Break the Chains

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  As she glanced back, she caught sight of Enard laying the other man out flat with a heavy blow to the jaw. At least he was safe.

  She almost barreled into a cluster of smirking men before she noticed they weren’t moving, and she didn’t have time to shove them aside. She stumbled, arresting her course, saw one of them reach for her and realized they must be the big bastard’s friends, willing to hold her in place while he caught up.

  Twisting away, she flung herself atop the trestle table and rolled to her feet, facing the man dashing toward her. The men crowded her side of the table, grins leering up at her. She swung her gaze along the other side of the table and found more of the same. Wonderful. If she could make it back to Enard, then at least she’d have an ally.

  Taking a breath to steady her nerves, she sprinted, legs pumping hard enough to shake the table with every step, cutlery and cookware clattering as she stormed down the length of the table. Her heel hit spilled porridge, and she nearly lost her footing. Skidding, cursing, she righted herself and saw… blackness as the world swung above her head.

  She hit the table with a grunt, air whooshing free of her lungs, shoulder burning as it took the brunt of her fall. Knowing only she needed to get moving again, she twisted, attempted to kick herself up. Someone had her ankle gripped tight. The songbird.

  That cursed woman leaned over the bench on the other side of the table, spindly fingers digging in tight to Ripka’s ankle, a satisfied grin twisting up her sunken features. Ripka kicked out with her free foot, aiming for the woman’s head, and then the sun went away.

  She blinked, understood the darkness as the eclipsing figure of the big man. He towered above her, brought back his arm as if to swing. Ripka threw her arms up, forearms pressed together, to shield her face. But he wasn’t interested in hitting her. His massive hand curled around her throat.

  Squeezed.

  Gasping for air she tried to shove her thumbs under his fingers. No use, the man was attached to her like a sandtick.

  Her vision blurred out at the edges. Her need for air burned in her throat, her chest, her mind. Couldn’t think, couldn’t work out what to do. Her mind was one big scream of breathe!

  A strange fuzziness filled her, making the world distant and slowed, the pain somehow less – it’d end soon, one way or another. A tickle of a memory called to her. She felt the hard lump in her pocket, Honey’s gift. As her fingers closed around the warm wooden handle she heard Warden Faud’s words, from all those years ago, before she’d even been a watch-captain. When he was teaching her to control a fight without killing.

  Never go for a death blow, if it can be helped. Find the path to the quickest, safest end, and when you find it, do not hesitate.

  On the edges of her awareness voices were raised, the big brass bells of the Remnant’s alarm beating along with the fading stutter of her heart. Guards were coming. Would be here soon. Not soon enough.

  She shanked the big man in the hollow of his elbow. Drove the point up and in so hard splinters bit her palm and she felt the elastic give and snap of his tendon under the shiv’s point. Saw the severed tendon curl up under his skin like a gnarled root.

  Maybe I am a farmer, she thought, delirium ebbing away as she sucked in great mouthfuls of sea-salted air. She coughed, retching stomach waters on herself, the table, anywhere at all. Hands closed around her shoulders and shoved her upright.

  She heard the big man scream in pain, but she didn’t care. He’d made a mistake, looking to kill her.

  “Where’d you get that?” Captain Lankal’s face loomed into hers, and she laughed, because it seemed such a stupid question. She opened her mouth to answer and tasted fire again, fell into another coughing fit.

  “Fine.” He snapped as she was dragged off the table by too many hands to count. “You want to start fights, missy? Want to draw blood? I’ve had enough of your shit. You’re going in the well.”

  As they bound her wrists and marched her out of the rec yard, she caught sight of Honey, watching her from behind the table where her new friends sat, hunger bright as a bonfire in her dark amber eyes. More than hunger. Reverence.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After a few irritating wrong turns, Detan stood on the roof of the building to which both the Larkspur and the Happy Birthday Virra! were docked. He eyed the long tongue of a gangplank that reached from the Larkspur’s deck to the stubby pier which extended from the roof. He didn’t have a lot of confidence in that pier. It was a slapdash job of old boards, greyed from the sea winds, supported by equally sorry looking bracing. He liked the look of the gangplank even less. One good kick from either end would send the traverser plummeting to the hard, stone streets below. There wasn’t even a decent awning to break his fall.

  “Second thoughts?” Tibs asked.

  Detan cleared his throat and snapped his coat lapels forward, stretching his neck right to left to work out the kinks nerves had given him. Finding oneself in the middle of a heist gone wrong was a sure way to get the body out of whack.

  “Scarcely looks like the old bird, does it?” he said. He was stalling, sure, but he meant what he’d said nonetheless. If he hadn’t walked off the Larkspur’s deck that morning, he wouldn’t recognize the ship for the one he snatched out from under Thratia’s nose. Detan just couldn’t get his head around the new name painted on its hull – the Mirror. Probably someone thought they were cheeky, but Detan found it pretentious.

  “Gonna stand here and admire their handiwork until the monsoons roll in and Pelkaia rots to death in that tower?”

  “Psh, you’re always in such a rush, Tibs.”

  “Maybe ’cause you always got your heels stuck in the mud, sirra.”

  Detan snorted and charged ahead, propelling himself forward on sheer determination that Tibs not see him shrink from the task at hand. The moment his boots hit the gangplank a narrow man with a mighty mop of tousled sand-red hair appeared at the other end, his own brown boot planted firmly on the ship’s end of the gangplank.

  “Ho there, young sir. I come bearing news from your valorous captain. Permission to board?”

  The mop-headed man plucked a wooden pick from between his lips and squinted down the plank at Detan and Tibs. Behind him, figures Detan couldn’t quite make out popped up, peering at him over the high rail of the Larkspur’s main deck.

  “Name’s Jeffin,” the scrawny lad said. “And the thing is, my valorous cap’in tole me not to let your ‘skies-cursed hide’ anywhere on this ship unless she was with you. She with you?”

  Tibs chuckled behind him, the traitor.

  “Not, ah, not at the present, Jeffin. You see, she sent me ahead to tell you that–”

  “Hmm, no.”

  “No?”

  Jeffin shook his head, slow and ponderous. “No. Not buying what you’re selling, Honding. Cap’n warned me you were shifty as a summer wind, and not to believe a word coming out of your mouth unless she had a knife to your balls making you sing.”

  “That’s some, uh, interesting imagery. However–”

  “That the Honding?” The girl who’d escorted them through the alleys of Petrastad poked her head over the rail to peer down at him, her small face wrinkled by squinting.

  “’Fraid so,” Jeffin said.

  “The captain with him?”

  “She sent me ahead–” Detan began again.

  “Naw,” Jeffin said, “she’s not there.”

  “Oh. Did you kill her?”

  “No!” Detan barked, genuinely taken aback. “I would never do such a thing.”

  “Aren’t you trying to nick her ship?” the girl said. “I mean, that’s what I would do if I were trying to steal someone’s ship.”

  “I am not trying to steal the Larkspur.” He allowed himself a grin. “I’ve already done that.”

  “Really? Doesn’t look like it from this side of the rail.” The girl smirked. Detan found himself wondering if anyone would notice if he tipped her over the edge.

  “Don’t
mind lil’ Essi, she’s a practical spirit.” Jeffin reached over and ruffled the girl’s hair. She scowled at him, but said nothing.

  “Now,” Jeffin continued, “you go on back into Petrastad and get the cap’n, if you want aboard. Won’t be letting you take a step further otherwise, understand?” He nudged the gangplank with his foot to punctuate his point. Detan’s stomach lurched at the implicit threat. Tibs cleared his throat and retreated back to the roof, leaving Detan alone on the treacherous stretch of wood. He couldn’t blame him. He’d be right beside him if he thought he could retreat and still convince Jeffin to do what he wanted.

  “Retrieving your captain at this juncture is, I’m afraid, impossible.”

  “At this what now?”

  Detan clenched his fists, forced himself to keep on smiling. “At this moment. You see, things went... not quite as planned. She is indisposed, and will be for quite some time.”

  Essi’s eyes went so wide they competed with the fat, red moon. “You did kill her!”

  “No! I... Pitsdamnit, this is going nowhere. Listen,” he said, taking a step forward, his hands held out imploringly. Jeffin gave the plank a warning nudge. He froze. With one great sigh, he gave up on his plan to weasel them to the Remnant without Pelkaia. Tibs probably would have skinned him alive for trying, anyway.

  “Pelly has been arrested.”

  “Who?” Essi said.

  “How?” Jeffin said.

  “The usual way, with threats of violence for non-compliance and bonds for her wrists, but the point is she’s not coming back to this ship of yours unless we go and get her.”

  Jeffin’s eyes narrowed. Detan could almost hear the gears of the man’s mind clicking over as he thought. He suppressed a sigh. If only Pelkaia had left Coss in control of the ship, then they might not have to waste so much time circling one another. That man had seemed like he knew what he was doing – no doubt why Pelkaia had chosen him for her first mate.

  “How can I be sure you’re not lying?” Jeffin finally asked.

  Detan held both his hands out, palms facing the sweet skies, and shrugged. “You can’t. You can sit around and wait for her to appear, which won’t happen, or you can trust me and help me retrieve her. Those are your only options.”

  Jeffin chewed his lip, mulling Detan’s words over, then looked down at little Essi. “What do you think?”

  “I dunno. But if the captain’s in jail we’d be waiting a real long time to find out about it. Ain’t no one from the watch going to come tell us.”

  Jeffin turned back to Detan. “And how do you plan on getting her an’ Coss back, if I do let you aboard?”

  Detan beamed up at them, covering his relief with exuberance. If Jeffin was at all interested in his plan, then Detan’d hooked him. Soon he’d back aboard the Larkspur, night air fresh in his lungs, all the sky splayed out before him. It was just too bad he had to use the opportunity to save Pelkaia’s scaly hide.

  “I distinctly remember Pelkaia wearing a commodore’s coat when she first welcomed me aboard. Still got it?”

  “Yes,” Jeffin said, wary, drawing out the word. “Whyfor?”

  “For adventure, my good man!” Detan took Jeffin’s hesitance in hand and strode up the gangplank before he could push it back, arms thrown wide and his face split with the craziest, most delighted grin he could muster. Before Jeffin could mutter a protest, Detan slung an arm around his shoulders and turned him to face the narrow tower that was the watchers’ station-house. Its beacon illuminated the gathering clouds in glorious golden light.

  “Tibs and I have set the stage,” Detan said, tugging on his stolen Fleetie coat for emphasis. “Now, all we need is a fearsome, determined commodore to help us reclaim our stolen prisoner from those cursed, over-reaching watchers!” He shook a fist at the watchtower, and Essi clapped, giggling.

  “Where you gon’ find a commodore to help you?” Jeffin asked.

  “Why, right here.” Detan freed Jeffin’s shoulders and spun the man around, holding him at arm’s length while he looked him over, letting a satisfied smile spread across his features. He was reassured to hear the steady tromp of Tibs’s boots coming up the gangplank behind him.

  “Tell me,” Detan asked Jeffin, “have you ever taken part in the theater?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  After a cursory pat-down to make certain she wasn’t hiding any more improvised weapons, Ripka was marched out of the sheltering walls of the prison. Though it was only mid-morning, a darkness crept across the sky, thick clouds casting shadows over the island’s cracked and patchwork landscape. Ripka shivered as she was hounded along, one guard and Captain Lankal prodding her down a winding dirt path. A creeping wind wormed its way beneath her jumpsuit.

  “How long?” she asked, scanning this new path, trying to fit it in her mental map of the prison’s island. They were on the opposite side of the prison from the yellowhouse, as far as she could tell. Here the ground was scattered with fruit-bearing trees and cracked stone beaches plunging down to the frothing shore.

  “First offense is eight marks,” Lankal said. “Gruel will be handed down to you once every six hours. You’ll be given your water for the day when we put you in. Ration it wisely, you won’t get more.”

  The path sloped down a hill, angling for the beach, and through the trees she began to see small cottages in various states of disrepair. Not a single stream of smoke curled from their half-crumbled chimneys.

  “People lived out here?”

  Lankal snorted. “Used to be the guards brought their families out with them. Now we leave ’em back in Petrastad. Where it’s safer.” He eyed her, his grip momentarily tightening on her elbow. “Never could be sure what people like you’d do to ’em.”

  Nothing, she thought. Or at least, I wouldn’t. But she bit her tongue to hold back the words. She’d stabbed a man in the elbow, possibly dooming him to a lame arm for life. She doubted Lankal would believe she wouldn’t harm an innocent, even if she had been acting in defense of her own life.

  He tugged her arm, turning her down a side path, and she nearly stumbled. Her breath felt too-hot in her throat, her voice scratchy and raw. The chill in the air aggravated each breath. Thick-leaved trees lined the path, and at the top of a knoll, she saw it – the well.

  It was about three paces in diameter, its walls crafted of native grey stone and its winch and bucket system well cared for – the rope looked unfrayed, the wood recently oiled. A gabled roof covered the top of the well, no doubt meant to keep leaf and other debris from fouling the water. Nothing about it gave her any reason to believe it was anything more than a simple, if large, well.

  Unconsciously, she dug her heels in. The other guard jerked on her arm, forcing her forward. “Come on, no stalling.”

  “That’s... That’s a real well.” Her cheeks went hot with embarrassment as Lankal chuckled.

  “What’d you expect?” he asked.

  “Something purpose built, like a narrow pit.”

  “It is a narrow pit, isn’t it?” Lankal directed her to the wall around the well. She peered into the hole, and could see nothing but abyssal blackness.

  “Up you go.” He patted the top of the wall. “Stick your arms out so we can get the sling on you.”

  At least they weren’t going to try to lower her in the bucket. Ripka sat on the cold edge and swung her legs over the rim, feet dangling into the dark. She forced herself to breathe slowly as the guards took straps from the bucket and fitted them with surprising care around her chest and arms. She tried very hard not to think of what waited for her down there in the dark. Forced images of skittering, crawling insects from her mind.

  “Is...” She cleared her already sore throat and tried again. “Is there much water left?”

  “No more than a dribble, and that’s just seep. This well dried up a long time ago.” Lankal gave the straps two firm tugs, jerking Ripka forward. She gasped as her center of gravity teetered on the edge of the wall and shot her hands down to
grip the hard stone. The other guard snorted. She soothed herself with images of shoving him face-first down the well.

  A gust of wind pushed at her, taunting. A heavy, dark cloud slid across the sun, making the well look even deeper.

  “If it rains?” she asked, visions of the well filling with fresh water rose unbidden to her mind. She swallowed dry air. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d said she couldn’t swim.

  “Someone will come along and pluck you out if it gets too bad. But you’ll have to make up the time when the weather clears.”

  Lankal hesitated, lips pressed together as if he were trying to hold in what he wanted to say. After a moment, he shook his head and puffed out a breath. “Look, Ripka. I know adjustment to the Remnant can be difficult, but you’ve got to put in the effort.” He held up a hand to forestall her response. “I saw why you fought. I watch the yard from the nest. I saw everything. You’ve got a hard sense of justice, and I can respect that. But you’ve got to let it go. I looked up your file after that first night. You’re a thief, not a killer. Yeah, you got some moves. But we’ve got nasty pieces of work on this island you seem determined to piss off. There aren’t many come through these walls I think can be rehabilitated, but you’re one of them. Don’t get yourself murdered before you get the chance.”

  Stunned, it took her a moment to find a response. “I’ll do my best. Captain.”

  That seemed to please him. He nodded, and held out the rope he’d wrapped tightly around his elbow and hand so that she could see it, and then gestured to the pulley system above. “I got you. Go on now.”

  Clenching her jaw against rising panic, she turned around so that she faced out of the well, then began to ease down, fingers gripping the top of the well’s lip so hard that her stubby nails bent back. Stone scratched her chest as she wormed her way over the edge, walking herself down the wall. When she hit a depth as low as her arms would go without dropping and still hadn’t touched ground, she froze, squeezing her eyes shut as if internal darkness was somehow safer than the unknown darkness below. Rope slack piled between her shoulder blades.