“You Almirans are savages when it comes to toilets and table manners, but this drink isn’t bad.”
“I’m not Almiran,” Vera said, sitting down across from him. She’d taken off her armor for what felt like the first time in months and put on a clean black tunic.
“Right.”
Decimar looked down at his coffee.
“How are you feeling?” Vera asked him.
He cocked his head at her. “In all my years as a soldier, I’m not sure that anyone has ever asked me that question. Never thought a widow’d be the first to inquire about my feelings.”
“It’s been a hard few days,” Vera said. “And that business with the lords. It’s not exactly what I promised you when you agreed to help Kira.”
“The blood doesn’t bother me. But I agreed to help because Kira told me that we were conquering Almira on behalf of the Balarian Empire. Why aren’t we getting ready to depart?”
“Almira isn’t conquered yet. Just the one castle.”
“Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”
Vera picked a scrap of crust off the roll and ate it.
“We’re not going back to Balaria. Ever.”
“What did you and Empress Kira do?”
“I’ve devoted my entire life to protecting Papyria’s royal lineage. Everyone in my order has. That’s the reason it is the only line in the realm of Terra that has remained unbroken for almost a thousand years.”
“Answer my question,” Decimar said.
“Ganon tried to kill her. I intervened.”
“You killed the emperor of Balaria?”
“I did what was necessary to keep Kira alive.”
“Why are you so willing to die for that girl? Killing an emperor. That insanity you pulled kidnapping Linkon Pommol with the skyship.”
“It’s my job. My only job.”
“But it is not mine. And I won’t desert my country because of some Papyrian widow’s sense of obligation.”
Vera ate another piece of the roll. “What would you abandon Balaria for?”
Decimar hesitated.
“Gold?” Vera asked.
“No.”
“Land.”
“Not that either.”
“To save my life?”
Decimar frowned.
“I will never abandon Kira. And she will not run from Almira again. The only way we survive here for more than a few days is with your longbowmen on the walls of this castle. Or you can go back to Burz-al-dun and rejoin Actus Thorn’s army. Help him conquer and raid and spread ruin across this realm. And I’ll be dead in a week.”
“I like you, Vera. But you’re not some innocent civilian. You just helped Kira kill a roomful of unarmed men.”
“They were traitors.”
“Everyone’s a traitor to something. How is one ruler any better than the other? We’re just grunts following orders.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Complicate it for me.”
Vera pushed the roll aside. “You were on one of the skyships that destroyed Linkon’s navy, right?”
“You know that I was.”
“How many men did you kill that day between dropping Osyrus Ward’s bombs and raining down your explosive arrows from the sky?”
Decimar thumbed the mug of coffee. “Hundreds. Thousands, maybe.”
“Thousands,” Vera repeated. “In one day. And while you and I are talking in this room, Actus Thorn is doing the same thing to thousands of Lysterians. With impunity.”
“What’s your point?”
“That is all Actus Thorn is ever going to use those ships for. I know that to a certainty. Kira will do more. She wants to use them for exploration. Trade. To help the starving and the needy. And if helping her achieve that goal means I need to murder some greedy lords while they’re eating dinner, I will do it. And I will not have trouble sleeping tonight.”
Vera said the last words with as much conviction as she could muster, even though they weren’t true. Vera had not had a good night’s sleep since she was eighteen years old.
“I’m asking you to give her a chance,” Vera continued, lowering her voice to a whisper. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Decimar took a sip of his coffee.
“I can do that, I guess. Not like it really matters. Because you’re right: Actus Thorn isn’t going to change. That means he’s going to come after Kira. After us. And he’s not gonna discriminate the wrath he drops on this castle just because I’m still wearing my uniform and waving my hands in the air like an idiot.”
“Osyrus Ward says he can deal with the armada. He has some kind of machine.”
“What’s it gonna do, turn this castle invisible when the armada comes looking for their missing empress?”
Vera took the coffee and drank the balance of it. “We’ll find out together.”
30
JOLAN
Almira, City of Black Rock
Jolan led them through the city. The streets were quiet, and it was easy to steer clear of the occasional Balarian sentry patrolling by torchlight.
Shoshone was right behind Jolan. For some reason, she’d attached her scary-looking meat cleaver to the back of his belt. It was far heavier than Jolan had thought, and he kept having to tug at his pants—which were already several sizes too big—to keep them up.
“Where is everyone?” Jolan asked.
“Occupied cities are always quiet at night,” Cumberland explained. “Not surprised that one with a flying sack of dragon bones overhead produces a bit of a cryptlike atmosphere.”
Jolan looked up at the ship. It hung imposing in the sky—a black mark on an already dark sky. Each gust of wind made it bob a little—rising only to be tugged down again by the long cord running from the fortress to the ship.
“I wonder what that cord’s made from,” Jolan said. “Must be strong to avoid breaking under all the pressure from the ship. Some kind of woven, metallic fiber, maybe.”
“You’re funny,” said Oromir.
“What do you mean?”
“Ten minutes ago you were pissing scared in that alley. Now you’re talking to yourself about woven fibers.”
“I wasn’t talking to myself. Just thinking out loud. And I wasn’t piss scared.”
Oromir gave him a look.
“I wasn’t!” Jolan said. Then he thought about it a moment. “Just regular scared.”
“Will you two focus?” Shoshone hissed. “We’re almost there.”
The fortress came into sight. Its high walls were aggressively angled forward to make it more difficult to scale them in the event of an attack. Unlike Deepdale Castle, which had been adorned with scores of jaguar statues and festooned with plants and vines and living things, this fortress was nothing but cold, sharp rock.
“There,” Shoshone said, jerking her head toward a postern gate.
“It’s closed,” Jolan said.
“And you are going to knock until someone opens it.”
“Won’t that attract attention?”
“You just need them to give you an inch of leeway. I will take care of the rest.”
“Be rude,” Iko said. “Like you’re in a hurry and don’t have time to stand outside a gate explaining yourself. Rude and confident.”
“Those your words of wisdom for getting through life?” Willem asked her.
“No. Just for getting past locked doors.”
The postern door was made from heavy oak and reinforced with thick iron bands. There was a snarling wolf carved into a circular plate in the middle of the door. Jolan banged on it with his armored gauntlet, surprised by how loud it was.
Nothing.
“Again,” Shoshone whispered.
He banged harder this time. Five heavy pounds.
When he was about to go in for a sixth, the wolf plate snapped backward on a hinge and a set of gray Balarian eyes appeared.
“What the fuck?” the sentry asked in Balarian.
“Took some priso
ners. Need to get into the dungeon.”
“Prisoners? If some local caused trouble, just kill them. We don’t need any captives.”
“These aren’t locals,” Jolan said, matching the guard’s accent. “We found two Papyrian widows.”
“Widows?” The man peered past Jolan, eyes widening when he saw Shoshone’s face and armor. “What were they doing here?”
“If I knew that, I’d know how to sneak into Aeternita’s bed, too,” Jolan said, trying to make the Balarian goddess’s name sound as natural as possible, but failing. But the sentry didn’t notice the hitch in Jolan’s pronouncement. He was still staring at Shoshone.
“They got the shark armor and everything,” he muttered.
“The sooner they get to the dungeon the better,” Jolan pressed. “The officers will want to interview them.”
“Aye. All right. Come on in.”
The sentry opened the door. Backed up to let them through.
The passage on the other side was dark and narrow. Jolan moved forward. The postern door slammed shut behind them. Metal groaned as it was locked.
“Just keep moving,” Shoshone whispered. At the end of the passage, there was another door. Jolan went to open the handle, but nothing happened when he pulled it down.
“Hang on, hang on,” the sentry muttered. Pushing past Cumberland and Willem. “Awfully eager to get rid of the scary Papyrians, eh?” He reached the door and pushed a key into the lock. “I get it. My cousin told me a story about some widow back in Burz-al-dun who murdered a tavern full of people by herself because they poured her the wrong drink.”
He turned the key. The lock opened.
Jolan felt Shoshone drawing the meat cleaver from the back of Jolan’s belt.
When the sentry opened the door, light poured down the narrow passageway. The room on the far side was brilliantly lit by half a dozen dragon-oil lanterns. There were stairs going up and down. A large, metallic box was set up in the middle of the room. Tubes connected it to a barrel of dragon oil.
Five armed soldiers filled the room.
One of them was a lieutenant who was sitting next to the metal box, digging at his nails with a dagger and looking bored.
“We need to take these prisoners to the dungeon,” Jolan announced.
“Seals,” the lieutenant said without looking up.
Jolan hesitated. Was that some kind of password, or had he misunderstood? Why was this man asking about marine animals?
“Um. Seals?”
The man’s dagger froze. His eyes shot up, scrutinizing Jolan, and then the Papyrian widows behind him. Back to Jolan.
“Private Drulls,” he said, turning to the man who’d let them in. “Did the fact that you were letting a teenaged Almiran boy lead these widows into the fortress escape your notice?”
“Um.”
“Arrest everyone in this room,” the lieutenant barked. The four men behind him flashed their short swords free from sheaths.
Shoshone threw her meat cleaver into the exact center of the lieutenant’s face.
“Down!” Oromir yelled as he drew his blade.
Jolan ducked. Someone kicked him over. He tucked into a ball, covering his head with his arms and closing his eyes. There was shouting and snarling. Steel ringing out against steel. A series of wet hacks. Then it was quiet. Nothing but a few desperate gurgles, followed by silence.
When Jolan opened his eyes, all of the Balarians were dead. Blood was everywhere: On the floor. The walls. And the faces of every warden and widow.
They all went quiet. Listening for an alarm. After a few moments, when they heard none, Shoshone relaxed.
“That way,” she said, motioning to the stairs leading up. “We do not have much time.”
“Going to be honest,” Willem said, wiping his blade off with a sheaf of paper he’d taken from the desk. “If I knew the plan was to just slaughter everyone in our way and hope we reached the flying ship before anyone noticed, I’d have thought long and hard about joining this little adventure.”
“Too late for second thoughts now,” Iko said.
“I’m aware.” He tossed the bloody paper on the floor.
The stairwell led to an upper rampart of the fortress. Whether it was by luck or design, there was a clear path to the turret where the skyship was anchored. They made their way to it as quickly as possible.
The cord was about as thick as an aspen trunk. One end was drilled deep into the granite stone of the turret; the other stretched upward into the darkness.
“Armor off,” Cumberland said, already pulling at the straps on the side of his breastplate.
Oromir had to help Jolan get out of his armor. When that was done, Jolan took the wadded-up satchel from behind his breastplate and slung it over his shoulder.
“Are you sure there’s a way inside once we reach the hull?” Willem asked, looking up at the ship. Iko was already pulling herself into the sky, using her arms and legs both in a practiced motion that reminded Jolan of a silkworm climbing its own thread.
“No,” Shoshone said, then followed after Iko.
“Perfect,” Willem muttered. He reached into a pocket and put a seashell into his mouth.
“What are you doing?” Sten asked.
“Not like I’m gonna have time to pop it in while falling to my death,” Willem mumbled, talking around the shell.
“That’s tempting fate.”
“We’re about to climb a fucking string that leads up to the sky. I think we’re all tempting fate plenty as it is.”
With that, Willem started climbing.
Oromir put a hand on Jolan’s shoulder.
“Just don’t look down,” he whispered, before following Willem.
Jolan grabbed the cord with both hands. Blew out a breath, then started pulling himself into the sky, arm over arm.
At first it wasn’t so bad, but within a few minutes, every muscle in his arms ached with fatigue, then started burning with pain. “I don’t know if I can make it,” he gasped, slipping.
“Use your feet more!” Oromir called. “Tighten them around the cord as support. See how I’m doing it?”
Jolan focused on Oromir’s boots. Copied his posture.
“There you go,” Oromir said. “Don’t worry, we’re almost halfway there.”
“Halfway,” Jolan repeated. “Gods.”
For a long time after that, there was nothing except silent climbing. The wind grew stronger as they ascended. The air colder. Several times, a gust blew hard enough to make the cord swing them sideways, which rolled a swell of panic around in Jolan’s stomach. But he held on. And then he kept climbing.
“Don’t look down,” he muttered to himself each time he put one hand over the other. “Don’t look down.”
He was sure that he was going to let go. But he forced himself to pull himself up one more time. One more time, then he’d let go and fall and try to get the seashell in his mouth before he splattered across the roof of Cedar Wallace’s old fortress. Should have put a seashell in his mouth at the bottom like Willem. Stupid.
But when he pulled himself up for the agreed-upon final time before death, his head hit Oromir’s boot. He’d stopped climbing.
Jolan looked up. The hatch was thirty strides above them, and Iko had her palm pressed against the metal hull.
The cord itself disappeared into the hull through a circular hole that was too small for anyone larger than an infant to fit.
“I don’t see a way in,” Iko said.
“Your plan better not be knocking and making Jolan talk his way inside again,” Willem called up.
“Quiet,” Shoshone said.
She worked her way up and around Iko, then felt around the hull until she found a seam in the polished metal and grafted bone. She followed the seam with her fingers until she reached a slight, grooved indentation. Keeping one hand on the rope, she twisted and pulled.
Something clicked, and the hatch slid sideways on a smooth, hydraulic release.
“Seems a little insecure for Balarians,” Oromir said.
“You remember the part where we just murdered a score of soldiers and climbed five hundred strides into the air to get here?” Willem responded.
Shoshone pulled herself inside, then immediately turned around to help Iko through. The others followed quickly, with Oromir yanking Jolan into the cargo hold with a strong hand. Jolan just lay on his back for a few seconds, heart pounding in his chest. When his blood pressure felt somewhat close to normal, he risked a peek over the lip of the hatch.
From this height, the Black Rock fortress looked more like a large brick than an impregnable stronghold. He could see the entire city below, and the surrounding fields and forest they’d come from. The sight made his head spin. He turned away.
“What now?” Cumberland asked Shoshone.
“This ship might fly, but it is still a ship,” she said. “That means it has a captain. We find him and persuade him to sail to the Dainwood.”
“Simple enough. Which way?”
They all looked around. They were surrounded by hot copper pipes that radiated with pressure and heat. Gears the size of Jolan’s chest were churning in a slow, almost restful rhythm.
“Whichever way we can fit.”
Shoshone started crawling through the system of gears and pipes, moving deeper into the bowels of the ship. Everyone else followed. Some of the pipes were so hot to the touch they’d have burned Jolan’s skin if it wasn’t for the heavy Balarian gloves he was still wearing.
The air inside the ship was sticky and hot. It reminded Jolan of the warren in the middle of summer, except instead of the fragrant scent of wildflowers and honey, his nostrils were filled with the acrid, metallic fumes of heated chemicals and burning dragon oil.
Eventually, they found the engine room’s exit. The next room was long and open. There were hammocks lined up against both walls—crude metal toilets and a small sink was placed between every third hammock.
“Balarians shit in those?” Willem asked.
“Smells like it,” Sten agreed. He peered at the toilet. “Where does it go afterward?”
“Maybe that’s how they keep the ship flying.”
Sorcery of a Queen Page 31
