Snow Like Ashes (Snow Like Ashes, #1)(8)

My fingers run over my pocket, Mather’s lapis lazuli ball tucked against my thigh, and I growl at myself. Sir would have slapped me across the back of my head by now to get me to refocus on what I’m doing, instead of what might be done.

I clear the next rooftops without a problem, angling my progress toward the Keep under the blue-black sky. The only thing that concerns me now is the shadow scaling the western wall of the tower. Finn should be a horrible soldier, but for whatever reason his short, stubby blob of Winterian girth has outdone my only slightly taller stick figure of Winterian agility on every mission we’ve worked together.

Without hesitation I fling myself from the last roof to a horizontal pole protruding from the side of the tower, Spring’s flag rippling below me, a black sun against a yellow background. Random things, these flagpoles—almost as though the architects included them in the design should enemy soldiers need a quick way to get inside. When we rebuild Winter, there won’t be flagpoles on buildings. Anywhere. Period.

Windowsill, balcony, windowsill, pole—I leap in this pattern until I reach the highest balcony. The warm, orange glow of firelight pours through a gap in the center of thick curtains, and Finn is already there, perched on the balcony ledge, grinning at me.

I swing up across from him and mouth, I hate you.

He grins more widely.

We hold for a moment, listening for any signs of life within. According to Sir, this room is the city master’s office. No noise echoes back to us except for the steady crackle of a fire and the gentle whooshing of the curtains dusting the stone floor in the breeze. I glance over my shoulder, surveying the night below us. From the balcony, it’s a straight drop to the street with a few windowsills along the way. Another escape route to keep in mind—from the Keep, at least.

We ease onto the balcony floor and scoot toward the curtains. Finn peeks through a gap, his eyes flickering in the golden glow, before he nods to me. The room is empty.

Adrenaline makes me twitchy with excitement as I grab one of the curtains, pull it back, and slip inside the office.

The fireplace in the back corner roars, stoked high with logs—the city master must plan on returning soon. High-backed chairs stand in a circle on a lush scarlet rug before the fire, and a desk stands against one wall. Above the desk hangs an old yellowed map that shows the kingdoms of Primoria surrounded by the Destas Sea to the east, the endless Rania Plains sweeping between the kingdoms and out to the west, and impassable mountains to the north and south. A few sconces hang on the walls, but that’s it—simple and straightforward. I make for the desk while Finn, still on the balcony, keeps an eye on the closed office door.

Most of the drawers are unlocked, cluttered with quills and ink jars and blank pieces of parchment. My fingers fly through the odds and ends, sorting and searching as noiselessly as I can. The information Sir gave us just before we left flies across my mind and helps calm my racing heart: We were able to steal a map of the Keep; we think they’re hiding it somewhere underneath it, in a cellar, maybe. Wherever it is, it’ll be locked, so find the key first, most likely in the city master’s office.

I repeat those words in my head as I fly through drawers, look under papers, shuffle ink jars. Nothing.

Finn hisses as voices waft toward me from beyond the door—someone’s coming.

Panic leaps through me, dizzying surges that make it difficult to sort through everything carefully. I slide the last drawer shut, the voices outside close enough that I can make out a few words—“So honored to have you”; “Welcome, Herod.”

I stumble into the desk, body convulsing with dread as I meet Finn’s eyes across the room. My mouth forms the question: Herod?

Finn beckons me to hurry. Nothing about his demeanor changes, his forty-two years making him slightly more adept than I am at controlling emotions. But it isn’t just emotions that swell inside me at the name. Memories slam through my head, one after another, gore and horror and fear all stemming from General Herod Montego.

I push away the images of our soldiers stumbling back into camp with bones protruding from their chests, delirious with pain, and I grab onto Sir’s advice: Focus on the goal. Don’t get sidetracked. Don’t let fear take hold of you—fear is a seed that, once planted, never stops growing.

No fear—not now, not here. I scan the desktop once more in desperation, the sound of laughter coming from just beyond the door. They’re right outside—

A letter, tucked under a heavy iron paperweight in the shape of a wildflower. I grab the letter without pausing to consider what it says and dive for the balcony, boots swishing across the stone floor. One breath after I’m outside, after the curtain flutters back into place, one breath after they would’ve seen my shadow flicker on the stone floor, the door opens, and voices barrel toward us.

Finn peers through the slit between the curtains, holding up his hand, flashing fingers to tell me how many he sees. Five soldiers. Two servants. Four nobles.

He drops his eyes to the paper in my hand and nods me along, half his focus on the conversation behind the curtain.

I shift in my crouch across from him and take deep, calming breaths before staring at the paper. My hands stop shaking enough that I can hold it in the slit of firelight.

Report: To All Spring Officials

Work Camp Population Statistics

Abril Camp: 469

Bikendi Camp: 141

Zoreon Camp: 564