Amara Bennett's Arc

Chapter 2 of 13

A week in the pit taught Amara one thing. The tall leader would never let her fight. Each morning he handed her a bucket, a broom, or a crate. "Fill the water," he said today. "Sweep the ash." The others sharpened knives and mapped raids. Amara scrubbed floors while they planned. She carried the water bucket to the tavern cottage near the pit. The rebels used it for meetings. Warm light leaked from its cracked windows. Inside, voices rose in a rough song, mugs banging the table. The tall leader stood at the center, tall enough to duck the beams, giving orders. He saw her in the doorway and pointed at the hearth. "Fire's low. Tend it." The room laughed. The scarred cat watched from a stool, tail flicking. Amara set the bucket down. Her hands shook, not from cold now, but anger. She was done fetching water. "Your raid on the supply road will fail," she said. The song died. The tall leader turned. "The floor-scrubber has opinions." "I ran a prison block's supply logs before I escaped," Amara said. "Their convoys change routes on the seventh day. You planned to hit the old road. You'll find it empty and their guns waiting." He crossed his arms. "And how would a spy know that, if not to lead us into a trap?" Amara stepped to the table. She grabbed a piece of chalk and drew on the wood. She marked the crossing, the fallback route, the timing of the patrols. She named the hour the guard shift thinned. The female rebel who had vouched for her leaned close and studied the lines. "She's right about the seventh day," the woman said. "I lost two men on that road last winter. We hit it on the wrong day." The tall leader stared at the chalk marks. The room waited. Amara held his eyes and did not look away. "If I wanted you dead," she said, "I'd have let you march into their guns. Instead I'm telling you where they'll be." He was quiet a long moment. Then he wiped the old route from his memory and tapped Amara's new line. "We move on the eighth day. This crossing." He looked at her. "You come. You'll show us the timing yourself." A few rebels nodded. One clapped her shoulder. The cat jumped down and pressed against her leg. Amara had traded her bucket for a place at the table. But the tall leader's face stayed hard. "If your timing is wrong," he said, "you go in the frozen pit with the rest of the liars." He turned back to the map. The song did not start again. Amara looked at the chalk lines she had drawn. She had won her voice. Now their lives rode on numbers she remembered from a cell, and the leader would be watching every step to see her fail.