Floodpath

by Emily B. Martin

  Fala stops so abruptly on the landing below that I barrel into her. She takes one step to steady herself and turns to me, her face rigid with something close to shock.

  “The Sunshield Bandit helped you find Tamsin?”

  “Oh yes,” I say. “Tamsin was drawing bats in her ransom letters—Lark knew right away she must be at Utzibor caverns. Lark didn’t attack Tamsin—she rescued Tamsin.”

  Fala blinks in astonishment. Her hands, smudged with dark polish, grip her skirt.

  “Who else knows about this?” she asks.

  “About Lark? Prince Iano. And Soe—a friend of Tamsin’s. No one else, I think,” I say. “So you can see why I need to speak to the queen.”

  She stares a moment longer. “Yes, I do. Remarkable.” She shakes her head, and her demeanor softens. “Truly remarkable, my lord Veran. Come sit down, and we can sort this out.”

  “With the queen?”

  She waves me down a passage that joins with two others at the landing. I follow her into a wider hall lined with doors. Some are propped open to reveal storage closets or laundry chutes. The air smells of cedar shavings and window polish.

  “Is this the way to the queen?” I ask as Fala shunts me toward the end.

  “It’s too dangerous to move about the palace right now,” she says.

  “But—”

  “I’ll send someone to alert the queen,” she says.

  “I’d really rather speak to her myself,” I protest. “This is too important—what if the guards find Lark?”

  “I’ll have someone alert the guards. Your safety is more important.” We approach the end of the hallway, which opens into a vast workroom scattered with long wooden tables. Doors ring the walls, some with signs for where they lead—the grounds, the laundry, the kitchens, the Hall of the Ashoki. At the end, like an overseer’s platform at a mill, is a raised office fronted with windows. The glass panels are the biggest I’ve seen anywhere in Moquoia aside from the Tolukum atrium, and as Fala leads me up the staircase to it, I realize this must be her headquarters, the hub of servant activity in the palace. Her status as head of staff doesn’t need to be mounted on a plaque when her office boasts glass that rivals any of the windows in the rooms of noble folk.

  Despite the opulent glass, the office inside is cozy and homey, with well-organized stacks of parchment on a carved oak desk. A fire smolders in the grate, throwing our flickering reflections against the large, dark windows in the opposite wall. The pattering of rain and rumble of thunder returns—she must have a view out to the grounds during the day.

  “Please, sit down,” she says, guiding me to a chair beside the desk. Her motherly voice is back now that we’re safe from the danger in the main palace. I sink into the chair, grateful for the chance to sit but wishing I was closer to the fire.

  “Now,” Fala says. “Tell me—the Sunshield Bandit reunited the prince and the ashoki?”

  “Yes,” I say. “But we were all separated again after Lark was recaptured—he stayed behind to look for her. I’m afraid she might have been hurt or—delayed. I don’t know where—”

  “The ashoki is alive,” she interrupts with certainty. “And she’s here in the palace.”

  I blink. “You mean Tamsin? Not Kimela? How do you know?”

  She turns a sheet of paper around on her desk, one that had been sitting out away from all the others, and slides it toward me. I peer at it, recognizing the familiar title.

  “‘The Path of the Flood’ . . . that’s Tamsin’s essay,” I say. “The one she wrote for Kimela. How did you . . . did it come back with the ashoki’s coach?”

  “No,” she says. “It was one of about five dozen scattered around the Bearberry Crossroads. One of my drivers brought it to me this evening. They said similar pamphlets had been distributed up and down the north-south road.”

  “By the Light,” I breathe, looking at the paper again. “She did it—she made it work. Her press, I mean. Tamsin. She made multiple copies of the same essay.” I shake my head, aware I’m babbling. “But . . . how do you know she’s in the palace?”

  “I was informed,” Fala says simply. And then—“You said this friend of Tamsin’s was the only other one who knows about this?”

  “Soe? I think so, aside from Prince Iano,” I say.

  “Does Tamsin know who attacked her outside Vittenta?”

  “No,” I say, my head spinning at the jumps in topic. “All she knew was that it wasn’t the Sunshield Bandit.”

  “Anything else?” she presses. “Did she recall anything else at all?”

  “I . . . don’t think so. They killed her maid,” I say. “Apart from that, I don’t think she remembered anything specific.”

  “She said they killed her maid?” Fala asks sharply.

  “Yes . . . forgive me, I don’t remember her name.”

  “Simea.”

  “Yes! That was it.”

  “She was sure they had killed her maid?”

  “I . . . yes, that’s what she told us.” I shake my head again, trying to tame the flicker of unease needling me. Whether or not Tamsin’s maid was killed months ago doesn’t seem like the most pressing concern at the moment—unless, I suppose, Fala knew the girl personally. Still, there would be time to mourn afresh once the current danger has passed. “Mistress Fala, please—you said you’d send someone to tell the guards to stand down. We can’t let them find Lark, and if Tamsin is here, she could be in danger, too . . .”

  “Yes. Of course.” Fala stands from her desk and goes to the bank of windows facing the workroom. She closes the door behind her and descends the staircase. I watch through the glass as she disappears back into the hall we came through. I take the opportunity to get up and move next to the fire, shivering and holding my numb fingers out to the flames.

  There’s a tortured knot in the pit of my stomach. I’d envisioned returning to Tolukum and bringing everything to a screeching halt, but so far I feel like I’ve barely made a dent. I’m here, but . . . does the queen know? Have the guards found me missing? Or are they more focused on hunting for Lark?

  Surely, if Lark broke out of prison—Lark broke out of prison! I flush with admiration. But surely, she wouldn’t stay in the palace. Why would she? She’s smart. She’d run.

  But . . . Fala seems so sure she’s still in Tolukum.

  Important, and urgent, Mama says.

  I bite my lip.

  It’s important not to be shot in the palace, I guess.

  But . . .

  It’s urgent that Lark and Tamsin not be shot, either.

  Perhaps I can write a note and ask Fala to send it up to Queen Isme. Maybe that’s what I should have done all along, before they took my seal ring away. I turn from the fire to Fala’s desk, arranged with neat files and lit with sweet beeswax candles. There’s a blotter on her desk but no other writing utensils—I cast a quick glance through the glass, trying to shake the feeling of snooping. I open her topmost desk drawer. It’s a collection of stamps and ink, with words like Approved or Denied and a collection of si names and numbers to indicate the date. There’s even a small seal, similar to the Moquoian redwood cone, but with a concentric circle behind it. I give a small shiver . . . it reminds me of the brand on Lark’s arm, and then I realize that’s precisely what it’s supposed to be. The mark of slavery, set right into the seal of the palace staff. I close the drawer quickly, reminded uncomfortably of the Hires and how they’ve adapted that concentric circle as their own mark, too.

  What a little monarchy Fala is in charge of—almost a court within a court, with its own hierarchy and laws. From the highest-paid royal attendants down to the lowliest unbonded slaves.

  I yank open the next drawer down and am relieved to find ink bottles and quills. Behind them, shoved oddly toward the back of the drawer, is paper, but it’s all folded. I rifle for the top piece and have it halfway out when I realize it’s not blank. Oops. I’m sliding it back into place when the corner catches on the ink bottles, and I get a be
tter look at the writing under the fold.

  An M, scrabbled with a flourish that looks like a bat.

  The hinges on the glass door swing. I slam the drawer and straighten, my heart pounding. Fala stands in the doorway, a mug in her hand.

  For a moment, there’s only the sound of rain beating on glass as we stare at each other.

  “I—” I begin. My mind is spinning. “Forgive me, I was looking for parchment. I thought I might write Queen Isme a note.”

  Her gaze flicks to the desk, and I will myself not to look down at the second drawer. In the folds of my damp clothes, I rub my fingertips together, recognizing the rough grain of the paper, made from desert sawgrass, so different from the smooth vellum used in Moquoia.

  Fala smiles at me, the same kindly expression she’s granted me so many times before—while doctoring my feet, or explaining the court to me, or guiding me out of danger.

  She closes the glass door behind her. She takes out a key on a chain of others and turns the lock.

  She gestures to the mug in her hand. Now that I look closer, the polish stains I saw her wiping from her skin earlier don’t look quite so much like polish.

  “Tea?” she asks.

  Tamsin

  Lark and I pull up short at the corner where the staff halls open into the public halls.

  “Dammit,” she whispers.

  Even though the Hall of the Ashoki sits just across the open atrium, there’s a cluster of guards around the entrance, and more rushing about with loaded crossbows. Too many to distract, or fight.

  Lark flexes her fingers in agitation. Is there a different way in? she signs.

  I bite my lip. There are terraces. But they may be locked.

  Her quick eyes scan the atrium, landing on the glass doors through the cedar trees. She nods at them. Can we use those?

  I waver my hand in uncertainty. They don’t connect directly. We may have to use some service ladders.

  She grimaces but nods again. We start toward the trees, slipping through the garden beds. The atrium is dim, many of its lamps left unlit in the staff’s abrupt retreat. Lightning flashes, lighting up the rain smearing the glass walls. We reach the doors to the exterior terraces, and Lark pushes the handle.

  “Locked,” she whispers. “Of course—they’ve sealed the palace.” She digs in her pockets and brings out a ring of keys—they must be the ones she stole from the prison guard. She holds several up to the lock, but it’s clear this won’t work—they’re all twice the size of the keyhole.

  “Dammit,” she mutters again.

  I bite my lip. There are service entrances, but I don’t know the passages.

  From the trees behind us comes a call.

  “Three of you—with me! There’s a commotion in the clerks’ offices!”

  We jump at the voice and the sound of rattling weapons that follows it. In the next flash of lightning, I meet Lark’s gaze.

  Soe, I think.

  “Irena,” she mutters.

  “Hey!” calls another voice. “There are tracks here, leading across the tiles.”

  We look down between us, where our muddy boots have left a line of prints.

  “Go,” Lark murmurs, pushing me along the glass wall. She slides her sword from its sheath and follows as I hurry along the curve of the wall, one hand on the glass. Behind us, foliage rustles and snaps as soldiers comb through the gardens, searching for our prints in the soft soil and shouting when they find them.

  Ahead, the glass ends at a solid wall, where a service door sits ajar. We reach it just as the guards behind us break free of the foliage. They shout at us to halt; a crossbow crank winds. We swing through the door and Lark slams it shut, but there’s no bolt inside, only a narrow staircase rising into darkness. With no other options, we thunder upward—I can hear Lark’s ragged breathing, mine not much better, followed by the renewed shouts of the guards.

  At the top of the staircase is a landing that stretches in two directions—with no inkling of which way to go, I veer to the left simply because it’s darker. Lark follows, and we run. We turn one corner, and then another, and I pull up short just in time to avoid slamming into a door. Lark slows at the last second, throwing her sword wide to keep from skewering me with it. It drags a gouge in the wall. Around the corner behind her comes the clamoring of boots and voices.

  The door has a bolt—I throw it and push it open. We’re met with a curtain of shocking rain, icy and stinging. It sluices off the castle walls and splashes off the paving stones of a long terrace. Lark pushes me through the door and slams it shut behind us, keeping her grip on the handle. Squinting in the driving rain, we both look frantically around the terrace for something to bar the door. This must serve as a landing platform for staff—ladders stretch up the walls in intervals, and there are jumbles of gardening supplies stashed in alcoves.

  There’s a thump at the door, and Lark’s wrist twitches as she fights to keep the knob from turning. She grits her teeth and nods at the nearest alcove, water streaming from her hat.

  “There,” she says.

  I pull the tarp off a collection of empty stone planters. One by one I roll them to the door and prop them against the wood. A rake jammed against the knob and lodged into the pavers is the finishing touch—not exactly a fortress, but it might hold for a minute or two. Lark steps away from the door, watching as it strains against the planters, and nods.

  “Good enough,” she says, and then looks down the terrace.

  “Ah,” I say, pointing to the end of the platform. There’s another door.

  We hurry to it, and I grip the knob. I groan.

  “Locked?” Lark asks.

  I nod, and together we look blearily up at the ladders soaring into the darkness, their rungs ringing with rain.

  We don’t have a chance to pick one, though. The doorknob rattles under my palm, and I snatch my fingers away. There’s the sound of a bolt sliding back.

  Lark grabs my arm and drags me into the nearest alcove. We stumble amid a stand of shovels and broken bricks, falling clumsily against the alcove wall. I hear Lark hiss in pain as my feet slip and I press into her ribs, but she grips my arm to keep me from falling.

  It’s a terrible hiding spot—we’re hidden by the darkness, but one lightning flash and we’ll be neatly cornered targets to anyone on the terrace. Fish in a barrel.

  We hear the door open.

  With it comes the sound of someone wailing, a high, keening cry.

  A knot of guards spills out, their backs to us. Lightning glints off their crossbow quarrels and sword points. They fan out into a half-circle, and the foremost throws a figure onto the wet paving stones.

  It’s Irena.

  “It wasn’t me!” she cries, curling up with her arms over her head. “I swear, it wasn’t me!”

  The guard raises his crossbow to sight.

  Lark spasms with anger, and with a roar, she pushes me aside and barrels from the alcove, her sword up. Surprise saves her—the guards barely have time to whirl around in the darkness before she’s on them. There are thumps and cries, and the sounds of splintering wood and winding cranks. A shattered crossbow clatters to the stones.

  I scramble forward and grab Irena’s arm, tugging her off the ground. She looks up, panicked, and blanches when she sees me. A crossbow fires, the quarrel whizzing overhead, and Irena stumbles to her feet. I drag her toward the now-unlocked service door, throwing a glance over my shoulder. On the other side of the terrace, there’s a burst of clattering stone—the guards have forced open the other door. Planters go rolling across the terrace.

  “Lark!” I shout.

  She’s broken two more crossbows and drawn a misfire from a third, leaving the little group scrambling to draw swords in the cramped space. She doesn’t wait for them to finish—she turns and runs after me, swinging into the service entrance and hauling the door shut. With fumbling fingers, I throw the lock, and then I pull Irena down the narrow corridor. She’s crying, her free hand clutching her f
ace.

  We reach a junction with two other hallways, an oily lantern burning on the corner. I slow to a halt, holding my breath and straining to hear, but there’s no sound from any direction. Behind me, Irena puts her palms over her face again, this time to muffle her sobs. Lark hunches against the wall, gripping her ribs and wheezing painfully.

  I turn back to the two of them, my heart thudding. In the dim light, I see dark streaks on Irena’s face from her sleeve. I snatch her arm and hold it toward the lantern, but there’s no rip or wound.

  “I’m sorry,” she says in an anguished whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  I stare at her. “Wha’ happen?”

  “Your friend,” she says. “Soe.”

  Soe? What about Soe? She was right here. I grab her shoulders. “Wha’?”

  “We got to records,” she says unsteadily. “And went inside, and Soe told me to check that room for the seal ring while she looked in the other one. And she went in, and I could hear her talking to M-Mistress Fala, and Soe did just like you said, asking about the ring, and the Hires, and telling her you were here, and . . . I stayed in the other room—we’re not supposed to speak to upper staff, so I just stayed in the other room, looking through the papers, and then there was a bump, and a cry, and then . . .” She covers her face with her hands, her whole body trembling. “And then moaning—a terrible moan . . .”

  I shake her shoulders, ice coursing through my veins, trying to force her to continue. Lark is staring at her, still bent painfully over her ribs.

  “Did you see her?” Lark asks, and her voice is calm—not at all like the whirlwind starting up in my head.

  Irena nods behind her hands. “I heard the other door slam, and I went in, and there she was on the floor—your friend, and blood . . .” She takes a breath. “I screamed. I shouldn’t have—it was stupid, but I couldn’t help it. It brought the guards—they found me kneeling beside her, trying to cover the wounds . . .”