Inmates ran, screaming fear and wards against evil alike. Anyone of them could have tackled her. Anyone of them could have put a stop to the slaughter, if only they’d work together, if only they’d mob her. Ripka feared at any moment they’d be swamped, driven under a frantic press of bodies, but the moment never came. The terror of Honey’s grace, the nightmare of her song, pushed them back. Paralyzed them.
Ripka tamped down her own fear, and fled. She was a practical woman. Survive now, vomit out your fear later. Impossibly, she stumbled through Misol’s half-open door, shoulder slamming into the wall opposite, the cold stones a balm to her nerves, to her burning muscles. Enard stumbled in after her, then Honey leapt within. Misol slammed the door shut, plunging them into the faint light of a single oil lamp.
“Well,” Misol said, regarding their panting, sweating, blood-spattered party. “It seems I can’t leave you alone a moment.”
“Honey...” Ripka gasped, trying to reclaim her breath, and forced herself to stand tall, to reach for the woman to see if she were injured.
“I’m all right,” she said, her voice a fainter strain of rasp than usual.
“Your voice...”
She looked at the knife in her hand dripping crimson. “It’s not good anymore, I know. I sang too much.”
Ripka stared, knowing without asking that Honey never sang unless she had a knife in her hand.
“Charming,” Misol drawled.
Ripka gathered herself. “Forge and Clink are on the level above, we’ve got to get them out before the other inmates find a way up to them.”
Misol shook her head. “No time. This place is boiling, we gotta take our exit while we still can.”
“But they–”
Honey pat her arm, making gentle shushing noises. “Don’t worry, Captain. They’ve been here a long time. They’ll be all right.”
Ripka pressed her lips together. “Fine. But I will not let that favor go unreturned for long.”
“Come on, let’s get moving. Boss wants to see you,” Misol said.
Ripka spat foamy blood. “I won’t see that shit-sucking rat Radu–”
“He was never the boss here.” She took the lantern in hand. “Try not to drop too much blood on the rugs.”
“All right,” Honey whispered, humming a soft, fairytale tune as they trailed after Misol’s lantern in the dark.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Detan stood beside Pelkaia with his wrists in chains, watching the so-called inescapable Remnant prison rise from the horizon before him. Despite his unease at what was to come, he allowed himself a small smirk. It was going to be a pleasure to ruin the reputation of the empire’s finest prison.
Whatever they’d gone through – whatever tension thickened the short space between him and Pelkaia – was worth it to wrest Nouli from the empire’s grip and rub their noses in their failure. Once this was done, he’d spread rumors and seeds of tavern songs all the way back across the Scorched to Hond Steading to rub the embarrassment deeper.
If he returned home. Pelkaia’s words hung over him like a death shroud, clouding his mind and obscuring all future options. He’d have to tie the ends off on this scheme before he could get a clear head around what was going to happen next. He swallowed dry air, remembering the gleaming firemounts of his home city.
“Don’t see it,” Tibs grumbled. Detan started, peering into the curtain of mist that hung over the rocky island. Tibs was right. The signal they’d devised with Ripka had not yet been flown, or else it’d been taken down. There was no way to be certain what had happened, save that neither Ripka nor New Chum had attempted to make any contact with them. Which meant they were still within those sheltering walls and hadn’t yet found a path to communication with the outside world.
He shivered. Maybe the captain and the steward were comfortable being hemmed in, but Detan’d go mad by the second day if he’d been the one slinking around those halls. He could only hope his companions had had an easier time of completing their task than he had.
“Then we’re going in blind,” Detan said.
“Was to be expected.”
“Not a lot of arts and crafts on the ole Remnant, eh?”
“I reckon not.”
“Will you two,” Pelkaia grated, “please explain yourselves?”
Detan locked eyes with Tibs and arched a brow. They still hadn’t informed Pelkaia that their intention was to free Ripka, New Chum, and Nouli. He reckoned it’d be rude to spring an uninvited guest into the party, but Tibs gave a slight shake of the head, and Detan decided to listen to him for once. They didn’t have the others safely in hand yet. There was no telling what Pelkaia would do if he explained his ulterior motive. Anyway, it was a right bit unsettling talking about anything at all with Pelkaia while she was strutting around wearing Thratia Ganal’s face.
“We’ve got a system,” Detan warmed to the half-lie, giving her a small shrug. “We signal if we’re ready for intervention. Ripka’d run a flag up somewhere – special design, we’d know it if we saw it, and it ain’t there.”
“She knows you’re coming?” Coss asked, not bothering to hide the incredulous lilt to his voice.
“How could she not?” There was more edge in his tone than Detan’d intended. He was trying to keep himself light, cheerful. The same man of rambling home and rambling tongue that’d first strolled onto the Larkspur, hoping the crew would forget his fireworks display and start laughing again. Hadn’t seen so much as a smile since the cloud suck, but he kept on as best he could.
Still, the insinuation that Ripka and New Chum would expect him to abandon them rankled. What kind of flimsy sack did they think he was? He stifled a sigh. The rambling probably wasn’t helping his case on that account. Hard people to charm, these crew members of the reborn Larkspur.
Wasn’t his little snap that’d made the whole crew fall silent, though. Down below, the Remnant was in chaos. Smoke billowed up from what he assumed to be the rec yard, knots of men and women fighting or fucking or just generally shoving up against one another, he couldn’t tell. Panicked guards scurried about the place, brandishing batons but quite clearly overwhelmed by the mess of it all.
Detan’s smirk grew into a full-fledged grin, and a bubbling little chuckle escaped.
“What is it?” Pelkaia demanded.
“I’d bet my shorthairs Ripka had her hands in that hubbub.”
“Not a bet anyone is wanting to take.”
“Their loss.”
Coss chuckled, covered it with a rough cough, and Detan could have kissed the man. Finally some pits-cursed levity. Tense people made him nervous. He’d found them to be prone to overreaction, and usually in his direction.
“Captain,” Laella said, appearing at the rail with a pinched expression between her brows. “There’s sel somewhere down there. A lot of it.”
“I feel it,” Pelkaia confirmed.
Detan was tempted to reach out to confirm the hidden lode with his own senses, but he refrained. He didn’t need another accident on his head.
“Backup storage for refilling the transport ships?” he asked.
Pelkaia regarded him with one of Thratia’s eyebrows arched. “Too large for that. Can you pinpoint it, Coss?”
He leaned against the railing, the muscles of his neck bulging as he focused his sense. After a moment, he grunted. “Seems to be concentrated over there.” He gestured to an empty stretch of tumbled-down stones and scrubby cypress trees.
“Interesting,” Pelkaia mused.
Detan’s skin crawled. Wasn’t a thing there that could hide so much of the stuff, not even a half-hearted attempt at a gardener’s shed. “Any chance it’s an underground cache?”
“No,” Coss said.
Well then. Someone had an awful lot of sel on the Remnant, and was able to use it to hide whatever it was they were storing the sel in. A few beads of sweat prickled between his shoulder blades, turning cold in the insistent ocean breeze. A doppel, perhaps. Or something else. Somethi
ng new, like what Pelkaia had amassed on the Larkspur’s shining decks. Could be a special prison for rogue deviants, as the guards back in Petrastad had implied. Could be a trap.
No going back now, though. Not with Ripka and New Chum down there somewhere, waiting for him to swoop in and swoop out with them safely in his charge. Not like Pelkaia would have agreed to turn around, anyway. Not with the Larkspur bare to all who looked at her. No doubt the shifty woman was already planning how to wrest away the prison’s selium supply so that she could use it to mask her ship.
As they drew near the island, the crew drifted away from the fore rail, taking over the piloting of the ship with their hands instead of their senses. It wouldn’t do to let the whole of the prison know the Larkspur was manned by a couple handfuls of over-powered sensitives. Not yet, anyway.
Pelkaia turned her back to him, directing her crew with sharp hand signals. Tibs sidled close to him, voice low. “You ready for this?”
“You’ll find me up for the most daring of feats, the most courageous of rescues, the–”
“Just try not to get anyone killed we don’t want dead.”
He sighed. “You’ve no sense of theater.”
“You’ve no sense at all.”
He grinned, relieved. Tibs wouldn’t bother to insult him if he still had his mood in a dark knot over Detan’s failure to win Pelkaia’s tutelage. The ship shuddered as an upward gust of wind rocked the sails to one side, the crew overcorrecting without the ease of their sel-sense to guide the ship into port. Damn silly crew, gotten lazy through the use of their talents. Detan itched to scurry over to the captain’s podium, Tibs at the nav, and guide the ship smooth as silk against the dock, but the chains around his wrists held him steady. He had a new role to play. One he’d spent far too many years avoiding.
Wary of the winds, the Larkspur slipped up alongside the Remnant’s largest dock. He gave the tie-posts along the dock a wary eye. They looked far too flimsy to hold a ship as large as the Larkspur, but they’d have to do. At least their flimsy construction would make a speedy escape easier, if it came to that.
The roof was aswarm with guards. They rushed toward the dock with red-slapped cheeks and panicked expressions. A few of them hung back, casting nervous glances at the riot brewing in the rec yard below. They hadn’t a clue what they were supposed to do now; see to the new vessel, or assist their comrades with their work. Good. Confusion within the ranks made a situation easier to manipulate.
“State your business!” A man with a few more stripes on his sleeve than his fellows barked up at the ship. The crew swung the gangplank around, and Pelkaia mounted it at an easy stroll. The guard’s face paled. Apparently even the rats of the Remnant were familiar with Thratia’s sharp visage. Hopefully not too familiar.
“I’ve brought your warden a present. Where is he?” Pelkaia’s voice was so like Thratia’s it made Detan’s stomach swoop with nerves.
“I don’t know…” he stammered, glancing toward the other guards who all rolled indifferent shoulders at him in response. “The prison is on lockdown,” he explained, seeing the distasteful sneer curling Pelkaia’s lip. “Inmates got it in their head one of their own was an informant, some lady blue coat, and went wild. Warden could be seeing to business anywhere.”
Ripka had been outed. He felt the reality of it like a slap, like a stab to the heart. His breath quickened, desiring nothing more than to bolt down the gangplank and out into the fray, to fish Ripka out and whisk her away to safety. How he’d manage that, he had no idea. He’d be more likely to get himself killed than pull off any rescuing. But the urge was there, distracting, sharpening the edge of his nerves.
“I see.” Pelkaia sauntered down the gangplank. Coss gave Detan and Tibs a nudge and, obedient as prisoners, they shuffled down after her. “And where is this troublesome woman?”
“Shit if I know,” he said, his neck flushing after he realized what he’d said. “I mean – down there, somewhere. If her dorm guards are doing their jobs then they’ve locked her up until this calms down.”
Detan swallowed sour spit. He sincerely doubted her dorm guards had done anything of the sort. Where would she go, if pressed? Would New Chum be implicated along with her? Would she even have the option of escape – or was she down there now, fighting for her life?
He leaned forward to try and see over the roof’s edge and Coss gave him a sharp cuff on the back of the head. He grunted, but held back a snappy retort. You’re a prisoner, don’t blow it.
“Given that your establishment is so clearly out of control, I must insist you bring the warden to me.”
Keeping the Larkspur at her back, her escape route open. A clever idea, if she truly meant to deposit Detan and Tibs then be on her merry way. He considered that this might be a double cross, that she might be entrusting the dangerous “worldbreaker” to the containment of the empire’s grandest prison.
But she wouldn’t. She knew as well as he did that they would not keep him here. That it would be the Bone Tower for him – and a forging into a weapon only the empire could wield, whether he willed it or no. He’d plucked her out of the way of that fate once before. No matter her feelings toward him now, he knew she wouldn’t leave him to that very fate.
He hoped.
“We don’t know where–”
“Find. Him.”
“Ma’am, you’re going to have to wait–”
“Ma’am?” Pelkaia strode forward until she was a forearm’s length from the guard. “Do you not know me?”
“Commodore Ganal.” He cleared a hitch in his throat. “Forgive me, but, our resources are strained as it is. If you could wait here–”
“Enough. What sort of joke is the empire running here? My crew and I will help you secure your prison, and then we’ll see to the warden.”
The guard’s throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever he wanted to say. “I’ll take you to the warden’s office.”
He tried to make his tone stiff, firm, the voice of authority letting Thratia know just what was going to happen in this place that was under imperial control. Poor sap didn’t realize the hesitant flicker of his gaze, the little twitch at the bow of his lips, gave away his certainty – that no matter that the prison was dissolving into chaos all around, the warden would be in his office. Possibly under lock and key, and maybe even hiding under his desk.
A glance passed among the other guards, a less subtle movement, something he was sure Pelkaia wouldn’t miss. They were hesitant, but hopeful. Hopeful that Thratia Ganal would take control of this situation, and possibly control of their warden, and put things to rights.
Dissatisfaction amongst the ranks. Interesting.
“Very well.” Pelkaia flicked her hand to indicate her impatience. “Take me to his office, then, but I will wait no more than a mark before I take this disastrous place under my arm if your warden decides not to pay me a visit.”
“Find him,” the guard snapped to his fellows, and gestured Pelkaia forward. “This way please, commodore.”
Pelkaia held up a fist and circled it, indicating that all those not already required to come with her were to stay behind and look after the Larkspur. And be prepared to take off at the slimmest notice, no doubt. Detan would have much rather been among their number, but the lure of rescuing Ripka and New Chum urged him on.
Not much could be discerned from the drab interior of the Remnant. They were led down a narrow corridor, stone walls hemming them in all around. No decoration adorned the walls, though hints of graffiti of times past could be seen in half-chiseled gashes and the mangled remains of staining inks. Not even a rug cushioned the ground. Detan was beginning to loathe all municipal construction. A flair for comfort amongst his civic betters wouldn’t have gone amiss.
After this was over, he resolved to lay around on silken pillows for at least a week. Or until Tibs kicked him off, at any rate.
He lost track of the twisting and turning of the hallways, each door with its odd number or jumble o
f letters a new mystery to him. He’d spent more than his fair amount of time behind bars installed by imperial hands, and yet he’d never seen anything like the stone bowels of the Remnant. He had no idea what those numbered doors meant – or where they’d lead to. Chances were quite good, he surmised, that he’d never, ever want the answers to that particular curiosity.
What went on behind the locked doors of a prison’s inner sanctum wasn’t anything he wanted to be acquainted with. He’d spent time enough in the whitecoats’ company to satisfy any morbid curiosity a younger, stupider version of himself might have held toward the particularities of torture.
Not that his captors had ever set out to torture him. No, he’d just been a specimen. A thing to take apart and figure out how to put back together again. He never had found much comfort in that knowledge.
The guard knocked on a door with a bit more shine to its wood than the rest. Figured the king rat would squirrel away in the middle of his nest. Probably had stuck himself on the end of a twisted route in case a riot got loose in the building. Wouldn’t want the inmates to have too easy a job finding their crummy warden.
The warden’s office was a master class in disappointment in the Valathean system. Haphazard stacks of paper littered the floor, the desk. A bookshelf caked with dust leaned crazily against one wall, threatening to topple over at the slightest bump. Though the single window was thrown open to let in the ocean breeze, the sour tang of old wine and unwashed breath hung in the air. A hint of smoke, too, though Detan couldn’t place the source. Certainly wasn’t the cold hearth opposite the tottering bookshelf. He figured he’d rather spend his time in a cell than this rat hole. At least cells were sloshed down with water once a week. Musta been killing Ripka to stay in this disastrous place.
Break the Chains Page 28
