Lady Smoke

by Laura Sebastian

  Heron doesn’t make the same mistake Coltania made with me, though—he doesn’t assume he’s unconscious just because he’s still.

  “Can you handle the crank?” he asks me, keeping hold of the operator. “It should be easy, going down instead of up.”

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Instead, I focus on the crank. Even going down, it takes a lot of strength to turn it. I only make it two floors before Heron tells me to stop.

  “We’ll get out here and take the stairs,” he says, finally letting go of the attendant’s body. He opens the gate and ushers me out.

  It’s only then that I finally speak the thought that’s been nagging at me.

  “King Etristo’s lost a lot of money on me,” I tell Heron. “The only way he can make it back is by selling Søren and me to the Kaiser.”

  Heron must have reached the same conclusion, because he doesn’t look surprised. “We have to leave now,” he says.

  My heart thunders in my chest, but I manage to nod.

  “Yes,” I say. “But not without Søren.”

  * * *

  —

  Artemisia is waiting in my room, sitting in a chair near the fireplace, when Heron and I hurry in. She turns to me, annoyed at first, but then she takes in my bloody clothing and panicked expression.

  Before she can say a word, I tell her everything that happened since I left with Coltania only an hour ago. I’m surprised by how calm my voice sounds, even as I feel nothing but panic inside.

  “What do we need, then?” Artemisia asks when I finish, her tone brisk. “Get Søren. Send news to Blaise. The refugees—we’ll need to find enough ships to carry them. Food to feed them. Weapons to arm anyone who wants to fight.” She ticks the list off on her fingers and my stomach sinks lower with each task.

  “There’s no time for all that,” I say, shaking my head. “We can’t do any of it—”

  “Not so fast,” she interrupts. A smile spreads over her face, reaching all the way up to her eyes. It’s a rare smile from Artemisia, and every bit as frightening as she is. “Luckily for us, the Sta’Criveran harbor keeps many large trade ships filled with all sorts of things, but primarily food and weapons.”

  “So all we have to do is march into the harbor and steal a bunch of ships,” Heron says slowly, looking at her like she’s mad. “There’s no way we’ll be able to do that. There are only three of us—five if we manage to get Blaise and free Søren, and even that seems like a slim possibility at this point.”

  “There will be five of us, with Søren and Blaise,” Artemisia agrees. “But three of us are Guardians and it’s the dead of night.” She pauses, glancing between Heron and me. “It’s a mad plan, but it could work.”

  “I can get Søren if you can get Blaise and the ships,” I tell them. “Three thousand refugees. That was Erik’s estimate. How many ships will we need?”

  Heron shakes his head. “We’d need a fleet, Theo,” he says, voice heavy. “I think even Art would agree that it won’t be possible.”

  Artemisia does falter, but her lips purse and her brow furrows and I know that she has a ghost of a plan already.

  “What if…,” Heron starts. “I know we don’t want to talk about it, but what if we don’t take all of the refugees. We would only be dragging them into a war most of them won’t be able to fight in. It would be dangerous—”

  “Not as dangerous as staying here after King Etristo realizes I’ve gone—and stolen a fleet of his ships and the country’s cheapest workers in the process,” I point out. “He’ll kill them if we don’t take them. I won’t leave anyone behind, whether they want to fight or not. Art, what are you thinking?”

  She lets out a low sigh, shaking her head. “There is one option, but it’s a risk that might backfire,” she warns. “We’d need my mother’s help and her crew.”

  I shake my head. “She might well turn me over to King Etristo herself,” I say. With everything that’s happened, I almost forgot what I overheard him tell the Czar earlier. “She offered him Water Gems, in some capacity. That’s why he agreed to host me. Sta’Crivero is on the verge of a drought.”

  For an instant, Artemisia looks like she’s going to deny it. But she can’t. She knows what her mother is capable of better than anyone. “We need her, Theo,” she says instead. “Or Heron is right. Our only chance is to leave two-thirds of the refugees behind.”

  Frustration burns through me, blistering hot. Everything is falling apart and I can’t see a way out of this that I could happily take. I think of Coltania’s body in the garden. In a few hours, Sta’Criverans will be going up there for morning walks or to have breakfast and they will find her. They will find the guard in the elevator first. It won’t be long before he wakes up and King Etristo puts together the pieces. It won’t be long until I’m in that dungeon next to Søren and the Kaiser is on his way to collect us both.

  I was supposed to have more time, but there’s nothing to be done about that now.

  “Come on, Art,” I say. “If I’m waking your mother up at this hour, I’m not doing it alone.”

  * * *

  —

  When Dragonsbane answers her door, she looks ready to murder whoever is on the other side. In her white nightgown, with her hair in a frizzy cloud around her pillow-creased face, she doesn’t look anything like the Dragonsbane I’ve come to know and—if we’re being honest—fear.

  I want to ask her about the Water Gems up front, but I hold my tongue. After all, I need her right now.

  “There had better be a good reason for this,” she says, her sharp glare shifting between Artemisia and me.

  Artemisia elbows me and I take that as a suggestion that I start.

  “Well, I did just murder Salla Coltania in the garden after finding out she was the one who assassinated the Archduke and Hoa,” I tell her. Petty as it is, I can’t help but enjoy the look of shock that comes over her. “We’re fairly certain that when her body is discovered and a riser operator recovers his wits, King Etristo will have me arrested and then sell Søren and me to the Kaiser to make up whatever loss he’s facing over this disaster of a suitor search. Since I’d really rather that not happen, we’re leaving now and commandeering a fleet of merchant ships in the harbor so we can take the refugees from the camp with us back to Astrea to liberate the Fire Mine. Oh, and Erik is going to meet us there with refugees from the other camps. Would you like to join us? You are quite good at commandeering ships.”

  Dragonsbane stares at me for a few moments, her mouth hanging open. She starts to speak, then cuts herself off, then tries again. It happens a few times before she finally manages to say words.

  “Are you mad?” she asks me. There’s no accusation in her voice—she sounds genuinely curious.

  “I’m desperate,” I say. “But I suppose the two are close enough.”

  Dragonsbane shakes her head, blinking away the sleep still left in her eyes. “All right,” she says with a beleaguered sigh. “I’ll help you get out and get the ships, but after that you’re on your own—”

  “Mo—Captain,” Artemisia says before clearing her throat. “I think…I believe that’s the wrong choice. We need you not just to take the ships but for the battle as well. We need you to be able to win this.”

  The want in Artemisia’s voice feels like a punch to my gut, but Dragonsbane is unmoved. She looks at her daughter the same way she would at any other crew member who dared to question her decision.

  “King Etristo has crossed me and so I’m leaving and taking compensation with me in the form of ships,” she says.

  “He crossed you?” I ask before I can stop myself. The words rush out and I know they are stupid even as I say them, but I say them all the same. “That’s laughable. Tell me, just how many Water Gems did you offer him for auctioning me off to the highest bidder?”

  She holds my gaz
e, unflinching. “I offered him the mine,” she says.

  Heat gathers at my fingertips but I clench them into fists at my sides. Not now, I beg.

  “That wasn’t yours to offer,” I say. The warmth in my fingertips begins to spread, working its way up my arms, prickling my skin. I try to ignore it, squeezing my fists tighter and digging my nails into my palms, the pain a welcome distraction.

  At my side, Artemisia casts me a bewildered glance, looking down at my hands.

  Dragonsbane shrugs. “Someone had to think of Astrea,” she says, drawing Artemisia’s attention back. “I knew you wouldn’t do it, so I did. One mine for our country back. One-quarter of our power for the rest. It was an easy decision to make.”

  “It wasn’t yours,” I repeat through clenched teeth. “You aren’t a queen, no matter what you like to think. I am my mother’s heir. You are just a pirate.”

  I mean the words as an insult, but they only slide off Dragonsbane’s back.

  “Etristo doesn’t know how to wage battle,” she says, tearing her gaze away from me and looking at Art instead. “Taking his ships will almost be easy and he won’t give chase once we’re out. But I won’t throw my crew into the crossfire of a war with Kalovaxia—a war we can’t win. And you shouldn’t either, Artemisia. As Theo put it, we are only pirates, after all.”

  Her voice is sharp, but for the first time, Art doesn’t flinch away from it. Instead, she stands up a little straighter. “The Water Mine destroyed me, you know, and it built me up again from nothing. King Etristo doesn’t deserve a single stone from its depths. Some things are worth fighting for even when the fight seems hopeless. Even if I’m not worth it to you, I would hope Astrea would be.”

  Dragonsbane doesn’t answer her. Instead, she looks at me.

  “I don’t want your crown, Theo. It would bury me,” she says, her voice quiet. “I have always done what I believe is best for Astrea, but that does not include storming into a battle we aren’t ready for. I’ll get you your ships, but then we part ways.”

  There is nothing left to say, so I only nod and turn away from Dragonsbane. Artemisia and I leave without another word, hearing the door close firmly behind us. We only get halfway down the hall before Art grabs my wrist and forces my clenched fist open. In the candlelit hallway, we both look at the red skin of my palm.

  I want to pull it away, to hide it from view, but that wouldn’t do any good. Art knows—she must have suspected even before. I swallow.

  “It’s been happening for a while,” I tell her quietly. “Little things at first. Flickering flames would match my heartbeat, Fire Gems would call to me. But it’s getting stronger. It seems to happen when I’m angry.” I don’t tell her about the worst incident, the one that happened after my nightmare about Cress.

  Artemisia doesn’t reply at first. She reaches out to touch the skin but immediately pulls back with a hiss. “It’s hot,” she tells me.

  “I don’t feel it,” I admit. Though I’ve been dreading this moment, it feels good to tell someone. I’m glad that it’s Art, which surprises me.

  She touches my palm again, but this time her touch is cool. It feels like dipping my hand into a pool of cold water, and the feeling spreads through the rest of me. The heat in my veins abates. “Does anyone else know?” she asks.

  “No,” I say, the word coming out in a whisper. “I don’t want them to.”

  For a moment, I expect her to argue, but instead she simply sighs. “Can you still get Søren out?” she asks.

  I nod. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Good,” she says, the word crisp. “One problem at a time.”

  SØREN IS IN HIS USUAL position, slouched against the wall. He looks up when he sees me, the dark shadows beneath his eyes a stark contrast against his pale skin. Even in the warmth of the candlelight, his pallor is sallow. He hasn’t left this cell in days now, and whatever he’s eating isn’t nourishing him.

  When it comes time for a fight, he won’t be in peak form. I’m only glad that Søren on a bad day is still a better warrior than most on their best days. I hope it will be enough.

  Tizoli leaves us to return to his post, giving us privacy.

  “You look deadly, Theo,” Søren tells me, his voice quiet. “Is there a reason you’re so much later tonight than you usually are?”

  “There were some…complications,” I say carefully.

  Søren must hear something in my voice, because with a labored exhale, he pulls himself to his feet. I shrug off my cloak and pull the sword out from its place strapped to my back. The cragged wrought-iron Kalovaxian blade isn’t as ornate as Astrean blades, especially with the Spiritgems pried from the hilt. I remember Søren prying the first one out to give to the Guardians we met in the Astrean prison, but someone on Dragonsbane’s crew must have taken out the rest after he was disarmed.

  When he sees it, Søren breaks into a grin. “Sturdax,” he says, reaching through the bars for it. “I thought it was lost after we left Astrea.”

  I pass it to him, unable to hide my amusement though I know this isn’t the time or place for it. “Dragonsbane had it but Artemisia got it back for you,” I explain. “You…named your sword?”

  He barely glances at me; all his attention is on his blade, which he swishes through the air a few times experimentally. He looks at the blade so tenderly I half expect him to kiss it.

  “He feels different without the stones,” he says thoughtfully before registering my question. “And of course I named him. We’ve been through a lot together over the years—I like Sturdax more than most of my friends. I might like Sturdax more than I like you.”

  “I hope that’s not true, since I’m about to ask an awful lot of you,” I say.

  Søren tears his gaze away from his sword and looks at me, jaw set.

  “Where do we begin?” he asks.

  * * *

  —

  A few moments later, I call out to Tizoli that I’m ready to leave. When he comes down the hallway with his ring of keys already out, I have a moment of doubt. Of everything I’ve done tonight or will do, this might be the only part I actually regret. Because Tizoli is by far the kindest Sta’Criveran I’ve met.

  I still jump on him as soon as he turns his back to me. I still wrap my arms around his neck the way Heron taught me to, squeezing with all my might. I still kick the keys out of his hand and into Søren’s cell.

  I just feel a bit bad about it when Tizoli finally sinks to his knees and his eyes finally flutter closed. I hold on to him until Søren unlocks his cell and comes toward us with his sword drawn and ready. Finally, I let go of Tizoli and climb off him, watching as Søren prods him as gently as he can in the shoulder with the point of his sword. Tizoli doesn’t move, but his chest rises and falls.

  “You didn’t kill him,” Søren tells me, and even though I can see that myself, I’m glad to hear the words out loud.

  I nod and pull out my dagger from its place at my hip.

  “It’s nearly sunrise and we need to be on our way to the camp before the palace wakes up,” I tell him.

  “I’m feeling a sense of déjà vu, Theo,” Søren tells me. “It seems like only yesterday I was rescuing you from a dungeon.”

  “The difference is that this time I don’t know of any secret tunnels,” I admit.

  He looks at me warily. “What’s the plan, then? We walk out the front door? It’s the middle of the night but there will be people awake.”

  “I know,” I say, my heartbeat thundering louder in my chest. “The Sta’Criverans love a spectacle, though; I say we give them one.” I nod toward Tizoli’s body, clothed in plain trousers and a shirt with a guard’s jacket over. “You two should be close to the same size.”

  Søren stares at me incredulously, but I can see the gears in his mind turning. He nods. “Turn around.”

  I roll m
y eyes, but do as he says. “Modest all of a sudden?” I ask him.

  “Not particularly,” he says. I hear him shuffling out of his clothes, the thud of shoes being removed. “But you need to keep your wits about you, and I wouldn’t want to rob you of any of them.”

  I can’t help but snort. “Certainly there’s a better time for bad jokes than right now,” I say.

  “I’m not sure about that,” he says. “Running for my life isn’t quite as terrifying as it should be when I’m doing it with you. You can turn around now.”

  I do and the first thing I realize is that Tizoli and Søren are not the same size. The shirt and trousers fit in the sense that they button closed without tearing, but on Søren’s broad chest, the shirt gapes between the strained buttons and the sleeves and pants are both an inch too short. Søren seems to have realized this issue as well, though he’s far more amused than troubled by it.

  “What can be done?” he asks, tugging at the shirt in a vain attempt to make it fit better. “It’ll just have to work. What are we going to do about you, though? You are fairly recognizable.”

  I pick my cloak up off the floor and slip it back on, drawing the hood forward so that my face is in shadows. He starts to pick up Tizoli’s uniform jacket, but I stop him. “We still might bring some attention,” I admit. “We just have to make sure that when we do, we give them a good show.”

  * * *

  —

  We take the stairs instead of the riser, scrambling up the decrepit steps that seem to crumble beneath our feet. They’re so out of use now, with the invention of the risers, that they’re falling apart. But in the dead of night, we don’t run into another guard until we’re back on the main level, and by that point we are stumbling and laughing a little too loudly together. I lean most of my weight on Søren as if I can’t stand up on my own, and he leans back on me.