The news must have whipped through the city with the destructive force of a sandstorm. The Inviernos are back! And they threatened the queen!
All this emptiness makes us nothing if not noticeable. My neck prickles as I glance at the surrounding buildings, expecting furtive heads to appear in windowsills. But I see no one.
Quietly I say, “Alejandro said the entrance was through a blacksmith’s home.”
“Yes. Just around the corner . . . there.” He indicates a large awning outside a two-story adobe building. The bellows beneath it is cold, and the traces dangle empty chains.
Hector’s hand on my shoulder tightens as he peers under the awning. “Ho, blacksmith!” he calls.
The door creaks open. A bald man with a sooty leather apron and forearms like corded tree trunks steps over the threshold. His eyes widen.
“Goodman Rialto!” the blacksmith exclaims, and his cheer is a little too forced. “Your cauldron is ready. A beauty, I must say. Had some extra bronze sheeting lying around, which will reduce your total cost. Please come in!”
I look up at Hector for confirmation, and he nods, almost imperceptibly. We follow the blacksmith inside.
Every space of wall is used to display his work—swords, grates, animal traps, spoons, candlesticks, gauntlets. The scent of the place is biting, like copper gone sour. A low cooking fire crackles in a clay hearth. Only a blacksmith could stand to have a fire going on a day as hot as this. After we filter in, he closes the door behind us and drops the latch.
“This way, Your Majesty,” he says, all trace of brightness evaporated. “Quickly.” He pulls up the corner of a thick rug and reveals a trapdoor. With a grunt, he heaves on the brass ring. The trapdoor swings open to show rickety wooden stairs descending into darkness.
“We’ll need light,” I say.
He grabs a candle and a brass holder from a nearby table, reaches toward the hearth to light the wick, and hands it to me. “Be wary,” he says. “The tunnel is reinforced with wooden beams. They’re very old and very dry.”
“I’ll go first,” Hector says, and the stair creaks under his weight.
I start to follow but hesitate. “Ximena, take the rest of the guards and return to the palace through the main entrance. They’ll let you in. People should be seen leaving here, just in case they saw us coming.”
She frowns. “My place is by your side.”
“I’m safe with Hector.” Before she can protest, I turn and address the blacksmith. “Your name, sir?”
“Mandrano,” he says proudly. “Formerly of His Majesty King Nicolao’s Royal Guard, now retired.”
I clasp his shoulder; it’s as hard and round as a boulder. “Thank you, Mandrano. You have done your queen a great service today.”
He bows low. I don’t wait for him to rise, and I don’t bother to see that Ximena and the guards have followed my orders. I step down quickly after Hector, holding my candle low to light my way.
His fingers reach out of the gloom, offering support, and I grab them. Just as my feet reach dry earth, the trapdoor bangs closed, making the darkness complete but for our puddle of candlelight.
I move close enough for the candle to illuminate us both. The flame casts strange shadows on his skin—blurring the scar on his cheek, softening his eyes, and rounding his features—and I am reminded how very young he is.
“Hector, who besides you and me has the authority to lock down—”
“Conde Eduardo, General Luz-Manuel, and the mayordomo.” He rattles off the list so quickly that I realize he’s been rehearsing it in his mind.
“You think someone intended to lock us out?”
Ximena would offer a kind inanity about it being an unfortunate misunderstanding. But Hector has nothing of dissembling in him. “Even after you’re safely returned, we must tread strategically,” he says.
I pass him the candle, nodding agreement. He leads the way, and I follow close enough that I can grab his sword belt if necessary. The tunnel is so tight that my shoulders brush the wood beams propping up the ceiling. I fight the urge to sneeze against the dust we kick up.
Something scuttles over my foot, glowing Godstone blue, and I squeal.
Hector whirls, but then he says, “Just a cave scorpion. They glow when frightened. Nearly harmless.”
Nearly harmless is not harmless, and I open my mouth to point out as much, but I decide I’d rather be brave in front of him. “It startled me,” I say calmly. “Please, continue.”
He turns back around, but not before I catch the amused quirk of his lips. “Be glad it wasn’t a Death Stalker,” he says, pushing aside a thick cobweb.