Iván says, “There’s no way around.”

He’s right. And we’ll lose precious time backtracking.

“We’ll have to climb over.”

Pedrón is the first to clamber up. The coconut seller waves his arms and screams obscenities at him as more coconuts tumble to the ground in his wake. Pedrón reaches down to help the others up. Several coconuts are squashed, their filmy milk soaking everything. I’m the last to climb over. I fish out one of the silver coins I got from trading my baby rattle gemstones and hand it to the seller.

“Happy Deliverance Day,” I say. It feels less happy every time I say it. He grabs the coin, but I feel his cold anger on my back as we sprint away from him, down the alley.

The palace complex looms over us, perched on the highest hill of the city. Traffic thickens as we approach—carts and carriages, people on foot, children playing in the streets. It’s a holiday for most citizens of Brisadulce, and many people are trekking through the city streets to gather with friends and family. We are forced to slow our pace.

“We’re not going to get there in time,” says Iván as he dodges a cart horse.

“Just keep pushing forward,” I say.

The line of carriages along the Avenida de la Serpiente is at a near stop, for each carriage must be checked by the palace watch before dropping off passengers or entering the plaza. We don’t have time to wait our turn.

“Get to the front of the line!” I yell over the cacophony of wheels and horses and bellowing carriage drivers.

Arturo leads the recruits now, and he shifts to the side of the road in an attempt to skirt some of the larger carriages. The other Basajuan boys are close on his heels, followed by Pedrón and the army recruits, and finally Iván and me.

Townhomes line the Avenida this close to the palace—luxurious, multistory stone edifices with silken banners draped from window casings, proudly displaying house sigils to all the passersby. A flurry of activity draws my attention to one.

“That’s a lot of guards for one townhome,” Iván observes.

He’s right. Soldiers scurry in and out of the front door, many hefting bulging burlap sacks. They’re dressed in the colors of the palace watch, except . . .

“Look at their shoes,” I say.

They all wear those hefty sandals, the same ones the mercenaries in the Sky Wing were wearing.

“Isn’t that the mayor’s house?” Iván says.

“He and Lady Jada live there. They’re important allies of the empress.” I still remember the man who stood and proclaimed in favor of my adoption.

“I think it’s being looted,” Pedrón says.

“We have to hurry,” I say, and I press forward. It goes against everything in me to pass by, to do nothing, but reaching Rosario must be our priority.

As we near the gate, it becomes clear that the mayor’s home isn’t the only one. I recognize the sigil of Lord Liano of Altapalma, then that of Lady Pilar of Lagunas Azules. Both friends of the empress. Both with an inordinate number of foot soldiers wearing not-quite-right uniforms. It’s a subtle thing. There’s no yelling, no clashing of weapons. Anyone not paying close attention would never know that a takeover is happening right under our noses.