Floodpath

by Emily B. Martin

  “I’m not letting you go anywhere else, my prince,” Enna says firmly. “I told you, your mother will send me to the scaffold . . .”

  “Hey,” I say abruptly. Can you get us into the palace a different way? Through a guard entrance?

  Soe passes the question to Enna. She frowns.

  “I don’t like the idea . . . it seems devious, and the queen . . .”

  “I’ll make sure no trouble comes to you for it,” Iano says. “I promise. It could mean the difference between true danger and safety in the court, along with saving at least one life.”

  Enna purses her lips, but finally she nods. “We’ll bring you in through a service entrance. But I’m still not letting you out of my sight until you’re in the company of the queen.”

  “Very well.” Iano looks at me and shrugs. I nod. We have a way in. We have a way to Fala.

  I turn in my saddle to face the rising swell of the city. The clouds overhead are gathering with the promise of rain tonight, but the sun is slipping into that magic opening just above the horizon. The city is cast into vivid golds and purples. At the top shines Tolukum, the glass dome too bright to look at, a beacon of opulence for all who gaze on it.

  Opulence and treachery.

  I nudge the horse, hoping we’re not too late.

  Lark

  The key ring gets me out of the cell blocks and into the outer guard corridors. Nobody’s about, but it doesn’t put me at ease—I feel naked, unarmed, despite the tools in the guard belt. I hold my breath as I edge around a corner, my gaze drawn to a door spilling light. I see shelves beyond, stocked with prison gear—rolled blankets, wooden bowls, manacles . . . and my hat.

  I slip into the empty room. Arranged together on one of the shelves are the things the guards took off me after my arrest—the patch cowhide hat, the red bandanna, and the broad fullered sword. I scoop them all up, fix them in their proper places, collect the key ring again, and head back out.

  It’s two staircases up to the main palace, and another key on the ring to unlock the outer door. Carefully, I poke my head through.

  Dammit. The landing leads to a short hall that opens into a larger wing of the palace. Servants rush about with baskets, buckets, and lanterns, their voices kept to the barest whispers. But between myself and the end of the hall are two guards, standing with their backs to me.

  I ease out of the door and close it behind me. There’s a lantern by the door; silently I turn down the wick until it snuffs out, then stand anxiously in the darkness, weighing my options. There are trees—trees? Trees. There are trees inside, across the hall. I shake my muddled head. They’ll provide good cover, but even without the guards, it’s going to be hard to cross the open hall without raising an alarm.

  Maybe I’ll just have to settle for raising an alarm, then—bolt straight between the guards and across the hall, and hope the trees will hide me long enough to get away.

  I slip to the very edge of the shadows. I spread my feet, my weight forward, mentally and physically preparing to run. My ribs burn—not only is this going to be difficult, it’s going to be painful. There’s only about two feet of space between the guards, and a whole lot of open hall beyond them. It’s a long way to run.

  I blow out my breath.

  My fingers stray to my sword hilt.

  Because that’s really the only other option.

  In the muffled silence beyond the guards, there’s a sudden resounding clang. I nearly jump out of my skin, my gaze skirting past them. Staring straight at me is the scribe slave who had accompanied Minister Kobok into my cell a few hours previously. A metal tray at her feet is still ringing.

  We both freeze, our gazes locked together, with the guards oblivious between us. My knuckles tighten on my sword hilt. My ribs sear with my rapid breath.

  One of the guards ruffles with irritation, still facing the girl.

  “Pick that up,” he says. “Get on with your work.”

  As if roused from a trance, she drops to the floor and begins to pile writing implements back on her tray. But when she goes to get back up again, her foot snags in her hem, and she falls—dramatically—and sprawls on the floor, flinging the contents of her tray even farther afield. Ink jars go rolling. Quills fly.

  The guards make noises of impatience, reprimanding her for her clumsiness. They move toward her, batting loose items her way with their boots. She babbles apologies, scooping everything toward her. And then, when the guards are as close to her as it seems they’ll get, her gaze jumps up from her tray, meets mine, and then darts unmistakably to the side.

  There’s now an eight-foot gap between the guards’ backs and the corner of the hall. Without pausing for another breath, I slide forward, gripping my sword and the key ring so they won’t clank. I slip around the corner, skirt a decorative pillar, and lunge toward a line of towering shrubs, their pots each the size of a wagon wheel. I slip into the shadows behind them and edge farther away from the guards, trying to catch my breath against both my ribs and the tension crackling through me.

  I don’t know where I am in the palace, but I don’t have to wait long for answers. As I near another corner, this time to a much smaller service corridor, footsteps sound behind me. Into the darkness of the shrubs comes the scribe. She unceremoniously drops her tray into one of the giant pots and joins me, her eyes wide.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You got out,” she says in an awed whisper. “I never . . . I had no idea you might get out on your own. I was coming to try to break you out.”

  “You were?” I ask. “How?”

  “I . . . I wasn’t sure. I thought I could claim I was bringing supplies down to the record room.”

  “And then what? The keys? The cell guard?”

  She twists her hands. “I didn’t know. I thought something would come to me.”

  I lean back from her, grimacing. “Well, I appreciate your courage, but I’m glad we didn’t have to rely on that plan. What’s your name?”

  “Irena.”

  “I’m Lark,” I say. “Are you Alcoran? That’s an Alcoran name.” And she looks Alcoran—sandy skin and light brown hair like Sedge’s.

  She nods, and her shoulders sag, as if in relief. Her next words are in Eastern, their cadence more natural than the Moquoian she was just speaking. “My sister and I were captured four years ago. I could read and write, so I was sent here. My sister was sent to Tellman’s Ditch.”

  “Are you under bond?”

  “No bond,” she whispers. “It’s forever.”

  “And your sister?”

  “She’s free,” Irena says breathlessly, her eyes fierce and bright. “You broke her out of a wagon when she was being moved to Redalo two years ago.”

  Silence rings between us.

  “I heard the coach drivers talking about it after it happened,” she says. “It wasn’t hard to find the report and see her name on it. Meissa.”

  A sharp memory rushes back to me, of another little girl with similar straw-colored hair and round cheeks.

  “Bitter Springs,” I say. Arana and I had brought her back with the little boy, Lefty.

  She nods. “So you see,” she says, her voice tight, “I had to do something. I couldn’t just leave you down there. I’ll help you escape any way I can.”

  I spare myself a moment to think, but not for long. “I’m not going to escape. Not yet.”

  “Whatever it is, I’ll help you,” she says.

  “You could get in trouble, Irena. You could wind up on the scaffold next to me. You’ve already helped me get away from the guards—you don’t need to feel like you owe me something.”

  She straightens. “I don’t. It’s like that story where the stars leave the sky to follow Justice into battle, and the world goes dark until she wins.”

  I don’t know that story, and I don’t like the idea of drawing her into battle, but I don’t think I can get through this place by myself.

  “Can you get me upstairs?” I ask. “Withou
t being seen?”

  “You’re in luck,” she says. “The first rule for any palace staff is don’t be seen.” She turns and beckons for me to follow her, heading for the service corridor.

  I start after her, instinctively pulling my bandanna up over my nose.

  “I can’t believe in this whole wide palace, I ran into the one person I’ve helped,” I whisper as we turn the corner.

  “Oh no,” she says over her shoulder. “That’s not surprising at all. You’ve helped a lot more than just me.”

  Veran

  This is what I have:

  Iano’s si-oque.

  My parents’ seal ring.

  My chevron-fringe boots, sans their medallions.

  The clothes I’m wearing.

  One copper coin.

  Half a sweet potato hand pie.

  I check all these one final time, along with my surroundings. The sky is drizzly, hiding what must be a waning crescent moon. Before me, Tolukum Palace glows like a pearly orb, its miles of wet glass illuminated by the lanterns within. It splashes light over the wet plaza in front of the great double gates. Beyond it, the city is dark and quiet in the dead of night.

  I take a short breath and step from the shadows. I walk purposefully across the plaza, keeping my arms away from my sides and my gaze on the guards posted above the gate.

  The call to halt comes almost immediately, along with the cranking of several crossbows. I stop. A beam from a lantern is concentrated through a lens. I blink against its light, but I don’t hesitate.

  “Greetings, and a bright Dequasi to you,” I call. “I’m Prince Veran Greenbrier of the Silverwood Mountains, ambassador of the Eastern delegation. I have urgent news regarding Prince Iano Okinot in-Azure and a prisoner in your palace. I have his si-oque here,” I raise my wrist in the air, “as well as the royal seal of the Silverwood. I request an emergency audience with Queen Isme Okinot in-Crimson.”

  There’s a sort of stupefied silence. I bite my lip in an effort to keep from spouting more titles and demands. A few guards murmur, and then several disappear from their posts, leaving the rest to keep their crossbows trained on me. A minute later, the little contingent appears from the tiny guard tower door, eyeing me with heavy suspicion.

  “Show me the si-oque,” the ranking officer commands.

  I do. He reaches toward my wrist, but I draw it back.

  “I must request to keep it, until I am granted an audience with Queen Isme,” I say. “The safety of Prince Iano depends on it.”

  It’s not a lie, ultimately, but I plan to hold off mentioning Lark until I’m facing someone who can do something about it. If they think I’m in league with her, they might not be so keen to let me in.

  “You’re with the Eastern delegation?” the officer asks. “You’re that one who disappeared with the prince?”

  “I am,” I say. “And I assure you, much of what you’ve heard about the past few weeks has been a misunderstanding.”

  “Where is the prince?”

  “Please, grant me an audience with the queen, and I’ll share everything I know.”

  The guards confer quietly, still keeping me covered by their crossbows. I shift on my tired, wet feet.

  After an eternity, the officer nods.

  “I cannot guarantee an audience with the queen,” he says. “But we will bring you inside for the moment. You must submit to being searched.”

  I agree, and they lead me to the guard door. It’s narrow and opens immediately into a steep set of spiraling stairs, so it takes some maneuvering to get inside while they continue to flank me. Once inside, they lead me away from the wall and to the guard room. They search me there. I don’t protest, shivering in bare feet and chest while they prod me and paw through my clothes, inching along the seams and fringe for hidden weapons. They produce the coin and hand pie. They replace the coin but break apart the pie, perhaps checking for a minuscule knife. I watch mournfully—I should have finished it while I had the chance. I’m wearing the si-oque and seal ring again; they study them closely, consulting a box of musty paperwork that details the official symbols of important palace personnel. At long last, they hand me back my wet clothes, stand around watching while I get dressed, and order me to follow them.

  They take me through a service entrance and into the palace. My hands aren’t bound, but the knot of guards presses so closely around me I can barely see through them. When we finally reach the first public hall, I have to blink to be sure I’m recognizing the same place I left three weeks ago. The turquoise is gone, replaced by gold in every imaginable form, but what throws me off the most is the absolute chaos of the formerly serene halls. People rush about, clattering with buckets of gardening tools, hot coals, and cleaning supplies. Carts rumble by with linens, lanterns, and firewood. The windows positively swarm with ladders as glass cleaners methodically polish every possible surface, filling the air with a symphony of discordant squeaks. Below all this racket is the steady hiss of whispering—everyone is whispering.

  I gawk in the same way I did when I first arrived in Tolukum during the day, marveling at the otherworldly glass and color and light. This is the Tolukum I never saw during my stay, the one I always wondered about. This is Tolukum at night, when its aristocratic residents are asleep in soft beds, and the armies of servants and bond slaves emerge to groom it back to elegant perfection. Flanked by the guards and wearing no indication of status, I go completely unnoticed by the servants, who jostle past us in their effort to stay on task.

  The guards lead me up several flights of stairs and down a hallway I recognize as a guest wing for unimportant visitors, one floor down from where Rou and Eloise and I stayed. It’s not the royal apartments, but it’s not the dungeon, either, and I manage to hold my tongue until we arrive at a door.

  “Please,” I say, “do you have news of the Sunshield Bandit?” I try to feign a gossip’s awe. “Is she really here in the palace?”

  The officer grunts as he opens the door to a room. “No questions answered until we’re sure you’re telling the truth.”

  “But—but is she alive?” I ask, too rushed to cover my desperation.

  “No questions,” he repeats. He points into the room. “In.”

  I obey. The room is small and neatly furnished, but spare, with only a bed, a wardrobe, a washstand, and a tiny writing desk under a small window.

  The officer holds out his hand. “Give me your tokens, and I will take your request to the queen.”

  I coil my arm against my stomach. “I told you—I won’t give them up until I’m allowed to see—”

  “I’m not trotting up to the royal wing and telling the guards to rouse her majesty without something to back it up,” he interrupts angrily. “Give them to me, and I’ll take them to records to be officially confirmed by someone who’s allowed to do such a thing. If they’re legitimate, then I will bring your request to the queen, and if she consents, then I will collect you and bring you to an audience room. Until then, you’ll stay here, under guard.” He bounces his open palm impatiently. “Give me the si-oque and the seal.”

  I hesitate—handing them over feels like giving up my only weapons. But I don’t want him to think they won’t be confirmed in the records. With a weight of unease in the pit of my stomach, I unclasp the bronze bracelet. Harder to hand over is the seal, the one remaining token that shows I have any worth at all. I grip it before the guard can take it.

  “I need this back,” I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “As soon as you confirm it.”

  The guard grunts and plucks it out of my fingers. He tucks the two tokens in his belt pouch and steps back into the doorway.

  “Please,” I say quickly. “About the Sunshield Bandit—”

  “No questions,” the guard says, pulling the door. “You’re under guard. Stay.”

  The door shuts. Keys jingle in the lock. Boots shift into place outside, casting bars of shadow in the light under the door.

  I waver in the middle o
f the little room. There’s a tiny grate, but no fire lit, and without a moon in the window, the room is almost pitch black. I go to the door and crouch at the keyhole, but the guard outside is blocking any view into the hallway. I cover the short space to the window and peer out into an awkward view of half a brick pillar and the roof of a colonnade. I crane my head to get a look at the outside wall, but there are no ladders for glass cleaners—this less extravagant part of the palace isn’t made of the soaring panels of glass like the royal wings. Servants probably just give them a quick polish from the inside.

  I shiver, still wet, and go to the bed. I nearly cast myself on it, but a thought of Lark, somewhere here in the palace, deep down below in the even colder prison, or else . . . I vault off the mattress as soon as I touch it. No, I won’t think of Lark already being executed, and I won’t think of sleeping, either. The guard will be back soon. He’ll have confirmed my tokens with records. I have to focus on what I’ll say to the queen. These are the most important words I’ve ever had to say in my life.

  I ignore the bed, and the door, and the window. I pace instead.

  Lark

  Minister Kobok passes by in a waft of steam, clothed in a silk dressing gown that would pay for a wagonload of grain. He sinks into the waiting chair with an appreciative grunt, sticking his feet out, clearly waiting for the servant bobbing nearby to put his slippers on, which are sitting mere inches from his toes.

  I move forward and go for his arms, not his feet. Before he even thinks to open his eyes, the stout golden cord from his curtains is looped over both wrists. I pull it tight, cinching them to the armrests of his chair.

  His bare, perfumed feet thrash. “What the—? What is the meaning of this?” The back legs of the chair thump against the floor, muffled by the carpet.