The Kraken King, Part 3 Page 5

“We have heard it was another—Miles Bilson. Others have said it was his partner.” Amako looked to her sister. “What was his name? The ridiculous, beautiful one.”

  “Gunther-Baptiste,” Ariq said. He knew them both. Bilson had smuggled war machines for the rebellion more than a decade ago. Gunther-Baptiste had been his business partner, a reckless idealist who walked a line between stupidity and bravery.

  Exactly the type who might have taken on Bushke.

  “That is he,” Amako said, then shrugged. “Bilson’s brother leads New Eden now. Any one of them might have overthrown Bushke.”

  “And a similar insurgence was the only difference in the story,” her sister said. “A revolt against a king. A bit of nothing. But the empress’s advisers said it would incite unrest and disorder, and all of the copies across the wall were destroyed. We had to have a new translation made, with a new ending—in which the king keeps his head. Now the original translation fetches one hundred times the price.”

  No doubt they continued to print and smuggle them over the Red Wall. “I want one,” Ariq said.

  Shizuko inclined her head without comment, but Amako was amused again. “You wish to follow his adventures?”

  “No.” Ariq wanted to know more about Zenobia, and why she might have chosen a name based on Archimedes Fox’s fanciful rubbish. “You said they are popular with women. The ambassador’s wife lost her belongings in the attack, and she is always reading the same book.”

  “How very thoughtful to give her another.” Amako’s teeth gleamed as she smiled. “It would give us great pleasure to host a dinner for you and your guests.”

  No. They wanted to see whether Ariq’s gift indicated a warmer interest in an ambassador’s wife. They would be disappointed. But the twins were clever enough to see that Zenobia was more than she appeared to be.

  “We cannot.”

  “We will invite the other den lords,” Amako pressed. “You can make your inquiries of them all at once.”

  “But then he would miss Lord Jochi’s games, sister.” Shuziko’s soft voice took on the edge of a knife.

  “Just the ladies, then.”

  “No,” Ariq said. “The only hospitality I want is the guarantee of your protection during their stay.”

  “You will have it,” Shizuko said. With a sharp click, her segmented legs drew back beneath her robes. “As will your guests.”

  Amako sighed. “It’s a pity, though. We’ll miss the fun of seeing the other lords realize that you will soon be at their gates. I do love to watch them scramble.”

  Chapter Eleven

  There was a typesetting machine in the tinker’s shop down the street.

  Zenobia froze in her seat with a looking glass against her eye, the lens trained on the machine. Oh. It was so beautiful. A wondrous clickity-clackety ball that would write evenly across a page, and she wanted it. Desperately.

  “We should go out,” she said.

  Helene didn’t glance up from her book. “And be killed?”

  Zenobia had been sitting near this window for almost three and a half days, and she hadn’t yet seen anyone killed. No one had been ravished, or abducted, or their throats slit and purses stolen, or any of the other reasons Helene had given for not wanting to step a foot outside the inn.

  With a sigh, she lowered the looking glass. Iron lattice guarded the large round window, with enough space between the decorative bars to offer a view of the street four levels below. A garden wall topped with broken glass surrounded the inn. None of the suspended bridges that connected the higher levels of adjoining buildings led here. It was a small fortress inside of the den—and staying here was much like being in the airship again, except she wasn’t going anywhere.

  Thankfully there was more to see than water.

  Much more. Vehicles filled the street, some stationary and some moving, and all of it so chaotic that Zenobia didn’t know how anyone got where they were going. Now and again, balloon cabs descended to a shop front and let off or picked up a passenger. Guards patrolled the row every hour, clanking along in their mechanical suits. Most pedestrians seemed not to notice them, hurrying on with their own business. Many were women. Some walked alone and didn’t appear in any more danger here than they would have been in Fladstrand.

  Of course, Zenobia had been kidnapped from that sleepy seaside town several times over, so that hardly meant anything.

  She set the looking glass on her desk. She hadn’t been anywhere since arriving at the inn, but at least she’d been able to write. Kraken ink stained every fingertip and the side of her right hand a dark brown. The ink was wonderful. Her handwriting had begun to resemble the desperate scratching of a headless chicken.

  She needed that typesetting machine.

  A heavy sigh came from Helene’s direction. She’d been sighing like that ever since they’d learned it might take a full week to replace Cooper’s legs. The blacksmith had had to separate the remnants of the old prosthetics from his bones and flesh first. Tomorrow, he would graft on the new legs. Then the wait began to make certain fever didn’t set in.

  Zenobia tried not to resent those sighs. She didn’t always succeed.

  She wasn’t successful now. The ache in her chest was too heavy—an ache that had started when she’d seen what the boilerworm had done to Cooper’s legs. “I wish you would just say that you’re upset by the delay,” she said.

  “Of course I’m not upset.” Mild as milk, Helene smoothed a page over.

  Zenobia waited.

  “Though,” Helene said after a moment, “I suppose I wonder why you and I don’t travel ahead to the Red City. Mara and Mr. Cooper could catch up as soon as he is able to travel.”

  “They saved our lives on the airship. Yet you’d leave them behind?”

  “We aren’t abandoning them, Geraldine. They would return to your service inside a fortnight.” With a frown, Helene glanced up from her book. “And you know what the delay means for me.”

  That her husband might discover she was pregnant with another man’s child. “Why don’t you go on, then,” Zenobia suggested. “The lieutenant and his men can see to your safety.”

  “Leave you alone in this place? I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

  “Yet you would leave Mara and Cooper here?”

  “They have proved perfectly capable of taking care of themselves.”

  “And were hurt taking care of us.”

  “Mr. Cooper is healing. Mara is well. If you asked her, she would tell you the same thing—to go on ahead.”

  Mara was well. And perhaps listening to them argue now.

  Zenobia could easily imagine the mercenary’s response. “She would say that I should stay where I am safe.”

  “Would you not be safe with Lieutenant Blanchett and his men? You said that I would be.” Helene’s pointed look aggravated Zenobia all over again, then the smugness in her friend’s expression softened to pleading. “We both are women alone. We shouldn’t separate. And I need to go, Geraldine.”

  The pain in Zenobia’s chest deepened. Helene needed to go, and Zenobia needed to help her. She owed her friend that much. Even if Helene’s trouble was of her own making, her pregnancy could have devastating consequences. Helene had no one except her husband. And if her husband rejected her, she would need Zenobia’s help again to establish a new home. But more than money, Helene would need acceptance and understanding—often available in short supply to a woman in her condition.

  Zenobia had not been so generous with either the past few days.

  She did hope Helene would patch everything up with her husband. Not just for Helene’s sake. Perhaps it was selfish of Zenobia to pray that Helene remained in the Red City, but Zenobia was a selfish woman. She liked the order of her life. No one except Archimedes came barging into it. Most of her friends resided in cities other than Flads
trand and she only communicated with them by letter. Their lives never interrupted hers unless she opened an envelope, so she could always choose how much time she devoted to them.

  If this trip had taught her anything, it was how much she valued that space. So she didn’t look forward to setting up a home for Helene next door to her own.

  Of course, that wasn’t what Helene hoped for, either.

  With a sigh, Zenobia rose from her chair. “I’ll speak with Mara, and make certain there is no other reason to wait.”

  Helene nodded, but she didn’t look as pleased as Zenobia expected. Instead, her friend regarded her with concern. “I don’t suppose . . . you were waiting for someone else?”

  “Who?”

  Helene sent an exasperated look toward the ceiling. “The governor.”

  Oh.

  No. Zenobia hadn’t been waiting for him. She had hoped the delay meant that she would see him again. She’d wanted to know what the twins had told him, and how his search for the marauders progressed, and just to be with him for a little longer. After they’d arrived at the dens, however, he hadn’t been able to spare a minute for her. Each day, he left the inn before dawn and returned after midnight. Zenobia had no reason to believe that would change before Helene and she departed for the Red City.

  But she’d always known they would go separate ways here at the dens, so it would have been foolish to expect anything to come of it. Still, she’d hoped for a few more hours with him. A night with him.

  She wasn’t going to get it.

  Throat suddenly aching, she shook her head. “I’ll speak with Mara,” she said again.

  ***

  The knot in Zenobia’s chest tightened with every step. She’d hoped for a little more time with the governor. But he hadn’t been the only reason she’d been glad of the delay. Staying here had meant she wasn’t moving toward a permanent separation from Mara and Cooper.

  She found the couple in the garden, sitting in the shade of a gum tree spotted with bright red flowers. Immediately the back of her neck tensed. The easy affection between the couple had been strained since the boilerworm attack. Every time she visited them was like walking through a field of broken glass, uncertain if a step would rip open a new wound. Judging by their stiff postures now, the strain was still there.

  Mara stood as she approached.

  “You heard?” Zenobia asked.

  “Yes.” The mercenary’s expression gave nothing away. She might have been disappointed or relieved. Zenobia couldn’t tell.

  “I want to stay, but—”

  “There’s no reason to,” Mara finished for her.

  The ache in Zenobia’s chest spread to her stomach. There were reasons. They were her friends.

  Cooper shook his head, his lean face drawn and tired. “Go with her, Mara.”

  Fire blasted through Mara’s expression. Not broken glass, but an explosive—and Cooper had apparently just set it off.

  “Oh, no.” Zenobia stepped back. “That’s really not necessary.”

  “Maybe I should leave him here,” Mara spat. “He was so ready to let go of me.”

  So that was what they’d been fighting about. When he’d been in the boilerworm’s jaws, Cooper had forced Mara to let him go instead of letting the monster pull her in.

  Softly, Cooper said, “You would have done the same.”

  “I would have dragged you in with me!” Mara shouted. Cooper stared back at her. Jaw clenched, she whirled and stalked away.

  Her stomach roiling, Zenobia followed her. She wanted to run in the other direction, but the glistening tears in Mara’s eyes might as well have been glue. Zenobia couldn’t leave her alone like this.

  They stopped beside a small pond, where Mara stood with her head bowed and her arms crossed over her chest. Zenobia watched a turtle lie motionless in the sun, wondering if it was alive or dead, and feeling as awkward as she’d ever felt.

  With a heavy sigh, Mara glanced up. “Forgive me.”

  Zenobia shrugged. What was there to forgive? “He didn’t want you hurt.”

  “I know. But it wouldn’t have mattered. Losing him would have killed me.” Her head fell back and she took a deep, shuddering breath. “I should go with you.”

  “Not a blasted chance.”

  Mara frowned at her, but no explosion followed. She only said, “I should. I’m ashamed because I’m not going. But I don’t feel sorry for staying.”

  “Of course not. Don’t be an idiot. I can manage alone for a week.”

  “You could manage longer than that if the world let you alone. But it doesn’t.”

  It would this week. “The Frenchmen will escort us on the airship, and we’ll be with Helene’s husband afterward. I’ll be perfectly well.”

  “We thought that on the last airship,” Mara said dryly.

  “That had nothing to do with me. And since no one knows who I am, I don’t expect the usual trouble. I’m just a companion.”

  “And the only person who doesn’t think so is engaged in other matters.”

  The governor. A pang struck her chest, deepening the endless ache. “Yes.”

  Mara gave her a long look, but didn’t comment. Grateful for her restraint, Zenobia left her in the garden and went in search of the innkeeper. She’d asked the governor if he would arrange for a reputable airship when the time came for her to leave, but considering that he’d left them in the innkeeper’s care, he must trust the other man’s judgment—so Zenobia would, too. Within minutes, the innkeeper sent a message to the docks and the plans had been made. She and Helene would depart early that evening and they’d be in the Red City by tomorrow afternoon.

  When she returned to the parlor, the news sent Helene into ecstasies. But of course it did. Everything her friend cared about was in the Red City. She wasn’t leaving anything she wanted behind.

  While Helene fluttered about, Zenobia sat at her desk and looked out the window. Balloons and vehicles came and went. None of them carried the governor. She would probably be gone before he returned.

  Should she leave a note? She was so very good at writing letters. God knew what she would say, though.

  Thank you for dragging me out of the sea. I’m sorry I didn’t kiss you at least once.

  So very sorry.

  This journey was supposed to have been an adventure. Perhaps if she’d been a little braver, she wouldn’t be regretting everything she hadn’t done.

  More vehicles rattled down the street. Zenobia searched the passengers’ faces with her looking glass, wondering where they were all going, before settling on the tinker’s shop down the way. Maybe she didn’t have to leave everything she wanted behind.

  And she desperately wanted that typesetter.

  ***

  Finding someone in the dens who spoke English was easy. A number of sailors and aviators had spent time in Manhattan City or tried their luck in England. Finding someone who read the language—who could read any language at all—proved more difficult.

  Not impossible, though.

  “‘ . . . still . . . a wretched and . . . lonely widow, Geraldine.’” Finishing his labored translation, the ferry pilot looked up from Zenobia’s letter. “A woeful bit of news that was.”

  Woeful? Shaking his head, Ariq tucked the letter away. Her message could only sound woeful if a man didn’t know Zenobia. The pilot didn’t.

  But Ariq could picture her wry smile. He could all but hear the amusement in her voice. And he could imagine everything she hadn’t said—her worry for Cooper and her determination to reach the Red City.

  What she had said was exactly as he’d expected: just a typical letter. But he hadn’t known how hearing the pilot read her words would hit him in the chest and lift through him—as if she stood at his side, sly and amused and silently worried. He hadn’t known how glad he would be to ha
ve this small, new connection to her.

  He missed her. Only three days, yet he missed her.

  Distance hadn’t helped. Ariq hadn’t seen or spoken to her, and he’d tried to turn the separation into a wall. But he should have realized how pointless it was. She wasn’t with him, but he only had to close his eyes to see her bare legs against his or the sun shining through her wet shift, the transparent linen clinging to her slender form. He carried the memory of her arms wrapped around him, her sharp smile and her delighted laugh. She wasn’t here, yet he knew that her fingers would be stained with ink, and that staying at the inn when there were so many things outside to see and take notes on was probably killing her.

  So it didn’t matter if he built walls now. She was already in. And a letter was a poor substitute for the woman.

  But he’d be done here soon. Three days spent making his presence felt in the dens and gathering information on Lord Jochi, and now it was almost over. Soon he’d know who had bought the marauders’ flyers.

  He looked out over the bow of the ferry balloon. From this distance, the Rat Den didn’t look changed from when Merkus had overseen the island. Boats crowded the bays and shacks crowded the land. Filth darkened the small lakes.

  But he hoped that Lord Jochi was different than Merkus had been. Everything he’d heard since coming to the dens said that Jochi was. Ariq could only know for certain by meeting the man.

  “How long?”

  “Five minutes,” the pilot said. “We’ll tether in the visitors’ bay. They don’t make you wait to go through.”

  “Use the citizens’ bay.” Two of Ariq’s men had already visited the island several times and reported to him, but he wanted to see how the people were treated for himself.

  The other man shrugged. “It’s your coin.”

  Ariq thanked him and left the wheelhouse. He’d hired the ferry for his personal use and the covered decks were empty but for a few deck hands. His soldiers sat together in the shade, sweat glistening on their brows, their shoulders slumped and legs stretched out. Bartan looked up at his approach and spoke to the others. They all straightened.