A Torch Against the Night (28 page)

Steady, Laia. Calm.
Beside me, Ayan fidgets but keeps quiet, perhaps sensing the danger outside the compartment.

“—a group of Scholar rebels, running this way,” a flat voice speaks. The Mask. “Have you seen them?”

“I’ve seen a slave or two,” Afya says. “No rebels.”

“We’ll be searching your wagon anyway, Tribeswoman. Where is your
Zaldar
?

“I am
Zaldara
.”

The Mask pauses. “Intriguing,” he says in a way that makes me shudder. I can practically imagine Riz’s hackles going up. “Perhaps you and I can discuss it later, Tribeswoman.”

“Perhaps.” Afya’s voice is a purr, so smooth that I would not have caught the thin thread of rage deep beneath the surface if I hadn’t spent the last few weeks in close quarters with her.

“Start with the green one.” The Mask’s voice recedes. I turn my head, close one eye, and press the other to a space between the planks. I can just make out Gibran’s mirror-encrusted wagon and the supply wagon beside it where Keenan hides.

I thought the rebel would want to hide with me, but the first time the Martials came, he took one look at Afya’s compartment and shook his head.

If we remain separate
, he’d said,
then even if the Martials discover one of us, the others can still remain hidden.

Too soon, a horse snorts from nearby, and a soldier drops down from it. I catch a glimmer of a silver face and try to keep breathing. Beside me, Miladh holds a hand to his son’s chest.

The stairs at the foot of Afya’s wagon come down, and the heavy gait of the soldier’s boots thunk above us. The footsteps stop.

Doesn’t mean anything. He might not see the seams in the floor.
The trapdoor is designed so cleverly that even the decoy compartment is almost impossible to detect.

The soldier paces back and forth. He leaves the wagon, but I cannot relax, for seconds later, he circles it.

“
Zaldara
,” he calls to Afya. “Your wagon is built rather strangely.” He sounds almost amused. “From the outside, the bottom of this wagon drops to a foot or so off the ground. But the inside is considerably higher.”

“Tribespeople like our wagons solid, my lord,” Afya says. “Otherwise they break apart at the first pothole in the road.”

“Aux,” the Mask calls out to another soldier. “Come here.
Zaldara
, you too.” Boots thud up Afya’s stairs, followed by her lighter footsteps.

Breathe, Laia. Breathe.
We’re going to be fine. This has happened before.

“Pull back the rug,
Zaldara
.”

The rug shifts. A second later, I hear the telltale click of the trapdoor.
Skies, no.

“You like your wagons solid, eh?” the Mask says. “Not that solid, apparently.”

“Perhaps we can discuss this,” Afya says smoothly. “I’m happy to offer a small tribute if you’ll simply overlook—”

“I’m not an Empire toll collector you can bribe with a brick of ghas, Tribeswoman.” The Mask’s voice is no longer amused. “This substance is outlawed, and it will be confiscated and destroyed, as will the firepowder. Soldier, remove the contraband.”

All right, you’ve found it. Now keep going.

The soldier lifts the ghas out brick by brick. This too has happened before, though until now, Afya has managed to dissuade the Martials from looking further with only a few bricks of ghas. This Mask doesn’t move until everything in the compartment is gone.

“Well,” Afya says when the aux soldier is finished. “Happy?”

“Not remotely,” the Mask says. A second later, Afya swears. I hear a heavy thump, a gasp, and what sounds like the Tribeswoman choking back a scream.

Disappear, Laia
,
I think to myself.
You’re invisible. Gone. Small. Smaller than a scratch. Smaller than dust. No one can see you. No one knows you’re here.
My body tingles, like too much blood rushing to my skin all at once.

A moment later, the second portion of the compartment rolls back. Afya is slumped against the side of her cabin, one hand at her swiftly bruising neck. The Mask stands inches away, and as I stare up into his face, I find that I am paralyzed with fear.

I expect him to recognize me. But he has eyes only for Miladh and Ayan. The boy erupts into wails at the sight of the monster before him. He claws at his father, who desperately tries to shush him.

“Scholar trash,” the Mask says. “Can’t even hide properly. Get up, rat. And shut your brat up.”

Miladh’s eyes cut to where I lie, and then widen. Swiftly, he looks away, saying nothing. He ignores me. They all ignore me. As if I’m not there. As if they can’t see me.

Just like when you snuck up on the Commandant in Serra, like when you hid from the Tribesman at Raider’s Roost. Like when Elias lost you in the crowd in Nur. You wish to disappear, and you do.

Impossible. I think it must be some strange trick by the Mask. But he makes his way out of the wagon, shoving Afya, Miladh, and Ayan before him, and I am left alone. I look down at myself and gasp. I can see my own body, but I can also see the grain of the wood through it. Tentatively, I reach out for the edges of the smuggler’s compartment, expecting that my hand will go through, the way ghosts’ hands do in the stories. But my body is as solid as ever; it’s simply more translucent to my eye—and invisible to others’.

How? How? How?
Did the efrit in Serra do this? These are questions I must answer—but later. For now, I grab Darin’s scim, and my dagger and pack, and tiptoe from the wagon. I stick to the shadows, but I might as well walk in front of the torches, because no one sees me. Zehr, Riz, Vana, and Gibran all kneel on the ground, their hands bound behind their backs.

“Search the wagons,” the Mask snarls. “If there are two Scholar scum here, there are bound to be more.”

A moment later, one of the soldiers approaches. “Sir,” he says. “There’s no one else.”

“Then you haven’t looked hard enough.” The Mask grabs one of the torches and lights Gibran’s wagon on fire.
Izzi!

“No,” Gibran shouts, trying to break free from his bonds.
“NO!”

A moment later, Izzi staggers out of the wagon, coughing at the smoke. The Mask smiles.

“See?” he says to his fellow soldiers. “Like rats. All you need is to smoke them out. Burn the wagons. Where this lot is going, they won’t need them.”

Oh skies. I need to move. I count the Martials. There are a dozen of them. The Mask, six legionnaires, and five auxes. Seconds after they light the fires, Miladh’s sisters emerge from their hiding spots, carrying little Sena with them. The girl is unable to rip her terrified gaze from the Mask.

“I found another!” one of the auxes calls from the other side of the camp, and, to my horror, he drags Keenan out.

The Mask looks Keenan over, grinning. “Look at that hair,” he says. “I’ve a few friends who fancy redheads, boy. Pity my orders are to kill all Scholars. I’d have made a good bit of gold off you.”

Keenan clenches his jaw, searching for me in the clearing. When he doesn’t find me, he relaxes and puts up no fight as the Martials tie him up.

They’ve found everyone. The wagons burn. In moments, they’ll execute all of the Scholars and likely drag Afya and her Tribe to prison.

I have no plan, but I move anyway, reaching for Darin’s scim. Is it visible? It can’t be. My clothes clearly aren’t, and neither is my pack. I make my way to Keenan.

“Don’t move,” I whisper into his ear. Keenan stops breathing for a second. But he doesn’t so much as twitch beyond that. “I’m going to cut the bonds on your hands first,” I say. “Then your feet. I’m going to hand you a scim.”

There’s no indication that Keenan has heard. As I saw through the leather binding his hands, one of the legionnaires approaches the Mask.

“The wagons are destroyed,” he says. “We have six Tribespeople, five Scholar adults, and two Scholar children.”

“Good,” the Mask says. “We’ll—aah—”

Blood fountains from the Mask’s neck as Keenan flies to his feet and whips Darin’s scim up and across the Martial’s throat. It should be a killing blow, but this is a Mask, after all, and he backs away quickly. He presses his hand to the wound, his features twisting into a snarl of rage.

I run to Afya and cut through her ropes. Zehr is next. By the time I’ve gotten to Riz, Vana, and the Scholars, all hell has broken loose in the clearing. Keenan grapples with the Mask, who is attempting to wrestle him to the ground. Zehr dances around the blades of three legionnaires, shooting arrows so fast that I don’t see him draw the bow. At the sound of a scream, I whirl and find Vana clutching her bloody arm as her father fights off two auxes with a cudgel.

“Izzi! Back!” Gibran shoves my friend behind him as he brandishes a sword against another legionnaire.

“Kill them!” the Mask bellows to his men. “Kill them all!”

Miladh shoves Ayan at one of his sisters and takes up a burning piece of wood that has popped off one of the wagons. He waves it at an approaching aux, who jumps back warily. On his other side, an aux soldier moves for the Scholars, scim out, but I leap forward. I bring my dagger into the small of the soldier’s back and yank it upward, the way Keenan taught me. The man drops, twitching, to the dirt.

One of Miladh’s sisters engages the other aux, and when the soldier is distracted, Miladh stabs at him with the firebrand, setting his clothes alight. The soldier screams and rolls wildly on the ground, trying to get the fire out.

“You—you were gone.” Miladh stutters, staring at me, but there’s no time to explain. I kneel down, tearing the aux’s daggers from his body. I toss one to Miladh and another to his sister. “Hide,” I scream at them. “In the woods! Take the children!”

One of the sisters goes, but the other remains beside Miladh, and together they attack a legionnaire bearing down on them.

Across the camp, Keenan holds his own against the Mask, helped, no doubt, by the blood pouring down the bigger man’s neck. Afya’s short scim flashes wickedly in the firelight as she takes down an aux and turns immediately to do battle with a legionnaire. Zehr has taken out two of his attackers and battles the last ferociously. The last legionnaire circles Izzi and Gibran.

My friend has a bow in her hand, and she notches it, aims at the legionnaire fighting Zehr, and puts an arrow straight into the Martial’s throat.

A few yards away from her, Riz and Vana still battle the auxes. Riz’s brow is furrowed as he tries to fend off one of the soldiers. The man punches Riz in the belly. The silver-haired Tribesman doubles over, and to my horror, a blade is sticking out of his back a moment later.

“Father!” Vana screams. “Skies, Father!”

“Riz?” Gibran throws off one of the legionnaires with a blow and lurches toward his cousin.

“Gibran!” I shriek. The legionnaire who’s been circling him leaps forward. Gibran lifts his blade, but it shatters.

Then a flash of steel—a sickening crunch.

The color drains from Gibran’s face as Izzi staggers back, an impossible amount of blood geysering from her chest.
She’s not dead. She can survive that. She’s strong.
I run for them, my mouth open in a rabid scream as the legionnaire who stabbed Izzi now lunges for Gibran.

The Tribal boy’s neck is open for the kill, and all I can think as I fly forward is that if he dies, Izzi will be heartbroken, yet again. She deserves more than that.

“Gib!” Afya’s scream of terror is hair-raising, echoing in my ears as my dagger clangs against the legionnaire’s scim inches from Gibran’s neck. I use a sudden, adrenaline-fueled burst of strength to throw the soldier back. He is off balance for a moment before he grabs me by the throat and disarms me with a twist of his hand. I kick at him, trying to knee him in the groin, but he slams me to the ground. I see stars, then a flash of red. Suddenly, a spray of hot blood hits my face, and the legionnaire collapses atop me, dead.

“Laia!” Keenan shoves the man off me and pulls me to my feet. Behind him, the Mask lies dead—as do the other Martials.

Vana sobs beside her fallen father, Afya at her side. Ayan clings to Miladh, while Sena tries to shake her dead mother awake. Zehr limps to the Scholars, blood leaking from a dozen slashes.

“Laia.” Keenan’s voice is choked, and I turn.
No. No, Izzi.
I want to close my eyes, to run from what I see. But my feet take me forward, and I drop beside Izzi, cradled in Gibran’s arms.

My friend’s eye is open, and she seeks out mine. I force myself to pull my gaze from the gaping wound in her chest.
Damn the Empire. I will burn it down for this. I will destroy it.

I scrabble at my pack.
She’ll need stitches is all—a witch hazel poultice—tea, some sort of tea.
But even as I rifle through the bottles I know that there is no vial, no extract strong enough to counter this. She has moments—if that.

I take my friend’s hand, small and cold. I try to say her name, but my voice is gone. Gibran sobs, begs her to stay.

Keenan stands behind me, and I feel his hands drop to my shoulders and squeeze.

“L-Laia—” A bubble of blood forms at the corner of Izzi’s mouth and bursts.

“Iz.” I find my voice. “Stay with me. Don’t leave me. Don’t you dare. Think of all the things you have to tell Cook.”

“Laia,” she whispers. “I’m afraid—”

“Izzi.” I shake her gently, not wanting to hurt her. “Izzi!”

Her warm brown eye meets mine, and for a moment, I think she’s going to be fine. There is so much life there—so much
Izzi
.
For a single heartbeat, she looks at me—into me, like she can see down into my soul.

And then she’s gone.

T
he kennels outside Kauf reek of dog droppings and rancid fur. Even the scarf pulled across my face can’t mask it. I gag at the stench.

From where I sidle in the snow along the building’s southern wall, the cacophony of the dogs is deafening. But when I peer into the entrance, the Fiver on guard duty is fast asleep beside the kennel fire—as he has been the past three mornings.

I inch the kennel door open and stick to the walls, still swathed in predawn shadows. Three days of planning—of waiting and watching—have led to this. If all goes well, I’ll have broken Darin out of Kauf by this time tomorrow.