slightly under his best cape, t
he midnight velvet.
Seeing Nestan dressed for trouble made Milla’s empty stomach churn again. But if he’d decided not to worry the twins tonight by telling them about the murder, then she must be brave enough to follow his example.
Her fingers flew to the gold medal around her neck, as they did whenever she was anxious. It was her only true possession. She traced the outline of a dragon in flight beneath a full moon, stamped onto the worn metal.
“We’re late,” Nestan snapped, turning.
They’d passed! Milla was actually going to the palace. A smile danced over her lips, then vanished again as she remembered the dead man. She vowed to stay close to the twins tonight and be on guard, for their sakes.
“Ready?” Tarya danced down the steps, took her father’s free arm and squeezed it, disguising her breathlessness as excitement.
“I’ve been ready for some time,” he said dryly. “Now, put your masks on and let’s go!” Nestan gestured to the guards to open his gates.
It was dark, and the moon hung low over the horizon: almost full, and round as a pearl. They didn’t need lanterns tonight: the whole city was ablaze like a birthday cake, with beacons, flares, and bonfires from the poorest dwellings, built into the lower seawall, to the palace of the four winds, right at the top of Arcosi. Milla glanced down over the light-filled streets, wondering where her other friends were right now. They’d be gathered on the docks, she guessed. Thom would be perching expectantly on the harbor wall, waiting for the fireworks. Rosa had been making spiced cakes and planning to borrow a bottle of sweet Sartolan wine from her parents’ stall for the street party.
And Milla was here, joining the throng of Arcosi’s first families, all dressed in their best silks and velvets, dripping with jewels and gold, wearing sequined and feathered masks. Her eyes darted around till she felt giddy from all the glitter and gleam. Then she winced as the shoes rubbed her heel, reminding her that she was a sparrow trying to blend in among the peacocks.