An Ember in the Ashes(76)

“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?
“Your eyes...” They were dark, I think wildly. I’m sure they were dark.
“Willadonna,” he says. “Broadens the pupils. Look, we should really—”
“You’re spying on me for the Commandant,” I burst out. It’s the only explanation. Keris Veturia ordered her son to follow me, to see what I know. But if that’s the case, he probably overheard me talking to Mazen and Keenan.
He has more than enough information to turn me in for treason. Why dance with me? Why laugh and joke with me? Why warn the festivalgoers about the raid?
“I wouldn’t spy for her if it meant my life.”
“Then why are you here? There’s no possible reason—”
“There is, but it’s not one I can explain right now.” Veturius looks to the streets, then adds, “We can argue about it if you like. Or we can get the hell out of here.”
He’s a Mask, and I should look away from him. I should show my subservience. But I can’t stop staring. It’s a jolt, his face. A few minutes ago, I thought he was beautiful. I thought his words in Sadhese were hypnotic. I danced with a Mask. A bleeding, burning Mask.
Veturius peers out of the alleyway and shakes his head. “The legionnaires will have sealed off the Quarter by the time we get to one of the gates. We’ll have to take the tunnels and hope they haven’t sealed those off.” He moves confidently to a grate in the alleyway, as if he knows exactly where we are in the Quarter.
When I don’t follow, he makes a sound of irritation. “Look, I’m not in league with her,” he says. “In fact, if she finds out I came here, she’ll probably flay me. Slowly. But that’s nothing compared to what she’ll do to you if you’re caught in this raid or if she discovers you missing from Blackcliff at dawn. If you want to live, you’ll have to trust me. Now move.”
Izzi does as he says, and reluctantly, I follow, my whole body rebelling at the thought of putting my life in the hands of a Mask.
Almost as soon as we drop down into the tunnel, Veturius pulls fatigues and boots from the bag across his chest and begins tearing off his Tribal clothes. My face burns, and I turn away, but not before seeing the chilling map of silvery scars across his back.
Seconds later, he walks past us, masked once more and gesturing for us to follow. Izzi and I run to keep up with his long strides. He moves stealthily as a cat, silent but for a word of encouragement here and there.
We make our way north and east through the catacombs, stopping only to avoid passing Martial patrols. Veturius never falters. When we reach a pile of skulls blocking the passage ahead, he moves a few aside and helps us through the opening. When the tunnel we’re in narrows to a locked grate, he plucks two pins from my hair and picks the lock in seconds. Izzi and I exchange a glance at that—his sheer competence is unnerving.
I’ve no idea how much time has passed. At least two hours. It must be nearly dawn. We won’t make it back on time. The Commandant will catch us. Skies, I shouldn’t have brought Izzi. I shouldn’t have put her at risk.
My wound chafes against my dress until it’s bleeding. It is only a few days old, and the infection has lingered. The pain combined with my fear makes me lightheaded.
Veturius slows when he sees my face. “We’re almost there,” he says. “Do you need me to carry you?”
I shake my head vehemently. I don’t want to be close to him again. I don’t want to breathe in his smell or feel the warmth of his skin.
Eventually, we stop. Low voices mutter from around a corner ahead of us, and a flickering torch deepens the shadows the light can’t reach.