That her husband might discover she was pregnant with another man’s child. “Why don’t you go on, then,” Zenobia suggested. “The lieutenant and his men can see to your safety.”
“Leave you alone in this place? I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”
“Yet you would leave Mara and Cooper here?”
“They have proved perfectly capable of taking care of themselves.”
“And were hurt taking care of us.”
“Mr. Cooper is healing. Mara is well. If you asked her, she would tell you the same thing—to go on ahead.”
Mara was well. And perhaps listening to them argue now.
Zenobia could easily imagine the mercenary’s response. “She would say that I should stay where I am safe.”
“Would you not be safe with Lieutenant Blanchett and his men? You said that I would be.” Helene’s pointed look aggravated Zenobia all over again, then the smugness in her friend’s expression softened to pleading. “We both are women alone. We shouldn’t separate. And I need to go, Geraldine.”
The pain in Zenobia’s chest deepened. Helene needed to go, and Zenobia needed to help her. She owed her friend that much. Even if Helene’s trouble was of her own making, her pregnancy could have devastating consequences. Helene had no one except her husband. And if her husband rejected her, she would need Zenobia’s help again to establish a new home. But more than money, Helene would need acceptance and understanding—often available in short supply to a woman in her condition.
Zenobia had not been so generous with either the past few days.
She did hope Helene would patch everything up with her husband. Not just for Helene’s sake. Perhaps it was selfish of Zenobia to pray that Helene remained in the Red City, but Zenobia was a selfish woman. She liked the order of her life. No one except Archimedes came barging into it. Most of her friends resided in cities other than Fladstrand and she only communicated with them by letter. Their lives never interrupted hers unless she opened an envelope, so she could always choose how much time she devoted to them.
If this trip had taught her anything, it was how much she valued that space. So she didn’t look forward to setting up a home for Helene next door to her own.
Of course, that wasn’t what Helene hoped for, either.
With a sigh, Zenobia rose from her chair. “I’ll speak with Mara, and make certain there is no other reason to wait.”
Helene nodded, but she didn’t look as pleased as Zenobia expected. Instead, her friend regarded her with concern. “I don’t suppose . . . you were waiting for someone else?”
“Who?”
Helene sent an exasperated look toward the ceiling. “The governor.”
Oh.
No. Zenobia hadn’t been waiting for him. She had hoped the delay meant that she would see him again. She’d wanted to know what the twins had told him, and how his search for the marauders progressed, and just to be with him for a little longer. After they’d arrived at the dens, however, he hadn’t been able to spare a minute for her. Each day, he left the inn before dawn and returned after midnight. Zenobia had no reason to believe that would change before Helene and she departed for the Red City.
But she’d always known they would go separate ways here at the dens, so it would have been foolish to expect anything to come of it. Still, she’d hoped for a few more hours with him. A night with him.
She wasn’t going to get it.
Throat suddenly aching, she shook her head. “I’ll speak with Mara,” she said again.
***
The knot in Zenobia’s chest tightened with every step. She’d hoped for a little more time with the governor. But he hadn’t been the only reason she’d been glad of the delay. Staying here had meant she wasn’t moving toward a permanent separation from Mara and Cooper.
She found the couple in the garden, sitting in the shade of a gum tree spotted with bright red flowers. Immediately the back of her neck tensed. The easy affection between the couple had been strained since the boilerworm attack. Every time she visited them was like walking through a field of broken glass, uncertain if a step would rip open a new wound. Judging by their stiff postures now, the strain was still there.
Mara stood as she approached.
“You heard?” Zenobia asked.
“Yes.” The mercenary’s expression gave nothing away. She might have been disappointed or relieved. Zenobia couldn’t tell.
“I want to stay, but—”
“There’s no reason to,” Mara finished for her.
The ache in Zenobia’s chest spread to her stomach. There were reasons. They were her friends.
Cooper shook his head, his lean face drawn and tired. “Go with her, Mara.”
Fire blasted through Mara’s expression. Not broken glass, but an explosive—and Cooper had apparently just set it off.
“Oh, no.” Zenobia stepped back. “That’s really not necessary.”
“Maybe I should leave him here,” Mara spat. “He was so ready to let go of me.”
So that was what they’d been fighting about. When he’d been in the boilerworm’s jaws, Cooper had forced Mara to let him go instead of letting the monster pull her in.
Softly, Cooper said, “You would have done the same.”
“I would have dragged you in with me!” Mara shouted. Cooper stared back at her. Jaw clenched, she whirled and stalked away.
Her stomach roiling, Zenobia followed her. She wanted to run in the other direction, but the glistening tears in Mara’s eyes might as well have been glue. Zenobia couldn’t leave her alone like this.
They stopped beside a small pond, where Mara stood with her head bowed and her arms crossed over her chest. Zenobia watched a turtle lie motionless in the sun, wondering if it was alive or dead, and feeling as awkward as she’d ever felt.
With a heavy sigh, Mara glanced up. “Forgive me.”
Zenobia shrugged. What was there to forgive? “He didn’t want you hurt.”
“I know. But it wouldn’t have mattered. Losing him would have killed me.” Her head fell back and she took a deep, shuddering breath. “I should go with you.”
“Not a blasted chance.”
Mara frowned at her, but no explosion followed. She only said, “I should. I’m ashamed because I’m not going. But I don’t feel sorry for staying.”
“Of course not. Don’t be an idiot. I can manage alone for a week.”
“You could manage longer than that if the world let you alone. But it doesn’t.”
It would this week. “The Frenchmen will escort us on the airship, and we’ll be with Helene’s husband afterward. I’ll be perfectly well.”
“We thought that on the last airship,” Mara said dryly.
“That had nothing to do with me. And since no one knows who I am, I don’t expect the usual trouble. I’m just a companion.”
“And the only person who doesn’t think so is engaged in other matters.”
The governor. A pang struck her chest, deepening the endless ache. “Yes.”
Mara gave her a long look, but didn’t comment. Grateful for her restraint, Zenobia left her in the garden and went in search of the innkeeper. She’d asked the governor if he would arrange for a reputable airship when the time came for her to leave, but considering that he’d left them in the innkeeper’s care, he must trust the other man’s judgment—so Zenobia would, too. Within minutes, the innkeeper sent a message to the docks and the plans had been made. She and Helene would depart early that evening and they’d be in the Red City by tomorrow afternoon.
When she returned to the parlor, the news sent Helene into ecstasies. But of course it did. Everything her friend cared about was in the Red City. She wasn’t leaving anything she wanted behind.
While Helene fluttered about, Zenobia sat at her desk and looked out the window. Balloons and vehicles came and went. None of them carried the governor. She would probably be gone before he returned.
Should she leave a note? She w
as so very good at writing letters. God knew what she would say, though.
Thank you for dragging me out of the sea. I’m sorry I didn’t kiss you at least once.
So very sorry.
This journey was supposed to have been an adventure. Perhaps if she’d been a little braver, she wouldn’t be regretting everything she hadn’t done.
More vehicles rattled down the street. Zenobia searched the passengers’ faces with her looking glass, wondering where they were all going, before settling on the tinker’s shop down the way. Maybe she didn’t have to leave everything she wanted behind.
And she desperately wanted that typesetter.
***
Finding someone in the dens who spoke English was easy. A number of sailors and aviators had spent time in Manhattan City or tried their luck in England. Finding someone who read the language—who could read any language at all—proved more difficult.
Not impossible, though.
“‘ . . . still . . . a wretched and . . . lonely widow, Geraldine.’” Finishing his labored translation, the ferry pilot looked up from Zenobia’s letter. “A woeful bit of news that was.”
Woeful? Shaking his head, Ariq tucked the letter away. Her message could only sound woeful if a man didn’t know Zenobia. The pilot didn’t.
But Ariq could picture her wry smile. He could all but hear the amusement in her voice. And he could imagine everything she hadn’t said—her worry for Cooper and her determination to reach the Red City.
What she had said was exactly as he’d expected: just a typical letter. But he hadn’t known how hearing the pilot read her words would hit him in the chest and lift through him—as if she stood at his side, sly and amused and silently worried. He hadn’t known how glad he would be to have this small, new connection to her.
He missed her. Only three days, yet he missed her.
Distance hadn’t helped. Ariq hadn’t seen or spoken to her, and he’d tried to turn the separation into a wall. But he should have realized how pointless it was. She wasn’t with him, but he only had to close his eyes to see her bare legs against his or the sun shining through her wet shift, the transparent linen clinging to her slender form. He carried the memory of her arms wrapped around him, her sharp smile and her delighted laugh. She wasn’t here, yet he knew that her fingers would be stained with ink, and that staying at the inn when there were so many things outside to see and take notes on was probably killing her.
So it didn’t matter if he built walls now. She was already in. And a letter was a poor substitute for the woman.
But he’d be done here soon. Three days spent making his presence felt in the dens and gathering information on Lord Jochi, and now it was almost over. Soon he’d know who had bought the marauders’ flyers.
He looked out over the bow of the ferry balloon. From this distance, the Rat Den didn’t look changed from when Merkus had overseen the island. Boats crowded the bays and shacks crowded the land. Filth darkened the small lakes.
But he hoped that Lord Jochi was different than Merkus had been. Everything he’d heard since coming to the dens said that Jochi was. Ariq could only know for certain by meeting the man.
“How long?”
“Five minutes,” the pilot said. “We’ll tether in the visitors’ bay. They don’t make you wait to go through.”
“Use the citizens’ bay.” Two of Ariq’s men had already visited the island several times and reported to him, but he wanted to see how the people were treated for himself.
The other man shrugged. “It’s your coin.”
Ariq thanked him and left the wheelhouse. He’d hired the ferry for his personal use and the covered decks were empty but for a few deck hands. His soldiers sat together in the shade, sweat glistening on their brows, their shoulders slumped and legs stretched out. Bartan looked up at his approach and spoke to the others. They all straightened.
The old soldier smiled a bit when Ariq slumped down with them. “No speech for us?” Bartan asked.
He used to give one before they went into battle. He wasn’t their commander now and this wasn’t the rebellion. But they were still fighting for their homes and families.
“May your heart be iron.” Ariq said the same words he’d said hundreds of times before, and that had been said thousands of times before he’d first spoken them. “And your will be steel.”
No more needed to be recited. They all knew the rest. They’d learned it before they’d walked, and many would speak it as they died.
But Tsetseg added, “And remember that winning a battle without shedding a drop of blood is a greater victory than the slaughter of a thousand armies.”
Yes. Ariq had said that before, too. But it hadn’t been passed down from other commanders and soldiers. His mother had told him that when he’d been a boy. Years had passed before he’d understood it.
Blood would be shed today. But Ariq would consider it a victory if none of the blood was human.
“Keep your weapons holstered,” he told them.
***
Despite the pilot’s warning, they didn’t have to wait. Lord Jochi arrived at the docks as their ferry did. The den lord must have had someone watching Ariq and reporting his movements, preparing for his arrival.
Ariq would have done the same. It was why he’d sent Jeong-hak and Vasili to the island ahead of his visit. Ariq liked to make his own preparations before engaging in battle—even a bloodless one.
“Any change?” he asked quietly.
Jeong-hak looked to the gates, where a line of incoming passengers waited to have the money in their purses counted. More passengers were searched before they boarded departing ferries. The lines were orderly, the officials efficient—but that could be for show.
“It’s the same,” Jeong-hak said. “Coins counted, but none taken, and if they’re leaving to work they have to report their earnings when they return.”
“And Jochi?” he asked Vasili.
The gunner’s blond eyebrows jerked up and down in the big man’s version of a laugh. “He gussied himself up. He didn’t wear anything as fancy yesterday, or the day before.”
Hoping to make a good impression—if an odd one. Though he’d originally come from the heart of the Golden Empire, just as Ariq had, Jochi didn’t wear a topknot. He’d cut his hair short and grown a beard, trimmed to a point beneath his chin. He wore a tunic, but had topped it with an embroidered waistcoat, and his trousers were in the western style, stiff and tight. Those must be damned hot on a day like this. Jochi’s balls were probably sweltering in them—but even in the winter, Ariq’s visit might have had him sweating.
He was younger than Ariq had remembered. No more than a few years past twenty.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t rule over a den, or do it well. Children became adults quickly in the dens—and in the rebellion. At the same age, Ariq had been commanding armies.
He’d also been making mistakes. By all accounts, Jochi was making his own.
“So you are finally here!” The den lord’s smile was welcoming, if thin. “For three days, I have heard nothing but ‘the Kraken has come.’ That you will ask me about the silver flyers and show me photographs of dead men, and tell me that the empress will destroy us all. So we rats are the last?”
“The twins pointed to you,” Ariq told him. “So I expected to find answers elsewhere.”
A lie. Ariq knew the twins had spoken the truth. But it would allow Jochi to save face. Ariq knew a young man’s pride. If that was damaged, so would any hope of resolving this peacefully.
“Of course the twins would.” Jochi shook his head and laughed, then clasped Ariq’s forearm in greeting. “And you are welcome here, whether I have answers or not.”
The other man’s grip was strong, but Ariq saw the uneasy moment when Jochi realized that Ariq could have crushed him. Still, he didn’t flinch or pull away. He looked to Ariq’s companions. His smile froze when he spotted Vasili—as if recognizing the big man. He probably did. The gunner was
difficult to overlook. But if the den lord was dismayed by the realization that Ariq had been watching him, he didn’t show it.
“Come then,” he said. “I will tell you what I can, and show you the stadium.”
That was bold. Ariq had expected that Jochi would direct him away from the arena. He started down the walk with him, the boards well-worn beneath his feet. This route had seen heavy traffic. Ahead, the wooden stadium rose like a giant tortoise over the twigs of nearby buildings. “Your games have been all that I’ve heard about from the other den lords. Your games and your taxes.”
Some had been coy and only hinted at it, like the twins. Others had told him directly. Jochi had been staging fights in his stadium, but not just between men or machines. He’d brought in death itself—and with it, a paying audience from the other dens.
“I can imagine what they’ve said. They haven’t liked the changes I’ve made.” Jochi gestured to the lines of passengers at the gates. “I don’t tax my people. I don’t ask for tribute. I only ask that they spend what they earn here.”
Keeping the money local instead of watching it bleed off the island. But that wouldn’t be why the other den lords didn’t like it. “And in the other dens, people are asking why their taxes are so high.”
“They do. If you’d come this morning, you wouldn’t have found any laborers left on the docks. Those bastards at the other dens come here looking for workers, and they pay them less—because my people are hungrier.” Anger hardened his voice as he spoke. His face dark, he glanced at Ariq again. “They were hungrier. I don’t take any of what they earn, so my people can live on what little they get. The games bring in the rest, for those that can’t work.”
Ariq nodded. Here was the poverty that Zenobia had expected, threadbare clothes and ramshackle homes that only seemed to stand with the support of the other shacks crowded next to them. But unlike his last visit, he didn’t see squalor. The stench of shit and decay hadn’t slapped him when he’d stepped onto the docks. And instead of abject misery when the people looked at the den lord, they regarded Jochi with wary hope, and there were not so many hollow cheeks and empty eyes.
The Kraken King Page 20