A day after that, we reach Puerto Verde. We crest a hill and there it is, laid out before us, a deep crescent bay the color of turquoise, carved into cliffs that protect the port from heavy surf. Cargo ships dot the water; I stop counting at twenty. There are even more small boats; dinghies and fishing vessels predominate, with a handful of flat pleasure barges.
A medium-size city hugs the cliffs, spills into the water on stilted buildings and docks. It seems that docks are everywhere, sending crooked fingers well into the bay. It’s such a boisterous place, and from this distance, it takes a few moments for me to make sense of the bustle. Traders haggle and yell. Sailors load and unload ships. Clerks catalog piles of items. Everyone is busy, fast moving, loud. It’s so different from the easy rhythm of Brisadulce.
My people, I think. I rule this city as surely as any other, and yet this will be my first time setting foot in it.
The road zags down the cliffs, and we hug the walls tight as we travel. I’ve never been afraid of heights, but I still can’t bring myself to peer out the carriage window and over the edge to the bay far below. I gaze out the opposite window instead, and I catch glimpses of wooden platforms jutting out over our heads, of elaborate pulleys and winches used to haul cargo up the cliff face.
By the time we reach the bottom, word has gone out that the queen’s carriage approaches, and the city goes still with reverent silence. We made no secret of our journey. Wasn’t that the whole point of this excursion? To be openly courted by Conde Tristán? To explore a remote part of my kingdom in search of the zafira without raising unwanted questions? But my teeth clench and my neck and shoulders ache with strain. Everyone stares as we pass.
We reach an inn called the Sailor’s Knot. A small crowd gathers on the porch to greet us—the inn staff, no doubt. I see smiles and nervous shifting and a few flags hastily embroidered with my royal crest. Our official itinerary declares a two-day recess here.
But our official itinerary, like my decoy queen, is meant to throw off potential ambushes. I’m glad. The place looks creaky, with a porch made of poorly joined driftwood and sandstone walls that drip random stains. As we pass by, though, I twinge with self-reproach, for the faces in the crowd deflate, then gaze after us with confusion and disappointment.
A block farther, we turn a corner and arrive at our actual destination, the King’s Inn. Conde Tristán chose it specifically because its high third-story provides a good view of the surrounding buildings, and because its location one block from the main street makes the entrances less visible.
Our caravan noses into an alley that leads to a wide, dark stable. Hector and I jump from the carriage—Storm will stay inside until nightfall—and my guard moves quickly to establish a perimeter at our rear while Tristán’s men unhitch the horses and begin unloading. When decoy Elisa steps from the queen’s carriage, a cry of greeting goes up, from the few stubborn souls have followed us here. “Queen Elisa!” a voice calls. “Your Majesty!” yells another. Someone jostles my guard for a better view, but my men hold firm.
Decoy Elisa doesn’t react, except to clutch her veil close to her throat. Led by Belén and Alentín, my ladies hustle her through the stables and into the back entrance of the inn.
I sling my pack over my shoulder, then grab a trunk from the queen’s carriage, just like a real maid. I follow my decoy into the inn, feeling darkly wrong about leaving my people outside, ignored and unacknowledged. “I’ll make it up to you,” I whisper. Someday, I’ll come back when I can be me.
The innkeeper, a gnarled man with a bald patch and a nervous smile, falls all over himself to accommodate us, arranging for hot baths and meals in our rooms. Decoy Elisa smiles vaguely at him and manages a few thank yous. When he finally leaves, she lies down for a nap, and I have my first bath in days.
“I do love baths,” I say with a luxuriant sigh.
Mara laughs. “I know. Though truly, Elisa, you hardly need pampering out here. You seem perfectly happy to tramp about the desert in your nomad clothes, sweaty and dusty and sun darkened.”
My smile dies on my face before fully formed. “I would be, if I weren’t terrified for my life and the lives of those around me.”
She doesn’t say anything to that, just grabs my hand and squeezes.
Ximena approaches armed with a brush and several hairpins, but I put up a hand to ward her off. “Can we leave my hair down, please? Just for tonight? It’s been tightly plaited the last few days, and my head aches from it.”
She frowns and puts the hairpins and brush away with obvious reluctance. I stare at my nurse while Mara towels my hair dry and finger brushes it. Ximena has always been unperturbedly calm and stoic—I suppose she and Hector have that in common. But lately she seems downright surly.