The Kraken King, Part 3

by Meljean Brook

  “They’ll feed on your people.”

  The fingers on Ariq’s arm tightened. “You can’t destroy them.”

  “I won’t. You will.” He twisted his arm out of the den lord’s grip and held out his pistol to him. “When this is empty of bullets, I will give you another. Now shoot them all. In the head.”

  Wildly, Jochi waved toward the pens. “They are contained! The cages and the doors—”

  “Are not enough!” Ariq thundered. “Do you forget Kiev? We built the strongest wall that the world has ever seen, and it did not save the people there. Instead Vasili killed his own parents and his brother. Bars and doors did not save Marrakesh. It didn’t save Tyre or Madurai. They all thought they were safe. They thought the zombies were contained. They never were. Never. They always get through. And we burned every person in those cities. Every one.”

  Defeat weighed upon him, but Jochi didn’t give up. “The den lords don’t protest.”

  “Because they are up in their fortresses and behind their walls, and they believe the water around your island makes them safe. But it will only take one bite, one person hiding away on a ferry because he knows that death awaits if he’s discovered. One bite, and you will kill everyone in the dens, and everyone on this continent.”

  Including Ariq’s own town. And if Jochi didn’t have the balls or the brains to do this, Ariq would make certain that he never posed a threat to his people again.

  Jochi took the gun. Jaw clenched, he looked down at the weapon, then up at Ariq.

  “You can try,” Ariq said softly.

  A long second passed before the den lord’s arm came up. He pulled the trigger.

  A zombie’s face caved in. Another. When the hammer fell with a dull click, Ariq gave Jochi another pistol and reloaded the first.

  Aroused by the noise and the blood, the creatures lined up for their slaughter. Then it was done. No more growls. Just Jochi’s labored breathing and the corpses piled against the bars.

  The empty despair on the den lord’s face looked too familiar. Ariq’s brother often wore the same expression.

  With a knot in his chest, Ariq took the weapon from Jochi’s hand before the den lord could raise it to his own head. “You’ve done well by your people. Don’t bring their ruin in under their feet.”

  “This is ruin.” His voice was hoarse. “You’ve taken everything we have.”

  “No. These things are not your assets. Your people are. So don’t risk their lives like this. Tell them that was why you destroyed the zombies.” And it had been why. If Jochi hadn’t recognized the danger and the truth of what Ariq had said, the den lord would have turned the gun on him. “And when the time comes for the other dens, when they burn down the fortresses and the walls, your people will stand by you, instead.”

  Jochi stared bleakly at the zombies, then looked to Ariq. “Is that time coming?”

  “It always does. And when it comes, I’ll stand by you, too.”

  With surprising resilience, his good humor returned. “Is that what you tell all the den lords?”

  “No. I just give them kraken cock.” Ariq clapped him on the shoulder and started for the door. “I also haven’t told them of the contract I need for one of the mining settlements up north. If Merkus stood where you are, I wouldn’t make this offer. If you’re interested, I’ll make it to you.”

  “I am.” No hesitation.

  Good. Shipping iron ore wouldn’t bring as much money as the rebellion could, but would help keep the den on its feet.

  Jochi glanced back at the zombies before they left. “The twins and the others are still coming tonight. I don’t suppose you’ll add a few rounds inside the arena to that offer?”

  “I’ll throw in someone better.” He pushed through the chamber door and nodded to his soldiers. This had been a victory, with no human bloodshed. But it could be a greater victory yet. “Tonight, you’ll have Tsetseg.”

  Ariq planned to have Zenobia—along with answers. It was time she told him what the hell she carried in her pack.

  And why the rebellion was after her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Now this was an adventure.

  A street. Alone.

  Zenobia’s heart pounded harder now than when she’d escaped from the burning airship.

  Oh, this was wonderful. She could hardly take it in. A blur of color and sound surrounded her, yet everything seemed so sharp and clear: the lorry that had almost run her over. The old woman crossing one of the rope bridges above—oh! Zenobia simply had to run across one of those before she returned to the inn. Another woman passed her on the walk, her lips painted a brilliant red and her black hair up in the fluffiest, loveliest bun that Zenobia had ever seen.

  She hadn’t been able to fix her own hair that way. She’d settled for a twist and a few pins. After studying the women out the window, Zenobia was certain she didn’t stand out. They were of all races, all attitudes. Some kept their eyes on the ground; others strode boldly. They all seemed to wear more color than the women at home, so Zenobia had chosen a tunic in bright, bright green, a brighter color than she’d ever worn—and yet she was as unremarkable as the smoke stains on the building walls. She was no one here. There was no reason for anyone to look twice, or to kidnap her and hold her for ransom. And her heart raced, but it wasn’t from fear—just the thrill, the freedom of it all.

  It was incredible.

  She stopped at the tinker’s shop window and looked through the iron bars. On the way here, she’d realized that the typesetting machine might not even place letters on the page. Most of the signs she’d seen were written in kanji or the Mongolian script. But there they were, a, b, c, and God bless whoever had brought the machine to these dens.

  Maybe it had been a secretary who’d killed his employer and fled, then sold the typesetter when he’d run out of stolen funds. Or a pirate with no tongue and no fingers, who could only make his outrageous demands by typeset letters, and who had retired with a fortune and no need to write again.

  It didn’t matter how the typesetter got here. It was hers now.

  She went in. The humid shop smelled of oil and sounded like a pit of hell. The grinding screech of metal stopped when the tinker looked up from her lathe. Young, not more than sixteen or seventeen, she had straight black hair and goggles protecting her eyes. An older woman snored while sitting upright on a mat against the far wall.

  “Do you speak French?” Zenobia asked.

  The girl lifted her gloved hands and replied.

  Zenobia didn’t understand a word. That might have been Mongolian or Nipponese, or any of the myriad other languages spoken in this part of the world.

  But one language was always the same.

  Zenobia withdrew a gold coin and held it up, then pointed to the typesetter.

  The girl pushed her goggles back, revealing dark eyes widened in surprise. As if in a trance, she set aside her tools and walked to Zenobia’s side, her gaze locked on the coin.

  The gold was worth far more than the typesetter—but the machine was worth every extra denier to Zenobia.

  Smiling, the girl took the coin, hefted its weight, then made a sweeping motion that encompassed the entire shop. Inviting Zenobia to take something in addition to the typesetter.

  Well. Zenobia couldn’t carry half of it, especially since she would be hauling the typesetting machine back to the inn, too. But she would look. Maybe there was something that Helene could stuff into her ears while Zenobia wrote.

  Like every other tinker’s shop she’d been in, most of the items seemed to be salvaged and repaired instead of built by the tinker. Miniature windups of the Nyungar’s walking machines and hopping kangaroos waited on the shelves. Lamps of all sizes hung over a case full of lenses polished to a high gleam. There were small devices whose purpose she couldn’t fathom, and others that she figured out when the tinker
’s eyes rounded again and color darkened her cheeks.

  Oh. So she would not give those to Helene. But curiosity made her linger over them a while longer, looking at their shapes and trying not to think of the governor.

  That might have been a thrilling adventure, too.

  A tug at her sleeve made her look up. The tinker didn’t direct her attention to another shelf, as she expected. Instead the girl was frowning toward the storefront window.

  Zenobia didn’t see anything. Only a few passing vehicles and a pair of men loitering on the walk. One was looking into the shop. At her typesetter? He wasn’t going to get it—

  Her heart froze. Oh, dear God. She knew him.

  His mouse-brown hair was longer. His face was redder, his body heavier. But she recognized him. Polley, one of the mercenaries aboard the airship The Kite—the airship on which she’d spent weeks waiting for her first ransom. After Archimedes had paid a fortune for her return, The Kite’s captain had split the money with his men. Not all of them thought they’d received a fair share.

  Polley looked as if his share had gone into a bottle.

  Wearing a cocky grin, Polley offered her a little salute. His eyes never left her when he spoke to his companion, a short, dark-haired man who gave Zenobia a calculating once-over.

  Damn him. Damn them both.

  They moved past the window, out of sight, but she knew. They’d be waiting. Kidnapping Zenobia Fox was a tried and true path to easy riches. But this time, she was far from home, far from Archimedes—and payment would be a long time coming.

  Her throat closed. She’d just wanted one bit of freedom. Just one adventure without fear.

  She’d just wanted a blasted typesetting machine.

  Anger burned through the frozen despair. Striding to the window, she looked out. No sign of Polley and the other man. She couldn’t hope for help from the men patrolling in mechanical suits—they’d just watch her be taken. She had to do this herself. All right, then. The inn was just down the row. She could run like hell.

  The tinker joined her. A knife flashed in her grip. Without a word, she offered it to Zenobia.

  Zenobia pulled up her sleeve and showed her the spring-loaded sheath strapped to her forearm. A gift from Archimedes, she usually kept it in her pack. He used similar weapons when he explored zombie-infested cities. The dens had seemed a suitable place for Zenobia to wear hers. She only had to flick a small lever and a dagger would jump into her palm.

  The girl grinned. Zenobia wished she could smile back. Instead she stared at the inn, trying to build her courage. Just a short run. And someone would probably see her coming. The innkeeper emerged from the entrance, looking up at a balloon cab descending toward the inn’s gate. A single passenger sat beside the pilot. A single passenger with broad shoulders and a wonderfully, beautifully familiar profile.

  Oh, thank God.

  She burst through the shop door and shouted with all of the breath she didn’t need to run. “Governor!” Sprinting, her boots pounded on the boards. So loud. Everything so loud, the engines and the people and could he hear her at all? He hadn’t turned her way. “Ariq!”

  Polley came from nowhere. His thick arm whipped around her stomach.

  It was like she’d barreled full-tilt into a log. The air slammed from her lungs. Stumbling, she tried to keep going, but he dragged her back, his sweaty palm smothering her scream.

  Desperately, she clawed at his fingers before regaining her sense and pushing her hand into her sleeve. Polley hadn’t come from nowhere, but an alley, just a tiny space between two buildings that opened onto another street.

  No, no, no. Not this time. The dagger’s leather grip popped into her hand. She swiped wildly behind her.

  “Get that knife!”

  Rough fingers squeezed her wrist. Polley’s companion. She cried out as he squeezed harder and pried her fingers open. They kept dragging her back. God. If she disappeared down that alley Zenobia knew she would never be seen again. Archimedes was too far away, the kidnap unplanned, and quietly getting rid of her would be easier than keeping her for months. She had to stop them.

  She kicked backward, using her heel. Polley grunted but kept going. She opened her mouth and clamped her teeth on the fleshy bit of palm that pushed past her lips.

  With a shout, Polley jerked his hand away.

  She hauled in a breath to scream. “Ar—!”

  Pain exploded across her face. White burst through her vision and for an instant she didn’t see the alley at all, but her father, his hand still raised, his knuckles red.

  She’d written a poem that time. A bawdy little poem, carved into the wall of the closet that he’d locked her in.

  Vicious fingers grabbed the back of her neck and Polley shoved her forward into the side of a shop. Pain burned a hot slice in her side. Blood coated her tongue. Her cheek grated against rough wood and she stood pinned against the building, her breath coming in ragged sobs.

  “Now just stop.” His hand tightened on her neck, his fingertips digging into the sides of her throat. He pressed the edge of the dagger harder into her left side. “You know we won’t hurt you, so if you fight us, anything that happens is your own fault. You just got to be quiet until our money comes.”

  She’d give him money now. A fortune of gold coins back at the inn. But she couldn’t speak—could barely breathe.

  Polley’s grip eased slightly. “So are you settled? Just—”

  His fingers tore away from her neck. The dagger vanished from her side. Zenobia sagged against the wall and gulped in air, dizzily aware of the harrowing scream that ended on a wet, crunching thud. A man cried out. Polley’s companion. She looked back just as he slammed into the opposite wall, held up off the ground by the hand locked around his throat. A tall figure stood before him. Tears blurred her vision, but she only knew one man that big.

  Ariq.

  Shaking, she turned and braced her shoulders against the wall behind her.

  Ariq spoke, his voice even. “Are you all right?”

  She’d never heard calm like that. Terrifying. Like the lull in a typhoon. Like death.

  “Yes,” she managed to whisper. Polley hadn’t stabbed her. He’d just sliced her skin.

  But she couldn’t see. With a trembling hand, she wiped the tears from her eyes and spotted the body on the ground.

  Her stomach heaved into her throat. Polley’s head lay between his ankles, as if he were bowing—but he was bowing the wrong way. His back had been snapped. Glassy eyes stared at her from between his boot heels. Blood dripped from his slack mouth.

  Broken in half. Ariq had broken a man in half.

  Polley’s accomplice had seen, too. The man had begun crying, begging. A fog seemed to muffle her brain. She heard everything. But it was all nothing, nothing.

  Still so calm, Ariq said, “Who sent you after her?”

  “No one! My mate told me, ‘We’ll get some money if we take her.’ That’s all, God, I swear!”

  “Listen, then. There’s only one reason you live now. You are going to tell everyone that Zenobia Fox is under my protection. Anyone you meet, those will be the first words out of your mouth for the rest of your life.”

  “Yes!” The man babbled his agreement before Ariq finished. “Yes, yes!”

  “You know who I am? Let me hear it.”

  Under his protection. Numb, Zenobia lifted her hand away from her side. Crimson stained her fingers. Blood over kraken ink.

  They’d never made her bleed before.

  “Zenobia Fox is under the protection of the Kraken King!”

  “If I ever hear that you haven’t said it, I’ll come for you.” Ariq paused, and seemed to grapple for his calm again before he said, “Did he touch you, Zenobia?”

  “My wrist,” she answered dully. The skin where he’d grabbed her was raw and red. Pain shot throu
gh her knuckles when she tried to bend them. Her writing hand. “He hurt my fingers when he took my dagger away.”

  Without a word, Ariq gripped the man’s wrist. From far away, she heard the crack of bones, saw his elbow twist and jut backward.

  Ariq set the screaming man on his feet and shoved him toward Polley’s body. “Now drag him down the street so everyone can see. And you tell them all what will happen if anyone touches her again.”

  Then he came to her, his calm seeping away with every step. His skin seemed tightly stretched over his cheekbones, and white edged his mouth. Eyes dark with concern swept her face. Gentle fingers tilted her chin up, and at his touch, the fog tore away and she was there again, against the side of a shop where she’d almost been kidnapped. Polley’s companion lurched toward the mouth of the alley, dragging the body, his screams sounding almost like laughter, but it was just agony and hysteria and the words Ariq had ordered him to say.

  Zenobia Fox is under the protection of the Kraken King!

  His thumb slid across her cheek, wiping away tears. Zenobia hadn’t realized she was still crying, but now she felt the sting of salt against the corner of her mouth.

  She lifted her hand to her jaw. It was tender. Her lips felt hot and swollen. “Does it show?”

  Ariq stilled. For one terrible second the calm descended over him again, as if he might break the world in half.

  Then he nodded, and his hand left her face to work open the wide sash that belted his tunic.

  “Blast his soul.” On a shuddering breath, she rested the back of her head against the wall. Her neck ached. “Helene is going to say, ‘It’s your own fault for going out.’ Mara is going to say it’s her fault. But it’s not hers or mine. Just him. That bastard. Thinking he could have something from me. I just wanted to walk down a street. Even here, I should be able to. Is it so foolish to want that?”