Unbroken

by E M Kaplan

  In truth, the situation with Daisy was just as much Ott’s fault as the one with Marget, and for the same reason. He’d been reckless with his affections before, trading kisses as readily as the wild game he’d hunted to trade for goods and money. He wasn’t even sure why he’d done all the flirting, kissing, and so forth. Just that the girls had been willing, and he’d been available. Not so much now, of course. As soon as Mel came to find them. Soon, he hoped, eyeing Daisy again as she stamped her foot at him.

  He took a deep breath. Bookman was going to kill him. The smaller man’s face was flushed red, his circular spectacles slipping down his thin nose. Ott steeled himself, then slung an arm around Rav’s shoulders. “This is my…Rav.” He floundered, but recovered. Not too badly, he thought. “We’re just passing through with our child and friends. We’re going to need some rooms on the quiet side, if you don’t mind. You’re a…lovely woman, Daisy, but whatever we had is in the past now. And that’s all we’ll ever had. Just some beautiful memories.” He gave her his best look of sincerity, one that had worked on many a female in the past.

  The barmaid stared at him. She gave a loud snort. “You’re a fool, Mattieus Ottick. You’ll never know the true extent of what you’re missing out on. And you,” she said said to Rav. “Whoever you are, I pity you. This one has broken a lot of hearts. I won’t be the last you encounter. Nor will I be the meanest. Not by a long shot.” At that, she turned on her heel, her her skirts twitching, and led them up the stairs to their rooms.

  Behind the barmaid’s back, Rav cuffed Ott on the arm—none too gently. He would have a bruise from her knuckles. Behind his specs, Bookman glared, his thin nostrils flaring. The man was two shakes away from pawing the floor as if his foot still had a hoof on it. All the same, Ott offered up a silent prayer, not to the goddess Lutra, but to Mel to come and save him as soon as possible.

  Help me, he prayed with more fervor than he’d ever employed before.

  Chapter 12

  Far away, in Tooran, Mel stepped down from the velowagon in her sandaled feet. The exhilaration of riding high atop the vehicle stayed with her long after they entered the busy streets of Tooran. She could still hear the rush of the wind in her ears. Their rate of travel had far surpassed anything Mel had thought possible, even in the most polished sled on the slickest ice. She had wondered if the wooden wheels of the velowagon would break apart as they had bumped over the dusty hills and valleys. Her face was dust-stained, except for the red-rimmed goggle markings she felt around her eyes mirroring her companion’s, and her hair was a matted mess. Jaine, Mel had discovered the girl’s name was. Not long into the ride, the girl had stuck her hand out and introduced herself—a formal gesture for a girl Mel suspected might not be so civilized underneath her ornate trappings. Something about the girl’s eyes, the way she seemed on alert at all times, made Mel slow to trust her.

  “My da built these machines and taught me how to drive them. I guess he still needs to teach me a thing or two about how to keep them running,” Jaine said with a somewhat feral grin. “How did you know how to fix it? Good trick, that bit with the grease pot and whatnot.”

  Mel just shrugged, keeping her lips pressed together in a half-smile, not willing to reveal her abilities. Outside of the Mask settlement, people had been ostracized for less. Mere suspicion of being a Mask had drawn a lynching crowd in two known cases. However, Jaine, not minding Mel’s silence in the least, said, “Aha. Just got the knack, do you? Just like my da. Some people do, some don’t. I’m in the don’t bin myself.”

  In just a couple of hours, they had arrived at the sister depot in Tooran in the true dark of night, the passengers grumbling about the delay to their travel schedules despite the great convenience of not having traveled there in the conventional manner. A horse and wagon would have taken longer by a magnitude. Were these people that ungrateful for the near-magical machine in which they had arrived?

  “What are your plans? Do you have a place to stay?” Jaine asked, helping the last of the paid fares retrieve a bag that had gotten stuck under one of the cushioned benches in the passenger hold. “The hostels will be filled up at this time of night. Lots of people not being able to afford the cost of decent lodging any more.” Mel noticed the girl glancing up and down at her, taking in her bedraggled appearance. Clothing dried in a messy, wrinkled disarray, Mel was worse for the wear. She knew she looked as if she didn’t have a penny on her—never mind the heavy coins sewn into her clothing.

  Mel shrugged again. She wasn’t concerned about finding shelter for the night. Even if she were forced to find shelter in one of the many dark alleyways they’d passed, she would be warm and safe enough, using her heightened abilities. She could hide in the shadows. The main thing was, she wanted to conserve her money for purchasing supplies, which had been her group’s original intent in traveling to Tooran in the first place. Now she wasn’t sure what to do since she’d been separated from her friends. She could still negotiate for horses, but she was on the opposite side of the river from them. A velowagon would have been nice for the ride south, but she didn’t have that many coins spare. And she wasn’t certain how far they would be able to travel on a single load of agamite before they were stranded.

  No, she would focus on finding Charl, whatever state he might be in, and see if she could help him. How difficult could that be in a city of several hundred thousand people, dark alleys, and overcrowded streets? She pursed her mouth in frustration.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing,” Jaine told her, with a half-smile. “Da and I’ll give you a place for the night. He won’t mind a bit. He’s kind of partial to taking in strays when they need it. Was one himself once. Me, too, for that matter. I was a foundling—there’s a lot of us in the city for whatever reason. People not taking care of their own, I guess. So taking you in is natural. And it’s the least we can do for saving me from being strung up by that angry mob.”

  Jaine led Mel out of the large converted stable and locked the shed door after them. They made their way across the cobblestone street, looking both ways for carts and other motorized vehicles that passed by despite the very late hour. Mel paused on the other side of the street, unable to stop herself from marveling at the rhythmic green lamps that glowing, stretching down the lane as far as her eye could see. Yes, she’d read about the industry here in Tooran. She’d met brash, hot-tempered Liz, a girl from here who’d later died at the siege on Cillary Keep.

  Jaine reminded Mel of her old acquaintance Liz—they had the same manner of speaking and a quick, assessing look, as if they were always on the lookout for a cheat, bargain, or fast opportunity. Liz had never thought a thing without saying it and had learned many difficult lessons the summer they’d been thrown together at Cillary Keep. Jaine, with her mass of black curly hair, cut short around her face, and pinkish complexion that was even like Liz’s, called the other girl to Mel’s mind and brought on a bout of melancholy for her loss. On the surface, Jaine didn’t seem to have a bit of aggression or scheming nature about her—traits that had tainted Liz’s personality to the core.

  In contrast, Mel’s new companion was now guiding her to the door of a large stone building, the front of which had a set of steps that led up from the street level to the entryway. Jaine undid a complicated looking lock located under the handle. She turned a dial this way and that, a specific number of ticks, which Mel could hear though she doubted Jaine could. The lock sprang, and Jaine pushed the heavy door open.

  A rush of air followed them in from the street. Books lay scattered across tables, desks, and the cushions of chairs—on the floor, even, which made Mel cringe. Bibliophile? It was more than that—all Masks learned from an early age to worship books and the knowledge they contained, whether correct or not. She resisted the urge to neaten them up and instead looked around.

  Carving tools vied for space with spirals of wire and woven twine. A mirror reflected light from a window into a magnifier. A racecourse of mallets and chutes, with glass marbl
es balanced in them, descended from the ceiling in a zigzag of wood that she had to stoop to avoid at one point. What did the track do? She traced it with her gaze from one end to its conclusion to find… a pile of meat in a small bowl with the word, “Tiger” painted on the side. A striped mound of animal skin spilled out of a small iron pot—no, that was a cat, Mel realized, as its head lifted and blinked a yellow eye at them. Presumably, aforementioned Tiger.

  Trailing Jaine into the room, Mel met eyes with a wiry man with graying, unkempt hair on the longish side. He was short for a man—similar to her in height and build. His shiny, dark eyes glinted at her with curiosity. She was struck by an odd sense of familiarity, in the literal sense. He looked as if he could be her father—or uncle. Pushing aside the mind-spinning fact that she had, not too long ago, learned that the man whom she’d thought to be her father had been her uncle, this man that she stared at now looked like family. Like her blood relation.

  Having started in surprise, she now stood frozen. As he pushed back his chair and stood up, as astounded by her sudden appearance as she was of his, she realized what he was. Whether that knowledge of his true nature was a danger to him here in Tooran, she wasn’t sure. By instinct, she sought him out to assess potential danger. Slow heartbeat. Regulated respiration. No unusual enlargement of the pupils in his eyes. No moisture gathering at his palms or forehead. But he was looking at her now with…amusement.

  She knew at once that he was a Mask, just as she was.

  Part 2

  Burned

  Chapter 13

  After many angry tears from her sisters, Zunee teased and goaded them into better spirits as they packed up as many of their things as they could carry—namely, the clothing on their backs and a few dolls, pans, and blankets. Before long, she and Deni had the little ones laughing as if it were a game, a great adventure. With one girl sitting in his lap and Yanna clinging to his shoulders, he made their dolls dance and sing about the great flowing body of river water they’d see until they giggled. As expected, Lena had resembled a violent desert storm when Zunee had informed her of their departure from their family ya’tuvah.

  “Why are you doing this to us?” Lena shouted, her thin hands slashing through the air. “You think we aren’t starving to death at a fast enough rate? You need to drag us away from our family tent, everything we’ve ever known—any sense of security and comfort we have—for what? To die scared and unprotected. We could be killed by warlords. By the sun. By who knows what? The Great Mother protects us, but only if we are not complete fools, spending the lives she gave us as if they are not precious drops of water.” On and on she went.

  Biting her tongue, Zunee took her sister’s abuse in silence. Arms crossed over her chest, she took the brunt of the verbal attack until the Lena storm had passed. Zunee was not surprised that Lena didn’t shed any tears. Her ire was a dry, violent desert tempest, dissipating just like the one that had overtaken Zunee and Deni while hunting. One minute, it had raged and almost suffocated them to death. The next, it was gone with little sign that it had ever been there at all. Having expended all of her energy, Lena turned her back and began gathering the things she wanted to take with them. Zunee rolled her eyes.

  Speaking of Deni, the coward had disappeared as soon as Lena’s yelling had begun, no doubt to avoid the brunt of her wrath. Zunee passed through the back rooms of the ya’tuvah looking for him. He sat on his sleeping mat, a colorful woven bag in his lap.

  “What’s that?” Zunee asked, sitting on the carpeted ground next to him. She ran her hand along the intricate pattern of the floor rug, thinking this might be the last time she would see it. Then she rolled her eyes again—the response was getting to be a habit she did it so often—when he tried to hide whatever he’d been looking at with such intensity. “You think I did not see you petting that thing as if it were your babyhood swaddling?”

  He shot her a look of such mixed emotion—shame, longing, embarrassment, but none of the fighting back she’d expected—he had her tucking her chin inward and reconsidering her words. She looked again at the bundle he held in his lap and wanted to slap her forehead. Her off-handed guess was correct. The woven bag held his ceremonial swaddling, black woven fabric with threads of yellow woven throughout, a red swirled sandstone clasp pinned in the folds, his newborn outfitting for his ceremonial presentation to the sun and the moon, signifying that he had survived his first full day upon the earth. This woven cloth was the sole remaining tangible connection he had left of his long-dead mother. Someday Zunee’s unthinking words would cause irreparable damage. She hoped that day was not today.

  “I apologize,” she said in a low voice. And she did meant it with all of her heart. When she was a baby, she’d been left with her father without so much as a blanket for memory. What she wouldn’t have given, as a little girl, to have something to touch that had been touched by her actual flesh and blood mother.

  “It’s nothing,” Deni said. “Just looking at it one last time before I leave it.”

  Zunee’s heart, though tough and resilient, broke somewhat at that. He was right, of course, they had no room for extra weight. They each were responsible for whatever they needed to survive—other than food, which was their impetus for this foolhardy relocation in the first place. But still, she eyed the pouch…it was his only connection to his past. Scrutinizing his face that was so familiar to her, even as it had changed and broadened over the years, she longed to encourage him to take it. But he wouldn’t meet her eyes. He was done speaking about it and had, with resolution, set it aside, so she gave a mental shrug and let the feeling go. She would forget all about it—they both would over time.

  With little sentimentalism or ceremony, she had already packed her own bag. Leading the little ones, they would depart at dusk and travel at a slow but steady rate in the cool night air so that they could wear more of their clothing than carry it. When the hot desert sun sank below the horizon, the drop in temperature could be extreme, but they were accustomed to it. Pacing themselves with their allotted water would be the tricky part because she didn’t know how long it would take them to reach the Uptdon river.

  “Can you picture the river in your mind?” she asked Deni, tracing her finger along the sun pattern in the rug. Layer upon layer of padding made the floor of the ya’tuvah soft underfoot and pleasant to sleep on. The cold, hard ground would be their beds for the foreseeable future. “All that water flowing. So much so that you can’t see across it in places.”

  “And yet, still not as broad as the Great Sea,” he reminded her, jamming a second pair of sandals into his bag. He picked something up, examined it, then tossed it to her. Catching it, she gave a startled squeak of surprise.

  “Jerky? Where did you get this?” She flipped it over in the palm of her hand looking at the grain of gristle in the dried meat. Goat, for sure. But how?

  “I made it,” he said. “A long time ago. It’s still good before you ask. I tried some just the other day and I haven’t died yet.”

  Saliva pooled in her mouth. She handed the strip of meat back to him so she would not be tempted to bite into it.

  “Eat it,” he said. “I have more. Unless you don’t want it.” He reached a hand to take it, but she snatched it back and held it to her chest.

  Then she slugged him. “You have more but you did not share?”

  He smiled, rubbing his arm where she had struck him—not that hard, she knew. “I wanted to make sure it was all right.”

  She hit him again. “And you thought it would be all right to poison yourself? What if you had died?”

  He only smiled, his dark eyes flashing. “Then I wouldn’t have to go on this foolish journey, would I?”

  Chapter 14

  The first night was bearable, as were the second and third. The fourth night, the children, particularly the mid-sized ones who couldn’t be carried, became exhausted before long. Though nighttime in the desert held a magnificence to be appreciated, their respect for its brillianc
e died as their enthusiasm for the journey waned.

  Before, the blue-black velvet sky had always drawn Zunee’s gaze. She loved its endless depth, the feeling that she could fall into it even though it was up and she was pinned to the earth. She and Deni had sometimes climbed to the top of the sandstone cliffs that sheltered the family ya’tuvah. Lying on their backs on the cool, soft formations, they’d stared at the sky. Most of the time, they didn’t speak, only stared up at the brilliant chips of gems that sparkled. Deni saw only the white ones, but Zunee could see all colors in them. Then the night would grow chilly and they would return to the tent.

  Now, there was no time to appreciate the night sky. Now, they stared at the ground, at their feet. And when they slept during the day, they dreamed of nothing else but their feet, the ground, and the swirl of the skirts of the sisters who went before them. Today when they stopped to make camp for the day, Zunee drew Deni aside.

  “I thought we would find a water source by now,” she whispered to him. She didn’t want Lena to overhear her concerns, as obvious as they were. She also didn’t want to rouse the smaller girls, who were exhausted from their long, hypnotic night of following in each other’s footsteps in the dark. “Usually, we can follow the rock trails or scrape the dew off the plants in the morning, but look around us.” She didn’t bother gesturing—they had reached an area devoid of vegetation. For miles around them, the red desert stretched, unremitting. The rocky dirt underfoot had turned to a fine red silt. A bad sign, Zunee thought. She knew of few plants that grew in sand such as this.