As much as a Ghosting can. My people know the truth, of course. Hassa jutted her chin toward the pale eyes of a group of Ghostings who stood apart. I conveyed danger and trouble. The rest of the story is yours to carve.
Sylah nodded.
“Anoor is in trouble—” Sylah said to Kwame and Gorn.
“Shall we get an officer?” Kwame interrupted.
“No!” Both Gorn and Sylah shouted at once.
“She’s in the tower behind us, but she needs to remain there, safe. There are people…people who are trying to rig the Aktibar, who are trying to wipe her out.”
“We won’t let them,” Gorn said firmly.
“Anoor will try and get out, but you can’t let her,” Sylah warned.
“Of course, we’ll make sure that no one goes in or out of the tower.” Kwame stamped his heels together as if he were an officer. Together Kwame and Gorn approached the tower.
They will protect her.With a sign from Hassa, the Ghostings fanned out, surrounding the base of the tower. A seventeen-year-old girl with a regiment of Ghostings.
“Why?” The question croaked out of Sylah.
Because Anoor is one person and her space in the world is important, as is yours, despite you not realizing it. Hassa winked, and it was so unexpected Sylah laughed, though it was a broken sound.
No one held a weapon, no one would survive a fight with the Sandstorm, but Hassa knew it wouldn’t come to that.
“I don’t understand.” Sylah turned to Hassa. “How will their deaths protect Anoor?”
Secrets are how the Sandstorm function. A massacre of fifty on the edge of the arena would be hard to hide, would it not?
Sylah nodded and looked around her. Hassa saw the knot between her shoulder blades loosening, just marginally.
The Sandstorm will not forgive you for this, Sylah. They will hunt you down. Loot is not going to take this transgression lightly.
“I know, imagine the theatrics he’ll conjure for my death. The rack will seem like a blessing,” Sylah grunted.
I might have a solution, Hassa said. But you need to come with me.
Hassa could see Sylah didn’t want to leave Anoor; her eyes hadn’t left the shadow watching in the top window above.
“I can’t, Hassa.”
They might not kill fifty, but they would kill one, and you’re the one they want.
Sylah flinched, and Hassa wondered if she imagined Jond yielding the blade.
“Okay, I’ll come with you.”
—
Each thud of Sylah’s footsteps echoed in time with the dripping from the tunnel walls. They were deep beneath the churning quicksand of the Ruta River, farther than Sylah had ever been in the Intestines.
“Hassa, how much farther?”
The girl didn’t turn, her silhouette burned at the edges of the torch she held in the crook of her elbow, the flame burning above her head.
“Hassa, we’ve been walking for leagues. Are we lost?” Sylah regretted leaving Anoor with every step she took.
Hassa snorted but still didn’t stop. Her footsteps made no sound.