Break the Chains

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  Laying on his back, shivering with remembrance of the whole experience, he watched Pelkaia stride up the gangplank after him, her first mate and young, brave Laella trotting at her heels.

  “Bring it in!” she barked to her sweating, straining crew, and spun around to heave up the gangplank with her own hands.

  The ship jerked as she hauled the plank in, slewing away from the dock by the unseen force of someone – no doubt Pelkaia – shoving on the selium hidden away in the ship’s buoyancy sacks, clustering it to one side of the ship. A sloppy turn, but a decent enough fix to lurch them out of reach of watcher hands.

  Groaning, Tibs hauled himself to his feet and offered a hand to Detan. He eyed it, wary.

  “Get up, sirra. Work to be done.”

  “Ship’s got a full crew,” he grumbled.

  “Little busy right now.”

  Detan took Tibs’s hand and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet, every joint screaming in protest. The sensitives were arrayed against the Larkspur’s aft rail, hauling in the clouds of selium they’d used to frighten the watchers. Great snakes of it flowed out from the watchtower lobby, trailing after the ship like the tail of a shooting star. They were straining, all of them, and even Pelkaia had gone to join them. Every hand was needed to hold onto and reclaim the precious selium that hid their ship from prying eyes.

  And not a single hand was left to see to the ship’s tiller.

  “Good ole-fashioned flying,” Detan grinned at Tibs as he forced himself over to the captain’s podium, working the cranks that angled the sails and set the gearboxes on the ship’s great propellers spinning.

  “Not for long,” Tibs said, jerking his chin to starboard. Detan leaned from his heightened perch at the captain’s podium, peering down at the dock they’d abandoned. The watchers piled onto the craft he’d spotted earlier, encouraged by the sweet prize of the Larkspur, and were lifting off below.

  “Oh,” Detan said, fingers going white on the wheel.

  “Tie on!” Tibs barked, and reached for his anchor rope even as he latched one onto Detan’s belt.

  Muscles burning, breath stuttering, Detan threw his back into the crank of the Larkspur’s largest aft propeller, throttling them out and into the clouds – and toward the dark smudge of a storm appearing upon the horizon.

  The watchers followed, chasing the starfall trail of selium Pelkaia’s crew struggled to reel back in.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When the cell doors were opened for the morning meal, Ripka’s was left sealed. A few coded knocks against the wall she shared with Enard revealed that he had been left in place as well. After their neighbors were led down to breakfast, stale buns stuffed with stewed greens were shoved through the slots in both their doors.

  Ripka ate the now familiar fare quickly, anxiety stirring her feet until she paced while she chewed, wearing a thin path in the dusty floor of her cell. Was the sealed door Kisser’s doing, or Radu’s? There was no way to be certain, and the question gnawed at her. She had expected to pretend to her guard that she was too ill to attend the morning meal and subsequent work shift, not to be left alone while the gears of the Remnant ground on without her.

  As the bells rang out to call the convicts to their work, two slips of paper followed Ripka’s roll through the slot in her door. She scooped them up, hungry for information. One was sealed with wax, Nouli’s crest stamped into the dark-gold blob – his letter to the empress, no doubt. The one which she was not supposed to open, lest Nouli’s contacts think something was amiss.

  The other was folded over and sealed with a blob of guar sap. She tore the page apart and peered at the sloppy hand, taking a moment to resolve the slanting letters into words.

  * * *

  You will be escorted to the drop by a guard of my choosing. Ask no questions, speak only when spoken to. Do not fuck this up.

  * * *

  Ah, Kisser must have written this. She crumpled the note and shoved it up her sleeve to dispose of later. Nouli’s report she slipped into her pocket, careful not to disturb the elegant seal holding the paper’s lips shut.

  The information should have soothed her, but she continued her furtive pacing. What guard would Kisser choose, and how could she be certain that guard was loyal?

  Why, if a guard must be used to explain Kisser’s movements when she made these meetings, didn’t they send the guard to make the exchange? If they were truly loyal, then there should be no need to risk other guards – or Radu himself – discovering a prisoner out of place.

  It made no sense, and that made her skin crawl.

  Kisser was not, so far as Ripka could tell, a sloppy woman. She must have her reasons for this method, but Ripka could not work out what they were.

  When presented with an unanswerable question, Detan had said, stall.

  Ripka grunted at the memory. Not, she supposed, the most useful advice – that man was unnaturally assured of his own invulnerability – but it was the only path she had to follow for the moment.

  A thump sounded on her door, startling her out of her thoughts, and it swung inward. Hessan, her block’s centerpoint guard, stood at her threshold, eyeing her with barely concealed disdain.

  “Out,” he ordered.

  Swallowing a sharp retort, Ripka stepped out into the hall and was startled to see Enard already waiting, a pensive crease to his brow. Kisser had implied that only one of them would make the exchange. Her stomach churned with a sudden pang of worry. Was this really Kisser’s man – or another play of Radu’s? There were too many unanswered questions in the air for her comfort.

  “You have it?” Hessan asked.

  Ripka arched an eyebrow, then realized he must mean Nouli’s report. “Yes.”

  “Good. Follow me.”

  She fell into step alongside Enard, the silence between them thick with tension. There was little they could do now, save move with events and see what happened. To return to their cells would invite nothing but trouble, and to cry for help would do nothing but draw unwanted attention.

  The weight of Kisser’s letter was like a stone in her sleeve. She hated being so far out of control – so vulnerable to the whims of those she did not like, let alone trust. As she walked, she ran through her options.

  She could disable Hessan, if it came to that. But what then? She could not shut herself back within her cell and pretend innocence. No doubt she’d be tossed to the sharks – and then what of her contact with Nouli? To betray Kisser, even in self-defense, would erase all hope of winning the man and his talents over to her side.

  Ripka exhaled slowly, breathing out her worry. She’d promised Detan and Tibal she could recover Nouli. And though she knew they would not blame her, she knew as well that the man might be Hond Steading’s greatest hope.

  They passed through a door and out of the prison walls, onto the hard, rocky soil of the island. A bitter cold nipped her face, but she found she no longer trembled at the sea’s chill touch. She’d always been an adaptable woman. If she hadn’t been, she’d be bones beneath the sands of the Brown Wash by now.

  Enard made a small sound in the back of his throat, unnoticed by the guard who stalked ahead of them. He tipped his head back, drawing her eye to the walk atop the prison dormitories, where a guard was always set to watch. The walk was empty. If it were not for the faint murmur of hundreds of voices concealed within those hugging wings of stone she could not have been sure the island was inhabited at all.

  The paths wound closer to the sea. Low tide had slipped in, and the air was heavy with the decay of sea-plants and unfortunate creatures who had been abandoned to the sands as the tide retreated. Down a steep path, angling across the crumbled face of a fallen cliff, she spied a marshy pool tucked within the rocks, reeking of the reeds that dropped their seeds into it to molder.

  She flicked her wrist, a subtle movement, and dropped Kisser’s note into the pool. Committed, now, to whatever was to come, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Betrayal or no, she�
�d kept her word. She could only hope Kisser believed Ripka had a way off the island.

  The path opened onto the rocky shore. Ripka took a moment to admire the endless freedom of the gleaming horizon. She would have that freedom again, someday soon. Once her task was finished.

  The beach was a thumbprint on the chiseled shoreline. Scarcely fifty paces across, it looked as if an elder cliff had collapsed, leaving this crescent strip strewn with rough rocks.

  The low level of the waters exposed a bit more ground, cluttered with strips of kelp dancing all over with the jump and scuttle of sandfleas. Into this temporary stretch of land a flier had dropped anchor. The craft boasted a single sail, its hull narrow and low with only a cursory attempt at a railing. A single propeller graced its aft, the lacquer to protect the wood from cloud mist chipped and peeling. Tibal would have had a fit to see a propeller in such disrepair.

  A wiry man stood on deck, his thatch of dark hair shot all through with grey. He crouched at an opening in the rail, hovering above a natty rope ladder, the bottom rung of which dragged in the damp sand. A pack rested beside his knee, good oilcloth bulging at the strapped seams. He wore no insignia nor uniform, but his appearance was not the puzzle that caught in the brambles of her mind.

  A small ship, smaller than Detan’s flier, could not cross the open sea to the Remnant.

  Hessan whistled a strange bird cry. The man nodded in acknowledgement. They tromped across the uneven beach to the smoother sands the tide had given up, Ripka’s shoes sucking in the muck.

  The man jerked his chin toward them “Who’re those two?”

  Hessan looked at them as if he’d been reminded of an unsightly boil on his bottom. “The Lady’s pets. She took ill and shoved them along in her place.”

  “Took ill for truth this time, eh?” The man had a soft, affable chuckle. “False words plant blighted seeds.” Ripka started. That was an old Catari saying, supposedly outlawed with all other cultural accoutrements of the people Valathea had rolled over to take control of the Scorched and its precious firemounts. She shifted so that the sun was not in her eyes to get a better look at the man. He had the same branchbark hue to his skin as most on the Scorched did, but a smoothness to his cheekbones betrayed a stronger Catari heritage.

  “Enough of that,” Hessan said. “Do you have it?”

  “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” With a casual kick he knocked the pack at his side to the sand. The guard cursed as he picked it up, brushing off the wet muck. “You have the results?”

  “Here.” Ripka stepped to the ladder and held Nouli’s carefully sealed envelope up to the man. He eyed the distance between them, and smirked.

  “Best come up a bit, now,” he said.

  She examined the frayed rope ladder, not relishing a tumble into the sodden sand. “Can’t you come down?”

  The man’s expression darkened, thunderclouds rearing in the smooth darkness of his eyes. “I will never set foot on this place.”

  Ripka bit her tongue, remembering Kisser’s warning not to speak unless spoken to. Shunting aside curiosity, she braced herself as she eased one foot onto the first rung, leaned her weight against it, and then added the other. The man puffed out an annoyed breath.

  “Don’t have all day, lass.”

  “Clearly you’re not rushing off to repair your ladder,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

  The man’s brows shot up, the darkness in his eyes clearing as he barked a laugh. Tension fled her shoulders.

  “There they are!” A male voice she did not know thundered across the bay.

  The man above her cursed and leaned toward her, hand outstretched. For the barest of moments she thought he’d pull her on board, but he snatched the folded envelope from her hand and reared back, severing the rope ladder’s connection to the deck with two quick swipes.

  Her side slammed into the wet sand, the abandoned ladder crumpling atop her. She grunted, kicked out to regain her feet and staggered upright, ignoring the ache in her arm and side.

  The flier slid out across the sea, the man cranking frantically at his propeller, the anchor left behind in a heap of rope. Ripka scowled after him, cursing his retreat. But then she saw the reason, and went very cold and very still.

  Down the track six men in prison jumpsuits sauntered. One of them familiar to her even at a distance. The songbird’s man, Oiler. The Glasseater who’d harangued Enard. She bristled as she watched the men work together without an order spoken, fanning out as they approached their target, cutting off all hope of escape. No guard accompanied them. They had the easy stroll of the fearless.

  “Leave us,” Enard said, stepping forward so that he was in front of Ripka.

  “Oh ho, now he wants nothing to do with us.” Oiler grinned. His two canines had been filed down to knife-points, his lips twisted to one side by old scarring. As Enard spoke, stalled, she sized them up – decided she’d take the one to Oiler’s right, first, as he was the most substantial of the lot. No doubt Enard would handle Oiler if it came to that.

  Remove the largest boulders, and the rest of the rocks will fall.

  “What are you doing outside of the walls without escort?” Hessan reached for his baton as he stepped forward to stand level with Enard.

  Oiler held his hands out, palms up, and shrugged. “Work detail forgot to recall us. He was busy, ya know? It’s a mighty distraction, having your ankles tied up by your ears. When we spotted those two missing, figured we better have a look ’round. This island can be dangerous, you know.”

  “I have asked you politely to leave,” Enard said. Ripka heard steel in his voice she hadn’t realized him capable of. “I will not ask again.”

  Oiler snorted. “Looks to me like we’re the ones going to be doing the asking.”

  There was a subtle shift in their formation, orchestrated after a tilt of Oiler’s head. The fan tightened toward the end closest to Hessan.

  Whatever their reasons, the Glasseaters wanted the guard out of commission first. Hessan’s hand drifted toward his collar, as if he were going to adjust it. She saw the line around his neck, then, the worn cord that held a brass whistle. Of course they wanted him out first. He was the only one of them who could call for help.

  A scrawny Glasseater darted toward Hessan – but Ripka moved first. She swept in and shouldered Hessan aside, sending him sprawling. Shouts broke out all around her but she ignored them, focused on the arm’s radius immediately around her, as she’d been trained.

  The Glasseater barreled into her, sweeping her off her feet. She landed hard on her back, and rolled before the man could follow up with the kick he’d aimed at her ribs. He reached for her, but she scrabbled forward, fingertips tearing as she dug them into the sand to give herself purchase. Hessan lay just ahead, groaning. He rolled to-and-fro, a mass of kelp tangled with the thatch of his hair.

  A hand closed around her ankle, jerked. She yelped as her arms went out from under her and smacked face-first into the rocky beach. Gravel and sand clogged her mouth, scratching her cheeks. Kicking back with her free foot a solid connection jarred her and then she was free. She fumbled with the thick cord around Hessan’s neck, rifled through his loose shirt, fingers sliding over his sweat-slicked and hairy chest.

  Her fingers brushed warm metal, closed round it.

  Hands grabbed her by the hair, the jumpsuit, tore her away from Hessan and lifted her as if she were little more than a troublesome puppy. The cord bit deep into her palm, spilt crimson blood down her wrist, the searing pain of it overridden by her need to complete her task.

  As the hands – too many to count – lifted her and hauled her back, she pressed the bloodied whistle to her lips and blew hard enough to set her eardrums ringing.

  Valathean engineers did not mess about when it came to the effectiveness of their designs. The whistle had been crafted to be heard anywhere on the island, and before she could draw breath to blow again, the great brass alarm bells atop the prison’s walls rang out.


  Help was coming. They need only to survive.

  She hit the ground, dropped, and grunted as her chest smacked against hard, jutting rock, her unprotected face scraped by rough gravel. Better than the Black Wash, at least. Her fingers went numb, so tight was her grip on the whistle.

  “Fucking bitch.” Oiler growled and hawked spit. “Clear, boys.”

  “But–” one protested. The heavy thud of palm on cheek filled the air.

  “Quiet. This place’ll be swarming with guards soon and they won’t all be friendly.”

  Wary of moving too quickly, lest she draw unwanted attention to herself, Ripka rolled over and scrabbled backward, crab-crawling as quietly as she could. The Glasseaters pulled back, clustering around Oiler who stood before Enard.

  A narrow stream of blood trickled from the corner of Enard’s lips. He stood with a slight hunch, but otherwise seemed whole.

  “Remember this, Tender. There’s only one way out. We’d rather have you back, but...” Oiler shrugged, both hands open to the skies, then spat at Enard’s feet and whirled, striding back the way he’d come, his foul friends flowing after him.

  Enard moved. He flowed like silk, like lightning. Before Ripka could register his target, Enard’s fist held Oiler’s hair, a well-aimed punch to the kidneys collapsed Oiler’s knees. The ring-leader’s body betrayed him, tense with pain and spasms, as Enard bent him backward, backward, over his knee and crouched down, drawing face to face with the crime-boss.

  The Glasseaters rushed back to aid their leader. Ripka shoved ineffectually at the ground, trying to lever herself to her feet. She couldn’t get to him before the Glasseaters closed ranks, but she could damn well try.