“Puh ih in your cell,” Pursey said in his rough, dying voice. “There’s more.”
From the cannister there came a fresh fruit salad—peaches, blueberries, strawberries. Unable to wait—the sight and smell of real fruit made me desperate—I tilted the ceramic cup to my mouth and ate it all, wiping the juice from my chin and licking my fingers. I could feel my whole body welcome it after a steady diet of meat and carrots, meat and carrots, and more meat and carrots. The pies were divided up fifteen ways—none for Gully, whose eating days were done. There were no plates for the pie, so we used our hands. Iota’s slice was gone even before the last portions had been handed out. “Apple!” he said, and crumbs flew from his lips. “And damn good!”
“Eat well, kiddies!” one of the night soldiers proclaimed, then laughed.
For tomorrow we die, I thought, hoping it wouldn’t be tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. I still had no idea how we were going to get out of here even if Pursey did know a way from the Officials’ Room. What I knew was that I wanted it to be before the second round of the Fair One, where I might—very likely—be pitted against Jaya. There wouldn’t be anything fair about that.
The guards and kitchen crew left, but for the time being the cell doors remained open. I dug into the chicken stew. It was delicious. Oh my God, so delicious. Yummy fo’ my tummy, the Bird Man would have said in days of yore when we were sitting on our bikes outside the Zip Mart and eating Twinkies or Slim Jims. I looked next door and saw Stooks gobbling, holding his hand to the side of his face to keep the chicken gravy from oozing out of his cheek. There are images that will always stay with me from my time in Deep Maleen. That’s one of them.
When my bowl was empty （I’m not ashamed to say I licked it clean, just like Jack Sprat and his wife）， I picked up my slice of pie and bit into it. Mine was custard rather than apple. My teeth struck something hard. I looked and saw a stub of pencil poking out of the custard. Wrapped around it was a small scrap of notepaper.
No one was looking at me; they were all concentrating on their meals, so different from our usual fare. I slipped the paper and pencil under Hamey’s pallet. He wouldn’t mind.
With the cells open, we were free to congregate for post-banquet chats. Iota crossed to my cell. Ammit joined him. One on each side, but I wasn’t afraid of them. I felt my princely status rendered me immune from bullying.
“How do you reckon to get past the night soldiers, Charlie?” Iota asked. Reckon wasn’t what he said; it was what I heard.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Ammit growled.
“At least not yet. How many are there, do you think? Counting Kellin?”
Iota, who had been in Deep Maleen for a long time, considered. “Twenty, maybe twenty-five at most. Not many of the King’s Guard stood with Elden when he came back as the Flight Killer. Those who didn’t are all dead.”
“Them are dead,” Ammit said, meaning the night soldiers. He wasn’t wrong.
“Yuh, but when it’s day—day in the world above—they’re weaker,” Iota said. “Blue glows around em are less. You must have seen that, Charlie.”
I had, but touching one, even trying, would result in a disabling shock. Iota knew that. The others would, as well. And the odds were against us. Before the first round, we outnumbered them. Now we didn’t. If we waited until after the second round, there would only be eight of us left. Less, if some were wounded as badly as Freed and Gully.
“Ah, you ain’t got no fucking idea,” Ammit said and waited—hopefully, I think—for me to contradict him.
I couldn’t, but I knew something they didn’t. “Listen to me, you two, and spread the word. There is a way out.” At least there was if Pursey was telling the truth. “If we can get past the night soldiers, we’ll use it.”
“What way?” Iota asked.
“Never mind that for now.”
“Say there is. How are we going to get past the blues?” Back to that.
“I’m working on it.”
Ammit swatted a hand dangerously close to my nose. “You don’t have nothing.”
I didn’t want to play my trump card, but I saw no choice. I ran my hands into my hair and lifted it, showing the blond roots. “Am I the prince that was promised, or not?”
For that they had no answer. Iota even put his palm to his brow. Of course, being full of food as he was, he might just have been being generous.