Break the Chains

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  “What a bitch,” the guard muttered.

  “I finished my row,” Ripka said, hoping a little good news might ease her captor’s mood.

  “Congratulations. Now you got fifty more to do.”

  “Fifty? There aren’t even that many in this field.”

  “Ain’t the only field on the island, is it? Line back up with the others, no dallying.”

  Ripka rolled her shoulders to ease their ache, then glanced back toward the tree Misol had appeared from behind. Wasn’t much to hide behind, there. It was a glorified stick, no wider around than Ripka’s thigh. Misol had been a skinny thing, sure, but not even she could blend so completely with the landscape. Ripka should have noticed her.

  “Hurry up!” the guard yelled. Ripka trudged back to work, mind a mess of possibilities.

  Chapter Nine

  Detan was beginning to think that he’d grown too old for this kind of nonsense, when he rounded a corner and confirmed the fact. Sitting smack in the middle of the lane, cross-legged and drooping with boredom, was a girl of about thirteen. Her round face puckered upon sighting them, as if they were expected. Detan grabbed a hold of Tibs’s coat to keep him from trampling the little thing. Sometimes Detan suspected Tibs’s legs were too long for the man to see the ground.

  “Finally,” the girl said. The word was cut in twain by a yawn large enough to make a rockcat jealous. “Thought I’d be here all night, waiting for you two idiots to turn the right way.”

  “Begging your pardon, miss,” he stammered between panting breaths, “but we are in a spot of a hurry.”

  Shouts echoed behind them, entirely too close.

  “And doing a poor job of evasion.” The girl stood in one fluid movement and flexed her bare feet against the stone road. Her sandy hair was a mess of wind-tousled curls, her cheeks puckered with the redness of too long spent in the wind. Trousers, bare feet, running amok in the city in the middle of the night looking like she’d swooped in out of the sky. Pieces clicked into place in Detan’s overheated mind.

  “You’re one of Pelkaia’s.”

  She gave him a slow, sarcastic round of applause. “They warned me you were clever. Now hurry, before that big brain of yours gets staved in by your new friends.”

  “Cheeky kid.”

  “You do bring out the best in people,” Tibs said.

  The girl took off without another word, slipping along the streets as if she’d been born to them. With a synchronized roll of the shoulders they ran after her, throwing their fate in her small hands and hoping Pelkaia didn’t have it out for them too badly. He recalled how long and hard Pelkaia could hold a grudge, and amended his thoughts. Best not to trust – best to have an eye out for another opening, if that woman was in the mix.

  After running what felt like half the night away, but was probably only a mere quarter-mark, the shouts behind them disappeared into the usual mutter and bustle of a city at night. Detan had no idea where they’d ended up – every building in this sea-spit city looked the same – but he didn’t rightly care as long as he wasn’t in imminent danger of a beating.

  They staggered to a stop. Tibs and Detan panted while the girl crossed her arms and eyed them, bored now that the threat had passed.

  “You two geezers having heart attacks?”

  Detan mock-gasped and clutched his chest. “Oh, the cruelty of the young and snot-nosed wounds me so.”

  “Ugh,” she said, with all the indignity a teenager was capable of mustering. “You do think you’re clever. Pity.” The girl rose to her toes to peer over his shoulder, and frowned. “More pity, looks like we really did lose them.”

  Detan’s brows shot up. “You wanted a fight?”

  She shrugged. “Just a little one.”

  “Who in the black skies are you?”

  She rolled her eyes, turned down a side lane, and vanished in a cloud of mist.

  “What in the...”

  He scurried after her. The mist felt cool to his skin, sticky with the brine of the sea. He waved his hands through it, tangling his fingers in the smoky wisps. A tingle begged for attention at the edge of his senses. Sel. He scratched the inside crook of his elbow.

  She’d made sel look like smoke and melded it with the mist to cover her escape. He stood silent, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart in his ears, but couldn’t hear her footsteps pattering anywhere nearby.

  “Creepy kid,” he muttered.

  “One of Pelkaia’s, what’d you expect? Now what’d you go and lose our grains for?”

  “Ever the miser. Come along, I think I see the Larkspur’s new facade over yonder, which means the flier is close by.”

  Detan explained what he’d learned as they plodded along the mist-slick street toward the dock. A fretful wind rolled in off the sea, kicking up dirt and detritus in equal measure. When they drew within sight of the dock’s building, they sought shelter in the leeway of a nondescript brown building to talk through their next steps. Tibs rested his back against the alley wall to look over Detan’s shoulder while Detan watched over Tibs’s. Just because they’d left their pursuers behind didn’t mean they weren’t likely to stumble across someone who’d recognized them.

  Detan had made that mistake before. He hunched his shoulders, flipping up his collar to hide the house sigil seared into the flesh at the back of his neck. His hair was long enough to hide it now, but in this wind he didn’t trust to that particular method.

  “I suppose you got something good after all,” Tibs admitted when Detan had finished relaying the information he’d squeezed from the guards.

  “A little more faith from you, I think, is in order.” He grinned as Tibs rolled his eyes so hard all he could see were the whites of them. “Though the news that the Remnant’s been housing rogue sensitives is a worry.”

  “Could be a hook for Pelkaia.”

  Detan grimaced. “Could be a hindrance, too. Sauntering in to break out three souls is a bit different than liberating a whole wing of high-priority prisoners.” A stray gust carried the scent of seared fish marinated in some sort of citrus. The hollow in Detan’s belly, alleviated by only a few sips of that nasty ale, rumbled.

  “Did you happen to win any grains?” he asked. “I could use a bite or ten. I can’t believe Pelkaia didn’t even treat us to tea. Quite rude of her, after we’d gone to all that trouble to arrange a visit.”

  “She never struck me as one inclined to hospitality.”

  “Dangers of living your life under a shifting sea of faces, you never know where your manners will come from.”

  “Don’t think it works that way.”

  “I’m afraid I’m too starved to think straight on the matter.” Detan scowled at the empty alley, all its heaps and piles of rubbish looking decidedly inedible. He kicked the ground, dislodging a pebble, just to show the city how annoyed he was with its shameful lack of provisions.

  “There’s food on the flier,” Tibs said.

  “Of course, but I haven’t a clue how much berthage that posh dock Pelkaia dropped us at costs, and I doubt the lady paid our fare – no, I’m sure she didn’t. We got lucky sneaking on the first time to grab my shoes, I doubt we’ll be so lucky again. I suppose we could scout another card house, play some local roughs for real gain.”

  “Or,” Tibs drawled, reaching into his rumpled grey coat, “we could bribe the dock porter. Did some digging of my own. Turns out his favorite brew is Rinton Red.”

  From within the voluminous confines of his coat Tibs produced a dark green bottle two hands tall, with a smudged brown label proclaiming the aforementioned vintage.

  Detan stared, open-mouthed, until the dust on the wind demonstrated the benefits of keeping his mouth closed. “What… I mean… When? How? When did you get that? Never saw you leave, and I sure as the pits know you weren’t toting it around with you before.”

  Tibs waved a hand through the air and pushed off from the wall, ambling toward the docks with a nonchalant stroll. “I’m not the only one who c
an lose at cards.”

  “What does that even mean? How’d you get it, Tibs? Come on, spill!”

  “Nope.”

  “Nope? Nope? You can’t answer a question like that with nope. We’re partners. Fess up.”

  “Man’s gotta have his secrets.” Tibs tugged the brim of his singed grey hat lower. “Keep an air of mystery about himself.”

  “Mystery? You? You’re the straightest nail I’ve never bent. Why, I remember when we first met–”

  Tibs shushed him with a wave of the hand as they mounted the steps back to the docks. Detan forced himself to bite his tongue, focusing on the narrow wooden stairs attached to the side of the building. He wondered what the interior held. More taverns and places of business, like the one across the street, or apartments? All the narrow windows had their curtains pulled tight, their shutters locked against sea winds. The air inside had to be vile – stuffy and damp. How people could live like that, all stacked up one atop the other, he couldn’t begin to understand.

  As they crested the rooftop, Tibs strolled ahead to have a talk with the porter. Detan gave him a few moments of privacy before sidling up to them, an affable smile plastered on his face.

  The porter had the bottle in his hands and turned it over with strange tenderness as he licked pillowy lips. “Which one you say was yours?” he asked Tibs.

  “The flier, over there.” Tibs jerked his thumb at their bird, looking mighty rickety next to the reduced grandeur of the Larkspur. Happy Birthday Virra! was painted in pristine purple paint on the side of the buoyancy sack. They’d taken turns refreshing the color every other moonturn.

  The porter raised both eyebrows. “And which one of you is Virra, then?”

  “He is,” they said in unison.

  With a world-weary sigh the porter stuffed the bottle into an oversized pocket and hooked his thumbs in the loops of his trousers. “I suppose berth for such a small vessel won’t amount to much. You in for a day or two?”

  “Two, maybe more. We overstay our welcome, another gift’ll be in order,” Tibs said.

  The porter chewed this around, cheeks bulging as he poked his tongue against the interior of them, then nodded, subconsciously giving his bottle a pat. “Go on then. And don’t cause no trouble.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Detan said with a chipper wink.

  Tibs grabbed his sleeve and tugged him away from the narrowing eyes of the porter. They scrambled aboard in silence, checked the deck for stowaways, then exchanged a questioning glance. It was time to go below.

  With an exaggerated yawn and catlike stretch for anyone who might have been watching, Detan entered the cabin sticking up dead center of the flier’s deck, Tibs close on his heels. With a practiced flick of the wrist Tibs threw the lock on the door behind him, and they stood a moment in silence, listening.

  Nothing but the wind.

  Whistling a chipper tune, Detan dragged one of the limp mattresses they kept for show to the side of the cabin and flipped up the disguised wooden latch on the trapdoor hidden beneath. He hauled it up, grabbed a lantern for light, and shimmied down the narrow ladder.

  While the deck and cabin of the flier were modest in their accoutrements, Tibs and Detan had shoved everything they owned of value down into the smuggler’s hold in the keel of their flat-bellied ship. Barrels of booze, a stash of false grain making equipment, luxurious mattresses, all their clothes.

  And, apparently, Pelkaia.

  She sat on the edge of Detan’s mattress, his favorite silken pillow resting on her knees, a knife that was most certainly not his resting on top of that. She wore her own face, and the dune-smooth lines of her Catari heritage unsettled him. She was of the people his family had inadvertently uprooted, all those years ago when they’d sailed on ancient sea ships in search of better farming and had discovered the Scorched – and the selium – instead.

  The simple fact that a people already called this sun-blasted continent home had not stopped the Valathean advance. In some ways, he suspected it’d encouraged them. Valatheans had always been keen on a fight.

  “Coulda just knocked,” he said, stepping aside so that Tibs could drop down from the ladder beside him.

  “I’m here to offer you assistance, Honding.”

  “Ah, well, I hope it’s not with redecorating...”

  He cringed as she tossed the pillow to the floor. Fine silk like that shouldn’t be abused so. As she stood, he watched the way she held her knife, low but loose, not preparing for a fight. Her open stance and pursed lips eased the tension between his shoulder blades. Her pointed glance toward the curtained-off section Ripka had used to sleep in brought the tension right back.

  “I will help you recover Watch-captain Leshe and your wayward friend. But first…” Pelkaia glanced to the knife in her hand, and he had no idea what to make of the decisive nod she gave herself.

  “You’re going to have to help me with a little side project.”

  Detan swallowed. “I’m listening.”

  Chapter Ten

  By the time the dinner bell rolled around, Ripka was ready to eat her own arm – or the raw grain growing around her. The midday meal had been little more than stale water and staler bread, eaten under the paltry shade of a knobby old tree. Her newfound crew trudged back down the path to the prison, rendered silent by exhaustion. Ripka was perversely glad she wasn’t the only one hurting. She’d always counted herself in good shape – she’d had to be to maintain her post as the watch-captain of Aransa – but this was too much. Hours spent bent over, scraping dirt in the sun, was enough to break the spirit of anyone.

  Which was precisely why the guards made the inmates do it. Despite her aches, she saw the cleverness in their system. Good behavior got you out where you could taste a hint of freedom, but it also got you so worn down you couldn’t start a fight even if you were itching to pop off. It kept people in line, too, that their food source was tied directly to their work. Ripka held no illusions as to who would be fed first if the island crops failed and the monsoons kept airship delivery at bay. It was, she realized, the only system on the Remnant she’d been impressed by.

  They were pat down before they were allowed back in the hallway, pat down again after they’d deposited their buckets stuffed with tools, and then let loose. They wandered in a droopy clump toward the long tables where stale rolls and fruit-pocked mush were being handed out.

  “By the blue skies, if I weren’t so cursed hungry I’d swear off eating bread ever again,” Clink said.

  “I hear ya.” Forge brushed sweat-plastered strands of hair off her forehead. “But if we swear off every flavor of crop we work on we’d never eat again.”

  Ripka blinked. “You mean we switch crops?”

  “Every day,” Clink affirmed. “Warden don’t want us getting too familiar with any one piece of land. They switch up the type of crop, the task, and the order in which we go to the crops. Anything to keep us off-balance.”

  “Inefficient,” Ripka said.

  “We’re free labor,” Honey murmured. “Warden doesn’t care how long it takes to get done, so long as it does.”

  “Fair point.” Ripka tried on a smile in her direction. Honey stared at her.

  Unsettled, Ripka glanced around the yard and spotted Enard in the same seat he’d taken the night before. Luckily his neighbors had changed. His shoulders were hunched, his hands busy shoveling food into his mouth. She could only imagine what sort of day he’d had, what sort of work they’d found for him. Regardless of his, or her, exhaustion, she had to tell him what she’d found. Of the strange compound, and the guard who could disappear behind trees. And he owed her more than a handful of answers.

  “Hey, Clink,” she said, turning to their de facto leader. “I’m going to–”

  “Go on.” She waved her hand in expansive dismissal. “Go see your man. You know our table. We’ll see you at it in the morning. Clear?”

  “He’s not my–”

  “Just go.”

 
; Ripka peeled away from the group, awareness of her isolation growing with every step she took. Knots of prisoners dotted the rec yard. Some ate, some played games and socialized. Anytime she drew within ten steps of any one of them, they hushed and looked up as one, watching her pass with wary eyes.

  Any of those groups could contain the songbird. Any one of them could be an ally of that woman or her man. And there Ripka was, striking out alone across the massive courtyard.

  Breathe, she told herself. You’re no sparrow, you’re a thrice-cursed hawk, and you’ve handled shadier bastards than this lot. She kept her chin up, let her gaze roam, but not flick, not allowing a sliver of nervousness into her expression. By the time she sat down next to Enard she’d worked herself up enough to fight every last soul in the whole building.

  “Good evening, cap… miss.”

  “Captain suits me fine, here.”

  He startled and raised his brows at her. She shrugged. “They asked my other name, figured that one was suitable.”

  “Bold choice.” He pushed a plate of bread and half-bruised fruit toward her.

  “I’m not likely to forget it, at least.”

  “True.” He stirred the mush on his plate with a wooden spoon, lost in thought.

  She picked out a few pieces of better looking fruit and popped them into her mouth, savoring the over-ripe sweetness, the rush of flavor across her parched tongue. They’d brought her water in the fields, sure, but it’d been stale and warm, good for little more than keeping her alive.

  At least they’d gone to the trouble of keeping her alive.

  When he’d been quiet long enough she feared they’d have their dinner broken up before being able to discuss anything, she lowered her voice and asked, “So, ‘Tender’, is it?”

  “Ah. That.”

  He laid his bread back down on his plate, sat up straight as he could on the wobbly bench and brushed crumbs from his fingers. Every last move was precise, dignified, the same old Enard she’d come to know over the last year trolling around on Detan’s flier. But there was something else to him now – a darker current, an edge of danger. How she hadn’t seen it before, she couldn’t say for certain. Maybe he hadn’t wanted her to. Probably she hadn’t wanted to.