Rogue, Prisoner, Princess. Morgan Rice
a calculated risk. Most of the ordinary soldiers couldn’t read. He hoped that the tone of it wouldn’t earn him a cuff around the ear for insubordination, but tried not to show any fear. Not showing fear was one of the rules that wasn’t written down. The army had at least as many of those rules as official ones. Rules about who you had to know to get better food. About who knew whom, and who you had to be careful of, regardless of rank. Knowing them seemed to be the only way to survive.
“Well, you’d better get on with it then!” the soldier roared, aiming a kick at Sartes to get him moving. The others there laughed as if it was the greatest joke they’d seen.
One of the biggest unwritten rules seemed to be that the new conscripts were fair game. Since he’d arrived, Sartes had been punched and slapped, beaten and shoved. He’d been made to run until he felt like collapsing, then run some more. He’d been laden with so much gear that he’d felt as though he could barely stand up, made to carry it, to dig holes in the ground for no apparent reason, to work. He’d heard stories of men in the ranks who liked to do worse to the new conscripts. Even if they died, what did it matter to the army? They were there to be thrown at the enemy. Everyone expected them to die.
Sartes had expected to die the first day. By the end of it, he’d even felt as though he wanted to. He’d curled up inside the too thin tent they’d assigned him and shivered, hoping that the ground would swallow him up. Impossibly, the next day had been worse. Another new conscript, whose name Sartes hadn’t even learned, had been killed that day. He’d been caught trying to run away, and they’d all had to watch his execution, as if it were some kind of lesson. The only lesson Sartes had been able to see was how cruel the army was to anyone who let it see that they were afraid. That was when he’d started trying to bury his fear, not showing it even though it was there in the background almost every moment he was awake.
He made a detour between the tents now, switching directions briefly to swing by one of the mess tents, where a day ago, one of the cooks had needed help composing a message home. The army barely fed its conscripts, and Sartes could feel his stomach rumbling at the prospect of food, but he didn’t eat what he took with him as he ran for his commanding officer’s tent.
“Where have you been?” the officer demanded. His tone made it clear that being slowed down by other soldiers wouldn’t count as an excuse. But then, Sartes had known that. It was part of why he’d gone to the mess tent.
“Collecting this on the way, sir,” Sartes said, holding out the apple tart that he’d heard was the officer’s favorite. “I knew that there might not be an opportunity for you to get it yourself today.”
The officer’s demeanor changed instantly. “That’s very thoughtful, conscript – ”
“Sartes, sir.” Sartes didn’t dare to smile.
“Sartes. We could use some soldiers who know how to think. Although next time, remember that the orders have to come first.”
“Yes sir,” Sartes said. “Is there anything you require me to do, sir?”
The officer waved him away. “Not right now, but I’ll remember your name. Dismissed.”
Sartes left the commander’s pavilion feeling a lot better than when he’d gone in. He hadn’t been sure that the small act would be enough to save him after the delay the soldiers had caused. For now, though, he seemed to have avoided punishment, and had managed to get to the position where an officer knew who he was.
It felt like a knife edge, but the whole army felt like that to Sartes then. So far, he’d survived in the army by being clever, and keeping one step ahead of the worst of the violence there. He’d seen boys his age killed, or beaten so badly that it was obvious that they’d die soon. Even so, he wasn’t sure how long he would be able to keep that up. For a conscript like him, this was the kind of place where violence and death could only be put off so long.
Sartes swallowed as he thought of all the things that could go wrong. A soldier might take a beating too far. An officer might take offense at any tiny action and order a punishment designed to deter the others with its cruelty. He might be pushed forward into battle at any moment, and he’d heard that conscripts went at the front of the line to “weed out the weak.” Even training might prove deadly, when the army had little use for blunt weapons, and conscripts were given little real instruction.
The one fear that sat behind them all was that someone would find out he’d tried to join Rexus and the rebels. There should be no way that they could, but even the faintest possibility was enough to outweigh all the others. Sartes had seen the body of a soldier accused of having rebel sympathies. His own unit had been commanded to hack him to pieces to prove their loyalty. Sartes didn’t want to end up like that. Just the thought of it was enough to make his stomach tighten over and above the hunger.
“You there!” a voice called, and Sartes started. It was impossible to shake the feeling that maybe someone had guessed what he was thinking. He forced himself to at least pretend to be calm. Sartes looked round to see a soldier in the elaborately muscled armor of a sergeant, with pockmarks on his cheeks so deep they were almost like another landscape. “You’re the captain’s messenger?”
“I’ve just come from carrying a message to him, sir,” Sartes said. It wasn’t quite a lie.
“Then you’re good enough for me. Go find out where the carts with my timber supplies have gotten to. If anyone gives you trouble, tell them Venn sent you.”
Sartes saluted hurriedly. “At once, sir.”
He ran off on the errand, but as he went he did not focus on the mission at hand. He took a longer way, a more circuitous way. A way that would enable him to spy the camp’s outskirts, their choke points, a way that would allow him to pry for any weak points.
Because, dead or not, Sartes would find a way to escape tonight.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lucious pushed his way through the crowds of nobles in the castle’s throne room, fuming as he went. He fumed at the fact that he had to shove his way through, when everyone there should have stood aside and bowed down, making way for him. He fumed at the fact that Thanos was off getting all the glory, crushing the rebels on Haylon. Above all, though, he fumed at the way things had gone in the Stade. That wench Ceres had ruined his plans once again.
Ahead, Lucious could see the king and queen in deep conversation with Cosmas, the old fool from the library. Lucious had thought he’d seen the last of the aged scholar as a child, when they’d all been made to learn ludicrous facts about the world and its workings. But no, apparently, in the wake of the letter he had provided, showing Ceres’s true treachery, Cosmas got to have the ear of his king.
Lucious kept pushing his way forward. Around him, he could hear the nobles of the court at their petty plotting. He could see his distant cousin Stephania not far away, laughing at some joke another perfectly presented noble girl had made. She looked over, catching Lucious’s eye just long enough to smile at him. She really was, Lucious decided, quite an empty-headed thing. But a beautiful one. Perhaps in the future, he thought, there might be an opportunity to spend more time around the noble girl. He was at least as impressive as Thanos, by any estimation.
For now, though, Lucious’s anger at what had happened was too great for even those thoughts to amuse him. He stalked to the foot of the thrones, right to the edge of the raised dais there.
“She still lives!” he blurted out as he neared the throne. It didn’t matter to him that it was loud enough to carry to the whole room. Let them hear, he decided. It certainly made no difference that Cosmas was still whispering away to the king and queen. What, Lucious wondered, could a man who spent his time around scrolls possibly have that was worth saying?
“Did you hear me?” Lucious said. “The girl is – ”
“Still alive, yes,” the king said, stopping him with a hand held up for silence. “We are discussing more important matters. Thanos is missing in the battle for Haylon.”
The gesture was just one more thing to add to Lucious’s anger. He was being treated like some servant to be quieted, he thought.