Palace of Mirrors (23 page)

The alley curves and shifts, and then, as if there’s an invisible fence somewhere, the rats disappear from underfoot. Respectable shops appear around me now, along with respectable townspeople, who stare and gape and yet somehow manage to pretend that they are not staring and gaping.

Oh, yeah,
I think.
My head is bleeding, my hands are bleeding, my shoes are covered in sludge. . . .

I consider smiling and uttering a polite,
And how are you this fine day?
but no one will meet my eye. Regardless, I need all my concentration for forcing my feet forward.

Where am I going, anyhow? Why didn’t I ask Harper exactly where he planned to go to look for Sir Stephen and Nanny and his mam?

The alley—now just an ordinary street—curves again and spits me out into a vast sunlit square. No, not a square: It’s the courtyard in front of the palace. And it must be noon, because the courtyard is packed wall-to-wall with people all staring toward at Desmia’s balcony.

I sway, nearly overcome with dizziness and despair. How could I possibly have thought that I could find Harper in all the crowds of Cortona? Why hadn’t I thought to beg the knights from the torture chamber to come with me? They were rickety skeletons, near death, but there would be
someone
to help me, so it wouldn’t be just me alone, desperately searching an entire city for a single boy.

And then, across the crowd, I spy Ella.

I can see her only because she is being lifted onto a sort of viewing platform in the center of the courtyard. She is wearing a dainty rose-colored dress that gleams in the sunlight, its glow almost matching the marvel of her golden hair. Though she wears no crown, she looks every bit a princess; several in the crowd are staring at her rather
than Desmia’s balcony. Dimly, I remember her part in our plans: Under the guise of simply wanting to know more about our delightful kingdom she was going to ask for a tour of Cortona, so she could gauge the mood of the countryside and find out whether Suala’s subjects were more loyal to Desmia or Lord Throckmorton.

What a stupid plan,
I think. But then some of Sir Stephen’s chess training kicks in, and it’s like I can step back and see an overview, all of us like pieces on a chessboard. Ella’s plan—our plan, the one all four of us put together last night—was not stupid. It was simply cautious, a plan perfectly suited to a foreigner who doesn’t want to ruin her fiancé’s peace mission and a princess who already feels like her life is in danger and a girl who no longer knows who she is and a boy who . . . Well, I can’t think of Harper’s reason for caution; that’s probably why he’d agreed to do the most dangerous task. Still, last night we were like chess players deciding to push a few pawns forward so we could figure out our opponents’ mindset and strategy. We thought the game was just beginning. We thought we had time.

We didn’t know about the half-dead knights in the torture chamber and the trap laid around Sir Stephen and . . . I feel the color drain from my face. There are probably other dangers out there that I still don’t know about, because I ran away from my listening post.

I had to,
I tell myself fiercely.
The time for caution is past.

I begin struggling through the throngs of people toward Ella. The crowd does not exactly part for me the way I saw it part for her. I have to shove, elbow, pinch, poke, and—once, when everything else fails—threaten to smear my bloody hands on a nasty woman’s dress. By the time I reach Ella’s viewing platform, Desmia must be done waving up on her balcony, because the crowd is reluctantly beginning to turn away.

Guards circle Ella’s platform. I hear the woman sitting next to her—a stiff, matronly type in an ugly, eggplant-colored dress—say, “I’ve arranged a carriage to pick us up now, because you
surely
don’t want to associate with any of the riffraff in the streets.”

I plant myself directly in front of Ella’s platform, in plain sight. I want Ella’s help looking for Harper; I want to tell her about what I overheard and how I found the knights in the torture chamber. I’d love it if she could figure out how each one of the knights could be so certain that
he
was the one who’d tutored the true princess. But I can’t tell her anything when so many other people are within earshot.

The matron sitting beside Ella catches a glimpse of me and sniffs in horror.

“My—my smelling salts,” she gasps.

Do I really look that bad? Sure, my shoes and legs are a bit muddy, and my hair’s probably a mess, with the blood and all. But Ella and Desmia did make sure
that I got a new dress last night—a plain one pulled from the maids’ supply, because any of their clothes would have been too conspicuous on me, but still, it’s clean and unripped and . . . I peer down, indignant, and see that the formerly clean dress is now smeared with mud and blood and adorned with filthy strings of cobwebs. And I guess I must have ripped a couple of the seams when I was wielding the pike on Sir Roget’s chains, or pulling out the door hinges, or running across the rats.

Okay, so I look terrible. So what? Wait a minute—can I use that?

“Please, miss,” I say, addressing Ella. “I am but a poor ragamuffin child, but I wanted to talk to you. I can tell you that even Sualans like myself understand how lucky we are to live here. Suala is a glorious land, and Desmia is a wonderful princess.”

Ella’s eyes bug out when she sees me.

“Listen to that,” the matron beside Ella says, having evidently decided she doesn’t have to faint. She simpers. “Even our beggars here in Suala have perfect grammar and diction. And appropriate gratitude.”

“Please, miss,” I say, trying again, staring at Ella. “If I could just tell you my story privately . . .”

Ella casts her eyes hesitantly toward the matron, and down toward the guards.

“Er—,” she says.

The matron clutches Ella’s arm.

“Oh, no!” she exclaims. “We would never allow such a thing with a visiting dignitary. That one would lure you into a dark alley and beat you senseless, she would!”

I’m thinking that I would like to lure this matron into the rat-infested alley I just left, just to see if she herself can maintain perfect grammar, diction, and gratitude under such trying circumstances.

Ella clears her throat.

“I would have thought this beggar might be located elsewhere,” she says, grimacing slightly. Almost imperceptibly she twitches her head toward the palace and wrinkles her brow curiously.

Code language and facial expressions,
I think.
That’s all we’re going to be able to use.

“Are you implying that our beggars are too forward?” the matron asks, offense creeping into her voice. “What do you do in Fridesia, cage them up so they’re out of sight?”

Ella turns toward the matron.

“Oh, no,” she says, forcing her eyes into a wide expression of mock guilelessness. “In Fridesia we have so many beggars that one can barely walk two paces without having to step over a ragamuffin like this one. I’ve been admiring the fact that Suala’s indigents are so rare as to be practically nonexistent.”

She glances my way, as if to ask,
Am I laying it on too thick?

I frown, because this could take forever.

“Believe me,” I say, “I was exactly where I belonged, earlier this morning. But then”—
How can I say this?
—“I, uh, had good cause to come this way. I, um, wanted to sing Suala’s praises to you, but . . .” Suddenly, I’m inspired. “How can I sing without a harp? And
Harper
?”

I’m proud of myself for being able to ask so directly, without giving anything away.

“There was a fine harper at the palace,” Ella says, her face as serene as if she’s doing no more than musing on all the pleasant music she’s heard since arriving in Suala.

I glance at the matron, who doesn’t look suspicious yet.

“Is the harper still there?” I ask, and somehow I can’t keep the urgency out of my voice. You’d think that I would be good at pretending after all my years of practice, but I sound so worried that even people on the other side of the platform turn and stare at me with great concern.

“Aye, at the music competition—,” Ella begins, which makes me wonder if she understands what I’m trying to say at all. The matron beside her interrupts before I have a chance to clarify.

“That’s enough! Beggar, begone!” she orders. “We’ll not have you troubling our visitor with your nonsense.”

“Oh, please,” I say. I think to humbly bow my head. “I have to—”

Ella gasps before I can say another word.

“You have to get treatment for that gash on your head!” she exclaims. “How is it that you’re even conscious?”

The matron gasps too.

“That’s blood?” she shrieks, horrified. “Not just dirt?”

She faints dead away, her body crumpling onto the platform.

Ella stands up and taps one of her guards on the shoulder.

“You, carry Lady Throckmorton back into the palace. Make sure you keep her in a dark room for at least an hour, do you hear me?” She turns to another guard. “And you, make sure there’s a needle and thread and candle waiting in my quarters. And you”—she’s addressing a third guard now—“carry this child into the palace so I can take a good look at her injury.”

“You, miss?” the guard says doubtfully, even as the other two scramble to obey. “
You’ll
take a look at it?”

“Yes.” Ella’s reply is firm. She may not be a princess, but even Sir Stephen would be impressed with her tone of command.

Not that I plan to obey her.

“I am not going to the palace!” I say, stamping my foot. “Not when the
harper
is outside.”

“Didn’t you hear me? The
harper
is in the palace, watching the music competition,” Ella practically shouts back at me. We are barely pretending now, but I hear a man nearby whisper, “Those are some serious music lovers.”

“The harper is watching for a most unusual act,” Ella adds. “Two ladies and a gentleman . . .”

I reel backward, woozy in my despair. Why can’t Ella
understand? What do I care about acts in the music competition? Two ladies and a gentleman? So what?

Oh. Two ladies and a gentleman: Nanny, Harper’s mam, and Sir Stephen.

“Take me to the palace, then,” I whisper, and the guard scoops me up in his arms.

  26  

I don’t like being carried. For one thing, the guard holds me at arm’s length, as if he’s terrified that touching me will give him fleas or some other vermin. This makes me feel like I’m constantly in danger of being dropped. For another thing, as long as the guard’s holding me, I can’t say anything to Ella.

She’s walking at a dignified pace behind us, surrounded by a cortège of the other guards. I can hear her proclaiming loudly, “Sualans are so merciful, that they would allow a beggar child to be treated for her wounds at the palace. Desmia truly is a munificent princess. . . .”

Is she out of her mind?
I wonder.
Calling attention to how weird this is?
But then, over the guard’s shoulder Ella winks at me, and I remember another one of Sir Stephen’s maxims:
“Praise people in advance for doing what you want them to do, even if you don’t truly expect them to do it, and
sometimes they’ll surprise you.”
I can’t remember if that’s from Ten Guidelines for Forcing Subordinates to Rise to the Occasion or Twelve Rules for Controlling a Dicey Situation, but in this case, it seems to be working. We’re almost at the palace.

Everything goes dark, but that’s only because we’ve stepped from the bright sunlight into the dimness of the palace entryway. This is a different entrance from the one Harper and I used for the music competition, and when my eyes adjust, I am thunderstruck by the gilt that seems to cover every square inch of the ceiling, the mirrors that hang from every wall, and the throngs of elegantly dressed people standing around chatting.

And yet down in the basement there were knights being tortured,
I think, and that helps keep me from being quite so dazed.

“We shall take her to my quarters,” Ella whispers to the guard, and then goes back to loudly praising Suala’s mercy and Desmia’s compassion for the poor.