Boris stood and stretched, then spiked his pipe on the stone floor of the cell. Clay shrapnel bounced off the guards but didn’t rouse them from their spell. Smacking his lips at Zosia, he said, “Notes of brushfire tinged with rancid butthole. How the devils do you people smoke this stuff?”
“Boris?” Zosia blinked, the shattering of his pipe bringing her back to the moment; she had been cods deep in visions of bloody revenge against the screws who had stolen her pipe. It took her a moment to confirm the here and now, but sure enough, the guards were all doped out of their minds and Boris was unlocking her manacles. As the chains fell from her limbs some of the haze lifted from her mind as well, the cool air on her blistered wrists and ankles as bracing as a splash of spring water. Digesting the first real meal she’d had in far too long had to help, too. “This some kind of head game, Heretic? You letting me think you’re helping me escape, but it’s all a trick to get my hopes up before the big finish?”
“I’m getting you out of here, Zosia, and I aim to sneak you clear out of the city,” he said, looking scared enough that he might just be telling the truth. “But you’ve got to do exactly as I say, understand?”
“Contrary to my reputation, I’ve been known to follow a plan in my day,” Zosia said as he helped her sit up, the aching of half a dozen bolt wounds almost as bad as her arthritis after all this time locked down in a bed. The pain was good, it was keeping her in the moment, but what a moment it turned out to be: looking down at her bloodstained shift and crusted bandages and jaundiced skin, it seemed like less of a miracle that she was still alive and more like a curse. “Just … give me a minute.”
“I’m not asking you to follow a plan, I’m telling you the only way I’m taking you out of here is if you do something for me first,” said Boris. “You don’t promise to help me, I walk out of here and lock the door behind me.”
“Ahhhh, that’s more like the Boris I know,” she said as he shook out his sling bag onto the foot of her bed. A blousy shirt, breeches, and belt fell onto her musty cot, along with an orange tabard to help her pass as a member of the new militia. A bundle of documents with official-looking seals. A fake beard. Basic prison-break kit. “You had me worried for a minute there, I was beginning to think you’d actually decided to practice what your revolution’s been preaching. I’d rather deal with a realist than an idealist, so what’s the price for my freedom?”
“You swear to go away without hurting any more people,” he said, twitchy as an itchy ferret. “Your promise to leave Diadem and never come back, and not cause any mischief on your way out the back door. You do that and I’ll help you escape.”
“That’s it?” Zosia lowered her feet to the floor. Her legs wobbled and she would have fallen if she hadn’t clung to the padded vise clamped to the bed frame, her injured shoulder singing a very angry song but her arms still tough enough to hold her up. Carving briar is hard work, had kept them strong even as the rest of her was failing. “What’s in it for you if this knock-kneed old crone shuffles quietly away into the darkness?”
“A good night’s sleep for a change,” said Boris, and now he stopped his fidgeting with the disguise and held her gaze. “We made some mistakes getting to this point. Big ones. We’ll make more, I expect. But in the end it’ll be worth it. It will. People will be better off.”
“Would that be the royal we, Boris?”
“The People’s Pack isn’t like a queen or a pope. It’s made up of people, and people make mistakes. They … I … they shouldn’t have betrayed you the way they did. I didn’t know that was coming, I swear I didn’t. It’s wrong. You helped them. You could have helped them more, and you would have, if they’d let you. And instead they’re doing to you just what you did to Sister Portolés, and it’s wrong. It’s wrong. But if I set you loose and then you turn around and start murdering everyone who double-crossed you, then where does it end?”
“It doesn’t,” said Zosia, remembering the look on old Domingo Cavalera’s face when he had told her who he was … and she’d realized that by killing his son back in Kypck she had set into motion the events that had led to the massacre of thousands and the return of Jex Toth. “It never ends, Boris, and the sooner you understand that the sooner—”
“Wrong,” he snapped. “It ends here, one way or the other. Either you swear on that devil of yours to do no harm and follow me out of Diadem this night, and never come back, or you lie back down on that cot and wait to be executed. Either way Cold Zosia is done with revenge, she breaks that chain here and now.”
Zosia thought about it, testing her legs again. They were steady enough to carry her. Or so she hoped. The suggestion that she should just let Eluveitie and the rest of the treacherous council go on running Diadem as if nothing had ever happened soured her stomach. She could turn the tables on Boris in a hurry, snap his scrawny neck if she had to and slip out of the cell on her own, then hunt down every member of the People’s Pack … but she might not get very far at all in her state. Especially without Choplicker at her side to show her the path … and clear it when necessary.
And more than doubt over her ability to execute the sort of violence this situation demanded was the fact that Zosia was just so, so tired. Of everything. Situations don’t demand anything, she reminded herself, people do, and it was long past time she took the small but oft-ignored step of taking what she wanted instead of what she felt she needed.
“Indsorith,” Zosia decided, and the resolution to let go of everything else made her legs stop shaking and her back stop hurting. She stood up. “Help me spring her, too, and you have my word. We’ll go away together and seek no vengeance against those who wronged us.”
“Zosia … Indsorith is dead.” Boris put a hand on her shoulder as she felt her throat close up, the volcanic floor of the cell shuddering beneath her. She steadied herself but was too numb to speak, staring at him in horror as he told her the rest. “I … I’m sorry. They executed her already. They took another vote and decided to do her first, instead of the two of you together. Stretch out the affair, make it more than just a day’s entertainment, and—urk!”
Zosia grabbed Boris by the throat, muscles made thick from years and years of working materials harder than flesh or bone standing out as she squeezed, his eyes bulging … and then she shoved him backward. Plopped back on her cot with her head in her hands, the room spinning. What had she expected? Boris to produce a devil from his pocket and wish everything better, Zosia and Indsorith free and safe and hitting the road for fresh adventures? Fuck.
“I know you’re upset,” Boris eventually murmured from the world beyond Zosia’s dizzy, grief-mad head, “but if we’re going to go we have to go now.”
Where would she go? Why would she go? What did she have waiting for her in this world? Why not just stay here and accept what was coming to her? Why not get it over with already?
Why?
Because giving up was what the world wanted her to do, and fuck the world.
“Let’s go,” she said, swaying back to her bare feet and taking a faltering step toward the blissed-out guards sitting on the floor. Figure out which of these jerks had the best boots to steal, get dressed, and a sharp exit—that order. “I’ll swear to whatever you like, Boris, so long as you get me out of this fucking dump.”
“Good,” Boris said as she retrieved her new pipe from a slack hand, then took the guard’s belt pouch so she’d have somewhere to carry it. “Good. But save your swearing for until we have your dog back. No offense, but a word’s just a word, unless it’s pledged on something like a devil.”
“Choplicker?” Zosia turned to Boris, the candle that had almost guttered out in her breast now blazing high as a bonfire. “Choplicker’s alive?”
“I didn’t say that,” said Boris, looking a bit queasy. “But I know where they’re keeping what’s left of him, and I want you carrying it out of here with you when you go. Got enough ghosts in this city as it is.”
CHAPTER
8
Even from up here in the forest of spikes that ran atop Darnielle Bay’s ramparts you couldn’t actually see the new Immaculate wall far to the east, but the view was nonetheless stunning. The afternoon sun glittered off the blue waters of the sound, the russet islands that spotted it, and the crimson sails of the Azgarothian ships they had passed on their way into the harbor. Darnielle Bay’s fleet was smaller than that of Diadem, but looking down on the black ships at the quays and the swarm of Chainites still spread across the promenade, Maroto supposed there was something to be said for quality over quantity. The Azgarothian frigates and sloops were crewed by actual marines, right, whereas there must have been some serious shake-ups in the Imperial navy right before they set sail for Jex Toth. There were more far more clerics and fat cats on board than actual sailors or soldiers, their holds light on weaponry and supplies and heavy on art, expensive wine, and other treasures. It was almost as if the Burnished Chain had been preparing to relocate to the Sunken Kingdom and not wage war on it, as the Holy See had claimed to Azgaroth’s elite.
Yet even if they took out his gag before giving him the goose, Maroto wasn’t inclined to waste his last few breaths pointing that out to people who wouldn’t listen no matter what he said. Better to try to exonerate Bang, Niki-hyun, and Dong-won, and when that inevitably failed at least apologize for getting them dragged down with him. He should have guessed that as soon as he announced himself to the Holy See the Chainites would take a strong interest in tracking down the other three curious castaways who had also come aboard at Jex Toth.
That was what really broke his heart now that they were all up here—that instead of going down on his own he was getting his friends killed in the bargain. The Star would be better off without Maroto around to louse it all up, presumably, but these pirates were good folk … well, okay, so they were pirates, but by piratical standards they were … no, no, actually, from the stories they’d told they were proper arseholes even by piratical standards. But they were his friends, if nothing else, and maybe with time and wisdom they would’ve become the sort of truly good people he didn’t have much personal experience with himself.
Assuming good people even existed in this nasty world. There certainly weren’t any to be found around here. The principal Azgarothian mourner with the clock sitting atop her veil was still present, but she’d left her overly dramatic coterie on a lower veranda, and so up here on the grand terrace she and the gagged prisoners chained to a stone loop in the center of the floor were the only ones bringing down the party mood. Merrily as the cardinals mingled with Darnielle Bay’s officers and senators and minor royalty you never would have guessed their province had repeatedly sided with the Crown instead of the Chain during all the civil wars. There were tables laden with tapas and sangria and even some ninny with a lute working the crowd, and nobody seemed to be talking about how even with the clean sea air wafting along to stir the many myrrh braziers, the whole place reeked from the decaying corpses stuck up on points. Staring at a sun-bleached skeleton that seemed to lounge across the tops of a number of spikes like a Raniputri fakir dozing on a bed of nails, Maroto decided Jex Toth was more than welcome to end the world after all. Mortals had to die, by definition, but if they couldn’t even offer a little mercy to each other, to say nothing of dignity, then why not just kill the lights and drop the curtain on the whole lousy production?
Dong-won sighed through his gag, and looking around at his friends, Maroto nodded. Niki-hyun was staring up into the floofy clouds and humming to herself, and Dong-won joined in. Maroto didn’t know the tune, wondering if it was an Immaculate shanty he’d never learned or some maritime religious thing. Bang kept shaking her head to dislodge the biting flies that had taken a premature interest in their dates for the evening, but when Maroto shuffled over to her she knocked it off. Instead of keeping with the cold shoulder she let him get close and then leaned into him, rubbing her sweaty forehead into his sweaty chest hair.
Tears began rolling down his face before he could even think about trying to hold them in, falling into the faded, dirty orange hair he had dyed a brilliant blood-coral red back when they were all castaways together. She had trusted him, and he had gotten her killed. And more than trusted him, she had come to rescue him, after he’d first been taken captive by the monstrous sentries on that ridge overlooking one of the ruined cities of the Sunken Kingdom. Dong-won had told him the whole story after they’d all been reunited down in the belly of Jex Toth. How Bang had declared Maroto crew, and how Captain Bang Lin would press-gang her own parents if she saw a profit in it but she never gave up on crew. Now that it was all over she forgave him, rubbing her face against his chest like a cat who doesn’t know how else to tell her master how much she loves him.
“Useless,” she spat as the thick leather edge of the gag broke loose against Maroto’s pecs. She must have been gnawing at it from clear down at the seafront. Staying perfectly still so the corded strap wouldn’t fall away but remained suspended between her cheek and his chest she whispered, “You’re ahead of me on the chain so they’ll lead you off it first. But they’ll wanna spit me before they do you, seeing as you’re the main attraction. So soon as I slip off the central chain I make a break for those lower roofs, and you make a big distraction to help me. Got that?”
“Mmmm …” Even without a gag in place Maroto wouldn’t have known where to begin with all that was wrong with her plan, but perhaps sensing the skepticism of his murmur she bit his tit. Hard. “Mmm!”
“You owe me, you fucking turd,” she hissed. “You’re gonna die anyway. So you put on one hell of a show to cover my exit, I don’t care how many times they stab your stupid ass. Useless fucking clot.”
Bang bit him again, so hard he had to dance in place to keep from screaming through his gag, and then Niki-hyun and Dong-won informed them with their own muted noises and head bobs that maybe the captain and her cabin boy weren’t being as inconspicuous as they could be. Bang let him go and caught the broken gag back between her teeth as she turned away, a fair facsimile of a helpless prisoner. Looking around the busy rooftop with all its armed guards and then down at the manacles on all of their hands and feet, he highly doubted Bang would make it halfway to the edge of the terrace even if she did slip free of the main chain … but grinning into his gag he swore that by all his ancestors’ forgotten deeds he’d do what he could to help her try.
“You are the Maroto?”
That was what Dong-won and Niki-hyun had been trying to warn them about—the small woman in mourning lace with a coffin-clock crown had crept up behind him.
“Mmm-hmm.” Maroto nodded down at the biddy. He had better stay on his best behavior right up until they took him off the chain gang, to give Bang any hope of escape. Even if there was no way she was getting the real deal, hope was better than nothing.
“You fought at the Lark’s Tongue? Against the Azgarothian regiment?” She sounded more spry than she moved, no doubt worked up over the prospect of gory revenge for her province’s soldiers. It was always the pinch-faced old prunesacks who got the most juiced up about violent tragedies.
“Mmm-hmm,” said Maroto again, figuring as long as she stuck to the basics the fact that he had a salty sock tied around his mouth wouldn’t fully stifle the art of conversation.
“My brother-in-law died there, along with the rest,” she said flatly. “He was an officer, like you. I hate war stories, so I never asked him about what he did, but before a big battle is it anything like it is on the stage? Do the two sides send out their commanders to meet and talk and see if maybe nobody has to die after all?”
“Mmmm …” Answering that was a tall order, but then the short woman motioned him to lean over, and when he did she started untying his gag.
“Baroness, I would strongly advise you not to do that,” called the cardinal who had brokered the arrangement, sloshing sangria onto the mosaic floor of the terrace. “From the mouths of sinners, that is, from the mouths of anathemas—”
“Thank you, Cardinal Diamond, but I have this well in hand,” she said, grinding the words so hard you’d think she had to crush gemstones between her jaws to get them out. The head of the Holy See looked a bit taken aback by her curt dismissal, but he also looked a bit drunk, and was then distracted by a portly man wearing an Imperial uniform with enough medals to laminate a small dog. Tossing Maroto’s gag to the sea breeze, the baroness said, “I asked if you met before the battle, you Cobalt officers and the Crimson ones.”
Smacking his sore lips and wiping away as much drool as he could, Maroto said, “Nah, I’m afraid not. That does still happen, or it’s supposed to, but being frank with you your Azgarothian regiment skipped that part of the protocol and charged right in.”
“Our regiment did not keep with protocol?” The baroness sounded skeptical.
“No, ma’am, they did not,” said Maroto. There was no telling what sort of thing might irritate this grieving woman, so he might as well keep it completely on the level instead of guessing what she wanted to hear. “They came sweeping down on us before dawn, and after that, well, that wasn’t the only breach of the chivalric codes I witnessed, I’m sorry to report. I heard what the cardinal told you, about how it was the Cobalts’ fault that the Gate opened and everything else, but I swear on my friend Purna’s memory that we didn’t do none of that. If anyone did, it was the Chain who—”
“I do not believe I asked you about any of that, Captain Maroto,” snipped the crone, and he was guessing it was a good thing he couldn’t see her face, nasty an expression as she must be wearing. “I merely sought to discover if you had met Colonel Hjortt before my idiot brother-in-law fulfilled his life’s ambition to die as pointless and preventable a death as possible. Today is a sentimental one for me, and I would have liked to hear from someone who was present, who had seen him just before. To ask if Domingo appeared happy. If he smiled. I don’t know which would disappoint me more, mind you, if that sort of thing actually did put a spring in his step, or if he was just as crabby in his element as out of it.”
A War in Crimson Embers Page 33
