Maybe.
“I’m sorry, Hassa, about Marigold.”
Hassa nodded sadly but waved them away, touching her shoulder. Go, go.
Sylah and Anoor rushed off to take their positions ahead of eighth strike.
—
Anoor counted to a hundred as she stood in the shadows of the cloisters. The tower was just beyond the courtyard, to the right of the joba tree.
“Sixty-three…sixty-four…”
She wondered if Sylah would have time to run here if anything went wrong. Anoor just had to trust them both: Kwame pouring the potion and Sylah drawing eyes away from him. Anoor suggested that Sylah should get on a table and dance, but she’d refused. She didn’t want people to “drop dead from shock.” Instead, she decided to go with pushing over a cauldron of spinach stew.
“Ninety-nine…a hundred.”
Anoor ran across the courtyard toward the tower. Her muscles protested from the excess exercise, but she paid them no heed. The door was jammed by something heavy, and Anoor had to push her whole body weight until it would give.
“Oh, sorry.” The weight blocking the doorway was the slumped form of an officer who had fallen forward onto the door instead of backward. Anoor inadvertently dragged him across the floor as she pushed the door open. He would have a few bruises for sure.
Anoor knew she didn’t have long, so she crept up the stone steps to the room above. She paused. She could hear a faint tapping in the distance. It was getting louder with each passing moment, followed by a low hiss. Boots, there were boots on the steps above, accompanied by the puffing of breath. Someone was coming down toward her.
The spiral staircase didn’t divulge any hiding spots, so Anoor had to think fast. She pulled her stylus from under her shirt and pierced it through her inkwell. Gorn’s blood beaded at the nib, and she got to work on the step in front of her, drawing a series of runes. She quickly ripped the sleeve of her shirt and drew another string of bloodwerk runes. The officer was coming closer, their grumbling echoing down the steps.
“I knew I shouldn’t have swapped shifts with Jina…”
Anoor swore and ducked back down the staircase. She propped the body of the other sleeping officer up against the wall and pushed herself flat into the corner, using the body of the officer to hide behind.
This had to work.
“Hello…? Your attempt didn’t work. I know you’re in—”
The bloodwerk rune pushed against his boots, launching him down the stairs with force. He screamed as he tumbled down the stone steps, collapsing in a heap by the door. Anoor hoped that had been enough to knock him out, but he groaned into the ensuing silence.
She pulled out the blindfold she’d made from her ripped sleeve and crept out from the corner. With deft fingers she pulled it over his eyes and tied it at the back of his head.
“Argh, you rascal. You swine fodder. Get this off me.” His hands scrabbled at the blindfold but the bloodwerk runes held it fast to his face.
Anoor wanted to apologize, but she couldn’t let the officer know the sound of her voice. After all, she couldn’t get caught.
Anoor left the officer crawling around the foyer and ran up the stairs. She needed to get the weapon and go. Time was running out. Two more officers were slumped on duty in the main room. But Anoor’s eyes were drawn straight to the weapons rack at the back. The blood-red runelamps around it made the gold shine like copper. There was a spear, a mace, a pole axe, a sword, and a jambiya. Her jambiya. She walked toward it as if it called to her. The hilt was adorned with rubies set in gold. She reached out and held it in her hand. The cool metal fit her grip perfectly.
She slipped into Nuba formation one, testing the balance. Her grin was triumphant as it whistled through the air. The sword on the rack glinted at her. It was by far the most impressive weapon, but its weight and the technique required to wield it made it one of the last weapons to be claimed.
She lifted the sword off the rack, putting the jambiya down. It was lighter than she expected but still much too heavy for her. The hilt was a work of art: it had been fashioned into the roots of a joba tree, the branches reaching out across the blade in intricate gold embellishment.
“Thank you for this.”
She almost dropped the sword in fear. She spun on her heel and came face-to-face with the jambiya pointed directly at her chest. She choked as she saw the face behind it.
“Hello, Anoor.”
“Yanis, what are you doing?” Anoor’s stomach turned sour.
“Taking my weapon.”
“You know that’s the one I wanted.”