Floodpath Page 11

  The quarry guard finishes his conversation and hurries into the stable. A moment later, we hear the thump of hooves on packed earth, and he reappears, mounted.

  “Get back,” Lark says suddenly. “Back toward the fence. Rat, come.”

  We shrink backward—practically crawling—into the deep shadows along the fence line. The mounted guard urges his horse straight past the trough, mere feet from us, not stopping to water the horse. He reaches the gate, dismounts, opens it, and clambers back into the saddle. And then he kicks the horse into a canter and takes off, leaving the gate wide open.

  “Where would he—”

  “The tent city,” Lark says, her back flat against the fence. “He’s taking a message to the guards—he’d have stopped to water the horse first if he was going anywhere else.”

  A second door in the main building bursts open, and another guard hurries in a different direction, half-jogging toward the shadowy peaks of the barracks.

  “Lark,” I whisper. “Something’s going on. Whatever we’re going to do, we should try to do it now and get out of here.”

  “I know. Let me think.” She lets out a breath, her gaze flicking over the compound. “Why don’t we forget the stable for the moment. I think the kitchen is on the far side of the main building. We can grab a few things there and then head toward the river. We may just have to walk.”

  The thought of more walking makes my aching body groan, but there’s nothing to be done. “All right.”

  “At my word, we’ll break for that hitching post over there—keep to the edge of the shadows. Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  Another door swings wide, and we startle—but it’s on the stable side again. It stays propped open, illuminating another guard as she strides toward the one by the coach. In the light, I can finally make out their uniforms.

  “They’re from the palace,” I say in surprise.

  “Go!” Lark says, and takes off. I stifle a gasp and break after her.

  My joints are loose and shaky, and despite my best efforts my footfalls are hardly silent. I focus on keeping inside the arc of shadow. Rat follows at my heels, his panting mingling with mine.

  But when we’re halfway to the hitching post, the door on our side opens again. Lark thinks fast, not bothering to swear or stop—she merely pivots and plunges toward the main building, keeping to the line of shadow thrown by the edge of the open door. I follow her, my heart in my throat. She runs into the very lee of the door just as another quarry guard emerges, fitting her cap onto her head. The guard’s gaze would have fallen on me instantly if she weren’t partially turned back toward the interior, listening to muffled words from a superior. I put on a burst of speed as quietly as I can and practically slam into Lark. She throws her arms around me and claps a hand over my mouth. Separated from the guard by only the angle of the open door, we shrink against the side of the building. I lean into Lark, my legs trembling. Rat slinks around our knees.

  “Get Captain Ertsi, too,” the voice inside is saying in Moquoian. “Tell him to have his squad in ranks in fifteen minutes. And leave that door open—the others are going to need the light.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The guard leaves the threshold of the door and runs toward the distant barracks. Already lanterns are twinkling in a few of the windows.

  Lark moves her hand from my mouth but doesn’t let go of me. I’m grateful—I probably would have collapsed on the spot. We stay squashed together in the dark corner made by the open door. I can feel her heartbeat thudding against my back.

  “We can’t stay here,” I gasp. “There are more coming.”

  “I’m working on it,” she replies.

  She needs to work quicker—our safe patch of darkness is shrinking.

  What is going on here? Why would a palace coach and team of guards be at Tellman’s Ditch in the middle of the night?

  Voices are still talking inside, though it’s difficult to hear them. Gingerly I pat Lark’s arm, and she obliges by loosening her grip. I ease off her shoulder and toward the crack between the door hinges and the frame.

  “. . . and a cadre to the western perimeter. Don’t waste time with daily schedules—workers will stay on lockdown until they’re sent for.”

  The deep, unpleasant timbre of the voice stirs my brain.

  “It’s Kobok,” I whisper in surprise. “Minister of Industry. He’s in charge of all the quarries.”

  “Can you tell how many people are inside?” Lark asks.

  I strain my ears. Someone else is responding to him, but his voice is easily the loudest.

  “Then leave it!” he booms. “I’m telling you, there’s no time to parse over details. We’re facing the likelihood of a coup, and until the prince is found, we must preserve Moquoia’s industry.”

  “I’m not sure,” I say to Lark. “But it sounds like they’re talking about Iano. They haven’t found him yet.” A puff of relief flickers in my chest, but it quickly disintegrates.

  Slowly Lark eases off the wall and slips toward the window. She tilts her head so just one eye peeks over the sill.

  “Pull all the headquarters guards off their usual posts,” Kobok continues. “As well as those on days off. We’re operating on full staff, no excuses.”

  “Four quarry guards,” Lark whispers. “One’s the overseer. Plus three palace guards, and then your minister. Damn, that’s a mustache.”

  In the lane between the barracks, a lantern starts to bob steadily closer. Someone shouts—it has a bounce to it, like they’re running.

  “Lark, we need to move,” I say. “Folk are starting to come this way.”

  “Okay, grab Rat’s ruff.” The corner of her face is still thrust into the light from the window. “On my word, run with him to the other side of the door.”

  “What about you?”

  “Go!” she says.

  My heart rate spikes, and I snatch the fur on the back of Rat’s neck. He yelps, but the sound is lost in the next round of indignation from Minister Kobok. Hurriedly I haul him around the door and into the flood of light on the far side.

  Rat doesn’t want to come with me—I hiss through my teeth as he twists under my grip. I dare a glance into the open door—Kobok is gesticulating at a parchment-littered tabletop, surrounded by a cluster of uniformed people looking bewildered, almost reticent. I drag Rat toward the shadows, his claws leaving gouges in the dirt. For one horrible moment, I think Kobok is going to look straight at us, but he only lays into one of the guards, his thick finger thrust in the other man’s face. With a final burst of strength, I muscle Rat into the darkness on the far side of the door and pull him deeper into the shadows.

  Lark sidles to the edge of the door. Her nose and cheek come into barest light as she peeks around the edge. I hold my breath. She watches for an opening and then, in a burst, she breaks from the door and flashes across the lighted ground.

  Without pausing, she stoops and picks up Rat in her arms and then kicks my calf as an indication to move farther down the length of the building. We half-run, half-tiptoe toward the corner. Kobok’s shouting grows muffled.

  We reach the corner and slip around it just as the crunch of running boots reaches us. We watch breathlessly as a soldier comes barreling into the light and disappears into the open door.

  Lark turns, her arms tight around a wriggling Rat. Her gaze sweeps the compound behind the main building.

  “Blazes,” she says fiercely.

  The small outbuilding that I assume to be the kitchen is flooded with light—two big hearth ovens along the outside are just kindling with roaring fires, and people are rushing this way and that—hauling cast-iron pots to and from a line of water barrels, and shouting about coffee and jerky and how many pounds of cornmeal are left.

  “What is going on?” Lark whispers emphatically, adjusting her grip on Rat. “This place was dead silent and dark not twenty minutes ago. We’re going to be lucky to get out of here with nothing, let alone supplies . . .”

&nbs
p; “There’s a cadre coming,” I say, peering back around the corner. “Go—move farther down the wall . . .”

  “We’re going to hit the light from the kitchen!”

  “At least get around the chimney,” I say frantically, pushing her. “If they line up lengthwise, they’ll be able to see around the corner . . . go, go!”

  Like snakes crawling sideways along the building, we flatten ourselves against the wall and slither around the bulge of the chimney. There’s a window on the other side, cracked open and spilling light, but there’s also a rain barrel and a few splintery timbers leaning against the wall, creating a jumble of shadows. We slip behind the barrel and try to recover our breaths as silently as we can.

  “I don’t care how it gets done, as long as it does!”

  We both jump, nerves frayed. Kobok’s voice is as loud as if he’s standing right over us—I realize we’re now at the opposite corner of the building that we started on, putting us right below the minister and his cluster of guards.

  “This is not a question of doing things cleanly or strategically,” Kobok continues. “This is a question of time. Moquoia is under attack, and if we want to keep from hemorrhaging six centuries of economy away, we have to act swiftly and decisively. You—blue cord—did you raise each of the cadre captains?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They’ll be ready to enter tent city within the hour?”

  “Yes, sir.” There’s a helplessness in the guard’s voice—she probably knows there’s no other acceptable answer.

  “Good. I want two cadres assigned to each quadrant.”

  “With respect, sir, quadrant four is a huge sector, two cadres will barely—”

  “Then split the quadrant!” he says impatiently.

  “You must understand, sir, doing so could split up families, people on the same bond ticket . . .”

  “There’s no time to spare on such things, Lieutenant. It will be dealt with later. I want everyone with Port Iskon in their records pulled.”

  Lark goes unnaturally still beside me.

  “Are you sure sunrise is strictly necessary—”

  “By the colors, how many times must I repeat myself?” There’s an unsteady thump, as if a table corner has been bumped in agitation. “Listen to me, all of you, because you must understand the nature of our situation. The prince is missing, vanished with one of the Eastern ambassadors. My call for jailing the remaining two ambassadors was overruled. My sources tell me they are now en route back East, and I will be very surprised if they do not collect the prince along the way from wherever they spirited him to. In their minds, Tellman’s Ditch and Redalo still operate illegally, and the East has seeded a coup right under our noses while we were bothering about hospitality. Do you understand? War has begun. We have a workforce topping five hundred able workers here, and we will not lose it to Eastern meddling. I will not repeat myself again. Pull every Port Iskon record on file. I need clear records of how long each one of them has worked. Set aside anyone who has been at this facility for more than ten years. They’ll be redistributed to the islands by the end of the week. Leave the rest.”

  Lark is clutching Rat so hard he’s trying to squirm free. She’s staring straight ahead, into the shadows on the back of the rain barrel.

  “My Moquoian isn’t great,” she says without looking at me, her voice shallow in her throat. “So tell me if I’m wrong. They’re pulling workers from Port Iskon—only Port Iskon.”

  “It sounds like it.”

  “They’re redistributing them to the island plantations.”

  “I think so.”

  “They’re splitting up quadrant four,” she continues, her eyes glassy. “The quadrant that’s extra big because it’s where all the families, married couples, and partner bonds are housed.”

  “I think so,” I whisper with trepidation.

  “They’re scrambling records,” she whispers. “They’re covering something up—something about Port Iskon. They’re rushing those workers away before their records can be checked.”

  “Is there someone outside the window?” asks a voice inside.

  “It’s just the kitchens getting coffee ready,” says another.

  “Lark,” I breathe.

  She shifts, and with a heave, she thrusts Rat into my lap. I clamp my arms over him before he can wriggle away.

  “All right, we’re getting out of here,” she says. “Your job is to get Rat and yourself inside the coach.”

  “What coach?”

  “No, I think there’s someone outside the window,” the first voice says again, growing a little louder. “Is one of the cadres lining up in the back?”

  Lark stands up, heedless to the glare of the window that pours over her. “Follow me, and don’t stop.”

  “Lark!” I scramble to stand with Rat, still unhappily pinned in my arms.

  She turns and runs for the corner of the building just as the windowpanes hinge open. A woman in the white uniform of Tolukum Palace stares straight at me. There’s no chance to hide—I’m standing just five feet away in full lamplight, clutching a whining coydog in my arms. Her shocked eyes hold mine for a single heartbeat, and then in the next breath, I plunge after Lark.

  She’s running out of the light cast by the main building and into the dimmer glow coming off the now-lit stable lanterns. The pale sconces are still burning on Kobok’s fancy two-horse mud coach. The guard shifts toward us when it’s clear the footsteps are coming toward him, and not into the stable beyond.

  “Guard!” I hear Lark call in terrible Moquoian. “I have a message!”

  “Whu-huh?” the guard begins, tensing at her rapid approach but clearly unsure whether this is just part of the growing chaos. Barely slowing a step, Lark raises her fist and clocks the guard across the jaw so hard he spins in a circle. His crossbow drops to the ground. Before he can recover, she grabs his shoulders and slams his head into the glazed window of the coach. Glass shatters.

  “Flying Light!” I gasp, squeezing Rat.

  She wrenches the guard out of the window, simultaneously opening the door. “Get in!”

  Another rectangle of light floods behind us. The side door in the main building flies open.

  “What’s going on out there?” barks a voice.

  “In!” Lark orders, scooping up the fallen crossbow and scrambling into the driver’s box. The horses twitch nervously at the commotion.

  I throw Rat inside the coach and hop up into the open door, leaning out to keep her in sight.

  “Lark!” I call. The coach lurches, and I grab the doorframe, swaying. “I thought—you didn’t want . . . won’t they blame the workers?”

  She scoops up the driving whip and snaps it through the air. The horses leap forward, their tack jingling haphazardly.

  “What the—what is this?” Kobok booms, his silhouette filling the doorway. “Surot! Is that you?”

  Lark stands up in the driver’s box, stamping her foot over the reins to keep them in place. She shoves the whip between her teeth. Wrenching her arms backward, she sheds her vest, swipes up one of the lanterns swinging on its post, and wraps it—still burning—in the fabric. Gripping the corners of the bundle, she smashes it against the side of the coach. Oil soaks the fabric. Flame bursts in her hands like a be-damned miniature sun. The horses break into an unguided canter, the coach swinging wildly toward the main building.

  “Hey!” Kobok shouts again, leaping from the threshold. “What the colors do you think you’re doing?”

  “Lark!” I shout, desperately clutching the carriage frame.

  She hurls the burning bundle. It arcs upward, streaming flaming oil, and lands on the timber-and-brush roof of the building. Fire bursts into the sky. We fly by the door, well within sight of the cluster of soldiers pouring from within. One grapples for a crossbow.

  “Screw you!” Lark yells, swaying on the driver’s box, as we thunder past Kobok. He stares, open-mouthed, as the leaping flames illuminate both our faces.


  One of the coach wheels jounces against the corner of the building. I reel my head inside just before I can be decapitated by the corner. The carriage sways violently on its straps, and I’m thrown to the floor.

  “LARK!” I bellow.

  The teetering coach steadies itself, its swerving line corrected. Rat thumps against the interior bench, paws splayed and ears back. When I finally scramble to my feet and look out the flapping door, Lark is sitting, reins in one hand and whip in the other, urging the horses across the packed earth of the compound. Soldiers leap out of our way as we canter by—they turn in circles first to stare at us and then at the burning building and then at the howling knot of superior officers barreling around the corner, shouting a cacophony of orders.

  It’s too late for them. Lark has reached the open gate and careens through it. She arcs the horses to the right, onto the wide track leading west toward the Moquoviks, their black rippled peaks blotting out the stars.

  I check to make sure Rat is all in one piece, and then I climb out onto the teetering running board. I shut the door firmly behind me and carefully clamber up the hand- and footholds to the driver’s box.

  When Lark sees me approaching, she sets the reins under her boot heel again and gives me her arm. I hoist myself up into the box, gripping the handles against the rollicking of the coach. I glance over my shoulder, the blazing orange of the inferno growing fainter and fainter behind us.

  We sit for a moment, the space between us thick with the sound of beating hooves, clattering wheels, and squeaking braces. The gibbous moon hangs low on our left side, casting long, pale shadows in the grass. The single lantern not used for a firebomb swings crazily on its hook.

  Finally I turn to Lark.

  “What the balls, Lark.”

  She gives something like a triumphant grimace. Without her vest, her shirt blows open over her collarbones, revealing the beginning of the flowing river tattooed down her arm.

  “Do you even know how to drive a two-in-hand?”

  “Of course. I’m driving one, aren’t I?”

  “You nearly ran us into the side of the damn building.”

  “That’s just because I was trying to get close enough to throw the lantern.” She flicks the air with the whip. “This road’s well used, and we have a moon. No problem. I had to help drive the chuckwagon for the rustlers, and that was with no moon and a rock ton of cows in the way.”