Enard made a small sound in the back of his throat, unnoticed by the guard who stalked ahead of them. He tipped his head back, drawing her eye to the walk atop the prison dormitories, where a guard was always set to watch. The walk was empty. If it were not for the faint murmur of hundreds of voices concealed within those hugging wings of stone she could not have been sure the island was inhabited at all.
The paths wound closer to the sea. Low tide had slipped in, and the air was heavy with the decay of sea-plants and unfortunate creatures who had been abandoned to the sands as the tide retreated. Down a steep path, angling across the crumbled face of a fallen cliff, she spied a marshy pool tucked within the rocks, reeking of the reeds that dropped their seeds into it to molder.
She flicked her wrist, a subtle movement, and dropped Kisser’s note into the pool. Committed, now, to whatever was to come, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Betrayal or no, she’d kept her word. She could only hope Kisser believed Ripka had a way off the island.
The path opened onto the rocky shore. Ripka took a moment to admire the endless freedom of the gleaming horizon. She would have that freedom again, someday soon. Once her task was finished.
The beach was a thumbprint on the chiseled shoreline. Scarcely fifty paces across, it looked as if an elder cliff had collapsed, leaving this crescent strip strewn with rough rocks.
The low level of the waters exposed a bit more ground, cluttered with strips of kelp dancing all over with the jump and scuttle of sandfleas. Into this temporary stretch of land a flier had dropped anchor. The craft boasted a single sail, its hull narrow and low with only a cursory attempt at a railing. A single propeller graced its aft, the lacquer to protect the wood from cloud mist chipped and peeling. Tibal would have had a fit to see a propeller in such disrepair.
A wiry man stood on deck, his thatch of dark hair shot all through with grey. He crouched at an opening in the rail, hovering above a natty rope ladder, the bottom rung of which dragged in the damp sand. A pack rested beside his knee, good oilcloth bulging at the strapped seams. He wore no insignia nor uniform, but his appearance was not the puzzle that caught in the brambles of her mind.
A small ship, smaller than Detan’s flier, could not cross the open sea to the Remnant.
Hessan whistled a strange bird cry. The man nodded in acknowledgement. They tromped across the uneven beach to the smoother sands the tide had given up, Ripka’s shoes sucking in the muck.
The man jerked his chin toward them “Who’re those two?”
Hessan looked at them as if he’d been reminded of an unsightly boil on his bottom. “The Lady’s pets. She took ill and shoved them along in her place.”
“Took ill for truth this time, eh?” The man had a soft, affable chuckle. “False words plant blighted seeds.” Ripka started. That was an old Catari saying, supposedly outlawed with all other cultural accoutrements of the people Valathea had rolled over to take control of the Scorched and its precious firemounts. She shifted so that the sun was not in her eyes to get a better look at the man. He had the same branchbark hue to his skin as most on the Scorched did, but a smoothness to his cheekbones betrayed a stronger Catari heritage.
“Enough of that,” Hessan said. “Do you have it?”
“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” With a casual kick he knocked the pack at his side to the sand. The guard cursed as he picked it up, brushing off the wet muck. “You have the results?”
“Here.” Ripka stepped to the ladder and held Nouli’s carefully sealed envelope up to the man. He eyed the distance between them, and smirked.
“Best come up a bit, now,” he said.
She examined the frayed rope ladder, not relishing a tumble into the sodden sand. “Can’t you come down?”
The man’s expression darkened, thunderclouds rearing in the smooth darkness of his eyes. “I will never set foot on this place.”
Ripka bit her tongue, remembering Kisser’s warning not to speak unless spoken to. Shunting aside curiosity, she braced herself as she eased one foot onto the first rung, leaned her weight against it, and then added the other. The man puffed out an annoyed breath.
“Don’t have all day, lass.”
“Clearly you’re not rushing off to repair your ladder,” she blurted before she could stop herself.
The man’s brows shot up, the darkness in his eyes clearing as he barked a laugh. Tension fled her shoulders.
“There they are!” A male voice she did not know thundered across the bay.
The man above her cursed and leaned toward her, hand outstretched. For the barest of moments she thought he’d pull her on board, but he snatched the folded envelope from her hand and reared back, severing the rope ladder’s connection to the deck with two quick swipes.
Her side slammed into the wet sand, the abandoned ladder crumpling atop her. She grunted, kicked out to regain her feet and staggered upright, ignoring the ache in her arm and side.
The flier slid out across the sea, the man cranking frantically at his propeller, the anchor left behind in a heap of rope. Ripka scowled after him, cursing his retreat. But then she saw the reason, and went very cold and very still.
Down the track six men in prison jumpsuits sauntered. One of them familiar to her even at a distance. The songbird’s man, Oiler. The Glasseater who’d harangued Enard. She bristled as she watched the men work together without an order spoken, fanning out as they approached their target, cutting off all hope of escape. No guard accompanied them. They had the easy stroll of the fearless.
“Leave us,” Enard said, stepping forward so that he was in front of Ripka.
“Oh ho, now he wants nothing to do with us.” Oiler grinned. His two canines had been filed down to knife-points, his lips twisted to one side by old scarring. As Enard spoke, stalled, she sized them up – decided she’d take the one to Oiler’s right, first, as he was the most substantial of the lot. No doubt Enard would handle Oiler if it came to that.
Remove the largest boulders, and the rest of the rocks will fall.
“What are you doing outside of the walls without escort?” Hessan reached for his baton as he stepped forward to stand level with Enard.
Oiler held his hands out, palms up, and shrugged. “Work detail forgot to recall us. He was busy, ya know? It’s a mighty distraction, having your ankles tied up by your ears. When we spotted those two missing, figured we better have a look ’round. This island can be dangerous, you know.”
“I have asked you politely to leave,” Enard said. Ripka heard steel in his voice she hadn’t realized him capable of. “I will not ask again.”
Oiler snorted. “Looks to me like we’re the ones going to be doing the asking.”
There was a subtle shift in their formation, orchestrated after a tilt of Oiler’s head. The fan tightened toward the end closest to Hessan.
Whatever their reasons, the Glasseaters wanted the guard out of commission first. Hessan’s hand drifted toward his collar, as if he were going to adjust it. She saw the line around his neck, then, the worn cord that held a brass whistle. Of course they wanted him out first. He was the only one of them who could call for help.
A scrawny Glasseater darted toward Hessan – but Ripka moved first. She swept in and shouldered Hessan aside, sending him sprawling. Shouts broke out all around her but she ignored them, focused on the arm’s radius immediately around her, as she’d been trained.
The Glasseater barreled into her, sweeping her off her feet. She landed hard on her back, and rolled before the man could follow up with the kick he’d aimed at her ribs. He reached for her, but she scrabbled forward, fingertips tearing as she dug them into the sand to give herself purchase. Hessan lay just ahead, groaning. He rolled to-and-fro, a mass of kelp tangled with the thatch of his hair.