A Sea of Purple Ink

by Rebekah Shafer

  Niela looked away.

  “You need to prepare for some changes,” Reese said. She realized she was still holding the bread. “I don’t know what, exactly, but we’re the only team members left.” She slipped the crumble into her mouth and let the rough nutty taste slide across her tongue. “We’ll have to lay low for a little while.” She swallowed, then went on. “But I need you to run some feelers out. I think there’s a writer somewhere on the island.”

  Lacewing vanished.

  “What?” Niela demanded. “Are you serious?”

  Reese nodded. “We need to find him. Any information about where he or she is, or writers in general.” She looked at Niela. “We’ll pay, if we have to.” They might be on the side of the police, but we can still track down the truth.

  The shifter rolled her eyes. She pushed up into a crouch and helped herself to the contents of the basket. “I’ll talk to some people above ground. Grant and Lacewing can send word through the canals.”

  Lacewing flickered back into view, nodding.

  “Well, until the stains wear off, don’t go above ground,” Reese warned. “We need to stay missing for a while.” She tore another piece of bread from the hunk. “But don’t be afraid to use my name, if you need to.”

  Grant’s eyebrows shot skyward.

  Don’t give me that. “Everyone already knows who leads this group, Grant. There’s very little point in trying to keep that secret.”

  “And telling them who broke into and out of Sea Level might be good for morale,” Niela said, grinning.

  The bread suddenly tasted like ash in Reese’s mouth. “Not that,” she said. “They’d all be wanting me to do it again.”

  Lacewing leaned forward tentatively, her purple-splotched hair swishing into her face. “Do you think this writer is on our side?” she asked.

  Reese hesitated. I really don’t know. Turning the king into a flyer and leaving him on the streets could be done by a rebel, or at his own command. “I think not, but…” Reese looked down at the roll in her hands. Joplin. I need to talk to him. If I can get him to tell me what happened… She sensed the others staring at her and looked up quickly. “Never mind,” she said. She let the crumpled bread slip from her hand. “We need to find Joplin. Soon.”

  Two days passed. Rumors circulated through the scattered community in every city level, collected in back alleyways, and trickled down into the canal tunnels. For Reese, waiting there, unable to leave until the stains wore off, the hours felt like years.

  Over and over she replayed that confrontation with Stryker, and the king’s missing history. Over and over she came to a tangled impasse. Somehow, the king had wound up on the streets with an ability. Only a few of his own men seemed to know he was missing, and in Sea Level, one of them had tried to kill him. What is going on?

  As the second day drew to a close, no one had seen a man of Joplin’s description, flying or otherwise, and news about suspected writers was wild and flimsy. With a sigh, Reese turned over the hand-drawn map of the canals. The thin purple lines snaked across the parchment in a tangle of barriers, weigh stations, and drainage pipes. We need to move our base soon. She glanced around the lamplit tunnel. They’ll have police doing check-throughs.

  Footsteps carried through the noise of the water.

  Reese looked up as Niela approached.

  “I might have a lead on some information,” the shifter said slowly. She stopped on the edge of the lamplight, face pale beneath her ruffled black hair. “About writers.” She folded her arms.

  And you might be angry. Reese began rolling the map. “Oh?” She watched as the shifter’s expression hardened.

  “One of the lower nobles,” Niela replied. She plucked at the gun sheath strapped to her thigh, eyes on the rushing water.

  Lower nobles. Tyrone. What if Joplin went back to Tyrone? Reese hesitated while the factors replayed. It’s possible. If he doesn’t know where else to go. She pushed herself to her feet. “Will you look into it?” she asked. She held out the map. “I may know where Joplin is.”

  Her friend took the roll of paper. “I can,” she muttered, sliding the map into her belt. Her shoulders straightened and she looked Reese straight in the eye. “What are our terms?”

  “Private meeting,” Reese said, gazing back. Niela’s gaze drilled back into hers, daring her to ask questions. Reese knew that look. She’d seen it before. “And try to keep the cost under two rings,” she added. I’ll ask her later.

  “And why this new obsession with finding the flyer?” Niela asked.

  Dangerous water here. Reese weighed her words carefully. “He has information I need,” she said. She watched as Niela mulled this over. And if I find him, and you discover the truth… “Niela,” she began, “if you had a chance to kill the king, would you take it?”

  The shifter flinched. “I told you, I didn’t kill the chief of the police.” She folded her arms. “You know that.”

  Reese nodded. “But if you had the chance?”

  Niela’s face hardened into a blank mask. “I’d take it,” she said, her eyes dark in the faint light.

  21

  The vestibule was veiled in shadows when Reese arrived. She slid back the cold floor grating and crawled up into the echoing space. She could hear a vague murmur of voices coming from the warehouse. Someone’s here.

  Reese crept to the stairs and into the dark hallway. Through a half-opened door, she caught a glimpse of Tyrone’s office. A short oil lamp stood on his desk. The feeble light flickered over some remnants of supper and an empty chair.

  Reese hesitated. I could wait in here and risk being seen. Or I could hide in the attic space…

  “I told you, if you want to inspect my ships, feel free!” Tyrone’s voice rang out from the bottom of the stairs. “My men aren’t doing anything else these days. They might as well be ransacking their own shipment.”

  Reese backed toward the attic trapdoor. If he’s talking to police… She glanced upward, verifying the placement of the handle.

  A low voice grumbled a reply.

  “Come back tomorrow, then,” Tyrone snapped. “And we’ll settle this.” He started up the stairs, boots clomping against the wood. “Goodnight.”

  Reese tensed. I can’t get up there fast enough. She dove toward the office door and pulled up face to face with Tyrone.

  The merchant halted on the top step. His usually immaculate shirt hung open at the neck and was stained with sweat and dust. For a moment he squinted at Reese, as if trying to understand who she was, then he straightened. “Quiet,” he mumbled. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  The motion nearly threw him off balance. He gripped the stair rail in one hand.

  Don’t fall down the stairs. Reese moved forward, ready to pull him back. “What’s been going on here?” she whispered.

  Daro’s voice wafted up from the warehouse. “Anything else for you, Tyrone?” he called. Footsteps clicked across the polished floor.

  Tyrone drew himself up. “No. That will be all, thank you.” He turned and hoisted himself into the hallway. “You can go off duty now,” he added, loudly. Then his eyes swiveled toward Reese. “You have no idea what I’ve been through today.”

  He moved past her into the office. “Some idiot,” he said, reaching for a glass of wine, “thinks I make my living smuggling your people off the island.”

  Reese hurried into the room and pushed the door almost closed. “I heard that rumor too.”

  Tyrone circled the desk and plopped into his chair. “And so has anybody that I’ve ever paid for small favors.” He took a long drink from the glass in his hand.

  “Is that why you’re like this?” Reese asked. Empty bottles lay in one corner of the room, some of them in pieces.

  The merchant presented her with a hollow smile, then leaned forward and opened a drawer. “For you,” h
e said. He pulled a small packet from the interior of the drawer and dropped it onto the desktop.

  Reese picked up the little leather bag. Paint powder. She curled her fingers around the precious bag. “Thank you,” she said.

  Tyrone waved a stiff hand, his tense gaze on the desk.

  I’ve got to get him to focus. Reese tucked the bag into her pocket and moved closer. “I need a favor,” she said. She ran her fingers along the edge of the wood, feeling the chinks and divots from long use.

  Tyrone looked up. “Really?” The lamplight played along his shadowy beginnings of a beard.

  “I’m looking for Joplin,” Reese explained. “I thought you might have heard something.”

  Tyrone’s face slid into a studied blank. Slowly, he took another long drink, draining the glass. Then he set it on the table. “Why do you want him?” he asked in a low voice.

  Reese chose her words carefully. “Some things went wrong during the Sea Level break. I need to ask him some questions.”

  “Is he injured?” Tyrone folded his arms and eyed her up and down, deliberately careless.

  Reese tensed. “No.” She had a sudden, irrational urge to reach across, grab the wine glass, and throw it across the room. “If you’re not going to help me, then say so.”

  Tyrone slid lower in his chair. For a moment, he steepled his hands and peered at Reese over the tops of his fingers. Then he reached down into the open drawer and removed a single sheet of paper. With a quick flick of his wrist, he whisked it onto the desktop and twisted it towards Reese.

  Joplin’s face was on the wanted poster in bold slashes of ink.

  A jolt ran through Reese. The room grew silent and close. The king. Wanted dead.

  “They don’t waste paper on petty criminals,” Tyrone said. “For goodness’ sake, they only sent out a few dozen when you pulled those three stains out from under the police’s nose all those years ago.”

  Reese’s chest felt tight. Stains. He called us stains. She darted a glance at him, but the merchant’s eyes were unfocused storm clouds. He slumped in the chair, one hand strangling the stem of the glass.

  She reached out with a trembling hand and touched the page. “You need to sleep,” she said. “Sleep it off.” Only the police can issue this kind of warning. Was it Stryker? Reese swallowed hard. If they wanted Nile back safely, they’d offer a reward. Stryker wants the king dead. What if more of the police are in on the plot? They’d have to be. Someone has to have noticed Nile’s gone. Thoughts clicked into alignment. They’re trying to trap the king.

  Glass clinked as Tyrone poured himself more wine. “So what is he? An old friend?” His head sank lower. “I hope you find him,” he muttered. “I won’t be around much longer.” He buried his face in the glass and drank. The cup tipped higher and higher, reflecting the lamplight in a bright corona.

  “Stop,” Reese said. She reached out, gripped the bowl of the cup, and forced it down toward the table.

  The merchant peered at her, eyes bloodshot. “I knew you were going to do that,” he slurred. “I’m not a mastermind, but I can still predict things.”

  Reese twisted the glass from his hand and held it away. “Pull yourself together, Tyrone.”

  “Why?” Tyrone made a halfhearted attempt to retrieve the cup, then stuck his chin out and crossed his arms. “I’m being investigated by the police tomorrow. And if they find one teeny tiny little thing out of place, I lose the business.” His smile disappeared. “All of it.” He gave her an exaggerated smile and tipped his chair back. It rattled against the wall.

  He’s not joking. Reese held his gaze. There were clouds in those eyes. Clouds that shouldn’t be there. Her stomach tightened. Get him thinking about something else. Something jarring enough to distract him. “Does your father know?” she asked.

  Tyrone’s eyes narrowed. He shook his head.

  Reese could see tension building in his shoulders and hands. She set the wine glass on the far corner of the desk. “It will work out,” she said. “You’ve been careful with record keeping, and the warehouse is clear now, so—”

  Across the hall, a floorboard squeaked.

  Reese snapped to attention. Someone’s coming. She took two quick back steps, placing herself behind the door, out of the line of sight.

  Tyrone lifted his head. “That you, Joplin?” he called.

  Joplin. “He’s here?” Reese asked. A quiver ran through her. What am I going to say to him? I’m sorry I threatened you? By the way, you’re the king and someone is trying to dethrone you?

  “He came here a couple days ago,” Tyrone replied. He reached for a decanter. “Come on in.”

  The door creaked open and Joplin stepped into the room. His stains had worn off, and he wore a new deep red shirt and vest and dark pants.

  “Joplin,” Tyrone said. He flapped a hand toward the glass on the far corner of the desk. “Ship that over here, will you?”

  Reese stepped forward. “You’ve had enough,” she said.

  The king started and turned around. His whole body stiffened. “You’re here?” he said, his voice deep in his chest.

  “She misses you.” Tyrone forced a short laugh.

  Reese flinched at the sound. “I wouldn’t say it that way,” she retorted. She squared her shoulders and met Joplin’s cold stare. “I’m sorry about what happened,” she said, trying to get a read on his emotions. “Things got out of control very quickly.”

  Joplin didn’t move. Behind him, Tyrone drummed his fingers against the desk.

  “There’s no need to apologize,” Joplin said, but the words seemed to knife through the air. “When Tyrone asked me to make sure you stayed safe, I didn’t understand that meant you could hold me at gunpoint.” He flexed the fingers of one hand.

  Tyrone’s drumming halted. “You what?” he asked.

  What can I say in front of Tyrone? Reese held the king’s gaze, mind racing.

  Joplin squared his shoulders. “What I want to know is why you thought threatening me would help.” His eyes seemed to pull her in, trying to drag answers from her. “It’s about my past. I know.”

  Alarm bells rang in Reese’s mind. He really doesn’t remember who he is. How much has he figured out? She could feel her calculations speeding up, rushing forward in an overbearing stream. If he goes back to the police, either they’ll kill him, or he’ll tell them exactly where to find us. Or both.

  “What did he do, Reese?” Tyrone demanded. He pushed himself up from the chair and stood, glaring at the king in thick suspicion. “Did he put you in danger?” The merchant swayed a little on his feet, then put one hand to his head. “If he did, I swear…”

  Reese glared at him. “You’re drunk,” she said.

  “Yes,” Tyrone snapped back. “And I plan to stay that way. So the two of you get out of here.” He waved a hand, his face grim. “I can’t have Joplin around here tomorrow, so go.”

  The king turned away from Reese. “I’m not going with her,” he said.

  A sneer broke out on Tyrone’s puffy face. He clenched his fists.

  Reese stepped forward. “Joplin,” she said quickly. The false name stuck in her throat. “You don’t have to come with me, but if you do, I’ll tell you more.” She took a quick breath, trying to slow her heart rate. “I promise.”

  A hint of interest flickered through the king’s eyes. “You promise?” He leaned back, addressing Tyrone over his shoulder as if consulting one of the royal councilmen. “Is she serious?”

  Tyrone squinted, then crumpled his face, apparently trying to make sure it was still moveable. “If you were man enough I’d challenge you to a duel over that,” he said.

  Reese wheeled on the merchant. “Just stop it,” she ordered. “Meet me downstairs, Joplin,” she said. “We’ll talk.” I’ve got to get him back. If it’s police versus us, whoever has the king has the trump card
.

  The king held her gaze for what felt like an eternity, then gave a short nod. He strode to the door and vanished down the hall.

  “And tell Daro to send up another bottle,” Tyrone called after him. He swayed for a moment, then folded himself down into the chair. He sat with his eyes closed, unmoving, worry plain on his face.

  Reese stood watching him. Daro shouldn’t have left. “You’ll be all right,” she said. “Just take one Cillian tablet and get some sleep.” She reached for the wanted poster on the desk. “You don’t want to have a hangover when—”

  Tyrone’s hand settled on top of hers.

  Reese stood still, feeling the crackling paper beneath her fingers and the warm skin resting against her wrist. “When they come,” she breathed.

  The merchant’s eyes stayed closed, but his thumb trailed along Reese’s arm.

  He needs rest. He needs… In the silence of the room, Reese let her calculations slow and leaned forward against the desk. Her hand sank lower beneath Tyrone’s.

  The lamplight flickered in a draft from the half open door. Tyrone’s head nodded forward, sending his thick, tangled curls across his face.

  …he needs good fortune for once, Reese finished. She looked away. “Tyrone,” she began.

  A whispering snore drifted from the merchant’s mouth.

  Reese smiled in spite of herself. Slowly, she slipped her hand and the poster free.

  Tyrone’s arm twitched. With a small sigh he sank lower in the chair.

  I should remember to check on him tomorrow. Reese stepped to the oil lamp and turned down the wick. After I deal with Joplin. The light dimmed to a faint flicker. Reese gave the merchant one last look, then quietly stepped from the room.

  She found Joplin waiting in the lobby below, leaning on Daro’s vacant desk. Beside him, a candle guttered on its last inches. This will be difficult. Her footsteps echoed through the tall room.

  The king looked up as she approached, his face a shadow. “Well?” he asked. His rough hands ran along the table as if looking for something to cling to.

  Tell him just enough. Too little or too much, and he’ll leave. Reese felt the quiet begin draining away. “Have you seen this?” she asked, holding out the wanted poster.