The sultan’s prison was originally built as a fort to stand against the looming threat of invasion from the mainland. As the danger waned and peace was established among the Eleven Kingdoms, the soldiers transferred to newer buildings with wider practice fields and closer to the sultan’s palace. The fort sat unused, the story goes, until a great fire destroyed the old prison. The sultan then gave permission for the fort to be converted into a replacement.
We stand before the massive gates, the walls rising easily four times my height, huge round watchtowers looming at either corner. The tops of the towers are crenellated in a manner that is as distinctly pretty as it is practical, as if it were topped with flower buds to protect its long-ago warriors. Now the battlements lie empty, at least where they look out over the city. I know from my time within those walls that there are sentries stationed looking inward instead. The white paint that once coated the walls has worn away completely at the ground level, and remains only in patches higher up, giving the whole structure a grim, dilapidated aspect. Behind us, a row of slender palm trees stand, their fronds rustling in the breeze high above.
“Ready?” Kenta murmurs, glancing at me.
I look back to the great windowless walls and imagine Tendaji behind them, locked in a cell. “Let’s go.”
We cross the road, threading through the crowds of pedestrians, pausing to allow a man with his handcart full of coconuts to pass. The gates are a pair of huge wooden doors, only one of which is open. A handful of uniformed guards stand before them, swords and daggers at their hips. They watch our approach with disinterest.
“We’re here about a prisoner,” Kenta says.
“Any weapons?” one of the guards asks.
“No,” Kenta assures him. Neither of us wears a belt for a sword or dagger, nor do we carry any bags. I left my own package safely stashed behind a pile of discarded furniture on the rooftop I borrowed my clothes from. The only things I carry are the two shadow charms Rafiki procured for us, wrapped snugly in the folded waistband of the long, brightly patterned skirt I took. The charms are ugly little things, crudely made, and I’m not sure I trust them to do the job, but that’s a worry for later. Now I nod solemnly, keeping my eyes downcast.
“Go on, then,” the man says, gesturing us through.
The gates open into a small interior courtyard with no way in but a single door into a large, brown brick building. It’s as crudely built as the walls, and no more welcoming. A number of men and women wait in the courtyard, leaning against the wall to our left to keep out of the sun. This is where Tendaji met me after negotiating my release.
I remember him as he stood waiting for me, a small, slim man—shorter than Hamidi—with close-cropped tightly curled hair that was edged in gray even then. I can still feel that first burst of gratitude tinged with the despair that had wrapped around me in my week’s imprisonment. And I remember how his gaze flicked from me to my soldier escort and back, and his normally gentle expression hardened to furious. I dropped my eyes at that, so ashamed I was here, still afraid I would have to stay, that he would see me in my ragged clothes and unkempt hair and decide I wasn’t worth the trouble I caused him.
I remember how he crossed to me, shooing the soldiers away with a wave of his hand. “Hitomi,” he said. “Child, look at me.”
I looked up, holding myself tight, tight, tight, so he wouldn’t see my desperate need.
He lifted a hand to cup the back of my head as if I were his own child, beloved to him in some inexplicable way. “There is no shame in being afraid.”
I only stared at him, the taste of ash on my tongue. Because I was afraid, and because he was wrong. I had been brought here like so much trash, and if he had not come for me, I might have spent years here, racking up a debt for my keep that I wouldn’t be able to stay ahead of, no matter if they allowed me to work or not.
Tendaji sighed, dropped his hand to squeeze my shoulder, and led me out without another word. I have done my best to never come back here—until now. For Tendaji.
Kenta guides me across the courtyard to the far door, one hand on my elbow, for all the world like a concerned elder brother. He catches my sideways glance and frowns at me. “Play the part,” he murmurs.
I am, aren’t I? But perhaps not well enough. I drop my head and pull a little closer to him as I count the steps to the other side. With Kenta still attached, I step through the open doorway into a darkened room, blinking to make out the interior. A window has been cut into the wall to my left, a brightly colored fall of cloth keeping the sun's direct rays out.
“What do you want?” A soldier—or perhaps a clerk of some sort—sits cross-legged on a cushion against the wall to the right, facing us across the room. On the low table before him lies a thick ledger, a small pile of papers beside it.
“Wait here,” Kenta tells me, and crosses to kneel before the table. He speaks quietly, as if he does not want to disturb me. I try to look a mix of frightened and sickened.
How would a girl being asked to verify the face of her attacker really look? I think I would be angry. Not just angry, but filled with a wrath that boiled in my blood. I would be ready to find such a man and demand justice be done—only I wouldn’t expect that either, would I? Is it possible to be big with rage and still feel small? To vibrate with fury and yet know your own helplessness? I swallow hard, aware that I’ve started to shake with the anger streaming through me. Because whatever I might feel if this were really me, that looks nothing like the timid creature I’m projecting, one who not only has the support of her stepbrother but also waits meekly upon his aid and protection. No, that’s not true; such a girl would feel that same inability to protect herself that I fight every day of my life. So I wrap that smallness around me—the utter helplessness I know too well—and it fits me like a glove.
A faint clink draws my attention back to Kenta in time to see a glimmer of silver disappear beneath the clerk’s palm. He slides the coins off the table and into his pocket in a smooth, practiced move. Then he makes a show of making a notation in his ledger. “I don’t think it will be a problem. You are not a visitor. If a prisoner here has done more than we know, well then, it is our duty to find that out.”
Fine words for someone who requires a bribe to consider their duty.
Kenta dips his head, murmuring his thanks, and they rise together, walking back toward me.
“I’ll inform Captain Saka,” the clerk says, his eyes slide over me, making my skin itch. I look away, biting back an angry word, one that I would never dare speak. Helpless, I remind myself. Just as I have been, but acknowledging it this time. It feels shameful, this act. An embarrassment to admit the truth.
Kenta steps between us, turning to block the man’s view of me. “I thank you.”
We wait as the clerk disappears through the connecting door into a lamplit room. “We might make it through,” Kenta murmurs, keeping his gaze on the half-open door.
“Of course we will,” I whisper. “They have their duty, don’t they? And you have a few more coins to remind them of it?”
His lips twitch. “A few more,” he agrees.
I’m glad of it. The pouch Abasi gave Kenta is small but, I’m relatively certain, filled with silver ryals. Given that I haven’t touched more than a copper pysa since my mother disappeared, there’s a fortune riding in his pocket.
The door swings farther open, and a man enters, his uniform crisp and clean. The embroidered rank marks at his collar make it clear he is a captain. The clerk follows behind him, speaking quickly. “I told them it might be possible, but of course I gave no promises.”
Captain Saka raises a hand, his fingers flicking away these words and effectively silencing the clerk.
“I understand a crime has been committed against the young lady,” he says, his gaze coming to rest on me. I drop my eyes, and this time I’m grateful for my act. He has a shrewd gaze. It’s not one I particularly wish to meet. I draw closer to Kenta, as if I could hide behind him from the terrors of the world. Though I don’t think that really works for anyone.
“If you will, sir,” Kenta says respectfully. “We are not sure of the criminal’s identity. I believe it was a man who was arrested this morning on other charges—but until my stepsister sees his face, we can’t be sure. I want the man brought to justice, but it must be the right man.”
“Indeed,” the captain says. “If it is the man you seek, there’s no need to worry about justice being done. He’s been found a traitor already.”
Kenta hesitates. “But if it isn’t,” he says, “then the man who attacked my stepsister might still attack another girl. We need to know. To stop him.”
Saka doesn’t answer at once. Instead, I feel his knife-sharp gaze on me, measuring me, looking for what lies beneath the surface.
“Please,” I say into the quiet, my voice small. I don’t even have to pretend.
Kenta doesn’t glance at me, but I can sense his tension, the tight line of his shoulders clear through the fabric of his tunic. I’m sure the captain has noticed as well, but it may still work in our favor.
“I see,” Captain Saka says. “Follow me.”
He turns and steps through the door, holding it for us. The clerk bestows a self-satisfied smile upon us and moves back to his desk.
We follow Saka through to the connecting room, another office of sorts. A second captain lounges on a cushion with a cup of tea in his hand. He ignores us, gazing moodily at the worn carpet beneath his feet.
“This way.” Saka strides ahead to yet another door, this one opening into a wide courtyard of hard-packed dirt. One side of the yard is walled off for the prisoners, the wall sporting a series of small windows that allow us glimpses of the score or so men within. I look away, remembering the barren yard on the other side. My breathing unsteady, I force myself to focus on the moment. The sun is edging to its zenith, and without the sea breeze blowing through this space to cool it, the heat is oppressive. Nor are there many shadows here.
I count my steps to the next doorway, increasingly aware of how little help a shadow charm will be in sunlight. Even if the charms are strong enough to hide Tendaji and me, the shadows themselves will be terribly out of place both here and in the smaller courtyard we first passed through. We could wait for evening, but it’s a gamble to spend that long inside the prison trying not to be found. And we would still have to get through the rooms with their closed doors without drawing attention. Shadows do not open doors.
The next room we enter is a genuine guard room, the door locked from within. The soldiers stand at attention as we enter, saluting their captain, and move to open the next door with alacrity. It bears not only a lock but also a bolt. I breathe slowly, trying to ease my anxiety. I can pick the lock—from the shape of the key Saka uses, it’s clear it’s not complex. But that bolt will be a problem. Either we’ll have to follow someone else through, or I’ll have to use my magic to open it. Both options have their risks.
Saka orders a pair of soldiers to accompany us. Then he unhooks a lantern from beside the door, lights it, and guides us down the darkened hallway, the soldiers falling into step at our back. “When they converted the fort into a prison, they bricked over the windows,” Saka tells us. “It will be dark from here on.”
The darkness closes around me, stinking of unwashed bodies and despair, as familiar as an old nightmare. I focus on our path, committing each turn to memory, the steps in between. We descend to the lower level of the fort, passing through a hallway lined with cells. The walls are stone, but the doors are metal grates, and through them we see the faint shapes of people, the gleam of eyes looking back at us. There are too many in each cell, far more than the four or five I shared my cell with two years back. How can there be so many prisoners, so many criminals for so small an island archipelago as Karolene?
But I already know the answer to that—these are protesters as well. Men and women who have spoken out against the changes on our island, who pointed their fingers at Blackflame. These are people not unlike Tendaji, though perhaps they did not organize as he did.
“He should be in here,” Saka says, stopping at the last door in the hallway. He bangs against the grating with the side of his fist. “Get back!”
The two soldiers enter first, short swords drawn. They herd the dozen or so prisoners against the far wall.
“Where’s the one named Omari?” Saka barks, stepping into the room. It is strange knowing Tendaji’s real name, hearing it ring out in the dim confines of the cell.
The prisoners don’t answer, their eyes squinting against the lamplight. One of them, hidden at the back, begins to whimper.
“I said, where is Omari?”
The men press against the wall, all but one. He’s tall, his face badly bruised and his clothing tattered. He waves a hand toward the far corner. “There’s a man there. Your soldiers brought him in a little while ago. Maybe that’s him.”
I stiffen, staring at the sprawled figure where it lies in shadow. Saka turns to glare at the figure, then strides over and lands a brutal kick in the man’s side. “Get up, man.”
The man doesn’t respond, not even to cry out or moan or huddle tighter to protect himself. He doesn’t move. Bile burns in my throat. He’s either dead or unconscious. Regardless, Saka’s violence is sickening.
“Get up.” The boot connects again.
“Stop,” I cry, before I can help myself.
Saka glances over his shoulder, dark eyes fastening on me. He raises his brow.
I press my hand to my mouth, make myself drop my gaze, but I’m shaking now, shaking with fear and fury. The man on the ground can’t stand—surely Saka can see that? This isn’t justice but cruelty, through and through.
“You would protect your attacker?”
I swallow and shake my head as I look back up at him. “Is that him?”
“You tell me,” Saka says, jerking his head toward the figure.
Kenta grips my arm. Together, we cross the room to Captain Saka. I stand above the slight frame of the fallen figure, the lamplight shining on a tangle of limbs. The hands are bloodied and broken, the tunic soaked in blood. The man’s face is swollen and bruised, the nose broken, and the jagged edge of broken teeth gleaming through torn lips. It’s his hair I recognize, the same ringlets as Hamidi’s, coated in blood and muck, but the black and gray still showing through. I stare at him, my breath coming in quick, hard gasps.
“Is that the man?” Saka demands.
Looking down at Tendaji, I shake my head.
Saka turns to the remaining prisoners, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the man who once saved my life. He lies so dreadfully still, not even his chest rises with breath. “He’s dead,” I whisper, my voice small. I so desperately don’t want it to be true.
“Of course he isn’t,” Saka says, without looking. “He was interrogated this morning, but men don’t die that easily.”
They do. I’ve seen a few bodies in my years on the street and it doesn’t always take very much to kill a man. A man can die from wounds that are hidden from the eye, things gone wrong deep inside. I’ve seen it before—men as strong as lions curled up and cold as stone from a beating that hit them in the gut just so. But just to be sure, I stoop down and touch his wrist—it is cold and limp. There is no pulse at all. Kenta has to steady me as I straighten. The look on my face must answer whatever doubts he had, for he does not speak, his expression tightening with grief.
“Which of you is Omari?” Saka demands of the prisoners, stalking up to them.
I force myself to shift, keep my focus on Saka. Kenta is shaking beside me. Or maybe that’s me. It’s hard to tell.
The prisoners mutter denials, pressing away from Saka. He frowns at them, and in a moment he will grab one and demand their identity. Perhaps he will kick them, or use his fists to get the answer he wants. All because of me, my plans.
“They’re not,” I begin and stop, the words catching in my throat. I don’t want him to look at me, to guess that my story is a lie, or suspect me of deception. But I can’t remain silent when I might spare these men the same violence I fear.
“What’s that?” Saka demands.
“Let me just look at their faces,” I say, my voice rasping. “I’ll know him if I see him.”
Saka considers me, then nods. “All of you, turn your heads toward the young lady. Keep your eyes down, hear me?”
The prisoners obey. I stare at their faces, noting the bruises and cracked lips, the set of their shoulders—some slumped in exhaustion, some strung tight in anger or hunched in fear. Kenta walks me along the line of prisoners as I look each one in the face. Whatever they’ve done or haven’t done, they don’t deserve this. Justice isn’t being beaten to death in a dark room. It isn’t terror and pain and confusion. It can’t be. They have a right to something better than this; a justice that still sees them as human. These men will either be broken in here, or come out something darker than they were before. It is the rare man who can face such horrors and come out a better person.
“Do you see him?” Saka demands.
I turn toward him, say woodenly, “He’s not here.”
He sighs. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“We thank you for allowing us to check,” Kenta says, his voice slightly uneven.
Saka gestures us out.
I cast one last look at Tendaji, lying broken on the floor, and then step into the hall. The guards close the door behind us.
It no longer matters if I can pick its lock.