Break the Chains

Chapter Ten

By the time the dinner bell rolled around, Ripka was ready to eat her own arm – or the raw grain growing around her. The midday meal had been little more than stale water and staler bread, eaten under the paltry shade of a knobby old tree. Her newfound crew trudged back down the path to the prison, rendered silent by exhaustion. Ripka was perversely glad she wasn’t the only one hurting. She’d always counted herself in good shape – she’d had to be to maintain her post as the watch-captain of Aransa – but this was too much. Hours spent bent over, scraping dirt in the sun, was enough to break the spirit of anyone.

Which was precisely why the guards made the inmates do it. Despite her aches, she saw the cleverness in their system. Good behavior got you out where you could taste a hint of freedom, but it also got you so worn down you couldn’t start a fight even if you were itching to pop off. It kept people in line, too, that their food source was tied directly to their work. Ripka held no illusions as to who would be fed first if the island crops failed and the monsoons kept airship delivery at bay. It was, she realized, the only system on the Remnant she’d been impressed by.

They were pat down before they were allowed back in the hallway, pat down again after they’d deposited their buckets stuffed with tools, and then let loose. They wandered in a droopy clump toward the long tables where stale rolls and fruit-pocked mush were being handed out.

“By the blue skies, if I weren’t so cursed hungry I’d swear off eating bread ever again,” Clink said.

“I hear ya.” Forge brushed sweat-plastered strands of hair off her forehead. “But if we swear off every flavor of crop we work on we’d never eat again.”

Ripka blinked. “You mean we switch crops?”

“Every day,” Clink affirmed. “Warden don’t want us getting too familiar with any one piece of land. They switch up the type of crop, the task, and the order in which we go to the crops. Anything to keep us off-balance.”

“Inefficient,” Ripka said.

“We’re free labor,” Honey murmured. “Warden doesn’t care how long it takes to get done, so long as it does.”

“Fair point.” Ripka tried on a smile in her direction. Honey stared at her.

Unsettled, Ripka glanced around the yard and spotted Enard in the same seat he’d taken the night before. Luckily his neighbors had changed. His shoulders were hunched, his hands busy shoveling food into his mouth. She could only imagine what sort of day he’d had, what sort of work they’d found for him. Regardless of his, or her, exhaustion, she had to tell him what she’d found. Of the strange compound, and the guard who could disappear behind trees. And he owed her more than a handful of answers.

“Hey, Clink,” she said, turning to their de facto leader. “I’m going to–”

“Go on.” She waved her hand in expansive dismissal. “Go see your man. You know our table. We’ll see you at it in the morning. Clear?”

“He’s not my–”

“Just go.”

Ripka peeled away from the group, awareness of her isolation growing with every step she took. Knots of prisoners dotted the rec yard. Some ate, some played games and socialized. Anytime she drew within ten steps of any one of them, they hushed and looked up as one, watching her pass with wary eyes.

Any of those groups could contain the songbird. Any one of them could be an ally of that woman or her man. And there Ripka was, striking out alone across the massive courtyard.

Breathe, she told herself. You’re no sparrow, you’re a thrice-cursed hawk, and you’ve handled shadier bastards than this lot. She kept her chin up, let her gaze roam, but not flick, not allowing a sliver of nervousness into her expression. By the time she sat down next to Enard she’d worked herself up enough to fight every last soul in the whole building.

“Good evening, cap… miss.”

“Captain suits me fine, here.”

He startled and raised his brows at her. She shrugged. “They asked my other name, figured that one was suitable.”

“Bold choice.” He pushed a plate of bread and half-bruised fruit toward her.

“I’m not likely to forget it, at least.”

“True.” He stirred the mush on his plate with a wooden spoon, lost in thought.

She picked out a few pieces of better looking fruit and popped them into her mouth, savoring the over-ripe sweetness, the rush of flavor across her parched tongue. They’d brought her water in the fields, sure, but it’d been stale and warm, good for little more than keeping her alive.

At least they’d gone to the trouble of keeping her alive.

When he’d been quiet long enough she feared they’d have their dinner broken up before being able to discuss anything, she lowered her voice and asked, “So, ‘Tender’, is it?”

“Ah. That.”

He laid his bread back down on his plate, sat up straight as he could on the wobbly bench and brushed crumbs from his fingers. Every last move was precise, dignified, the same old Enard she’d come to know over the last year trolling around on Detan’s flier. But there was something else to him now – a darker current, an edge of danger. How she hadn’t seen it before, she couldn’t say for certain. Maybe he hadn’t wanted her to. Probably she hadn’t wanted to.

“You recall I was a steward at the Salt Baths in Aransa, of course. But that was not my only experience with such work. I come from a family of particular valets.”

“Valets?” She leaned closer as his voice lowered to keep those nearby from overhearing.

“Yes. Personal stewards, of a sort. My family’s specialty was… clandestine. We were valets for the Glasseater bosses. First in Valathea, then the Scorched when they expanded. We did odd jobs for them. Private work, you understand. I received my name when I was assigned a post at a boss’s tavern. I tended bar – and kept an eye out for a certain amount of misbehavior from his compatriots.”

“I see. And so they called you Tender, for your work.”

“And for how I left those I found misbehaving.”

Ripka felt her world shift. Patient, kind, affable Enard had been a crime boss’s right-hand. A knee buster. An assassin, quite probably, if it came to it. Certainly not the gentle, well-mannered young man Detan thought he’d picked up looking for an adventure in the Baths. This was a man with a reputation. A reputation dark enough to frighten that big bruiser. She paused until the knot in her throat smoothed away and she could speak without a hitch in her voice.

“Not a job someone leaves lightly.”

He stared at his hands, folded with care on the rough tabletop. The muscles of his jaw jumped. He swallowed before he spoke.

“No. It isn’t. My reasons are personal, though I think you would agree with them. There was a certain woman who I felt was undeserving of my work.”

“And so you left.”

“And so I fled.”

“Ah.” She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples to keep from grinding her teeth. If they were looking for him still, and she had no reason to doubt that they were, then being recognized here was dangerous for them both. His reputation settled between them, heavy and cold.

“Did the others know? Detan and Tibal, have you told them?”

“They knew I left the Glasseaters, nothing more. They asked no further questions.”

“Of course they didn’t. Denial is Detan’s greatest talent.”

She closed her eyes, imagining wringing Detan’s neck for the position his willful ignorance had put her in. Enard could out her if he chose, reveal her as Aransa’s ex-watch-captain to all these bitter souls. Might have to do it as a bargaining chip to save his own ass from the wrath he brought chasing him. Isolation ensconced her once more. She blew out the breath she was holding, and looked at him long and hard.

“What will you do?” she asked.

“I’m here to get Nouli out. To get him to Hond Steading where he can do some good. That’s all.”

“Right,” she said, “as am I.” She had no choice but to believe him, and no desire to do otherwise. Whatever he’d been, he was her friend now. If she couldn’t rely on him, she might as well throw herself to the sharks and be done with it all.

“Is that all?”

She stiffened, not liking his sudden change of topic. It was a tactic she’d used herself many times in interrogation rooms. “What do you mean?”

He picked up his spoon and pushed gruel across the plate once more. “Seems a lot of trouble to go to, to help out one city that you’ve never even stepped foot in. I grant you, protecting Hond Steading from Commodore Ganal is a noble goal, but I had wondered… If you might have another motive. Some unfinished business here, from your time as a watcher.”

Ripka twisted her spoon between her fingers. There was no sense in lying to him. If she did so now, she might break the fragile trust they’d re-established. He knew that, of course. It was why he’d chosen now to ask his question, when he’d had ample time before they’d ever arrived in the Remnant. “I won’t lose another city to Thratia Ganal.”

“Ah. It’s atonement for you, then.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” she snapped and pointed the spoon at him. A bit of gruel dripped off the end.

“Forgive me. It’s just that, it had occurred to me, that you could easily serve Hond Steading’s bid for freedom by enlisting yourself in their watch. Bringing your expertise to their planning.”

She pulled the spoon back and slumped over her meal, poking at it. “Forgive me, if I’ve lost a great deal of faith in the systems of the watch. Now. Will you help me find Nouli? Are we committed to this plan together?”

A sly grin overrode the consternation that’d been building on his features, and he glanced pointedly at the prison walls. “I think we had better be.”

She choked on a laugh. “In that case…” She told him about the strangeness she’d seen around the compound, the way Misol had stepped out of the empty sky alongside the tree. He listened, nodding slowly, polishing off the last of his food as she spoke.

“We’ll have to get a closer look at that building,” he said. “I accepted the work detail I thought would be most appealing to Nouli, maintaining the water systems. The infrastructure is shockingly well cared for. I suspect he must have had a hand in its maintenance, and yet I haven’t seen a sign of him. When I asked the other lads if they’d heard of a man too smart for his own good being brought in, a man with a mind for machines who didn’t look like he belonged here, they all get tight-lipped. Like it’s a ghost we’re talking about and if anyone says his name he’ll come screaming out of the dark.”

“So they know something.”

“But they’re not telling me. And it may be a good while yet before I have their trust enough to get them to talk. Men like these, they don’t play loose with information. Even if it’s just what color the sky was that morning, they’ll clam up and tell you they don’t know – ain’t never seen no sky, nor no colors.” He finished with a drawling flourish, and she had to stuff bread in her mouth to stifle her chuckle.

Despite Clink’s objection to the grains, Ripka found she had no trouble at all devouring the bread. Whole loaves like this were a rarity in the inland cities of the Scorched. And, she felt a little more personal about it now. Like she’d earned it.

“We don’t have time for them to loosen up. Detan and Tibs said they’d come for us before the monsoon season starts up, after that no one sails for the Remnant for months.”

“So we’d better work quick.”

Ripka watched him trace his finger over the plate’s edge in thought, round and round. A kernel of an idea solidified. “You still got your waterworks patch?”

He turned so she could see the pipe and wrench motif whip-stitched to his sleeve. “I suspected that, although my initial inquiries were fruitless, it would be a good idea to keep it up for a while. I can’t imagine Nouli taking an interest in any of the other work details.”

“Farming could use an efficient touch,” she muttered, then snatched up his plate.

“Pardon, captain, but what are you doing?”

She reached across the table and gathered up a few half-chewed crusts left by other inmates, a couple of soggy fruit cores, and any other food detritus she could get her hands on, piling them on both of their plates.

“Help me get these loaded,” she said. “I have an idea.”

For the first time since their arrival, she saw Enard grin.

“Happy to be of service, captain.”

I’m sure you are, she thought, then pushed the bitterness aside. They had work yet to do. Together.