The Kraken King Read online

  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.

&nbs
p; 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?”

  “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.

  Ariq glanced back at Zenobia and found her staring at his mouth.

  She hastily averted her gaze. “Excuse me, sir. I have letters to write.”

  If he said that she was running and hiding, he knew pride would force her to stay. But his heart was iron. His will was steel. So Ariq held himself silent and watched her go.

  ***

  Zenobia would admit to retreat. But she wasn’t hiding in the tent; she was working. She managed to write three pages with Helene napping in the next cot. Night fell and still she wrote. Pleased with her progress, she finally joined the others when dinner was called.

  The Nyungar had arrived. Though she couldn’t see them, their voices drifted across the distance. Meeng’s fire threw flickering orange light up over the walking man.

  Zenobia tried not to stare in that direction, but couldn’t help it. She’d seen sentinels and automatons in human shapes many times. They were always bulky, loaded with gears and tools. The walking man was slender, simple. Eerie, almost. Like a wanagamesak from tales closer to home, creatures with faces so thin that they seemed to disappear when viewed from the front. When her father had locked Zenobia and Archimedes up in the dark, she’d terrified her brother and herself with stories of the emaciated creatures, and of how one would slip through the tiny space between the floor and the door and devour them.

  Perhaps it was only the dark night, the brilliant stars. She’d never been out in the wilderness like this. Everything was eerie. The bats flitting around the trees. The shine of eyes from the dark. The warbling cries of the night birds. The only familiar sound was the ocean.

  She listened to it and ate by the light of the lantern, only partially attending to the conversations around her. The governor sat nearby. He spoke even less than Zenobia did, giving short responses in French or Mongolian when addressed, and she fe
lt his gaze upon her through every bite. As soon as the meal was finished, she retreated to the tent again, where she wrote until Helene and Tsetseg came in, clearly intending to sleep. Zenobia hadn’t finished. But keeping the lamp lighted would be rude, so she lay in the dark.

  Distant laughter floated through the tent walls. The soft glow of a lantern outside cast shadows against the canvas.

  The others were still awake. Zenobia could go out and pretend to write letters again.

  But there was no need for subterfuge. The camp was empty except for Cooper and Mara. Zenobia stopped outside the lighted circle, not wanting to intrude. But of course they’d already noticed her. Moving apart an inch, they waved her a welcome.

  Another laugh drew her gaze to the cove. A lantern in the bathing tent created a shadow theater of the men inside. Others swam farther out in the water, all of them pale in the moonlight. The men had apparently waited until dark to bathe.

  Except Cooper. The salt water might corrode his mechanical legs, and his maintenance kit had been destroyed in the attack on the airship.

  Zenobia took a seat near the lantern. “If you wish to bathe with them, Cooper, I’ll ask the governor if he has an extra machine kit. They must carry something for the walkers.”

  “I’ve asked. He does,” Cooper said. As always, a man of few words. She liked him so well. Solid and steady, a perfect match to Mara’s fire.

  “We’ll go down after they’ve returned,” Mara said.

  We. So they wanted to steal a few moments together, but they wouldn’t leave her unprotected. Fortunately a camp full of soldiers would be protection enough.

  Zenobia balanced a wooden plank over her lap and wrote. Lady Lynx had saved her crew from the circling megalodons. Now the larger mystery was at hand, and Lady Lynx would need to bash heads to get the answers she wanted. In earlier adventures Zenobia had penned, the hero—Archimedes Fox—was always charming his way into answers, or thwarting the villains with a bit of wit and clever misdirection. She’d enjoyed the switch to Lady Lynx and her more direct approach.