Between Two Ends (18 page)

oetry, a little food, and reading filled the remainder of Shaharazad's day in the confines of her room. Her father did not come and she made a great deal of fuss, disguising her true anxiety. The palace was astir and it was maddening not to know what was going on both inside and outside of the walls. Rawiya clucked over her more than usual, so much so that Shaharazad decided if she heard “posture, my lady” one more time she would be forced to give her maid a good shaking. What she needed was some time to practice with her sword, but with Rawiya around there was no chance for it.

By sunset Shaharazad could scarcely contain
her impatience. She had had enough of pretending and wanted to wait out the time alone. She begged Rawiya for a dose of cordial from the kitchen to ease her headache, and mercifully her maid left. Shaharazad leapt to her windowsill and peered into the darkening gloom of the town.

“Hurry, Yeats,” she whispered. “I am anxious for your news.” She smiled briefly. “And your familiar face.”

Rawiya returned with a small flask of cordial and fairly cast it on the table. Her face was pale and her hands shook when she poured the drink.

“Are you ill, Rawiya?”

“No, my lady.”

“You are shaking.”

Rawiya gasped, then whispered frantically, “Guards are doubled at every entrance and two wait outside your door. An assistant cook told me that a villain tried to enter the palace!” She was as near to clucking as a startled chicken. “And he was trying to get to your chamber!”

Shaharazad sat straight up. “Was he caught?”

“No! Three tried to apprehend him, including a
palace guard, but he overpowered them! The cook's nose! It was broken. It must be a fierce rogue.” Rawiya shook her finger. “We must be cautious!”

The girl nodded thoughtfully. “Did the cook describe this villain?”

Her maidservant frowned. “That is the strangest of things. The cook claimed the rogue was a beast who could hurl stones the size of his head with the accuracy of an archer. But the royal food taster swore he was no more than a boy! A cabbage seller confessed the same. And Mustafa the beggar won't utter a word, which is something to be said in itself.”

Shaharazad smothered a smile. So! Mohassin must have bribed the beggar to silence. Yeats had made it to the kitchen! She frowned. But what of the palace guard?
Oh, please be safe!

Composing herself, Shaharazad took her maid's hands. “Rawiya. If there is a rogue loose in the palace—and a dangerous one at that—then I want you back in your home with your husband. I will be safe with guards outside my door. Besides, it is late. And you have already stayed too long.”

Tears formed in the woman's eyes. “Sweet Shaharazad. You never think of yourself.”

“I insist,” the girl said.

Rawiya did not move.

“I command,” Shaharazad said firmly.

Rawiya stood slowly. “Thank you, my lady. I will be here at dawn for your bath.”

“As always, Rawiya.”

When the maid reached the door, Shaharazad called out, “Rawiya. Do I … I mean … is my hair pretty tonight?”

Rawiya looked up in surprise.

or old bookends, Skin and Bones still had a knack for stealth. Keeping to shadows, they maneuvered through the darkened streets. In black robes and turbans the pirates made convincing palace guards. Even Skin's peg leg was perfectly hidden beneath the swirling garments.

“As long as they don't speak, it might work,” Mr. Sutcliff said quietly to Yeats.

The wailing had started again and covered the sound of their passing. “Steady on,” Mr. Sutcliff whispered as weeping erupted from one house and made them all jump. “What a mournful sound. No wonder my granddaughter worries for the city.”

“Quiet!” Bones hissed. They all pressed against
the wall. The dusty alleys crisscrossed with cobbled roads as they made their way up to the palace. Bones leapt onto a wall and stood in the moonlight, his robes billowing in the gusty desert wind.

“We're too far to port. Bear starboard-side. Wind's picking up!” he whispered.

Yeats chewed the inside of his cheek. Since leaving the ruined house he could not shake the feeling that they were being followed. Yet every time he turned, the streets were deserted.

He thought of Shaharazad. So much had happened to him that there hadn't been much time to wonder about her since the morning. She was so determined. Her eyes commanded without words. But would she listen? Would she believe him? Mr. Sutcliff had such faith in him. There had to be a way of convincing her. Yeats wrapped his tunic tighter and stepped into the street behind Bones.

Closer to the palace the roads were paved with smooth luminescent stones that gleamed in the moonlight. It gave the streets an eerie glow that made Yeats peer anxiously into the shadows. The rasp of Mr. Sutcliff's labored breathing sounded far
too loud. The brooding watchfulness of the vacant streets made Yeats's skin crawl.

A moment later two watchmen carrying lanterns stepped into the street from an alley. The pirates pressed against a wall. Yeats held his breath and focused on the figures, only a stone's throw from their meager hiding place. Ahead, with the promise of further danger, the palace loomed.

It was a cat that gave them away. Mr. Sutcliff inadvertently stepped on its tail. The cat yowled and shot across the road, directly alerting the watchmen.

“Dead man's hand!” exclaimed Skin.

“Ho there! What's your business?” cried a watchman.

“What should we do?” Yeats whispered.

Mr. Sutcliff gripped Yeats's arm and pushed him toward Bones. “Hold the boy out in front. Tell them you've caught the traitor!”

Bones grasped Yeats roughly. “Er, we caught the scurvy dog …”

“Traitor!” Mr. Sutcliff hissed.

“Er … traitor,” Bones finished.

The watchmen stepped into the middle of the street. “Who are you?”

“Palace guard, ya poltroon!”

The watchmen drew their scimitars.

Skin's face caught the moonlight. He grinned and pushed Yeats away. “Go on, lad. Git! We'll take it from here. Ye too,” he added to Mr. Sutcliff. “We'll catch up.”

Mr. Sutcliff seized Yeats's arm and hurried up the street. “Come on.”

“What about them?” Yeats craned his neck to see the watchmen advance menacingly toward the pirates, fanning out with scimitars pointing.

“They're pirates. I've no doubt we'll see them again. I dare say they're enjoying themselves,” said Mr. Sutcliff.

Another patrol marched past the entrance of an empty road and Mr. Sutcliff waited until their footsteps died away. Yeats searched the shadows.

“We're being followed,” he finally whispered.

Mr. Sutcliff swung around. “Did you hear something?”

“Not sure. I sense it.”

“You may just be hearing the echoes of our pirates and the watch. They were having quite a fight!”

Yeats shook his head. “I don't think so.”

Mr. Sutcliff poked his head around the wall. “Can you find your way to her, Yeats?”

“I'm not sure, sir. I know we ran across a garden lawn …”

“So you were in the palace garden.”

“Yes.”

“I think I can get you there.”

Yeats frowned. “You know this place, sir?”

Footsteps made them fall silent. They waited for stillness before moving on. The wailing from the town had ceased.

“It's late,” Mr. Sutcliff whispered. “Families are finally asleep. What a dreadful existence! They have such courage to keep going despite all the tragedy that has befallen them. This way, my boy.”

Yeats pulled back. “How do you know where to go?”

The old man sniffed. “I've read Collfield's unexpurgated translation a hundred times since
Shari disappeared. I've also read every version of the
Arabian Nights
in your grandmother's library. My memory holds detailed maps of this palace. And so it should! I've been trying to get here for twenty years. The gardens are this way.”

He led them farther into the palace grounds, past fountains, statues, and tall pillars. Small oil lamps placed at regular intervals along the walkways illuminated the route. Mr. Sutcliff froze.

“There!” he whispered. An enormous gateway loomed before them. Against the marble floor waves of shimmering light reflected their faces. “Doors of pure gold!”

Yeats's skin prickled. Two guards stood at attention on either side of the mighty portal, their bare scimitars balanced on their shoulders.

“This could be a problem.” Mr. Sutcliff tapped his lips as if he held his pipe.

“Now what?” asked Yeats. “They'll kill us if we walk up to them!”

“Yes, indeed!” Mr. Sutcliff agreed.

“Do you have a plan, sir?”

“A plan?” Mr. Sutcliff raised an eyebrow. “Well,
we are
in a story
. Something will present itself. Have you forgotten? We will have action. There is no story unless things happen.”

Yeats whispered desperately, “Are we just going to—” The cold tip of steel pressed against his neck. From the corners of his eyes he glimpsed black robes swishing around his feet. Whiskers tickled his ear.

“Ye two are so loud I could have run ye through with eye patches over both me eyes!” Skin grinned.

“There, you see?” Mr. Sutcliff smiled knowingly. “Something had to happen. Thankfully it was in our favor. You two do look like palace guards. And your timing is perfect. We are going to need you to get beyond those rather intimidating figures at the gate.”

Bones grimaced. “Don't push yer luck, Sutcliff.”

“Ah, but we must!” said the older man. “Now listen!”

A few moments later, Yeats and his companions walked brazenly into the light of the palace gateway. The sensation was almost as horrifying as waiting to be hanged in a dark cell. Yeats took comfort from Skin and Bones, although they held him so tightly
his arms ached. At the same time, the sight of the real guards, whose scimitars dwarfed the pirates' cutlasses, made his knees tremble.

“We have the traitor!” Bones declared before either guard spoke. “And here is the merchant who delivered him into our hands.” Mr. Sutcliff bowed.

“We are taking them to the King!” Bones added.

The guards glanced at each other. “Password!”

There was a second of silence and then Yeats was on the ground, having been dropped simultaneously by both pirates. He looked up in time to see Skin head-butt his opponent over a hedge. Bones wrestled the other guard. Skin leapt to his partner's aid and gripped the guard by the neck, smacking him on the top of his head with the hilt of his cutlass.

Skin and Bones stood panting above the motionless man. Yeats looked around to see if any further alarm had been raised.

“Marvelous!” Mr. Sutcliff congratulated. “Quickly, now. We haven't much time. It's almost midnight!”

With a creak and a shudder, the doors opened
at the pirates' shove, revealing the sculptured plants and the open lawn where Yeats had first found Shaharazad. Mr. Sutcliff pressed against the hedge.