The prints run right up to a gigantic tree,with a trunk thicker than a Yag’s chest and a huge hole in it, bigenough to sleep five people, if everyone crammed together. And,according to Wes, they had to sleep five, so they were reallycrammed.

Inside are the remnants of a small fire, allash and charred twigs left over, which is impressive. Fires aren’teasy to make in ice country, especially when you’re not used todoing it.

“They slept here,” Buff says.

“Thanks for the input,” I say.

“My pleasure.”

The trail continues up the mountain, aimingright for the eastern edge of the village, the White District, andeventually the palace.

“They were heading for us,” Wes says, meaningthe Icers in general.

“Well, we could’ve led them,” Buff says. “Ifthey hadn’t beaten the shiver out of us.”

“Maybe they wanted to surprise the king,” Isay.

“Why?” Wes says.

“Because maybe Roan is dead,” I say, feelingmy brain working double time, spinning a few impossible theoriesinto one possible one. “What if something did happen to the Heatersand the Marked? Something really big, really bad—devastating even.What if the Head Greynote, Roan, was killed? What if a bunch of theGreynotes were killed and there was a big shakeup in theirleadership? You’ve all heard the rumors. People are saying theHeaters were destroyed, but maybe they were just attacked and theysurvived, but Roan and the other Greynotes were killed. If theyhave new leaders they’d want to check things out with theirneighbors, make contact with Goff, figure out how things work withthe trade agreement. Wouldn’t they?”

The questions float for a moment, settlingover us like the quiet before a winter storm.

“It’s possible,” Wes admits. “It wouldcertainly explain them showing up out of nowhere. But we’ve neverseen a Heater in ice country, not this far up the mountain anyway.I don’t think the king would take too kindly to them appearingunannounced at the palace gates.”

“Nay. He wouldn’t. You’re right about that,”I say.

~~~

And the Heater’s footprints do lead towardthe palace gates, at least for a while, but then they veer off awayfrom civilization again, taking us back into the thick woods.

“They’re going around back,” I say. It’sstill crazy that they’re making for the palace at all, but at leastthey had enough brains to skip the knock-on-the-front-gatesapproach.

“There’s an entrance in the back, isn’tthere?” Wes says.

“Yah,” Buff and I say at the exact same time.We’ve talked about finding a way through the back door many a time.But like every other way in, it’s well-guarded and impossible tobreach.

We pick a path through the forest, easilyfollowing the mess of snapped twigs the Heaters left in their wake.When we reach a clearing, the path suddenly opens up in a wideswathe all the way to the palace walls. A guard stands atop thewall and I swear he’s looking right at us.

“Shiv!” I hiss, ducking back behind the treesand pulling Wes and Buff with me.

“Did he see us?” Wes asks.

“I dunno. I don’t see how he couldn’t’ve,” Isay.

“Maybe he was looking past us, over theforest,” Buff says.

“Maybe,” I say wanting to believe it.

We wait for a long ten minutes, expecting aparade of palace guardsmen to come charging down the track at anymoment. But they don’t, and the forest stays quiet, save for theoccasional song of a snowbird.

Ever so slowly, I stand up, conscious ofkeeping myself behind the army of trees that separate us from thepalace. When I look at the tracks in the clearing I gasp.

Footprints trample every which way, but notjust six sets. Twenny, maybe more, cut deep from heavy steps andpacking the snow down to a hard skin. But that’s not what caused mysudden intake of air. There’s blood, too, bright and wet on thesnow. Mostly droplets, perfect little crimson circles burnt intothe snow, but a few rivers too, crisscrossing and zigzagging aroundthe middle of the clearing.

“What is it?” Wes says, hearing my gasp andstanding up next to me. “Holy shiverbones!” he says.

“Not good,” Buff says, taking it all in alongwith us. “The guards got ’em.”

“You think they’re…” I say.

“Nay,” Buff says. “Goff woulda wanted to talkto them. But after what they did to us, I expect they’da foughtlike mountain lions. The blood might not even be theirs.”

I think about that, hoping my friend’s right.“Then they’re prisoners,” I say.

“Probably,” Wes says. “I doubt they’reguests, especially not the way they snuck in and put up afight.”

Prisoners. The word hangs heavy between myears.

Prisoners. Just like Jolie.

Chapter Fifteen

“We gotta get inthere,” I say. “Not just for Jolie, but for the Heaters too.”

We’re back at our place, discussing what todo next—me and Wes and Buff and my mother. Well, she’s notdiscussing so much as scraping a rock in a circle, marking thefloor. Every time she finishes another round, she cocks her head asif to say, “Huh?” like she can’t figure out why the circle keeps ongoing. Then she draws another one.

“We’ve talked circles around infiltrating thepalace,” Buff says, motioning to my mother’s drawing. I smirk, eventhough it’s a bad joke. “It’s impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible,” I say.

“Nay. Some things are,” Buff says. “Like usgetting rich. Like you getting the time of day from a WhiteDistrict girl.”

I stand up, clenching my fists. “I got morethan the time of day, you freezin’ son of a snowblo—”

“Knock it off, you two,” Wes says.

Glaring at Buff, I take a deep breath, slowlyunfurl my fingers.

“I agree with Dazz,” my brother says. “Therehas to be a way. We just have to think outside the snow globe.”

“Buff won’t be much help then,” I mutter.

“Dazz!” Wes says sharply. “Focus.”

I try, I really try, but Buff and I havethought about this question for a whole lot longer than Wes has. Ifeel like my mind’s more fried than deer bacon on a cold winter’smorning.

Jolie. Are you okay? Has Goff hurt you? Areyou a slave, carrying around buckets of soap water, scrubbing thepalace floors, brown-skinned Heater children doing the same besideyou? Have you made friends with them?

Right when I stop thinking about the questionand focus on who I’m asking it for, an idea hits me. And not a badone either.

“We’ve got to talk to Abe,” I say.

~~~

“Not in a million years,” Abe says. “I’d justas soon be skinned and boiled by a Yag than cross the king.”

I’m alone with Abe, a good ways down themountain—he wouldn’t talk to me any other way. Sleepy snowflakesflutter this way and that way in the wind, seeming to never reachthe ground. “You owe me,” I say.

“Ha!” Abe scoffs. “How do you figger? Thelast time I saw you, you disobeyed a direct order and shovedme.”

“I did,” I admit. “But I was desperate. Don’tyou get it? My sister’s in there. Goff’s got my sister. What am Isupposed to do, just forget about it, let it go?” My voice risesover the last few words.

“That’s exactly what yer s’posed to do,” Abesays. “Just like me, you shouldn’t cross the king, especially whenhe’s got your loved one chained up somewhere.”

What does he mean by Just like me? Ishake off the thought, continue to work on him.

“I’m not asking you to cross him,” I say.“Just help him make a hiring decision. He won’t hire me or Buff,not with our shoddy records, not for any jobs inside the palaceanyway, but Wes, he’s a golden child, been nothing but a goodworker everywhere he’s been.”

“Ferget it,” Abe says, folding his armsdefiantly.