by Liz Flanagan
For my daughters, with love and admiration xxx
Title Page
Dedication
Arcosi map
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Part Two
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Part Three
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Part Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Part Five
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Milla was hiding in an orange tree on the day the dragons returned to Arcosi. She was busy ignoring anyone who called for her, just as stubbornly as she ignored the twigs that were poking into her back or scratching her arms or tangling her curly black hair. She was small enough to be completely hidden by the dense green foliage, making it the ideal hiding place right there in the middle of it all, between the main building of the Yellow House and its kitchen building.
If she turned her head, she could gaze down over the garden wall to the city rooftops below and count the ships approaching the harbor. She breathed in the hot, busy smell of Arcosi, the city she loved: dusty stone, foul drains, rotting fish, salt, spice, and blossom.
Being hidden brought Milla the first rest of the day. She felt the wobble in her legs and an airy, untethered feeling that told her she’d missed a meal. She reached out and picked a sun-warmed orange, peeling it with her dirty nails and sucking the juice from the flesh till it ran down her chin, before throwing the evidence over the garden wall.
She began to feel better. She was sure no one meant to give her too much work. It was just that the moment anyone saw the youngest servant, they’d say, “Milla! Job for you!”—not realizing half a dozen others had already said the same thing. It was a point of honor never to say no, never to say she was too tired. She made herself useful. Indispensable. She would never find herself out on the streets like a stray cat. For in these strange days, when the duke’s soldiers roamed the streets day and night, and rumor flew faster than a hawk sighting prey, the whole city felt like some great beast, waking hungry from a long sleep. At twelve years old, Milla already knew that everyone needed a place of safety. Somewhere to belong.
Just then, Milla heard voices approaching. For a change, they were not calling her name.
Two figures paused almost directly below her. She saw Lanys, the other servant girl, and a strange man wearing a dark blue, salt-stained cloak pulled low over his face. Lanys must have been covering the gate while the guards took a break by the well.
“Wait here, sir. I’ll fetch the master, if you pass me the token?” That was Lanys, being careful. Everyone knew you didn’t let any old traveler through your gates, not these days.
“Take it. Give it only to Nestan.” The stranger’s deep voice shook slightly. And the accent? Milla couldn’t place it, rare for her. It sounded rusty, unused to the long vowel sounds of Norlandish, the official language of the island of Arcosi.
“Please, be seated.” Lanys indicated the carved stone bench next to the fountain. “I’ll bring refreshments when I return.”
But the stranger didn’t sit.
Milla nearly yelped when his hand brushed through the branches right next to her left foot. His hand was tanned deep brown, wrinkled as a peach stone, and holding an oddly shaped bag, something like a double pannier for a mule, only smaller. The man blindly hooked the bag around the same branch Milla was sitting on, but he kept checking behind him and didn’t notice there was a girl roosting in his chosen hiding place.
She stared at the bag: there were four deep pockets of woven silk, two now hanging either side of the widest branch. They were roundish, as if they contained water jars. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, and she was drawn to it like a moth to a candle flame. She prodded one carefully—firm and well padded—and tried to guess what was inside. What needed hiding so urgently? Rubies? Poison? Firepowder? She pulled her hand away swiftly and checked that the bag wasn’t going to tumble down and blow her and the orange tree to ash and bone.
A new voice spoke below her, and she almost fell off her perch. Milla was known for her finely tuned hearing, but this person must have feather feet to creep up so silently.
“Where is it?” the new voice hissed, so low and so menacing she could barely make out the words. “Give it to me.”
Who was it? She peered through the dark green leaves.
A gloved hand pressed a knife against the cloaked man’s throat.
“Now!” the newcomer said. He was dressed all in black, with a black-and-gold mask covering his face, as if he was on his way to the evening’s entertainment at the palace.
The first man didn’t speak. He jabbed his attacker in the ribs with one elbow and tried to twist away. Milla caught fleeting sight of a strange tattoo inked on his inner wrist: a circle and something like a bird.
The masked stranger was quicker. His knife dug into the flesh of the man’s neck. A thin trickle of blood ran down the blade.
Milla gathered herself, preparing to swing down feetfirst—with enough force, she could probably send them both flying—when she heard the master’s voice in the distance, raised in anger, “… and my daughter knows very well that we’re due at the palace after sunset …”
Her fingers gripped the branch so hard that her knuckles showed pale. She should move. Now. But no part of her body obeyed her.
“Sir, let me go and look for Lady Tarya, while you meet with—” Lanys’s words came to an abrupt halt. She and Nestan must have reached the arched entrance to the courtyard.
Milla heard the whisper of steel as Nestan drew his sword. His war injuries might slow him a little, but Milla wouldn’t want to bet against Nestan in a fight. She craned her neck, trying to see through the leaves.
The masked man spun around to face them, pulling the inert body of the other with him.
The first man managed to gasp against the blade: “Never!”
It was his last word.
Afterward, Milla was glad they’d turned from her.
She still saw the sudden spray of scarlet against a terra-cotta pot. She heard the heavy slump as the body hit the ground. She saw a blur of black as the assassin fled.
Lanys screamed, piercingly loud, drawing guards from the kitchen yard.
“Catch him! A man in black, masked, with a knife!” Nestan bellowed the alarm and rushed
down the stairs from the house. “Quickly! He’s getting away.”
Milla heard the clattering of boots as the household guards ran out of the gate in pursuit. She heard Nestan approaching, the metallic scrape as he sheathed his blade.
Milla had her eyes screwed shut. She clung to her branch, concentrating on just breathing and trying not to be sick. It needed all her attention. She’d seen plenty of dockside brawls, or city folk being dragged off by the duke’s soldiers. But she’d never seen someone killed before. She could have stopped this. Why hadn’t she acted when she’d had the chance? She’d hidden, like a mouse. Now a man was dead.
She opened her eyes and took a long, slow, shuddering breath.
“He knew,” Nestan said, half to himself.
Milla watched him through a gap in the leaves.
He was staring at the growing pool of crimson by his feet, turning a coin over and over between left fingers and thumb. “He knew to send this coin so I would come. Now we won’t learn what message was worth dying for.”
“He—he—he knew the password,” Lanys stammered slowly. “That’s why—that’s why I unlocked the gates.” She bent forward, her auburn hair bright in the sunshine as she sank down onto her knees, her hands flying up to her face like startled doves. “I don’t know how the masked man got through …” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“Yes, that’s the real mystery here. The assassin knew exactly when my guards would take their break today. I wonder …” Nestan’s voice trailed off.
Milla was a loyal servant: she should tell the master what the stranger had hidden in the tree. Something worth killing for. Something worth dying for. But, for once, she was speechless. Her mouth felt dry and sour with shock, while her stomach turned over. She sat there, trembling and clinging to the branches.
One of the guards who’d given chase jogged back into the courtyard. “Sir, we lost him. In that crowd: no chance.”
How clever the assassin was! Tonight was the duke’s Fifty-Year Ball: the streets were full of the city’s revelers in their finest clothes, all wearing masks. It would be impossible to find this man again, Milla realized.
Nestan’s wondering came to an abrupt halt. He snapped his fingers to Lanys and the guardsman. “Clear this up, before the twins see it. Double the watch on the gate.” He limped away, shouting, “Where are my children, anyway? Isak? Has anyone seen the Lady Tarya?”
Lanys got up and stumbled after the master, and they both vanished into the cool interior of the house. The guardsman bent and lifted the cloaked man’s body under his arms, dragging him away and leaving a bright scarlet smear on the stone tiles.
How could the duke’s ball be more important than a man’s life snuffed out before their eyes? Milla felt dazed.
The strange pannier hung there, gleaming. It called to her, like a sweet and tempting song. She touched the silk with one shaky finger. She wouldn’t lift it down; not now, with the house in turmoil: Lanys would only snatch it from her immediately.
“I’m coming back for you later,” she said, and jumped down from the tree. Knees weak, she staggered, then caught herself, blinking the stars from her vision.
She took one long moment to look down at the blood, to stare straight at it and bear witness. This was real. This had happened. And she wondered who would mark this stranger’s passing? As nausea rose again, Milla felt the narrowness of her life, her duties closing in on her like a snare.
She did the only thing it was in her power to do: “I’m sorry. I’ll look after your bag, I promise,” she whispered to the man’s spilled blood.
Then she ran to warn the twins that they had to move fast.
One glance at the western seas showed Milla she didn’t have long. The sinking sun stole color from the sea till it was as pale blue as a blackbird’s egg.
If the twins were late for the duke’s ball … If Nestan thought it was all her fault … Milla ran, even though her legs still shook. She darted along the polished floor of the master’s favorite room, with huge arched windows facing southwest so Nestan could look down on his ships and warehouses far below.
Lanys was lugging a huge jar of water and a handful of rags back outside. Her face, white as curdled milk, mirrored Milla’s shock back at her.
“Where have you been?” Lanys snapped, with more venom than usual. “The twins have to get ready, but I’ve an urgent job for the master, so you’d better jump to it.” Even in the midst of horror, Lanys managed to make this about point scoring. “Remind me again, why does he keep you?”
“I’m looking for the twins right now!” Milla was used to ignoring her meanness. Her stomach turned over as she realized what job Lanys had been sent to do. “Have you seen them?”
“Well, I thought Isak was in the practice yard.” Lanys tilted her head, listening. “But then who’s the master yelling at upstairs … ?”
Milla didn’t wait for the rest. She rushed through the house, taking the stairs two at a time, following the sound of raised voices. She flattened herself against the wall outside Isak’s room and peeked through the open doorway.
“And you tell me this now?” Isak’s voice was almost unrecognizable. Hoarse with held-back tears. “You can’t just …”
Milla heard Isak gulp down a sob. Was he crying over the dead man? She edged closer.
Isak was standing by the window with his back to his father, all stiff and hunched over. His breathing was still wheezy from being ill last year, and his eyeglasses were slipping sideways. He took them off: two little circles of glass, connected by wire, that sat on his nose. Nestan had brought this rare device home from a long voyage, and Isak wore them all the time. She saw him knock back a little glass vial of his medicine, scrub at his face with his knuckles, and put his glasses back on.
With her heart still turning somersaults of alarm, Milla chose to do what she did best: she listened.
“Better?” Nestan checked his son, the in-out, in-out of Isak’s labored breathing growing gradually smoother. “But I told you as soon as it was arranged. And yes, I can. That’s just it.” Nestan’s voice rose in volume. He reached out, as if to grasp Isak’s arm. Then he changed his mind and rubbed his hands over his beard so it rasped.
Milla felt suddenly cold, even in the muggy corridor, and wrapped her arms around her rib cage. What had he arranged? Something so important it rattled even Nestan, who could look at a dead man with detached calm. Her thoughts circled back to the murdered man, to his mysterious bag. She pictured it, hanging there, waiting for her. She tugged her thoughts away, catching the end of Nestan’s next words.
“… I want to give you what I didn’t have. What I had to work for. Why can’t you see?”
“Maybe because I’m not you?” Isak spoke in gasping phrases. “Because I want something else? And you’d know that if you ever bothered to talk to me.”
Milla winced, but it was true. Nestan was either traveling or busy with work, and rarely sought out either twin. Their mother, Vianna, had died ten years ago. Since then, they’d run wilder than any other merchant’s children, till Nestan finally noticed and imposed a new regime of lessons they both hated.
“How did I end up with such a spoiled child? Will you not see how lucky you are? It’s not a punishment, Isak!” Nestan roared at his son.
“You sure? That’s exactly what it feels like. Punishment for not being the son you wanted!” Isak spun on his heel, backlit so Milla couldn’t see his expression. “I see how you look at us—sickly son, bold daughter—as if you’d like us to switch places.”
Nestan gasped as if he’d been struck.
Milla covered her mouth with clammy fingers so she didn’t gasp, too. Isak never yelled. He was quiet. Dry. Funny. Kind. Hearing his raised voice only added to the horror and unreality of the day.
Father and son faced each other, barely a handspan apart. At thirteen, Isak was already as tall as Nestan.
“And when you tell Tarya what you’ve got planned for her, she’s going to feel exactly
the same. We’re not kids anymore. We’re not your pet chickens, to be bred or bartered away. You’d better watch out, Dad. Or else one of these mornings you might just find we’ve flown the nest.”
No, no, no! Tarya and Isak couldn’t fly the nest! What was he talking about? Milla shook her head, trying and failing to piece together the fragments of the argument.
“Are you threatening me?” Nestan’s voice dropped now. He edged even closer to Isak, and one hand moved again to the sword at his belt.
“I don’t believe you.” Isak shook his head in disgust. “What, are you going to lift your sword to me? We all know how well that works in this city.” His voice dripped with bitterness. “You’re not even a soldier, not anymore. We only have your word that you ever were. You probably hurt your leg falling down drunk outside a tavern.”
Nestan stared.
“Oh, forget it. I’m leaving.”
“You can’t. We’re due at the palace. You know what this means … You can’t risk it!”
Isak shouldered past his father and strode out of the room.
Milla put her hand on his sleeve, whispering, “Wait!”
But he ran down the stairs without a word, leaving her reaching after him.
A noise made Milla turn. She saw Nestan stagger backward as if he’d been hit, folding down into Isak’s chair. He gripped his left leg with both hands, hissing as he eased away the cramping stiffness in his old wound.
Milla darted down the steps after Isak. There was no sign of him. Instead, Lanys stood there, wide-eyed, now spilling red-tinged water from her water jar and stained rags. “What’s going on? What’ve you done now?”
“Where’d he go?” Milla blurted. The scent of the bloodstained water filled her nostrils, making her retch. She fought not to be sick right there.
“Out.” Lanys pointed to the main gates where four guards now stood in a row. “But … ?”
Milla had no time to explain it to her. Instead of chasing after him, she spun away and took a high-speed shortcut through the kitchen, which made Josi, the cook, swear like a sailor.
“Sorry, Josi,” Milla gasped. “Tell you later!” She wanted to throw her arms around Josi’s broad waist and sob out the tale of what she’d just seen and heard in the last hour. The image of the dead man still filled her mind’s eye: that pool of thick red blood spreading, spreading, spreading.
