The Orphan

CHAPTER ONE

1GO, DARIA. NOW.

My knees shook. I stood before the gate of the King’s Garden, trying not to look at the magnificent people who strolled in and out. I did not want my eyes, my face, to give me away. I hoped my clean tunic would fool them. I hoped that on this afternoon they would not see me as a street urchin, a slave, a wardum, a creature of the dirt.

My plan was crazy. But my friend Frada lay dying, and I needed to save her. I had to do the unthinkable. And fast. Pressing down the wrinkles of my garment, I held my head high and stepped through the gate.

I was greeted by a blast of bad breath. “Step aside!” bellowed a royal guard, dragging a large sack. “King Nabu-na’id the Great approaches!”

The king? Now?

I leaped back into the street, as the guard repeated the command in several languages—Anatolian, Greek, Akkadian, Judean, Persian. People from so many different lands had come to Babylon years ago, before Sippar came. Before Babylon had been cut off from the rest of the world. Over time, listening carefully, I had come to understand nearly all their tongues. A useful skill for one who must survive in the streets.

Looking up the hill I saw the royal chariot drawing near, attended by four miserable-looking slaves. The crowd stepped back, bowing low.

“Here it is, my lord and master!” the brutish guard yelled. With a grunt, he threw the sack into the street, the Boulevard of the Gardens. “The last one!”

The bundle thumped heavily, raising a cloud of dust tinged with red.

Blood red.

The crowd surged forward to look. They pushed me aside, blocking my view. Gasps erupted all around. An old woman fell to her knees in shock. A small boy began to cry. I wriggled my way through, and soon I saw what the ragged sack really was—a man, dressed in tatters and beaten to a lump.

I turned away. In the reign of Nabu-na’id the Nasty, violence was more plentiful than sunshine. As the chariot stopped, the king did not bother to glance downward. His beard, elaborately oiled and curled, glinted in the sun. “Bel-Shar-Usur,” he barked, his voice like a dragon’s rasp, “what says the rebel now?” Bel-Shar-Usur, the royal vizier, slid from his chariot seat. Although he was ancient and stooped, he was said to be the son of the king. His steely-gray eyes flitted wildly, as if each eyeball were possessed by an enraged, trapped insect—yet somehow, miraculously, he saw everything. Stepping toward the crumpled man, Bel-Shar-Usur used a gnarled olive-branch cane to turn him faceup. If the world were merciful, the man would be dead. But his eyes turned upward, showing unspeakable pain, as he muttered a tiny plea in the language of the Greeks. “Kind king, I am a father of four and have done nothing wrong.”

“Wretched rebel,” Bel-Shar-Usur said, “I’m afraid apologies are too late.”

The king yawned and carefully, lavishly, picked his nose. By the look on his face, I could tell this action gave him great pleasure. “Dear Bel-Shar-Usur, you must properly learn the many languages of Babylon,” he said, holding out his crusty finger for a slave to clean. “The rebel apologizes not. He speaks Persian. He tells me I stink like a dead lizard. Burn him—and let all Babylon know that the rebels have been eliminated!”

My heart sank as I tried to make sense of these lies. Both the king and his son had lied about the man’s plea. He didn’t apologize, he proclaimed his innocence—and he didn’t speak Persian!

But what of the rebels—Zinn’s warriors, the Children of Amytis—had they been eliminated? They were heroes to the common people, dreamers, masters of disguise and disruption. Their ancestors served the second Nabu-Kudurri-Usur, the Good King. Back then, they had been valued and encouraged. Now they were exiled and hunted by the royal guards. I had always dreamed of becoming one of them.

If they were truly dead, there was no hope.

As four slaves carried the victim away, the crowd gossiped. “What was his crime?” asked a woman with a kind, concerned face.

“The man is not a rebel,” muttered a gray-bearded man with a Greek accent. He glanced toward the Royal Garden, its walls cascading with color, its flowers exploding with fresh scents. “Here was his crime: He clipped a small sprig of ivy to put in his little daughter’s hair.”

My knees turned to liquid. I had to grip a tree to keep from falling.

Beaten and condemned to death? For clipping a vine?

Over the walls, I could see a distant canopy of leaves. It was the Tree of Enchantment, whose magic pomegranates held awesome powers. Chewing their seeds could cure ills, give life to the sick. Guarded night and day from intruders, the tree was the king’s most valued possession.

I was there that day on a mission. To save the life of my dying friend, Frada. To do what no one had ever done before.

I was going to steal one of the pomegranates.

CHAPTER TWO

THERE IS ONE cure for fear.

Insanity.

That was what I told myself as I stayed put, watching the chariot go away. I was crazy. I was temporarily not myself—no longer honest Daria, trustworthy Daria. Being a bit loose in the head, I could afford to be brave.

Did this make perfect sense? No. But the thought, strange though it was, gave me courage. I stepped boldly toward the gate.

And then I started shaking.

Thief! a voice cried in my head.

No. It was not thievery to save a friend’s life. For weeks I’d tried to find a cure for Frada. I’d gathered remedies from the markets, oily salves and herb tonics from apothecaries in exchange for running errands. Nothing had worked. If anything, she’d been getting worse. In the time of the Good King, all Babylonians partook of the fruit’s magic. It was not thievery then. It was welcomed.

In a just world, it would still be thus. But we were in the time of Nabu-na’id now.

They beat to death a man who stole a tiny clipping! What will they do to someone who steals a magic pomegranate?

They would kill me. Of course. But did I have a choice? How could I live with myself if I allowed my friend to die?

I adjusted the empty pouch that hung from my belt. Carefully I drew a gray shawl around my head and tied it in place, to hide my blue eyes, bright red hair, and fair skin. Those qualities made me stand out in Babylon. On a day when I was about to break one of the king’s most sacred laws, my appearance was like a bull’s-eye on my back. Dressed as I was, I would look like any other girl—or even boy.

Go. Now. Before you lose your nerve.

I stepped through the gate.

The warmth and beauty filled me with hope. Pathways wound through arbors and among flower beds. Waves of fragrance, strong and exotic, wafted over me. And these were merely the formal outlying gardens, acres and acres surrounding the grandest achievement of Babylon—Mother’s Mountain.

This was a structure of extraordinary height, spilling with the rarest and most colorful flowers. It was named for Queen Amytis, the wife of Nabu-Kudurri-Usur, who was called the Mother of All Babylonians. Nabu-na’id insisted we call it the Hanging Gardens, to erase the memory of the Good Queen. Now it loomed proudly in the distance. In a place so peaceful and lovely, how could there not be magic?

I stood close to a wealthy noble family, hoping people would think I was their servant. As soon as we were past the first bend, I peeled away. I wound through stone-paved paths, intoxicated by waves of perfume. When I reached a stone fountain, burbling with water spouted by stone fish, I stopped in my tracks.

There, rising high over my head, was the wall of the Inner Grove.

It was made of clay bricks and mortar, the height of at least three Darias. Guards marched to and fro, clad in gleaming metal chest pieces and headgear ornately crafted in bronze and iron. Each had a spear in hand and a sword on his belt. Any of these weapons could slice me quicker than I could open a pomegranate.

I stilled my pounding heart. But a person did not survive in the streets without wiles. I knew that my eyes were my best allies. I had to trust what I saw. I lingered by the fountain, pretending to daydream but watching fiercely.

The guards were bored and tired. They were also walking at a regular pace, back and forth, so that the closest section of the wall remained unguarded for … how long?

I counted slowly. At exactly the count of seven, a guard appeared again. Then he vanished and I counted again. Eight. That gave me a good idea of how much time I had.

Just above the wall I saw the spindly branches of a tree rising from the other side. If I climbed to the top, I could grab on and slide down inside. It would not hold the weight of a full-sized thief, but I am light—and fast.

I waited. The guards’ footsteps receded, leaving the wall to me.

Go!

I leaped toward the wall, digging my work-toughened fingers and sandaled feet into the nooks, crannies, and vines. But they were tiny, and the wall was slickened by sap. I would never make it in time.

As I reached for the top, I heard rustling directly below me and felt my grip slipping.

The guard’s voice shouted, “What do you think you’re doing?” as I pulled myself up, ripping free the last vine I held.

CHAPTER THREE

MY EYES BLINKED open. I was on the ground. Facing upward.

I sprang to my feet. Where was he? Where was the guard?

I nearly jumped at the sound of his voice—but it was from the other side of the wall. I had fallen inside the Inner Grove. He could not see me, nor I him! “Hiding behind a bush—sleeping, Marcellus?” grunted the voice. I had to adjust it in my mind. He was speaking Judean. “I should report you!”

“But you won’t,” another voice replied, “because I’ll tell the king you called him a fish-footed lizard!”

The two guards laughed. But in truth, they didn’t care. I suppose they disliked the king, too.

Most important, they hadn’t seen me.

The air was damp and heavy. I glanced around. The king’s Inner Grove was choked with plants, trees, shrubs, flowers, vines. I tried to feel good that I’d made it inside. There were places for me to hide, but my mind held only one thought:

What is hiding from me?

I saw shadows everywhere. I tried not to think about the Babylonian legends that passed in whispers at night. The Unspeakables. The monsters who were said to roam the grove at night, watching over Mother’s Mountain—giant black birds with metal for skin, monkey-like creatures who spat fire—all were guarded by the biggest monster of all, the evil sightless Kranag.

Nonsense. Childish. Even when I was hardly old enough to carry a full water jug I didn’t believe these tales.

I steeled myself, thought of Frada and how frail and near death she seemed, and I pushed forward, toward the Tree of Enchantment.

And then the dense brush ended abruptly, and there was the pomegranate tree. In the afternoon sun, its leaves seemed to dance with the passing breeze. I was no stranger to gardening. I had seen magnificent plants and trees before. I had coaxed dying plants into glorious life. But this was like a living, breathing being, as thick as clouds, as glorious as a song.

I drew closer, eyeing a half-dozen fist-sized fruits, right at my eye level. A tree that size should have carried dozens, maybe hundreds of pomegranates, but its offerings were few. Special and rare.

My fingers shook in the dappled sunlight as I reached out and pulled.

With a soft snap, the reddish-brown fruit came loose. I had it. The pomegranate was mine.

But before I could move away, I heard a strange, strangled sound. A hollow Zoo-kulululu! Cack! Cack! Cack! like a fierce roar forcing itself through a tiny slit. Whatever had caused it was inside the tree—behind a drooping branch in front of my eyes. What on earth could it be?

Run! screamed a voice in my head.

I should have listened to my instinct. I don’t know what made me reach out, pull the leaves aside. Curiosity, I guess. Or maybe insanity. But when I did, I was staring into a knothole.

And two inky black eyes were staring back.

I stumbled back, nearly dropping the pomegranate. With a flutter of wings, a black creature flew out of the tree toward me. It had the mask of a wolf and the body of a hawk. Its feathers were a black so pure that it shone almost blue in the light. As I dropped to the ground, its feathers grazed my cheek. And then, with another screech, it was gone.

My heart pounded. I had startled it. It meant no harm. But as it flew over the tree canopies, surely the guards would see it. Would they suspect an intruder?

I had to move. I placed the pomegranate in the pouch that hung from my waist and ran to the wall, crashing through the underbrush.

On this side, the wall was sheer, polished to a smooth white luster. I could no easier climb it than fly over it. I glanced around desperately for a tree close to the wall. Something from which I could launch myself. But I could no longer see the place where I’d come in, and there were no trees here. The king’s architect had been crafty, making it difficult to escape.

I ran blindly along the wall, hoping for a rough patch. A place where earthquakes had caused a section of the wall to crack, perhaps. But all I saw was smoothness, until I reached the entrance to the Inner Grove. The door was thick wood, reinforced by a metal gate. Framing it was a huge archway carved deeply with figures of beasts—lions, bulls, and the ancient mushushu that looked like both a lion and a lizard.

Footholds galore. It was practically a ladder for me. I couldn’t help but grin as I grabbed onto the carvings and hoisted myself upward.

I paused at the top and looked down the other side. To freedom. I was tempted to jump—but I knew if I did, I risked breaking an ankle. I looked around for something that would cushion my fall.

There. To my left, nearly thirty yards away, was a thin tree, fairly close to the wall. I could jump to it, and it would hold my weight. Then I’d climb safely down the other side.

As I shimmied across the top of the wall, I saw movement in the underbrush. I stiffened. A guard trundled out from under the tree. He was yawning, stretching, raising his face upward. In a moment he would see me. I flattened myself as much as I could. My heart beat so hard I feared it would shake the wall.

With an oddly high-pitched scream, the guard jumped backward. Had he seen me?

No. He was looking downward. I saw a flash of orange at his feet—a lizard skittering across his toes. Startled, the guard muttered angrily and hustled away on his rounds. I waited until he was out of sight, counted to three, and shimmied quickly along the top of the wall.

“Zoo-kulululu! Cack! Cack! Cack!” came a piercing shriek from above me.

The giant black wolf-bird landed on the wall, not ten feet away, blocking my path toc the tree. It bent its neck toward me as if examining some strange specimen. “Shoo!” I whispered, but that just made it screech again.

I heard the thumping of footsteps. The guard was approaching again. Instead, I aped the bird’s song—“Zoo-kulululu! Cack! Cack! Cack!”—as loudly and shrilly as I could. It was startled for a moment, and I took the opportunity to push the bird aside and leap onto the nearby tree.

Half falling, half climbing, I made my way down the tree. I hit the ground in a roll and got immediately to my feet.

“You! Stop in the name of the king!”

The guard was tromping through the underbrush toward me, his spear twitching in his hand. Soon there would be others. Big, monstrous men with more strength than I would ever have.

But far, far less speed.

The pomegranate banged against my leg as I ran among the vines and trees. On the pathway I barged into the growing crowd of people who were leaving the garden to return home. The guard’s shouts were growing distant now, causing a vague sense of confusion far behind me. My shawl fell to my neck as I bolted back through the outer gate.

And directly into the guard who had dragged the ragged man into the street.

“End of the run for you, street rat,” he said, grabbing my arm.

CHAPTER FOUR

HOW HAD HE known?

I swallowed hard. The man towered over me. He was a beast. If I tried to run, he would yank my arm out of its socket. “I—I can explain!” I pleaded.

“Running through the garden is a safety hazard, little wretch,” he said. “And it is against regulations.”

“Running?” I squeaked.

And it dawned on me—he didn’t know! How could he? He thought I was just a girl running recklessly for no reason. How could he know what I’d done? He had been on the outside.

I knew this was a stroke of dumb luck that would not last. I bowed low and spoke fast. “Yes, kind sir, you are right, and I will never do it again …” But he was holding tight, not budging.

Frada’s wise words came back to me: To loosen a guard’s will, feed his ego.

“… O pillar of great strength,” I added. “And wisdom.”

The corners of the guard’s mouth turned upward into a proud, gap-toothed smile. His fingers went slack. And I stepped away—walking, not running, until I rounded the next bend, out of the guard’s sight.

A voice boomed out from inside the garden. “What are you doing, fool? You call yourself a guardian of the gate? There is a pomegranate missing!” Running at full speed, I disappeared into the throng.

Soon I could hear at least three, maybe four guards behind me. But I had the advantage in the streets. They were my home. I sprinted down the road away from the gardens, through the ceremonial gate, and into the city. I raced past lavish houses I could never dream of entering. Many people were sympathetic to a vulnerable, running child, but others shouted my whereabouts to the guards. I darted into the vast outdoor market, hoping to lose them among the vendors. My eyes darted from stall to stall, looking for anything I could use to my advantage.

I tried to avoid looking at the gaunt, screaming man in the wooden stocks in the center of the market. His wrists and ankles were nearly worn through to the bone, bound by metal clamps. His face was bloodied and swollen. He had been there for five days, left to die because he had not bowed sufficiently to the king. My stomach wrenched at the sight, but there was nothing I could do. I had Frada to save.

I escaped out the opposite side of the market, into the streets. But the streets had guards, too. To “keep the peace,” as the king labeled it. As they heard the shouts of my pursuers, they came after me, too. “Capture the street rat! It stole the king’s property!”

My three pursuers became four, then eight. It, they called me. As if I were a thing, not a person. That notion just made me run faster.

I headed toward an alley, but one of them had gotten there first. I darted back into the street but I’d lost time. Now another set of guards was emerging from the road ahead. They were behind me and in front of me.

I stopped. There was only one way to go now.

Up.

Grabbing the window frame of the nearest shop, I hoisted myself onto a balcony. The wall was cracked and full of metal hooks left over from old signs. I used them as handholds to climb up the wall.

“Careful, Daria!” a voice shouted. “They are close behind!”

It was another urchin, a girl I knew only as Shirath, who people called the sad-faced one. “Can you help me?” I shouted.

The girl didn’t answer, but I knew the look in her eyes. In their expression I could read a kind of silent code shared only by street people: I have your back.

The guards followed, but they were slow and clumsy, weighted down by armor. I climbed to the roof and glanced in either direction. The shops were connected, so I could make it from building to building, easily jumping the difference in heights. This—this!—was the fastest way to move through the city. The breeze flowed freely through my thin tunic. With nothing but the distant towers and ziggurats in my line of sight, I felt swift and free.

“Halt or I will shoot!” a voice thundered behind me.

I turned. One of the guards had reached the roof and was aiming an arrow at my head. I knew in that moment that he really meant Halt so I CAN shoot.

So I shot first. With my sling.

I caught him square between the eyes. He let out a cry, arched backward, and fell. I cringed as I saw his body drop through the space between buildings—and land with a sickening splat into a pile of sheep manure.

He would live. But he wouldn’t be bothering me.

With an effortful groan, another guard clambered onto the roof. I reached into my belt pouch to take out another stone.

I found nothing. I’d used the last one I had. Dropping the sling back into the pouch, I turned and ran across the roofs, leaping from building to building.

The guard was laughing. Taunting me. “The lion gets the rat!” he shouted.

I knew if he didn’t catch me, he’d shoot me in the back. On an instinct, I darted left, across another row of rooftops with patched tiles and cracked surfaces—a poorer neighborhood.

A neighborhood I knew well. Very well.

As a small child, I’d lived in an old, abandoned place close to the city wall. I needed to get to it. Now. It was my only hope. It would save me.

I felt an arrow whoosh past my ear as I jumped from a higher building down onto the old shelter’s roof. I landed near the wall shared by the two buildings. Carefully I walked sideways across the roof’s edge. It was the last building on the block. If I jumped, I would be seriously hurt.