The Kraken King Read online

  They hadn’t participated in the attack on the airship. If destroying the airship had been their only goal, they’d have all gone. So those two men were supposed to report back. That meant there was someone to report back to. Someone giving orders.

  That person could hire more men—or recruit them—and it could all begin again. Ariq and Taka had helped cut off the arms today. They hadn’t gotten the head.

  And that head had decided to sacrifice a dozen men to bring down a French airship.

  Maybe to target Zenobia and the documents she carried. Maybe another reason. But whatever the marauders’ goal, too many people had already died for it.

  Ariq would find the head. Then he’d stick the bloodied skull on a pike and parade it through his town.

  Quietly parade it. He paused as he caught sight of Yesui Besud. A former soldier with strong fingers and an archer’s eye, she came out of the women’s side of the bathhouse, her young son in tow. Yesui’s husband had captained one of the first airships destroyed. She might like a head on a pike. But Ariq couldn’t forget the boy. Destroying an enemy should never be more important than the people he fought for—and by the time he’d been her son’s age, Ariq had seen more heads than any boy should ever have to. He wouldn’t display one for her son to see.

  “Good evening, Ariq Noyan.” Yesui still used his title, though he hadn’t commanded a unit of soldiers since they’d left the rebellion. She glanced at his embroidered tunic with a faint smile. “On your way to the soup house?”

  Where he would have eaten anyway. But everyone knew that Lady Inkslinger would be there tonight, too. “I am.”

  “I’ll walk with you.” Yesui fell into step beside Ariq. At a word from her, the boy ran ahead. “I spent ten minutes scrubbing the ink from his feet and hands.”

  Ariq hadn’t spent so much time. Ink still stained his hand and arm. But he had two bottles to give Zenobia, and four barrels that would sell for a substantial sum in the Hindustani markets.

  “So he learned to avoid the black sand,” Ariq said. “What did you learn?”

  “Almost nothing,” she said. “She calls herself Mara Cooper. Her family fled Champa two generations ago.”

  A region on the mainland’s southeastern peninsula. Her accent would be nothing like Ariq’s. “And her husband?”

  “Is from England.”

  The small labor colony at the far western border of the Golden Empire. Over a decade before, the native population had risen up against the empire’s occupation—an event made significant only because the Great Khagan had withdrawn his forces from the colony rather than crush the revolution. That withdrawal had been among the first visible cracks in the Khagan’s power—cracks created by the pressure of the rebellion closer to home, and from the efforts of soldiers like Yesui.

  “Mara claims they are both servants, but she’s no more a lady’s maid than I am,” Yesui continued. “She asked questions.”

  So had Zenobia. “About?”

  “You.”

  Yesui wouldn’t have answered them. No one in this town would say anything of their neighbors to strangers. She would have affected a shy smile and insisted that she didn’t like to gossip.

  Neighbor to neighbor, they chatted like wagtails. By the end of the night, everyone would know that Ariq had worn his best tunic.

  “She is always making notes.”

  They weren’t speaking of the maid now. “Yes,” Ariq said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  She glanced at his tunic again. “Is she fierce?”

  He thought of Zenobia’s leap from the falling flyer, of her fight to reach the ocean’s surface after her pack dragged her down. He thought of her eyes, like a flame dancing through jade, and the intelligence behind them. “She is.”

  “Mara Cooper said they hoped to leave for the Red City soon.”

  “I know.” So little time. He couldn’t waste a second of it.

  “I wish you luck, then.” Yesui’s steps slowed as they approached her home. Ahead, the boy ran through the wooden gate and up the path, red dust kicking up under his sandals. When she spoke again, her voice carried the dull ring of armor strapped too tightly around the flesh it protected. “It’s said that you and your brother have slain the marauders.”

  Ariq couldn’t give her what she needed—the assurance that the men who’d fired on her husband’s airship were dead. “Only some of them.”

  “I dream of shooting my arrows through each one of those filthy curs. For those that were killed, you have my gratitude. And my son’s, when he is old enough to know it.” She bent her head. “Please convey my gratitude to your brother, as well.”

  “You should give it to him yourself.”

  Yesui looked up with a laugh. “Even if I disrobed in front of him, he would not see me. But he might hear you.”

  “He’ll hear you.”

  At least, Ariq hoped he would. The more people who reminded Taka of his worth, the better.

  Sighing, she nodded. “I’ll try. Good night to you, Noyan.”

  Ariq watched her walk up the path before continuing on, anger slowly heating his blood. When he’d established this town, he’d promised those rebels who had come with him that they could live free of fear. Families wouldn’t be broken apart or disappear after a word was spoken against the empire. There would be no governors who could commit atrocities while the Khagan looked the other way as long as the governor’s tax payments filled his coffers. And later, others had come: smugglers looking for a safe location to raise their families. Thieves hiding from bounty hunters. Ariq hadn’t cared who they were or where they’d come from—if they didn’t hurt their neighbors, they could stay.

  But families had been broken. Neighbors had been hurt. And when he found whoever had been giving the marauders their orders, Ariq would have his head on a pike.

  Not tonight, though.

  Approaching the soup house, he forced his temper to cool. The night was already hot enough, and bloodthirst had no place at a table.

  There wouldn’t have been room for it, anyway. By the noise that floated from the main hall and down the path, most of the town had decided to eat soup that night. A rectangle of connected quarters surrounding a courtyard, the soup house had once been the residence of a Bengali pirate, Nazmul, who’d been one of the first outsiders to settle in Ariq’s town. A bachelor, Nazmul had declared it impossible to make soup in such small amounts that could only serve one, so he’d invited other unmarried residents to join him for dinner—an offer that Ariq, Taka, and many others had gratefully taken him up on. In the following years, Nazmul had married and built another home adjoining this one, but he still sold soup—or whatever else he decided to cook—every evening.

  This evening, Ariq expected squid.

  A slight hush fell as he entered the welcoming hall. The partition doors were open, offering a view of the courtyard.

  He spotted Zenobia immediately. She sat at a low table near the center of the courtyard, accompanied by her friend and two French officers—Blanchett and the first lieutenant, Vashon. Jealousy grabbed hold of Ariq, hot and fierce. He wanted her attention.

  But a moment later, Ariq saw that he had it. She glanced toward the door—then looked again, her gaze meeting his. A smile curved her mouth, as if she’d glanced at the door many times before, but this was the first time she’d seen what she’d hoped to.

  She would come, he thought. Maybe not tonight. Or even the next night. But she would come.

  And perhaps write about it in her letters.

  Her notebook sat beside her bowl, her pencil angled across the top. She no longer wore her pack. Instead it lay by Cooper’s crossed legs, one of the straps secured around his foot. The mercenary and his wife were seated at a nearby table—situated so they could keep an eye on the door and on their charge.

  But it could be no hardship to watch over her. She’d been to the dressmaker’s, but wouldn’t have found the western style of clothing
that she’d arrived in. Now she wore a long embroidered tunic in deepest green. The silk hugged her figure to her hips before flaring open. Her tangled brown hair had been piled atop her head, revealing her neck and the elegant curve of her spine. Unlike the two lieutenants, she didn’t sit awkwardly upon the cushions, but had folded her legs neatly to the side. Pantaloons had replaced her stockings.

  No hardship to look at her at all.

  Holding her gaze, he bowed his head. He wanted to hear her voice, and had to settle for the widening of her smile and her nod in return.

  Later, he would speak with her. For now, he crossed to the southern quarters, where Nazmul had built a private partition for Ariq’s use. He had no need for privacy tonight. With the sliding doors open, he would be able to watch Zenobia over dinner, and she would have little trouble seeing him.

  And perhaps it was best that she couldn’t join him. Taka and Saito already occupied the cushions around his table. The pocked scars on his brother’s cheeks and neck stood pale against his skin; they were only visible when Taka was upset. Saito sat with a stiff spine and a grave expression that rested uneasily on his usually smiling face.

  Ariq sank onto his cushion. The large soup pot steamed at the center of the table, and both his bowl and stomach were empty. But he wouldn’t take any yet.

  “I won’t eat with anger at my table,” Ariq said. “Whatever your argument, settle it.”

  They would quickly, he knew. They always did—though they rarely argued. Of the same age, Saito and Taka had served in the Nipponese navy together, had risen through the ranks together. Now Saito was the only man from Nippon whom Taka could still call a friend.

  And although Saito commanded a ship full of sailors who would as soon piss on Taka as look at him, Ariq was grateful whenever he visited. Ariq had only known the broken man that his brother had become after his torture. But Taka’s humor sometimes returned in Saito’s presence, offering Ariq a glimpse of the man his brother had once been.

  The commander sighed. “It was my error. I apologized for telling him about Lady Kishi’s marriage. But I should not have mentioned it again.”

  “Again?” Taka’s jaw clenched. “I don’t care that you mentioned her. I care that you said you ought to have concealed the truth longer.”

  Ariq frowned. Taka had only heard of it a few days before. “How long has she been married?”

  “Three years,” Saito said.

  “Three years in which I’ve been tormented by the fear that her life is the hell that mine is!” On a long breath, Taka calmed again and looked to Saito. “I am glad that my ruin did not mean hers. It might have. We were only a month from marriage and she was all but my wife. But her family must have had many favors owed to them.”

  “Yes,” Saito agreed.

  “Then your heart doesn’t bleed?” Ariq had been certain the wound had driven Taka to the cliffs.

  A wound that was still open. The pain seeped through Taka’s soft reply. “I cannot bear the thought that she’s with another. But what’s the alternative?”

  “We could have gone for her. We could have brought her here. We can now.”

  Taka’s gaze shot to his, as if in disbelief. “No.”

  “It’s a fine town we’ve built.”

  “But she would have to sacrifice her family and friends. I would be heartless to ask it.” A short laugh broke from him, and he shook his head. “You think like a barbarian, brother. If a woman ever caught your interest, you’d toss her over your shoulder and carry her off to your yurt.”

  Only after Ariq offered her gifts and secured her consent. “When your heart no longer bleeds, you should find another to marry.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Only a barbarian needs to ask,” Taka said with another laugh, then his humor faded. “To court a woman, to pretend that I might be worthy of her is to insult her worth.”

  Not worthy? Sudden frustration balled in Ariq’s stomach, hot and hard. He glanced at Saito. “Do you agree?”

  “You are a barbarian,” the commander said.

  That was agreement. Joking agreement, but agreement all the same.

  Ariq looked down at his bowl. Frustration wasn’t anger, but it could sour the taste of a soup just the same. “Then find a woman who cares nothing of your past.”

  “What sensible woman would link herself to a man without knowing of everything he has done and whether others hold his character in esteem?”

  “You are respected.”

  “Here,” Taka said. “But what of everywhere else? Or when his ship and sailors come to town?”

  “Then they won’t be allowed.”

  “So I am always to hide my shame? What sort of man would I be to conceal the past? Would you conceal yours?”

  Ariq frowned. “What shame would I have to conceal?”

  “You were a thief!” As if battling his own frustration, Taka bumped his fist against the edge of the table. “A thief with a battalion at his command, but still a thief. You could terrify a woman with tales of what you’ve done.”

  He only terrified his enemies. If Ariq ever married, his wife would not be one.

  And she would only fear him if she didn’t understand him at all. But if she did know him, then she would know that he would sacrifice everything for her.

  “I see no shame in taking the weapons that the Khagan used to crush his own people,” Ariq said. “And what have you to be ashamed of? That our mother was a spy?” He knew his brother wouldn’t dare say a word against her. Taka had before. Once. Ariq had been angry then. “You didn’t betray your empress or the men you fought with.”

  “I did when I left with you. I might as well have written a traitor’s confession.”

  Taka hadn’t left with Ariq willingly. He’d barely been conscious. And for weeks, he’d begged Ariq to take him back, even though the screw beetle larvae his interrogators had infected him with still twisted their way beneath his skin.

  Ariq could not apologize for freeing him. “Then find a woman who cares nothing of the war between the empires.”

  “What sort of woman wouldn’t care, brother? One with her head in silks and paints? Or one who is so grateful for a man that she will silence her own thoughts?” Vicious resentment hardened his voice. “Or one who is so ugly? Perhaps I should go and make eyes at the new woman there, the one you pulled from the water. Lady Longnose. She must be grateful. Though she’s so pale I might think I’ve woken up with a ghost and die of terror.”

  “Taka.”

  Ariq’s soft warning didn’t pierce his brother’s resentment. “There is no woman worth having that would have me. Would you want to see me with her?”

  “No.” Ariq’s hand clenched. “Not her.”

  Taka glanced down at Ariq’s fist. All at once, he seemed to realize how close he was treading to real danger. His gaze rose to Ariq’s.

  Yesui hadn’t been wrong. Taka often didn’t see what was right in front of him. This time, he hadn’t seen what everyone else in town already had. Now he did.

  Bowing his head, Taka breathed deep for a long minute. When he looked up, Ariq couldn’t mistake the apology in his brother’s eyes—or the gleam of humor.

  “She is like a ghost,” he said.

  Ariq ladled the kraken soup into his bowl. “So she is.”

  Also quick and clever and brave.

  Saito’s beard didn’t conceal the smile pushing at the corners of his mouth—or his relief that the tension and anger between the brothers had abruptly dissolved. “She’ll drain your life with her seductions.”

  “Perhaps she will.” Ariq wouldn’t be sorry.

  Would she be sorry? He glanced into the courtyard and the back of his neck tightened. Zenobia wasn’t looking his way, as he’d hoped. Instead she was frowning, her brow furrowed with concern as she leaned toward the next table, where Mara Cooper sat. Her back to him, Ariq couldn’t see the mercenary’s face—but her husband’s expression mirrored Zenobia’s. Mara shook
her head and held up her hand, as if to stop their queries. Zenobia sat back, still frowning. Then her gaze slid to Ariq and a faint smile touched her lips. Her brows arched.

  Ariq wasn’t certain if he was being challenged or teased. He liked both possibilities.

  “The attack on the French airship won’t be ignored or go unanswered,” Saito said. “Not while the empress is opening the Red Wall to foreigners. Her majesty won’t let it be said that visiting dignitaries might be threatened so close to her borders. When she hears of the attack, she’ll probably order more ironships to the west coast.”

  Ariq hated to look away from Zenobia, but he couldn’t ignore Saito’s tone. Gone was the lighthearted friend. The grim commander sat in his place.

  “How many ironships?”

  “As many as necessary. Our numbers will serve as a warning first.”

  A deterrent against more attacks. “But then?”

  “If another airship is fired on, we’ll likely come to shore. We’ll turn over every home and town looking for the marauders.”

  Then more than the marauders would die. Roughly, Ariq pushed his bowl aside. “Not one settlement would stand for it.”

  And Ariq would lead them, if he had to.

  His expression grave, Saito nodded. “I know. Just as I know that if the empress can’t remove a splinter from a finger, she’ll cut off the arm. She’ll destroy the smugglers’ dens first. Then she’ll move up the coast until no hiding places remain.”

  Cold dread slipped through Ariq’s rising anger. He could defend his town against a Nipponese fleet, but the empress would only send more forces. Eventually, he’d lose. So would everyone in his town. “How long do we have to find the marauders?”

  “She’ll hear of the attack shortly after the lieutenant’s message reaches the French ambassador. A month, perhaps. Then another month to mobilize.”

  Two months before the ironships arrived. Two months to find the dogs that he’d already spent half a year searching for.

  “I hope that you were not mistaken about their target,” Saito added softly. “And that they come quickly.”