The Orphan by Peter Lerangis

he stared at the floor. He looked as if he had aged ten years.
    â€œGet on with it,” Numa said, his mouth full of meat.
    â€œYes, of course,” I said. My voice faltered and I feared I would not be able to produce a sound.
    Swallow. Breathe.
    I began again. As the first notes left my mouth, Numa and his cohorts put down their meat. They stared at me, jaws agape, half-masticated food clumped on their thick tongues.
    The prisoners stirred, and Nico looked up abruptly, as if waking from a dream. His eyes were those of a confused old man. Worried he would betray that he knew me, I cast him a warning glance and shook my head slightly.
    He looked so weak and defeated. I wanted to wrap him in my arms, and I felt a hitch in my voice. Do not let them see any emotion , I commanded myself. Get the weapon to the rebels—now!
    But how could I do that, in full view of the guards? Their eyes were fixed on me.
    I could see the edge of my waist scarf swaying as I sang. I began to dance, letting my tunic billow outward. I turned my right side to the guards, moving my hips in rhythm, curling my hands and fingers in a complex pattern. Then I turned the other way.
    As if it were part of the song, I began to whistle—the precise, three-note signal of the rebels.
    Several of the prisoners sat up straighter. I could feel their eyes. Good. They knew.
    Quickly, imperceptibly, I dipped my twirling fingers into the folds of the scarf I’d tied around my waist. I closed my thumb and first finger around the metal shard and cupped it in my palm. I could feel the blade cutting into my skin. It hurt. I would have to do this fast, before blood began to show.
    â€œDo not approach these men!” Numa shouted, bolting up from the table. He placed himself between me and the prisoners.
    This would not be as easy as I’d hoped. I began dancing more wildly, picking up the tempo of the song. I lifted up a metal plate and a ladle from the guards’ table and beat them together. The guards began clapping and stomping their feet in rhythm, hooting with delight in spite of Numa’s disapproval. He yelled at them to stop, waving his hands.
    I tried to edge closer to the prisoners. But now the guards were leaping up from the table, dancing. Their beards glistening with animal fat, they jumped into the center of the room, blocking my way.
    â€œSit down, you fools!” Numa shouted.
    â€œIf the king and his fancy people can dance outside,” one of the guards said, “so can we!”
    â€œEspecially if we have to clean up after the execution!” said another.
    Through the clutch of thick bodies, I could see Nico’s face. I could tell by the flash in his eyes that he knew what was happening—the execution, my plan, all of it. But my palm was dripping blood and he had noticed that, too. I dipped suddenly, sidling as close to him as I could, reaching out to give him the metal shard.
    One of the clumsy guards thumped into me from the left side. The shard flew out of my hand in a spray of blood. The guard stopped for a moment and looked around as if a bug had just flown past. He was about to turn, when I hooked my arm through his and danced him in a circle. I raised my voice as loud as I could, nodding for him to join in. Where was Nico? I couldn’t see him.
    All the guards were singing now—all but Numa, who was yelling angrily at the top of his lungs. Had he seen? If he had the shard, we were all dead. He would use it to cut our throats one by one.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him approach, his face deep red. With a roar of anger, he threw aside the dancing guard.
    â€œI know what you are doing,” he said, “and it is time to silence the music.”
    He thrust out his arm and clutched my throat.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    I COULD NO longer breathe. The guards had stopped dancing. One of them let out a shout.
    As I dropped to my knees, I tried to pry Numa’s hands from my throat, but they were