The Orphan. Peter Lerangis

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       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.