“They’ve gone sour,” I say. “Tamarind candies.”
“But there’s a lingering spicy smell, yes?”
Reluctantly, I give them another sniff. “You’re right. It’s faint. The teakettle smells like that too.”
“The scent has faded. It’s been almost a week.”
I stare up at Iván, thinking hard, and it strikes me all of a sudden how very tall he is. I say, “You think Bolivar was poisoned both ways?”
“Makes sense,” he says. “Too much would be noticeable, yes? But if the poison is spread out, delivered in smaller doses through multiple foods . . .”
“Then you end up ingesting a lot without even realizing it.”
“Exactly.” Every time Iván gets to thinking hard, a little crease appears at the corner of his right eye. He returns the dish of rotting candy to the shelf. Then his gaze snaps to mine. He says, “Red.”
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“This could happen to any of us.”
“Why do you say . . . oh. Because the poison is too diluted to taste. We might not even know we were taking it.”
“And because the tea and the candy had to come from different sources, right? Whoever is doing this must have their hands in everything. Like supply routes. Or maybe they have total kitchen access.”
I sit on Bolivar’s writing stool to give my sore rib a break. “Not necessarily. Maybe there’s a merchant in the city who sells both tea and tamarind candy in their market stall. Maybe that’s where Bolivar got it. We can make some inquiries.”
“But if not . . .”
“If not, then you’re right. Bolivar probably got both the tea and the candy right here in the barracks.”
Iván starts to pace, and it’s almost comical the way his long legs force him to turn so often. I’m content to watch him because for some reason his pacing makes the warmth of home fill my chest. Then I realize why: Elisa paces like this, back and forth, staring at the floor, whenever she’s mulling a tricky problem.
I miss her. And tiny Ximena. And especially Hector.
Iván comes to a sudden halt, and he spins around to face me. “Where does tamarind come from?”
“Down south. The jungles of Selvarica.”
“And duerma leaf tea?”
“East beyond the great sands. It grows in the desert foothills, in shady spots. It’s one of Basajuan’s biggest exports.”
He blinks. “You knew all that off the top of your head.”
“I had royal tutors for eight years,” I point out.
“All right, Red of the royal education, tell me what all this means.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“If tamarind and duerma leaf tea come from two of the most distant corners of our empire . . .”
“Oh. You’re saying there’s no way they were poisoned at the source.”
“Exactly. They were poisoned after they arrived here in Brisadulce.”
I consider this. “I’m not sure that tells us anything we didn’t already suspect.”
“It tells us that we need to find out where—”
A key rattles in the lock.
I throw myself to the floor and slide under the bed. Iván follows my lead, making a loud clunk that I’m certain can be heard all the way to the Wallows.
The door creaks open. Boot steps approach.
There’s barely enough room under this bed; I must turn my head sideways to keep it from brushing the slats. My breath fogs the wood plank floor. My injured rib is a dagger in my side.
Iván is taut in the space beside me, his shoulder mashed against mine. His knees poke my thighs; they are slightly bent to prevent his feet from sticking out from under the bed.
The stool scrapes the floor as it’s whisked aside. The writing-desk drawer slides open. Someone rustles through the pile of parchment, rummages through quills and ink. The boots move toward the shelves.
I hardly dare breathe as I stare at the boots. They’re made of hard leather and tanned a rich brown-red; standard issue Royal Guard. Who could it be? Someone with very large feet and a slight inward pronation. Maybe it’s Bolivar himself, recovered and returned home. But no, items from the shelf are being tossed onto the bed. The flap of a cloak suddenly drapes over the side and drags on the floor, obscuring my view of the boots.
Whoever it is searches for something, just like Iván and I did, except without any care for Bolivar’s things.
He moves toward the fireplace. Metal squeals against stone as he grabs the poker and prods at the ash pile within. Then comes a loud, frustrated sigh, followed by a long pause.
The boot steps come near the bed.
The cloak disappears, then suddenly becomes a pile on the floor in the corner. A weight plunks down on the mattress, pressing the wooden slat against my ear, smashing my cheek into the floor. I’m staring at two worn boot heels, afraid to move the tiniest bit lest I scrape all the skin from my cheek.
He sits on the bed a long time. Surely he can hear my heartbeat? Iván is as still and silent as death beside me. If my head hurts this badly, Iván’s skull must be near to breaking.
At last the bed creaks as the man stands, and I barely hold my gasp in check as I’m overwhelmed with space and air and room to breathe.
He lingers a long moment, turning in place as if to survey the room one last time. Then he steps out the door and closes it behind him. The key rattles, locking us in.
We listen as his boot steps fade down the corridor outside. Finally Iván scooches out from under the bed, and I follow, brushing off my pants, which picked up some ash and dust from the floor.
“Well,” Iván says in a low voice. “That was terrifying.”
Standing up straight gives my rib a nasty pinch. “Do you think he knew we were there?”
“I hope not.” Iván frowns. “Were you hurt? You’re wincing.”
“I’m fine. Just need some rest. It seemed like he was looking for something.” I glance around. The room is disheveled now, the clothing on the shelves upended, the desk drawer half open, more ash spilling from the fireplace.
“Who was it, do you think?”
“Someone who was issued Royal Guard boots.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down much,” Iván says.
“And someone with a key to Bolivar’s quarters,” I add.
“That, on the other hand, narrows it down quite a bit more. The quartermaster might have keys to everyone’s rooms.”
I nod. “Lord-Commander Dante too, but he’s away with Elisa right now. Cleaning staff would have access to all these rooms, right? Though I doubt servants wear those boots.”
Iván’s face turns grave. “Sergeant DeLuca,” he says. “The sergeant was left in charge of the barracks. Maybe that means getting a master key.”
“DeLuca is already our most obvious suspect,” I say. “He had the most to gain from Bolivar’s disappearance.”
“Exactly. That’s how he got placed in charge.”
We stare at each other a moment. Iván’s face has an intensity about it that I don’t dislike.
“This is not proof,” I point out.