Rosemarked

by Livia Blackburne

  “That won’t help,” Mehtap says quietly.

  I turn around, surprised to finally hear her speak. She’s crouched near the wall, on the straw pallet that’s supposed to be our bed.

  “You must talk to your father,” I say. “Let him know that we couldn’t have done it. We’ll lay out our side of the story. They must believe us.”

  Still she doesn’t look straight at me. And suddenly, I know without a doubt.

  “You killed the emperor,” I say.

  Something shifts in her eyes. “How could I possibly have infected him? I was with you the whole time.”

  “No, you weren’t. I never checked if you really were inside the palanquin. Somehow, you got past our guards and found your way to the emperor’s servants. A drop of blood in his food or drink. That’s all it would take.”

  The slightest flicker of regret passes across her features. “I didn’t wish for harm to come to you,” she says.

  It’s like swallowing a stone, hearing those words coming out of Mehtap’s mouth. Sweet, gentle Mehtap. “Why?” I whisper.

  Her shoulders fall, and for a moment, her mask comes off. “Look at me, Zivah. I’m useless. It was nice to pretend for a while that I could make a difference, but really, the world doesn’t care about us. The emperor doesn’t care about us. Now my father’s a general. He’ll be a good one too, and he’ll bring glory to Ampara.” She looks up at me with desperate eyes. “That is my gift to him, if I can do nothing else.”

  The sense of horror is growing in my chest. “Mehtap, you killed your emperor.”

  “He doesn’t mourn our deaths. Why should I mourn his?”

  It’s too much to look at her, and I turn away, pacing the room. “I can’t keep quiet about this. I have to say something.”

  “You wouldn’t.” For the first time, there’s a hint of panic in her voice. “What proof would you give? I’ll tell them that I saw you disappear as well.”

  “Your father is an honorable man. He would want to know the real reason for his good fortune. This is not the way he would have done things.”

  Mehtap reels back. “Don’t presume to know him,” she says. “I’m his daughter. And he wouldn’t believe you even if you told him.”

  I stare at her, and the final pieces fall into place. “And what if I point him to the cream you made to disguise your rosemarks, or the fresh scar on your palm?”

  She snatches her hand closer to herself. “Don’t,” she whispers. “Please.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? Shall I just quietly doom myself alongside you?”

  “Please don’t,” she says again. There’s real fear in her eyes now, and she’s gone deathly pale. “He’s all I have. I can’t—” She stops, and her eyes brim over with tears. She looks young again. Young and lost. “Please, Zivah,” she says, and in her plea I hear the quiet desperation of one utterly without hope. “You’re right. He’ll despise me if he knows, and I won’t be able to bear it. I beg you. Let him love me when I die.”

  Training sessions are scenes straight out of my nightmares. Amparan uniforms fill my vision. Practice swords cut through the air and clash against each other. I’m drenched in sweat, clinging to the repetitive strikes and parries of the drills, trying desperately to keep my sanity.

  “Whoa, Dineas,” says Walgash. “We’re warming up, not going for blood.”

  I realize that I have him backed against the fence, and I’m still driving like a madman. Neju’s sword, I need to take more care. “It’ll take more than warm-up exercises to lighten those brick feet of yours,” I grumble. Only after I say it do I realize I shouldn’t have.

  Walgash stares, and then bursts out in a deep belly laugh. “He’s getting surly with age.”

  It’s a good thing Walgash is so mild-mannered, but I shouldn’t have slipped like that. Still, I can’t help it. My body won’t let me forget I’m in enemy territory. My nerves are on edge and I can hardly sleep. I don’t know how long I can keep up this ruse, to pretend to be normal around Walgash and the others. And I don’t dare think about what they would do if they knew the truth.

  After training, I claim a headache and slip off alone to walk the grounds. At least it’s easy to scout enemy territory when you’ve been living as one of them. I already know where the food stores are and where the equipment is. Now I just need a closer look to see how I can destroy them. The problem with my mission is that the numbers don’t work in my favor—me against a palace force of thousands just doesn’t look good. There’s only one way for one person to cause the damage we need, and that’s fire. I need oil, lots of it.

  I find a quiet corner and whistle for Slicewing. She flies down immediately, but she’s agitated, hopping and ruffling her wings.

  “Calm down,” I say. She squawks, and I toss her a piece of bread. “I’ll need your help soon. Can you do it, or have your brains been fried by all this sand?”

  She ruffles her neck feathers and looks away. It’s strange how jumpy she is, but I can’t exactly go into the desert to figure out what’s rattled her. All I can do is give her some more bread and hope the problem sorts itself out.

  It’s only at dinnertime when I learn what’s wrong.

  “Did you hear the news?” says Masista over dinner. “They’ve arrested Commander Arxa’s daughter and the healer Zivah on suspicion of poisoning the emperor.”

  I stop mid-bite as everyone around the table turns toward me. I was just with Zivah yesterday. How could this have happened?

  “You know anything of this, Dineas?” Masista asks.

  My mind races. I try not to look worried, but then I remember that I’m allowed to be worried, because the other Dineas cares about Zivah as well.

  “I hadn’t heard,” I say. “What else do you know?”

  “There’s to be a trial,” says Kosru. “The commander’s not happy about it happening so close before we have to leave and all.”

  Murmurs of acknowledgement all around, as my food loses its taste. What now? Do I continue with the plan? Will they harm her? Certainly, they’d treat her better than the war prisoners, wouldn’t they?

  “Enough,” says Walgash, cutting over the conversation. “Show the commander more respect. No more discussion of his daughter over dinner.”

  The chatter dies down, and men return to their food, chastened. Walgash sneaks a glance at me, and I know that he stopped the conversation for my sake—or rather, for the other Dineas’s sake. Guilt twists in my gut. I don’t want to be indebted to him.

  Don’t do me any good turns, Walgash. Because if you stand in my way tomorrow, I will still have to kill you.

  Mehtap and I don’t speak the rest of the day. It’s hard, because we are in such close quarters, but somehow we manage. An umbertouched guard comes in several times a day to bring us food or change our waste bucket. Otherwise we’re alone.

  Arxa finally arrives the next afternoon.

  “Father!” Mehtap runs to the door of her cell.

  The general takes her hands. “Have they mistreated you?”

  Mehtap shakes her head. “They’ve mostly left us alone.”

  “And you, Zivah? How do you fare?”

  I’m aware of Mehtap’s eyes on me. “I’m unharmed as well.”

  Arxa turns back to Mehtap, his face tight with anger. “The nerve they have to make accusations like this. I’ll speak to the emperor and see what can be done.”

  He doesn’t even ask Mehtap if she’s guilty. Why should he? The idea of Mehtap doing such a thing is unthinkable. I do wish I could get a better sense of whether he suspects me, but even if he does, I don’t think he would confront me in front of his daughter.

  He continues to talk to Mehtap for the better part of an hour. Mehtap’s words echo in my mind. Let him love me when I die.

  Finally Arxa readies himself to go. “I’ll do my best to end this soon,” he says to Mehtap. “Until then, conduct yourself in such a way as to bring honor to our house.”

  I imagine a needle sewing my lips shut. I f
eel the prick of every stitch.

  After he leaves, Mehtap turns to me. “Thank you,” she says quietly.

  I look at the naked relief in her eyes, at the childlike face that can do no wrong. And there is nothing to say.

  The news about Zivah makes me wonder if I should delay my plan, but in the end, I can’t see the good of it. Waiting won’t help her, and the longer I wait, the more likely that supplies will be under greater guard. It’s best for me to continue as before and see what I can do for Zivah after that.

  First order is figuring out how to set a good fire. I don’t know where the palace keeps its supply of lamp oil, but I do know that slaves come by the barracks and refill the lamps every evening. So I shadow one of the slaves—a young, pretty one so I have an excuse if I get seen. She makes the rounds to ten buildings, and I actually start feeling worried for her by the end, seeing how many catcalls she gets. Give the girl a knife and a few months with Gatha, and maybe those same catcallers would think twice about bothering her.

  The slave girl makes it back to the main palace unscathed, and she takes her oil jar to a servants’ closet. There’s a steward waiting who unlocks the door for her. I duck into a corner to watch. Slicewing and Preener, who’ve been trailing me, settle on a window ledge nearby. A few more slaves come by to drop off their supplies, and then the steward locks up the closet.

  Slicewing ruffles her feathers when she sees him drop the key ring in a pocket of his robe. Keys are one of her favorite things.

  “Yes, we want that,” I tell her. “Just let me figure out how.”

  I follow the steward as he heads back to the central part of the palace, weighing my options. I can’t exactly hit him over the head and pick his pockets, and sending a crow to snatch the key out of his hands seems too obvious. I need some kind of distraction.

  Then a servant rounds a corner with five hunting dogs on leashes, and an idea pops into my mind. Not exactly subtle, but might be worth a try.

  “Preener.” I point at the dogs. “Drive, that way.” And then I point in the direction of the steward.

  The crow takes off eagerly—he’d happily harass dogs even without orders from me. One moment he flies high, and then he dives straight into the middle of the hounds. It’s only a moment before they break free of their hapless handler, and then they’re all charging down the path after a black blur—right toward the steward.

  The shock on the steward’s face is priceless. As he braces himself for the canine stampede, I turn to Slicewing. “Get the keys.”

  The dogs converge around the steward in a glorious tangle. Their handler chases after them, yelling for help rounding up the creatures. The steward makes a halfhearted grab at one hound, then seems to decide against it and backs up along the side of the pathway—not a dog lover, I’m guessing. In the midst of it all, Slicewing flies through and plucks the key ring out of the man’s pocket. The steward doesn’t seem to notice the crow at all.

  “Hurry,” I mutter, as Slicewing races back toward me. The dog handler’s joined the fray now, shouting apologies as the steward yells accusations back. The hounds start to howl.

  Finally Slicewing drops the keys in my hand. There are a few of them on the ring, but I’ve been around long enough now to know that the closet key is the smallest one. I take that one and its neighbor. I give the ring back to Slicewing and the neighboring key to Preener, who’s returned as well, looking quite proud of himself.

  “Drop it there. Fast.”

  The crows take off one last time and deposit their loot back along the side of the path. By the time all the dogs are rounded up, we are long gone.

  Walgash stops me that night on my way into the barracks. “What’s bothering you? You haven’t been yourself.”

  I shrug him off. “Mission nerves.”

  “You sure? Is it about that healer?”

  “It’s nothing.” I push past him to my bunk.

  I lie in bed that night, feigning sleep. At least there’s no worry of accidentally dozing off. My nerves are so raw, I doubt even one of Zivah’s sleeping potions would knock me out. The hours tick by. I hear the men from first watch returning and climbing into bed. When there’s nothing but steady breathing and snoring, I slide out of my blankets, grab my weapons and armor, and sneak out.

  Slicewing lands on my shoulders as soon as I step outside, while Preener flutters nearby. They probably guessed from my nerves earlier today that I was planning something tonight. I run a quick hand down Slicewing’s back, then shoo her off my shoulder so I can put on my gear. Then I’m on my way, with the crows following silently behind.

  There’s not many people out tonight. The few times I run across someone, I simply walk as if I have somewhere to be and no one stops me. Soon I’m back at the storeroom. There’s a nervous moment when the key doesn’t turn, but then the lock gives, and I’m in.

  Jars as tall as my thigh are lined up along the floor. I break the seal off one and the sweet smell of lamp oil floats up to my nostrils. I take two of them, one in each hand, and stagger under their weight. Scars, these are heavy—those slave girls are stronger than they look.

  Slicewing hovers around me as I stumble out the door, as if she’s wondering why it’s taking me so long. I shoot her a dirty look—I’d like to see her carry one of these—then stash one of the jars behind a bush. That one, I’ll use to burn the food stores, but first I’ll deal with the supply wagons and chariots.

  The better vehicles are stored in a giant warehouse past the training fields. I carry the remaining jar until I’m almost in view of the building. Carefully, I peer around the corner. There are two soldiers standing guard by the door—I recognize them from my time in the third battalion. They shouldn’t be much trouble, though it’d be better if I can get them one at a time.

  Very carefully, I put down the jar and tie a scarf over my face. I have two other scarves, which I give to each of the crows. Then I remove the jar’s lid and dash it against the ground. It breaks into three pieces.

  Voices drift around the corner. “What was that?”

  As footsteps come my way, I shrink into the shadow of a doorframe. One guard steps around the corner and accidentally kicks one of the broken pottery shards. He watches it skid across the ground, puzzled, then scans the ground for more.

  The soldier doesn’t see me until I’m on him. His mouth drops open. A punch in the ribs doubles him over before he can talk, and then I follow up with a knife hilt to the base of his skull. As he sinks to the ground, I scratch him with the blade so he gets a dose of Zivah’s sleep potion. Never hurts to be careful.

  “Baran?” a new voice calls, and more footsteps head toward me. The steps are measured, more cautious this time. I retreat back into the doorframe.

  There’s the slink of a sword being drawn as he nears. This guard won’t be as easy to surprise. I whistle low under my breath.

  The soldier steps around the corner. He sees his comrade on the ground, then looks up and sees me. His eyes widen.

  “Attack,” I hiss.

  A flutter of wings, then Slicewing drops a scarf onto the soldier’s head. He grabs at it, and I close the distance. My sword opens a shallow scratch across his chest. He swears and clutches at the wound as Preener drops his scarf. As the soldier bats at the second cloth, he sinks to his knees, then falls to the ground unconscious.

  I hit him over the head as well. No reason to let on that there was a sleeping potion involved.

  I’m surprisingly relieved that the fight ended the way it did, and that I didn’t have to kill men I’d seen around the training fields. I look for a place to hide the sleepers, and settle for some hedges off the path. Then I pick up the oil, grab a torch from a nearby pathway, and hurry into the building.

  Inside, it smells like old, polished wood. Wheeled shadows loom in the light of my one torch. There must be at least two hundred chariots here, and an equal number of supply wagons. I put the torch in a wall sconce and run between the vehicles, pouring oil. I don’t have n
early enough to get at all of them, but hopefully the flames will spread on their own after a while. As I make my way farther in, I try not to think about what would happen if it all goes up in flames while I’m in here.

  Finally, my jar is empty. I’m at the wall, taking down my torch, when the door opens and three men walk in.

  I freeze. The torch flickers in my hand. The men array themselves between me and the door. I can’t make out their faces, but their shadows are disturbingly familiar, especially the large one that steps now to the front.

  “Stop there.” Walgash steps into the light and looks at me—the torch in my hand, the shiny trail of lamp oil leading away from me. “What are you doing, Dineas?” His voice sounds more dangerous than I’ve ever heard it.

  My stomach feels like it’s been weighed down with stones. Behind Walgash, I see Kosru and Masista. “I was sent to check on the chariots. There was a commotion by the gates….” I trail off. What’s the point of spinning stories when we’re practically drowning in lamp oil and I’m holding a torch?

  Walgash shakes his head, bewildered. “I want to think I’ve misunderstood something, but I don’t see how.”

  The flame wavers in my hand. I only have to lower the torch a bit to start the whole thing ablaze. “This whole place is going to burn,” I say. “I don’t want to hurt you. Save yourselves while you can.”

  “Who sent you, Dineas?” Walgash asks, advancing toward me. “Who do you serve?” The disbelief in his voice makes me feel lower than a worm.

  “Stay back!” I lower the torch just a bit. He stops. Images of my training sessions with Walgash flicker through my mind. Memories of lazy evenings relaxing over a skin of wine.

  Walgash shakes his head. “I don’t pretend to understand this. But if you surrender now, you might still get a merciful death.”

  He’s lying. I know it, and he knows I know. If they capture me now, they won’t let me die until they’ve dragged every last piece of information from me, bit by excruciating bit. My only comfort is that in a few hours I won’t remember anything worth telling them. Behind Walgash, I see Kosru trying to sneak around behind me. I wonder why there’s only three of them, and why Walgash didn’t bring more people with him when he clearly had suspicions about me sneaking out at night. And I suspect that it was because he was still hoping he was wrong. That he hadn’t wanted to think the worst of me.