The Kraken King

by Meljean Brook

  “It is changed from when Merkus stood in your place,” Ariq said.

  “Merkus was a drunken pig on human legs.” Jochi spoke matter-of-factly. Either his anger had ebbed or he’d controlled it. “And he rode this den into the ground—starting when he lost his port contracts with the rebellion. But I’m bringing it back.”

  Unless he ruined it all before he could. “Then let’s see your arena—”

  “Ariq Noyan!”

  Frowning, Ariq looked back—then up. The shout had come from a silver flyer approaching the docks. Unease clutched his chest. That was one of the marauders’ flyers he’d brought from his town. Meeng had one, but he’d remained outside the dens. The other flyer had been stored with the mountain walkers at the inn—and Meeng wasn’t piloting this one. Instead Ariq recognized one of Dayir Sunid’s guards. When Ariq had left the inn that morning, the guard had been standing at the entrance.

  A message. An urgent one, if Dayir was using the flyer to deliver it.

  Zenobia. Was she all right? Ariq’s heart drummed as he strode forward and waved the guard in.

  He shouldn’t have left her. Dregs and hell. The inn should have been safe. Dayir was a good man, a good soldier. But Ariq should have kept her beside him.

  He didn’t wait for the man to land. The flyer hovered overhead, the propellers blasting heated air into his face. He shouted up to the guard. “What is it?”

  A note fluttered in his gloved hand. Ariq snatched it and read the message as the flyer settled onto the boards.

  No danger. Zenobia had asked Dayir to hire an airship.

  He hadn’t thought she would. Not until Cooper was ready to go. Ariq hadn’t misread her guilt over the man’s injuries. If she had a choice, Zenobia wouldn’t leave the mercenaries behind.

  She must feel that her time was running out—and that she had to deliver those letters soon.

  All right, then. All right. His business here was almost done, anyway.

  “Make the arrangements,” he told the guard. “But the airship doesn’t leave until I’m on it.”

  The man nodded. Ariq stepped back. The engine wound to a buzzing whine before the flyer lifted off the ground.

  Jochi watched it go, then looked down as Ariq joined him. “Is everything well?”

  No. Zenobia would have left without seeing him again.

  But Ariq only said, “You’ve seen that flyer before.”

  The den lord’s expression flattened. “I have.”

  “Who bought it from you?”

  Jochi shook his head.

  “You don’t know?” Ariq didn’t believe it.

  “I won’t say.” Jochi’s gaze was steady. “My people have lost enough, and I’ve fought for everything I’ve given back to them. I won’t risk that by giving you a name.”

  He didn’t need to. He’d already told Ariq enough.

  Jochi hadn’t bowed beneath the pressure from the other den lords to tax his people—even though his refusal had probably put a price on his head. And he would have heard by now that Ariq had given the twins a fortune in return for information. He must know Ariq would do the same now. But there was one person who could give the Rat Den more than Ariq could offer: Ghazan Bator. A general for the rebellion, he could renew the port contracts that would allow Jochi to broker smuggled technology from the Golden Empire. That wasn’t just worth the money to Jochi. It would give the Rat Den back something they’d lost under Merkus.

  Or so the young man thought. But he didn’t know Ghazan Bator as well as Ariq did.

  Feeling suddenly tired, he gestured that they continue on toward the arena. Ariq only wanted to return to Zenobia’s side. Even if the marauders weren’t rebels themselves, the rebellion was responsible for the attacks—and the letters in her pack might as well have painted a target on her back.

  He’d stop them. He’d stop her. But first, he had to stop Jochi.

  As if disbelieving that Ariq had finished his questions, Jochi watched him warily for a long moment, then looked to Ariq’s soldiers before starting along the boarded walk.

  “You should come tonight,” he said, then added dryly, “I’ve heard that all of the den lords intend to see the games. Even the twins.”

  Of course they would. They hoped to watch Ariq destroy him.

  Ariq didn’t intend to do it in front of an audience. “They will be disappointed.”

  “I hope so.” With a shrug, Jochi seemed to discard thoughts of the den lords. A grin made him look even younger than he already did. “Do you still wrestle? We could put you in the arena and make a fortune.”

  Ariq did, but not as he once had. “Only during celebrations.”

  “And he was finally beaten last New Year,” Tsetseg said behind him.

  So he had been. And she’d been in the pile.

  “Ariq Noyan wasn’t beaten.” Though at the time, Vasili had crowed about the victory as much as Tsetseg had, the blond soldier was frowning at her now. He didn’t like Jochi hearing of Ariq’s defeat. “It wasn’t a fair fight. There were eight of us, and he’d drunk enough arkhi to drop an elephant.”

  “I was beaten,” Ariq said. “‘Fair’ means nothing in battle. Enemies won’t always be weaker.”

  “‘Fair’ means something in a game.” Jochi stopped and looked up at him. “It meant something when you fought the Butcher—and he was stronger than you were.”

  That story would live longer than Ariq did. “So you’ve heard of that.”

  “No,” Jochi said. “I saw it.”

  While still in swaddling? It had been Ariq’s fifteenth summer, and his first time accompanying Ghazan Bator to the dens. Hoping to win favor with the general, Lord Duval had greeted them with a celebration in his honor, and invited the other den lords to bring three of their strongest to compete in his sand pit. Though the rebels were only meant to be spectators to the tournament, Ghazan Bator had put Ariq in the arena, too.

  He’d earned his name there. The Kraken. Because of the tattoo already on his back, his unbreakable grip, and—after the den lords had each begun sending in all three of their champions against him at once—because his opponents had begun to joke that Ariq seemed to possess more than two arms.

  Unfair had been pitting one man against Ariq. Even three men barely had a chance. His general hadn’t cared. Most of the den lords hadn’t, either. Merkus had. He’d brought in a new champion, one that he’d claimed would even the odds—a man who’d once been a butcher in the Moroccan labor colony. After he’d moved to the dens, the knives and cleavers grafted to his arms had been traded for mechanical hands, and a full pneumatic exoskeleton strengthened his frame.

  No one who’d looked at the Butcher believed the odds were even.

  It hadn’t mattered. Ariq had fought; he’d won. And when they’d returned to the mainland, Ghazan Bator had given him command of his first unit of soldiers.

  The name had followed him, too. But he’d earned it again on the battlefield—the commander with the unbreakable grip and who never failed to reach his enemies.

  Almost twenty years had passed since then. “You watched the fight?”

  “I’ll never forget it.” Jochi shook his head. “Everyone thought you would lose. Everyone. Then you locked your arms around the Butcher’s shoulder pistons and it was over. Merkus said you must have known how to defeat his gear—and that was why you accepted the challenge.”

  Ariq hadn’t known how to defeat him. He just hadn’t had any other choice.

  “No,” he said. “I had one purpose in that sand pit: to show the rebellion’s strength. I’d have lost everything if I failed or if I walked away from a challenge. I would never have commanded a unit. I’d have been left in the dens to rot. Because Ghazan Bator discards anyone he doesn’t have a use for, or who no longer serves a purpose.”

  Just as the Rat Den would no longer serve a purpose when the Khagan finally fell. It wouldn’t be long. Then a port contract would be worth nothing.

  Judging by the stiffness of Jochi
’s shoulders, Ariq’s message had hit exactly where he’d intended. But the den lord couldn’t argue without betraying the name he’d sworn to keep secret. So Ariq only added, “Fair didn’t mean anything against the Butcher, because my fights in that sand pit were never a game.”

  Jochi nodded tightly. They continued on to the arena in near silence, picking up a retinue of curious, giggling children in their wake. For once, Ariq wasn’t the focus of their attention. Vasili’s blond braids were.

  At the entrance, Ariq gestured for the gunner to stay outside. The children would try to sneak in after him. Better for them to wait here until this was finished.

  There was no question where the money from the flyers had gone. The arena had once been little more than a sand pit surrounded by boards laid over wooden pilings. Now benches rose around the stadium floor, with boxes for visiting lords and merchants. A high wall ringed the arena; no one sat level with the pit. Staging theaters had been built at both ends.

  So Jochi hadn’t relied on the port contracts. He’d invested in this—and his wrestlers. Ariq had already heard complaints about how the den lord had lured the fighters away from other arenas. They practiced now at the edge of the pit, their bodies glistening with oil. Tan lines showed where they usually wore armor protecting their necks, their arms and legs.

  Against another man, clothing and armor meant certain failure. Unlike oiled skin, an opponent could grab onto armor and force a man to his knees.

  Against zombies, that armor meant life.

  He looked over the wrestlers before turning to Jochi. “Where are your pens?”

  “Pens?” The young man’s brow furrowed. He shook his head. “I don’t have pens.”

  Jeong-hak stepped forward. “Under the stadium. They come through that entrance.”

  He pointed to the east staging area. So Jochi had kept the creatures here, despite knowing Ariq was coming. That might have been arrogance, but probably just meant Jochi had a working brain in his head. Moving the zombies off-site posed more risk than Ariq ever could.

  Ignoring the den lord’s denials, Ariq started toward the staging theater. By the time they reached the door, Jochi’s protests had turned to resigned, frustrated silence. The wrestlers had stopped their practice, watching quietly as Ariq left the arena.

  Cages stood open around the chamber. On the night of a game, the zombies would be kept here until they were released into the stadium. Now they were empty. Without pausing, Joeng-hak led them to a cargo lift.

  Jochi didn’t attempt more denials. He tried to salvage. “We’re careful. Two doors at every junction. The outer doesn’t open if they aren’t under control.”

  “You’ll never have control,” Ariq said. The cargo lift rattled and the young man became more frustrated with every foot they descended.

  “We do.” Anger bit through his reply. “They’re handled with poles. One man to keep it contained, and another always ready to shoot. We check every guard for bites before he leaves.”

  The stench hit when the lift docked. Decay. Rotting flesh. The rattling stopped and growls filtered through from the pens.

  He left Tsetseg, Bartan, and Jeong-hak to guard the lift and prevent anyone else from coming down. Strong doors secured the next chamber. Thick, heavy doors. They would never be enough.

  More cages stood in the pens. Fingers grasping like claws, skin hanging loosely from gaping wounds, two dozen zombies pushed against the thick iron bars—brought in from Europe, from Africa. There was no way to tell. They were all the same. Ravenous. Mindless.

  Ariq drew his pistol.

  “No!” Jochi grabbed his wrist. “You think anyone would come to see men grappling with each other? They won’t pay for that. They want men like the Butcher. They want machines. They want to see blood and death, and they’ll spend money to get it. These things feed my people.”

  “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.

  XII

  Now this was an adventu
re.

  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.