NUMA’S FACE WAS hollow and scared, but he nevertheless pulled me roughly through the woods in the direction of the city. “The prisoner and the santur player—where are they?”
“Sippar,” I lied. “Sippar swallowed them up, too.”
Numa grunted. “It serves them right. It would have served you right, too. Now hurry. These woods are dangerous.”
I nearly tripped over a root as we stumbled out of the forest and onto a road, where an ox-drawn cart was waiting. “Why didn’t you let me go, then?” I asked.
Numa hoisted me into the cart. “You do not ask a royal guard questions, street rat!”
I kicked him in the knee and turned to run. But I felt something grab my ankle and I fell to the ground. My face scraped against the soil as my body was dragged back toward the cart. Numa had me at the end of a length of rope.
“Do not underestimate my skills,” he said, quickly lifting me into the cart and tying me to the slatted walls with bonds of strong fabric. “I will tell you why I did not let you go—because I will delight in knowing that you face a worse fate than Sippar. The king wants to see you. Alive.”
As the cart bounced back toward the palace in the darkness, I kicked and twisted, trying to free myself. But the knots were stronger than I was, and I finally gave in to exhaustion.
I had almost died. Numa, of all people, had saved me from oblivion. But now, as the spire of Etemenanki loomed closer, I wished he had let me go.
He was right. Death would be better than the king.
I spent the night on a cold dirt floor in the palace dungeon, awakened constantly by the chittering of rodents. I wondered if this was the room where they had kept Nico. The thought of him suffering here made me glad he had escaped into the care of the rebels. I could die here happy, knowing I’d saved him.
In my brief moments of sleep, I dreamed of Sippar. The charred remains of the guard haunted me. I wondered if he had seen the same strange omens I had.
What was that place, anyway?
I knew one thing for sure—I would never, ever tempt that kind of closeness to Sippar again. And if I were to be separated from Nico and Frada for the rest of our lives, I prayed they would keep their distance, too.
But something had drawn me toward it. A vision of some strange world on the other side of the black death curtain. As if it had wanted me.
Was something really there? Was there another way to get through the blackness—a safer way?
Nonsense, I thought to myself as I finally fell asleep.
Early the next morning I was marched down the stairs by three royal guards. All of them had bruises and black eyes, and one of them walked with a pronounced limp. “Rough night?” I asked.
My only answer was a poke in the back, but I kept my balance.
I was shoved down a grand hallway with a stone floor and a magnificently tiled wall. The guards pushed me through an archway and threw me before the king, who sat on a luxurious throne atop a raised platform. A waif of a slave was on the ground before him, massaging his swollen, deformed foot.
Unlike my last presentation before the king, this time I had not been washed or prepared. My beautiful white tunic was torn and soiled with mud and grass. Bruises had already formed on my arms and legs, my braids were tangled, and I had lost my new sandals. Still, the king let out a high, tinny laugh when I appeared, like a child who’d just been offered a present.
He stroked his long beard, curling the end of it around one finger.
“Well, what does the street rat have to say for itself?” he asked.
I said nothing.
“You are guilty of high treason,” the king said, licking his lips. “The death of many of my guards is on your pretty little head, not to mention the escape of several prisoners. And of course the loss into Sippar of your santur player and the street boy we captured in order to lure you to the palace—what was its name?”
“Nico was his name.” I kept a stony face, but inside I felt victorious. The prisoners had escaped. Which meant that at least some of them were heading into the woods with the rebels. To join Nico and Frada.
My mission had succeeded.
“My king,” I continued, “if I am to be put to death, let it be quick. I am ready.”
The king threw his head back and laughed as if I had tickled him with a giant feather. “Kill you and still the voice sweeter than all the flowers on Mother’s Mountain? I think not. No, you have so much to offer me still.”
He kicked away the slave girl and motioned to his disfigured foot.
“Take her place,” he said to me. “Massage my foot.”
I recoiled. “The thought of it makes me want to vomit. I would no sooner touch your wretched flesh than dine on pig manure. And the only singing you will hear from me will be this chant: Down with the tyrant king!”
Nabu-na’id sank back in his throne. “You know, I’ve been chatting with dear old Serug the Hunchback lately. He doesn’t say much, but he knows quite a bit—for example, the location of the place where you have been living, dear Daria. That wine shop whose libations have been poisoning some of my own courtiers. A shop that is run by a decrepit old woman who, by rights, I could have beheaded.”
“Zakiti has done nothing wrong!” I blurted out.
“Ah, I see. And would you say that about dear Arwa also? She comes from an awilum family and teaches the children of many other nobles. I don’t imagine she was involved in your plot, was she?” The king sighed deeply, absently digging his finger into his nose, then wiping the results of his excavation onto the shoulder of a nearby slave.
“What are you going to do to them, you disgusting beast?” I demanded.
“Normally I’d have them executed just for being associated with you,” the king replied, “but I believe they have their uses in this kingdom, and I am at heart a man of mercy. If you disobey me, if you fail to smile at me, if you call me by anything other than ‘my king,’ they are the ones who will suffer.” He thrust his foot forward again. I could see his pea-sized, rotted toes wriggling through his sandal. “Come now, you have a job to do. You will make an excellent slave.”
I sank to my knees and placed a hand on the king’s foot. He let out a sigh.
Closing my eyes, I thought of Zakiti and Arwa. Of Nico, Frada, Shirath, and the freed prisoners. Of the rebels gathering in the forest. Of the world of Sippar, hovering mysteriously on the edges of Babylon. Of loyalty and mystery.
And family. Always family.
Nabu-na’id would not rule forever. Babylon would have another future. One in which the old values, the real values, were restored. I felt a smile warming my face.
“Ah, there we go . . .” the king murmured.
I was awash in happiness, and it mattered not what the king thought, or what I was doing. I began to sing. My voice took flight in the song that had helped Frada through her sickness, the song that people in the woods may have been singing at that moment, to give them strength.
“‘Hope is a seed . . .’” I began.
The king sat up sharply. “What? Wait. That is the rebel song, is it not?”
“‘Love is a garden . . .’” I continued, louder, my voice filling the chamber, my hands working the soothing salve into the skin of the king’s foot.
“Stop that!” the king shouted. But his relief from pain was at war with his shock and anger, and he sank back into his throne with a satisfied snort. “Someone stop . . . that . . . girl . . .”
As my song soared, I could see the goggle-eyed Bel-Shar-Usur running in from an outer chamber. But the king’s mouth was moving soundlessly, his eyes closed. No one interrupted the king when he was in this state. No one knew quite what to do.
So I kept singing. I sang as if my life depended on it.
It always had, and it always would.
Copyright
SEVEN WONDERS JOURNALS: THE ORPHAN
Copyright © 2014 by HarperCollins Publishers
All rights reserved under International and P
an-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © 2014
ISBN 978-0-06-223893-1
EPub Edition March 2014 ISBN 9780062238931
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
About the Author
Author photo by Joseph Lerangis
PETER LERANGIS is the author of more than one hundred and sixty books, which have sold more than five million copies and been translated into thirty-three different languages. His books include The Colossus Rises and Lost in Babylon in the New York Times bestselling Seven Wonders series, and two books in The 39 Clues series (The Sword Thief and The Viper’s Nest). Peter is a Harvard graduate with a degree in biochemistry and has run a marathon and gone rock climbing during an earthquake—though not on the same day. He lives in New York City with his wife, musician Tina deVaron, and their two sons, Nick and Joe. In his spare time, he likes to eat chocolate.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
http://www.harpercollins.com
* Translated from Ancient Aramaic
Peter Lerangis, Seven Wonders 3-Book Collection
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends