The fiddlers are playing a lilting ballad, and at my nod, the boy takes my hands as confidently as if we’ve been friends for years. Despite his height and the width of his shoulders, he leads with a grace that is effortless and sensual all at once. When I peek at him, I find him staring down at me, a faint smile on his lips. My breath hitches, and I cast about for something to say.
“You don’t sound like a Tribesman. ” There. That’s neutral enough.
“You’ve hardly got an accent. ” Though his eyes are Scholar-dark, his face is all edges and hard lines. “You don’t really look like one either. ”
“I can say something in Sadhese, if you like. ” He drops his lips to my ear, and the spice of his breath sends a pleasant shiver through me. “Menaya es poolan dila dekanala. ”
I sigh. No wonder Tribesmen can sell anything. His voice is warm and deep, like summer honey dripping off the comb.
“What—” My voice is hoarse, and I clear my throat. “What does it mean?”
He gives me that smile again. “I’d really have to show you. ”
Up comes the blush. “You’re very bold. ” I narrow my eyes. Where have I seen him before? “Do you live around here? You seem familiar. ”
“And you’re calling me bold?”
I look away, realizing how my comment must sound. He chuckles in response, low and hot, and my breath catches again. I feel suddenly sorry for the girls in his tribe.
“I’m not from Serra,” he says. “So. Who’s the redhead?”
“Who’s the brunette?” I challenge back.
“Ah, you were spying on me. That’s very flattering. ”
“I wasn’t—I was—so were you!”
“It’s all right,” he says reassuringly. “I don’t mind if you spy on me. The brunette is Afya of Tribe Nur. A new friend. ”
“Just a friend? Looked to me like a bit more than that. ”
“Maybe,” he shrugs. “You never answered my question. About Red?”
“Red is a friend. ” I mimic the boy’s pensive tone. “A new friend. ”
The boy tosses his head back and laughs, a laugh that falls gentle and wild like summer rain. “You live in the Quarter?” he asks.
I hesitate. I can’t tell him I’m a slave. Slaves aren’t allowed at the Moon Festival. Even a stranger to Serra will know that.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve lived in the Quarter for years with my grandparents. And—and my brother. Our house isn’t far from here. ”
I don’t know why I say it. Perhaps I think that by speaking the words, they will prove true, and I will turn to see Darin flirting with girls, Nan hawking her jams, and Pop dealing, ever gently, with overly worried patients.
The boy spins me around and then pulls me back into the circle of his arms, closer than before. His smell, spicy and heady and bizarrely familiar, makes me want to lean closer, to inhale. The hard planes of his muscles press into me, and when his hips brush mine, I nearly fumble my steps.
“And how do you fill your days?”
“Pop’s a healer. ” My voice falters at the lie, but since I can’t very well tell him the truth, I rush on. “My brother’s his apprentice. Nan and I make jam.
Mostly for the tribes. ”
“Mmm. You strike me as a jam-maker. ”
“Really? Why?”
He grins down at me. Up close, his eyes look almost black, especially shadowed as they are by long eyelashes. Right now, they shine with barely restrained mirth. “Because you’re so sweet,” he says in a mock-saccharine voice.
The mischief in his eyes makes me forget, for a too-brief second, that I am a slave and that my brother is in prison and that everyone else I love is dead.
Laughter explodes out of me like a song, and my eyes blur and tear. A snort escapes, which sets my dance partner to laughing, which makes me laugh harder. Only Darin ever made me laugh like this. The release is foreign and familiar, like crying, but without the pain.
“What’s your name?” I ask, as I wipe my face.
But instead of answering, he goes still, his head cocked as if he’s listening for something. When I speak, he puts a finger to my lips. A moment later, his face hardens.
“We have to go,” he says. If he didn’t look so dead serious, I’d think he was trying to get me to come with him to his camp. “A raid—a Martial raid. ”
Around us, dancers spin on obliviously. None of them have heard the boy.
Drums thump, children scamper and giggle. All seems well.
Then he shouts it, loud enough that everyone can hear. “Raid! Run!” His deep voice echoes across the dance stages, as commanding as a soldier’s. The fiddlers stop midnote, the drums cease. “Martial raid! Get out! Go!”
A burst of light shatters the silence—one of the sky lamps has exploded—and another—and another. Arrows zing through the air—the Martials are shooting out the lights, hoping to leave the festival-goers in darkness so they can herd us easily.
“Laia!” Izzi is beside me, eye wide with panic. “What’s happening?”
“Some years the Martials let us have the festival. Other years they don’t. We have to get out of here. ” I grab Izzi’s hand, wishing I’d never brought her, wishing I’d thought more of her safety.
“Follow me. ” The boy doesn’t wait for an answer, just pulls me to a nearby street, one that isn’t yet flooded with people. He keeps to the walls, and I follow behind, holding tightly to Izzi and hoping it’s not too late for us to escape.
When we reach the middle of the street, the Tribesman pulls us into a narrow, trash-strewn alley. Screams rend the air and steel flashes. Seconds later, festival-goers stream past, many falling out of sight, cut down as they run, like stalks of wheat beneath a sickle.
“We have to get out of the Quarter before they lock it down,” the Tribesman says. “Anyone caught in the streets will be thrown into Ghost Wagons. You’ll have to move fast. Can you do that?”
“We—we can’t go with you. ” I pull my hand from the boy’s. He’ll head for his caravan, but Izzi and I will find no safety there. Once his people see we’re slaves, they’ll turn us over to the Martials, who will turn us over to the Commandant. And then. . .
“We don’t live in the Quarter. I’m sorry I lied. ” I back away, pulling Izzi with me, knowing that the quicker we go our separate ways, the better it will be for all concerned. The Tribesman shoves back his hood to reveal a head of close-cropped black hair.
“I know that,” he says. And though his voice is the same, there’s something subtly different about him. A menace, a power in his body that wasn’t there before. Without thinking, I take another step back. “You have to go to Blackcliff,” he says.
For a moment, his words don’t register. When they do, my knees go weak.
He’s a spy. Did he see my slaves’ cuffs? Did he overhear me talking to Mazen? Will he turn Izzi and me in?
Then Izzi gasps. “A-Aspirant Veturius?”
When Izzi says his name, it’s like lamplight flooding a murky chamber.
His features, his height, his easy grace—everything makes perfect sense—and yet no sense at all. What is an Aspirant doing at a Moon Festival? Why was he trying to pass as a Tribesman? Where’s his damned mask?