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. “Without 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.”