Choking and spitting blood, Ohoshika was sprawled on the deck and reaching for his weapon. Ariq crossed the short distance and finished him.
Lifting his head, he listened over the roaring engines. No one sounded an alarm. No one had seen.
He crouched beside the bodies. Both guards possessed blades but Ariq wouldn’t disrespect them by using their own weapons to do this. The hairpin he’d stolen from Zenobia’s hair was hidden in the seam of his tunic. He tugged the sharp steel pin out and stabbed it into their stomachs and throats. The wounds bled sluggishly—but they bled enough. One at a time, he dragged the bodies to a shadowed part of the rail and threw them over.
Ariq couldn’t jump after them yet or he would be the megalodons’ first meal. The airship had to carry him far enough away from the blood. Ten minutes at this speed. Longer, if any of Tatsukawa’s men came to this part of the deck and noticed that his guards were gone, and Ariq had to toss them over, too. Then he would have to wait another ten minutes until he’d gained enough distance from the new pool of blood.
None came.
He moved farther back into the shadows. Though he strove for calm, his blood thundered. Chilled sweat trickled down his spine. But his heart was iron. His will was steel.
The face of the sea would be as hard as a board. His body had to be a nail.
He took a running start and leapt.
For a brief moment, a cloud of steam from the engine enveloped him in warmth, then the propeller swept cold wind into his back and seemed to push him, faster and faster, whipping the loose edges of his tunic against his skin and ripping tears from his eyes. Fighting the urge to spread his arms, to slow his fall, he drew his hands in. Straight legs. Tense muscles. Not diving, but feet first.
My body is a nail.
Gravity was a hammer, pounding him in.
The shock splintered up his legs and back as if he’d been hit by a steamcoach. Pain whitened his vision. The cold sea swallowed him.
Darkness threatened to rush in. Shaking his head, Ariq struggled against it. How far down had he plunged? Sweeping his arms, he kicked. Was he propelling himself deeper into the sea? The swirling water seemed darker now, his body heavier. No direction seemed brighter than any other. Clouds blocked the moon; no light would guide him upward. He fought for his bearings, fought the uncertainty crushing his chest . . . and exhaled the breath from his lungs.
The bubbles rose. Ariq followed them.
Just as his lungs felt ready to burst he broke the surface, coughing. Waves slapped his face and stung his eyes. The airship’s engine droned overhead.
And there it was. In the distance. The port beacon—leading him back to Zenobia.
He began to swim.
XVII
I am coming for you.
Hugging a blanket around her shoulders, Zenobia stood at the ironship’s portside rail and looked into the dark water below. The heavy vessel left a foaming trail in its wake that disappeared like footsteps in melting snow. Behind her, the smoke from the stacks dissipated into the night sky, leaving no trace to follow.
Admiral Tatsukawa’s airship—with Ariq on it—had barely been out of sight when the ironship’s engines had fired. For four days, they’d plowed through the ocean on a western course, and Zenobia’s heart clenched tighter with every league they sailed.
Would Ariq guess that she wouldn’t be where he’d left her? He’d anticipated the rest: that he would be taken to locate the Skybreaker while she was held on the rebellion’s ironship, and that she would be returned to him after the war machine had been delivered into the rebellion’s hands. But had he guessed the general and admiral would trade her new location for the machine?
They must have suspected Ariq might not give them the Skybreaker—that he might attempt to escape and return for her.
I am coming for you.
But not tonight. Or the night before. And if he couldn’t find her, maybe not any night of the tomorrows to come.
Still, she hoped. If he came, it would probably be under cover of darkness. Zenobia hadn’t slept the past four nights so that she would be prepared to leave when he arrived. Lifting her face to the drizzling rain, she searched the dark clouds. Two hours remained before dawn. Ariq had promised to return before the new moon rose, but a waxing half moon had shone overhead the previous evening. The new moon was almost three weeks away.
She desperately hoped his vow had been more poetic than literal.
Three more weeks wasn’t so long to wait. She’d waited longer than that for a ransom before, and in worse conditions than this. There was nowhere to go but into the shark-infested waters, so she’d been given freedom to walk the upper deck instead of being locked in a cabin. But in the past, kidnapping had always been a business transaction. Someone abducted her, Archimedes paid them, Zenobia was freed. It wasn’t so simple this time. It was war. It was life and death. The question wasn’t when she would be released or how much gold they would want, but how many people would die as a result of the ransom being paid . . . or not.
And she’d never been held so far from home. She’d never been so tired, or felt so very small.
I am coming for you.
She was clinging to that promise as tightly as she’d clung to his hand. Clinging to the memory of the gravel in his voice as he’d spoken it, clinging to the image of his eyes, dark and intense, clinging to the pleasure of his sweet, urgent kiss. But with every passing mile, it all seemed to be slipping out of her grasp.
Hoping so much was exhausting, like exercising an unused muscle. Had she hoped so infrequently in the past that she couldn’t maintain the effort now? Zenobia didn’t know. But it seemed that hope quickly wore itself out and made room for doubt.
No, it didn’t just make room for doubt. It built a pantry, with shelves stuffed full of worries. And Zenobia couldn’t stop herself from nibbling, but those doubts didn’t nourish her or vanish with each bite. They only grew fatter.
If only the general would return her satchel—or even a pen. But every request she made was ignored or denied, and she had nothing but hope and worry to keep her occupied. The first day, she’d written her pencil lead down to the wood. Now all that she could do was think think think, all day and night, think think think, revisiting that pantry of doubts.
Then she would force herself to remember what he’d said. I am coming for you. And when she could bear it, Zenobia made herself remember the other, too. You are everything to me.
That one was harder to cling to. The doubts were sharper, and hurt so fiercely—probably because she hoped those words were true even more than she hoped for rescue.
Which was foolish. So foolish.
Behind her, boots sounded on the metal deck—the guard was making his rounds early. Blast him. She’d been memorizing their schedule and creating a mental map of where they stood at their posts. Now she would have to alter them.
Except it wasn’t a guard. The man who came to the rail wore the same high knot in his hair that Ariq did, but it was brown instead of black, and his eyes were a blue more common to the western end of the Horde Empire than to the east. Tall, lean, weathered by the sun and grayed by time, he seemed still and watchful. Like a tree, perhaps. Unyielding and strong, providing protection and shade.
But trees could become battering rams. Zenobia wouldn’t let herself forget that.
She greeted him with an inclination of her head. “General.”
“Madame Fox.” Ghazan Bator replied in French. Each word was slow and formal, but so far, he was the only one Zenobia had spoken to aboard the ironship who knew the language. “My men tell me that you wandered the deck this night, and each night previous. Can you not sleep?”
“I have been too busy thinking, sir.”
“Of what?”
“I was thinking that the Horde Empire is very large, and that the machine could be hidden anywhere from Old Nippon to the western shores of Africa. It might be some time before Ariq and the admiral reach its location.”
“Yes.”
So perhaps the new moon wasn’t a poetic promise, but an accurate estimate of how much time Ariq would be away. A knot of anxiety twisted in her chest. “I need occupation, sir. I would be grateful if my papers were returned to me—or even blank pages with a pen.”
“Come.” The general pushed away from the rail. “We will discuss it.”
Why not discuss it here? But she remained silent as they walked along the broad, empty decks to the ship’s stern. The command tower stood in front of the smokestacks. Topped by an open observation deck, the wheelhouse filled the uppermost level, with windows offering a view on all sides. A spiral staircase wound up through the tower’s heart, but Zenobia hadn’t climbed it yet. Her quarters were in the lowest level of the tower—a small cabin with a porthole that overlooked the bottom of a stack. She hadn’t been invited any higher. Nor had she been sent to the lower decks, where most of the crew resided.
“The fourth level.” The general gestured for Zenobia to precede him.
The steps were cold beneath her bare feet, but better than the wet metal decks outside. The second level opened to more doors, each one an iron oval in a bolted frame. Officer quarters, perhaps. The third level had windows facing the front of the ship, and through an open door she saw consoles crowded with dials and controls.
“I will have boots and a warmer tunic found for you,” the general said as they reached the fourth landing. “I cannot promise they will be a proper fit, but they will be better to wear on the open deck than what you have.”
“Thank you.” She hated being grateful to him. If she’d known that he would be taking her hostage, she’d have worn something more substantial than silk.
He inclined his head and opened the hatch to his quarters. Though larger than hers, his cabin wasn’t much bigger than the one she’d shared with Helene on the French airship. There were no decorations to speak of, only bare walls. More windows looked out over the primary deck. She didn’t see a place to sleep. His berth must have been through the hatch on the aft wall. The function of this cabin seemed more like a sitting room.
The contents of her satchel were neatly piled on a low table.
Zenobia froze, staring at them. Those letters and that manuscript were the reason why she was here, but he obviously hadn’t invited her in response to her request. He’d planned to invite her before going outside.
“Come and sit.” Moving to the table, he sank onto the mat and waited for her to sit on the opposite side, facing him over her letters—all unfolded, as if they’d been read. “Tea?”
“Yes.” She would drink anything if it meant getting her letters back. “Thank you.”
The general spoke and a boy seemed to appear from nowhere, cracking a window and lighting the copper brazier beside the table. He clanked a tin kettle onto the grate and was gone as silently as he’d come.
“Do you speak English as fluently as you write it?” the general asked in that language.
Zenobia’s heart sank. “Yes.”
“It’s easier for me.” He regarded her steadily, and in that long second she felt as if he stripped away every secret she’d ever tried to hide. She clutched the blanket tighter around her shoulders as he continued, “I spent almost five years in England when I was a young man—a soldier for the Golden Army. A faithful, steadfast soldier. I’d heard of the rebellion, but their disloyalty to the Khagan disgusted me. That changed in the labor colony.”
Of England. She’d never thought of it as a colony. Instead it had been invaded, occupied, enslaved. She supposed colonized was more palatable to those who’d done it. “Why?”
“Have you ever seen a young girl beg not to have her legs cut off and replaced with rickshaw levers?”
“No.” And she thanked God for it. “But I’ve seen the women those girls have become.”
He nodded. “You’ve been?”
“To London and Brighton.”
“They’re better off now.”
Since the revolution against the Horde? “Yes.”
“We would all be better off.” His gaze fell to the papers piled on the desk. Her dagger contraption was there, too, sheathed and the spring loaded. The fat bag of gold lounged next to it. “After England, I was plagued by uncertainties. Change was necessary, but I didn’t know if it should be attempted from the inside or out—whether I should bring my concerns to my commanders and, eventually, the Khagan and his ministers, or join the rebellion. That uncertainty cost a good man his life. Another soldier and I had been sharing our concerns, our uncertainties, and he attempted to speak with our superiors. Testing the waters, as they say. Those were the last words he spoke.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes. But it taught me well. Never since have I risked indecision, for in those moments of wavering we are most vulnerable.”
So the general wasn’t the sort to ramble on without a point. “And what are you deciding now?”
He smiled faintly. “I have already decided. But tell me—why do you write in English? It’s not your natural language.”
“Because if the letters are intercepted, fewer people can read them,” she said dryly, and his chuckle acknowledged the irony.
He tapped her manuscript pages. “And this?”
“The people in England seem more eager for stories like these.”
“So it was a calculated decision.”
Partially. And partially because she remembered how desperate she’d once been for escape. A locked closet or a fist wasn’t the same as being invaded and enslaved. But she liked to think those girls wanted adventures, too.
“Perhaps poorly calculated. As I said, fewer people can read the language.” In England, groups crowded around a literate friend who would read aloud—and she sold one copy of a story per dozens of listeners. “But they became popular elsewhere, as well, so I was fortunate.”
“And seditious.”
“And . . . What?”
Beside her, the boiling kettle began to rattle. The boy appeared and poured the steaming water into a pot.
“Your last story was labeled seditious.” The general seemed amused. “Or so the Nipponese ministers believed. Copies were burned. The ending had to be rewritten.”
Lips parted in shock, she stared at him. “I don’t know whether I’m proud or offended.”
“Be proud.”
“I’m offended. I’m certain I was never paid for Nipponese translations.”
His laugh was a pleasant one, low and deep. “Have you met the twins?”
“In the Fox Den?” She shook her head. “I’ve only heard of them.”
“And you’ll only hear of the money your work earns for them. You’ll never pry a coin out of their hands.” He spoke to the boy, who left them again. “I cannot see anything seditious in what I read here.”
Because there wasn’t anything. But Zenobia watched him uneasily, because he might have recognized the plot she had been building since the marauders had fired on the French airship. Lady Lynx had stopped her attackers and saved her crew from megalodons, but that had only been the first act.
“Yes.” He confirmed her unspoken question. “The destruction of the airship. Not by pirates intending to plunder, but serving another purpose.”
To prod the empress into sending her forces to the western Australian coast—to threaten Ariq’s town. “Then why am I here?”
“Admiral Tatsukawa believed this would be more efficient.”
More efficient to threaten a single woman than to follow through on a convoluted plot involving the empress and her navy? “I have to agree. But you don’t?”
“Love is a powerful motivator.” He continued regarding her steadily, but the warmth of amusement faded, as if now he was observing an insect pinned to a board. “And the admiral remembers how Ariq risked a Nipponese prison to free his brother.”
Her heart thudded. “He did?”
“Fourteen guards dead. Twice as many injured. So the admiral believes that if he risked so m
uch to save his brother, he will easily sacrifice a machine to save you. But what Ariq did in the prison was not out of love.”
It sounded like love to her. “What was it, then?”
“Anger.” He poured the tea into two cups. “He didn’t even know his brother. But his mother was dead. He was angry—at me, at the admiral, at everyone.”
“He might be angry now.”
“He probably is. But there was one factor in that rescue the admiral didn’t consider: It was against the Nipponese. Though Ariq abandoned us, he remains loyal, and he would never jeopardize the rebellion or his people.” The general set the teapot on its tray and met her gaze. “And he won’t come for you.”
Her chest seemed to cave in, crushed beneath the agony of those words. But Zenobia wouldn’t let the general see. She only looked at him.
“He won’t give over the machine, either,” he continued. “At least not now. He won’t give it over until the empress is firing on his town. When he escapes the admiral’s airship, he might make an attempt to find you. After he realizes that we’ve gone, however, he’ll have to decide between leaving you here or returning to his town to prepare. He’ll leave you—because he knows that we won’t harm you, and because his loyalty to his people is greater than his loyalty to his heart.”
Each word was another blow that ripped open her insides and left her bleeding. She could barely breathe past the pain. Everything he said made sense. She wouldn’t even blame Ariq if that was the choice he made.
He barely knew her. And even though he’d claimed to be falling in love with her, that was with a woman who didn’t exist—the spy, the desperate woman who’d needed his help. It wasn’t Zenobia, the writer with a few secrets, a reckless brother, and a pregnant friend.
Though it felt as if a burning coal had lodged in her throat, she managed, “You won’t harm me?”
“No.”
“Will you let me go?”
“Not yet.” Lips pursed, he cooled the surface of his tea before sipping. “You’re still useful. But when you are not, we will send you home to the North Sea. And perhaps when this is all done, Ariq will come for you.”
The Kraken King Page 30