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Waiting for another pair of soldiers to pass over her, Zarrah jumped, landing in a pile of hay. Rolling down the side, she took several quick steps to hide behind two barrels. There were endless shadows this late at night, and she moved between them until she reached the base of the palace, where the decorative stonework created two parallel walls about two feet deep. Resting her shoulders against one, she braced her feet against the other, slowly working her way higher and higher, trusting that the soldiers on the walls were more focused outward than inward.
Reaching the top of the main structure, she crawled to one of the towers, which had scaffolding running up the side that she swiftly scaled, her eyes on an open window, curtain flapping in the breeze. Cautiously, she looked over the sill and into the darkness inside.
A lamp burned on the table next to the bed, but the blankets were untouched, the room empty of life. Rolling inside, she crouched behind heavy velvet drapery, sucking in a few deep breaths to calm her racing heart before she stepped out into the room.
In the years she’d served in Nerastis, they’d sacked this palace a total of three times, but in none of those battles had Zarrah actually gone inside this infamous structure.
It was not what she expected.
While the palace itself was grand and imposing, the room she stood in was sparsely furnished, the furniture either worn or inexpensive, the stone floors and walls barren of any adornment. Only the bedding spoke to the importance of the room’s inhabitant, and Zarrah ran her finger over the fine silk before picking up the lamp, her eyes lighting on a discarded Maridrinian uniform draped across the back of a chair.
Picking it up, she noted the silver braiding and the turquoise and silver pins indicating the owner was a high-ranking officer, but it was the weight of something in the pocket that captured her attention. Extracting a packet of letters, she smiled at the sight of the royal seal on the front of one. Official correspondence, which meant there might be something in them of use. She shoved the papers into her pocket for later perusal, then sloshed the lamp to judge the level of oil, considering her options. She needed a distraction once she killed the prince to ensure she got out of this alive.
Then a low voice said, “I don’t think you’ve really thought this through.”
Zarrah jumped, nearly dropping the lamp as she whirled toward the open window.
On the sill perched a figure, his hood shadowing his face but the knife in his hand clearly visible. As she watched, he stepped down to the floor, moving with such utter silence that Zarrah knew he could’ve slit her throat before she’d even felt the press of the blade.
Her hands turned cold, and she pulled free her own knife, backing away as he prowled toward her.
“You’re planning to start a fire, correct?” His accent was Maridrinian, his tone soft, with an edge of amusement. “Though to callthisa plan is an insult to the word.”
Zarrah’s hackles rose, but she was not one to let her temper get the better of her. “And yet you climbed all the way up here to stop me.”
“Youwoundme, Valcotta. I’m not here to stop you, but rather to offer my advice on how to turn this fool’s errand into aroaringsuccess.” He chuckled softly. “One: you will require somewhat more than half a lamp full of oil. Two: you will require somewhat more than a bed’s worth of fuel. Three: if a body count is your aim, you really ought to start the fire at thebottomof the tower, not near the top. And four: if you wish to emerge from this venture unscathed, you will hand over those letters.”
Her aim was a body count ofone,but she was not opposed to making it more. A slow smile rose to Zarrah’s face, and she patted her pocket before leaping onto the bed, the silk cold beneath her one bare foot. “Why? Are they yours?”
“They’re certainly notyours.Hand them over and I’ll let you go. You’ve proven yourself to be only a marginal threat, so I feel able to do so with a clear conscience.”
Whatever the contents of these letters were, they were important. And the fact he hadn’t called the alarm suggested that whatever they contained, it wasn’t something he wanted anyone else reading, which meant they were for officers’ eyes only.
Zarrah weighed and measured her options. She could kill him and then go after the prince, but if there was a scuffle, someone would hear and shout an alarm, rendering escape nearly impossible. Or she could take the lesser prize of the letters and make a run for it now, saving the prince for another day. “Toss the knife under the bed and I’ll consider it.”
“I think not.”
With her index finger, Zarrah twisted the knob on the lamp, the flame rising until it licked the edges of the glass. Extracting the packet of letters, she brushed them through the flame, laughing when he tensed. Not only were they important, but they were something he didn’t want destroyed. Orders, was her best guess. “Knife.”
An aggrieved noise exited his lips, and with a flick of his wrist, he tossed the knife under the bed. “Letters.”
Stepping off the bed, Zarrah circled him, making sure to keep the papers close enough to the flame that he wouldn’t risk taking them by force.
“Not very trusting, are you, Valcotta?” His tone was light, but there was no mistaking the tension radiating from him. He was taller than she was, and while not bulky, he was bigger than her. And Maridrinians were notoriously good grapplers.
“Nor you, Maridrina.” She backed toward the window. There’d be only one chance at this, and she needed a running start.
“Letters.” The velvet softness of his tone had been replaced with a steely edge. “You are testing my patience.”
Zarrah’s heart throbbed, her hands clammy and her stomach tight. “Your word you’ll let me go?”
“You have it.”
Her arm shaking, Zarrah held out the package of letters. Her muscles tensed as he came close, reaching out one gloved hand, his shadowed eyes so intent on the prize that he didn’t see her other arm swing wide, launching the lamp past him.
“A Maridrinian’s word doesn’t mean shit,” Zarrah hissed, then she threw herself at the window, the scaffolding already ablaze. Her foot hit the windowsill, and with her eyes fixed on the target beyond, she leapt into the air.
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