“There are some men in town who . . . who have . . . wronged him. He’s been at the edge for quite some time. It would not take much to push him over.”
I felt uneasy then, as though the deck were rolling beneath my feet; but no, we were in harbor. “You should go home. Wait for my letter and rescue the kingdom. You’ll be a hero.”
“It isn’t heroic simply to do what’s right.”
“Then do what’s right, but wait till tomorrow. Tomorrow this will be over and we’ll be gone and . . . everything will be different.”
Then we both jumped to hear a shot ring out over the town.
And another.
Before the echoes died away, I was running down the gangplank and Blake was reaching for my hand. He hauled me up in front of him on the horse. Rotgut called after me as we clattered down the dock, but his voice was drowned out by the pounding of Pilikia’s hooves and my own heart.
We took King Street toward the palace, and though the streets were empty and lights extinguished and shutters closed against the thieves in the night, I felt eyes peering out from behind curtains. I listened past the sound of Blake breathing, ragged in my ear, but there were no more shots.
At last we reached the area near the palace, and I saw the orange glow of the torches two blocks north—the wealthiest block on the island. I gasped as we rode by bodies in the street, but there was no blood; they were guardsmen, still lying flat on their faces, their hands tied behind their backs. They didn’t open their eyes as we passed them by.
Then Blake swore and pulled Pilikia up short. She neighed, high and panicked. “What in hell?”
There, in the pool of torchlight, the terra-cotta men stood, still and silent, single file in the street. Their backs were straight as ever, though the general had been draped in a yellow feather cloak and a long string of pearls.
“It’s not them,” I said, breathless. “It’s not the Night Marchers.”
“Then what are they?”
“No time, Blake—”
“Miss Song, wait!”
But I had already slid from the horse and hit the ground running.
Beretania Street was a mess: doors hanging open on the fine homes, windows smashed, glass glittering in the torchlight, banknotes tumbling in the breeze of our passing. I smelled brandy spilled from broken bottles, and heard the sound of a woman crying, a man’s hushed voice, furniture being pushed against doors. The destruction made a trail from the treasury. Blake had been right. That was only the start of it.
I couldn’t see Slate or Kashmir anywhere.
“Kash?” I stopped in the middle of the street, unsure where to go. “Dad?”
“Amira?”
I whirled around to find Kashmir trotting toward me from behind the nearest house. He took me by the arm and pulled me along until we were in the shadow of a garden wall. He appeared well and whole, but I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out, running my hand over his shoulder and down his arm. “Are you all right?” Then my heart sank. “Slate?”
“He’s fine, in shaa’ Allah,” Kashmir said. Then he glanced at Blake, who had ridden up behind us. “He’s looking for Hart. We’ve had a bit of trouble.”
“You’ve faked the Hu’akai Po?”
I ignored Blake’s outrage. “Did you shoot him?”
“He shot at us! Someone recognized him—mocked him to his face—and he snapped. Hart beat the man and went down the street smashing things. The captain tried to reason with him, but he just ran off with the bag. And the map.”
Blake clenched his fists, and Pilikia danced under the tight rein. “You expected honor among thieves?”
“It’s more common than honor among gentlemen!” Kash retorted.
“We don’t have time for this,” I said. “Where did they go?”
“Come on,” Kashmir said, taking my hand. Then he pointed at Blake. “Not. You.”
“I might be unwilling to shoot you, Miss Song, but I have no such compunctions about your friend.”
“Blake,” I said firmly. “Your father may be heading home with the gold. You have a horse. If you want to help, you could stop him.”
“Or I could find the guards and have you all arrested.”
I met his eyes. “Do what you think is right,” I said finally.
Behind Blake’s eyes, he struggled, but after a moment, he cantered off down the street, toward Nu’uanu Avenue—and away from the garrison at Iolani Palace.
Kashmir glared after him. “I almost wish he’d gone to the barracks.”
“Why?”