Break the Chains

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  Laella paused, letting the watch-captain close the remaining distance between them. A power move, that. Detan couldn’t help but wonder how far the girl had advanced in her courtly etiquette training before Pelkaia had whisked her away to the safety of the sky.

  Detan and Tibs stood at ease, flanking Laella a half-step behind her on either side, their hands laid over the grips of cutlasses neither of them knew how to use. The blades had been loaners from Pelkaia’s costume trunk, just like Laella’s coat.

  “I have come to relieve your staff of some of their burden.” She modulated her voice downward to lend it carrying power and propped one hand on her hip, admiring the nailbeds of her other hand. The watch-captain frowned at this. Poor move. The staunch old man wasn’t likely to take kindly to a bored, disaffected noble. Even if she was in a commodore’s coat.

  “If it’s prisoners you’re after, come back in the morning. They’ll keep in their cells until the light.”

  She jerked a thumb over her shoulder toward the clouds, switching from bored to controlled anger so fast it made Detan’s head spin. “Do you not see the storm approaching? A half-mark ago the sky was filled with the strangest lightning I’ve ever seen. Monsoon season comes. I’ll have my prisoners back now so that I can see them securely to the Remnant.”

  Detan flinched as the watch-captain eyed the blackened sky, wary. Either he’d seen Detan’s little firestorm, or he’d heard rumors of it already. To Detan’s senses, the very air held the soft, charred aroma of ash.

  One of the watchers who had taken Pelkaia away in the goat-cart appeared over the watch-captain’s shoulder, a sheaf of papers tucked under one arm and a sour expression on his drooping, exhausted face. Before the watch-captain could give his answer, Detan pointed at the young watcher.

  “There! That’s the man who took our prisoners.” The watcher’s head jerked up as he looked for his accuser. Upon sighting Tibs and Detan, his shoulders heaved with a tired sigh.

  “You!” Laella approached the man, shouldering the watch-captain aside. Detan followed, giving the captain an apologetic pat on the shoulder as he passed. “You are the man who commandeered Fleet prisoners from my men?”

  “Uh,” the watcher muttered, glancing from the advancing gale that was Laella to his captain and back again. “They were our prisoners, commodore.”

  “Really.” She stopped an arm’s length away from the poor sod and jabbed a finger into his chest. “Was that before, or after, they shot a Fleetman in the leg with an arrow?”

  “Crossbow,” Detan whispered.

  “Even worse!” Laella threw her hands toward the skies in frustration.

  “They may have shot a Fleetie,” the watcher said.

  “A what?”

  “A, uh, Fleetman, but they did it in Petrastad. Means they’re ours.”

  “He’s right.” The watch-captain crossed the lobby and stood beside his watcher, thumbs hooked in his belt loops and back slouched with ease. Detan silently cursed himself. He shouldn’t have let them retreat to the safety of their tower walls. They should have stayed out on the dock, where the shadow of the so-called commodore’s cruiser could loom over them.

  “Those two did their crime on Petrastad’s soil. They’re ours,” the captain continued, jutting his chin out as if punctuating his point.

  Laella drew her head back, squared off her shoulders, and curled her lip in the most vicious snarl Detan’d ever seen. He was suddenly quite happy she was on their side. If it weren’t for her deviant abilities, she’d have been the perfect cog in Valathea’s imperial machine.

  “Do you think the Fleet cares about your petty soil? We guard the skies, captain, and everything below them. I will take those prisoners now. Bring me to them.”

  The captain shared a look with the watcher, weighing the value of winning this argument against getting to bed at a decent hour. “All right, commodore. You can have your shooter, but I’m keeping the other.”

  “I think not. The other is an accomplice. They are both guilty of violations against the very sky we of the Fleet patrol. I’ll have them both, or I’ll have you both.”

  Detan stiffened as he and Tibs became the subject of the watch-captain’s scrutiny. He wanted to twist Laella’s ear for putting them on display. They were no fighting men, they couldn’t hold the old watch-captain and the watcher if they’d wanted to. He forced himself to stand straight, yet easy, forced his fingertips to play over the grip of his cutlass as if he knew what to do with it. He could only hope it looked good enough.

  The watch-captain sighed. “Two lousy thieves are not worth all this bickering. I assume you two are capable of overseeing the transport?”

  “Aye, sir,” Tibs said.

  “Good, follow me.”

  The captain waved the other watcher back to his business and led their motley party across the lobby. He paused at a large desk, a horseshoe of a thing taking up half the room, and rifled through a stack of folders until he found the one he wanted.

  “Your name please, commodore?” He blotted a pen and poised it above a sheet of paper.

  “Laella Eradin.”

  Detan blanched. Her real name. Unless the family name was faked, but he had no reason to doubt that the impervious girl was a member of the Mercer Eradin family. His stomach churned in panic as the captain’s hoary brows rose. Throwing out a heavily Valathean name like that would work in any backwater town, like Cracked Thorn, but here? In the largest port on the southern coast? Detan held his breath.

  “I see. And your ship?”

  “The Mirror,” Laella said, not the slightest hitch of hesitation in her voice. At least she hadn’t said Larkspur.

  “Never heard of it,” the captain said, eyeing her. He had yet to write any of this information down.

  “I do not see how your ignorance is my problem. Hurry up, I do not wish to lose the wind.”

  Detan cringed. Never sound impatient when you’ve roused a mark’s suspicions, he thought, but it was far too late to teach the girl that now.

  To Detan’s immense relief, the captain shrugged, scribbled in his notes, and left the folder open on the counter to dry. Spinning a ring of keys around his finger, he bade them follow him down a wide corridor, growing narrower with every step. The labeled doors of watcher offices gave way to blank wooden planks and then, after a short jaunt up a flight of steps, row upon row of heavily iron-banded doors. There was far too much wood being used for construction in this city. He missed the old stone methods of the Scorched’s interior, where trees were rarer than a woman willing to smile at him.

  Lanterns hung between each door, but still the hall felt dark, oppressive. Just like every other jail cell he’d ever had the misfortune of visiting. Even if he never planned on staying long, something about that gloom always clung to him, weighed him down. Detan fidgeted with the handle of the cutlass he didn’t know how to use, anxious to be back out under the sky.

  Midway down the hall a guard sat astride a tall stool, his coat unbuttoned and crumpled at a sloppy angle. Detan smirked a little. Ripka would never allow one of her watchers to nap while on guard, let alone dress so poorly. Aransa had lost itself one blasted fine watch-captain when Thratia had made Ripka walk the Black Wash.

  “Pedar!” The captain sped his stride. “Wake up, you oaf. We have Fleet visitors!”

  He grabbed the man’s skewed lapels, and the guard’s head lolled to the side. A trickle of blood rolled down from the corner of his lips. “Pits below!” He pressed his fingers against the guard’s neck to check his pulse.

  “Is he all right?” Detan blurted, taking a half step forward. Laella threw a sharp eye on him – a Fleetie would never take excess action without direct orders from their commodore.

  “I don’t blasted know! Go call for a cursed apothik.”

  They hesitated, not wanting to break up their group without a plan in place. “How should I know where to get an apothik?” Detan asked. “I’ve never been in your tower before.”

  “
Go,” Laella said to the captain. She stepped forward and slipped her hand beneath the injured guard’s neck to support his head. “I’ll look after the man – we’d take too long finding our way.”

  The captain nodded and eased the guard’s weight into Laella’s hold. For a man easily twice Detan’s age, he certainly hustled as he ran down the hall the way they’d come, calling a name Detan couldn’t quite make out. When he disappeared down the steps, Detan rushed over to the guard and claimed his keyring.

  “If Pelkaia started the party without me, I swear to the pits...” he muttered, keeping his voice low in case Pedar could overhear.

  “What do you mean?” Laella asked, poking at the man’s sallow cheeks.

  “Whose handiwork do you think that is?” Tibs waved a hand toward the guard.

  Laella paled. “Oh...”

  “Which one?” Detan asked Tibs.

  “Third to your left for Pelkaia, then two down again for Coss.”

  “How in the clear skies do you know that?” Laella demanded.

  “Got a look at the release forms.” Tibs shrugged.

  “We’ve been doing...” Detan waved a hand through the air as if to encompass the whole world as he strode off toward the first cell Tibs indicated “…this for a while. You get used to it. You learn where to look.”

  He jammed the skeleton key in its slot and twisted, then flung the door open. Empty. Swearing himself blue, he hustled down to Coss’s supposed cell and flung it open, too.

  Empty.

  “Thrice-cursed woman.” He slapped the wall with an open palm and winced. His anger hadn’t all boiled off yet. He needed to calm down, and chasing Pelly through a damp city wasn’t helping matters much.

  “Hurry on now,” Tibs urged. Detan glanced his way – Tibs was busy pulling Laella away from the injured man. “He’ll be fine, help’s on the way, and Pelkaia’ll be making her way back to the ship – we gotta beat her back before–”

  “What in the pits are you doing?” the watch-captain yelled down the hall, his wizened face red with anger and exertion, and probably a touch of fear. Two apothiks trailed him, the women’s white aprons threatening to bring up some mighty uncomfortable memories.

  Detan swallowed his past, abandoned his plans, and strode toward the captain, shaking the keys to distract the man from Laella’s stunned expression.

  “You idiot watchers! The prisoners have escaped!”

  “What?” The captain stopped mid-stride, aghast.

  “Bloody empty!” Tibs jerked his thumb at the opened cells. One of the apothiks gasped.

  The captain recovered his composure with admirable speed. Pointing at the apothik who had gasped, he said, “You, go ring the alarm.”

  “Y-yes, sir!” She whirled and sprinted down the stairs while her compatriot advanced upon the injured guard.

  Detan turned to make eye contact with Tibs, hoping the wiry old bastard would have something in mind. Tibs raised his brows at him in question.

  The great brass bells of the watchtower began to ring, the boom of them thundering straight through to his heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Coss threw her a stink eye through the shadow of the alcove in which they hid, pressed up hard against the cold stone as they waited for footsteps to dwindle down the hall.

  “Will you please take that stupid face off?” he whispered.

  Pelkaia grinned, twisting up the borrowed visage of the watcher who had arrested them. “What? Don’t you want to kiss me like this?” She leaned forward, smacking the borrowed lips.

  He hid a laugh behind his hand and gave her a shove. “Ugh. Stop it. We’re trying to be quiet. Although,” his voice dropped low, “it is good to see you laugh again.”

  She brushed him off, setting aside the temporary intimacy. Adrenaline thrummed through her veins, making her loose and silly. The mania that seized her whenever she spilt blood burgeoned within her chest, pushing her to do more. To take risks. She needed to focus, find her core of control. It wouldn’t be long until the guard she’d tricked into releasing her by wearing his colleague’s face was discovered, and their empty cells shortly after that.

  Curse Petrastad for building everything so tall. If they were in any other station house in any other Scorched city, they could have climbed out of a window by now. Or at the very least discovered the blasted front door. The footsteps that had urged them to hide petered off into the distance, and her shoulders slumped with relief. Even with her bone-braces, her body ached if she forced it to hold one position for too long.

  “Which way?” Coss asked, sticking his head back out into the hall. She had no idea – it all looked the same to her, endless wood paneling and naked stone – but she was his captain. He relied on her to guide them to freedom.

  And once free, they’d pummel Honding for his failures together. The very thought gave her cheer. Pelkaia tore off down the western arm of the hall, away from the footsteps, and hoped she had picked true.

  “Slow down,” Coss said. He pressed a hand against the back of her arm. “Running will just draw attention. The ship will be there when we get back.”

  He gave her his sweet, lopsided smile. She slowed. “Don’t count on it. The longer we leave Detan without supervision, the more likely we are to discover everything’s gone to the pits while we were away. That man…” She clenched her fists and paused, peering left and right down a forked hallway. More wood paneling, more doors marked with numbers that might as well have been in an alien language. No staircase. Except... There was a little well of darkness to the left where the lantern light could not quite penetrate all the way to the floor. Promising.

  “The very fact he went off-script at the vault indicates he’s up to something.”

  “It was my fault the guardsmen grew suspicious of us,” Coss insisted. “You can’t blame him for that. And, well, I didn’t mean to start a fight, but…”

  She bit her lip to keep from reminding him that he was not yet as practiced at violence as she – that he’d been so wound up and itching to brawl that the guard couldn’t help but notice and take an interest in them. He’d learn, and grow comfortable with it, or he wouldn’t and she’d leave him behind next time. But that wasn’t an argument she was willing to have now, with the watchers of Petrastad breathing down their necks.

  “Hurry, we must reach the ship before Detan does.”

  Coss scoffed. “You don’t really think he could win the Mirror away from the crew in your absence? Jeffin wouldn’t let him so much as touch the deck.”

  They reached the spot of darkness and found a spiral set of hard, stone stairs descending into the black. Dust coated the steps, and unlit lanterns hung from iron hooks. This was access for cleaning staff, or goods transport. Not the warm, rug-run flight of stairs she and Coss had been escorted up. The servants were bound to have easier access to the outdoors, and set away from prying eyes at that. It felt good to have solid, raw stone beneath her feet again, even if the hardness of the stone jarred her aging joints.

  “I pray you’re right,” she said as she doubled back to snatch a lit lantern from the hallway and plunged down the first flight of steps. It was colder in the stairwell. They must be close to the edge of the building now, away from the insulated and fire-warmed interior. “Though I find myself wishing you had thrown him off that jetty in Cracked Thorn.”

  Halfway down the next level, bells pealed out the alarm. The deep, throaty vibrations reached through the hard stone to vibrate her tired bones. She glanced back, up the steps, and saw Coss’s eyes wide and white-rimmed in the faint light of her lantern. The thunder of the bell echoed, hammering her ears.

  “Run,” Coss mouthed.

  Pelkaia took off at a sprint, Coss’s boots thudding behind her in rhythm with the bells, the lantern swinging crazily in her hand, throwing shadows in all directions.

  How they’d discovered their absence so quickly, she could not figure out. The watcher who’d slammed the door on them had told her they’d missed
the dinner hour, and handed them each a crumpled roll and jug of stale water to last until the morning meal. She’d thought they’d have time – maybe even all night – to find their way out of this maze of a tower.

  Pelkaia’s foot hit a floor landing, and the door beside her swung open. A maid, clutching a basket of laundry to her belly, screamed and dropped her burden. Linens twin to those from her cell spilled across the landing, tangling the maid’s feet, though these smelled considerably fresher than the sheets Pelkaia had been stuck with.

  “Mallie!” a voice called from behind the maid. “Are you all right?”

  Mallie opened her mouth to scream again, but Pelkaia grabbed the woman’s arm and yanked her onto the stair landing. Her screech became a breathless squeak as Pelkaia whirled her around and grabbed her tight.

  “Don’t scream,” Coss hissed, racing forward to shut the door halfway so that they could not be seen from the hall behind it. “Call to your friend, tell her you’re well and no harm will befall you.”

  Pelkaia watched the young woman’s gaze flick side to side, watched her lick her lips as she considered her options. A brave heart, this one. Pelkaia jabbed two knuckles into her back, above her kidney. She had no weapon, but the maid didn’t know that.

  “I’m fine!” Mallie called, voice cracking. “Saw a rat!”

  “Ugh!” Footsteps stomped away, difficult to hear over the clamor of the alarm bells. Coss crept forward after a pause, peered around the door, then dragged the laundry onto the stair’s landing and shut the door the rest of the way.

  “Speak softly,” Pelkaia whispered to the maid. “And tell us the way out of this nightmarish place.”

  “Y-you must go down to the third level, miss. That’s the closest. Then down the hall, all the way. There’ll be a door, it opens up to a walkway that crosses to the washers’ house. Can you let me go now, please? I won’t tell anyone, I swear it.”