ay I?”
My mind is still on Keenan, and I am startled to find the
Tribal boy standing beside me. For a moment I can only stare dumbly up at
him.
“Would you like to dance?” he clarifies, offering a hand. The low hood
shadows his eyes, but his lips curve into a smile.
“Um . . . I . . . ” Now that I’ve given my r eport, Izzi and I should get
back to Blackcliff. Dawn is still a few hours away, but I shouldn’t risk
getting caught.
“Ah.” The boy smiles. “The redhead. Your . . . husband?”
“What? No!”
“Fiancé?”
“No. He’s not — ”
“Lover?” The boy lifts an eyebrow suggestively.
My face grows hot. “He’s my — my friend.”
“Then why worry?” The boy flashes a grin tinged with wickedness, and
I find myself smiling in return. I glance over my shoulder at Izzi, talking to
an earnest - looking Scholar. She laughs at something he says, her hands, for
once, not straying to her ey epatch. When she catches me watching, she
looks between the T ribal boy and me and waggles her eyebrows. My face
goes hot again. One dance can’t hurt; we can leave after.
The fiddlers are playing a lilting ballad, and at my nod, the boy takes my
hands as confidently as if we’ve been friends for years. Despite his height
and the width of his shoulders, he leads with a grace that is effortless and
sensual all at once. When I peek at him, I find him staring down at me, a
faint smile on his lips. My breath hitches, and I cast about for something to
say.
“You don’t sound l ike a Tribesman.” There. That’s neutral enough.
“You’ve hardly got an accent.” Though his eyes are Scholar - dark, his face is
all edges and hard lines. “You don’t really look like one either.”
“I can say something in Sadhese, if you like.” He drops his lips to my
ear, and the spice of his breath sends a pleasant shiver through me.
“Menaya es poolan dila dekanala.”
I sigh. No wonder Tribesmen can sell anything. His voice is warm and
de ep, like summer honey dripping off the comb.
“What — ” My voice is hoarse, an d I clear my throat. “What does it
mean?”
He gives me that smile again. “I’d really have to show you.”
Up comes the blush. “You’re very bold.” I narrow my eyes. Where have
I seen him before? “Do you live around here? You seem familiar.”
“And you’re calling me bold?”
I look away, realizing how my comment must sound. He chuckles in
response, low and hot, and my breath catches again. I feel suddenly sorry
for the girls in his tribe.
“I’m not from Serra,” he says. “So. Who’s the redhead?”
“Who’s the brunette?” I challenge back.
“Ah, you were spying on me. That’s very flattering.”
“I wasn’t — I was — so were you!”
“It’s all right,” he says reassuringly. “I don’t mind if you spy on me. The
brunette is Afya of Tribe Nur. A new friend.”
“Just a friend? Looked to me like a bit more than that.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “You never answered my question. About Red?”
“Red is a friend.” I mimic the boy’s pensive tone. “A new friend.”
The boy tosses his head back and laughs, a laugh that falls gentle and
wild like desert rain. “You live in the Quarter?” he asks.
I hesitate. I can’t tell him I’m a slave. Slaves aren’t allowed at the Moon
Festival. Even a stranger to Serra will know that.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve lived in the Quarter for years with my grandparents.
And — and my brother. Our house isn’t far from here.”
I don’t know why I say it. Perhaps I think that by speaking the words,
they will prove true, and I will turn to see Darin flirting with girls, Nan
hawking her jams, and Pop dealing, ever gently, with overly worried
patients.
The boy spins me around and then pulls me back into the circle of his
arms, closer than before. His smell, spicy and heady and bizarrely familiar,
makes me want to lean closer, to inhale. The hard planes of his muscles
press into me, and when his hips brush mine, I nearly fumble my st eps.
“And how do you fill your days?”
“Pop’s a healer.” My voice falters at the lie, but since I can’t very well
tell him the truth, I rush on. “My brother’s his apprentice. Nan and I make
jam. Mostly for the tribes.”
“Mmm. You strike me as a jam - maker.”
“Really? Why?”
He grins down at me. Up close, his eyes look almost black, especially
shadowed as they are by long eyelashes. Right now, they shine with barely
restrained mirth. “Because you’re so sweet,” he says in a mock - saccharine
voice.
The mischief in his eyes makes me forget, for a too - brief second, that I
am a slave and that my brother is in prison and that everyone else I love is
dead. Laughter explodes out of me like a song, and my eyes blur and tear. A
snort es capes, which sets my dance partner to laughing, which makes me
laugh harder. Only Darin ever made me laugh like this. The release is
foreign and familiar, like crying, but without the pain.
“What’s your name?” I ask, as I wipe my face.
But instead of answering, he goes still, his head cocked as if he’s
listening for something. When I speak, he puts a finger to my lips. A
moment later, his face hardens.
“We have to go,” he s ays. If he didn’t look so dead serious, I’d think he
was trying to get me to come with him to his camp. “A raid — a Martial
raid.”
Around us, dancers spin on obliviously. None of them has heard the boy.
Drums thump, children scamper and giggle. All seems well.
Then he shouts it, loud enough that everyone can hear. “Raid! Run!” His
de ep voice echoes across the dance stages, as commanding as a soldier’s.
The fiddlers stop mid - note, the drums cease. “Martial raid! Get out! Go!”
A burst of light shatters the sile nce — one of the sky lamps has exploded
— and another — and another. Arrows zing through the air — the Martials are
shooting out the lights, hoping to leave the festival - goers in darkness so
they can herd us easily.
“Laia!” Izzi is beside me, eye wide with panic. “What’s happening?”
“Some years the Martials let us have the festival. Other years they don’t.
We have to get out of here.” I grab Izzi’s hand, wishing I’d never brought
her, wishing I’d thought more of her safety.
“Follow me.” The boy doesn’t wait for an answer, just pulls me to a
nearby street, one that isn’t yet flooded with people. He ke eps to the walls,
and I follow behind, holding tightly to Izzi and hoping it’s not too late for
us to es cape.
When we reach the middle of the street, the Tribesman pulls us into a
narrow, trash - strewn alley. Screams rend the air and steel flashes. Seconds
later, festival - goers stream past, many falling out of sight, cut down as they
run, like stalks of wheat beneath a sickle.
“We have to get out of the Quarter before they lock it down,” the
Tribesman says. “Anyone caught in the streets will be thrown into Ghost
Wagons. You’ll have to move fast. Can you do that?”
“We — we can’t go with you.” I pull my ha nd from the boy’s. He’ll head
for his caravan, but Izzi and I will find no safety there. Once his people see
we’re slaves, they’ll turn us over to the Martials, who will turn us over to
the Commandant. And then . . .
“We don’t live in the Quarter. I’m sorry I lied.” I back away, pulling Izzi
with me, knowing that the quicker we go our s eparate ways, the better it
will be for all concerned. The Tribesman shoves back his hood to reveal a
head of close - cropped black hair.
“I know that,” he says. And though his voice is the same, there’s
something subtly different about him. A menace, a power in his body that
wasn’t there before. Without thinking, I take another st ep back. “You have
to go to Blackcliff,” he says.
For a moment, his words don’t register. When they do, my knees go
weak. He’s a spy. Did he see my slaves’ cuffs? Did he overhear me talking
to Mazen? Will he turn Izzi and me in?
Then Izzi gasps. “A - aspirant Veturius?”
When Izzi says his name, it’s like lamplight flooding a murky chamber.
His features, h is height, his easy grace — everything makes perfect sense —
and yet no sense at all. What is an Aspirant doing at a Moon Festival? Why
was he trying to pass as a Tribesman? Where’s his damned mask?
“Your eyes . . . ” They were dark, I think wildly. I’m sure they were dark.
“Willadonna,” he says. “Broadens the pupils. Look, we should really — ”
“You’re spying on me for the Commandant,” I burst out. It’s the only
explanation. Keris Veturia ordered her son to follow me, to see what I
know. But if that’s the case, he probably overheard me talking to Mazen and
Keenan. He has more than enough information to turn me in for treason.
Why dance with me? Why laugh and joke with me? Why warn the festivalgoers about the
raid?
“I wouldn’t spy for her if it meant my life.”
“Then why are you here? There’s no possible reason — ”
“There is, but it’s not one I can explain right now.” Veturius looks to the
streets, then adds, “We can argue about it if you like. Or we can get the hell
out of here.”
He’s a Mask, and I should look away from him. I should show my
subservience. But I can’t stop staring. It’s a jolt, his face. A few minutes
ago, I thought he was beautiful. I thought his words in Sadhese were
hypnotic. I danced with a Mask. A bleeding, burning Mask.
Veturius peers out of t he alleyway and shakes his head. “The
legionnaires will have sealed off the Quarter by the time we get to one of
the gates. We’ll have to take the tunnels and hope they haven’t sealed those
off.” He moves confidently to a grate in the alleyway, as if he knows
exactly where we are in the Quarter.
When I don’t follow, he makes a sound of irritation. “Look, I’m not in
league with her,” he says. “In fact, if she finds out I came here, she’ll
probably flay me. Slowly. But that’s nothing compared to what she’ll d o to
you if you’re caught in this raid or if she discovers you missing from
Blackcliff at dawn. If you want to live, you’ll have to trust me. Now move.”
Izzi does as he says, and reluctantly, I follow, my whole body rebelling
at the thought of putting my life in the hands of a Mask.
Almost as soon as we drop down into the tunnel, Veturius pulls fatigues
and boots from the bag across his chest and begins tearing off his Tribal
clothes. My face burns, and I turn away, but not before seeing the chilling
map of silvery scars across his back.
Seconds later, he walks past us, masked once more and gesturing for us
to follow. Izzi and I run to ke ep up with his long strides. He moves
stealthily as a cat, silent but for a word of encouragement here and there.
We make our way north and east through the catacombs, stopping only
to avoid passing Martial patrols. Veturius never falters. When we reach a
pile of skulls blocking the passage ahead, he moves a few aside and helps
us through the opening. When the tunnel we’re in narrows to a locked grate,
he plucks two pins from my hair and picks the lock in seconds. Izzi and I
exchange a glance at that — his sheer competence is unnerving.
I’ve no idea how much time has passed. At least two hours. It must be
nearly dawn. We won’t make it back on time. The Commandant will catch
us. Skies, I shouldn’t have brought Izzi. I shouldn’t have put her at risk.
My wound chafes against my dress until it’s bleeding. It is only a few
days old, and the infection has lingered. The pain combined wi th my fear
makes me lightheaded.
Veturius slows when he sees my face. “We’re almost there,” he says.
“Do you need me to carry you?”
I shake my head vehemently. I don’t want to be close to him again. I
don’t want to breathe in his smell or feel the warmth of his skin.
Eventually, we stop. Low voices mutter from around a corner ahead of
us, and a flickering torch de epens the shadows the light can’t reach.
“All the underground entrances to Blackcliff are guarded,” Veturius
whispers. “This one has four guards. If they see you, they’ll sound an alarm,
and these tunnels will be swarming with soldiers.” He looks between Izzi
and me to make sure we understand before going on. “I’m going to draw
them off. When I say docks, you’ll have a minute to get around this corner,
up the ladder, and out the grate. When I say Madame Moh’s, it means
you’re nearly out of time. Shut the grate behind you. You’ll be in
Blackcliff’s main cellar. Wait for me there.”
Veturius disappears into the gloom of a tunnel just behind us. A few
minutes later, we hear what sounds like drunken singing. I peer around the
corner to see the guards elbowing each other and grinning. Two leave to
investigate. Veturius’s voice is convincingly slurred, and there’s a loud
crash followed by a curse and burst of laughter. One of the soldiers who’s
gone to investigate calls to the other two. They disappear. I lean forward,
pr eparing to run. Come on. Come on.
F inally, Veturius’s voice drifts down the tunnels:
“ — dow’ by the docksh — ”
Izzi and I bolt for the ladder, and in seconds, we’ve reached the grate.
I’m congratulating myself on our speed when Izzi, perched above me, lets
out a strangled cry.
“I can’t get it open!”
I climb past her, grab the grate, and shove it upward. It doesn’t budge.
The guards get closer. I hear another loud crash and then Veturius
saying, “The best girls are at Madame Moh’s, they really know how to — ”
“Laia!” Izzi looks frantically toward the fast - approaching torchlight. Ten
burning hells. With a muffled grunt, I throw my whole body toward the
grate, wincing at the pain lancing through my torso. The grate creaks open
unwillingly, and I practically shove Izzi through before leaping up myself,
shutting it just as the soldiers emerge into the tunnel below.
Izzi takes cover behind a barrel, and I join her. A few seconds later,
Veturius climbs out of the grate, giggling drunkenly. Izzi and I exchange
another glance, and as pr eposterous as it is, I find I’m suppressing my
laughter.
“Thanksh, boys,” Veturius calls down into the tunnel. He slams the grate
shut, spots us, and holds a finger to his lips. The soldiers can still hear us
through the slats in the grate.
“Aspirant Veturius,” Izzi whispers. “What will happen to you if the
Commandant finds out you’ve helped us?”
“She won’t find out,” Veturius says. “Unless you plan on telling her,
which I don’t suggest. Come on, I’ll take you back to your quarters.”
We slip up the cellar stairs and out to Blac kcliff’s funereally quiet
grounds. I shiver, although the night’s not cold. It’s still dark, but the
eastern sky pales, and Veturius speeds his gait. As we hurry across the
grass, I stumble, and he is beside me, steadying me, his warmth se eping into
my skin.
“All right?” he asks.
My feet ache, my head pounds, and the Commandant’s mark burns like
fire. But more powerful is the tingling enveloping my entire body at the
Mask’s closeness. Danger! My skin seems to scream. He’s dangerous!
“Fine.” I jerk away from him. “I’m fine.”
As we walk, I sneak glances at him. With his mask on and the walls of
Blackcliff rising around him, Veturius is every inch the Martial soldier. Yet
I can’t reconcile the image before me with the handsome Tribesman I
danced with. All that tim e, he knew who I was. He knew I was lying about
my family. And though it’s ridiculous to care what a Mask thinks, I feel
suddenly ashamed of those lies.
We reach the servants’ corridor, and Izzi breaks away from us.
“Thank you,” she says to Veturius. Guilt washes over me. She’ll never
forgive me, after what she’s been through.
“Izzi.” I touch her arm. “I’m sorry. If I’d known about the raid, I never
— ”
“Are you joking?” Izzi says. Her eye darts to Veturius standing behind
me, and she smiles, a blaze of whit e that startles me with its beauty. “I
wouldn’t have traded this for anything. Good night, Laia.”
I stare after her, open - mouthed, as she disappears down the hallway and
into her room. Veturius clears his throat. He’s watching me with a strange,
almost apologetic expression in his eyes.
“I — uh — have something for you.” He pulls a bottle from his pocket.
“Sorry I didn’t get it to you earlier. I was . . . indisposed.” I take the bottle,
and when our fingers touch, I pull away quickly. It’s the bloodroot serum.
I’m surprised he remembered.
“I’ll just — ”
“Thank you,” I say at the same time. We both fall silent. Veturius rubs a
hand through his hair, but a second later his entire body goes still, a deer
that’s heard the hunter.
“What — ” I gasp when his arms come around me, sudden and hard. He
pushes me to the wall, heat flaring from his hands and tingling across my
skin, sending my heart into a feverish beat. My own reaction to him,
confusion tumbled with head - spinning want, shocks me into silence. What
is wrong with you, Laia? Then his hands tighten on my back, as if in
warning, and he dips his head low to my ear, his breath a bare whisper.
“Do what I tell you, when I tell you. Or you’re dead.”
I knew it. How could I have trusted him? Stupid. So stupid.
“Push me away,” he says. “Fight me.”
I shove at him, not needing his encouragement.
“Get away from — ”
“Don’t be like that.” His voice is louder now, sleek and menacing and
devoid of anything resembling decency. “You didn’t mind before — ”
“Leave her, soldier,” a bored, win tery voice says.
My blood goes cold, and I twist away from Veturius. There, detaching
from the kitchen door like a wraith, stands the Commandant. How long has
she been watching us? Why is she even awake?
The Commandant st eps into the corridor and surveys me dispassionately,
ignoring Veturius.
“So that’s where you’d got to.” Her pale hair is loose around her
shoulders, her robe pulled tight. “I just came down. Rang the bell for water
five minutes ago.”
“I — I — ”
“I suppose it was only a matter of time. You are a pretty thing.” She
doesn’t reach for her crop or threaten to kill me. She doesn’t ev en seem
angry. Just irritated.
“Soldier,” she says. “Back to the barracks with you. You’ve had her for
long enough.”
“Commandant, sir.” Veturius breaks away from me with seeming
reluctance. I try to squirm away from him, but he ke eps a proprietary arm
slung around my hips. “You sent her to her quarters for the night. I assumed
you were done with her.”
“Veturius?” The Commandant, I realize, hadn’t recognized him in the
dark. She hadn’t cared enough to give him a second look. Her eyes shift to
her son in disb elief. “You? And a slave?”
“I was bored.” He shrugs. “I’ve been stuck in the infirmary for days.”
My face goes hot. I understand, now, why he put his hands on me, why
he told me to fight him. He is trying to protect me from the Commandant.
He must have sensed her presence. She will have no way of proving I
haven’t spent the last few hours with Veturius. And since students rape
slaves all the time, neither he nor I will be punished.
But it’s still humiliating.
“You expect me to believe you?” The Commandant c ocks her head. She
senses the lie — she smells it. “You’ve never touched a slave in your life.”
“With all due respect, sir, that’s because the first thing you do when you
get a new slave is take her eye out.” Veturius tangles his fingers in my hair,
and I yelp. “Or carve up her face. But this one” — he yanks my head toward
his, a warning in his eyes when he glances down at me — “is still intact.
Mostly.”
“Please.” I drop my voice. If this is going to work, I need to play along,
disgusting as it is. “Tell him to l eave me alone.”
“Get out, Veturius.” The Commandant’s eyes glitter. “Next time find a
kitchen drudge to entertain you. The girl is mine.”
Veturius gives his mother a short salute before releasing me and
sauntering through the gate without so much as a backward glance.
The Commandant looks me over, as if for signs of what she thinks just
happened. She jerks my chin up. I pinch myself on the leg hard enough to
draw blood, and my eyes fill with tears.
“Would it have been better if I’d cut your face like Cook’s ?” she
murmurs. “Beauty’s a curse when one lives among men. You might have
thanked me for it.”
She runs a fingernail across my cheek, and I shudder.
“Well. . . . ” She lets me go and walks back to the kitchen door with a
smile, a twist of her mouth that is all bitterness and no mirth. The spirals of
her strange tattoo catch the moonlight. “There’s time yet for that.”