Break the Chains

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  “Let go,” Lankal said.

  “I don’t–”

  The other guard pried her fingers from the wall and she plunged down, the harness snapping tight against her chest. A little cry of shock escaped her as the straps dug into her and she spun, slowly, in the empty air in the well’s center. She cracked her eyes open to glare at the grey sky above. The other guard chuckled. Bastard.

  Her dangling feet found purchase on moss-slick ground, and she heaved a sigh of relief as her weight was taken off the straps. Rolling her shoulders, she peered at her new place of confinement as best she could in the dark.

  As her eyes had not yet adjusted, she saw only gloomy walls of deep grey, reaching up to the equally dismal sky above. The ground was slick with mud and lichens. She trailed her fingers along the hard stone, feeling the shallow gashes made by those who’d come before her. As she brushed deep gouges, spaced evenly as fingernails, she shivered and jerked her hand away.

  Tension let out in the rope, and it slid down her back until it looped back up near her hips. “Hey!” she called. The words echoed back at her, slamming against the well’s walls. “What do I do about the harness?”

  Lankal stuck his head over the wall, she recognized him only by the silhouette of his shaggy hair. “Don’t take it off, and if you try to climb out the winch is set to release all the rope. You’ll be stuck down there until we can be bothered to get a new rope out to you.”

  “That happened before?”

  “More often than you’d think. And sometimes we have to wait for a shipment to come in from Petrastad. Step to the right.”

  She did so without thought. His voice carried the air of command she’d grown used to following before she’d risen up to become the watch-captain. Something slammed into the ground alongside her. She knelt, feeling along until she found it. A water bladder, holding maybe a half a bucket’s worth. Not enough to sustain her if she’d spent the day in the field, but enough to keep her hydrated while she waited to return to the world above.

  “Thanks!” she called, but they had already gone.

  That realization, that cold hard truth, that they had left her so easily – and that, in doing so, she was truly alone in this dark hole – bit into her. No more answers to her questions. No more gentle assurances that this was all a part of protocol and would be over soon. No, she was on her own, left to wait out her time until she’d considered what she’d done and decided it wasn’t worth this particular flavor of punishment.

  But she didn’t agree with that. If she hadn’t stabbed that man he’d have throttled her to death. He should have been the one shoved in this yawning grave, not her. Lankal seemed to agree with her actions. She wasn’t even a real criminal, not really. Skies above, she’d been a watch-captain most of her adult life, and a watcher before that. They couldn’t know about her past as a prize fighter and, even if they did, everything she’d done then had been above board. Clean. Legal. They couldn’t punish her for that.

  Couldn’t leave her to rot for it.

  She caught herself pacing, her steps small and controlled, her hands gesticulating to the empty air as she worked through these thoughts. With a slow, deep, breath she consciously released the tension that had knotted her whole body. Forced herself to relax, concentrated on the thunder of her heart until it’d calmed to a reasonable rate.

  She’d only been alone a few moments, and yet the isolation had clutched her fears tight. Didn’t help that she’d never been a fan of small spaces.

  Rubbing her hands together to hide their tremble, she sat with her back against the wall, head tipped up so she could see what little there was of the sky. A storm was blowing in, she was sure of it. Maybe they’d pull her out early. But they’d have to put her back in later, and it was those first few moments that’d been the worst. That she hoped would continue to be the worst.

  She forced herself to think of her tasks. Of finding Radu’s competition, of flushing out Nouli before Detan arrived. With the storm threatening, she had no doubt he’d be along soon. No one wanted to get caught out over the Endless Sea when monsoon season struck.

  Sometime, during the rambling of her thoughts, her exhausted body gave up, and she sunk into a deep, well-needed rest.

  A rock struck her on the head, waking her up.

  “Hey,” a soft woman’s voice whispered from above. “You up?”

  Ripka groaned and dragged her hands through her hair, blinking at the renewed vision of the prison walling her in. She wished, deeply, that whoever had woken her had left her alone to rest. Unless they were hauling her up because rain was coming.

  The very thought jolted Ripka to her feet. She glared at the sky, fearing blackened clouds and the first brush of droplets, but saw only a clear stretch of pale blue with the silhouette of a woman’s head outlined against it. By the poof and curl of the woman’s hair, it was either Honey or Kisser. Unless someone else with similar looks had decided to pay her a visit.

  “Who’s there?”

  A snort-laugh. “Kisser, obviously. Came to see how our sparrow was doing in her new nest.”

  “It’s a little drab. Could do with some curtains, or a flower arrangement.”

  “Didn’t peg you as the decorating type.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Ah. Jokes to stay sane. I can understand that. You got enough water? Sometimes they short the bag.”

  Ripka swallowed, the paper-dry rasp of her throat stinging from the motion. How long had she been asleep? Her neck felt swollen, pudgy. She gave the side of it an experimental poke and winced. Not a good idea. Groggy from her nap, she fumbled around on the mossy ground until she found the waterskin. Popping the cap off, she gave it an exploratory sniff. Didn’t seem spoiled, or drugged, and that was all she could ask for, really. Carefully, she doled out a few drops onto her tongue and swallowed. It burned going down, but she knew her body needed it.

  “Should last me. How long have I been down here?”

  “Three or four marks, I should think. Pulling your hair out and screaming at the sky yet?”

  Ripka laughed, and regretted the sting in her throat. “Truth be told, Kisser, you woke me up.”

  “Damn, girl,” she whistled low. “Heart of stone in you. Not many can take a catnap in the well.”

  Now that her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, she could make out the scratch marks along the walls in detail. Most were marks of time, and many stick figure sex scenes, but some... Some were pleas for help. Mad ramblings. And there were those claw marks, like some poor soul had tried to dig their way out. She wondered how many of the insane were stuck down here, simply because the guards didn’t know what to do with their outbursts.

  Dark stains smeared the grey stone around her. Many looked like palm smears. She tipped her head up and focused on Kisser’s eclipsing face instead.

  “Not many are as exhausted as I am by the time they get down here. What are you doing over here, anyway? Isn’t it work detail?”

  The dark shadow of Kisser’s hand blurred over the blue sky like a streaking bird as she brushed away Ripka’s question. “They’re burning lime for fertilizer, and I’ve got sensitive lungs.” She coughed, and Ripka shook her head at the fakeness of the sound. “So they sent me to do my daily wander about the island. Good for my lungs, all that light exercise, you understand.”

  Ripka pursed her lips. She wasn’t fool enough to complain about the lack of oversight from the guards, but their incompetence niggled at her. She’d been in Kisser’s company a sum of two marks, being generous, and already she’d determined the woman was faking illness to be let off the prison’s leash.

  “You got a lot of freedom,” she ventured.

  “My parents are silk mercers, all the way back in Valathea. I’m no flight risk – everyone here knows I’ve come to keep my head down, do my time, and get back home to the family business.”

  “Lotta money in silk,” Ripka said, unable to hide the bitter tang to her words. She carried no doubt that Kisse
r’s family was bribing the officials here to allow their child special freedoms. If Ripka’d been warden, she’d have dumped any guard caught taking such a bribe in this blasted well.

  Kisser laughed. “True enough. But that’s not why I came to see you.”

  “I’d wondered. For someone interested in keeping her head down, you’re sure willing to get tangled up with a troublesome new intake.”

  “I know what I’m about,” Kisser snapped. Ripka tensed, wondering if she’d pushed her too far. After a few beats of strained silence, Kisser said, “Anyway. I know you’re hurting. Can’t do anything for you now, but once you’re out, I can take you to see Uncle. He’s curious about you, and your handsome friend.”

  “Uncle?”

  “The man who can get you what you need, understand?”

  “Yes... I think I do. Thank you.” Ripka’s mind was awhirl with possibilities, strategies. If this man were the connection to the outside smuggling, then she’d have to walk a fine line. She’d have to pretend progress to Radu while keeping him off the scent that she’d discovered the source. She couldn’t blow her contacts with Kisser and the other girls so soon. A betrayal now, before she found Nouli and was certain of Detan’s impending rescue, could leave her without any allies to leverage. Or worse, completely exposed if the whim struck Radu.

  “Good. And no need for thanks, we look after our own.” Which meant Ripka would owe Kisser one pits-deep favor. Kisser’s head disappeared from above the well and she slapped her hand on the top of the wall, the meaty thump echoing around Ripka. “Oh, and Captain?”

  “Yes?”

  “I asked around about that man of yours. I don’t know what you know, but... He’s trouble, missy. Watch him close.”

  Ripka clenched her fists in frustration. “What do you mean?”

  “Glasseaters don’t just leave.”

  Kisser’s boots crunched away over tree deadfall, leaving Ripka alone with her plans and her worries. With a heavy, exhausted sigh, she sank back down to the loamy ground, praying to the sweet skies that sleep would carry her through the rest of her isolation.

  It began to rain.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Stuffed into Pelkaia’s stolen commodore coat, Jeffin looked like a young lad playing dress-up in his daddy’s wardrobe. Detan fussed with the lay of the boy’s lapels to see if he could coax the shape of the coat into giving him some dignity.

  “No use,” Tibs said.

  “What’s the matter?” Jeffin asked, turning himself this way and that before a long mirror they’d found tacked up in one of the larger cabins.

  “You don’t exactly strike a commodorial figure, my dear lad.” Detan tried to muster a grin. Catching himself in the mirror, he realized it was more of a grimace.

  “More commode-ial,” Tibs added.

  “Not. Helping.”

  Detan eyed the girl, Essi, sitting on the costume trunk from which they’d pulled the commodore’s coat. Her surly face, her rigid shoulders, her ruthless nature. She’d make the perfect commodore, if only she were a decade older. Essi caught him staring and sniffed, flipping hair from her eyes.

  “Won’t work,” she said.

  “I know.” He sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair, giving it a good shake. No better ideas came to him. “Anyone you’d recommend?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “No,” Jeffin snapped, perking Detan’s interest with his obvious hatred.

  “Who?” Detan spun, abandoning Jeffin to address Essi.

  “Laella, of course. Not a drop of Catari in her. She may be a deviant, but she’s purebred Valathean, and she knows it.”

  “Rude?” Detan asked. “Impervious to criticism?”

  “That’s her,” Essi agreed.

  “Annoying as the day is long,” Jeffin grumbled.

  “Perfect. Bring her here.”

  “If you want.” Essi dropped down off the trunk and stretched long and hard before making for the cabin’s slim door. “Stay here,” she said, “I’ll be right back.”

  Detan paced the small cabin while they waited, ignoring the admonishing glares of both Tibs and Jeffin. Neither of them could contribute what he needed now, for what he needed was a picture-perfect authority figure, capable of withstanding even the tightest of scrutiny from the watchers. Detan would play the role himself – he’d been raised to it – but the watchers had already seen him in the role of Step, average Fleetie, and the sudden promotion would give them pause. And might give him a noose to contend with.

  “I don’t see what’s wrong with my appearance,” Jeffin protested.

  Detan sighed. “A certain strength of chin is lacking, amongst–”

  The door banged open. Essi lead a stiff-backed Valathean girl into the cabin. If she’d been a Scorched girl, he’d guess her to be to be somewhere in her early twenties, but the Valathean blood ran so boldly through her veins that Detan guessed her older – late twenties, at least, possibly early-to-mid thirties. Her skin was dark as obsidian, her eyes wide set and amber of hue, her posture firm an elegant. She wore the long, flowing robes imperials favored, accentuating her slight frame, her black hair in tight braids bound against her head.

  Upon sighting Detan, she quirked perfectly arched brows and smiled, cautiously. “Lord Honding?”

  “I am Detan.”

  “May the blue skies bless our meeting, my lord.” She laced her fingers together and held them up to the sky as she bowed over them, the most formal of Valathean greetings. Detan returned the gesture on instinct. His form may be lacking after years without practice, but his aunt had spent a great many years drilling such courtesies into him.

  “Skies keep you, lady, but there is no need for such formality with me. I’m just Detan.”

  “But a Honding in truth?”

  “I am that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck where his family brand puckered his flesh. “But I prefer Detan, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Her full lips pursed, but she nodded her assent. “If you wish. Now, you have asked for me?”

  Detan eyed the girl from head to toe. She was willowy, as was the common body type of Valathean women, tall and narrow of every limb. Her slim face regarded him with care, brows pushed together in mild consternation, every line of her body radiating controlled calm. He shared a look with Tibs, who gave him a nod of agreement.

  “And what is your odd little talent?” he asked.

  Laella’s gaze flitted to lock with Jeffin’s. Something venomous passed between them in that moment. Jeffin’s brows pulled so far down in annoyance that Detan half expected his face to scrunch up so that his eyebrows became his moustache. It was only a heartbeat’s time, but the exchange gave him pause. Things were not so sunny aboard Pelkaia’s ship after all.

  “I am a mirror-worker, like Jeffin.”

  “I see.” Detan sensed he was treading dangerous waters, but he had scant time for diplomacy. If they were going to fiddle about wasting marks getting Pelkaia and her first mate out of the clink, then it needed to be quick. The longer he waited, the closer monsoon season crept.

  “And would you be able to accompany us on an excursion?”

  “You’re not allowed to leave the ship,” Jeffin said. “Captain’s orders.”

  “Captain ain’t here, lad,” Tibs said in his slow, easy drawl. “And this lady might be able to help us get her back.”

  Jeffin’s lip curled in a subconscious sneer as Tibs said the word “lady.” Detan grimaced, knowing what was coming next. Before he could interject, the lad thrust a finger at Laella. “She cannot be trusted.”

  Detan sighed. Well, there might be something to the boy’s anger. Might as well dig up the root of it. “Why are you ordered to stay on the ship, Laella?”

  “I am the captain’s latest rescue, before yourself, of course. She likes to keep us all aboard until we have proven to her the extent of our abilities, and the quality of our control.”

  “And how is the quality of your control?”


  Essi said, “She bested Jeffin when the captain put them through their paces.”

  “That true?”

  A tiny, modest smile flitted across Laella’s lips. “Some think I was given easier tasks. But yes, it is true.”

  “You were given easier tasks!” Jeffin took a step toward Laella. The woman’s only response was to lift her chin. “And I say your joining us was far, far too convenient. If you’re not an imperial spy, then I’m a bumbling idiot.”

  “You’re a bumbling idiot,” Detan said. Laella had the grace to cover her laugh with her fingertips.

  Jeffin whirled on him, still shaking that finger, cheeks near as red as his hair. Detan stared in detached wonderment. Was this what Pelkaia allowed to run amok on her ship? Rivalries? Classism? If he’d known ahead of time what divisive lines had been drawn between her crew, he might have tried another angle.

  Now, though... now he was tired of it all. And frustrated, and anxious to get their plans swung into full motion. But before he could move on, he’d have to try and mend what Pelkaia had let fester.

  “I don’t understand,” Jeffin’s voice was scarcely controlled, his lips flecked with spittle. “How you can trust that... that... that Valathean. She’s not Scorched! Not like us!”

  For just a breath, Detan went very, very still. Of all the petty bullshit he’d encountered over the years, this self-imposed division of allegiance speared deepest. Who in the fiery pits was Jeffin – wretched, weak-willed Jeffin – to denigrate this woman for her blood? She was deviant. End of fucking story.

  For the first time in a long, long while, a cold stone of rage metamorphosed in his heart, in his belly. More than just the little ticks of annoyance and impatience he’d been so easily shunting aside. The icy fingers of it extend out from his core, threaded through him, steeled him for what was to come.

  Voice like gravel, he said, “She’s not like us?”