Thinking of the poking mattress gives me an idea. I slip open the bedside drawer, grab my golden baby rattle, and shove it beneath the middle part of my back. It’s extraordinarily painful.
My back is deeply bruised by the time the bells ring once, sharp and startling, and something shoots through my blood that’s part relief, part exhilaration. It’s one advantage of having the soldier sickness, Hector says. I can be ready to flee or fight faster than just about anyone.
The bunk creaks as I slip off the mattress. I freeze a moment, listening, but no one stirs. I tiptoe to Iván’s bed and gently shake him awake.
He lurches up, banging his head against the top bunk. “Ow,” he says.
I shush him. “Get your shoes on,” I whisper. “Time to go.”
“Already on,” he says, slipping his booted feet from beneath his blanket and placing them on the floor. “Let’s get this over with.”
Together we creep toward the entrance to the bunk room. Someone flips over in their bed, muttering, and we go still. One of the recruits is sleeping with his arm hanging over the side of the bed, his knuckles resting on the floor. Next to him, the Arturos from Basajuan have climbed into the same cot together; they sleep with their arms wrapped around each other, one’s forehead snugged beneath the other’s chin.
When no one stirs, we continue our agonizingly slow journey, past the snoring army recruit, through the archway, and into the hall glowing with torchlight.
“You have a letter with the imperial seal,” Iván whispers. “Surely we can just . . . go wherever we want? Flash that seal to gain entry?”
“The prince’s orders are to let no one see us.”
He frowns. “How are we supposed to avoid all the patrols?”
“Just follow me. I’m going to move fast, so keep up.”
“But where are we—”
“Please stop talking.”
The exit from the barracks is sure to have a sentry or two. So instead of leaving that way, I usher Iván into the latrine.
“Is this an elaborate prank to humiliate me?” he whispers. “Lure me into the latrine, ambush—”
I can’t have him doubting me the whole way; I don’t have time for it. I shove Rosario’s letter in his face. “Go ahead. Read it.”
He does. His mouth forms an O. “That’s the prince’s writing,” he observes.
I say, “I don’t care enough about you to devise an elaborate prank, and I have no idea why the prince wants you to come along. But we have orders from our liege, and we must obey. Now will you please be quiet and follow me?”
Iván nods, handing the letter back, which I shove into my pocket. He makes a gesture as if to say, “Lead the way.”
It occurs to me to ask him how he knows what Rosario’s handwriting looks like, but I’d so much rather not talk to him.
Three torches line the back wall, just above the row of privies. I move toward the one on the right, step up onto the privy seat, and remove the torch.
The empty sconce is brass like the others, but a careful look reveals that it’s placed in the stone wall a little differently, jutting out farther, with a more pronounced outline around its mortar setting.
I give the sconce a firm twist to the left.
A section of wall pulls back into darkness and slides silently to the side.
“Holy God,” Iván says. “How did you know—”
“Let’s go. Hurry!” Still holding the torch, I step into darkness.
I sense Iván at my back. Once we are both well inside, I push down on a brass lever, and the stone door slides closed.
Finally it’s safe to whisper. “I’m going to show you a lot of things tonight, Iván. Secret things. And if you tell anyone about them—”
“You’ll tattle to your empress?”
I round on him; he towers over me. “No. I’ll kill you.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. The torchlight makes hollows of his cheeks. After a moment, a mocking grin spreads across his face. “Do you really think—”
“I’m not being dramatic. Very few know about the passageways I’m going to show you. Even among the Royal Guard, only those in Elisa’s inner circle know them all. Her safety depends on keeping it that way. So if you tell anyone, I. Will. Kill. You.”
His eyes narrow as if in thought. He’d have beautiful eyes if they weren’t so darkly veiled and quick to anger. He says, “Actually, that sounds fair.”
Not the response I was expecting, but I’ll take it. “It’s safe to whisper in most of these passages,” I tell him. “When the stone walls give way to wood, though, we must be quiet like mice.”
“Understood.”
The passage is narrow and dusty, though not as dusty as it once was. The empress has been keeping these routes in better condition than previous monarchs, and the torchlight reveals lighter patches of fresh mortar, where either Royal Guards or the spymaster’s people have completed maintenance. We turn right once, then left, ignoring a branching corridor. The ceiling becomes lower; Iván must duck his head to continue.
“Do you think someone will notice the missing torch in the latrine?” he whispers.
“Maybe, but all torches in the palace are free to use.”
“Oh. That’s good.” After a moment, he adds, “Have you killed anyone before?”
I guide us down a short set of stairs. The walls close in so tight they nearly brush my shoulders. “Yes.”
“Who?”
“None of your business.”
Our passage ends at a large wooden panel. I slide it aside, revealing a small storage closet. We slip into the closet, shut the panel, and snuff out the torch. Light filters in from the hallway. Chests are stacked shoulder-high against the walls, and a few burlap bags spill into the center, leaving us little room to maneuver. Iván’s body invades my space; like me, he smells of manure and sun-warmed straw.
“This is the awkward part,” I say to his chest. “We have an open hallway to travel, which will take us to the entrance to the catacombs. There’s always a Royal Guard on duty there, and absolutely no way past him. We’ll have to walk right up and show him the prince’s seal.”
“The prince said we shouldn’t be seen.”
“You have a better idea? Fortunately, the catacomb guard is always someone Elisa trusts completely, so we can count on him to be discreet.”
“What about a distraction?”
“The guard will never desert his post. Not for anything. The last one who did that was executed by Luz-Manuel, the former General.”
“Whatever is down there must be extremely important.”
“Yes. Now hush. I have to listen.”
I put my ear to the door of the storage closet and listen for footsteps. Nothing. Quietly, gradually, I crack the door open and peek outside. The corridor is clear.
“Now let’s go,” I say. “Quickly.”
We dart from the storage closet and close the door softly behind us. This corridor is one of the oldest in the palace, made of bulging river rock set into mortar three fingers thick. The cobblestones are worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Flickering torchlight turns the floor from iron gray to soft orange.