The Kraken King Part II: The Kraken King and the Abominable Worm (A Novel of the Iron Seas)

by Meljean Brook

  His answer didn’t come as quickly this time. Zenobia glanced over. The governor stared straight ahead, his jaw locked. Why? Because he’d abandoned the war?

  He didn’t say. Only, “It will fall. The foundation is too cracked to repair.”

  That was similar to everything Zenobia had heard, too—that the Khagan only held power by the thinnest thread. “But why didn’t you stay to finish it off?”

  His gaze captured hers again. “Because too many in the rebellion became what we are battling against. The only thing they fight now is each other, over who will take the Khagan’s place. Everything that I was fighting for, I could create here.”

  Oh. “Like Rabat,” she realized.

  Helene frowned. “Like what?”

  “Morocco,” Zenobia told her. “The governor there did the same.”

  Because even though Morocco was part of the occupied territories, it was so far from the heart of the Horde Empire that it was essentially out of the Khagan’s reach. Krakentown wasn’t as far away from the empire physically, and it was much smaller, but she could see the similarities.

  She glanced at the governor again and froze. His expression had changed. Still looking at her, but his face like iron, and his gaze a razor.

  “Temür Agha wasn’t a rebel,” he said quietly.

  Her heart stuttered. He was. She knew very well he was, because Temür Agha was the man who’d given Archimedes the war machines to sell. He’d been the man who’d sent assassins after her brother, and why she and Archimedes had both changed their names.

  It was common knowledge that he was a rebel. Wasn’t it?

  Or just common knowledge to her.

  But she made herself appear uncertain. “Oh? I thought he was. I’m sure I read it somewhere.”

  “Morocco?” The light dawned on Helene’s face. “Oh! You are confused, Geraldine. That was where they had the uprising against the Horde a few years past. The governor there was killed. He wasn’t rebelling. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” the Kraken King answered Helene, but was still watching her. “Temür Agha died in the uprising.”

  He wasn’t dead. Archimedes and Yasmeen had flown him out of the city in her airship. Now he was marching east across Europe, gathering an army of exiles in his wake.

  But Zenobia only nodded. “I was mistaken, then—Krakentown isn’t the same as Rabat. And that’s probably for the best, since that city rose up against their governor.”

  “Yes,” he agreed softly. “Probably for the best.”

  A short silence fell, broken when Mara abruptly sat up and turned to scan the sky. “What is that?”

  Zenobia listened. Nothing but the birds and the walker.

  They all jolted forward when the governor stopped the engine. Now there were only the birds and the faint noise from the other walker.

  The governor looked at Mara. “What alarmed you?”

  “I thought I heard something,” Mara said, and Zenobia knew that there was no “thought I heard” about it. Mara had heard it. “Like . . . a giant dragonfly.”

  He nodded and started the engine again. “The river serpent’s voice. Meeng and your husband have reached the edge of our host territory.”

  Chapter Seven

  An hour passed before Zenobia heard the low whirring roar. It stopped after ten minutes, then started again twenty minutes later. She didn’t see a serpent or a river. Instead she was suffocating under the humidity, and it seemed that she sweated out every drop of water she drank from the canteen. The heated air wavered around them. As the miles passed, they veered west, until the sea shimmered on the right. Both crawlers walked to the left now. In the east, green hills lay against the horizon like an exhausted woman.

  After another two hours, the source of the noise appeared ahead: A tall machine shaped like a man was whipping a wooden slat in a circle. A bull-roarer, the governor told them. The balloon flyers waited at the base of the machine. As the crawlers approached, Meeng and Cooper started in their direction.

  Still no river. Only a dry riverbed that ran toward the sea, where water like turquoise glass lapped against a horseshoe of white sand.

  Zenobia gazed longingly toward the beach. “Is it safe to wade in that cove while we wait?”

  “We’ll stay here for the night, so swim and bathe if you like.” The governor steered the walker in the same direction. “We’ll set up a tent for privacy.”

  Not just a bathing tent. At the governor’s suggestion, Zenobia and Helene remained out of the way while they set up camp. Sitting on the sand in the shade of the walker, they watched the governor and his townspeople put up several tents with astonishing swiftness. Situated a stone’s throw from the water, each round tent opened to the south, like traditional Mongolian dwellings. Centuries ago, the unequaled mobility of Genghis Khan’s armies had been one of their greatest advantages as they swept across Asia and into Europe. Some things apparently hadn’t changed—including how quickly they could make camp.

  Mara had told her that several people in the town called the governor “commander.” Zenobia had seen men command others before. Her father had been an airship captain who’d used fear to keep his aviators in line. Her brother’s wife, Yasmeen, commanded respect from her aviators, but they still regarded her with some awe and fear—and always the captain, she held herself apart from her crew.

  The Kraken King’s reputation was just as dangerous as Yasmeen’s. Maybe more so in this part of the world. But Zenobia didn’t see any fear or awe from the townspeople, who surely knew him best. There was only respect. And although there was no mistaking that he was the leader, or that the others deferred to him, he didn’t hold himself apart. He was right beside them unloading the walkers and raising the tents.

  It was . . . admirable. It seemed that everything he said and did made her think a little better of him. Zenobia didn’t want to. She might begin to think she could trust him.

  She couldn’t.

  She was relieved when they finally set up the bathing tent at the edge of the water. If she couldn’t see him, she wouldn’t find it so easy to admire him.

  Unlike the sleeping tents, which had been sewn from heavy canvas, the bathing tent was made of loose flaps of kraken skin and stood wide open to the sea. Small wooden seats allowed them to stay up out of the water if they chose to soak their feet. The angled sides of the tent provided privacy if they ventured farther out into the cove.

  The water was warm and smooth as silk against Zenobia’s heated skin. She couldn’t ever remember a bath as luxurious. Certainly never one with a comparable view.

  In her linen shift, she left Helene and Mara in the tent and waded out up to her waist, where the swells undulated gently against her belly. The sunlight sparkled across the surface. The water was astonishingly clear. Bright fish darted by her pale feet. She avoided a scuttling crab, then dunked her head under and opened her eyes. The salt stung, and she wished that she’d brought some of Archimedes’ snorkeling equipment.

  Except it would have been lost in the attack on the airship.

  A hot tingle on her skin warned her to return to the tent. She sat in the shallow water and buried her toes in the saturated sand, watching the horizon. Presently they were joined by the woman from town. Stout, with braided black hair and a rounded belly, she told Mara that her name was Tsetseg and that she didn’t speak French. Zenobia lay floating in the shade, letting the swells rock her up and down, and listened to Mara chat with Tsetseg in Mongolian.

  Not for the first time, she wished that Helene wasn’t in such a rush to reach the Red City. Zenobia could have happily stayed in this spot forever. It was nothing like the sea at Fladstrand, always freezing cold and smelling of fish.

  Zenobia glanced at Tsetseg, who had claimed one of the small seats. “Is the bay by Krakentown like this?”

  She waited as Mara translated. A moment later, the answer came. “Yes. But with more sharks.”

  More sharks? Fortunately, Zenobia had only seen fish and crab
. “Why did you come to live here?”

  “I came with the commander.”

  “Commander Saito?” Helene wondered sleepily.

  “The governor. Ariq Noyan is what she calls him,” Mara explained.

  “Because he was in the war.” Helene nodded before looking to Tsetseg. “You were, too?”

  “Yes.” The woman dragged her hand through the water. “I know machines.”

  “A blacksmith?” Zenobia asked.

  Tsetseg furrowed her brow, as if uncertain, and she and Mara had a quick back-and-forth before she explained, “It’s different work from a blacksmith’s. The war machines are large and complicated—the work of many blacksmiths—and each one is different. To steal a war machine, or to destroy it, our commander must know how it functions. He must know its weaknesses, the points of entry.”

  “So you told him how to attack it.”

  “Yes.”

  Amazing. And Zenobia realized the governor most likely had part of his army living right in town with him. “The others in the crawlers with you were soldiers, too?”

  Tsetseg’s expression closed and she shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  Like everyone from Krakentown, she would apparently speak of herself, but not of anyone else. “Why did you come with him?”

  “There was an earthquake,” she said, but didn’t explain further. Mara had just finished translating the statement when Tsetseg patted her ample belly and grinned. “I thought I might have a baby and raise her without cannons always firing around us. Instead I have spent the years eating.”

  A wistful smile touched Mara’s lips as she relayed the answer. Zenobia’s heart twisted.

  Mara and Cooper had taken the job of watching over Zenobia for the same reason. Yasmeen had recommended them to her, and had told her they were looking for employment that was less dangerous than a mercenary’s. Guarding a writer had probably seemed like the perfect opportunity to start a family without bullets always flying everywhere. They must have thought that life in Fladstrand would be like what Tsetseg had found in Krakentown: somewhere quiet to grow fat and old together.

  But that hadn’t been the case. Instead they were shooting kidnappers, leaping from airships, and traipsing around Australia. When their contract came up for renewal in two months, they’d probably leave her to search for work elsewhere.

  Sitting in a foot of water, Zenobia pulled her legs up to her chest. Water lapped at her shins. She laid her head against her knees, closed her eyes, and tried to plot out her next chapter.

  ***

  My heart is iron.

  Ariq leaned over the side of the crawler and thrust a leveler deep into the sand. They couldn’t set up a retaining perimeter using steel posts here, but the levelers had been designed to detect mole machines at home. If a boilerworm passed beneath, the leveler tipped, activating the ratchet alarm at the top. The pawl would slip out of the gear’s teeth, and the loud clacking of the device as it unwound would alert the camp.

  Not perfect. If the boilerworm passed between the levelers, or so deep that it didn’t disturb the topsoil, the device wouldn’t topple over. A wombat pushing against the leveler could set it off, too. But better waking to a wombat than to a boilerworm.

  He would be glad to wake up to either, if he woke up next to Zenobia.

  My will is steel.

  He drove the crawler forward, the war prayer echoing through his head. He hadn’t needed to speak the incantation in years. When he fought, the calm of battle descended upon him easily, keeping his mind sharp. But now his blood pounded like a first-year soldier’s, his head was filled with the image of Zenobia standing in the water, and it wasn’t his will that felt like steel.

  He stabbed another leveler into the sand.

  Invading her privacy hadn’t been his intention. He’d been setting up the levelers on the northern perimeter when he’d glanced out over the cove. From that angle, the bathing tent hadn’t concealed anything. Neither had the wet linen shift she’d worn.

  He breathed deep, trying to cool the heated ache. He was fighting a battle. But by Everlasting Heaven, his body wasn’t recognizing it.

  My mind is my blade.

  And he wielded it like a sword. His thoughts would be sharp, strong.

  Zenobia’s mind was keen, too. She’d pretended confusion, but she’d known Temür Agha had been a rebel.

  Not many knew. Most rebels didn’t know. Temür Agha had served as general to two Khagans, all the while slowly forwarding the rebels’ cause. A brilliant man. A ruthless one. Even the royals had been wary of his power.

  And Temür Agha was the only reason Ariq’s mother hadn’t been killed thirty years before.

  When the former Khagan had been assassinated, she’d been his concubine—there as a spy for the rebellion. No one had known she was. Nothing could have saved her then. A regime change meant many heads were lost, especially the women who’d shared the former Khagan’s bed and had been privy to his secrets. Ariq’s mother had been the Khagan’s favorite for a decade.

  But Temür Agha was her brother. Not wanting to inspire the general’s wrath, the new Khagan had allowed her to live, exiling her and a five-year-old Ariq from the royal city, instead. Then Ghazan Bator had sent her into Nipponese territory and had taken over Ariq’s training. Eventually, the Great Khagan had granted Temür Agha governorship of a territory farthest from the royal palace, and Ariq’s uncle had begun to make changes in that city, righting the damage done by the empire’s occupation.

  Zenobia had been right: Ariq had been thinking of Temür Agha when he’d established his town. But even after the uprising in Morocco and his death, his uncle’s ties to the rebellion had never been revealed.

  Yet Zenobia had known. A woman who asked so many questions, had so many secrets. Who carried documents in a pack that hadn’t left her guard’s possession since the attack.

  He set the last leveler and returned to camp. A rope had been strung between two of the tents, and towels draped over it to dry. The women had finished bathing. Zenobia’s tunic hung with it—as did the linen shift, no longer transparent.

  My heart is iron.

  She emerged from the women’s tent, hair freshly braided and wet. Her cheeks were no longer sunburned but tanned to a soft gold. Her beautiful eyes were troubled, until she met his gaze, then they became jade stone once again.

  My will is steel. The calm didn’t come. He needed to retrain his body. He was accustomed to violence. But every encounter with Zenobia was a battle, too.

  My mind is my blade. He took a long breath. My words are my arrows.

  He would have her surrender.

  Her chin came up as he approached. Her throat was pale and soft. He ached to taste her there, to lick away the salt of the ocean. “Did you enjoy the swim, Lady Inkslinger?”

  “It was refreshing, sir.” The last stiff word was drowned out by the bull-roarer. Covering her ears, she called over the noise, “I hope the Australians come soon!”

  “They are coming now.”

  Ariq pointed to the east, to the thin walking man in the distance. A red balloon formed its head. Steel legs like stilts strode over the trees. Though closed now, sleeping compartments were stacked into its stomach, and when the machine was stationary, could be folded out to offer more room. A basket sat in its chest like a heart and carried the Nyungar who weren’t riding on the machine’s shoulders. Heavy cisterns hung from its long arms.

  Zenobia’s eyes widened. “How long until they reach us?”

  “An hour.”

  Hands pressed tightly to her ears, she said, “Thank God.”

  Ariq grinned. He stood with her as she watched the walking man’s slow, methodical steps. When it was quiet again, he said, “‘Australian’ is a name given by outsiders. Meeng is Wajarri. They are Nyungar.”

  She glanced at him. “And what of the Horde? Should we call it the Golden Empire?”

  “Call us the Horde, if you like. It’s our word, too.”

  “It is?”r />
  “The ordas are our armies of twenty thousand men or more. When my ancestors raced west across the steppes, all of your people fell before our hordes. So call us the Horde when you wish to remember how you were conquered.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “We weren’t conquered.”

  “Only because your ancestors fled from us in fear.”

  “You released the zombie infection!”

  Ariq grinned. “And you ran.”

  Her gaze fell to his mouth and she looked away with pink in her cheeks again. Head high, with the corners of her lips tilted in the faintest of smiles, she said, “We wisely retreated and developed another strategy.”

  He had to laugh. “And that strategy was to hide an ocean away.”

  “Better than defeated. Or eating my neighbors.”

  It was better to be defeated than to run and cower. But the other was true.

  He told her, “The rebellion began with those zombies. Not the fighting. Not then. But the seeds of resistance—and the fear of what corruption the Khagans might allow in their own lands. The zombies were a weapon that no one could use and still claim victory. Europe and Africa were all but lost to us.”

  Some of the hardness left her eyes as he spoke, but her only reply was a nod. After a long second, she looked to the walking man again. “Do we need to do anything when they come? Show any documents?”

  “No. Meeng will call me if he needs me. But they would rather speak with him.” At the base of the bull-roarer, Meeng had already built his fire—small, up off the ground. Over it he cooked a kangaroo to share with the Nyungar. “When they come, continue doing what you were. Look in that direction if your curiosity demands it, but facing them and waiting suggests aggression.”

  “Don’t greet them?” She looked uncomfortable when he nodded. “It seems rude.”

  That might be said of many encounters. Luckily most people assumed good intentions and forgave ignorance. “I’d best tell Blanchett, too.”

  The lieutenant had already noted the walking man’s approach. He stood watching the machine with his aviators. The lieutenant had picked his men well. All of them had proved competent and alert.