Break the Chains

Chapter Twenty

After freeing her from her damp prison, the guards had hustled Ripka, dripping, into the stony shelter of her cell and left her without so much as a word. She’d paced, anxious, wondering if her sentence was fulfilled or if they’d come for her once the clouds had wrung themselves dry. None of the guards had given her an answer. Even Lankal had gone mute.

As if someone had ordered them to silence.

Though she had no light to see by, she knew the dinner hour had passed in the rec yard by the stomping of boots and the whoops of the inmates as they went about their scant social time.

Ripka was left to stew. To pace. When the muttering of the inmates in the yard lost its initial fervor, a shallow tray of gruel accompanied by a few oily pieces of cheese was shoved through the narrow slot in her cell door. After a moment’s pause, a roll stuffed with limp greens followed, looking very much like it had been sat upon.

She stared at that lump of leavened bread – its smooshed round face, the greenish ooze seeping from a strained side-seam. A temptation to kick it, to crush it beneath her heel and grind it against the floor, thrummed through her.

Ripka took a breath. Consciously loosened her clenched jaw. Disgusting as it was, her body would need the scant nutrients stuffed in the crusty roll. Bread had been a rare treat in Aransa. She told herself she shouldn’t be sick of it so quickly, but it was hard to ignore the panging in her stomach.

She sat cross-legged, facing the door, and dragged the tray within easy reach. Methodically, she forced herself to bite, chew, and swallow every last drop they’d given her. By the time she was finished, she’d gone through half her water supply just to wash the stodgy mess of nutrients down.

Stomach like a lead weight, she flopped backward onto the hard floor, splaying her arms above her head to stretch. She closed her eyes against the faint light of her single candle, focusing on the slow draw of her breath, ignoring the wet strands of hair sticking to her forehead and neck. Though she’d been granted a change of jumpsuits, there was little she could do for her rain-soaked head.

With eyes closed, she allowed her mind to drift along the twisting paths of her possible futures. Kisser had promised her a rendezvous with a clearsky dealer – Uncle, she’d called him – and that put her one step closer to shucking Radu’s yoke. With her task for the warden out of the way, she could then turn her focus to discovering Nouli’s whereabouts – which meant, she was certain, gaining access to the yellowhouse. Perhaps she could leverage Uncle to discover Nouli. Perhaps Nouli was being put to use by Uncle. For a man with Nouli’s brilliance, the creation of such a drug wouldn’t be too much of a stretch.

A thrill of a thought sparked in her mind – perhaps Uncle was in the yellowhouse. He might even be Nouli himself.

The timeline was tight, she needed all the advantage she could get. Needed to get close to the yellowhouse. The sticky, warm rains of the advance monsoon had proven that much to her. If she did not have Nouli in hand by the time Detan came for her, then this whole sordid adventure might be for naught. At least she’d learned a thing or two about running a prison.

She snorted, choking back a laugh. Not that she’d ever need the knowledge. One future she was quite sure was dead to her was that of advancing through the ranks of the watchers. She’d turned her back on the empire, worn her traitor brand with pride. Too bad, really. The Remnant could use a steady, clever hand instead of the garish fumbling of Radu Baset.

She dozed on the hard floor, the exhaustion deep within her bones quick to claim any moment of rest.

The crack of wood against stone awoke her. Ripka jerked awake, reached for a baton she no longer carried. Her fingers tingled from numbness, the frantic patter of her heart rushed blood to the sleeping limb so quickly it felt as if her whole hand burned.

Her cell door stood ajar, Kisser’s curved frame filling it. “I know the beds are rough,” she drawled, “but surely they’re better than the floor?”

“Better than the well.” She drew her knees to her chest to stretch them before rising.

“You really can sleep anywhere.”

“Lots of practice.” Ripka squinted at the man hovering behind Kisser’s shoulder, trying to make out which guard Kisser had coaxed into opening Ripka’s cell. She didn’t recognize him, but she recognized the man standing next to the guard.

“Enard, nice to see you standing.”

He rubbed at a dark purple splotch spreading across his chin and cheek. “Thanks to you, I am.”

“Save it for later, lovebirds. Uncle’s on a tight schedule and our lovely escort isn’t even assigned to this block.” She hooked her fingers in the guard’s collar and steered the blushing man down the hallway. “Chop chop.”

Ripka fell into step alongside Kisser, letting the guard lead the way. She swallowed an urge to whisper to Enard, to ask him if he’d found anything out during his second waterworks shift. If he’d caught scent of Nouli, then they might be able to use Kisser’s abusive freedoms to find the man. To talk to him alone.

She eyed Enard’s narrow back, Kisser’s words from above the well floating back to her. Glasseaters don’t just leave. She’d spent a year with Enard skirting the skies of the Scorched on Detan’s flier, working and laughing alongside one another. She’d felt she’d come to know him, to trust him, to understand his motives.

But then, she’d never known his working name, Tender. Never imagined those careful, delicate hands were renown amongst the Glasseaters for the harm they dealt.

Their path shifted. The guard used one of his many keys to open a door leading toward the staff’s quarters. Her heart sank. Unless he was about to show her a network of secret tunnels, they weren’t headed anywhere near the yellowhouse. She’d have to find another way out there.

The guard heaved up a heavy beam that barred yet another door, standing aside so that Kisser could enter first. Ripka blinked in the faint haze that filled the large workroom.

Oil lamps dotted the walls, casting unctuous light over a long table – obviously stolen from the rec yard – on which a collection of strange glass and metal instruments stood. A small brazier licked flames over the bottom of an amberglass flask. The fumes from the bottle had been angled so that they’d leave the room through a silver grating, about the height where a window would be. The scent of mudleaf clung to the air – not the acrid bite of the smoke, but the sweet scent of the raw plant, green but cloying.

A sleeping cot huddled against the far wall, neglected with lumps of twisted blankets. Dog-eared notebooks scattered the ground like fallen leaves. At the far end of the table, a man – she supposed he was Uncle – bent over a notebook, graphite scribbling furiously, his ash-grey hair stuck up all askew. Kisser cleared her throat.

Uncle looked up, a pleased smile deepening the crevasses of his features. Ripka’s heart skipped a beat. She knew that face. Had studied drawings of it for months.

Nouli Bern.

“Ah, my dear girl,” Nouli said as he came around the table, wizened hands outstretched toward Kisser. “Who have you brought me?”

Kisser clasped the man’s hands and kissed his cheeks, then pointed her chin at Ripka. “This is Cap–”

Ripka shushed her with a shake of her head, heart pounding in her ears loud enough to wake the dead, and stepped forward. Enard went still, silent, his lips parted in a little “O” of surprise.

This was it. Their chance. She could no longer fear Kisser learning too much about her motives for being within the Remnant. Ripka lifted her palms before her, open toward the skies, to show her respect.

“Well met under blue skies, Nouli Bern. My name is Ripka Leshe. I have come on behalf of the city of Hond Steading to beg your help.”

“Oh,” Nouli said, “oh my.”

Kisser’s wide hand fell upon Nouli’s shoulder.

“Where,” she said firmly, “did you learn that name?”