Belén intercepts us, gliding up like a wraith. “I lost track of Franco,” he says. “He may be inside.” Doors swing open, people spill into the hallway, sleep mussed and startled. “Is this your doing?” he asks, looking around in alarm.
“We need chaos. A reason to be in the corridor, more obstacles for an assassin.”
He nods. Then he bangs on the nearest door and yells, “Fire!”
I take up the cry. “The stable is on fire!” Then, softer, to Belén, “Go light the stable on fire. Bring the whole city down on us.”
His answering grin gives me shivers. “Meet you in the cellar,” he says, and then he’s gone.
We rush down the stairs, through another corridor, into the kitchens. We duck to avoid hanging brassware, skirt a huge stone bread oven, and find the trapdoor leading to the cellar. Hector grabs the iron ring and heaves it open, revealing steps that lead into dank gloom. It smells of pickled fish and spilled wine.
“Mara, you first,” he says, and as she descends my heart is in my throat, for he has ordered her to go first in case danger lies in wait at the bottom.
After a moment comes her clear whisper: “No one here but Storm!”
Hector nudges me down and follows after, closing the trapdoor over our heads. We are left in utter darkness. I step carefully, feeling with my toes for the edge of each step.
I hear the strike of flint and steel, and brightness sears my vision. It dies, then light flares again, softer and surer. Storm stands at the bottom of the stair holding a torch aloft, Mara beside him. His cowled head nearly brushes the ceiling.
He scowls. “You made me cut and dye my hair.”
Surely he understands that we face greater problems? “I thought it would greatly improve your looks,” I snap.
“Shorn hair is a sign of shame. You humiliate me greatly.”
“I’ll light a candle tonight in honor of your dead tresses.”
His frown deepens. “Where is Belén?”
“Causing chaos. We wait for him.”
It seems that we wait forever, and the space grows tight and hot. Food stores surround us—a few wine barrels, hundreds of tightly sealed ceramic jars, slabs of raw meat hanging from ceiling hooks. Opposite the stair is a low, dark hole in the wall, a trash chute, I presume, that leads to the sewer and the sea.
“Hector, has the ship you were expecting made port yet?”
“No. But her colors were seen yesterday evening. As soon as the wind picks up, she’ll be here.”
“So we row out there and hope for the best?” It seems like too tenuous a plan to me. One of the hardest things about being queen is determining when to trust someone to take care of things for you and when to take charge yourself. I have trusted Hector and Tristán to handle all the arrangements and contingencies for this journey. They are good men, natural leaders. I hope they have thought of everything.
“I can signal them from a distance,” he says cryptically. “We’ll head out to sea and keep going until we intercept them. It will be fine so long as the waters are calm.”
I study his face. “You must know this ship and crew very well. To be able to exchange signals. To know their exact route.”
“Yes.” This time I’m looking for it, so I catch the twitch in his jaw that tells me he is being taciturn in order to keep from feeling something too much.
The trapdoor above us groans open.
“Snuff the torch!” Hector says.
The cellar goes black. Hector fills the space before me, backs me up with the press of his body. “Back,” he whispers in my ear. “Behind the stair.” I catch a glint of light along his sword edge, held at the ready.
I hear no footsteps, not even a breath of movement, but the trapdoor shuts with a soft clunk, and Belén says, “The inn is in an uproar, but I haven’t been able to find Franco. We must assume he will follow.”
Storm relights his torch. “He may be able to sense Her Majesty’s Godstone,” he says.
A panicked prayer flies unbidden to my lips, and as my belly warms in response, I realize that praying is the last thing I should do. I slam my mouth closed.
Activity has always made the Godstone easier for others to sense. Prayer comes so naturally to me, and I will need to focus hard to keep from doing it.
Hector gestures toward the barrels along the wall. “Belén, roll them in front of the trash chute while I get everyone down into the sewer. It might buy us a few seconds.”
“Trash chute?” Mara asks quaveringly.
“You first, my lady,” he says. “You’ll slide a bit, then drop into the water. It’s about waist deep. If you go under, don’t panic. You’ll be able to stand up. Now go!”