Break the Chains

Chapter Four

Three bunks were bolted to one wall, a scraggly rug nailed to the center of the floor. The bunks sported the barest of linens, and not so much as a trunk for clothing cluttered the empty room. Tibs tugged his hat down, no doubt to hide an insufferable smirk, and sat on the middle bunk. His long legs dangled, bootheels hooked on the bottom bunk’s rail, and he stretched spindly arms up to rest against the top bunk. In effect, cutting Detan off from any of the sparse cabin’s small comforts.

“And just what do you suppose we’ll do if we can’t win Pelkaia to our cause?” Tibs asked.

“Bah, she’ll come around. You know how old Pelly can be. Fickle as her face, that woman is.”

“As you say, sirra.”

Detan frowned. Tibs only called him sirra when he thought Detan was being particularly idiotic. He couldn’t think of a thing he’d done in the last few marks that was worse than usual by his persnickety companion’s estimation.

“Who put sand in your trousers?” he asked, and turned to examine the door that held them. The Larkspur had been constructed to the rigorous specifications of its previous – and intended – owner, the exiled commodore Thratia Ganal. Ruthless woman that she was, Thratia was more inclined to cut throats than corners with construction. Unfortunately for Detan, it seemed Pelkaia kept up with the commodore’s maintenance schedule. The hinges were well-oiled, the ever-shifting gaps between the boards filled with waxen mortar.

“You’ll pardon my sour mood if I find it a touch worrisome we’re sitting above all this–” Tibs stomped a boot on the annoyingly well-cared-for floor, “–and you seem pleased as punch to make things go boom.”

Detan hid a grimace by giving the door another close examination. “It wasn’t my intention to make use of my sel-sense, but Pelly put me rather in a spot. If I refused, she’d realize how unpredictable my talent has grown, and then where would we be? If she doesn’t think she can use me, she won’t help, and if she won’t help, then Ripka and New Chum will have to get real cozy out at the Remnant, because our trusty ole flier sure as shit isn’t going to fare well crossing the Endless Sea. Not to mention pass for anything like an official vessel once we get there.”

“Making the lady’s face go up, I understand. But that stunt with the knife?”

Detan fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. “Saw that, did you? Err. Ah. Well, I mean, it was such a small amount.”

“And did you mean for that demonstration to be quite so large?”

“Not exactly, of course, but…”

Tibs sighed, low and ragged, and the sound was like raking a bed of nails over Detan’s conscience.

“Look,” Detan said, turning to look Tibs in the eye. “It’s getting better. I’m regaining control.”

Tibs pursed his lips like a fish’s kiss, exhibiting his whole opinion in one bitter expression. The ship shifted, changing course with a sudden jerk, and Detan grew aware of the vast selium stores beneath his feet.

All that sel, and all it would take from him was one flare-up. One tiny spark of rage to set the whole contraption ablaze. His stomach sank. This cabin wasn’t so different from the one he’d been held in, near on a year ago now. The bunks were new – the rug a nice touch of homeliness – but the warm scent of the wood, the subtle tinge of leather and iron in the air, dragged at him. Pushed at barriers he’d long since held in mind.

Little ribbons of pain drew his attention. He’d been scratching at the interior of his elbow, at the ruby-red scar that Callia’s needle had left behind.

It’d been year, sure. A year since that whitecoat, Callia, had strapped him to a table in a room on another airship. A year since she’d experimented upon him on behalf of the empire, dug around in his flesh and his blood to see what made his destructive sel-sense tick. Funny how that single event haunted him more than the first time he’d been a guest of the whitecoats.

That first time, he’d been locked away in the Bone Tower like a proper prisoner. He’d had the scent of char from accidentally exploding his selium pipeline – and his fellow sel-sensitives – fresh in his nostrils. He’d given up then. Given himself over to whatever harsh end the empire had planned for him in their quest to dig the truth of his deviant sensitivity out of him.

But he had escaped. He’d tasted clean air, open air. Found his way back to the Scorched and found a friend in Tibs, too. And that’s why it’d hurt so much, that second time, a year ago. Brief though Callia’s experiments upon him had been, not even the invasive prodding of the Bone Tower had left him so hollowed out inside. So unsure of the nature of himself and his ability. And Tibs had been there for him through both returns from the whitecoats’ clutches. He owed Tibs so much. More than he could ever find the words to say.

Detan dragged his hands through his hair and stared at his feet.

“Sorry.”

Tibs shrugged, a slow roll of the shoulders that dismissed their whole argument, and pushed his hat back. “Think she really will come ’round?”

Detan settled cross-legged on the floor and rubbed the rough side of his cheek. They’d been a week in Cracked Thorn before opportunity had arisen to get himself arrested, and his chin hadn’t seen the slick side of a blade since. He wiggled his bare toes.

“Don’t know, truth be told. I figured the bait of the deviant list would be enough to tempt her along, but she didn’t seem half so interested as I’d hoped.”

“Oh, the list that doesn’t exist?”

Detan scowled and shushed him. “Keep it quiet, lest you want her to tip us over the side.”

“Had you considered, by any chance, telling her the truth?”

He stood and paced, irritated by the tight confines and lack of control. Wasn’t right to keep him cooped up like this, not when he hadn’t done Pelkaia any direct harm. It was downright inhospitable, come to think on it.

“Think she’d let us keep Nouli, if she knew what kind of knowledge he holds?”

“We can only keep him if they can find him.”

“They will. He’s there. If anyone can suss that wily rat out of hiding, it’s Ripka Leshe.”

“Wish I could say I shared your faith. Not that the lady’s skills are in question – I’m sure she’ll find him, if he’s there to be found – but what kind of man will he be? You think he couldn’t have gotten out on his own, if he wanted it?”

Tibs plucked a deck of cards from his breast pocket and flicked out a hand. Detan stopped pacing and crouched down to gather up the fallen cards. Having something in his hands, something to do, kept his mind moving along smoothly.

“There’s got to be a reason he’s stuck around. Maybe he fears the empire’s reach – or Thratia’s. Nouli served the empress a long time, and often on Thratia’s ships. Thratia knows he’s got an inside peek at her methods. Could be she wants him for herself, or wants him dead. This is Thratia Ganal we’re talking about. The woman they call General Throatslitter, and she smiles about it. The woman who the empire exiled for being too power-hungry. The woman who… Who killed an innocent woman, let her bleed out at our feet, just to make a point. Who sold deviant sensitives into slavery, not because she didn’t think it was wrong, but because she found doing so expedient to her plans. If I were Nouli, I’d hide behind the Remnant’s walls too.

“But no matter his reasons, it’s got to be tried. Hond Steading has always relied on its legacy and its size to keep itself safe. The monsoon season will slow Thratia’s troops, but it won’t be long now. She wants Hond Steading. Valathea wants it, too. And my dear old auntie’s going to get caught in the crossfire. We need a strategist with inside knowledge.”

“Putting a lot of faith in this man, considering who we’re up against. Putting a whole city in his hands, and you haven’t even said hello yet.”

“Auntie Honding’s got a lot of things at her fingertips. Got watchers, sel-sensitives, loyalists, and every old thing you’d need to hold a city being besieged. But what she needs to win – to push back those forces and not just waste away until she’s rolled over by hunger – is a trump card.” He flicked out a card. Tibs snatched it up. “An upper hand Thratia won’t see coming. Nouli’s that. Even just knowing we have him will give her pause. Maybe make her be a little too slow, a little too cautious.”

“Know what else might slow her down?”

“Getting a look at your mug?”

“Discovering the Lord Honding has returned home, trained, and is ready for her.”

The cards in his hand rustled as he stifled a tremble. “We’re asking a lot of miracles of the world already. Wouldn’t want to push our luck.”

“There’s no luck in asking for help.”

“Depends on who you’re asking.”

Tibs’s wizened little eyes swiveled to the door.

“You’ve got to be kidding. Ask Pelkaia to train me? Black skies, Tibs, she nearly pitched me off the cliff the moment she saw me. We’re already asking her to help us get the gang out of the clink. Talk about pushing our luck – she’ll push back.”

“Doesn’t have to be her. Could be your ownself.”

Detan froze with a card held halfway out. “I don’t have the temperament for it.”

“Yet you’ve refused to give up the possibility.”

“What in the pits is that supposed to mean?”

Tibs closed the fan of his cards and pressed them facedown against his thigh. “I get why you won’t go back to Hond Steading. I do. But for all your running away from that city – you still bear its brand. You still count yourself its heir. What do you think’s going to happen when Dame Honding dies, and you’re the only sack of flesh drifting around the Scorched with a proper heir brand on his neck? Think the city’s just going to sit quietly and wait for you to get yourself together? Think your abandonment won’t cause upheaval? Won’t hurt people?

“You could relinquish it. Could cross it out and demand Dame Honding burn some other sod with the burden. But you don’t. You’re still responsible for that city in your heart – so you’re going to have to take control of yourself real quick. Nouli can’t do that for you.”

“Five,” Detan said.

“Excuse me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, where his family’s crest had been branded into his skin at the age of twelve. He’d wanted it, then. He’d never really stopped wanting it. Never stopped knowing what it meant. It wasn’t the power, not really, though most would see it that way. It was stewardship, his mother had told him while her jaw creaked from the bonewither eating her alive. It was a promise from Detan to Hond Steading. A promise that he’d do his best to care for the city for the rest of his life. A chance to do something right.

“Five lives. Last time I was there. Last time I took responsibility for the city. I stood with a group of five miners moving sel and lost control. That little demonstration landed me in the Bone Tower, guest of Callia’s bastard colleagues, and I’ll be damned if I ever get myself anywhere near a situation like that again. I do what I can for Hond Steading. I just do it from a distance.”

“And is it the whitecoats that keep you up at night, or fear of failing your responsibility to Hond Steading?”

“That was three years ago. You think I wouldn’t do worse now, pushed just right? Staying away is the best thing I can do for them. Finding Nouli and sending him there is the second best.”

Tibs pressed his lips together and laid out a pair of cards. The ship slalomed sideways. Detan nearly lost his balance as it bumped up against something firm and unforgiving. A soft squeal reached his ears, the complaint of wood and metal rubbing shoulders. He was grateful for the distraction. Detan popped back to his feet and slipped his cards into his pocket.

“Are we under attack?” he asked the air, staring at the iron-bound door and wishing he could see what was happening.

Tibs chuckled. “Under attack by a dock? Sure.”

Before he could muster a response the huge door swung open. Coss leaned against the doorframe, brows raised in amusement. Detan flicked his collar to straighten it and tried to look confident, unconcerned. Coss smirked.

“Pack your things, lads, you’ve arrived.”

“I’ll have you know, I arrived ages ago,” Detan said.

Coss rolled his eyes. “Cute. Now heave-to-it.” He stepped aside, leaving the doorway wide open for them to pass through. Detan peered at that sliver of freedom, suspicious.

“I’d hoped to bend your captain’s ear a little while longer,” he ventured.

“Hope all you want, Honding, she ain’t interested. Am I going to have to grab some boys to help you on your way out?”

“No need for that,” Tibs said. He levered himself out of his sprawl over the bunks.

“And may I ask which lovely establishment of the Scorched you’re dumping our sorry hides in?” Detan asked.

“See for yourself.” Coss gestured toward the side of the ship with one arm.

Detan peered over the ship’s rail. A city of brownstone and twisted wood splayed below him, the square buildings tall and wide, their roofs peppered with airship moorings and outdoor sleeping quarters. The city was tucked into the curve of a frothing bay, the angry splash of the Endless Sea adding some rare greenery to the shoreline. Beyond the sprawl of buildings and streets, cactus and pricklegrain farms sprouted, their plots mirroring the city’s square towers.

In the far distance, little more than a black smudge on the sea against the horizon, he could make out the first of the Remnant Isles. Somewhere beyond that blurred dot, Ripka and New Chum awaited. Hopefully with Nouli in hand. Detan swallowed.

“Petrastad,” he said.

“Very good!” Coss clapped him on the back. “I see you paid attention in geography.”

“Does this mean Pelkaia intends to help us?” he asked, sharing a sideways glance with Tibs as the lanky man slipped up to the rail alongside him.

“Haven’t a clue what you’re on about. Captain wants us to put in here for her own reasons. Said to see you off, nice and quick, so if you don’t mind…?”

Coss pointed toward the gangplank that sloped down to the roof of one of the large, square, brownstone buildings. The rest of the crew jostled back and forth across the ship, seeing to their tasks. Pelkaia had vanished.

“Hold on now,” Detan said as Coss grabbed the cloth at the back of his neck and shoved him forward. “I demand to speak with your captain for being so rudely manhandled.”

“I’m sure your treatment will break her heart.” Coss kept on herding Detan along, Tibs loping beside them with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “You’ll find your flier has been safely stowed at this fine dock, though how you’ll pay to get her back is your problem.”

“This is absurd,” Detan protested, digging his heels in to slow the stocky man down. “Never mind Pelkaia’s thrice-cursed pride. I’m offering her real benefit, a trade of skill.”

Coss hesitated, his grip loosened a touch. “Not my decision,” he said, and Detan suppressed a grin. Maybe it wasn’t Coss’s decision outright, but he’d bet his shoeless feet that the first mate had a healthy say in the dealings of the Larkspur.

“Not to mention the–” He cut himself off, faking a nervous glance around for eavesdroppers, and whispered, “the list.”

“What list?” Coss asked, voice pitched low though he kept on pushing Detan toward the slanted gangplank.

“Of deviants, of course. Ones the empire’s got a sideways eye stuck on.”

“You have this list?”

“Personally? No. But I need Pelkaia’s help to free the woman who does.”

Coss mulled that over, sucking on his teeth so hard his cheeks grew sunken. “Orders are orders,” he eventually said, but there was a hesitance there that gave Detan a small tingle. He doubted Pelkaia would get much peace from her first mate tonight.

As they reached the gangplank, Coss gave him a final shove. Detan stumbled and nearly lost his footing on the rough slip of wood. With the plank groaning under their combined weight, Detan and Tibs hurried down to the dust-coated rooftop.

A chill breeze washed over them, smelling of brine and something deeper, something loamy. Heat rose across his scarred back, the crew’s gazes boring into him as he disembarked. He spun around before taking the last step and saw them there, scattered across the deck and the rigging, not bothering to obscure their stares.

Pelkaia stood at the helm, her long back straight as a mast pole, her hard stare pointed his direction. Ripka’s posture, he mused, and wondered how much of the watch-captain’s habits Pelkaia couldn’t shake from all that time she’d spent imitating her in Aransa. He gave her a cheery wave.

“See you soon, Pelly!” he called, high and bright as he could, and was rewarded with a few nervous chuckles from her crew. And a certain finger raised in salute from Pelkaia.

“Lovely,” Tibs muttered as they hopped down onto the roof.

“Oh, pah. She’ll come around. I doubt that first mate of hers will give her much choice.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Detan shrugged, surveying their new surroundings. The flier was tied up alongside the Larkspur, its rectangular deck and tubular buoyancy sack rather dinky in the shadow of the greater ship’s sleek hull. Detan looked twice at the Larkspur. The ship he knew he’d flown in on looked nothing like the ship he’d stolen in Aransa. Sure, the masts were the same, and the bowsprit featuring an angry air-serpent looked mighty familiar, but its body had changed. It looked flattened, plain. Like nothing more than an overgrown Valathean transport vessel.

He whistled low in appreciation. When the ship had come rushing in to pluck him off the cliff’s edge, he hadn’t gotten a solid look at it, and he certainly hadn’t been able to see much better locked up in one of the cabins. Whoever Pelkaia had on board making the ship look boring, they were doing a mighty fine job. Clever, he thought, filing that trick away for later.

Over the edge of the building, the streets bustled with locals going about their daily chores. Across the narrow lane, about three stories up, Detan spied an open window with a sign pinned above that read: Lotti’s Cards and Pleasures. Beige curtains had been pulled back to let the air in, and they twisted in the sea breeze. Loud whoops sounded from within, glasses clinked, and a handful of men in the crisp white shirts of the Valathean Fleet sat hunched around a table with fans of cards in their hands.

“I think,” Detan said, slinging an arm around Tibs’s shoulders to point him toward the window, “we should go make some new friends, seek some new pleasures. What do you say?”

Tibs eyed Detan’s bare feet and torn trousers. “I say we’d better get you dressed, first.” He wrinkled his nose. “And a bath wouldn’t go amiss.”