Authors: Meljean Brook

Tags: #Romance, #Fantasy, #Adult

The Kraken King (14 page)

BOOK: The Kraken King

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She slid it open at Helene’s call. Wearing a linen shift, her friend stood in front of a tall wooden cabinet carved with flowers and birds, examining the seams of her new dress. Mindful of her muddy shoes, Zenobia didn’t step inside. She poked her head in and offered a smile.

“We leave the day after tomorrow.”

Helene gasped, then skipped over to Zenobia, the dress clutched to her chest. Joy and disbelief filled her expression. “How?”

“We have to travel by land to the towns farther south. That will take three to four days. From there, we can likely arrange for an airship to carry us to the Red City,” Zenobia said, and felt obligated to warn her: “The governor says the smugglers’ dens are even more dangerous than Port Fallow.”

“Oh, I don’t care! I will do anything to see Basile soon.”

Anything except stay faithful to him after a year’s absence. Helene wouldn’t be in such a hurry if she didn’t have a pregnancy to conceal.

But what right did she have to judge her friend? Zenobia had never been married. She only pretended to have a dead husband.

Helene’s brows suddenly shot up. “Did you say the
governor
told you it would be dangerous? You spoke to him just now? At his residence?”

Oh, bother. “He’ll be the one escorting us south.”

“And how did you persuade him? Oh, don’t answer that. Everyone could see that he didn’t have eyes for anyone else. He fancies you!”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“And you favor him.”

Zenobia sighed and shook her head.

“No?” Helene seemed to deflate. “I thought you did.”

“I favored him for a moment, perhaps,” Zenobia said. “But he’s not the man I thought he was.”

Instead he was a man who thought she was ugly. She would have told Helene the truth—that Mara had overheard him agree when his brother had called Zenobia a Lady Longnose, a pale ghost of a woman who would be terrifying to wake up to—but her friend might feel obligated to seek justice and an apology from the men. Whatever her faults, Helene had a good heart.

And the insult still hurt, a dull ache in her chest, but that wasn’t what had pushed Zenobia away. She had a clear view of herself. Though not a hag’s hooked beak, her nose could never be called dainty. After years of working indoors, she
was
pale. She couldn’t fault a man for thinking the same. And attraction could come in forms other than physical. Words overheard could always be taken out of context. She would have wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and ask what he’d truly meant.

Even now, some silly part of her wanted to think better of him. He could have required her presence in his bed as payment for their journey. He hadn’t—and the suggestion had angered him. Insulted him, perhaps as badly as he’d insulted her.

But she would not think better of him just because he possessed the decency not to blackmail her. Refusing to take advantage of a woman should be a basic part of any man’s character, and lauding him for it would be like commending someone for having lungs to breathe with.

And decent or not, she couldn’t trust him. The insult wasn’t all Mara had overheard, and no context could offer a different meaning to it: The governor wanted to know her secrets.

Zenobia had good reason for her secrets. They’d kept her and her brother safe for more than ten years. They kept her safe now. Mara and Cooper had stopped too many kidnappers who would hold Zenobia for ransom for her to pretend that she could walk around, flaunting her identity without care.

“So who is he?” Helene asked.

Zenobia forced a smile. “He’s the man who’s escorting us to the airship that will fly you into your husband’s arms.”

“I think I love him, then!”

Despite herself, Zenobia laughed. “You are welcome to him.”

And she would carry on as she always had: alone, wary of anyone who showed her too much interest, and her stories providing all the adventure she needed.

After a full day and night, the rain had stopped, but water still leaked into the underground chamber behind Ariq’s home. The pumps were a rhythmic drone in his head as he waded across the flooded floor, an oiled rag in his right hand and a lantern in his left. In the cavernous dark, there was nothing to see, only the shadowed impression of the machine looming overhead. No rust on the steel plates yet. But it would come. The rainy season was an endless fight against corrosion.

Taka emerged from the darkness beyond the glow of the lantern and splashed toward him. “You should leave this to me.”

“I’m already leaving too much for you.” Ariq tucked away his rag, trying not the feel the fatigue of a night spent finishing everything that needed to be finished before he left. “But after today, this will be yours, too. The pumps should clear out the remaining water by nightfall. The rest of the oiling can wait until tomorrow.”

“How long do you plan to look for the marauders?”

“There’s nothing that you can’t manage here. It should remain quiet.”

His brother waved that off. “I only wondered whether you plan to return here if no one in the smugglers’ dens recognizes the photographs.”

If Ariq didn’t quickly find a connection to the marauders, he wouldn’t have the luxury of returning and retracing his steps. He had to keep looking. “Then I’ll find Ghazan Bator and see what he knows.”

Ariq had fought under the man almost as long as he could remember. He’d known Ghazan Bator first as a shrewd commander, then as the general who directed rebel forces throughout the Golden Empire.

The general might not know who was pulling the marauders’ strings, but he’d have heard of the attacks. He’d probably know when the Nipponese flyers had been purchased—and from whom.

His brother didn’t respond. Head bowed, he rubbed the bolted seam of a steel plate.

“I don’t want to go to him,” Ariq said. He didn’t want to ask anything of Ghazan Bator, and never wanted to owe him. “But if I need to, I will.”

Taka nodded. “He’ll ask you to find the Skybreaker for him.”

“I know.” Only a year before, he’d come to Ariq’s town, hoping to secure his help in locating it.

Ariq’s mother had once been a favorite of the former Great Khagan, sharing his royal bed and his secrets. One of those secrets had been the existence of the Skybreaker, a war machine of devastating power.

After the former Khagan’s assassination thirty years before, Ghazan Bator had sent her to spy on a Nipponese naval officer—Taka’s father. Despite her loyalty to the rebellion, his mother had taken the secret of the Skybreaker with her. She’d once told Ariq that such power should only be used to defend, not to attack. But even without her words, he would have refused to help the general locate the machine. Ariq had finished with the rebellion the moment the blade had fallen on his mother’s neck, when Ghazan Bator had refused to interfere and save her. She’d been exposed, he’d said—her usefulness was over.

Apparently, it hadn’t been. Four years later, the general had learned of the machine, and he’d needed her to find it. He’d come to Ariq on the hope that she had passed information on to him before she’d been beheaded.

Ariq had taken bitter pleasure in sending him away with nothing.

Now, to save his town, Ariq might be forced to choke down the anger and betrayal, and give the general what he’d wanted: the location where the former Khagan had hidden the machine.

But it hadn’t come to that yet. Lantern in hand, he waded through the knee-deep water toward the stairs. “I’ve put Yesui in charge of perimeter patrols. Her eyes are better than most. So are her ears. If any trouble stirs in town, she’ll be the first to hear of it.”

“And that is how you tell me to consult with her each day, so that she isn’t forced to come to me,” Taka said.

“She thinks you don’t see her. I don’t want her to worry that she might not be heard.”

“I do see her. I
will
.”

Familiar self-hatred hardened Taka’s voice. Even light mistakes weighed heavy on his brother’s mind. He wouldn’t forgive himself for not having paid attention to Yesui before.

Taka would see her now. That was what mattered.

And Ariq had no fear that his town would suffer in Taka’s care. Darkness surrounded his brother, and Taka often doubted his worth. Ariq didn’t. For years, Taka had offered quiet help in town wherever it was needed. And only two days ago, he’d flown into battle with Ariq against the marauders. No hesitation, no fear. He’d simply done what needed to be done—and he’d done it well.

He would when Ariq was gone, too.

The splashing behind him stopped. “Brother.”

Ariq turned. The soft glow of the lantern cast shadows upward over Taka’s eyes, darkening his solemn gaze.

“At the soup house two nights past, I said harsh words about the woman you intended to court. I beg you to forgive me. I should not have said them. I was . . . not thinking clearly that night.”

And he’d lashed out because he’d been hurting. That pain was the only reason Ariq hadn’t silenced him with his fist.

“Do you apologize for saying it, or for saying it to me?”

“For speaking it. But I can only apologize to you. If I apologize to her, I must first tell her what I am apologizing for. Seeking forgiveness would do more harm than good.”

Even if Zenobia had offered it, this would be yet another thing that Taka would never forgive himself for.

But his brother was right. What she hadn’t heard didn’t harm her; telling her would.

With a sigh, Ariq nodded. “Don’t speak of it to her.”

“I won’t,” Taka said. They started up the stairs, the ring of their boots against steel echoing through the chamber. “Why did she decide against you?”

Ariq’s gut tightened. “I don’t know.”

He needed to know.

His brother was quiet for another five steps. “Perhaps she heard of our connection. No sensible woman would be associated with me. Not even as a brother.”

“You have it wrong,” Ariq said. “She is too sensible to reject a man just because his brother had been tortured.”

“And labeled a traitor.”

“Dregs! That is
not
why!” His harsh denial echoed through the chamber. Taka was silent. Ariq listened to the dripping water, took a deep breath, and said, “And if it is, you have nothing to be sorry for. I would be well rid of her.”

But Ariq wasn’t well rid of her. Knowing that Zenobia would soon be out of his reach tore at his every instinct to grab on, hold tight.

And to find out why she was so determined to go.

***

In his quarters, Ariq washed off the oil and changed out of his wet clothes, then crossed the courtyard to the dining hall. Saito already waited at the table, milky tea steaming in front of him. A roll of paper lay beside his cup.

Ariq claimed his seat, served himself the sweet fried bread and hard-boiled eggs from the platter between them. Only a week ago, he’d wished that the chickens in the forecourt weren’t so fecund. Now he was glad that it wasn’t kraken again.

He poured his tea and nodded to the paper. “What do you have?”

“Lady Inkslinger’s letter.” Saito glanced up as Taka entered, then looked to Ariq, who gestured for him to continue. Anything Saito had to report didn’t need to be kept secret from his brother. “You said she might be the marauders’ target. It seemed prudent to read her correspondence.”

It was. Ariq unrolled the paper. Not her letter, but a handwritten duplicate.

The characters were the same as used when writing French, but Ariq couldn’t read it, aside from a few names.
Helene. Krakentown. Lieutenant Blanchett.

He frowned. “What language is this?”

“English.”

“She isn’t from England.”

“Her late husband must have been—or from Manhattan City. We believe this is addressed to the husband’s brother, because the family name is the same. Eratosthenes Inkslinger.”

The name meant nothing to him. “You must have found something if you’ve brought it.”

“I gave it over to my code breakers, since they’ve had little else to do. The translation is below.”

A word-for-word translation. Odd to read, but the meaning clear enough. She apologized for writing in a hurry. She and Helene had survived the airship attack. The town was friendly and her lodgings suited her. She hoped to discover a way to leave soon.

She had.

It seemed a typical letter. Ariq couldn’t see anything remarkable. “What did they find?”

Saito broke apart a piece of bread. “Each word before the dashed punctuation. The short horizontal line.”

Ariq read the translation again, picking out the words.

Kraken. King. Suspects. Me. Don’t. Come. Here.

His chest tightened. She
was
afraid of him. Perhaps not that he would hurt her. But that he would discover something.

BOOK: The Kraken King

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