The Kraken King, Part 3

by Meljean Brook

  “Oh, yes. That’s fine.” For a moment, the blond seemed distracted and uncertain. Then her shoulders squared, and she said, “My brother hired you to take him to Venice, and was searching for a specific item. Did he find it . . . before he died?”

  Ah, so that’s what it was. Yasmeen had spoken to three art dealers about locating a buyer for the sketch Archimedes Fox had found in Venice. A flying machine drawn by the great inventor Leonardo da Vinci, the sketch was valuable beyond measure.

  She’d demanded that the dealers be discreet in their inquiries. Not even Yasmeen’s crew knew what she’d locked away in her cabin. But obviously, someone had talked.

  “It was a fake,” Yasmeen lied.

  No uncertainty weakened Zenobia’s expression now. “I’d still like to have it. As a memento.”

  Yasmeen nodded. “If you’ll show me out, I’ll retrieve it for you now.” She followed the woman from the parlor and into the hallway. “Will you hold the rope ladder for me? It’s so unsteady.”

  “Of course.” All smiles, Zenobia reached the front door.

  Yasmeen didn’t give her a chance to open it. Slapping her gloved hand over the blond’s mouth, she kicked the woman’s knees out from beneath her. Yasmeen slammed her against the floor and shoved her knife against the woman’s throat.

  Quietly, she hissed, “Where is Zenobia Fox?”

  The woman struggled for breath. “I am Zen—”

  A press of the blade cut off the woman’s lie. Yasmeen smiled, and the woman’s skin paled.

  Her smile frequently had that effect.

  “The dress doesn’t fit you. You’ve tried to take Zenobia’s place but you’ve no idea who you’re pretending to be. Where is she?” When the woman’s lips pressed together in an unmistakable response, Yasmeen let her blade taste blood. The woman whimpered. “I imagine that you’re working with someone. You didn’t think of this yourself. Is he waiting upstairs?”

  The woman’s eyelids flickered. Answer enough.

  “I can kill you now and ask him instead,” Yasmeen said.

  That made her willing to talk. Her lips parted. Yasmeen didn’t allow her enough air to make a sound.

  “Is Zenobia in the house? Nod once if yes.”

  Nod.

  “Is she alive?”

  Nod.

  Good. Yasmeen might not kill this woman now. She eased back just enough to let the woman respond. “Where did you hear about the sketch?”

  “Port Fallow,” she whispered. “Everyone knew that Fox boarded your airship in Chatham. We realized he must have found the sketch on his last salvaging run.”

  Yasmeen had only spoken to one art dealer in Port Fallow: Franz Kessler. Damn his loose tongue. She’d make certain he wouldn’t talk out of turn again—especially if this had been his idea. This woman certainly hadn’t the wits to connect the sketch to Zenobia.

  “You and the one upstairs. Was this his plan?”

  Yasmeen interpreted her hesitation as a yes—and that this woman was afraid of him. She’d chosen the wrong person to fear.

  “What airship did you fly in on?”

  “Windrunner. Last night.”

  A passenger ship. “Who’s upstairs?”

  “Peter Mattson.”

  Miracle Mattson, the weapons smuggler. A worthy occupation, in Yasmeen’s opinion, but Miracle Mattson sullied the profession. He always recruited partners to assist him with the job, but as soon as the cargo was secure, the partners conveniently disappeared. Mattson usually claimed an attack by Horde forces or zombies had killed them, yet every time, he miraculously survived.

  No doubt that if this woman had secured the sketch for him, she’d have disappeared soon, too.

  “Did he hire you just for this job?”

  “Yes. I’m grateful. I’ve been out of work for almost a full season.”

  A full season of what? This woman’s soft hands had never seen any kind of labor. Only one possibility occurred to her.

  “Are you an actor?”

  The blond nodded. “And dancer. But the company replaced us all with automatons.”

  If this woman’s performance was an example, Yasmeen suspected that the automatons displayed more talent. “All right. Call Mattson down.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ll make you a better deal than he will.” Yasmeen wouldn’t kill her, anyway. Probably. “And because if I go upstairs holding a knife to your throat, he might do something stupid to Miss Fox.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widened. “How do I call him?”

  God save her from idiots. “I’ll let you up. You’ll open and close the door as if you’ve just come in from outside, and yell, ‘I’ve got it! Come see!’ You’ll be very excited.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll do the rest.” She waited for the woman to nod, then hauled her up. “Now.”

  Yasmeen had to give the actress credit; even with a knife at her throat, she played her part perfectly. Mattson must have realized that something was amiss, however. No answer came from upstairs. Perhaps he’d taken a look out the window and saw that Yasmeen had never climbed back up to the airship. She didn’t think he’d heard their whispers. When noise finally came from above, the walls and ceiling muffled Mattson’s low voice.

  “Get up.” A thud followed the rough order, the sound of a body falling onto the floor, then the slow shuffle of feet and the heavy, regular tread of boots. “Stay quiet. Don’t try anything stupid.”

  Ah, Mattson. Always predictable. Of course he wouldn’t come down alone and risk his neck. He was bringing Zenobia with him, probably with a gun at her head—and he likely intended to offer the woman’s life in exchange for the sketch. Yasmeen couldn’t imagine why he thought it would work. Did she look that foolish? After she handed over the sketch, nothing would stop him from shooting them all.

  No, Mattson was the only fool here. Knife still at the actress’s throat, Yasmeen dragged her into the parlor. She stopped with her back to the window, the actress in front of her and facing the parlor entry—an escape in one direction, a shield in the other. If Mattson began firing, Yasmeen preferred that the bullets didn’t hit her first, and the actress’s body hid the gun Yasmeen tucked into the sash at her waist. No need to draw it yet. Her blade would do until she tired of talking.

  As if suddenly realizing what her position meant, the actress emitted a desperate squeak. Yasmeen hissed a warning in her ear, and the woman fell silent, trembling.

  The tread of boots reached the stairs. Slowly, they came into view, Zenobia’s pale bare feet and Mattson’s shining black boots. Her hands had been bound at the wrists. He must have surprised Zenobia while she slept. Rags knotted her brown hair, and she wore a sturdy white sleeping gown. A wide strip of torn linen served as a gag, stretched tight between dry lips and tied behind her head. Her eyes were the same shade as Archimedes’—emerald, rather than the yellowish-green of Yasmeen’s—and bright with anger and fear.

  Zenobia’s gaze locked on Yasmeen’s, but aside from a quick glance at the woman’s face and at the revolver that Mattson held to the side of her throat, Yasmeen didn’t bother to pay her any attention. Mattson served as the greater threat here, and Yasmeen wasn’t a fool to be taken unawares while making cow-eyes at a writer whose work she adored.

  Though Zenobia was a tall woman, Mattson’s height left him completely exposed from chin to crown. Idiot. He ought to have been crouching, but perhaps he considered any sort of cower an affront to his dignity. Sporting a neatly trimmed blond mustache and wearing a pressed jacket and trousers, he stood straight as any soldier, but Yasmeen had never known any soldier who took offense as easily as Peter Mattson. The sun reddened his skin rather than tanned it, so that he always appeared flushed with anger—as he often was, anyway. Belligerent the moment anyone questioned his character and big enough to pose a challenge, he’d b
ecome a favorite amongst the regulars at the Port Fallow taverns who found their entertainment by picking fights.

  He stopped just at the entrance to the parlor, standing in the foyer and with Zenobia filling the door frame. He’d have a direct line to the front door—so he also kept a shield and an escape. The fool. If Mattson didn’t want to be shot, he shouldn’t have come down the stairs with his gun already drawn.

  Pale blue eyes met hers. “Lady Corsair.”

  Captain Corsair. Her airship was a lady, but Yasmeen certainly wasn’t. She didn’t bother to correct him, however. Everyone called her by the wrong name. No surprise he did, too.

  “Mr. Mattson,” she said. “I believe you are here to make an exchange. Your woman for mine, perhaps?”

  “I want the sketch.”

  Of course he did—and of course he’d never get it. But as a woman of business, she was curious as to what he’d offer. “In exchange for what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So generous, yet I’m not tempted to accept.”

  “You should be. Give the sketch to me now, and my associates might let you live. I’ll tell them you cooperated.”

  Yasmeen couldn’t have that. “And ruin my reputation? I don’t think so, Mr. Mattson—especially since you usually kill your associates. I doubt I’ll have much to fear from them.”

  “You have no idea who you’re up against.” His gaze left Yasmeen and fell to the knife at the actress’s throat. His lips curled. “Do you think I care whether she dies? Go on, slit her—”

  The crack of Yasmeen’s pistol cut off the rest. Mattson’s brains splattered against the foyer wall. His body dropped, gun clattering against the wood floor—and luckily, not discharging on impact.

  Eyes wide, Zenobia lifted her bound hands and touched the blood sprayed across her cheek and temple. She startled from her stupor and almost tripped over Mattson’s boots when the actress suddenly shrieked, ducking and covering her ears. A bit late for that—though if she kept screaming, Yasmeen might shoot her just to shut her up.

  She tucked the weapon back into her sash and crossed the room to nudge Mattson’s thigh with her toe. Dead. Yasmeen knew many people who seemed to function well without brains, but her bullet had definitely done this one in. Blood pooled beneath his head.

  “A hell of a mess,” Yasmeen said, and slipped her blade between Zenobia’s wrists, slicing through the ties. She did the same to the woman’s gag. “If you need to vomit, I suggest you do it on him. There’s less to clean up.”

  “Thank you,” Zenobia rasped. The corners of her mouth were raw. “But I don’t need to.”

  Then she glanced down at Mattson’s face, bent over, and did.

  Meljean Brook lives near Portland, OR with her family.