In the subsequent days, Dalia's sickness had gotten worse. It hadn't been for lack of food. I had conveyed Dalia's condition to Lady Hamil and, kind woman that she was, she gave us two weeks worth of bread and wishes for my sister to make a swift recovery.
Even after I'd begun watching the palace, I couldn't stop searching, hoping, for another way. I went to the marketplace and talked to the apothecary. She laughed at the mention of Starsuckle. It wasn't available at any price, let alone one I could afford.
I tried cactus juice in Dalia's water, but it made her retch. Bitter licorice made the cough worse.
I had one final, desperate hope, before turning to thievery. I went to the cold stone edifice of the Imperial Temple. Though meant to be a symbol of the Emperors' reach, the steps were grimy and frescoes of triumphs blurred by dust. Perhaps a priest might pray for Dalia, or even have ideas for a solution.
The air inside was cold and smelled of stale incense. My footsteps echoed in the cavernous space. A junior priest was polishing a silver goblet. He approached and looked me over from bare feet to tousled hair with pitiless, appraising eyes.
"Please," my voice cracked. "My sister. She's dying from the fever. I came to ask for a prayer."
With fraying robes and a wrinkled nose, he blocked my path. "The sanctified prayers of the Imperial Temple," he intoned, barely looking at me, "are reserved for the pious. Have you an offering to show the depth of your piety?"
My hands were empty. My pockets were empty. A familiar shame rose in my throat, but beneath it, bitterness. This place of faith was just another market stall.
I turned without another word and walked out, the cold dusty stone gave way to the hot dusty street. There were no alternatives. The King's Garden was all that was left.
With my lenses, I could study the palace. With the architectural diagrams, I could see the what wasn't visible with my eyes. A lot could be gathered from a week of observations.
While far less predictable than the movement of the stars, the palace had an order of its own. I knew not just where and when the patrols would be, but what their field of view at any given point.
Near the service gate where I had delivered the manure, I had noticed a section of the wall obscured by a thick tangle of overgrown vines. From here I could see what I hadn't been able to in person, that the masonry at the top was crumbling, a great place to find handholds. Below that wall, the ground was dark with moisture. They watered the gardens there; my landing would be soft, and silent.
A groundskeeper tripped and almost fell by the fountain in the garden. His sudden lurch caught the attention of a distant guard, a tiny betrayal of posture that mapped the man's line of sight for me.
The guard on the eastern wall was a lazy creature of comfort. He was always five minutes late returning to his post after the midnight bell. That created a blind spot combined with the guard rotation in the watchtower on the opposite side of the palace. There was a window of about 75 heart-beats where the wall patrol has just rounded a corner and the tower guard is predictably looking the other way where the garden wall would be unwatched.
Every night, roughly ten minutes before my window of time opened, the kitchen door opened and figure bearing a large cauldron emerged. I could almost see the steam when he poured it out and a swirl of hungry dogs raced for it, creating a brief, but predictable distraction. It would not only cover any noise of my ascent but also keep the dogs' attention away from a shadow climbing down the wall.
The way into the garden was set. This was as good as it got.
With the evening's arrival, my eyes were exhausted. I headed home reviewing the patrol schedules, debating the best day to strike. When I came in the doors, Dalia was lying on her mat, having a fit of coughing worse than ever before. I sat down beside her and gently pressed my palm against her forehead. It was scorching. Each time she coughed, my heart stuttered. I leaned closer letting her head rest against my shoulder.
"Dalia?" I whispered, scooping water from the pitcher. My fingers trembled and the cup wobbled but I held it steadily enough beneath her lips. She drank a little but spilled more. I wiped her chin with the back of my hand.
She shook her head at the bit of bread I offered, her hands too weak to push it away, though one somehow managed to hold the wooden bird.
I shifted her smooth black hair, each strand slipped through my fingers and pressed a kiss to her temple.
"Nadim," she barely whispered. "Have you seen... the stars?"
This was like father was just like this in the days before his death. I wept. Whatever happened at the palace had to be better than this. Inaction today meant that the Starsuckle wouldn't have enough time to work. Tonight was the night.
The rags I was wearing were blackened with soot from the blacksmith's ovens. I moved, barefoot over the city's sleeping streets toward the palace. Once I was in the alley where I would enter, I listened and waited. It felt like eternity, waiting for the sound of the kitchen slop and the happy barking of the palace dogs.
As the noise erupted, I began my climb at the exact vine-covered spot I previously identified. My movements masked by the distraction.
I reached the top of the wall with aching fingers. I began the count. One... Two... My heart hammered both from the exertion and from, I realized, holding my breath. I breathed without missing a count. Fifty-five... fift-six... A loose piece of mortar crumbled under my foot, the bits and pieces trickling down the vines. I froze, every muscle screaming. A dog gave a questioning bark, but it was quickly silenced in the scramble for scraps. Seventy-three... seventy-four... Now.
I didn't jump off the edge, rather I flowed over it. My bones jarred though I landed silently in the moist, silent ground at the bottom.
Once the footsteps of the patrol faded, exactly matching the rhythm I had memorized, I followed my route through the ornamental statues and large fountain ensuring that I stayed not only in the shadows but also outside the line of sight of the guards.
The pearly blossoms practically glowed in the starlight: at last, the Desert Starsuckle. Here in the unnaturally perfect, serene and silent depths of the King's garden, the air was so thick with the sweet smell of the Starsuckle that it smelled like a lie. The smell of peace and quiet, a life of peace and prosperity away from the dust, grime, and toil of our lives.
Dalia's face rushed to the forefront of my mind, her scorching skin on my fingers, the sound of her ragged breathing. The frantic, failing rhythm of her heart called me to my senses. The beauty around me rotted instantly. With trembling hands I began collecting buds and blossoms to make the tea. I took a few seed pods too.
Once my little sack was full I breathed a sigh. Everything had gone perfectly. "It worked." I whispered to myself. "Every step, every second. I planned it and it worked. I could start the tea tonight. Dalia would get better and be able to go back to work next week. Everything could go back to the way it was. I would have books to study."
I got up and turned to go back the way I came, attentive to the slightest sound from the guards.
That's when I heard it. Not the sound of a boot, but the soft press of a slipper.