FROM INSIDE THE royal chamber came the music of gently plucked strings . . . and something else. Something that sounded at first like an exotic wind instrument, and then like a bird. One instant it dropped so low that the hallway seemed to vibrate. The next it was soaring impossibly high, skipping and flitting so fast that the echoes overlapped until it sounded like a chorus of twelve.
“That’s a voice,” Aly said in awe, as we stepped inside. “One human voice.”
The room glittered with candles in delicately carved metal wall sconces. Wisps of smoke danced up to a ceiling three stories high. Carpets crossed the polished floor, woven with battle scenes. Like the other rooms, this one was longer from side to side. On a platform in the middle sat a massive, unoccupied throne. To its right stood four bearded old men in flowing robes, one of them resting his elbows on a high table. To its left, a veiled woman was playing a flat stringed instrument nestled in her lap, her hands a blur as they hammered out a complex tune. Next to her stood another young woman, also veiled, singing with a voice so impossibly beautiful I could barely move.
“What is that instrument?” Aly asked the head guard. When he returned a blank stare, she pantomimed playing the instrument. “A zither?”
“Santur,” he said.
“Beautiful,” she remarked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Beautiful.” I couldn’t stop staring at the musician. From under her veil I could see a shock of golden red hair. Her eyes were shut and her head swayed gently as she sang along with the santur.
Aly smacked my arm. “Stop drooling.”
Startled, the singer opened her eyes, which bore down on me like headlights. I turned away, my face suddenly feeling hot. When I looked back, I could see a flicker of a smile cross her face.
She was looking at Marco.
“’Sup, dudes?” Marco said. “Nice tune. So, greetings everyone. We don’t have too much time. Also, well, to be honest, I have to tinkle. Anyway, I’m Marco, and these guys are—yeow!”
The head guard had thumped Marco on the back of the head. The guard and his pals kneeled and gestured for us to get on our knees, too.
The santur player struck up a triumphant-sounding tune. The old men bustled away from us, toward an archway in the rear. A tiny, tottering silhouette appeared there.
It was the withered old king we’d seen on the chariot. He stepped forward into the candlelight, wearing a cape of shimmering reds and golds, and a jeweled crown so big it looked like it might sink over his ears. The men took his arms as he limped toward the throne, his right foot flopping awkwardly. One of his advisers seemed younger than the others, a sour-looking dude with darting gray eyes, whose silver-and-black-streaked hair fell to his shoulders like oiled shoelaces. He took his place at the side of the throne, arms folded.
As he sat, the king cocked his head approvingly at the veiled singer. His pointy beard flicked to one side like the tail of a bird. The song abruptly stopped. Singer, santur player, slaves, and guards all bowed low, and so did we. A slave woman knelt by him, removing his right sandal. As she massaged his shriveled foot with oils, he smiled.
The guards prodded us to our feet and pushed us forward. I had to look away to keep from staring at the king’s adviser, whose eyeballs moved wildly like two trapped hornets. “That guy is creeping me out,” Aly said under her breath.
“Which one, Bug-Eye or Fish-Foot?” Marco asked.
Sitting forward, the king barked a question in a thin, high-pitched voice. As his words echoed unanswered, the guards began to mutter impatiently.
“No comprendo Babylonish,” Marco said.
“Accch,” the king said with disgust, gesturing toward the young singer. She nodded politely and stepped toward us.
Smiling at Marco, she said, “’Sup?”
“Whoa. You speak English?” Marco exclaimed.
She pointed at him curiously. “Dudes?”
“Marco, she’s just repeating words you said,” I told him. “She’s a musician. She has a good ear for sounds, I guess. I don’t think she knows what they mean.”
The king said something to the girl sharply. She bowed and turned, explaining something to him in a soft voice. He nodded and sat back.
“Daria,” the girl said, pointing to herself.
“My name is Jack,” I said. “His name is Marco, her name is Aly, his is Cass.”
“Nyme-iz-Zack . . . ” As she spoke, her face puckered as if tasting mango-chili ice cream. Pointing to herself again, she said, “His nyme-iz Daria.”
“Your name is Daria,” I said. “My name is Jack. His name is Marco . . . Aly . . .” I pointed to the king. “Um, Nabu-na’id?”
“Ahhhhhh, Nabu-na’id!” the king said. As he beamed with approval, his adviser’s eyes bounced like a ball on a roulette wheel. He seemed to have some kind of vision problem, like a jangled nerve that wouldn’t let him focus his eyes. He leaned low, whispering into the king’s ear. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I didn’t trust his tone of mumble.
Marco grinned at Daria. “Yo, Daria, you’re a language person. Maybe you can help us. If you can get us to the Hanging Gardens—Hannnng-inng Garrr-dens—that would be pure awesome.”
“Poor . . . ossum,” she replied, her face turning slightly pink.
“She’s crushing on the Immortal One,” Cass whispered.
“No, she’s not,” I snapped.
“It’s obvious,” Cass said.
“It is not!” I said, a little louder.
“Will you curb your jealousy?” Aly hissed. “This is a good thing. This could help us. She has the king’s ear.”
I buttoned my lip, staring at Daria. I felt heat rising upward from my neck into my face and tried desperately not to let myself look embarrassed. Which was about the hardest thing to do at that moment.
Daria wasn’t looking at Marco anymore, but at the king and his strange, younger henchman. They were leaning forward, alternately listening to her words, eyeing us suspiciously, and peppering her with questions. I had no idea what they were saying, but she seemed to be calming them down.
Marco was fidgeting. “Yo! King Nabisco! Your Honor! Can I step outside for a minute? I’ll be right back—”
Daria whirled around. With a questioning look, she pointed to each of us, then made an abstract, sweeping gesture, as if indicating the great, wide world outside.
“I think she wants to know where we came from,” I said.
“America, land of the free,” Marco said.
Daria turned toward the king and bowed again. “Meccalandothafee,” she said tentatively.
The old king turned to his adviser, who shrugged. Another flurry of words followed between them and Daria. Finally the king sank back into his throne, waving his fingers in a dismissive gesture.
The guards took our arms. They shoved us back through the entryway and down a hallway.
Marco was grimacing. “Let me know if you see a door with a male silhouette on it. I really have to go.”
“Hey . . . hey—Where are you taking me?” Aly shouted.
I spun around. Two of the guards were forcing her down a side corridor, out of sight. Marco, Cass, and I all braced to run, but our three guards blocked the way. Gripping our arms tight, the pushed us onward with unintelligible grunts, their faces bored and impatient.
Marco was seething. “On the count of three,” he said, “we kick these guys and run.”
But before he could start the count, the guards veered through an open door, shoving us into a large room with rough mud-brick walls. Pale white light shone through an open window, illuminating three flat slabs of stone in the center of the room. Each was long enough for one human body, like table in a morgue.
Next to each slab was a bearded court slave, holding a machete. They were avoiding our eyes, looking closely at our necks.