“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.