An Ember in the Ashes

Is that how Cook got her scars?

The Commandant hasn’t punished me in any permanent way—yet. But it’s only a matter of time. The Emperor’s letter in my pocket seems suddenly heavier, and I close my hand over it. Do I dare? The faster I get information, the faster the Resistance can save Darin and the faster I can leave Blackcliff.
I debate with myself all the way to the school’s gates. When I approach, the leather-armored auxes, who usually delight in tormenting slaves, barely notice me. They’re intent on two horsemen making their way up to the school. I use the distraction to slip quietly past.
Though it’s still early morning, the desert heat has set in, and I fidget under the itchy weight of the cloak I’ve taken to wearing. Every time I put it on, I think of Aspirant Veturius, of that unabashed fire that burned in him when he first turned to me, of his smell when he stepped close, distractingly clean and masculine. I think of his words, spoken almost thoughtfully. Can I give you some advice?
I don’t know what I expected of the Commandant’s son. Someone like Marcus Farrar, who left me with a collar of bruises that ached for days? Someone like Helene Aquilla, who spoke to me as if I was less than dirt?
At the very least, I thought he’d look like his mother—blonde and wan and cold to the bone. But he is black-haired and gold-skinned and though his eyes are the same pale gray as the Commandant’s, there is no trace there of the gimlet flatness that defines most Masks. Instead, when he’d met my gaze for a jolting moment, I’d seen life bursting through, chaotic and alluring beneath the shadow of the mask. I’d seen fire and desire, and my heart had thumped faster.
And his mask. So strange that it sits atop his face like a thing apart. Is it a sign of weakness? It can’t be—I keep hearing he’s Blackcliff’s finest soldier.
Stop, Laia. Stop thinking of him. If he’s thoughtful, then there’s devilry behind it. If there’s fire in his eyes, it’s a lust for violence. He’s a Mask. They’re all the same.
I wind my way down from Blackcliff, out of the Illustrian Quarter and into Execution Square, home to the city’s largest open-air market as well as one of only two couriers’ offices. The gallows that give the square its name sit empty.
But then, the day’s just begun.
Darin once drew the Execution Square gallows, complete with bodies hanging from the gibbet. Nan saw the image and shuddered. Burn it, she’d said. Darin nodded, but later that night, I caught him working on it in our room.
“It’s a reminder, Laia,” he’d said in his quiet way. “It would be wrong to destroy it.”
The crowds move through the square sluggishly, wilted by the heat. I have to push and elbow to make any headway, eliciting grumbles from irritated merchants and a shove from a hatchet-faced slaver. As I dart under a palanquin marked with the symbol of an Illustrian house, I spot the courier’s office a dozen yards away. I slow, my fingers straying toward the letter to the Emperor. Once I hand it over, there’s no getting it back.
“Bags, purses, and satchels! Silk-stitched!”
I need to open the note. I need to have something for the Resistance. But where can I do it without anyone noticing? Behind one of the stalls? In the shadows between two tents?
“We use the finest leather and hardware!”
The seal will lift cleanly enough, but I can’t be jostled. If the letter tears or the seal is smudged, the Commandant will probably cut off my hand. Or my head.
“Bags, purses, and satchels! Silk-stitched!”
The bag-seller is right behind me, and I’ve a mind to tell him off. Then I smell cedarwood and glance over my shoulder to see a shirtless Scholar man, his muscled torso tanned and sweating. His hair, flaming red, glows below a black cap. Shock and recognition jolt my stomach. It’s Keenan.
His brown eyes meet mine, and as he continues to yell out his wares, he tilts his head ever so slightly toward a side alley leading out of the square. My hands sweat in uneasy anticipation, and I make my way to the alley. What will I say to him? I have nothing—no leads, no information. Keenan doubted me from the beginning, and I am about to prove him right.
Dust-coated brick houses rise four stories on either side of the alley, and the noises of the market fade. Keenan is nowhere to be seen, but a woman draped in rags detaches herself from a wall and approaches me. I eye her warily until she lifts her head. Through the filthy tangle of dark hair, I recognize Sana.
Follow, she mouths.
I want to ask her about Darin, but she’s already hurrying away. She leads me through alley after alley, not stopping until we’re close to Cobbler Row, nearly a mile from Execution Square. The air is dense with the chattering of shoemakers and the gamy scents of leather and tannin and dye. I think we’re going to enter the row, but Sana turns instead into the narrow space between two buildings. She heads down a set of basement stairs so grimy that they look like the inside of a chimney.
Keenan opens the door at the base of the stairs before Sana can knock.
He’s replaced the leather bags with the black shirt and brace of knives he was wearing the first time I met him. A lock of red hair falls into his face, and he looks me over, his gaze lingering on my bruises.
“Thought she might have a tail,” Sana says as she pulls off the cloak and wig. “But she didn’t.”
“Mazen’s waiting.” Keenan puts a hand on my back to nudge me forward into the narrow hallway. I wince and recoil—my lashes are still painful.