Red Queen - Mrs. Goertzen's Classes

1 DEDICATIONTo Mom, Dad, and Morgan, whowanted to know what happened next,even when I didn AdAbout the AuthorCreditsCopyrightAbout the PublisherONEI hate First Friday. It makes the villagecrowded, and now, in the heat of highsummer, that s the last thing anyonewants. From my place in the shade itisn t so bad, but the stink of bodies, allsweating with the morning work, isenough to make milk curdle. The airshimmers with heat and humidity, andeven the puddles from yesterday s stormare hot, swirling with rainbow streaks ofoil and market deflates, with everyoneclosing up their stalls for the day. Themerchants are distracted, careless, andit s easy for me to take whatever I wantfrom their wares. By the time I m done,my pockets bulge with trinkets and I vegot an apple for the road.

2 Not bad for afew minutes work. As the throng ofpeople moves, I let myself be takenaway by the human current. My handsdart in and out, always in fleetingtouches. Some paper bills from a man spocket, a bracelet from a woman s wrist nothing too big. Villagers are too busyshuffling along to notice a pickpocket intheir high, stilt buildings for whichthe village is named (the Stilts, veryoriginal) rise all around us, ten feetabove the muddy ground. In the springthe lower bank is underwater, but rightnow it s August, when dehydration andsun sickness stalk the village. Almosteveryone looks forward to the firstFriday of each month, when work andschool end early. But not me. No, I drather be in school, learning nothing in aclassroom full of that I ll be in school muchlonger.

3 My eighteenth birthday iscoming, and with it, conscription. I mnot apprenticed, I don t have a job, soI m going to be sent to the war like allthe other idle ones. It s no wonderthere s no work left, what with everyman, woman, and child trying to stay outof the brothers went to war when theyturned eighteen, all three of them sent tofight Lakelanders. Only Shade can writeworth a lick, and he sends me letterswhen he can. I haven t heard from myother brothers, Bree and Tramy, in overa year. But no news is good can go years without hearing athing, only to find their sons anddaughters waiting on the front doorstep,home on leave or sometimes blissfullydischarged. But usually you receive aletter made of heavy paper, stampedwith the king s crown seal below a shortthank-you for your child s life.

4 Maybeyou even get a few buttons from theirtorn, obliterated was thirteen when Bree left. Hekissed me on the cheek and gave me asingle pair of earrings for my littlesister, Gisa, and me to split. They weredangling glass beads, the hazy pink colorof sunset. We pierced our ears ourselvesthat night. Tramy and Shade kept up thetradition when they went. Now Gisa andI have one ear each set with three tinystones to remind us of our brothersfighting somewhere. I didn t reallybelieve they d have to go, not until thelegionnaire in his polished armorshowed up and took them away one afteranother. And this fall, they ll come forme. I ve already started saving andstealing to buy Gisa some earringswhen I t think about it.

5 That s whatMom always says, about the army, aboutmy brothers, about everything. Greatadvice, the street, at the crossing ofMill and Marcher roads, the crowdthickens and more villagers join thecurrent. A gang of kids, little thieves intraining, flutters through the fray withsticky, searching fingers. They re tooyoung to be good at it, and Securityofficers are quick to intervene. Usuallythe kids would be sent to the stocks, orthe jail at the outpost, but the officerswant to see First Friday. They settle forgiving the ringleaders a few harshknocks before letting them go. tiniest pressure at my waistmakes me spin, acting on instinct. I grabat the hand foolish enough to pickpocketme, squeezing tight so the little impwon t be able to run away.

6 But insteadof a scrawny kid, I find myself staring upat a smirking Warren. A fisherman sapprentice, a war orphan, and probablymy only real friend. We used to beateach other up as children, but now thatwe re older and he s a foot taller thanme I try to avoid scuffles. He has hisuses, I suppose. Reaching high shelves,for example. You re getting faster. He chuckles,shaking off my grip. Or you re getting slower. He rolls his eyes and snatches theapple out of my hand. Are we waiting for Gisa? he asks,taking a bite of the fruit. She has a pass for the Then let s get moving. Don t wantto miss the show. And what a tragedy that would be. Tsk, tsk, Mare, he teases, shakinga finger at me. This is supposed to befun.

7 It s supposed to be a warning, youdumb fool. But he s already walking off with hislong strides, forcing me to almost trot tokeep up. His gait weaves, off legs, he calls them, though he snever been to the far-off sea. I guesslong hours on his master s fishing boat,even on the river, are bound to havesome my dad, Kilorn s father wassent off to war, but whereas minereturned missing a leg and a lung, came back in a shoe s mother ran off after that,leaving her young son to fend forhimself. He almost starved to death butsomehow kept picking fights with me. Ifed him so that I wouldn t have to kickaround a bag of bones, and now, tenyears later, here he is. At least he sapprenticed and won t face the get to the foot of the hill, wherethe crowd is thicker, pushing andprodding on all sides.

8 First Fridayattendance is mandatory, unless you are,like my sister, an essential laborer. Asif embroidering silk is essential. But theSilvers love their silk, don t they? Eventhe Security officers, a few of themanyway, can be bribed with pieces sewnby my sister. Not that I know anythingabout shadows around us deepen aswe climb up the stone stairs, toward thecrest of the hill. Kilorn takes them two ata time, almost leaving me behind, but hestops to wait. He smirks down at me andtosses a lock of faded, tawny hair out ofhis green eyes. Sometimes I forget you have thelegs of a child. Better than the brain of one, I snap,giving him a light smack on the cheek asI pass. His laughter follows me up thesteps. You re grouchier than usual.

9 I just hate these things. I know, he murmurs, solemn then we re in the arena, the sunblazing hot overhead. Built ten yearsago, the arena is easily the largeststructure in the Stilts. It s nothingcompared to the colossal ones in thecities, but still, the soaring arches ofsteel, the thousands of feet of concrete,are enough to make a village girl catchher officers are everywhere,their black-and-silver uniforms standingout in the crowd. This is First Friday,and they can t wait to watch theproceedings. They carry long rifles orpistols, though they don t need them. Asis customary, the officers are Silvers,and Silvers have nothing to fear from usReds. Everyone knows that. We are nottheir equals, though you wouldn t knowit from looking at us.

10 The only thing thatserves to distinguish us, outwardly atleast, is that Silvers stand tall. Our backsare bent by work and unanswered hopeand the inevitable disappointment withour lot in the open-topped arena is justas hot as out, and Kilorn, always on histoes, leads me to some shade. We don tget seats here, just long concretebenches, but the few Silver nobles upabove enjoy cool, comfortable they have drinks, food, ice even inhigh summer, cushioned chairs, electriclights, and other comforts I ll neverenjoy. The Silvers don t bat an eye atany of it, complaining about the wretched conditions. I ll give them awretched condition, if I ever have thechance. All we get are hard benches anda few screechy video screens almost toobright and too noisy to stand.