“Bed comfortable enough for you?”
He almost sounds like he’s teasing me. “So, you’re a friendly guard.”
“Yes,” he says dramatically. “One of those.”
“Ugh.”
That makes him laugh. His smiles come easy and free, unlike Rumi’s. Juan Carlos shoots me a wink, coaxing me to engage with him. To grin or laugh. I force my expression to retain a careful blankness that reveals nothing, especially to a guard who might use whatever he can find against me. After all, I am a decoy.
Atoc leads a procession on horseback into the city. He’s dressed and adorned in an elaborate robe with detailed stitching of various flowers found in the wild, and a headdress that wraps around his gold crown; on his wrists are gold bracelets. No Estrella. Horn blowers alert La Ciudad of his approach.
I follow yards behind his retinue, Juan Carlos next to me. Craning my neck, I try to spot Illustrian spies in the growing crowd outside the city gates.
“See anyone you know?” he asks.
“If I did, you’d be the last person I’d tell.”
Neither my tone nor my words seem to bother him. He’s all smiles, waving at the people as if he were the main event of this spectacle of a parade. And the people eat him up as if he were dipped in dulce de leche. After a few minutes of playing the crowd, he shifts in his saddle and tries to engage me in conversation. Again.
“So, tell me about yourself.”
My lips thin. His affability is clearly a tactic to get me to trust him—which will never happen.
“Why?”
“Just making conversation,” he says. “Next to Rumi, I’m the main person you’ll be spending time with leading up to Carnaval.”
“Lucky me.”
He merely laughs and resumes waving at the crowd. “You should try smiling; it’s fun.”
Commotion bursts from a group of people ahead that keeps me from responding. How can he suggest I smile? I’m aprisoner.The commotion grows louder and Juan Carlos beckons to the guard riding behind him. “Possible threat. Watch the condesa.”
He rides straight for the growing mob. I can’t tell if it’s a fight brewing or if the people are making such a racket because Atoc is within a few feet of them. I lose sight of Juan Carlos in seconds, and the replacement guard urges me along until we’ve passed the noisy group.
Juan Carlos doesn’t return and the procession snakes into La Ciudad using the many winding streets that bleed into the heart of the city. A crowd of Llacsans waits for us in the Plaza del Sol. There are vendors selling sugared choclo and roasted nuts glazed in cinnamon and cayenne spices. A few are squeezing fresh jugo de mandarina into clay cups, passing them around for tres notas each.
The constant hum of chatter, the sound of animals and people and the wheels of their carts sloshing through puddles, remind me of life before the revolt. Merchants calling out prices for their wares, trying to coax someone into buying something they don’t need, the tolling of the temple bells, the grunts coming from masons building towers and tall buildings that reach the heavens, set against the hazy lavender mountain.
I love the song of the city. After moving to the Illustrian fortress, I found that the sudden silence filled me with regret. It took me years to get used to it, but it still always unnerved me.
I peer at the crowds, reveling in the bustle and noise. All the buildings are decorated with streamers and potted flowers, and in the middle of the plaza stands a platform where a group of prisoners wait for their fates. My gaze narrows at the trio.
Ana stands bound and gagged on that platform.
I gasp and pull on the reins. Acid rises in my gut, sour and faintly tasting like tomatoes. “What is this?”
The guard yanks the reins from my hands. “Move.”
I keep blinking, hoping what I’m seeing isn’t real. But there’s no mistaking Ana—head held high, graying hair fluttering in the morning breeze. On either side of her are bound Illustrians, lined up and waiting to be executed.
“Ana!” I scream. “Atoc! Youpromised.You said—”
Atoc whirls around in his seat, his brows slamming together into a sharp line. The guard riding next to me hauls me off the horse and drags me across his lap, his dirty hand slapping against my mouth to keep me quiet. I rage against his hold as his horse continues forward, pushing through the crowd.
I turn my head and catch sight of Sajra, his feet spread out, his fingertips lightly touching, giving an air of profound patience as the procession curls around the platform. The guard’s hand presses harder against my mouth, but I bite a stubby finger and he yelps as I slide off his lap, falling to my knees on the hard rock. I barely feel the impact.
I duck around the horse and then scramble forward, dragging my ridiculous dress across the dirty cobblestones and pushing onlookers out of my way to get to Ana.
