She pursed her lips. “Lugal Uruku says it is his gift to the poor. Providing a life of means for their daughters.”

Likely his way to try to get them to calm down, though it seemed that any unrest was being squashed immediately by the lack of food.

I studied the woman closely. Her eyes lacked any kind of affect in them as she talked, and I realized what I was seeing. It was the same face I’d seen many times on those who had experienced the stark tragedy of a family member gone too soon: shock. But burning inside there was a small fire, too. She was serious. And though it went against my better judgment, something else burned inside, urging me to go, go, go.

“How can you help?”

“I’ll get you into the Palace in the fish cart. Through the kitchens, like your wild friend over here says.”

Nanaea stood and straightened her beard. She looked more manly than I could have thought with the added bulk of the vest. And Iltani was a poor girl, likely sweating over bubbling pots of stew.

Will this work? Or will we die?

“Don’t even think about changing your mind—I see your brain working in there.” Iltani poked me in the temple. “I’m already geared up. If we get to land our heels on that bug and squash him, we should all take every risk we can.”

MY HEART POUNDING, hands shaking, I crept with Iltani and Nanaea around the ovens in the courtyard kitchens as the Palace workers bustled about, faces flushed. The fishmongers had dropped us off in the cover of some olive trees, the grapes tucked into my sash. Once inside, we’d find a bowl from one of the lower storage rooms, add the grapes, and lace them with the gochala. Then Iltani would deliver them to Uruku as a serving woman, and we’d pray he ate them swiftly.

Bikku had sworn not to tell anyone we were sneaking inside, but her friend looked cagey. We’d threatened her entire family with a swift, painful death if she alerted anyone to our scheme, and terrified, she’d agreed to keep her trap shut.

But just in case, we bound and gagged them in their wagon in a grove of fruit trees behind the Palace. If only I’d had the nerium to knock them out.

My plan had been to act like we all belonged and saunter right in, but with the number of guardsmen around, it didn’t seem like the smartest move.

They glowered from their posts, hands on the hilts of their sickleswords, likely to prevent theft by the kitchen workers as they sweated in the afternoon heat. The workers kneaded rounds of bread, pulling and twisting the dough. They chopped dates for desserts, and stirred great vats of stews over open flames for Uruku and Gudanna’s tables.

Dogs wandered in and around the savory smells, noses lifted high, saliva hanging from mangy jaws. But no scraps were thrown to them. Any bits of fruit or fish or vegetables left over from these meals likely went into the mouths of the kitchen workers, though it wasn’t much, apparently. Their arms trembled with fatigue; their faces hung with the gray appearance of malnourishment. How awful it must be to work with food you couldn’t eat.