by K A Dowling
“You owe me no explanations,” she says, dismissing him. His face is swarming into focus before her—the bridge of his nose and the dip of his brow becoming increasingly more defined as her eyes adjust. The air feels as though it is seeping out of the room, suffocating her.
“But I do.” The gold of his uniform catches a trickle of grey light and the regalia of his standard gleams with an unearthly glow. She averts her eyes, staring instead at the dark floor beneath the muddied hem of her gown.
“Look at me,” he pleads. The desperation in his voice frightens her. She hesitates, her aching hand pressed tightly against her stomach.
“Nerani,” he says, and the sound of her name on his tongue shocks her heart into near stillness. “Look at me.”
Her gaze snaps upwards to meet him, and this time she finds his deep brown eyes immediately. Crescents of silver reflect within his irises, cupping the wide black of his pupils.
How does he know my name?
His gaze flickers back and forth between hers, the groove between his eyes deepening as he considers her silently.
“I don’t understand how you have managed to unravel me so completely,” he says, a hint of bewilderment deluging his words. “Am I a coward?” One hand drops to his side. She watches him wipe it against the leg of his breeches. It closes into a fist. Opens again. Returns to grip the rusted iron bar. “I will be executed if I’m caught letting you go free.”
Her heartbeat is in her ears, now, breaking free of its binds and beating faster than Nerani knew it could. She swallows the lump that has been building within her throat. She is at a total loss for words. Somewhere behind her, she can hear the sound of trickling water. She listens to the steady drip-drop-drip of the leak. It is raining outside. She can hear the distant pitter-patter of raindrops against the turrets far overhead. Before her, James Byron is fumbling with a ring of keys at his waist.
“I will have to order a search for you, do you understand?”
“Yes.” Her voice sounds strangely distant, as though someone else is speaking.
“As soon as you leave here, you’ll head directly to Mamere Lenora’s. There is a woman there—she’s a half-blood. She has arranged for your safe return to the city. Do not delay. Do not look back.”
She hears the clatter of the key in the lock. The rusted bars fall open with a tired groan. There is nothing between them but darkness. She breathes in and out, slowly, the realization of what he is doing washing over her like a wave. He reaches forward, grabbing her good hand roughly in his and pulling her out of the cell. Without a word, he leads her down the narrow passageway of the prison. They move quickly, hastening in and out of dusky pools of light, silver motes swirling up about them as they walk. There is a discernable tremor in his grip, and she realizes that he is shaking. Without entirely meaning to, she grasps his hand tighter.
There is a narrow slot of white light up ahead. He draws to a standstill just beyond its reach, turning to face her. The muscles of his jaw work beneath his skin as he assesses her in the dimness of the passageway. She stares back at him, the bleached light filtering into her deep blue eyes. The rainfall is louder here, the droplets flying sideways against the palace walls.
She opens her mouth to speak, but he beats her to it.
“The door up ahead leads out into the bailey. From there, the portcullis is only two hundred paces away. It is loosely guarded at this time of day—the servants are coming in and out from the marketplace.”
He pauses, tilting his head as though he is listening carefully for something.
“The rain has gotten heavier. It will work in your favor. Keep your head down and keep walking. Once you’re in the city, stick to the alleyways.”
“To Mamere Lenora’s,” she says, remembering. She feels strangely numb. This reality cannot be her reality. This body—with these broken fingers—belongs to someone else. Somewhere back the way they came, there is the sound of a door slamming. Her stomach does a nauseating somersault. He pulls her to him, his lips grazing the top of her head.
“Run,” he commands, his breath tickling her scalp.
And she does.
She flies from the door ungracefully, the heavy fabric of her gown cumbersome. The air is sticky with humidity. She is immediately pelted with fat droplets of lukewarm water. She shivers in spite of the heat, pausing to watch the rain rise back off of the ground in furls of translucent grey. A squealing cart rolls by only a few feet in front of her, a portly man in a baker’s cap at it’s helm. The cart is piled high with bulging, red apples. The sight of him is so mundane that she nearly laughs aloud. He does not look twice at her in the clamor of the bailey, but merely doffs the tip of his cap and keeps on pushing the cart, whistling a merry little tune as he goes.
She does as James Byron says, keeping her head down and maneuvering with silent determination through the crowd. She sees a basket, hastily abandoned in the onslaught of rain, sitting on its side atop of a barrel. Its contents are covered in a brown, woven blanket. Plucking it gingerly from its resting place, she tucks it under her arm in an attempt to appear as though she belongs there among the milling servants.
Her heart is pounding relentlessly against her ribcage. Up ahead she can just make out the raised portcullis of the outer palace wall. She heads quickly towards it, keeping her head down to keep the rain out of her eyes.
And my blue eyes out of the rain, she thinks darkly. She nearly trips over someone’s feet and curses herself silently.
“Watch yourself,” snaps a woman’s voice.
She apologizes, hoping desperately that the woman does not notice the quaver in her voice. As she draws closer to the barbican she can make out several golden figures, staunch and polished as they idle by the doors. As James Byron promised, they do not appear to be all that alert to the potential presence of danger. One of them stares shamelessly at the backsides of several women as they struggle to take down the wash in the rain. Another polishes the blade of his largely decorative sword, looking bored. A third Guardian scuffs his boot in the direction of six squabbling chickens that fight over seeds beneath the protection of the gatehouse.
She walks towards them, doing her best to appear commonplace.
One of the Guardians glances her way as she hurries past. He gives a sharp whistle in her direction, slapping his companion in the chest with the back of his hand. His fellow Guardian takes a break from harassing the agitated chickens and laughs.
“Keep it together, private,” he suggests brightly.
Nerani stares intently at the ground beneath her feet. She keeps walking. The soles of her feet ache within her shoes.
“Good day to you,” calls out the first Guardian. She ignores him, picking up her pace. The sound of the rain grows muted as she steps beneath the protection of the portcullis. She hears a soft mewing noise from somewhere on her person and wonders absurdly if perhaps she has been making that noise the entire time.
“I said good day,” he calls again, louder this time. The third Guardian has stopped polishing the blade of his ceremonial sword. She hears the metal sing as he sheaths the long weapon in its golden hilt. The brown cloth within her basket shuffles slightly. Another mew, louder this time, emanates out from within it. The chickens are clucking at a more frenzied pace, racing around in distress as the Guardian closes the distance between them.
“You, there.” His voice rings out like a bell, rolling down the down the curving stone of the gatehouse. “You look familiar.”
The first Guardian snorts. “No surprise there. Been around the serving girls’ quarters a few times, have you?” There is a grunt as his companion slaps him in the back of the head. He falls silent.
The third Guardian plants himself directly before her. She stares at the polished gleam in his boots. Her heart beats so fast she is certain he can hear it. She has not blinked in several moments. The lower lids of her eyes prickle in irritation.
“No,” he says, and she can feel his breath sliding down the bridg
e of her nose. He places one gloved hand beneath her chin, wrenching her face upwards. She blinks rapidly, forced to meet his gaze. She feels as though she is going to be ill. “This is no serving girl. I shouldn’t think I’d forget a face as lovely as yours,” he sneers, leering into her vivid blue eyes. “You’re the gypsy we arrested at the stinking whorehouse.”
She hears raucous laughter at her back. “Thought you’d orchestrate a jail break, did you?” one of the men hoots. “Thought you’d waltz right on through the king’s Golden watch without so much as a hello, there?”
The wind shrieks, forcing the rain in sideways through the rusted teeth of the portcullis. Several droplets splatter across the side of her face. Something purrs in indignation, a soft rumble of sound rising from the depths of her basket. A chicken clucks, sensing the nearby danger. She can smell something pressing upon the air all around them, stinging the insides of her nose.
Gunpowder. The scent is unmistakable. There is a thundering crack of sound and blood, warm and sticking, splatters across her cheek. She tastes metal on her tongue. She lets out a cry of fright as the Guardian holding her chin falls to the ground. Where his right eye was, there is only a gaping, fleshy emptiness. Blood trickles slowly across the earth, saturating the dragging hem of her gown. His arms twitch once. Twice. And fall still. The coverlet of her basket flips over and a small orange cat leaps out—disturbed by the pandemonium. It races toward the chickens in a silent hunter’s pose, all of the hair on its shackles standing on end. The already frightened fowl give up their feeding entirely, hopping off the ground with wings outstretched and claws in the air. The stupid animals entangle themselves within the golden cloaks of the Guardians, who—recovering from their initial shock—have begun shouting orders to anyone who will listen, their guns drawn.
“Lower the gate!”
Nerani takes the chance and runs. She drops her basket, stepping carefully over the motionless body of the Guardian. Lifting her skirts within her fists, she races beneath the portcullis just as it begins its halting ascent down towards the earth.
The rain is blinding and the servants, terrified by the wayward gunshot, are everywhere.
“It came from up in the parapet!”
“No,” someone disagrees, shouting over the sound of the rain. “I saw someone standing in the battlements!”
“Not from within the palace,” someone else yells. “Who—”
But the rest of their words are swallowed by the ceaseless wail of the wind. Nerani keeps running, ignoring the exhaustion in her legs as she pushes through the throng of people. The Guardians will not be far behind her. However much time James thought he would buy for her, that plan was ruined the moment she was discovered.
She takes his advice, ducking her head and turning down a narrow alleyway. Her feet slip out of her clattering shoes and the sound of her footfalls grow silent as her bare feet slap in puddle after puddle. Her waterlogged skirts are dark and heavy, spackled as they are with rainwater. Her chest rises and falls, pushing painfully against the tight binds of her corset.
She turns out of the alleyway and comes to a dead stop before a huddled mass of gold. Their heads are bowed together as they shout at one another above the pummeling sound of the rain. She shirks back into the shadows, her heart pounding in her ears. Mamere Lenora’s is just around the corner up ahead. She will never make it without being seen.
“How could she possibly escape?” one of them snaps.
“General Byron went down to retrieve her and found the cell empty.”
“But how?”
“It’s impossible. She couldn’t do it without a key.”
“She did, didn’t she?”
“It must have been witchcraft.”
Another voice is added to the mix, louder than the rest—James. He rounds the corner up ahead, his golden cloak dark and heavy with rainwater.
“Give me one good reason why you’re all standing around like useless sods.”
The Guardians are appropriately silent before him, eyes downturned.
“His Majesty wants to see an execution, and he’s growing impatient. If it gets too late and that gypsy isn’t found, it’s you lot that we’ll see hanging in the gallows.”
“Sorry, sir,” one of the Guardians apologizes.
“Split up,” James barks, ignoring him. “Search the city. Don’t rest until she’s discovered.”
Nerani spins to double back, nearly slipping on stone. One of the Guardians—the private who had whistled at her—meets her gaze through the silver droplets that slice across the air.
“There!” he shouts, pointing a gloved finger in her direction.
Her eyes meet James’s. His face is white. His lips are soldered together in a tight line, his shoulders rounded against the rain. He shakes his head, a barely discernible movement in the colorless fog.
“After her,” he orders.
She turns on her heels and runs back in the direction she came, distinctly aware that she is heading away from Mamere Lenora’s and not towards it. Her heart threatens to break free from her chest. She gasps, the sound of her voice caught somewhere between a scream and a sob. Her fingers are bleeding freely the white gauze on her hand soaked with red. One corner of the bandage has escaped from its binding, trailing down the side of her wrist. She hears the shouts of the Guardians close at her back. Their boots thunder upon the cobbled stones. She struggles to pick up the pace, but her feet become tangled within her gown.
Turning a corner, her shoulder slams against the protruding stone of the building. Something heavy drops to the ground at her back. She can hear a person breathing—can hear the shuffle of feet against stone. She gathers her gown in her fist and tries to run faster. A hand, firm and unrelenting, grasps her by the waist. A second hand slides across her mouth, muffling the scream already poised to fly from her lips. She is dragged backwards, pulled into the shadow of an empty doorway. She struggles, trying in vain to scream through the fingers that are pressed against her lips.
Who will come? asks a small, reasonable voice in her head. No one is there to hear you but the king’s men.
The door shuts. Slats of white light fall across her face. Outside she can hear the sound of boots as the Guardians race by.
“She went this way!”
“Over here, pick up the pace!”
And then they are gone. The thundering of their steps fades back into silence beneath the sound of the unremitting rainfall.
“Stop struggling,” whispers James Byron’s voice in her ear. “It’s only me.”
She can feel his heart beating against her back. His breathing rises and falls as though he, too, has been running as fast as his legs would carry him. He waits until she is still before releasing his hold on her. His fingers slide away from her mouth. She turns to face him, surprised to see panic in his eyes. His face is slick with rainwater. His usually neatly parted hair clings instead to his forehead.
“We’ll hide out here,” he says. “At least until the turmoil dies down. No point in trying to get you to Mamere’s now.”
“Will she wait? The Cairan you mentioned?”
“She will.” There is no trace of uncertainty in his voice.
She inhales deeply. Exhales. They are in an empty store room. The light falls in through slits in the boarded up windows.
“Where are we?” she asks, trying to quell her nerves. He follows her gaze as she glances around, peering into the musky gloom. Several white blankets cover bulging objects that rest upon crooked wooden tables. The entire room has a mercurial smell, like fish.
“My father’s store front.” He pauses, catching himself, and clears his throat. “It’s my storefront now, I suppose. He passed on years ago.”
“Oh. There’s nothing in here.” It is a painfully obvious observation, but she can think of little else to say. Her mind is a jumble of thoughts, none of them particularly coherent. Her hand throbs relentlessly.
“No,” he agrees, a small smile lingering in t
he corners of his lips. “There isn’t. He’s a fisherman. Well, was. It was never a trade I had any interest in.”
That surprises her. She watches him brazenly, studying the lines of his face. He stares back at her. His pulse flutters in the hollow of his throat as he swallows. She had expected him to be the youngest son of a prominent lord or a wealthy merchant, as many of the other Guardians were.
“Why do you keep it, then, if you have no need for it?”
He shrugs at that, patting a wooden beam on the wall with an idle palm. “I can’t bring myself to part with it, I suppose.” He blinks, slowly, studying the deepest points of the shadows. She recognizes the look on his face, if only because she, too, often has the same fleeting sensation of staring at ghosts. She shudders, wondering who he sees—what kind of father he remembers—standing beside the covered tables and forgotten tools.
“Why did you do it?”
Her voice startles him to attention, wrenching him back from the torture of memory. She is acutely aware of his proximity to her. Several lines of rainwater run down the sides of his face. His nose is lightly freckled from years of sun exposure. She has a sudden image of him as a young boy, out on the boat with his father as they worked together to haul in nets of squirming silver fish.
“Why did I do what?” He pushes one damp lock of hair out of her face, his fingers moving like a habit, as if this is something he has always done—will always do. The thought terrifies her. She can feel her skin grow hot where his fingers linger behind her ear—hesitate in the place where her neck meets her shoulder.
“Why did you let me go free in the middle of the bailey? There was no way I would have made it through the gate without being halted like I was.”
He frowns, pulling his hand away. “I took care of it.” His gaze hardens. His fingers tremble visibly. She recalls the smell of gunpowder—recalls the red blood streaking across the ground, tastes it in her mouth. She feels suddenly sick to her stomach. He has committed treason, killing an armed soldier of the king’s Guard.