A year ago—or even a month—I would have seen the officer’s surprise as a triumph of sorts, the rest of his words barely even registering. But when he called me a dirt licker …
I take a deep breath. Am I acting superior? I wonder uncomfortably. Has the knowledge of my true heritage made me feel that I’m better than other non-magi? I think of Papa, forced to give up his job at the Ministry of Treasure twenty years ago. I think of the unnamed non-magi captains General Tahmasp told me about, of the many other non-magi who had built temples and roads, run businesses, advised kings and queens before the Great War.
No. The voice comes from somewhere deep within, fills me with an acute sense of relief. I will never think myself better than them. But after what happened at Chand Mahal, I’m only more aware of things I had seen before but chose to not look at closely, simply because they were too painful. Like the mix of surprise and derision in the officer’s voice. Like the color of my eyes.
General Tahmasp’s grim face flashes through my mind, and I shake my head hard, pushing away the thought. Dark eyes aren’t exactly uncommon in Ambar; nearly half the Sky Warriors have them. As angry as Papa made me by keeping the real story of my birth a secret, he’s the only real father I’ve known. The only man whom I would give my life for.
My body stiffens moments later on hearing the sound of boots and the low murmur of voices behind the tree. Instinctively, I move sideways, where the branches are lower, the shadows deeper. I hold in a breath, praying they don’t notice me.
“He’s gone, then?” Major Shayla’s cold voice is unmistakable. “You’re certain.”
“Decapitated and buried in the Desert of Dreams,” a woman replies in a low voice that I’m certain I wouldn’t have heard if she hadn’t paused by the tree. “The dustwolves did most of the work. I didn’t even need to use magic.”
“The general thought himself so clever.” Major Shayla makes a clicking sound with her tongue. “Evading every question, always on some secret mission. Well, it’s only a matter of time until the raja announces a new commander of the armies.”
“You, you mean.” The other woman’s laughter crawls down my spine. A blister forms in my mouth; I realize I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek.
“Listen. We don’t have much time. I want you to keep an eye on that girl. That Siya. I checked at the Ministry of Bodies and found nothing. No papers, not a single thumbprint.”
“I could take care of her—”
“I don’t want her dead, Alizeh,” the Scorpion snarls. “Not yet, at any rate.” There’s a pause, during which neither speaks. “Now go. Before someone comes and sees us.”
Footsteps crunch against the dried leaves, fade into the distance. A moment later, Major Shayla strides toward the ministry building and disappears around the bend, sunlight beaming off her silver armor. She doesn’t look sideways or back, doesn’t see me standing among the branches of the tree. Neither do four other Sky Warriors who walk by long moments later, the sound of their laughter echoing in my ears.
General Tahmasp—dead. Eaten alive by dustwolves. As for Gul … it seems like Latif’s warning about her wasn’t wrong, either.
If I had any sense, I would ignore Latif, who hasn’t even told me how I can help Gul, let alone explained what his plans are to get me and Papa out of the tenements. Only Papa matters, I remind myself. Papa, who raised me like his own son, even when I wasn’t, the only person for whom I would have ever considered joining the army of a king I detest. That I successfully sneaked Gul in without getting caught is a miracle in itself. I don’t owe her—or Latif—anything else.
So why does it feel like I’m doing something wrong?
I fumble through the Walled City, not realizing I’m in the wrong place until I’m nearly at the palace’s front entrance: a pair of large, imposing doors made of sangemarmar and gold that open only to the royals and their entourage of ministers, courtiers, and guards. Today, a crowd of servants gathers outside the gates, as if anticipating a spectacle.
The makara guards hiss and step forward with a swish of their reptilian tails. Within seconds, the crowd parts, making way for a palanquin carrying Lohar’s youngest queen, Farishta, in a ghagra-choli of deep turquoise, her eyes gleaming like agates. Behind the palanquin, human guards escort a pair of women dressed in brown tunics and billowing brown trousers, their bald heads marking them as holy women from the south of Ambar. It’s odd to see outsiders in the Walled City and, on a normal day, I would have also stood with the crowd and watched them march in.
Not today, though.
Today, I make my way to the Moon Door at the palace’s rear, barely registering the guard who checks my turban pin and waves me inside.
I’m careful to keep to the shadows as I make my way to the stables, away from Rani Mahal. I force my mind away from what may be happening there. From Gul, wherever she may be.
29GUL
The night I win at the cage, I see the sky goddess in my dreams again. Or how I imagine the sky goddess must be, based on the paintings I’ve seen of her and the statues in her temples: a beautiful woman with pale-blue skin, on a throne of cloud and air, her black hair flowing behind her, the locks speckled with stars. She spins a chakra on one finger: a metal discus with serrated edges, so bright it might have
