by Rae Carson
“That, on the other hand, narrows it down quite a bit more. The quartermaster might have keys to everyone’s rooms.”
I nod. “Lord-Commander Dante too, but he’s away with Elisa right now. Cleaning staff would have access to all these rooms, right? Though I doubt servants wear those boots.”
Iván’s face turns grave. “Sergeant DeLuca,” he says. “The sergeant was left in charge of the barracks. Maybe that means getting a master key.”
“DeLuca is already our most obvious suspect,” I say. “He had the most to gain from Bolivar’s disappearance.”
“Exactly. That’s how he got placed in charge.”
We stare at each other a moment. Iván’s face has an intensity about it that I don’t dislike.
“This is not proof,” I point out.
“No. We need something more.”
“Whoever it was had big feet, worn boots, and a slight inward pronation. We should keep an eye out.”
Iván’s brows lift. “Good observations. Hopefully no one will notice us staring at everyone’s feet.”
“So what do we do next? Maybe get a message to Rosario and tell him . . . uh, Iván?”
“Red?”
My gaze has moved beyond him, to the shelves and their disarrayed contents. “Where is that dish full of tamarind candies? Didn’t you put it right back there?” I point.
Iván whirls. He swiftly clears the shelves of remaining items—a pair of socks, a rolled-up belt, an extra shirt—and tosses them onto the bed.
He says, “It’s not here. He must have taken it.”
“Getting rid of evidence?”
“Yes, probably. No, wait, let’s not jump to a conclusion. Maybe he was just ridding the room of molding candy.”
I make a sweeping gesture, indicating the whole chamber. “It’s not like whoever it was showed any care for this place.”
“True.” Iván’s lips press together as though in grim thought. Then he says, “I know your rib hurts more than you admit, so let’s go back to the bunk room so you can rest. While you do that, I’ll find the stable hand and get a message to Rosario.”
“I . . . thank you.” I must admit, this task of sussing out an assassin would be a lot harder if I had to do it alone. “What will you tell him?”
“The prince needs to know the poison isn’t being delivered only through duerma leaf tea—he needs to be testing all his food. And I want to ask him about Swordmaster Santiago. Find out what he thinks of the man.”
“That’s too much for one secret note.” I reach into Bolivar’s desk and grab quill, inkwell, and parchment. I dip the nib, but my first scratch produces nothing. I lick it and try again and finally get a good flow of ink. “We must keep words to a minimum, in case the note is intercepted.” I start scribbling.
“Was that part of your royal education too?”
“Yes.”
I blow on the ink to help it dry and show Iván what I’ve written:
Made small progress on our assignment. When can we meet?—IR
“IR,” he says. “Iván and Red?” When I nod, he adds, “I’ll get this to the stable hand messenger.”
“And the next time we’re given free time, I say we track down Valentino and see what he can tell us.”
“Agreed. Let’s go.”
We reach the bunk room without incident. Two of the Basajuan boys are taking the opportunity to rest in their cots. Aldo is back in Traitors’ Corner, cross-legged on his top bunk. He is staring at his ring—one of his precious three items—but puts it away when the door bangs shut. He looks up and grins to see me, but his grin falters a little when he notes Iván at my side.
“Where’ve you been?” he asks, his gaze shifting between us. “I thought you were going to take a nap.”
“I am. Had something to take care of first. Girl stuff.”
“Oh.” Aldo’s gaze drops back to the cards arrayed on his bed, as though he’s trying not to appear hurt.
Iván says, “I have an errand to run, but I’ll be back soon. The Ciénega del Sur boys are gone now, but I’d rather take precautions. So, with your permission, Red, I’d like to keep watch while you sleep.”
I blink up at him. It’s on my lips to tell him I don’t need watching over, but what comes out of my mouth is: “Actually, that’s a good idea. Thank you.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” And with that, he leaves the bunk room to deliver our note.
“You and Iván seem to be getting friendly,” Aldo says cautiously.
I shrug. “Just like you and me, I guess. You know how it is. We denizens of Traitors’ Corner have to stick together.”
“Sure.”
Careful of my wounded rib, I lie on my cot and stretch out. A wave of cramping hits my gut, so sudden and fierce that I gasp.
“Red?” Aldo’s head peers down at me over the edge of his bunk. “You all right?”
I’m curled up in a fetal position now, my hand to my pelvis. My lower back feels as though it’s being squeezed in a carpenter’s vise.
“Oh,” Aldo says. “Your monthly courses.”
“Yes,” I breathe through the pain. “How did you know?”
“Mamá has a difficult time of it. Sometimes her pains are so bad she can’t leave the bed for two days. I used to help her a lot.”
“My pains aren’t that bad. I should be fine after a nap.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Let me sleep.”
His face falls. “Sorry. I’ll leave you alone.”
“No, wait. Aldo?”
“Yes, Red?” he says eagerly.
“I need rags. I thought about taking some from the laundry, but—” Another wave of cramps takes my breath away.
Aldo jumps from the bed. “I’ll handle it. Just sleep.”
“Really? I mean . . . thank you.”
I reach into the drawer for my Godstone, then I tuck my back against the wall and pull my ink-stained blanket over my shoulders, making my own tiny cave. Distantly, metal clashes on metal—the second years must be practicing in the arena—and I find the sound oddly soothing.
I never nap; I can barely sleep at night, much less during the day. My cramps are ferocious. I was attacked last night in this very bed. But the soldier sickness knows no reason, and somehow, I feel my muscles relaxing. My bones are heavy; my heart beats with perfect, normal steadiness.
I cradle the Godstone to my chest, close my eyes, and sink into my mattress.
The brass bell clangs, and I spring from the bed before I’m even half awake. It takes a moment for my mind to catch up to my surroundings: The scent of slightly burned porridge indicates that dinner is ready in the mess. Several recruits returned while I slept, and they hurry to re-don their boots. Aldo is back on the top bunk. Iván is here too, as he promised.
At my questioning look, Iván gives his head a slight shake, and my heart sinks. Does that mean he wasn’t able to deliver our message?
“Later,” he mouths, eyeing Aldo.
Iván and everyone else heads toward the mess, and I move to pursue, feeling a little queasy. What went wrong? Are we cut off from communicating with Rosario?
Aldo puts a hand on my shoulder. “Wait, Red.”
He allows time for the other recruits to trickle away, then he reaches under his mattress and pulls out several long rags and a wad of straw. “The quartermaster didn’t have much to spare except this ticking for mattress repairs,” Aldo says. “For now, you can wrap it in these strips. Throw the ticking away when you’re done, but wash and reuse the strips. Mamá always preferred wool to straw. I’ll try to get wool for you later on.”
“Aldo,” I breathe as he hands the pile over to me. “This is perfect. Thank you so . . . wait, this fabric . . .” It’s tightly woven, dyed rich blue with black trim. I’ve seen gowns at Deliverance Day balls that were made of lesser material. “Is this your blanket? The one your mamá made for you?”
Aldo shrugs. “Like I said, the quartermaster didn�
�t have a lot to spare. Tight fabrics like this offer the best protection, right?”
I gape at him. This was one of his three items. And he destroyed it for me.
He says. “It’s no big deal, for a friend.”
“Well, it’s a big deal to me.”
His grin could light up the whole world. “I’m going to get some dinner. I’ll save you a seat.”
Quickly, I wrap some straw in the strips he provided and shove the wad into place. It’s not the most comfortable solution I’ve used, but it’ll do. I pile the remaining supplies in my drawer, covering up the Godstone, the baby rattle, and the empty dye pot.
We’re served overcooked, oversalted porridge for dinner, and I eat every bite. Aldo and I are surrounded by recruits at the table, providing no opportunity for me to discreetly speak with Iván.
After dinner, Guardsman Bruno ushers us all into the arena and commands us to sit. Aldo is practically a burr in my side, and it seems awkward and pointed when I move away from him in order to be close to Iván.
Evening light paints the walls purple pink, and a cool breeze brings the scents of sweet lantana and sharp desert sage. I’m delighted when, instead of conducting physical exercises, Bruno subjects us to a long lecture on the care and maintenance of various weapon types.
I already know all this, so instead of listening, I watch him walk. Back and forth across the sand he goes, hands clasped behind his back, droning on and on. His boots are certainly worn enough to be the ones I spied while stuck beneath Bolivar’s bed, but I’m not sure his feet are big enough. Sometimes it seems as though he’s walking on the inner arch of his feet, but maybe it’s just the uneven sand.
A quick glance over at Iván reveals that he’s watching Bruno’s feet too.
Finally Bruno’s pacing takes him down the line of recruits, far enough away that I dare lean toward Iván and whisper, “What happened?”
“The messenger has disappeared,” Iván whispers back.
“What?”
“He hasn’t shown up for work in two days. I asked around. The stable master considers his absence to be dereliction of duty, and the stable hand is no longer employed by the Royal Guard.”
Questions compete for dominance in my head, but Bruno is heading this way again and I’m forced to fall silent. His voice becomes louder, his words eager and fast, as he catalogs various types of polishing oils and whetstones, noting which ones perform best with which metal alloys.
As soon as Bruno is once again out of whispering earshot, I say, “Do you think someone realized he was a spy?”
“I have no idea. I just know he’s not there anymore, and he’s not welcome to return.”
“Then we’re cut off from Rosario.”
“We have to figure out another way to contact him.”
“It might be days . . .” I’m forced to hush as Bruno passes by. After a moment, I try again. “It might be days until we have a chance to leave the barracks.”
Ivan says, “Then we’ll have to sneak out in the middle of the night again.”
“No! Every time we do that, we put this whole mission at risk. What if we’re caught?”
“It would be worse if Rosario was poisoned because we couldn’t warn him.”
“The prince is smart. Well informed. He’ll know one of his assets is missing, and he’ll reestablish contact with us soon. We’re no use to him if we get cut.”
I look up at Iván to find him frowning deeply. He says, “I disagree. I think—”
“Would you two stop whispering?” says Itzal from his place nearby.
“Go flirt on your own time,” says one of the Basajuan recruits.
Bruno is suddenly looming over us all. “Is there a problem here?” he asks.
“No, sir!” Itzal says. “We were just wondering whether Basajuan steel is superior to that of Ciénega del Sur.” I send Itzal a grateful look.
Bruno seems pleased by the question. “Both regions produce excellent steel, but the mines of Ciénega del Sur occasionally yield iron ore with too many impurities—something having to do with being near the ocean, I’d wager—which makes it difficult to refine. You can’t go wrong with either, but given a choice, I’d take Basajuan.”
“Thank you for clarifying, sir,” Itzal says.
My mind is a muddle as Bruno finishes his lecture. Iván is right; we need to make sure Rosario knows to be looking for poison in all his food. But I’m right too; if we get caught sneaking around, it could mean instant dismissal from the Guard, which puts our whole assignment at risk. It’s the single most important thing right now, Rosario said. Don’t get cut. It was his primary order, the one we must obey above all others.
The spy network is competent and loyal. Rosario will learn of the missing stable hand soon enough, if he hasn’t learned of it already. He’ll find a way to reestablish contact with us. Iván and I will have to wait and trust our prince.
Guardsman Bruno dismisses us, indicating that we have just enough time to wash up and do laundry before the lamps are snuffed. After everyone is finished, I take a private moment to change out my straw and wash my rags.
It’s a good thing I got a nap, because I lie awake a long time, listening to my fellow recruits snore, hoping I’ve made the right decision to wait and do nothing.
15
Then
THE girl’s memories resurfaced in another dark cellar, as she was gathering turnips and dried meat for a stew. The meat was billed as lamb, but she knew it was really dog. And dogmeat stew wasn’t too bad, all things considered. The meat bits were a little dry and chewy, but the flavor was fine.
Not that Mula would eat any of it today. The stew was for guests, not slaves. And that was too bad, because Mula had worked through most of the night to clean ash from the bread oven. She was very tired, and very, very hungry.
She worked at an inn now, for a man named Orlín who had bought her from the monster woman over a year ago. Life was better at the inn, even though she worked sunup to sundown. Even though shiny callus rings on her wrists and ankles indicated that she was tied to her cot each night after her work was done.
A good worker, the monster woman had said, as she and Orlín agreed upon a price. But sometimes she tries to escape.
Mula knew these things had happened the same way she knew that the desert became hot in summer—it was assured, incontrovertible knowledge, even though she couldn’t place herself there. She didn’t actually remember.
When her basket was full, she began pulling herself up the steep stone steps leading to the kitchen. Halfway up, she stopped, gasping.
Because the back of her neck was prickling, and her limbs hummed with energy. It was almost like a song in her blood.
Familiarity grated at her. She had felt this before; she was sure of it. But when? Sometime while she lived with the monster woman? No, it was before that. Mula thought hard.
Flames engulfing a wooden shelf. Smoke making her lungs scream. A sizzling puddle of blood . . .
The basket fell from her hand. Turnips and meat strips spilled, toppled down the stairs, plunked onto the damp dirt floor. She hardly noticed.
Her hands shook, and she couldn’t get enough breath. A sorcerer was somewhere in the village. Maybe even here at the inn. And he had a sparkle stone with him.
She had to hide. If an animagus saw her, he would surely burn her. He would know, just by looking at her guilty face, that she had stabbed another animagus once, stabbed him so bad he died.
Mula half ran, half tripped down the steps, ignoring the spilled, dirt-encrusted turnips. She ducked beneath the stair and lodged herself in a tiny space behind a mead barrel. The girl pulled her knees to her chest and held herself in the tightest, smallest ball.
Her skin continued prickling. Her blood continued to sing, making her limbs twitch and her pulse race. She squeezed her eyes tight but couldn’t keep the tears from leaking out.
Hours later, the cook found her.
“There you are, you lazy half-breed
,” he said. He had yellow teeth and foul breath, and arms so skinny a girl would never guess he spent so much time tasting food. He scooted the heavy mead barrel aside and grabbed her by the ear. “Out with you. Gather up the turnips and the meat, scrape off the dirt as best you can, and get yourself up to the kitchen. Do it quickly and I won’t tell Orlín you’ve been shirking.”
But the sorcerer was still nearby. She could feel it in her bones. “I . . . can’t.”
He backhanded her across the face, so hard she crashed against the mead barrel, bruising her spine. She struggled to her feet, put a hand to her stinging cheek.
“Disobey one more time and there’ll be a whipping in it for you, and nothing but bread crust for a week. Now get to work.”
She bent to retrieve the fallen basket. She grabbed a turnip, wiped it against her sleeve to clean it, and placed it inside.
Satisfied, the cook began to climb the stairs.
“Wait,” Mula called out in a trembling voice.
The cook turned.
“Is the bad man up there? Inside the inn?”
“Huh? Oh, you mean the White Hair?”
Mula nodded.
“He’s finishing up a bowl of stew. Might stay the night.”
The girl froze. Her ears were ringing now. Her face and neck filled with heat.
“Is that why you’re shirking? You’re afraid of the White Hair?”
“Y . . . yes.”
The cook gave her a sympathetic look. “Can’t say I blame you. I try to steer clear myself. Better get used to it, though, because war is coming, mark my words. And when the White Hairs march their Invierno army west to Joya d’Arena, we’re going to see plenty of them.”
Mula gaped at him. An army of monsters led by sorcerers. Something like that could burn down the whole world.
“You’re lucky, mule girl,” the cook said. “To live here in one of the free villages. We may not have nice roads or fancy castles, and sure, trying to farm these mountain slopes is like coaxing grain from a stone, but at least we’re left alone. Better to break your back bettering your own life than to die in some fancy lord’s war, hear?”
