23

Now

I’M attacking the door, pounding with hands and feet, yelling for Aldo, even as my mind parses what just happened.

“Aldo, this isn’t funny!” Pedrón calls out.

“Yes, this is a very bad time for a prank,” yells Arturo.

“It’s not a prank,” Iván says darkly.

“Aldo!” I’m practically screaming. “What are you doing?”

Something heavy scrapes across the stone floor outside, plunks against the door.

“What was that?” asks Luca.

I step back from the door. I don’t realize tears are streaming down my face until a drop of wetness hits my collarbone. “He’s blocking us in,” I say. “He’s probably dragging cots and nightstands over, anything he can find. He has betrayed us.”

“Why?” says Rito.

“Why?” I echo, louder, my mouth to the door. “Aldo, why are you doing this?”

Finally a muffled voice reaches us. “All you had to do was eat breakfast today. But no, you just had to tell everyone not to eat or drink. So I had to improvise.”

I whirl on Iván. “Everyone heeded your warning?”

“Most of them.”

“I’m really hungry,” Pedrón says.

“What about the rest of the Guard? Second years? Bruno’s people? The barracks were oddly quiet when I got here.”

“I don’t know,” Iván says. “I suspect that whoever heard the rumor had a choice, and some people made the choice to eat and drink and some didn’t.”

“The Guards at the entrance,” I say. “I didn’t recognize them.”

“You think they’ve been replaced?” Iván says.

“They’ve definitely been replaced,” I say. “But I don’t know what Aldo has to do with it.”

Arturo is looking back and forth between us. “You’re saying the rest of the Guard might be poisoned? That’s why we’ve seen hardly anyone since lunch? I thought they’d left for the gala already.”

I turn back to the door and pound on it. “Aldo! This is your last chance. Let us out!”

“I can’t,” comes the muffled voice. “I’m sorry, Red. I really wish I didn’t have to do this. You’re my friends. If you just stay there and don’t make trouble, I promise this will all be over in a few hours and no one will get hurt. You’re all going to stay in the Guard.”

“You tried to poison us,” I say. “You don’t poison your friends!”

“It wasn’t going to be enough to kill you,” he protests. “Just knock you out. Like Valentino.”

Several of us gasp.

“Why did you poison Valentino?”

“He was too good. A favorite. Either you or I would have been cut if I hadn’t eliminated him. I did it to save us both.”

My ears ring, my face is hot as a desert, and my toe hurts from kicking the door. I liked Aldo. I thought he was my friend.

If I could get to him right now, I would stab him in the heart.

“We’re finally called up to do something real,” Rito says, staring at the door. “Something important, and we’re trapped.”

“Someone will come along,” Arturo says. “They’ll notice the door to the latrine is blocked and let us out, right?”

“Not if everyone has been knocked out by poison,” Rito says.

Iván gives me a questioning look. I nod agreement. Softly, so Aldo can’t hear through the door, he says, “We’re not trapped.”

“What do you mean?” says Pedrón.

I whisper, “When we’re certain Aldo has left, we’ll show you.”

Pedrón raises an eyebrow. Then he pounds on the door, yelling, “Aldo!”

No answer.

He tries again. Still no response.

“Pedrón, keep making noise,” I command quietly. “Everyone else, come this way.”

Pedrón does his job with enthusiasm, yelling and kicking. The others follow me toward the sconce in the wall. I give it a yank, and the section of wall slides away. “Inside, quick,” I say.

Iván grabs the torch and leads the way. The rest follow, their gazes rapt, their mouths hanging open.

“All right, Pedrón, your turn.”

He gives the door one last kick and follows everyone else into the secret tunnel. I’m the last to enter. I flip the lever so the door closes behind us.

“Now what?” Rito whispers. They’re all in a single-file line in the tight corridor. Pedrón’s shoulders brush the walls. If not for Iván’s torch, it would be too dark to see any of them.

“We have to reach the prince,” I say. “We move fast and quiet; some of these walls are thin. The passage will take us beneath the Sky Wing, near the entrance to the catacombs. Hopefully, we’ll be able to reach the prince from there. Iván, do you remember the way?”

“I think so.”

“Then lead on.”

“Wait . . . you’ve both been here before?” Rito says.

“Long story. Let’s get our prince through this gala alive, and then we’ll tell you.”

The storage room is too small for all of us, so several stay behind in the secret passage while Iván and I peek into the corridor.

I’ve barely cracked the door open before I yank it shut. A group of men marches by, blocking our way. I glimpse rawhide armor and daggers and the kind of thick-soled sandals worn by people of the southern countships.

“I heard marching,” Iván whispers. “And armor.”

“I didn’t recognize a single crest,” I whisper back.

“What should we do?”

“What’s going on?” Pedrón whispers from inside the corridor.

“The only way out from here is blocked by soldiers I’ve never seen before,” I say. “Wait here. After they pass by, I’m going to get a closer look.”

Iván says, “Red, are you sure—”

“I’m the only one not wearing a recruit uniform,” I say. “If I get caught, I’ll just say I’m delivering a message.” I wave Rosario’s note in front of his face.

He frowns. “Be careful.”

I wait for the sound of marching to fade. Then I crack open the door and slip through into the corridor. I follow the oddly dressed soldiers, sticking close to the wall.

The sound of marching ceases abruptly. I freeze, trying to disappear into the sandstone.

“All right, boys,” comes a gruff voice. “No one gets into the Sky Wing. We hold this intersection no matter what. When the bells signal, we attack. Do our jobs right, and there’s a fat purse waiting for us, hear?”

“Hear!” a dozen voices echo.

I know this accent. These men are from the southeastern part of the empire. Maybe even the free villages. Which means they’re probably mercenaries.

I tiptoe back to the storeroom and slip inside.

“The way is blocked,” I tell the recruits. “Mercenaries. They said something about holding the intersection until the bell signal.”

“We were right,” Iván says. “It’s a coup.”

“That’s the only way back to the upper levels,” I say. “The empress had any branching corridors blocked off years ago.”

“Does that mean we’re trapped down here?” Rito says. “We have to reach the prince. Somehow.”

“Let’s fight our way through,” Pedrón says. “We’re Royal Guards, right? The best of the best.”

“They have weapons and armor,” I say. “We don’t.”

“Then we go through the catacombs,” Iván says. “And up through the Wallows.”

“We can do that?” says one of the Basajuaños.

“That’s why Elisa blocked off this passage,” I say. “It might be the most important corridor in the whole palace.”

“Making it easier to guard also turned it into a potential trap,” Iván points out.

“It will take more than an hour to exit through the secret hideout and circle back,” I say.

“Then we’d better get started,” Iván says.

“What secret hideout?” Pedrón says.

“You’ll see soon enough,” I say. “Follow my lead. Remember: fast and quiet.”

I exit the storeroom, all the first-year recruits on my heels. We jog down the corridor on light feet, in the opposite direction from the mercenaries.

At the entrance to the catacombs, we stop short. A Guard lies on the floor, arm extended at an odd angle, blood pooling beneath his head on the stone floor. The mercenaries took the time to scout the whole corridor before taking up position at the intersection.

“Holy God,” whispers Rito. “This is serious.”

If the killing has already begun, Rosario is in grave danger. “Hurry!” I urge. “We’ll come back for him later.” I step over the body and start toward the stairs.

“Wait,” Iván says in a sharp whisper. “Somebody grab his sword. And any other weapon he has.”

Iván would have been a great squad leader. No wonder DeLuca didn’t let him win.

Pedrón is nearest to the body. He drops to the floor and searches it. “The sword’s gone. And all his pockets are turned inside out.”

“Then the looting’s already started,” I say. “Let’s go!” I take the stairs into the catacombs at an unwise pace.

The boys gasp when we reach the Hall of Skulls. They gape in wonder when I finger the latch that pivots the stone casket aside, revealing the dark well that will lead us to the underground village.

Iván goes first, and I usher everyone down into the spiral staircase, intending to take up the rear. Rito is the last one. He stares down into the darkness, eyes wide, limbs frozen.

“Arturito?”

“We’re going to get killed tonight, aren’t we?”

“I’m hoping we’ll at least reach the prince first.”

His eyes dart around as if looking for escape, and I realize this is one of those times when a less candid person would tell him something comforting and false.

“Will it hurt?” he whispers.

I find something true to say. “If we survive this, and we keep our prince safe, no one will dare cut us from the Guard. We’ll be heroes.”

He perks up a little. “You think so?”

“Heroes know how to weather a storm, right? What do we have when the winds are harsh and the seas are rough?”

He nods. “Still hearts.”

“Now go.”

We catch up to the rest. The tide is in, and we soak our boots wading through ankle-high salt water. Our footsteps squish as we climb the narrow stairs. Pedrón and Iván must duck their heads to avoid the low ceiling.

The boys want nothing more than to stand and gawk when they see the underground village. Light streams down from fissures above, and the whole place sparkles. The rushing river hugging the cavern’s far edge creates a light breeze.

A fire pit still smolders, and a few villagers are smoking fish on a rack beside it. But the village is mostly empty. The entire remaining Guard was called up for the gala. I wonder if any of them are still alive.

“How have I never heard of this place?” Pedrón whispers.

“You do know what ‘secret’ means, right?” I say.

“I mean, how do you keep a place like this a secret? It’s a whole village!”

“Only the empress’s inner circle knows about it,” I say. “And the villagers who live here get to do business without guild fees and regulations in exchange for their silence. Now, hurry.” I grab the rope ladder that hangs down the wall and start to pull myself up. “Only one at a time on the ladder,” I call down.

I reach the landing and its resident hut and step inside to find yet another ladder along the back wall, leading to a trapdoor.

Everyone is strong and fast. Within minutes we are through the trapdoor and gathered inside a typical Wallows hovel with a dirt floor, driftwood walls, and a palm-thatch roof.

“Now what?” says Arturo, breathing hard.

“Is this the Wallows?” asks Rito. “I hear it’s the most dangerous quarter of the city.”

“I grew up on the border of the Wallows and the Fishers’ Quarter,” Pedrón says. “It’s not so bad. Just keep your eyes down and don’t make trouble.”

“We have to run for the palace,” I say. “The road zags all through the Wallows and then curves around the palace outskirts, so we’ll have to run fast to make it to the prince before the Deliverance blessing begins. But we’ve all run the walls, and this is nothing compared to ten laps around the palace grounds, right?”

“Right!” they answer in unison.

“We’re prepared for this, right?”

“Right!”

“Let’s go.”

We set off at a fast jog. The streets of the Wallows are narrow, crooked, and steep, lined by ramshackle huts pressed together so tightly it seems as though you could remove one plank and bring the whole neighborhood down. The gutters smell of rotting fish and refuse. At least the streets have gutters now, thanks to a huge project undertaken by Elisa in the third year of her reign.

We pass a woman beating dust from a rug. Her skin is like leather, and her feet are bare. A man in ragged pants repairs the thatching on his roof. Three children—two boys and a girl—kick a ball through an alleyway; the ball is made of old linen scraps rolled together and tied.

Everyone ceases what they’re doing to stare as we run by. Some of them, the lucky ones, will get a Deliverance Day gift from a loved one today. An extra helping of fish, maybe, or a doll made of sticks and scraps. But no one here in the Wallows cares about the palace gala that is the entire focus of our rushed journey. They’ll never see the inside of a ballroom, never eat date and honey scones, never wear silk.

We turn a corner and lurch to a stop. A damaged cart blocks our path. It rests at an odd angle, one cartwheel shattered. Coconuts have tumbled into the alley. The coconut seller waves his hat at several children who dart in to steal them.

Iván says, “There’s no way around.”

He’s right. And we’ll lose precious time backtracking.

“We’ll have to climb over.”

Pedrón is the first to clamber up. The coconut seller waves his arms and screams obscenities at him as more coconuts tumble to the ground in his wake. Pedrón reaches down to help the others up. Several coconuts are squashed, their filmy milk soaking everything. I’m the last to climb over. I fish out one of the silver coins I got from trading my baby rattle gemstones and hand it to the seller.

“Happy Deliverance Day,” I say. It feels less happy every time I say it. He grabs the coin, but I feel his cold anger on my back as we sprint away from him, down the alley.

The palace complex looms over us, perched on the highest hill of the city. Traffic thickens as we approach—carts and carriages, people on foot, children playing in the streets. It’s a holiday for most citizens of Brisadulce, and many people are trekking through the city streets to gather with friends and family. We are forced to slow our pace.

“We’re not going to get there in time,” says Iván as he dodges a cart horse.

“Just keep pushing forward,” I say.

The line of carriages along the Avenida de la Serpiente is at a near stop, for each carriage must be checked by the palace watch before dropping off passengers or entering the plaza. We don’t have time to wait our turn.

“Get to the front of the line!” I yell over the cacophony of wheels and horses and bellowing carriage drivers.

Arturo leads the recruits now, and he shifts to the side of the road in an attempt to skirt some of the larger carriages. The other Basajuan boys are close on his heels, followed by Pedrón and the army recruits, and finally Iván and me.

Townhomes line the Avenida this close to the palace—luxurious, multistory stone edifices with silken banners draped from window casings, proudly displaying house sigils to all the passersby. A flurry of activity draws my attention to one.

“That’s a lot of guards for one townhome,” Iván observes.

He’s right. Soldiers scurry in and out of the front door, many hefting bulging burlap sacks. They’re dressed in the colors of the palace watch, except . . .

“Look at their shoes,” I say.

They all wear those hefty sandals, the same ones the mercenaries in the Sky Wing were wearing.

“Isn’t that the mayor’s house?” Iván says.

“He and Lady Jada live there. They’re important allies of the empress.” I still remember the man who stood and proclaimed in favor of my adoption.

“I think it’s being looted,” Pedrón says.

“We have to hurry,” I say, and I press forward. It goes against everything in me to pass by, to do nothing, but reaching Rosario must be our priority.

As we near the gate, it becomes clear that the mayor’s home isn’t the only one. I recognize the sigil of Lord Liano of Altapalma, then that of Lady Pilar of Lagunas Azules. Both friends of the empress. Both with an inordinate number of foot soldiers wearing not-quite-right uniforms. It’s a subtle thing. There’s no yelling, no clashing of weapons. Anyone not paying close attention would never know that a takeover is happening right under our noses.

“Red,” Pedrón says at my back. “There may be hostages inside those townhomes.”

“That’s because they plan to take the whole city,” I tell him. “But there’s nothing we can do about it now. And none of it will matter if we don’t save the prince.”

Iván grabs Pedrón by the collar. “We’re the Royal Guard, not the City Guard. Our only job is to protect the prince. Got it?”

Pedrón swallows hard, but his back straightens with resolve. “Yes, sir.”

Ahead, Arturo has reached the gate, a giant arched portcullis with speared points that could crush a person’s head if it was ever lowered quickly.

“Do you think they’ll just let us in?” Iván asks. He’s as breathless as I am. Even though we’re well practiced running the walls, running uphill has made my thighs burn and my lungs ache.

“No. I don’t know. I still have Rosario’s letter. Maybe we can talk our way in?”

“What if we can’t?”

“We have to. We don’t have time to figure out something else.”

Iván and I sprint to catch up, dodging horses, ignoring the angry shouts of people accusing us of skipping the line.

“. . . out on maneuvers,” Arturo is saying to one of the palace watch officers. “We’ve just returned and are ready to report to the barracks.”

“You’re not reporting to the gala for duty?” the watch officer asks.

“No, we’re just first-year recruits. See? We don’t even have weapons.”

“She does,” says the officer as I come up behind Arturo. He indicates the small sword hanging from my hip.

“She’s the only one,” Arturo says. “Because she’s our squad leader.”

“It’s barely more than a toy,” I tell him. “A sign of my station more than a real weapon.”

The watch officer considers. My face flames. I just told a huge lie, straight out.

“Fine, go ahead,” he says, waving us through.

We dash into the plaza and step off to the side, out of the way of traffic.

“That was easier than I expected,” Arturo says.

“Too easy,” says Iván.

“They didn’t bother searching us for hidden weapons,” Pedrón says. “Don’t they always search for weapons on Deliverance Day?”

“Lords and ladies are allowed some small personal weapons,” I say. “You can even buy them here in the market stalls. But that was still too easy.”

“They aren’t even asking for invitations,” Arturo says. “I listened very closely. Two carriages ahead of us were allowed to drop off their passengers without any questions at all.”

“They want everyone here,” I say. “As many people as possible.”

“Why?” says Pedrón.

“I have no idea.” My brain races through the possibilities, none of them good. “But I don’t like it.”

“To the ballroom, yes?” Rito says.

“Yes. But first . . .” I put my hand on Rito’s shoulder and look him dead in the eye. “I need you to do something heroic.”

“Just me?” he says, his voice edging higher.

“I overheard those mercenaries saying they would attack when the bells ring. They’re waiting for a signal. If they never hear the signal—”

“Then they won’t attack,” Pedrón finishes.

“Exactly. Rito, I need you to return to the barracks and find anyone who is not poisoned. Itzal, maybe. Tanix and the second years. Check the kitchens and the storerooms too. Surely some of them heard the rumor and refrained from eating or drinking today. Find them all, and get them to the bell tower. Make sure that signal never happens. Can you do that?”

“What if I can’t find anyone?”

“Use your best judgment. Stop that signal if possible, but don’t get yourself killed for no reason. Lay low until this is all over if you have to. Don’t do anything dangerous alone.”

He straightens. “All right, Red. I’ll find everyone I can. If there’s any way to stop that signal, we’ll do it.”

“Good man. The rest of us will make for the ballroom.”

We say our goodbyes to Rito. Arturo wraps him in a tight hug and kisses the top of his head. “Be careful, Rito,” he says.

Rito lays his palm against Arturo’s cheek. Then, with a nod to the rest of us, he dashes away toward the barracks.

The way to the grand ballroom is across the plaza and through a wide tunnel. The tunnel is jammed with lords and ladies in their Deliverance garb, all awaiting entrance. The sun is low, but the air is still hot and dusty. Several people fan themselves as they wait. Serving staff with trays skirt the crowd, offering cold water and hors d’oeuvres.

“I wonder if that food is poisoned,” Pedrón says, staring mournfully at a tray of tiny meat pies garnished with parsley.

“If we stand in line, we’ll never get in before opening ceremonies,” Arturo says.

Iván leans down and whispers in my ear, “Do you know of another way in?”

Only through the Sky Wing, which is swarming with mercenaries. If I lead a bunch of unarmed recruits that way, not only will we never reach Rosario, we’ll never reach tomorrow.

“I’m thinking,” I tell him.

In very short order, I realize I don’t have any ideas.