Incendiary Series, Book 1

by Zoraida Cordova

  Another just sidles up beside her and flaps her hands. “Father Dragomar says that tea should be forbidden.”

  “Of course he’d say that, Jacinta,” Claudia says, rolling her eyes. The gesture reminds me of Margo, and I’m surprised that I find myself missing her. It only lasts a moment. “It’s hard to fill up a cathedral when near half the population went to the plague heap and the rest to the war against—you know who.” Claudia points at me, and it’s almost comical the way she does it.

  “Claudia, she’s right here.” Jacinta’s pretty brown eyes crinkle, and then they laugh. A heart-shaped birthmark covers her clavicle and chest. There was once a time when a mark like that would have gotten her accused of being Moria.

  “I can carry the oak,” I say.

  “We don’t use oak ash for the lords and ladies, and, well, you,” Jacinta says. “Seaweed. Use these baskets for hauling. Don’t forget an apron.”

  I get to work with the others, sweating through the simple blue dress Leo stuffed me in this morning. I load baskets full of seaweed and bring them to be burned down to ash. The other servants eye me with reservation, but I keep quiet and work. It reminds me of doing chores in Ángeles.

  Once my task is done, I fetch water to boil and help them strain the ash without being told to. The soap’s finished just in time for the next cart of linens to be rolled into the courtyard. As the sun moves across the sky, the discomfort I sensed from the other servants seems to wane.

  I wish I had learned more of Sayida’s and Dez’s easy charm. They could walk into a room and disarm anyone, even without the use of their powers. How do I find the person who tends to Castian’s rooms? Though, at the rate Claudia hands out her opinions, I may just have to stick around her and wait.

  While the water is being changed and the fires rebuilt, the scarred older maid steps into the courtyard. Claudia immediately approaches her, helping the woman carry the food out. I watch Claudia say a few words, but am unable to make them out. The older maid only smiles in return.

  “Come on and eat,” Jacinta says. It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me.

  Under the shade of a spindly tree, Claudia offers me a bowl of vegetable soup, and I wish this gesture didn’t make my heart ache the way it does. Not even during my years at Ángeles, among my own people, was kindness offered this easily, and now here, in my enemies’ kitchen, I’m handed a bowl of it. I bite back the bitterness that wells up in my heart and breathe in the savory scents of oregano and rosemary.

  As I dig in, I notice the older maid sitting far away, by herself. Claudia follows my concerned gaze.

  “It’s not polite to stare,” Claudia teases.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  Claudia shrugs, unfazed. “Surely you’re used to it yourself.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Davida? Depends on who you ask,” Claudia responds, “but all of us here know the truth.” She leans in for dramatic effect, clearly excited to be the one to tell the story. “Don’t talk back to the prince if you want to keep your tongue.”

  I gasp in shock. The barbaric punishment for such a small infraction fills me with fresh hate.

  “She was about to marry a general and everything,” another servant girl says.

  “Shut it,” Jacinta mutters. “Leave Davida alone.”

  “Pity about Hector.” Claudia sighs, seemingly more from exhaustion than from sympathy. “Lost his hand at Riomar. Never married, neither.”

  I want to voice my anger, but how can I? I’m the justice’s marionette girl. I bled in the stone floor of the throne room. Anything I say, especially down here, would make its way through the palace faster than a flash of lightning.

  The other women smile curiously at me. One of them eventually builds up enough courage to ask a question. “How come you’re not up in the tower with the other quiet ones?”

  “Quiet ones?” I ask.

  “The Hand of your lot,” Claudia explains.

  What she’s asking is, why haven’t I become an official part of the Hand of Moria. One of Méndez’s minions.

  “I suppose I must prove myself loyal first,” I answer slowly. But I don’t want to talk about me. These women are not cruel, not like the courtiers from this morning. But as kind as they’re being, I can’t let myself fall into a trap. I’m here for information, and I intend to get it.

  “Justice Méndez said the Sun Festival will bring foreigners and nobles by the wagons,” I say, trying to show the same cheer Dez always used to put strangers at ease. He was more natural than I am. You were born serious.

  “And we’re the lucky ones to change their urine-soaked sheets,” one girl mutters. “Drink so much they can’t contain themselves.”

  They chitter, and another adds, “Lucky if a bit of piss is all you find.”

  “Do you ever notice how Prince Castian’s linens never smell foul?” Jacinta says, her brown eyes shining.

  “You’re dreaming!” Claudia says, smirking crudely. “All men have a stink. Even a prince has to work up a sweat while giving himself a tug or two.”

  I choke on my soup, my face hot and probably tomato red as the girls laugh at me. I don’t want that image of the murderous prince in my head. But Jacinta said something that intrigues me.

  “You couldn’t possibly know which sheets are his,” I say dismissively.

  Jacinta’s eyes widen, and she juts out her chin. Pride is a wonderful tool, Dez used to say. At the thought of him I steel my heart and nearly salivate as I wait for the servant girl to answer.

  “I’m the one who strips his bed,” she says, as if she’s been given a position of honor. Which, I suppose, she feels she has. “Though who can say when the prince will return.”

  “You lot!” A commanding voice rings out across the yard. It’s the majordoma in all her ferocity. “Get back to work or five libbies are coming out of your wages.”

  “Come on, girls,” Claudia says. “Someone’s got to do the dirty work.”

  I stay close to Jacinta. This girl has access to Prince Castian. This girl is my way into his apartments.

  “Except you,” Frederica says, clapping her hand on my shoulder. “Leo’s half-mad looking for you.”

  It’s my cue to leave. I unwrap my apron and walk toward Jacinta’s station to hang it up. What do I think I’m doing? I can’t take a memory from her out in the open. But I need more time with her.

  Claudia’s red hair obstructs my line of sight. “You’re not terrible, Renata. Come back in four nights’ time after dark.”

  I lean in. I suppose “not terrible” is a compliment. “What’s after dark?”

  She winks. “The lords have their revels, and we have ours.”

  AFTER THREE DAYS OF WANDERING AROUND THE PALACE, THESE ARE THE secrets I’ve discovered: The royal servers spit in their masters’ plates during dinner. Two of the courtiers anxiously waiting for Castian’s return have taken a guard to their bed. The same guard. He’s reassigned out of the palace overnight. The seamstress is importing spider silk from Luzou, which is technically illegal, but it is said to be sanctioned by the queen herself. The guard posted at my door at night “for my protection” smells of aguadulce and spends most of his time muttering curses while he paces. Surely he has been given the worst duty in the palace.

  Three days and no sign of the weapon. No more hidden rooms except the vault full of alman stone. No spy.

  If the Magpie was once among the people of the palace, I believe them to be gone.

  On the fourth morning, my routine continues. Leo wakes me up to feed and dress me. He takes me to Justice Méndez, who gets worse and worse at containing his disappointment when I have no news. I encourage him. I tell him that all spies make mistakes, because I do not want to lose my privileges of walking around the palace. But when I leave his offices with a stellita in my pocket, I begin to lose hope, too. The palace has too many empty spaces to get lost in. Alessandro is at my heels when Leo is not with me. I purp
osely walk slowly and turn in his direction. I catch myself wishing I could tell Margo that there is someone worse at sneaking around than I am. When that happens, I remember that she never trusted me, and the only thing that matters now is finishing what Dez could not.

  Missing Dez is like living with a ghost limb. Sometimes I reach for him. To remember. Is that what hope is supposed to be?

  That morning the castle is a flurry of preparation for the upcoming festival. Ladders are erected to begin the long process of weaving intricate flower arches in every entrance a guest might arrive through in eight days. I file into the throne room like I have every morning since I swore my allegiance to King Fernando. The spot in the marble where I added my blood to countless others’ is a bull’s-eye. For the others who fill the room—the ladies in their brocaded dresses and polished shoes adorned with sea pearls and noblemen groveling before the king—it is another day.

  I am the only one who seems to notice that the Ventári of the Hand of Moria is swaying on his feet. His olive skin is ashen, with sickly green undertones. His hair is wet, dripping sweat.

  “Leo,” I say, my voice louder and more desperate than I want.

  His smiling eyes follow my gaze to the Ventári. He sucks in a breath. Before either of us can call for help, Constantino falls to the floor facedown and doesn’t get back up. I know that he’s dead because the blood that runs out of his nose and mouth forms a pool big enough to swallow him whole. No one can lose that much blood and survive. Shrill cries fill the air; a handful of shouts speculate plague.

  As Justice Méndez calls for a medic and attendants rush to lead away the screaming courtiers, I am frozen in place. I wish I knew his family name or the provincia he was taken from or what happened to him that he lived out his short life here. Mostly I feel so emptied of feeling that I can’t move, even when Leo shakes me. When I look back at the corpse, I see Esteban. Sayida. Margo. I see me.

  “My lady, you do not need to see this,” he says. Except that I do. I let him guide me away and into the common gardens open to the servants and staff only. He calls for strong café and lets me sit awhile in silence.

  The cathedral bells ring, marking the hour. How did he die? The other Moria only stood there, staring straight ahead while his friend fell dead. Were they friends? It burns me up how little I know about them, and yet, a part of me knows it will be easier to leave this place the more I keep to myself.

  “Is that what happened to the Robári that came before me?” I ask Leo when the café arrives.

  His hand gestures are wilder, and he runs his fingers through his hair so much, he looks like he’s just woken up. There’s an honesty in the way he peels back his courtly exterior. “Yes. The previous Robári complained about a pain in her eye. Then she was simply not there one morning.”

  “Was she the first?” I ask, surprised by how small my voice sounds. A dark image bites at my thoughts. I see Lucia after the justice was done using her. The room filled with alman stone. I taste bile on my tongue but breathe through the dizziness that follows. I can’t afford to get sick now.

  Leo nods solemnly. “I hate to say that I did not notice she was gone until I heard Alessandro speaking to the justice about it. That man is surely—”

  I don’t know why I stop Leo from finishing that sentence. But I shake my head and tap the alman stone on my chest. He blinks quickly, like he, too, forgot himself.

  He clears his throat and finishes in a droll voice, “Surely the best husband Lady Nuria could have acquired.”

  I feel how wide my eyes go. The woman whose apartments I sleep in is married to that judge?

  “I’ve always been curious about how these things work,” Leo says, drawing my attention back to him. His errant curl flops over his forehead, and this time he leaves it.

  “They capture moments, stories,” I answer. “Memories, really. The way you and I are living now.”

  “No, I know that, but how?”

  I shake my head. How can I drag memories out of people’s minds? How can Margo create illusions that make a city think it’s burning again? How can Dez—How could Dez. Dez will never… I find it hard to breathe until I press my hand on my sternum.

  “Unnatural magics,” I say, because that is the answer I am supposed to say.

  “You’re healing nicely,” he says, changing the subject.

  I watch his features as he smooths the palm of my hand open. Just when I make up my mind about him, he surprises me. Why didn’t he agree? It can’t be to spare my feelings when he reminds me every morning how much work I have to do before looking like a lady of court. If I say the word magpie and wait for his response, it would be strange, but I have proven to be a strange girl. I wouldn’t put it past Méndez to see this memory later, though they’ll need a new Ventári to transcribe it, and perhaps understand what I’m doing.

  I let it go.

  The scar down my hand is going to be an ugly thing, but I’ve grown used to it. The shape begins to look like a mountain range on a map when I stare at it long enough.

  “Leo,” I say, covering the alman stone with my gloved hand, muffling sight and sound. “There’s a party in the courtyard tonight.”

  He taps his chin, considering it. “And you’d like to attend.”

  I shrug. A Moria is dead and I’m thinking of parties. But I need to be there.

  “I’ve never been to one before. The Whispers only took me to cantinas where everything ended in fights.”

  It’s not a whole lie. It’s been four days since I’ve made any progress about how to get into Castian’s apartments. Jacinta is my only lead.

  “I don’t know,” he says, eyes flicking to where my gloved hand is. “Justice Méndez said to watch over you. He detests festivities.”

  “Please,” I say. How can a single word sound so sad? I didn’t know Constantino, but he could have easily been me.

  “One hour,” Leo says, holding up a single finger. “And then I’m marching you up here myself.”

  Overcome with excitement, I throw my arms around his neck. He chuckles lightly, but the hug he gives me is comforting. I have missed being held this way, even if it’s by a friend.

  Not your friend, my mind admonishes.

  As we continue the routine I’ve been cultivating, I remind myself that friends don’t use each other the way I’m using Leo.

  The courtyard is teeming with people. There’s music. Bodies pressed so tight they look like the ripples of a wave.

  “One hour,” Leo reminds me, raking his fingers through his hair. “Don’t make me come get you. I’m a dignified attendant, not a nursemaid.”

  When he leaves to sidle up to a handsome young guard, Claudia appears beside me and rests an elbow on my shoulder. “Aren’t attendant and nursemaid the same thing?”

  I laugh and take the clay cup of wine she offers me. It’s sweeter than the dry vintage Justice Méndez pours from a glass decanter during dinner. I lick my lips and scan the dancing crowd. Everyone from scullery maids to kitchen hands to farm boys bring the courtyard to life. Girls in long white dresses spin, their hems billowing with every twirl. I recognize a surly-faced guard playing guitar beside a man who slaps beefy hands on percussions. Fire pits roar incandescent flames against the surrounding blue stones.

  “I don’t understand the occasion,” I say to Claudia.

  “The half-moon is as good a time as any,” she says. “This week leading up to the Sun Festival is going to be brutal on us. It was Queen Penelope who began the tradition of letting the staff have their own celebration. She said it would boost productivity.”

  Bringing my clay cup to my lips, I hide what I want to say. We celebrated events in Ángeles. Unions, births, even deaths. But we did it together.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” I say. “Where are the others? Davida and Jacinta?”

  Claudia’s cheeks are pink from the heat and wine. “Davida likes to listen to the music from the kitchen. She peels potatoes while she pines for Hector. I tell you what�
�”

  I sense her ramblings beginning. “And Jacinta?”

  “Probably asleep in the laundry room,” she says. Then adds, “Wrapped in the prince’s sheets, I’d wager.”

  I grimace, hold up my empty cup, and say, “I’m going to get a refill!”

  But Claudia is already threading her body into the needle of the crowd. I snag two cups and stop by the kitchens. Davida is there, tapping her foot, working her way through a mound of potatoes. I set a clay cup in front of her. She presses her hand to her chin and pushes it outward. There were some Whispers who couldn’t speak and communicated with their hands. We’re all taught the basics from a young age. I wish her a good night, then make for the laundry room.

  I open three doors and find bags of potatoes, crates of root vegetables, barrels of wheat and grain with the Fajardo seal burned onto the wood. Another room has jars of oils and olives. The last storage I try smells strongly of soap. Towels and sheets are folded neatly in stacks. There, on a pile of half-folded laundry, is Jacinta sleeping in the center like a baby bird.

  Her mouth is slightly ajar, a whistling sound coming from her nose. Something twists in the pit of my stomach as I approach her. I pause. How would I feel if I woke to a strange girl, a girl said to possess the murderous power I do, standing over me?

  I turn and walk away. But only for a moment. I take off my alman stone completely and pocket it, covering my tracks. I have to get this memory.

  I have to.

  I fix my fingers into stillness and press them to her temple. She doesn’t rouse, only wheezes. The whorls of my fingertips come alight with my power, and then I’m wading through her past, searching.

  Jacinta gathers her skirts and runs. Her nerves twist as she hurries into Prince Castian’s apartments. Everyone knows the prince doesn’t like his servants seen, and with her sweaty pink face and slippers dusted in the white clay of the courtyard, she is most certainly visible.