The Kraken King, Part 5

by Meljean Brook

  Another laugh broke from him. Perhaps it all made sense using that comparison. Taka felt he had no worth and honor, and would never hear any argument to the contrary. A son, tortured for a betrayal that he didn’t commit; the father, lauded for a victory he didn’t earn. Tatsukawa must always hear of his honor and worth. Perhaps the admiral felt that he could finally deserve that praise after destroying the Khagan.

  It didn’t matter. The admiral could speak of finishing the work of Ariq’s mother and protecting the empress all that he liked. But he clearly only wanted that machine for himself.

  So Ariq said nothing. For a long minute, Tatsukawa watched him with a combination of sorrow and frustration etching his features—probably thinking Ariq was also willfully blind and stubborn—before finally taking his leave.

  Then Ariq’s anger returned, burning through his gut and tightening every sinew, though he couldn’t immediately place the reason for it. He walked to the rear of the airship, guards trailing behind.

  As they had every time Ariq had made this short trek along the decks.

  That was reason enough for his anger. He knew his guards’ names: Tajimi no Yatarou and Ohoshika Akihira. Young men who fulfilled their duties well; Ohoshika had already earned honors. They deserved better than an admiral who let his sentimentality endanger his aviators by allowing someone like Ariq to freely roam the decks. They deserved better than a commander who assigned only two guards to watch over the Kraken.

  Ariq had spoken true: If innocents stood between him and his wife, he wouldn’t kill them. He’d find another way to save her. But the admiral and Ghazan Bator had declared war on him the moment they’d taken Zenobia from her bedchamber and held her in exchange for the Skybreaker—and Tajimi and Ohoshika fought at his enemies’ sides. Ariq wouldn’t show mercy, except in a quick death.

  It should have been Admiral Tatsukawa, instead.

  My heart is iron.

  The airship’s design resembled a black marlin—a sleek, narrow cruiser with a long, sharp prow was suspended beneath a pair of cylindrical balloons that ran the length of the ship. A propeller shaft emerged from the machine house on the upper decks and blocked a narrow view of the airship’s stern. The flickering lanterns cast shadows, transforming that stretch of the stern into a well of darkness. The lookouts in the pilot’s tower would see almost nothing.

  But for several minutes, they would see Ariq at the rail, looking south into the horizon—as he had so often. As before, his guards stood in the shadows behind him, flanking the entrance to the propeller shaft housing and out of sight of the pilot’s tower.

  My will is steel.

  The propeller and engines roared a continuous thunder. Wind tugged at his tunic and roughened the dark sea below, the whitecaps barely visible. The heavy clouds had smothered the slice of moon. The giant sharks that hunted these waters would have poor visibility, but megalodons sometimes took their prey in full dark. Ariq didn’t know if they smelled or heard their prey, or sensed them in another way. But two things drew megalodons more quickly than any other bait—noise and blood—and Ariq needed to distract any sharks in the area.

  He would take a risk; he wouldn’t be reckless.

  My mind is my blade.

  His absence would go unnoticed for a half hour, perhaps a little more. The crew would waste time searching each deck of the airship, because no one would imagine that he’d jumped. Most likely the full night would pass before they realized where he’d gone.

  That would be long enough.

  His breathing slowed. His blood calmed. The anger had cooled. Only purpose remained. Only Zenobia.

  I am coming for you.

  Now.

  Ariq abandoned the rail and strode toward the passageway through the machine housing, as if returning to his quarters. The guards stepped apart, preparing to let Ariq walk between them before following him through the entrance—as they had each time Ariq had taken this route. Initially they’d given him a wide berth as he’d passed them. Two paces distant. By this morning, they’d simply begun stepping aside.

  They stepped aside now. Both within arms’ reach.

  Ohoshika was the more experienced guard and needed to be incapacitated first. Aiming for his windpipe, Ariq pivoted and jabbed. Cartilage crushed beneath his knuckles. The guard reeled back, hands flying to his smashed throat—unable to cry out.

  Ariq spun back to Tajimi just as the young guard started forward, eyes wide and his hand outstretched. Whipping to the side, Ariq snagged Tajimi’s helmeted head and snapped his neck.

  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.

  Chapter Seventeen

  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.
r />   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 co
ntinued, “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?”