Break the Chains

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  “Sorry, Mallie. You’re coming with us as far as the washers’ house. If you don’t make a peep, you’ll be fine. Understand?”

  She trembled, but nodded, not so much as murmuring agreement. Quick learner. Dragging Mallie along with them slowed them, and though Pelkaia could see the frustration writ clear in Coss’s anxious steps she was soothed by the maid’s presence. They knew where they were going. No amount of fleeing at speed could have outpaced that knowledge.

  Down one level. Two. Three. Sweat beaded on her brow, dripped into her eyes and blurred her vision with her own stinging salt. Splitting her concentration between holding the selium against her face, escorting the maid, and being mindful of her steps was taking its toll. Her slopped-together mask must look grotesque, but she was loathe to give up the anonymity it offered her.

  “I’ll take her,” Coss said, reaching out to gather the maid in his thicker arm.

  The maid squirmed, clearly irritated at being shoved around so. Her pinched gaze fell upon Pelkaia’s hands. Saw the lack of weapon in them. Her eyes widened, her lips pressed together in anger. Her head reared back, smacking Coss in the nose. Pelkaia lunged forward, but the maid twisted away.

  “He-elp!” she screamed, cupping one hand around her mouth while she hiked her skirts with the other and bolted swift as a monsoon wind down the steps. Her first cry was drowned out by the great clash of the alarm bells, but Pelkaia could see her gather her breath for another roar.

  “By the pits,” Coss growled, covering his nose with one hand. A thin, bloody trickle rolled over his lips.

  “Help!” Mallie screeched high enough to make Pelkaia cringe. The maid was already a great many flights below them, her voice echoing up through the shaft of spiraling stone steps.

  “Forget her,” Pelkaia said as she grabbed Coss’s arm and urged him forward. “We can’t be far, and we must be quick.”

  He grunted, smeared the blood from his nose across the back of his wrist, and followed her at a sprint down the steps. Pelkaia leaned forward into her gait, urging her tired body to fly down the stones.

  “Here!” Coss grabbed her arm, thick fingers digging into her flesh as she jerked to a halt. Not bothering to explain, he lunged for the next door and flung it open – Pelkaia caught only a brief glimpse of the number three carved into the old wood – and dragged her through.

  The hallway was narrow, the runner-rug thin and the air redolent with warm soap smells. A single door stood at the end of it, painted a sunny yellow. Waiting.

  They surged forward. Pelkaia’s breath burned over her lips, down her throat, doing little to ease the ache in her chest. Coss flung the door open and they barreled through. The walkway was narrow, but sturdy. It lead to a dark building, to a twin yellow door. Despite the angry lash of the sea winds, the laundry building radiated the faint scent of grit soap and lilacs. Shouts sounded behind them, distant, but growing near.

  Pelkaia stumbled, boot catching on a board, and twisted just in time to land hard on her side instead of pitching over the three-story drop to the road below. She gasped as the jar of the fall shuddered through her, enhancing the ache of her already tired body. Her bone-braces could do little against a fall at full speed. Coss’s hands were already upon her, lifting, searching for breaks.

  As she staggered to her feet she looked back, glancing at the sky instinctively. Her heart missed a beat.

  “Pell, what is it?” Concern and fear mingled on his dirt-smudged face. He followed her eye-line, saw the familiar – if obscured – shape of their ship docked against the watchtower.

  “What the...” He rubbed his cheeks as if he could massage away the sight.

  Pelkaia let out a strangled laugh. “That’s what I get, working with Honding. He’s here. That daft-headed man came for us. Come on. Let’s go get ourselves arrested again.”

  She wiped the sweat from her face with the bottom of her shirt, then rearranged her mask to the one she had worn when they had been arrested. Through all their fleeing, she had lost a few bits of the mask. It lay thin and patchy against her skin. Fine for fooling an overworked watcher, but no good for close scrutiny.

  “Coss, I hate to ask, but…”

  He took one look at her face and grimaced. “I see the problem. Give me a moment.”

  Steadying himself with the handrail, he stared straight at a piece of empty air between them. Her skin tingled as he accessed his sel-sense, focused on the very rawest edge of his sensitivity. While he could see the minute particles of sel drifting in the air at all times, he could also, when matters were desperate, reach out and wrench some of those bits and pieces together – force them to gel into something large enough for another, less fine-tuned, sensitive to use.

  He grunted. A little pearl shimmered between them and began to rise. Pelkaia snapped out her senses and captured the new glob of sel, adding it to the thin parts of her mask, trying to ignore the paleness in Coss’s cheeks, the slight shiver in the muscles of his arms.

  “How is it?”

  Coss gave her a tight nod, too tired to waste breath on speech. It would do. He brushed the hair from her forehead, securing it behind her ear, and she ignored the warmth of his touch as she turned back to the station-house. She could not afford to be distracted. Not when Detan Honding waited for her on the other side of that garish, yellow door.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The watch-captain proved fleeter on his feet than Detan had imagined. Panting, he half ran, half stumbled down the stairs after the man. Laella and Tibs pulled ahead to nip at the watch-captain’s heels, drawing a glare from Detan. Rude of them to leave him behind. Short bursts from the captain’s whistle echoed throughout the stairwell, bouncing off the wooden paneling and piercing his ears. Combined with the steady clang of the alarm bells, Detan feared his head would explode.

  “Is that really necessary?” he yelled.

  A toot of whistles answered the watch-captain’s call from down below. Detan grimaced, understanding. There was no other way for the watchers to communicate amongst themselves as long as those infernal bells thumped along.

  “They’ve been spotted in the service stairs!” the captain cried, and Detan rolled his eyes. Of course that’s the way they’d gone – he’d insisted as much before the captain had gone tearing off down the main stairwell. Bloody incompetent lot, these Petrastad watchers. Too simple in their thinking. What he wouldn’t give for Ripka to be the watch-captain here, today. At least she was a pleasure to fence with. This cockerel posturing was going to drain his patience, fast.

  Blasted Pelkaia. Should have lounged around waiting for rescue, brushing her hair and singing to little birds, or whatever it was damsels in distress did while the knights got run off their feet in the old stories.

  The captain wrenched a door open and they jumbled out after him, zigzagging through the maze of corridors that made up the watchtower. There was a certain freedom in having no idea where you were or where you were going. He figured that, at the very least, no one could blame him if they took a wrong turn, and that was fine by him. Detan was getting right sick of shouldering the blame around here.

  They reached a darkened alcove, and the captain paused to wrench a lantern from the wall. While they waited for him to wick the light up, Detan grabbed Tibs’s arm and pulled him close to whisper.

  “New plan; talk over Laella if you have to. Blasted girl is too honest.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “I will by the time we find ’em.”

  Tibs cracked a grin and pulled away, tearing off after the hustling captain. Detan groaned. If Pelkaia didn’t have the facilities aboard the Larkspur to give him a long, hot bath after this, he was going to insist they turn right back around and drop him at the Salt Baths in Aransa. To the pits with Thratia and her bastard army. The pain in his knees was worse than her trying to kill him.

  Cursing under his breath with every thudding step, he forced himself to hurry along, counting on the others to do any finding that needed to be
done. He let his mind wander, seeking ahead of their current predicament, trying to see his way through to how in the pits he was going to wiggle Pelkaia and her first mate away from the watchers’ hands now that she’d gone and embarrassed them by escaping.

  Shouldn’t be too hard. He could twist their escape around, make it look like the watchers weren’t capable of holding onto a high-value prisoner. It’d be a risk to insult the captain, sure, but Laella’d already gone ahead and stuck her foot down that muddy path, so he might as well roll along with it.

  At least Pelkaia’d owe him big after this. He was looking forward to that prize.

  The bells sounded duller in the service stairs, muffled by thick stone. While the alarm hadn’t ceased, the big thumps came further and further apart – not relinquishing the emergency, but allowing the watchers space to better communicate. Through a break in the bells, a woman’s cries echoed up from below. He couldn’t tell if the voice was Pelkaia’s, and added speed to his struggling steps. When had he grown so achy? He’d never felt so old before. So bone-weary.

  A maid crashed into the captain, fleeing up the steps. He grunted, but steadied them both. Detan woofed down air as they caught their balance and their breath.

  “Are you all right, miss? Have you seen the escapees?”

  “Third floor!” she gasped the words out, pointing back up to the level they’d just passed. “Going for the laundry building!”

  “Are you injured?” the captain asked, but Detan was already scurrying ahead. Having fallen behind the others, he was first back up to the third floor. He found the door unlatched and hurried through, closing it enough to give the captain pause. He hoped he could get eyes on Pelkaia before the others arrived and communicate to her somehow to stand down.

  No luck. The hall beyond the door was empty, save for a half-opened yellow door at the opposite end. Laella barged in after him, flinging the door wide, and Detan stifled a sigh. He’d have to teach the girl some of the more subtle tricks of his craft if they all made it out of this.

  He jogged to the yellow door, grateful for what little padding the thin rug offered, and tugged it all the way open.

  Pelkaia stood directly before him, her stranger’s face on despite the sweat glistening across her chest. Her mouth dropped open in shock. For a heartbeat, Detan was tempted to grab her and flee, but he knew that those left on board the ship wouldn’t figure out they needed to leave the watchtower right up until a bunch of watchers crawled over their deck.

  Shit. What would a Fleetie guard say in this situation? Shoulda let old Tibs go ahead, he’d know what to do.

  “Uh,” he blathered. “Stand down!”

  That was a thing military types said, wasn’t it? Judging by the way Pelkaia rolled her eyes, he guessed he missed his mark. She took a half step back, hesitant, glancing down the rope bridge to Detan and back.

  He realized her problem. If she were escaping, she’d punch him and run. But she’d cottoned on to the game, and she didn’t want to get into a scuffle with him. It’d be too obvious that she’d have to fake losing – he’d never been deft in a fight.

  “My face!” Coss yelled from behind Pelkaia, making them both jump. The sturdy lad fell to the floor so hard he rocked the bridge, nearly pitching Pelkaia over. Pelkaia dropped to her knees to steady her groaning first mate, and Detan peered over her shoulder, surprised to find the man’s face was indeed smeared with blood. Huh.

  “What’s happening here?” the captain called. Detan glanced over his shoulder in time to see the blue-coated bastard shove his way past Laella and Tibs. Detan had the good sense to shake his hand out as if he’d dealt Coss a mighty blow and was aching from it.

  “Found ’em, captain. Have your lads wrap ’em up so we can get off this cursed rock before the storm sets in.”

  “Good work.” The captain clapped Detan on the shoulder as he shoved him aside to get to Pelkaia and Coss. “One of the apothiks can get you a salve for that hand.”

  The captain gave his whistle a rhythmic series of high blasts, and soon the hall was so deep with blue coats Detan began to feel he’d been set adrift at sea. Being surrounded by so much authority made him decidedly queasy. He feigned an ache in his hand and slithered to the back of the hall, keeping an eye on things while Pelkaia and Coss were trussed up good and tight. He grinned a little. They weren’t being gentle this time ’round. Despite the gaggle of watchers, not a one was willing to let their recaptured prisoners get even the tiniest bit loose.

  “I thank you for your assistance,” Laella said to the captain. Detan’s head jerked up and he tried to spot Tibs in the crowd. Tibs had gotten himself in with the prisoner escort and had a hand squarely on the ropes wrapped around Pelkaia’s wrists. Too far away to intervene if Laella began to lose the plot. Trying to make it look casual, he waited for her to pass him by and fell in step beside her, joining the little blue procession back up the watchtower – and hopefully to the deck of the Larkspur.

  “Assistance?” The captain wiped sweat from his brow to the back of his sleeve. “That wasn’t for you, commodore. Those two bastards knocked one of my men clear out. You know how bad that can be for a mind? He’d been out awhile, too. If he suffers any permanent damage...” He trailed off, rubbing one fist around and around in the palm of his other hand as he imagined all the nasty he things he might do to Pelkaia and Coss.

  Detan suppressed a sigh. And it had all been going so well... Up until the alarm bells and empty cells, at any rate.

  Laella straightened a few strands of hair that had flown free during the chase and squared her shoulders. “I will personally see to it that they work hard labor on the Remnant.”

  “Remnant?” The captain cast her a sidelong glance. “I think not. They assaulted a watcher, they will serve their time under a watcher roof, penned in by watcher walls.”

  “Are you mad?” Laella scoffed and tossed her head. Detan winced at her overacting. “They shot a Fleetman! They are mine to do with as I please, and I will take them to the cold care of the Remnant.”

  “Begging your pardon, commodore, but you have no jurisdiction–”

  Detan rubbed his temples to smooth out the pounding their bickering brought on. They were over halfway back up the tower, if the ache in Detan’s legs was any marker to go by. He had to get the captain’s mind turned around quick. It was time to yank the rockcat’s tail.

  “Pardon me, watch-captain,” he interjected, laying on as much scorn as he could muster. “But we can hardly trust you to keep anything under a watcher roof. These two failed thieves were under your care scarcely more than a mark and already they’d run off halfway to the laundry hut. You’re incapable of containing them. Unless, of course, you want them running free…?”

  “How dare you!” The captain’s cheeks flared red and his eyes bugged out as he whirled upon Detan. “This is the most secure facility in all of Petrastad!”

  Detan mustered up a wide yawn. “Really? How quaint. Then I suppose we cannot leave them here, if this is the best you’ve to offer.”

  The captain punched him. Detan’s head jerked and he exaggerated a sideways stumble, just managing to catch himself on the stairwell banister. Bright, stinging pain exploded across his face, followed by a cold, numbing sensation and then a dull, aching warmth. A trickle of blood strolled down his lip. Though it stung like fire ants, he was glad for the dramatic flair of a spot of blood.

  The sea of watchers stilled, fell silent. Detan rubbed his cheek and genuinely flinched. Tibs caught his eye, and there was so much anger in that gaze Detan half expected him to rip the watch-captain’s head clear off. Detan gave a slight shake of the head, and reminded himself to be more careful. Tibs’s temper wasn’t as quick to boil as his own, but it was dangerous all the same. He may not be a dab hand in a fight, but that didn’t mean Tibs was unable of exacting some punishment when he felt the need. Detan turned, slowly, to regard the captain. He was staring at his hand as if it’d betrayed him.

  “I... I apolog
ize, Fleetman…?” He stumbled over his words, realizing he did not even know Detan’s name.

  Laella stepped close to the captain and dropped her voice to a low hiss. “I will forgive this trespass against the Fleet, if you relinquish the prisoners to my control.”

  The knot of his throat bobbed twice in quick succession. He nodded. “They are yours.”

  Laella turned sharp on her heel, skies bless her, and strode up the stone steps like she owned them. The stunned watchers shifted aside to let her pass, then reluctantly fell into step once more, herding their prisoners back up toward the lobby. Detan was chagrined to spot a wide, delighted smile on Pelkaia’s borrowed face.

  They passed the rest of the way up the steps in tense silence, save for the labored breathing of a few – Detan included – who’d rather overdone it in all the excitement. His face ached, making deep breaths an uncomfortable arrangement, but he figured a little sting was easier to deal with than convincing that captain to give up his charges willingly.

  Wasn’t the first time he’d riled a man into punching him, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  While Laella and the captain filled out the necessary transfer paperwork – all forged on Laella’s end, of course – Detan slunk over to Tibs, Pelkaia, and Coss. He didn’t dare say a word, but it felt good to have the thing – or people – he’d come to filch close by. Made him confident he’d win through. And had the added benefit of hiding him from view of the cursed apothik roaming around the lobby, checking the watchers for injury. Last thing he needed right now was a sour memory of whitecoats and cold potions setting off his fear – and his anger. He was already a might uncomfortable with the selium plastered to Pelkaia’s face.

  “If that will be all...?” Laella said, letting her tone make it clear as a blue sky that had better be all.

  “Yes, of course,” the captain said, his voice subdued now that he’d screwed himself out of his quarry. Detan couldn’t blame the man. He knew what it was like to lose your temper, to lash out without thought and ruin damned near everything. “Gag ’em up for transport,” he added.