The Orphan, Page 3

  I waited until he was back inside, then tiptoed to the edge. What extraordinary luck—an old wooden ladder led downward into the pile of refuse. I could climb down and scoop the freshest layer off the top.

  I lowered myself, guided by moonlight. I could see movement within the scraps, so I hissed, causing a team of rats to scurry away. They scolded me with angry squeaks as I climbed as far down as I could, holding my breath. I gripped the ladder tightly with one hand, and with the other I leaned down to scoop up a few handfuls of fruit peels and vegetable scraps. Stuffing them into my pouch, I scrambled back to the top.

  A clopping of leather sandals rang out from the alleyway between buildings—a guard on patrol. Instead of returning on that path, I made my way across the ridge, skirting the backs of the houses. Most of them were empty and in disrepair, their occupants put to death by Nabu-na’id. It didn’t take much to anger the king. Sometimes a poor appearance was enough to earn a guard’s spear in your back.

  With a voice like yours, Daria, you should be performing for the king. Nico’s words infuriated me. The thought of entertaining the king made my stomach clench. It was a wonder that tyrant had not torched the slums. Given the choice of being kept by the king and living my wretched life, I’d take the wine shop and the streets. With Sippar surrounding us, the city was already prison enough. Who needed to live in a trap within a trap?

  At the last house, I peered around carefully. I could hear the low murmur of conversation in the street. More guards? I couldn’t be sure. I hid in the doorway of a mud-brick house.

  A warm desert wind brought a fresh whiff of rot from below. In the distance I could see flickering light from some of the houses and from the palace ziggurat, spiraling upward. Past that, just beyond the bend of the horizon, was Sippar. The moving boundary that encircled Babylon. The black veil had descended many years ago. Sippar, which most thought of as certain death.

  It was whispered around the city that I had actually come from Sippar, not just been found near it. I didn’t believe that.

  I didn’t believe any of the myths about Sippar. A ring of death, past which nothing existed—it seemed the sort of thing you’d tell a child to keep her from playing in the woods. There was a world beyond the boundaries of the city, of that I was sure. Something more than this. A place that was truly our home.

  The wind was unusually strong, and I feared a sandstorm. I curled my knees up to my chin as it became louder, until it sounded like the wailing of the dead.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I AWOKE TO a sky of dimming stars. Below me, the city winked up through the gathering light, as the night’s blackness slowly gave way to a silvery predawn.

  You fool! You weren’t supposed to sleep!

  I bolted to my feet. Stealing the pomegranate had been exhausting, but there was no excuse for my letting down my defenses. I could have been discovered by guards. Or by hungry beasts. Was Zakiti awake by now? She would be crazy with rage if she knew I was missing.

  I raced along the backs of the buildings and onto the quiet streets. Through open windows I saw rumpled sacks inside the abandoned houses—the poor and neglected, Nabu-na’id’s Nobodies. As I approached Zakiti’s, I saw that the place was already lit by several lamps, which was odd for the early hour. I sneaked around back, assuming Zakiti was setting up for the day’s work in the shop.

  Frada was alone, lying on her pallet between two casks of wine. “Hello?” I said.

  Her back was to me, and she turned slowly to reveal her face. Her eyes were shut, her features twisted, her hair matted by sweat. “Something . . .” she murmured “. . . approaches.”

  I crept closer. Nico was nowhere to be seen. “Not something—someone!” I said cheerily. “It’s me! Daria. How are you feeling?”

  “. . . Not now, but in our lifetimes . . . we must not let it disturb our city . . .” Frada moaned. “The pomegranate brings . . . great change to us all.”

  I crouched beside her, brushing the salt-encrusted hair from her forehead. The fever had broken. Her eyes blinked. “Frada,” I said gently, “it’s all right. . . .”

  As Frada stared at me, I could see fear draining from her eyes. “Daria . . . was it real? Was it real?”

  I smiled. Her voice was stronger. I no longer heard a rattling in her lungs. “I don’t know what you mean, dear Frada. You were dreaming. How do you feel?”

  She sat up slowly, stretching her arms and legs, her joints popping. As her eyes darted around the room, I fought the urge to shriek with joy. Even these simple movements had been so far beyond her only hours earlier. “I feel . . . better.” A smile of disbelief spread across her face as she braced herself against the wall and slowly rose to her feet.

  “Frada, look at you!” I said, wrapping her in a hug.

  With a sharp bang, the alley door slammed open. I pulled away from Frada, nearly causing her to topple back onto the pallet. Zakiti hobbled in, sweating and breathing heavily. She had been out in the streets—during the day? It wasn’t like her to leave the store after it had opened.

  Her eyes bore into mine. “You did this to him!” she growled.

  My heart dropped into my stomach. Nico. “Where is he?”

  “Where were you?” Zakiti snapped. “Out getting ingredients—for the entire night? The boy was worried. He said he had fallen asleep, and when he woke you were gone. Impulsive fool!” As she paced the floor, I could hear her ancient joints cracking rhythmically. “He barely reached the end of the street when the king’s guards took him. I followed. I told them I could not afford to lose a worker of his strength. I pleaded—”

  “But why did they take him?” I asked. “He did nothing!”

  She grabbed my hand, lifting my own fingers to my face. They were still stained bright red from the magic juice. “This is what they saw, you fool—evidence of the stolen pomegranate on his hands!”

  I felt my knees buckle. They thought Nico had stolen the pomegranate!

  He would be hauled to the dungeons. Common thieves had their hands cut off. But someone who had broken into the King’s Grove and stolen from his prized possession—this was worse than treason. This was like slapping the king’s face. Nico would be executed. Painfully. Publicly.

  “This is my fault,” I said. “I’ll go to the captain of the guard and tell him that I was the one who stole the pomegranate. Nico is innocent.”

  “You are a worse fool than I thought!” Zakiti shot back. “They’ll just arrest you, too—then both of you will be thrown before the king. I will be left with no able-bodied workers at all, just a dying . . .” Her eyes darted toward Frada for the first time, and the words choked in her mouth. “My dear girl . . . you look so much better!”

  Frada nodded weakly, looking toward me for guidance. “We can’t let them destroy Nico,” she said.

  “Of course not.” I bolted toward the door. “I’m going to rescue him from the dungeons.”

  “How?” Frada asked.

  “He’s not in the dungeons, you muddleheaded girl!” Zakiti blurted out. “They would not be so merciful!”

  I stopped in the doorway. The dungeons, merciful? What could be worse than the dungeons?

  I thought of the beaten man at the edge of the Royal Gardens. The prisoner in the stocks. “The market . . .” I said, whirling toward Zakiti. “They brought him to the stocks, didn’t they?”

  She looked away, saying not a word.

  As I fled the shop I could hear Frada’s voice, still feeble:

  “Be careful, Daria . . .”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HE WASN’T IN the stocks.

  He was lashed to a wooden stake. The sun bore down on his bruised, bloody face. Above him was a plank of wood with a single word written on it. I may have been a street rat, but I had taught myself to read, and I recognized the script: Thief.

  No. Not Nico. I’m the thief. It should be me.

  I stopped dead in my tracks. I felt as though the air had been sucked out of my lungs. I wanted to run towa
rd him, to untie him and drag him back. But I knew we’d both be dead by the time my arm touched the rope.

  Still, I had to do something. I was doing something. Moving into the square, as if my legs had a will of their own. Every fiber of my being drew me closer to him—slowly, unobtrusively. My brain raced, trying to think of a plan. He would see me soon. Someone would notice.

  A fist closed around my arm, yanking me backward. I lurched away, clenching my fists and ready to fight.

  “Daria?” a lilting voice cried out.

  I swallowed hard, looking into the deep brown eyes of my beloved singing instructor, Arwa. When I was a girl, she’d heard me singing in the streets and insisted on teaching me. For months, I had sneaked up to the conservatory’s back entrance, where she would let me in secretly and teach me the technique of beautiful singing, how to support and relax, how to make words and melody fly like a spring breeze.

  Now, in public, we had roles. She was a person of noble birth dressed in rich blue robes, an awilum. I was a street rat on the brink of despair. Our two classes of people did not interact in public. Ever. But she was pulling me along, touching the arm of an untouchable, in full sight of everyone. “T-that boy is Nico—” I stammered, digging in my heels, “my friend—”

  With a strength I would not expect her to have, Arwa pulled me into a side street, where a handful of people went about their daily routines. “Follow me,” she said. “It will appear as if you are my slave. And pretend we are having a routine conversation. You are a brilliant singer, Daria, and I will not let you sacrifice your life to your impulsiveness! Of course I know who the boy is. The guards have countless eyes on him right now. They’re waiting to see if anyone tries to talk to him or help him. They know he did not take the pomegranate. They speak of someone with red hair. They suspect it may have been a small boy.” She turned and raised a chiding eyebrow. “Or a girl.”

  We paused, shrouded in shadow, as I let her words sink in.

  “Then I will sacrifice myself,” I declared.

  “And play right into their plan?” said Arwa with a scoffing laugh. “Over my corpse you will. That tyrant’s wretched piece of fruit is not worth harming a hair on your head or the boy’s. I will help you.”

  Arwa’s eyes shone like torches in the shadow’s darkness. I knew I should feel happy, grateful. But as good as I was at singing songs, I was never trained in the art of trusting people. Everyone in my life but Frada and Nico had failed me. “I am sorry, Arwa, but I do not need the help of others—”

  She smiled. “You are as brave as you are talented. And as independent. But if you think I would betray my most beloved student to Nabu-na’id—that misshapen excuse for a human being—then you don’t know me.” Arwa dug a few coins from a pouch hanging from her belt and handed them to me, then gestured to my bare feet. “Buy sandals. The nicest ones you can afford.”

  “Sandals?” I said. “But why?”

  “No questions now,” Arwa said, looking nervously over her shoulder. “I will explain later. My students await. Meet me in the courtyard of the conservatory when my afternoon classes are over. If you have a clean appearance and are in good voice, my plan will work. We will free Nico.”

  “And—if it does not work?” I asked.

  “The king will show you no mercy,” Arwa said. “It is a good thing you are an orphan, Daria. Because if we fail, the king would track down your entire family and have them slaughtered. But I trust that fear for your own life is sufficient motivation. I will see you in a short while.”

  With that, she turned and walked away, leaving me slack-jawed in the dark alley.

  CHAPTER NINE

  TRACK DOWN YOUR entire family and have them slaughtered.

  As I raced away, Arwa’s statement seemed to echo like an evil taunt. What she did not realize was that I did have a family. To me, Nico and Frada were my brother and sister. No matter if I failed or succeeded in this mission, the king’s men would know that I did it to save Nico. Would they then make the connection to Frada? Would they track her to Zakiti’s shop? Someone would talk. Someone would give her away.

  I knew I was supposed to go directly to the cobbler for sandals, but I had to see Frada. I had to warn her.

  The sun was now climbing the eastern sky, but inside Zakiti’s shop it could have been the middle of the night. The lamplight gave Frada’s sleeping figure a halo of gold. Her breaths were soft and even, free of the snores and moans that had attended her sickness. The pomegranate had been miraculous. Even in the short time I’d been away, she’d improved. Soon she would be back to her old self.

  I could not let them hunt her down like an animal. She would have to go with me. If I could learn to trust Arwa, Frada must also trust me. Surely she could help in Arwa’s mysterious plan.

  Gently I touched the side of Frada’s face. Her skin was warm. “Good morning,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Daria?” Frada’s eyes fluttered open. She sat up slowly, as if testing her own ability. “You’re back! Did you find Nico?”

  I quickly told her the story of his capture and of Arwa’s offer to help. When I said I wanted to take her along, she did not hesitate to answer. “I will do it for you. For Nico. But, Daria, we must not forget about Zakiti. They will need to punish someone if we succeed. What if they come here and take their revenge on her?”

  I admired Frada’s deep empathy for others, but before I could think of a response, the old woman’s voice cut through the murky darkness. “By the great Marduk, what is this I hear? Concern for old, broken-down Zakiti? You are leaving forever, to find that foolish boy, and you have a thought for me?”

  Frada and I both froze. “I—I—” I stammered.

  “Does the mushushu have your tongue?” Zakiti asked. “You have been nothing but trouble since the night I took you in. I should have thrown you out then.”

  “We are concerned, Lady Zakiti,” Frada said, “that the king’s guards will come after you.”

  Zakiti glared at her. “Concerned, are you? Tell me, who is our most regular customer? Give me his name!”

  “Serug the Hunchback,” I said, thinking of the ragged little drunken man who reported to our front door once a week.

  Zakiti nodded. “Where do you suppose Serug gets his funds? The king’s guards pay him to sneak my Miracle Garden Wine to the palace. Those brutes would no sooner give that up than bathe in vizzeet spit! Many are those who appreciate my secret recipes, dear child. No, I should have thrown you out because . . . because I knew this day would come. I knew this shop could not hold a girl like you.”

  “We will be leaving you without any workers,” Frada remarked.

  “Do you suppose you are so very important—that I would not have my pick of people desperate for work? Pah!” the old lady declared. But as she turned away, I thought I could see her eyes moisten. “Stay here. I’ll pack provisions. And may Marduk be with you.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  ARWA PULLED OPEN the conservatory’s back door. Her eyes hardened at the sight of Frada. “Who is this?”

  “This is Frada, my best friend,” I said. “I trust her as if she were my sister. She has agreed—”

  “Do you play or sing?” Arwa demanded. “Speak, girl. Your friend Daria has forced my hand and thus I must include you in this plan. Answer my question!”

  I felt ashamed. Arwa had always been kind to me, but she believed in strict order and discipline, and she did not like surprises.

  “I—I play the santur,” Frada said tentatively.

  “She taught herself,” I added eagerly. “She accompanies me sometimes. Her hammer technique is perfect, attacking the strings so delicately—”

  “That will have to do,” Arwa said, cutting me off. She eyed our tunics, then stood back to look at our feet. I had managed to convince the cobbler to sell us two pairs of sandals for the money Arwa had given me. I worried that Arwa would laugh at my feet, which are wide and ill suited for shoes. Frada’s slender feet, however, made her lo
ok like an awilum. “Very good,” Arwa continued, “but your feet are filthy, both of you, and your tunics are threadbare. Go inside—now. I will find you more elegant clothing.”

  As she turned toward the conservatory building, Frada blurted out, “Arwa, please, what of Nico? Have you heard? Is he all right?”

  Arwa spun around.

  “Shush, girl. The walls have ears.”

  Aghast, Frada jumped away from the conservatory wall. “Ears? This is a place of great magic. . . .”

  “It is an expression,” I murmured.

  Arwa produced a small wooden instrument from her pouch and held it before us. “Look as if I am teaching you something,” she said softly as she fingered the holes with great exaggeration. “Your friend Nico is in a holding cell on the third level of the king’s palace, the tower of Etemenanki. At the ground level are the king’s chambers, and on the second are the guards’ quarters. As you can see, this presents a problem of access.”

  “We would have been better off trying to free him in the center square!” I said.

  “You would not be alive had you tried,” Arwa said. “Listen carefully. Tonight the king is holding a magnificent feast. All the most important men and women of Babylon will be there. I’ve been commanded to provide music for part of the evening. You will sing, Daria. Frada and I will accompany you on santur and harp.”

  “Sing for the king?” I said with disgust. “I would rather kiss a lizard all night long.”

  “Then you and your lizard will be busy as the moon reaches its highest point,” Arwa said calmly, “and you may not notice the criminals being marched into the center of the party. But I suspect you will recognize one of their screams as they are executed in front of the king’s guests. Nico, you see, will be among them.”

  Frada gasped, staggering backward in shock. “The king would not do this—at a celebration!”