Break the Chains

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  “It was the bonus pay that did it,” she said.

  He blinked. “Huh?”

  “After Aransa fell. Every watcher district was promised a bonus for each deviant or rogue sensitive turned over to the empire. Petrastad never had many before, you know. We’re not a sel-city, which is why my husband and I moved out here. Thought being away from the source might help. But the city always had its fringe, weak sensitives who escaped notice. The watch looked the other way until Valathea started offering a premium per head. That’s why we chased you down. Whole ship full of rogue sensitives? It’d mean a fortune.”

  He closed his eyes as his stomach sunk. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, Lord Honding.”

  He winced. “You knew?”

  “I guessed. Detan’s a common enough name, but the Larkspur is unmistakable. I hadn’t seen it before today, you understand, but the description got around. Valathea wants you something bad, you know. They’ve been sending delegates to every city with a watch presence to distribute your likeness and warn us all to take you in upon sight. I don’t know what you did, I doubt it’s what they’ve told us, but...” She licked her lips, lapped up a bit of the honey left there. “They’re hungry for you. Don’t let them catch you.”

  “I’ve no intention of letting them.”

  “Good.” She nodded firmly. “So that really is the Larkspur, then?”

  He grinned. “Yes, it is. Beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like her. It’s like a real, old ship sailing through the sky.”

  “I suppose that was the idea when Thratia commissioned her. Now Pelkaia’s crew has to keep most of her lines masked so as to not give the game away.”

  “The game,” she rolled the word across her tongue. “You and that crew really are picking up rogue sensitives all across the Scorched?”

  “They do. I’m just aboard to call in a favor.”

  “And what might that be?”

  He chuckled. “Nosy, aren’t you?”

  She winked at him with her good eye. “Who am I going to tell?”

  “All right.” He crossed his legs and leaned in closer. “Answer me this, then: what are they saying I did in Aransa?”

  “Ooh,” she whistled, a soft, thready sound. “Got that big of an ego, eh?”

  “The biggest.”

  “Well, they claim you tried to set off the firemount there, and that Watch-captain Leshe died stopping you.”

  He snorted. “I’ll tell her that. Not only will she be offended she’s dead, she’ll be doubly offended my sorry hide managed to pick her off.”

  “Your turn,” Alli’s voice dragged out into a rasp.

  “I’m using the Larkspur to pick up a friend.”

  “Vague,” she admonished.

  “Captain Leshe herself. From the Remnant.”

  She tried to raise her brows at him and winced. “I would have heard if she were working there.”

  “She’s not.”

  “Now that’s interesting.”

  He held both hands toward the sky. “I aim to entertain, my dear.”

  “I almost wish I could live a day or two longer, just to see how you plan to get her out of there.”

  “I assure you, I can get up to all kinds of trouble in the time you have left.”

  Her head rolled against the boulder, angling her vision toward the crew working with her watcher brethren. “They’re good people, the crew of the Larkspur?”

  Detan licked his lips and eyed them. Pelkaia had reached some sort of agreement with the watch-captain and was helping him distribute the troops as it were, matching up her crew’s skill sets with complementary sets from the watchers. She’d forgone a face of selium, leaving her Catari blood bare to all who looked at her. Sandy hair, the same color as Ripka’s, fell around her cheeks in waves made frizzy by the rain and sea-winds. She looked harried, but focused. Determined to see this thing through, and to do it well. Detan smiled.

  “They’re getting better. Better than me, at any rate.”

  Alli’s hand flexed in the sand, trembling from lack of strength. He took it without asking, held it between both of his and stroked the back with care. She didn’t so much as glance his way. He suspected she’d run out of strength. He considered laying his sodden coat over her, but he knew full well her chill was coming from within. The warmest coat in the Scorched couldn’t hold it back.

  “I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Ask it.”

  “My husband, Rei. He has a sister in Salsana, north of here, with a little boy about twelve. He’s started to show some sel-sense...”

  “Strong?”

  “Unusually.”

  He nodded and squeezed her hand. “If Captain Pelkaia won’t get him out of there, I will.”

  She swallowed. When she spoke again a soft rattle hissed in her chest. “Lovely sunset today.”

  He freed one hand and reached to turn her head away from the crew, back toward the sinking sun. When his fingers curled around her chin, he found her skin cold and clammy. Her eyes, once turned toward the sun, were empty. Glazed with something like tears.

  Detan folded her hand into her lap and arranged her with as much dignity as he could. He sat there awhile, holding vigil. Wondering why he couldn’t feel her presence anymore, though her body sat cooling beside him. Nothing had changed, not really. If he ignored the stillness of her chest he could tell himself she’d speak again. That the growing emptiness beside him was nothing but his own fear.

  He’d never been a religious man. Never prayed to the stars or the sky unless in jest or curse. Not even when his mother lay still beside him, the bonewither eating her up until there was nothing left but the same emptiness he felt now. The only comfort he’d ever wrapped himself in was the company of his friends, the sureness of his scheming. If Alli had religious beliefs, she hadn’t mentioned them, and yet he felt like he should do something. Felt that there must be something one does to honor the end of a life.

  Bel Grandon’s throat, gaping red and pumping her life to the floor, filled his mind. He shivered. What had been done for her, after he’d leapt from Thratia’s dock?

  “Detan,” Pelkaia’s voice was soft, but he jumped all the same and glared up at her. “You’ll freeze, sitting in the surf like that.” She offered him her hand, reaching across Alli’s body. He took it, pulled himself to his feet. Brushed sand from his pants and coat.

  “The others?” he asked.

  “Those who didn’t die on impact are mostly whole. We may lose a few in the cold tonight, or to infection, and the broken bones are always a risk for future illness. But most should survive. Watch-captain Gisald is wary, but thankful to have our help. They’ve agreed not to pursue us once we get them on their way again. We’ve confiscated their weapons for the time being, though most are waterlogged. The selium remaining in their craft is sparse, but...”

  Detan felt the sudden cold of the setting sun lance through him. “You will let them keep it to get home, Pelkaia. You will not take it for your ship.”

  She kicked at a seashell. “I agree with you. We’ll camp on the beach for the night and move the injured watchers to the Larkspur in the morning. Then we can see about patching up their barge.”

  He nodded. “I’ll go back and tell Tibs and the others, maybe grab a few extra rations and tarps.”

  “You do that.”

  Detan trudged off back down the beach, wishing he’d volunteered to stay behind and get the fire burning instead. His sodden clothes clung to him, felt like tiny knives of ice kissing his skin all over as the night winds swept in.

  “Honding,” Pelkaia called after him. “This was the right choice. Thank you.”

  He kept on walking, pretending he hadn’t heard, and listened for the soft tread of her feet retreating back across the sands to rejoin her crew. Any other day he’d gloat. He’d dance around her scowling face and sing his own praises, insisting she should listen to him more often. But not today. Not
with the chill of Alli’s hand in his no different than the icy brush of the sea. He’d made the right choice insisting they come down here and help, he was sure of that.

  He just wasn’t sure he’d made any of the right choices leading up to that moment.

  The more he played these games, the more he found doing things for good reasons wasn’t enough. Dealing a blow to Thratia. Sparing a murderous doppel. Making off with a ship and then letting it go.

  Convincing Ripka and New Chum that Nouli was Hond Steading’s greatest hope.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and shivered, speeding his steps toward the Larkspur and Tibs. He’d feel better, he was sure, if he had Tibs nearby to explain what an idiot he’d been. It always sounded better when Tibs laid things out for him.

  A strand of trees to his left rustled and he paused, expecting some weather-beaten local animal to make its presence known. Instead, a rangy looking man stepped from the trees and stood before him, a nice shiny crossbow leveled at Detan’s chest.

  Detan giggled. The man’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Something funny, boy?”

  “Oh, it’s just been one of those days.” He held his hands up to either side to show they were empty, and was unsurprised when two other men slunk from the trees and patted him down for weapons.

  “What are you doing on this island?” the man demanded when his fellows had declared Detan free of weapons.

  “Would you believe vacationing?”

  Someone clipped him in the back of the head and he sunk to one knee, head swimming. A hand grabbed the back of his collar and jerked him to his feet, touching the scar flesh of his family crest there. He grimaced as his collar was twisted askew so that his captor could get a better look.

  “Got ourselves a Honding,” a man said. The one with the crossbow smirked.

  “Interesting. Walk, Honding. We’re going to go have a chat with your friends.”

  His captor spun him around and shoved him forward, back toward the crew and the watchers. Detan tromped along, wondering if he’d ever be warm again.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Lankal would not speak as he lowered Ripka and Enard into the well. His silence shamed her more than any words could, the grievous frown turning down his lips wounded her pride more than a sharp retort. Ripka knew that his disapproval should not bother her. Knew that he had only a partial view of what was happening on his island and her involvement with it. But she’d spent far too long struggling to gain the approval of authority figures not to be made uncomfortable by a kind captain’s disappointment.

  The wound in her hand hurt less than that silence.

  Enard went down the well first while another harness was found for Ripka. It seemed that, despite the Remnant’s fearsome reputation, the guards didn’t often have reason to drop two people down the well for punishment at once. Or, at the very least, they rarely had two people they’d trust not to kill each other during their confinement.

  She hadn’t been able to grip the side of the well with both hands as she’d done before, her injured hand possessed no strength, so she’d dropped over the side, trusting to Lankal’s ability to fit the harness properly. It dug into her ribs and armpits, but it held.

  As her feet touched down in the dark, loamy soil, a couple of waterskins and a few rolls of bread tumbled down after her. They bounced in the dirt. When Ripka felt the waterskin, she realized that, this time, they had been shorted. She supposed it didn’t matter much. They’d try to spend most of the night sleeping, anyway.

  Lankal and the guards who lowered them said nothing. They just left.

  “So this is the well,” Enard said. He ran a hand over the slick stones and pulled it away, rubbing grime between his fingers. “I’ve stayed in dirtier hostels.”

  “I think you’ll find the room service leaves a lot to be desired.” Crouching, she scooped up one of the hard-crusted rolls and flicked off dirt.

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to enjoy the well’s hospitality twice now.”

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to enjoy it at all. I don’t reckon the night will be any easier than the day.”

  A low wind howled over the mouth of the well, sending a spiral of cold air and leaf debris down into their tiny prison. She shivered and sat, huddling up as she rested her back against the dank stone. Reluctantly, she gnawed on the roll. Enard joined her. She scooted away, putting darkness between them. They used more water than they should washing down the old bread, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t even sure they’d live past their meeting with Radu in the morning.

  When they’d finished eating, he asked, “What is it?”

  She pressed her back against the wall. “What do you mean?”

  He sighed. “Interrogate me.”

  “What?”

  “This well is three strides across, and you’ve never been further away. Ask. Whatever it is you need to, just… Ask.”

  Ripka licked her lips, and squinted across the small space between them. It had grown dark enough that she could not see his face, couldn’t even begin to read the expression there, and so she closed her eyes, and listened to the subtle intonations of his voice instead.

  “Marya. Ledi. Who are they?”

  “They…” His voice caught. “They’re Oiler’s daughters. Twins.”

  “Are they known to the Glasseaters?”

  “Not widely, no.”

  “How did you come by this knowledge?”

  Hesitation. “Father had us follow all of the big bosses for a moon-turn. Oiler only visited them once during that time, but it was enough. I remembered.”

  “Why?”

  “It was my job to.”

  “And would you make good on your threat?”

  Fabric rustled as he flinched, but his answer was without hesitation. “No. Never. Those girls… I never told Father about them. But they were the only leverage I had today.”

  “And if they become your only leverage in the future?”

  A sharp intake of breath. “Then I will be without leverage.”

  She chewed that over, wondering. Violence had come so easily to him – as it did to her – but she had been trained to restore peace, not to sow fear. How deep were his instincts, despite his wishes to change? If they ran as deep as hers, then they were a part of him, immutable. Breath, sinew, and bone.

  “You seem wary of me still.”

  “I’ve seen men and women who’ve said they’d changed, Enard. Seen them swear up and down that they had a child now, a husband now, a new view of life. That this time things would be different. And I’d catch them up to the same nonsense in a week, or a month, and they’d make the same promises all over again. The trouble is, circumstances are never enough to push a person to change. Not even wanting to change is enough. You have to work for it, every day, every moment. So I’m not asking if you’ve changed, or if you’re going to, I’m asking if you’re ready to work for it. Every day. Forever.”

  “I have been trying to change since the day I saw the truth of what I was. I’m not going to stop now. Not for Oiler. Not for anyone.”

  She opened her eyes, and scooted back around to sit beside him.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “Believing me.”

  They sat in silence awhile, letting warmth gather between them as the wind whipped above the mouth of the well, driving a chill deep into Ripka’s sore bones.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked the dark.

  Enard shrugged, sitting so close the motion jostled her shoulder. “Radu is too unstable to plan for, I’m afraid. We’ll have to see how he reacts, and adjust from there.”

  “Think we can convince him we don’t know who the clearsky dealer is?”

  Enard’s answer was a chuckle.

  “Right then,” she said.

  Another gust rattled down the well, and she shivered. Enard hooked an arm around her shoulders and huddled her close. Their combined body heat fought off the cold. For now
.

  “Let me see your hand.”

  She extended it to him without question. He curled her fingers gently to hide the whip-stitched and oozing flesh away, then cradled it against the hard warmth of his chest.

  “Don’t tell me you can actually see in this hole,” she said. “How’s it look? The apothik said it probably wouldn’t fester. Not a ringing endorsement.”

  “No, I can’t see.” She felt him shake his head. “But you should keep it off the ground and away from the walls to reduce chance of infection.”

  “When you’d get so clever?”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  She closed her eyes, nesting her head against his shoulder. He hugged her harder and rubbed her upper arm.

  “Tell me about her,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “The woman.” The day you say you saw what you were.

  “Ah.” A pause. Then, “It started with her younger brother. He wasn’t even old enough to grow stubble yet. We were in Rinton, on the western coast.”

  “We?”

  “The Glasseaters. They were expanding into that city, putting down roots. The brother got picked up by a boss to be a package boy, running errands on behalf of the Glasseaters. He was good, or so I heard. Quick and fearless. Didn’t take bribes that didn’t come from his masters, and was marked to move up the ranks as soon as he learned a few trade tricks.

  “Then his sister found out. She was furious, I take it, though I never saw her act that way myself. They were on their own, you see. I never did find out what had happened to their parents. But the sister wanted good lives for them both, and didn’t want her brother mixed up in anything illegal. I suppose she knew that if she asked the Glasseaters to lay off him, they’d only ramp up their conditioning of the boy. So she decided to play them.”

  “What was her name?”

  “I never knew her real one, and she wouldn’t want to be remembered for her false one. But she was an actress, and a fine one. She raided her company’s costume trunk and decked herself out like the biggest, baddest of mercenaries. I remember the day she walked into my bar. Never seen anything like her. She looked like she’d just held up a whole Fleet caravan and hadn’t broken a sweat. She swaggered up to an empty table, put her feet up on it, and ordered a whisky straight. My bosses were enamored with her, and she kept them entertained with stories of all her imaginary conquests.