Between Two Ends (19 page)

“Guards everywhere! Your cook has spread the word.”

Yeats nodded. “How will we get to her?”

Mr. Sutcliff grunted. “If I know that girl she will make a way for you. As for our part, we must get you as close to her chamber as possible. After that, it is up to you.”

Yeats's heart thumped. He pointed and grimaced. “That's the entrance to her room—where the guards are standing. They weren't there last night.”

“Not sure if we can take four of 'em quietly,” Bones whispered soberly.

Mr. Sutcliff was thinking, his eyes sternly focused on the guards who separated him from his granddaughter.

“Have any ideas, sir?” Yeats asked.

Mr. Sutcliff turned to Yeats. He took his hands in his own wrinkly palms. “You're a good boy, Yeats,” he said. “You've done your father proud. Always
remember that you are a visitor here, sharing an adventure. But you belong somewhere else. Never forget it. Can you do that? Get her home, boy! And may your young friend Roland find his way to safety as well.”

Yeats nodded uncertainly.

Then without another word the old man released Yeats and stepped into the moonlit garden.

“Scurvy dog!” Bones hissed after him. “Are ye daft, man?”

Mr. Sutcliff paid no heed. Instead he made for the center of the grounds where Shaharazad's fountain splashed and foamed. The guards saw him at once and shouted.

“A ruse!” Skin whispered. “Very brave and very stupid! Go on, lad. He's cleared the way. Run for it!”

Yeats held his ground. “But what about Mr. Sutcliff?”

Bones shifted his cutlass. “He's not alone. Come on, Skin!” The pirates broke from their cover.

The path to Shaharazad was open and Yeats sprang forward.

Green eyes gleamed, unnoticed, from the hedge.

haharazad pressed her ear to the door. After a long minute a guard coughed. She turned and paced to the window. She had doused the lamps long ago and it was moonlight that lit her her face as she raised it to the stars. “A night for poets,” she murmured.

Her gaze fell from the sky to the darkness of the carpeted floor. Something stirred her soul but she could not place it. Many an hour she had spent planning and plotting a way out of her confines. And then Yeats had appeared in the garden, under the nose of Khan and the guards, wanting to rescue her. Why he wanted to rescue her—and from what—she could not imagine, but
it was a noble desire, was it not? With his help she felt certain that she could discover the pain of the people, the cause of their weeping, and then set about saving them.

“‘Adventure finds the thirsty heart,'” she quoted softly. “And how my heart thirsts!” She rose from the window and went to her bed. Lifting the cushions, she felt for the sword. The hilt settled comfortably in her hand as she cut the darkness with practiced skill. Rawiya was not in the chamber after dark and so missed Shaharazad's military drills and swordsmanship exercises each night.

Shaharazad returned the weapon to the cushions. She found her tinderbox and placed it at the door. Rummaging through her clothes, she found a scarf of considerable length. “As good a fuse as any,” she murmured. With a last deep breath, she reached for the tinderbox.

n the garden, Yeats once again found himself pinned to the earth by Khan. The panther growled.

His breath strained, Yeats whispered, “I've seen Roland. He's in the town. In prison. There is a garden and gallows right next to it.”

The green eyes winked shut. The giant paws pushed heavily on Yeats's chest.

“It's true! I can prove it. Roland found you in a trunk,” he stammered at last. “He got it from his aunt. He has running shoes, and now he … he's my friend.”

Khan's breath blasted in Yeats's face. “What happened?”

Wincing, Yeats looked across the lawn. “He was caught for stealing. I was caught too. The guards said they would hang him in the morning. They wanted to kill me tonight but the pirates—”

“How many guards?” Khan stepped off him and began to pace.

“We only saw one. But there will be far more now that I've escaped.”

Turning into the night, the giant cat coiled his muscles, ready to spring away.

“Khan!”

The panther faced him.

“Khan. Tell him I told you.”

The panther's long tail flickered. “Be good to my mistress,” he growled. “She has been good to me. And watch your back with those pirates!” The green eyes winked and the cat was gone.

There was no sign of the others when Yeats skidded across the lawn. The pirates and Mr. Sutcliff must have successfully drawn the guards deeper into the gardens. He made it to Shari's archway safely, his chest heaving. He peered down the corridor. A second later he flung himself
back and pressed against the stones. Two guards approached with their swords drawn and looked anxiously up and down the corridor. From the garden came shouts and the clang of steel on steel.

Impossible! How could a kid take on two guards?

What should I do? he wondered. He couldn't risk running out into the open to look for the pirates or Mr. Sutcliff. And from the sounds of all the fighting, his friends were too busy to help him. Must be only minutes till midnight! Oh, where are those pirates?

He had just started concocting a plan involving throwing rocks at the guards when there was a burst of shouting. Yeats pressed his cheek against the cold stone and peeked around the corner. Flames appeared at the other end of the corridor. The guards whispered but did not leave their post. One of them pounded on Shaharazad's door.

“My lady! Please open. We must take you to another room. There is fire in the corridor.” The door did not open. Smoke billowed and thickened and began to blow down the corridor. Yeats
wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell. A few seconds later he covered his nose and mouth with his arm to breathe. The guards coughed and choked and still they pounded on her door. At last they ran out past Yeats with their eyes streaming. Smoke billowed out the archways and swirled around the pillars lining the corridor.

“Now or never!” Yeats muttered. With one arm flung over his mouth and nose he ran toward the fire. The smoke was too thick to see anything. Instead, he desperately felt along the wall. Almost out of air, he finally found the door. He was about to start pounding when something teased his memory.
One knock
, she had said. He rapped once with all his might. With no reserves left he opened his mouth to the awaiting smoke.

The door flung open and Yeats fell in. It closed behind him and a key turned in the lock. Yeats coughed and spluttered on the floor. His eyes streamed with tears that blurred his vision. He couldn't seem to get his breath.

A hand pressed a wet cloth against his face. “It will help,” someone said, and he recognized
Shari's voice immediately. A moment later she propped up his head with a pillow. “Hurry, Yeats, and clear your eyes. I did not set much of a fire and the guards will return. They will break down the door to make certain I am well. There is, after all, a rogue loose in the palace!”

Yeats mopped his face and sucked in the clean air. When he opened his eyes, his mouth fell open at the extravagance of the room. Persian carpets covered the floor in a mosaic of rich purples and reds. Woven hangings, veils, and scarves of many colors latticed the walls. A couch littered with pillows stood near his head. At the opposite end of the room was a bed, majestically enfolded in veils and sheets. Several candles burned throughout the chamber, releasing the smell of cinnamon and other spices.

Shari was dressed in a nightgown and her unbraided hair fell past her shoulders. In her hands she held out a cup. “Drink,” she said.

Yeats sipped the cool water. He was suddenly aware of his own dirty, smoke-covered tunic. “You look like Jasmine from
Aladdin
,” he said.

She smiled. “That is an old tale.”

Time slowed in the peace and luxury of her room. The water soothed his burning throat and her voice calmed his mind.

“My family loves stories and poetry,” he said, suddenly feeling tired and longing for home. The carpets were soft and so much more inviting than the prison cell and the wildness of the Arabian night. “I'm named after a poet,” he added.

Shaharazad was delighted. “A poet! I love poets!” She blushed. “I mean, I love poetry.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“And how would you have such knowledge?”

He handed back the cup. “You love poetry because you think you are Shaharazad.” He stood up and held out his hand. “And we have to go.”

She remained kneeling. “Go? It was my understanding that you were to tell me why the people weep. I know you found Mohassin, for the story has circulated throughout the palace. What has happened to change our plan? Do we need to go elsewhere for me to hear your answer?”

Yeats gestured for quiet and moved to the door. He listened. Still no sound. “Shari! You must come with me. My friends are risking their lives running from your palace guards. I don't know how much time we have.”

The girl nodded. “You speak truly that there is little time. But why do you insist that I must go with you? I have not decided what I will do until I know the answer to my question. You were to find answers. I thought you came to tell me why the people weep. I thought you were sent to tell me my adventure. I thought the voice and the pictures I saw …” Her words trailed off.

Yeats shook his head. “I don't know anything about that.” It was so hard to be attentive to what she was saying while he was listening intently for the guards' return.

Frowning and looking disappointed, she stood and walked slowly to her bed, keeping her eyes on him as she went. When she turned there was a scimitar in her hands with the sharp end aimed at Yeats's head.

“Hey, put that down,” he said. “I can tell you
what is happening. I can explain. You don't need to point that at me.”

She moved closer, aiming the blade at his chest. “Who are you? Why would you take me from here?”

“Because this is not where you belong,” he spluttered. “You're not from here. My father—”