Floodpath

by Emily B. Martin

  Iano rubs his forehead worriedly. “If we could just take care of even one of our unknowns, it could make all the difference—who our enemy is, whether Veran’s here, whether Lark is okay . . .”

  In a moment so perfectly scripted it couldn’t have been carried out better on a stage, lightning flashes across the glass, the branches above us shake, and the Sunshield Bandit drops like a meteor into our midst.

  Soe shrieks. Iano stumbles backward and hits the glass wall. I clap my hand over my mouth. Enna and her cadre all draw their weapons and charge toward us. Rat, however, erupts from his progress on the ficus and leaps into Lark’s arms. She grapples with him, squeezing him tightly.

  “You’re here—you’re alive!” Iano exclaims, his back and palms flat against the glass. He quickly straightens and waves at Enna as she reaches us. “No, it’s fine, she’s fine—I just . . .” He shakes his head at Lark. “I swear every time I think you can’t surprise me . . .”

  “That is why you could never catch me,” Lark replies.

  He draws in a breath of patience but gestures at Enna again. “It’s fine. Truly.”

  We’d told Enna about Lark’s innocence—at least in the current affairs—on the road, but the guard still keeps her gaze warily on us as she guides her cadre back to their lookout post.

  I turn to Lark, not bothering to hide my admiration. You’re not in prison, I sign. What did you do, kick down the door?

  She grimaces. “I maybe attacked the cell guard and stole her keys.”

  Iano groans.

  Lark looks around. “Where’s Veran?”

  “We don’t know,” Soe says.

  “You don’t know?” she repeats.

  “He was making for the palace last we saw him, but that was two days ago.”

  “Alone?” she asks.

  “Alone,” Iano confirms.

  “We couldn’t talk him out of it,” Soe says.

  Lark’s eyes glitter above her bandanna, but before she can lay into us, the trees rustle again. With much more timidity and less fanfare than Lark, another figure comes clambering down the trunk, breathing fast. She drops to the ground and then freezes, eyeing all of us. She’s wearing the plain, dark uniform of the palace staff.

  “This is Irena,” Lark says. “She helped me get past the prison guards, and find you. She will not get in trouble for this,” she says fiercely, turning her glare on Iano. “If something bad happens to her, I’ll kill you, I swear.”

  He gives her a pained look. “You have to try to stop threatening death to people.”

  “I will when they stop doing it to me,” she replies flatly. “Promise me she won’t get in trouble.”

  “I promise, but listen, we still don’t have answers,” Iano says. “Until we know who organized the attack on Tamsin, none of us are actually safe.”

  “It wasn’t Kobok,” Lark says.

  How do you know? I ask, at the same time that Iano and Soe voice the same thing.

  She shifts. “I asked him.”

  “You asked him?” Iano says incredulously.

  “Yes, very nicely,” she says without any hint of amusement. “He says he didn’t make Tamsin’s fake si bracelet. He said it was left in his room. It made him panic—he thought someone was threatening him about Port Iskon.”

  Did you find out where Port Iskon is? I sign quickly.

  “It’s not a place,” Lark says, an ugly edge to her voice. “It’s the name of an old black market ring. They started using it on Alcoran captives’ papers fifteen years ago to sidestep bond limits—and to cover up the abduction of the Lumeni princess.”

  My stomach flips. Silence rings among us, our faces all frozen in shock and horror. Iano struggles to find a response.

  “How is that possible?” he begins. “That kind of corruption . . .”

  Lark whirls on him. “I swear I will kill you,” she repeats, “if you can still defend him.”

  He ruffles in irritation, and to my surprise, he draws himself up, throwing his shoulders back in a mirror of hers. In a flash, she shifts her weight, dropping Rat and squaring toward Iano, fists clenched. Dammit. We have barely minutes to spare, and I’m about to have to break up a fist fight between the prince and the Sunshield Bandit.

  “Hey,” I say, putting a palm on both of their shoulders.

  But Iano doesn’t break Lark’s gaze. “My esteemed political ally,” he says in his addressing-the-court voice. “My lady princess of Lumen Lake and representative of the Allied East, I was going to say that that kind of corruption is grounds for prison, indefinitely.”

  My gaze goes from Lark’s sparking eyes to his. Lark pauses, digesting his words, and then her lips bend into a half grin. She holds up her palm. Stiffly, with his chin serenely raised—but with a definite twitch at the corner of his own lips—he slaps his palm against hers. She resolves it into a firm handshake.

  “Finally, something we agree on, outlaw to outlaw,” she says.

  I let out my breath and drop my hands from their shoulders. Congratulations. Now—our plan.

  “Our plan,” Soe echoes drily. “So far we know that our enemy probably isn’t Minister Kobok, and that Lark isn’t dead.”

  “Yet,” Lark says.

  We still don’t know about Veran, and we still need to talk to Fala and the queen, I say. At my side, Irena stares blankly at my fingers.

  “She’s signing,” Soe explains to her. “Talking with her hands.”

  But Irena doesn’t take her eyes away. “I beg your pardon, but where did you get that si-oque?”

  I twist my wrist to show the amber cabochons. This? It’s mine.

  Soe translates for her.

  “But . . . if it’s here, on your wrist, what’s the one in the Hall of the Ashoki?” Irena asks. “In the display case beside the empty pedestal? It looks practically the same.”

  We all pause for a moment.

  “The forgery,” Iano says. “It must be. They must have put it in your display case, Tamsin.”

  “We should get it,” Lark says. “If we can show it with Tamsin’s real one, it proves someone has been working against the country.”

  “And,” Soe points out, “it could draw out our enemy—once they hear we’re in the palace, they might go to the Hall of the Ashoki to retrieve it.”

  We’re quiet a moment, thinking.

  “Okay,” I say. I gesture for Lark to repeat my words, so I know everyone understands me plainly. Here is our plan. Iano—you go to your mother with the guards. Tell her everything, and stop the hunt for Lark. Soe—you go find Fala. Bring Irena. Tell her we need to talk to her right away, to ask who she suspects may be with the Hires, and if anyone disappeared at the same time as Poia. Lark and I will go to the Hall of the Ashoki. If our enemy shows themselves, Lark can detain them.

  She winces as she finishes translating. “Not for long.”

  By then we’ll have the guards back on our side, I assure her.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” she says.

  “Where can I find Fala?” Soe asks. “Does she have a . . . room, or an office?”

  “She’s in records,” Irena says, so quietly I almost don’t hear her. “At least, she was earlier.”

  “That’s where her office is?” Soe asks.

  “Oh no, her office is in the staff corridors, at the head of the main workroom. She was in records to validate something—she’s had to do that sort of thing since Beskin left.”

  We all go still.

  “Beskin?” Iano repeats.

  Beskin was in records? I ask, my fingers fumbling.

  “Yes, but she left,” Irena says again.

  “Was she a Hire?” Lark asks.

  Irena’s eyes drop, and she fiddles with the sleeve that covers her slave brand. “I don’t rightly know. But it wouldn’t surprise me. She wouldn’t be the only one on staff.”

  Iano turns to Soe. “This makes Fala even more crucial. Tell her we need to see her immediately.”

  She nods and joi
ns Irena. I move toward Lark, but to my surprise, she doesn’t budge.

  “Wait,” she says. “We’re still forgetting Veran. We don’t have any idea where he is?” She looks at Irena. “Have you heard anything about him?”

  “Who?” she asks.

  “Veran Greenbrier—foreign prince with green eyes and a hero complex?” she says. “Real pretty hair?”

  I snort, but Lark is being serious. Irena looks perplexed, so Iano adds, “The translator from the Eastern delegation.”

  “Sorry,” she says. “I haven’t heard anything. Though the guards did bring a ring with a foreign symbol on it up to records. That’s what Fala had to validate.”

  “A ring?” Lark says quickly. “A silver one? With a bug on it?”

  “I don’t know,” Irena whispers, twisting her hands—she clearly wants to have better answers.

  I touch Lark’s sleeve. I don’t think we can worry about Veran right now.

  She pivots to me, gripping her sword hilt. “I worry about that idiot constantly. Why should they have his seal ring if he’s not in trouble? What if they’re trying to identify his body?”

  “Soe can check to see if it was really his, when she goes up to records with Irena,” Iano says. “But Tamsin’s right, Lark—we can’t worry about Veran. We have to pinpoint our enemy first.”

  Her mouth twists. “And if our enemy decides he’s a target, too?”

  “I don’t think they will,” he assures her. “If the guards really did have his seal ring, and validated it, they’ll know who he is—if he’s here, he’s being well-guarded. He’s safer than we are.”

  Lark grinds her teeth, but I bump her elbow. Please, Lark. We’ll help Veran soon—but we can’t if we don’t catch our enemy, and we’re running out of time.

  She blows out a frustrated breath, but finally nods. “All right. The Hall of the Ashoki.”

  Soe turns to follow Irena. “See you all soon.”

  Iano clasps my shoulder as he moves past me. “I’ll meet you at the Hall. Be safe.”

  “Pff,” I reply. No time to be safe.

  “Try anyway,” he says drily. He looks to Lark. “You, too. We can finish this thing tonight—nobody else has to get hurt.”

  She pauses, and then stiffly bends down and gathers Rat in her arms. She straightens and turns to Iano. “Take Rat with you. Find a safe place to put him—give him some water, and somewhere to lie down. I am afraid if he’s with us in the palace, the guards will shoot him.”

  To my utter astonishment, Iano accepts the damp, muddy dog and bundles him in his own arms, his face grave at the responsibility just entrusted to him. “I will.”

  Lark presses her forehead once against Rat’s, and then, with another sigh, turns back to me. With that, we part ways, our footsteps underscored by the drumming of rain and the dwindling descant of Rat’s anxious cries.

  Veran

  I rouse from sleep at the sound of voices outside my door. Guilt washes over me at the realization that I dozed off, wrapped in the bed quilt and propped up in the desk chair. I hurriedly shake off the stiffness in my neck and jump to my feet, preparing for the guards to open the door.

  But they don’t. I hear muffled commands, punctuated with urgency. Boots tromp, brass jingles. The bars of shadow leave the crack under my door, and the keyhole glints with light again. I go to it and peer through. The hall is empty. There’s a sound of rushing footsteps, and after a moment two figures run past, clutching the weapons on their belts to keep them from jostling. Then it goes silent again.

  I wait a few more minutes, but no one reappears. When my knees start to protest, I stand up.

  I rap on the door.

  “Hey,” I call. “Is anyone out there?”

  No answer.

  I test the handle. It’s still locked.

  I take a few paces backward and simply stare at the door. Did all the guards go to alert the queen? How long was I asleep? I’m thirsty and tired, but that’s not much indication. My clothes are still damp, but the room is cold, so that’s not surprising either. I go to the window and peer into the sky, but it doesn’t help—it’s still dark and cloudy. A flicker of light catches my eye, and I look down into the colonnade. Lanterns bob haphazardly between the pillars, as if a group of people are heading somewhere at a run.

  At a loss, I resume the pacing I’d been doing before I fell asleep, interspersed with checking the window. As time passes, lamps are lit in all the windows I can see from mine, as well as the colonnade. Twice, a bell rings from somewhere outside, but I don’t know what it means, and no one returns to my door.

  After an unknown length of time, I can’t stand it anymore. I knock and call again, to no avail.

  I’m locked in a room in Tolukum Palace with no food or water, and the guards that had been outside my door have gone. Something is going on outside to draw them away. Has Iano returned to the palace? Has there been an attack? Has—my body flushes with fear—has the queen decided to conduct a late-night execution?

  I stand still in the middle of the room, worrying my lip. What do I have?

  Not much.

  They took the si-oque and my seal. I have no real clout anymore. I have my battered boots, my clothes, and a single copper coin.

  More! Mama calls. You have more!

  I look around the room. The lanterns from outside have brightened things a little, and my night vision is sharp from the long hours of darkness. I move to the shadowy desk and open the single drawer. I creep my fingers through the contents, which are predictable and ordinary—a few sheets of parchment, two quills, a jar of ink, a blotter, a penknife . . .

  I halt on the penknife. Memories flood back of Eloise’s uncle Arlen sitting with us on the floor of the map room—he’d been supposed to be giving us a lesson in defensive cartography—showing us how to jimmy the lock on the door with a penknife and one of Eloise’s hairpins. I picked the lock on Tamsin’s door in Utzibor. If I can find a pin, I can do it here.

  I grope through the rest of the drawer, but there’s nothing else apart from some wax. The washstand isn’t any more helpful, nor is the firebox. If only I had my firefly pin! I crab blindly through the room, hoping for inspiration, until I reach the door. I’m feeling along the frame, wondering if there’s a nail I could work out of place, when my fingers hit a small metal object hanging on a hook. I pause, feeling the shape of it and wondering if I can bend the hook straight, when finally my brain catches up, and I feel exceptionally stupid.

  This isn’t a prison cell. It’s a guest room. Nobody locks their guests up—of course the key would be hanging by the door. The only people with keys to the outside are probably servants and guards.

  I take the key off the hook, my face hot in the darkness. I nearly throw the penknife back onto the bed in disgust, but the next moment I pocket it instead.

  Stealing from the palace, I think, slightly giddy and disoriented. If I wasn’t an outlaw before, I am now.

  I fit the key in the lock and turn it. Carefully, I poke my head into the hall. It’s utterly silent and deserted, with only a few lamps lit at haphazard intervals. I open the door wider and step out, straining my ears for noise. But there’s nothing—not murmuring voices or quick footsteps or the distant buzz of the army of servants.

  I make a hasty decision, heading down the hall toward the main atrium, hoping that if I run into the guards, I can bluster my way through with pompous royal affront at being locked up, wet and thirsty and under suspicion. But I meet no one in the atrium. Buckets and mops are strewn around, some in patches of suds. A bundle of linens lay draped over a railing, as if flung down in haste. I creep through the abandoned atrium, uneasy.

  Where is everyone?

  The boles of the indoor cedar forest rise at the center of the atrium. I’m in their midstory. The royal chambers are near the canopy, on the opposite side of the atrium. Without hesitating any longer, I start around the landing circling the trees. Rain drums on the dark glass, punctuated by lightning. The storm h
as grown.

  I’m halfway around the landing, near a hallway I vaguely remember as leading to clerk offices, when a door slams. Footsteps hurry up the hallway. I tense, but as I recognize the person who appears, I sigh with relief.

  “Mistress Fala! By the Light, I’m glad to see you.”

  She halts as soon as she sees me, her hands busy with a rag. “Prince Veran? I’d heard you were in the palace—I was coming to find you.”

  “Do you know what’s going on? I was brought in by the guards, but they disappeared, and I need to speak to the queen. It’s about Tamsin, and Prince Iano. I’m worried the guards won’t let me through . . .”

  She shoves the rag into her pocket and beckons. “Come with me.”

  “Thank you,” I say, holding my palms out gratefully as she heads to a service door. I follow her into a narrow, low-ceilinged hall, its bare wood and ungraceful hurricane lanterns a stark contrast to the lavish public halls. She leads me down it at a fast walk—I pant to keep up.

  “What’s going on?” I ask again. “Where is everyone?”

  “The Sunshield Bandit is loose in the palace,” she says without slowing down. “She broke out of the prison and is somewhere inside. The whole place is on lockdown.”

  My heart practically vaults out of my chest. “She’s alive? She’s in the palace?”

  “Yes, and her accomplices may be here as well. If you don’t want to be accidentally shot by the guards, you need to stay somewhere safe.”

  My joy freezes into terror. “Shot?”

  “Of course—the guards have orders to shoot on sight. Anyone wandering about could be working with her.” Fala’s usually kind voice is emotionless, distracted, almost snappish. She’s worried, I realize.

  “But—but Lark—the Sunshield Bandit, that’s her name—she’s innocent! I mean, not innocent . . .”

  “She murdered the last ashoki,” Fala says sharply.

  “No, she didn’t!” My voice comes in gasps as I follow her brisk steps down a cramped staircase. “She didn’t attack Tamsin outside Vittenta—and Tamsin didn’t die, either! She’s alive. We found her, Lark and I—we rode out to Utzibor in the desert and found her, and brought her back. That’s where Iano and I went—”