“What in the names of the dead happened to her?” the doctor breathed.
“It …” Gacco must’ve been sworn to secrecy. “Mixed magic. She got banged up in the chaos.”
“Mages.” Her eyes rolled skyward. “I’ll need your help. There, in the corner—light the fire to boil the water. Let me know when it’s done.”
Amara let her head drop sideways. She identified the exits. The door, the windows.
Before Amara had left to serve at the palace, the kids she’d grown up with had joked about being a servant. They’d sung songs and told horror stories about getting chosen. They held their tongues limp and talked the way they thought servants did. Their parents tsked them and said servants performed a vital duty and needed respect, then went on to ignore real servants on the streets the very same day.
So Amara had known what was coming when Lorres took her into this room. It’d smelled of alcohol even then. She’d looked past the people holding her down at the same windows she saw now. She’d dreamed of escape.
“I’ll need to cut away the wear,” the doctor muttered, more to herself than Amara. She took a nearby blade. Amara made her knee jerk. Her wear brushed over her injuries, and the next shiver and yelp weren’t faked.
The doctor hovered over Amara and brushed aside her hair. “Hang in there. I have something for the pain.” Her voice was gentle, lightly accented. She turned away.
Amara considered waiting. Numbing the pain sounded tempting. It might slow her down, though, and with both Gacco and the doctor turned away, this might be her only chance. One hand reached for the nearest table. Her fingers wrapped around the cold metal of a surgical blade. She swung her legs off the bed and landed with a thump that sent pain flaring. No time to linger. Don’t look back at Gacco or the doctor. Run. Through the door. Pull it shut.
Run.
She faced the hallway along the side of the courtyard. A window stood open. She climbed through it and spun left. Bloody footprints trailed in her wake. No point in kicking off her boots, since her feet would be no better, but she couldn’t afford to leave a trail. As she ran, she sidestepped onto the lawn. The grass might clean off the worst of the blood.
At least the pain seemed to fade with every step. She held the doctor’s blade tightly enough to numb her fingers. It wasn’t as heavy or familiar as her dagger, but she could still fight with it if necessary.
She heard shouts behind her—Gacco. The sound fired her up, pumping energy to her legs, her lungs. She bolted around the carecenter. She was near the edge of the palace grounds, but escape couldn’t be that easy—not with the wall surrounding the grounds. She was in no state to climb quickly enough to escape unseen.
Avoid the wall. She turned left a second time, slipping into a servant passage. Going back indoors was a risk, but so was every choice she made. One evil or another. This hallway at least kept her out of sight. Besides, she’d lived in this palace for a year and dreamed about it for even longer. She thought she’d forgotten, but now, running past, she knew these doors, these halls, these stairs under her feet and these lamp holders on the walls.
People would expect her to go straight for the exit, or at least stick to the lower floors. She fled into the main building instead. Her topscarf slipped off one shoulder and tangled behind her. Her boots no longer trailed blood, only puddles of mud. That left two problems: a potential anchor and being seen. She’d already passed a handful of servants who’d turned and gawked. Amara had meant to look near death to escape, but now that she had, her appearance worked against her. Nolan was welcome any time now.
She needed to lose the servants. She sped up more stairs and into another passageway that stretched past a dining hall. Memories rose. The hallway existed for servants to enter the dining hall through one of the doors, put down the food or claim the dishes, and disappear just as quickly. They only used the room for special events, so it’d be deserted right now. The hall itself only led to a kitchen and an office or two, so that’d be empty, too.
Except for Lorres, coming her way, holding papers to his chest. He did a double take and promptly dropped the stack. “What happened?” he signed, and bridged the distance in a few steps. He reached out, but stopped himself when Amara dashed back. “You need a doctor. I thought you could heal. How can you even walk like this?”
Could she outrun him? No. But she still had the blade.
“Did Ruudde do this?” Lorres winced as he looked her over.
She strengthened her grip on the blade. Lorres had lied to her. Claimed to be on her side and then …
She couldn’t do it. She jammed the knife into her boot pocket and turned, stumbling, breaking into a run back the way she came. A shout trailed after her—her name. It came from far enough away that she dared glimpse over her shoulder. Lorres wasn’t following.
“I’m sorry,” he signed.
Amara slowed. She shouldn’t. Gacco would’ve alerted the other marshals by now, and probably Ruudde and Jorn, as well. The palace would be crawling with people looking for her.
“You’re running?” Lorres made no move to approach her. “You said it was bad. I … I didn’t know it was this bad.”
“Yes. I’m running,” Amara said. This time the words didn’t fill her with fear or uncertainty. Her signs came more decisively as she went on. “I’m running, or they’ll do this to me a hundred more times.”
“I can’t help you find a way out. You know that. Ruudde considers hiring barenecks a risk as it is. If I don’t do my job well, whoever he hires next might care about the money and nothing else.”
She hadn’t counted on help, anyway. “Are you going to stop me?” she asked.
“You must’ve passed servants on the way here. I’ll slow them down.” Lorres stepped sideways, allowing her room to flee past him. “Go. Run.”
She did.
She ran through the kitchen and blasted out a door on the other side. At the next intersection, she bent over and wiped a hand down her leg. Her teeth clenched as blood sprayed to the floor. Let them track her here. They’d think she went into one of these hallways.
Instead, she backtracked to the kitchen. Pans were stacked on one side, metal dishes and pots on the other. She crossed to the wide windows that allowed the cooks to vent the air, and she fingered the locks. They gave with no resistance.
Steeling herself, she opened the largest window and climbed onto the ledge. She’d done this sort of thing plenty of times when Jorn signaled her to get Cilla out, but never while injured, and never from a building this high. She was two stories up—and two stories for a building with ceilings as high as this meant three stories on any average building. Her eyes squeezed shut at the wind lashing her too-short hair around her head. Her balance suddenly felt frail. She clung to the wall, numb, and forced her eyes to open to slits.
She breathed deeply. Then she shut the window behind her, careful not to smudge the grease and dirt covering the glass. She hadn’t gotten this far just to let fingerprints give her away.
Amara inched sideways on the ledge, concentrating on her steps and not the ground below. She passed the main kitchen window and edged past another one. A couple more steps. A little more. The ledge was slimming now, nothing but stones protruding a fingerwidth or three, but there, in front of her: a dirt-layered, web-covered statue of a merman in a niche. Only the front of his face and the tip of his tail stuck past the wall.
Amara pushed herself closer—there. She grabbed the merman’s shoulder and reeled herself in, letting her lungs expel air she hadn’t realized they’d been holding. She crept farther into the niche to hide behind the statue. Spiderwebs spread like netting across the merman’s face. Shriveled cocoons clung to every cranny—in the corners of the walls, in the space between the statue’s hair and neck, the dip between his arms.