WHEN JI WOKE, he was in his bedroom. His neck hurt and his arms hurt and his eyes hurt. He lay there for a moment, letting his memories filter into his mind. Then he lay there for a few more moments, hoping his memories would improve.
They didn’t.
Eventually he rose to leave—but the door was locked.
“Huh,” he said.
Locked in his room. That wasn’t good. It was better than hanging, though. Unless they were planning to hang him later, in which case . . . well, it was still a little better.
“Hello?” he called, through the door.
Nobody answered. Where was everyone? Locked in their own rooms? Had Mr. Ioso’s flash of light knocked them out, too?
He called again, and nobody answered again, so he paced for a while. Then he lay on his stomach on the floor and looked out the window. Paper lanterns hung from tree branches in the courtyard, bobbing in the breeze. Leaves swirled and tumbled across the flagstones. The fountain reflected a cloudy afternoon sky.
He paced a little more. Then he worried about Roz and Sally and Chibo. Then he napped. He woke sweating from a nightmare about being woven into a massive colorful loom, surrounded by bald kids begging him for help.
Then he watched shadows lengthen in the courtyard as the sun moved across the sky. He wished he could follow it. Instead, he was trapped here, waiting for his doom. Even worse, he might’ve doomed Sally and Roz too. And after months of lying and stealing, all he’d done was free Chibo from the weavers . . . and brought him straight into even worse trouble.
Finally, footsteps sounded in the attic and the door opened. A menacing figure stood there, silhouetted by lamplight. He looked exactly like an executioner holding a disembodied head in a horrible sack. Then Mr. Ioso stepped inside, and the head in a sack turned out to be a load of dirty boots.
“Get to work,” he said, and dropped the boots.
“Oh, thank summer,” Ji said.
Mr. Ioso frowned at him. “What did you say?”
“Er, yes, sir,” Ji said. “Um, and where are Roz and Sally and Chibo?”
Mr. Ioso cracked his knuckles, then stomped away. He didn’t forget to lock the door behind him, though.
“Thanks,” Ji muttered. “You big cuddle-bear.”
He rubbed his aching shoulder and looked at the boots. Did they really expect him to clean them? What would happen if he didn’t? He could hardly get into worse trouble. Except maybe he could get into worse trouble. So he cleaned the stupid boots, even though he hated it even more than usual.
Mr. Ioso returned the next morning. He stuffed the clean boots into a bag, then gave Ji a bowl of rice and a soggy churro.
“What’s going to happen to me?” Ji asked.
“You’ll help Lord Brace at the Diadem Rite.”
“Help how?”
“However he tells you.” Mr. Ioso eyed him the way a butcher eyes a pig. “It’s a high honor, boy.”
Ji gulped. “Lucky me.”
“You should’ve served His Lordship better all these years. That’s the only way a half-smart peasant like you can get ahead.”
“I always treated Lord Brace nicely!” Ji said. “We . . . we’re almost friends.”
“Friends?” Mr. Ioso asked. “A mutt doesn’t make friends with a lion. You should’ve pledged your life to him. Maybe then you wouldn’t . . .”
“Wouldn’t what?”
Mr. Ioso hunched a massive shoulder. “Just serve His Lordship well at the rite, boy. That’s all you need to know.”
“Oh. Yes, sir.”
Mr. Ioso peered at him. “You remind me of myself as a kid.”
“Um.” Ji tried to smile, to get Mr. Ioso on his side. “I do?”
“Yeah, I was a little snake, too.”
Ji flinched when the door slammed behind Mr. Ioso. A snake, huh? Then maybe he should slither away. He started prying a loose board from the floor in the corner of the room. Forget about the tapestry kids, forget about Roz and Sally and Chibo, forget about the stupid Diadem Rite. Just focus on escaping; focus on four inches of wood.
He spent the day on his belly, and when he finally pulled the board from the floor, he found another board beneath it. And that one wasn’t even loose.
After he finished crying, he lay on his stomach and gazed through the low window. In the evening gloom, five lanterns hanging in the cherry trees cast crazy shadows across the stone-paved levels of the courtyard. Nothing else moved—until he saw Brace vaulting a bush, his practice sword slicing the air.
“Whoa!” Ji gasped.
Halfway over the bush, Brace’s sword smacked into the staff that Pickle twirled at him from behind. Brace landed, pivoting away from Pickle, and swung his sword toward Nosey’s two thrusting rapiers. She crossed her blades, caught his blow—but he kept pivoting. He hooked her ankle with his boot and tripped her into a bench.
“Ha!” Ji said. “Go, Brace!”
Down below, Brace bowed to Nosey—then whipped his sword upward. Clank! He blocked Pickle’s staff, then ducked and lunged. Bursting forward, he punched Pickle with his sword hilt.
Pickle stumbled into a shrub, and Ji gave a low whistle. “He’s kicking their bums!” he called into the main room. “Look at him go!”
Nobody answered, of course.
Instead of bowing to Pickle, Brace spun and strode down a path. He looked confident and strong, like a swordsman.
Holding his blade low, Brace prowled toward a cherry tree. Ji didn’t know why . . . until Mr. Ioso slipped forward, holding a curved dagger in each hand.
“No way,” Ji breathed. “You can’t beat him.”
With his sword flicking like a snake’s tongue, Brace lunged forward—and even though he couldn’t hear, Ji thought that he laughed. He met Mr. Ioso in the moon shadow of the tree, with the lanterns bobbing around them. They exchanged blows too fast for Ji to follow. Clank-clink-clink-clink-clank. Then a flurry of clink-clanks, a sudden thunk . . . and Mr. Ioso took a step backward.
A thrill rose in Ji’s chest. Maybe Mr. Ioso wasn’t so tough without magic. Maybe serving Brace wouldn’t be so bad.
“Get him,” he whispered. “C’mon, get him!”
With a slash and a thrust, Brace drove Mr. Ioso into the branches of the tree—until Mr. Ioso smacked a paper lantern through the air at Brace’s face. Brace knocked the lantern away . . . but not quickly enough. Mr. Ioso slipped inside his guard and touched a dagger to his throat.
With a wry grin, Brace surrendered. He and Mr. Ioso bowed to each other, and then Brace gestured to Mr. Ioso’s daggers, like he wanted to try again. More like a young warrior than a coltish kid.
That night, Mr. Ioso brought another load of boots.
“Where is everyone?” Ji asked. “Where’s Chibo?”
“None of you can be trusted with freedom.”
“How would you know? We’ve never had any.”
“When I was your age,” Mr. Ioso told him, “I worked as a ditchdigger and dreamed of becoming an undergardener. Look at me now.”
Ji frowned. Mr. Ioso had been a ditchdigger? And now he was a magic-wielding . . . whatever, working for the queen’s favorite proctor?
“You pledged yourself to Proctor?” he asked. “That’s how you got ahead?”
“I made myself useful. But first I decided not to serve at the feast of life. I chose to eat. I’ve seen the look in your eyes. You want the same. You want freedom.”
Ji shrugged. “Maybe.”
“The price of freedom is high, boy. The only way to break your bonds is to lock them to someone else.”
“That’s not freedom,” Ji told him. “That’s just holding on to the other end of the chain.”
“You little—” Mr. Ioso snarled, raising his arm to backhand Ji.
Then he stopped, his teeth clenched and his eyes horrible. A white shimmer flickered across his knuckles. For three heartbeats, he didn’t move . . . and Ji couldn’t, paralyzed by fear like a bunny by a bobcat.
Finally, the shimmer faded. Then Mr. Ioso lowered his arm and left.
Ji fell onto his bed and trembled like a bunny. Except he wasn’t one. Maybe he wasn’t a bobcat either, but that didn’t mean he was helpless. And Mr. Ioso was right about one thing: he wanted freedom. Not just for himself, but for Roz, Sally, and Chibo.
He crouched at the loose floorboard and got to work.
A tapping woke Ji in the middle of the night. He blinked at the ceiling. Tap-tippity-tap. Sounded like branches against the roof.
Tap! Tap-tap-tap!
“Okay,” he said. “That’s not branches.”
He crawled across the floor and peered out the window. The whole world was inky black. Not a glimmering of light. Nothing but—
The blackness shifted, and Ji yelped. That wasn’t blackness, it was a dingy purple cloak pressed against the window.
Then a hooded face appeared upside down and a gravelly voice called, “Sneakyji!”
“Nin!” Ji said. “What’re you doing out there?”
“Hanging from toproof by my footclaws,” Nin said. “Of course.”
“I mean, why?”
“Need my favor,” Nin said. “And I didn’t peek you for days.”
“I’m locked in here.”
“You picked the wrong lock?” Nin asked, cocking his upside-down head.
“No, I didn’t pick the—” Ji took a breath. “I need another favor.”
“Did you hear when the rite’s happening?”
“Pretty soon, I think. I’m serving at it.”
“That’s badnews!” A stiff wind flapped Nin’s hood. “Troublebig badnews!”
“Why?” Ji yelled.
“What?” Nin yelled.
“Forget it.” Ji put his face to the glass. “Nin, I need you to find my friends!”
“Find what?”
“Look around and . . . peeksee my friends? Tell me where they are, and help us get out of here and—”
The wind blew Nin’s hood away from his head, revealing a red face, glossy as polished leather. Not a mask. Yellow hair. Not a mask. Yellow eyes. Not a mask. And fangs.
“Not a mask!” Ji jerked away, his heart pounding. “You’re an ogre!”
“I am not, you headbutton!”
“I can see your face.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Nin, I’m right here!”
“No, you aren’t.”
Ji took a slow breath. “What’s an ogre doing in the city?”
“Um.” Nin squinted at him with terrifying yellow eyes. “Spying.”
“What? Why?”
“After the rite, the evilqueen is weak for a moon or three or until the new prince or princess—”
Light shone from the courtyard beneath Nin. The beam of a bull’s-eye lantern swept across the window, and Ji’s view changed to a swirl of purple cloak as Nin vanished. The light flashed past the window three more times, like someone thought they’d seen something on the roof but wasn’t sure.
Ji crawled back to bed and pretended to sleep. He waited half an hour, but nobody came to question him. He couldn’t sleep, so he started prying at the floorboard again. He’d removed four nails in the past two days. Just fourteen more, and he’d squeeze through to the floor beneath.
When the door opened the next morning, Brace stepped inside.
“Brace!” Ji said. “I mean, Master Brace!”
Brace smiled. “You mean Lord Brace.”
“That’s exactly what I mean!” Ji said. Brace had officially become “Lord Brace” after being presented to the court, though he’d been called “lord” as a courtesy before then. “How’re Sally and Roz? Is Chibo still here? They didn’t send him back to—”
“Check it out.” Brace thrust one booted foot forward. “What do you think?”
“Those are An-Hank Cordwainer!” Ji gave a low whistle. “They’re awesome.”
And they were. The stingray-leather boots boasted elaborate eyelets and rows of silver-and-pearl bangles. Crimson stitches offset the turquoise inlaid in the stacked heels, and clusters of garnet, topaz, and fire opal decorated the toes.
“I mean, they’re awesome, m’lord. Topaz and opal.”
“Perfect for my big day,” Brace said, smoothing the cuffs of his embroidered jacket.
“Whoa,” Ji said. “You’re all dressed up. But, um, what about Roz and Sal—”
“Shhh!” Brace raised a finger and strolled closer. His skinny frame now looked sleek and wiry. “You have to start by asking for permission to speak.”
“Oh, okay,” Ji said, the ache in his neck throbbing. “Um . . . but do I have to ask permission to ask permission? I mean, otherwise I’m asking for permission without having permission to ask, aren’t I?”
“Would you just ask?” Brace said. “C’mon, Ji, you know how this works.”
Ji eyed him for a moment. “May I speak, m’lord?”
“Not now, no. There’s no time.”
So Ji dropped to his knees, then touched his forehead to the ground in front of Brace. He felt stupid, but kowtowing didn’t cost anything and might get him what he needed. And also, he liked seeing the gems on Brace’s new boots. They must’ve been worth a fortune; even Baroness Primstone didn’t wear clusters of fire opals, and the garnets seemed to glow from within.
“Will you please tell me where the others are, my lord?” he asked. “And how exactly we’re going to serve at this rite?”
“Just do what I tell you and you’ll be fine,” Brace said.
“And are the others—?”
“They’re serving, too.”
Mr. Ioso stomped through the doorway. “Let’s go, boy. Time for the Diadem Rite.”
“Now?” Ji asked, raising his head. “Now?”
Mr. Ioso grabbed the scruff of his neck. “Try ‘Yes, sir.’”
“Yes, sir!” Ji squeaked, and Mr. Ioso dragged him down the stairs.
In the front yard, he was relieved to see Sally and Chibo already sitting above the rear wheels of the carriage. But where was Roz? Before Ji could ask, Mr. Ioso barked at him to plant his bony bum beside Sally, then hopped onto the running board.
Ji squeezed into place, and the carriage clattered through the gate and onto the street. They headed upward, higher on the mountain. Toward the Forbidden Palace. Toward the Diadem Rite.