“The people in England seem more eager for stories like these.”
“So it was a calculated decision.”
Partially. And partially because she remembered how desperate she’d once been for escape. A locked closet or a fist wasn’t the same as being invaded and enslaved. But she liked to think those girls wanted adventures, too.
“Perhaps poorly calculated. As I said, fewer people can read the language.” In England, groups crowded around a literate friend who would read aloud—and she sold one copy of a story per dozens of listeners. “But they became popular elsewhere, as well, so I was fortunate.”
“And seditious.”
“And . . . What?”
Beside her, the boiling kettle began to rattle. The boy appeared and poured the steaming water into a pot.
“Your last story was labeled seditious.” The general seemed amused. “Or so the Nipponese ministers believed. Copies were burned. The ending had to be rewritten.”
Lips parted in shock, she stared at him. “I don’t know whether I’m proud or offended.”
“Be proud.”
“I’m offended. I’m certain I was never paid for Nipponese translations.”
His laugh was a pleasant one, low and deep. “Have you met the twins?”
“In the Fox Den?” She shook her head. “I’ve only heard of them.”
“And you’ll only hear of the money your work earns for them. You’ll never pry a coin out of their hands.” He spoke to the boy, who left them again. “I cannot see anything seditious in what I read here.”
Because there wasn’t anything. But Zenobia watched him uneasily, because he might have recognized the plot she had been building since the marauders had fired on the French airship. Lady Lynx had stopped her attackers and saved her crew from megalodons, but that had only been the first act.
“Yes.” He confirmed her unspoken question. “The destruction of the airship. Not by pirates intending to plunder, but serving another purpose.”
To prod the empress into sending her forces to the western Australian coast—to threaten Ariq’s town. “Then why am I here?”
“Admiral Tatsukawa believed this would be more efficient.”
More efficient to threaten a single woman than to follow through on a convoluted plot involving the empress and her navy? “I have to agree. But you don’t?”
“Love is a powerful motivator.” He continued regarding her steadily, but the warmth of amusement faded, as if now he was observing an insect pinned to a board. “And the admiral remembers how Ariq risked a Nipponese prison to free his brother.”
Her heart thudded. “He did?”
“Fourteen guards dead. Twice as many injured. So the admiral believes that if he risked so much to save his brother, he will easily sacrifice a machine to save you. But what Ariq did in the prison was not out of love.”
It sounded like love to her. “What was it, then?”
“Anger.” He poured the tea into two cups. “He didn’t even know his brother. But his mother was dead. He was angry—at me, at the admiral, at everyone.”
“He might be angry now.”
“He probably is. But there was one factor in that rescue the admiral didn’t consider: It was against the Nipponese. Though Ariq abandoned us, he remains loyal, and he would never jeopardize the rebellion or his people.” The general set the teapot on its tray and met her gaze. “And he won’t come for you.”
Her chest seemed to cave in, crushed beneath the agony of those words. But Zenobia wouldn’t let the general see. She only looked at him.
“He won’t give over the machine, either,” he continued. “At least not now. He won’t give it over until the empress is firing on his town. When he escapes the admiral’s airship, he might make an attempt to find you. After he realizes that we’ve gone, however, he’ll have to decide between leaving you here or returning to his town to prepare. He’ll leave you—because he knows that we won’t harm you, and because his loyalty to his people is greater than his loyalty to his heart.”
Each word was another blow that ripped open her insides and left her bleeding. She could barely breathe past the pain. Everything he said made sense. She wouldn’t even blame Ariq if that was the choice he made.
He barely knew her. And even though he’d claimed to be falling in love with her, that was with a woman who didn’t exist—the spy, the desperate woman who’d needed his help. It wasn’t Zenobia, the writer with a few secrets, a reckless brother, and a pregnant friend.
Though it felt as if a burning coal had lodged in her throat, she managed, “You won’t harm me?”
“No.”
“Will you let me go?”
“Not yet.” Lips pursed, he cooled the surface of his tea before sipping. “You’re still useful. But when you are not, we will send you home to the North Sea. And perhaps when this is all done, Ariq will come for you.”
Too late. She wouldn’t blame Ariq if he sacrificed her for the sake of his town. But she couldn’t be with him, either—not if she was always wondering what else he might sacrifice her for.
Heart aching, she asked, “May I at least send a message to my friends in the Red City and reassure them that I’m well?”
Mara and Cooper might have already arrived in the Red City, only to find her gone. And Helene . . . God only knew what her friend must be going through. To have both Zenobia and an important guest stolen right out of her very home.
He set his tea down. “No.”
“Please. They must be frantic with worry.”
“And in that, you are useful as well. Nipponese flyers circled over the embassy on the night you vanished. Word of that will reach the empress’s ears.”
Nipponese flyers. Not an airship—but the vehicles the marauders had used.
Dear God. Wordlessly, Zenobia stared at him. The abduction wasn’t just intended to force Ariq’s hand, then. It furthered their original plan, too. A French airship destroyed, then an embassy infiltrated and two residents kidnapped. If one didn’t prod the empress to action, the second might.
And the abduction must have been decided on quickly. Zenobia and Ariq had only been in the Red City a couple of hours. The general must have had him under observation—and was prepared to take advantage of any situation.
One thing was certain. She would never be so foolish as to underestimate this man. Even now he was probably manipulating her. But to what purpose? To destroy her hope?
She only had a little bit of that left, anyway.
“This is useful, too.” The general picked up her dagger. “This and the glider. I intend to keep these devices—to have my men replicate them for our use.”
He was welcome to anything on that table except for her letters and manuscript. “Will you return my papers?”
“No.”
Her stomach twisted. “When I go home?”
“I’ve read through the letters, Mrs. Fox. They include intelligence not commonly known.”
“I have no intention of telling anyone about Temür Agha. Take that one, but leave me the rest.” She hated to lose any of Archimedes’ letters, but if the general feared the contents, better to have it out of her hands than one day give him reason to harm her—as Ariq had thought might happen. “Please. They are only from my brother, and only describe his travels. They have value only to me.”
So much value.
“I can’t be certain of that. Some are written in code.”
Her aching heart solidified into a thick lump. “Yes. My brother ran into some troubles and we changed our names. We used code to refer to events from the past, so that we wouldn’t be exposed. That is all. There are no other secrets in those letters.”
“I believe you.” With a heavy sigh, he set down his tea. “But I can’t be certain.”
No. Desperately, she looked to the letters. Over fifty of them. Almos
t six years of travels. Archimedes had seen wonders. He’d fallen in love. He’d married a woman he’d expected would kill him. He’d been happy. Zenobia had more letters at home, but she couldn’t lose these. Couldn’t.
“Please. Please.”
The general raised his voice and spoke. Two guards entered. They didn’t approach the table, instead taking a post on either side of the door.
But the threat was there, and it was a locked closet. She could fight. She could try to run. But there was nowhere to go, and she would only hurt herself trying.
“Please.” The plea was broken glass scraping her throat. “These letters are a record of places that won’t be visited by living humans again.”
And so many jokes. So many silly titles in the postscripts that Archimedes had hoped she would use in the written adventures. So many confessions—of loneliness and hope and doubt and stupidity. They’d escaped her father, but they’d been apart after that, and almost everything meaningful that she and Archimedes had said to each other had been through those letters. His endless love and affection lived in every single word.
The general gathered up the pile of unfolded letters. “I’m sure your brother can still describe them.”
He dumped the stack onto the brazier. Stunned by disbelief, she sat motionless, staring at the letters on the grate. They weren’t even catching. Just smoking—
The edge of a page flared up and suddenly the whole pile was aflame. With a cry, she dropped her blanket and lurched for them, though she knew it was useless, though she would only hurt herself.
The general snagged her wrist, yanking her hand away from the flames. A guard caught her shoulders and forced her back. Melting wax hissed and popped.
A second stack went in. Hot tears blurred her vision, but she could still smell the smoke, could still hear the crackle. “Please,” she whispered again, though it was too late anyway.
The general reached for the manuscript.
“No!” She ripped out of the guard’s grip, slapping her hands protectively over the pages. “There’s nothing here! You read it yourself!”
“Except that it reflects a plan that we would never want the empress to know.”
And Zenobia could just write it again. But sense made her bite her tongue against that response until she tasted blood. The pain was going now, replaced by hate and anger that was harder and colder and emptier than she’d ever known. Jaw clenched, she stared at him.
The guard dragged her back. The heavy stack of pages landed on top of the remaining letters with a hot whoosh—almost blowing out the fire, but it returned, first with black curling edges and then rising flames.
She couldn’t write it again. Any other time, she would have already had a duplicate ready. But she hadn’t used her typesetting machine for most of her trip, so she didn’t have a copy. And even though she could remember most of the sentences and every plot point, the story would never be what it had been. She would never again be who she’d been.
At a word from the general, the guard released her. She didn’t reach for the brazier. She didn’t look at the flames.
“Thank you for the tea.” Her cup sat untouched on the table. “I would like to go now.”
He nodded. “After you take out your hairpins.”
She did, lining them up beside her teacup like four small daggers. The fifth was missing. She hoped it had fallen out in her cabin. “Will you send someone to sharpen my pencil?”
“I think it’s best if it remains dull.”
Of course. “The soldier friend you had,” she said. “All those people sent to the outposts. The people who lived on the island you showed us. They all have something in common, don’t they? The Khagan perceived a threat, and he silenced them. Some he killed, but some he locked away so that no one could hear them.”
“Yes.”
“I think you are very much like him.”
He looked amused. “This is war, Mrs. Fox. The tactics we use now will not be what we use after the Khagan falls.”
“If people remember that you’re willing to use such tactics, do you really believe the war will ever end? I think they’ll remember that you were no better than him, and continue fighting.” She stood. “I hope that Ariq does escape that airship, even if he has to leave me here. I hope you never see that machine.”
“I think you will get at least one part of that wish. Take the gold, Mrs. Fox. We are not thieves.”
She almost refused. It was the one thing from her satchel which had almost no value to her. But the gold might be useful.
With both hands, she hefted the heavy bag, supporting it against her stomach as she exited the general’s quarters. Her arms quickly ached. Her side hurt, as if Polley’s knife was slicing her open again. She had to walk slowly down the steps and rest on the second landing.
And while she stood catching her breath, she looked through one of the doors, out one of the portholes, and the perspective offered her a view of the stern that she hadn’t had before.
Her heart thumped. Under a covered hangar, a half dozen jellyfish balloon flyers waited—just like those the marauders had used. Probably the same ones Ghazan Bator had sent to fly over the embassy the night she and Ariq had been taken. Their pilots must have returned to the ironship before the airship had arrived, because she hadn’t heard the distinctive buzzing noise of their engines since coming aboard.
Fast, agile flyers. But they didn’t have a long range.
It didn’t matter. The ironship couldn’t be that far from Australia. She just needed to fly south.
If Ariq wasn’t coming, she would blasted well save herself.
Chapter Eighteen
Am I an utter idiot?
Not for the first time that day, the question wormed through Zenobia’s mind. Each time it did, the squirming doubt lingered a little longer.
A sleeve lay limply across her lap. After leaving Ghazan Bator’s quarters, she’d spent the morning planning her escape. By noon, the plan had come together, and she’d spent most of her afternoon pulling apart the left shoulder seam of her new tunic.
The fabric was thick and sturdy. When knotted at the end and filled with handfuls of gold, it would make a fine bludgeon. She would only have to cosh a few guards over the head and steal a flyer.
Then make her way back to Australia.
Without running out of fuel.
And without being caught.
She’d plotted out how to avoid those dangers, too. After their abduction, the airship had flown north overnight. Since then, the ironship had steamed forward on a western course. Compared to an airship, the boat plodded—and the silver flyers were faster than both.
Flying directly south, she should reach Australia’s northern shore before dawn. But she needed to travel east, too, and follow the coastline to the Red City. A southeastern course was a lengthier one and required more fuel.
Fuel wasn’t so difficult to find. To prevent the soldiers from following her, she would have to steal a blade from any guard that she coshed, then puncture the balloons of the remaining flyers. At the same time, she could pilfer coal from the other flyers’ fuel bins. The question would be whether she could take enough.
It didn’t matter. She would take all the flyer could carry. The extra weight would initially slow her down, but better than the engine petering out while she was still over the ocean. And if it wasn’t enough fuel . . . well, it would still be worth the risk.
Unless the risk was an utterly foolish one. She only had to wait, and eventually, the general would send her home. Unharmed. If she remained on the ironship, she’d be safe.
So why was she doing this?
Zenobia closed her eyes, shutting out the image of the sleeve. Her head throbbed. In four days, she’d barely slept. Exhaustion weighed down her every muscle. Her chest had hurt unbearably since she’d left the general’s quar
ters, a hot pain that had burned hotter and tighter with every breath. A terrible ache, hollow and heavy all at once.
Physically and emotionally, she wasn’t in any shape to make this decision. But she couldn’t stay. For hours, she’d been trying to put words to Why? and to answer to doubt worming through her mind. But words like anger and hate and hurt didn’t seem strong enough to match the emotions boiling inside her.
This wasn’t like her. She was practical. Sensible. Such an escape better suited one of her characters. Stories were so easy to control. Lady Lynx escaped because Zenobia created an escapable situation, and if anything unexpected happened to her characters, Zenobia had a clever plan to get them out of their new fix. Lady Lynx escaped because she could knock a guard unconscious with a single kick.
But Zenobia knew it was never so easy. If the sleeve ripped when she swung the bludgeon at someone’s head, or if a guard had a companion with him, or if someone came across her in the hangar, even her wits might not save her. And a single whack to the head rarely incapacitated anyone. It just knocked them down, left them stunned but aware of every single painful blow that followed, yet unable to do more than curl up and wait for the beating to end.
And that was what she’d always done—she’d either waited it out or gone into hiding, knowing that eventually the danger would end. Her father would tire. Archimedes would come with a ransom. Mara and Cooper would arrive with their guns.
It would be far more sensible to wait now. But she couldn’t.
She simply wasn’t the same woman that she’d once been.
When had the change come? Maybe when the general had tossed her letters onto the fire. Maybe when Polley had dragged her into the alley. Maybe when she’d jumped from a collapsing flyer. She didn’t know exactly when. But she couldn’t bear to wait. She couldn’t bear to let Ghazan Bator determine the course of her life. She couldn’t bear to let anyone decide who she would be or what she would do. Not anymore. And the thought of staying here on this ironship with a man who would use her to frighten her friends and threaten thousands of others? Who would wield her like a whip on Ariq’s back? She’d rather burn the ship down and sink with it.
The Kraken King, Part 5 Page 3