A hand closed around her ankle, jerked. She yelped as her arms went out from under her and smacked face-first into the rocky beach. Gravel and sand clogged her mouth, scratching her cheeks. Kicking back with her free foot a solid connection jarred her and then she was free. She fumbled with the thick cord around Hessan’s neck, rifled through his loose shirt, fingers sliding over his sweat-slicked and hairy chest.
Her fingers brushed warm metal, closed round it.
Hands grabbed her by the hair, the jumpsuit, tore her away from Hessan and lifted her as if she were little more than a troublesome puppy. The cord bit deep into her palm, spilt crimson blood down her wrist, the searing pain of it overridden by her need to complete her task.
As the hands – too many to count – lifted her and hauled her back, she pressed the bloodied whistle to her lips and blew hard enough to set her eardrums ringing.
Valathean engineers did not mess about when it came to the effectiveness of their designs. The whistle had been crafted to be heard anywhere on the island, and before she could draw breath to blow again, the great brass alarm bells atop the prison’s walls rang out.
Help was coming. They need only to survive.
She hit the ground, dropped, and grunted as her chest smacked against hard, jutting rock, her unprotected face scraped by rough gravel. Better than the Black Wash, at least. Her fingers went numb, so tight was her grip on the whistle.
“Fucking bitch.” Oiler growled and hawked spit. “Clear, boys.”
“But–” one protested. The heavy thud of palm on cheek filled the air.
“Quiet. This place’ll be swarming with guards soon and they won’t all be friendly.”
Wary of moving too quickly, lest she draw unwanted attention to herself, Ripka rolled over and scrabbled backward, crab-crawling as quietly as she could. The Glasseaters pulled back, clustering around Oiler who stood before Enard.
A narrow stream of blood trickled from the corner of Enard’s lips. He stood with a slight hunch, but otherwise seemed whole.
“Remember this, Tender. There’s only one way out. We’d rather have you back, but…” Oiler shrugged, both hands open to the skies, then spat at Enard’s feet and whirled, striding back the way he’d come, his foul friends flowing after him.
Enard moved. He flowed like silk, like lightning. Before Ripka could register his target, Enard’s fist held Oiler’s hair, a well-aimed punch to the kidneys collapsed Oiler’s knees. The ring-leader’s body betrayed him, tense with pain and spasms, as Enard bent him backward, backward, over his knee and crouched down, drawing face to face with the crime-boss.
The Glasseaters rushed back to aid their leader. Ripka shoved ineffectually at the ground, trying to lever herself to her feet. She couldn’t get to him before the Glasseaters closed ranks, but she could damn well try.
Enard whispered something in Oiler’s ear.
“Stop,” Oiler said. His men obeyed.
Oiler’s body trembled, his heels slowly dragging through the sand as he verged on losing whatever slim footing he held despite being bent over Enard’s knee like a human bridge. Sunlight glinted off bright rivulets of blood dripping from his cheek to the sand, turned his complexion a phantom shade of rose.
“You may have lost track of me,” Enard said, voice raised for all on the beach to hear. “But I have not forgotten you. You in particular, Onrit.”
He flinched. Enard smiled.
“Yes, I know your name. Father made all his sons learn the fine details of each Glasseater’s life.” Enard scooped a handful of gravel from the beach and placed one black stone on Oiler’s cheek.
“This,” he said, “is Marya. And this, Ledi.” A grey stone followed onto the other cheek. Ripka’s stomach sunk as tears mingled with the blood dripping from Oiler’s cheeks. She didn’t know who those names belonged to – but she knew what they meant to him. That was enough.
“If you come for me, or for my friends, again, I will come for them. Not you. Them. Am I understood?”
“Pits swallow you,” Oiler rasped.
“Good.” Enard stood in one fluid movement, dropping Oiler to the wet sand. He pinned the other Glasseaters with his gaze, and flicked the remaining handful of sand toward them. “Do not think for a moment I will not gather the names the rest of you hold dear.”
They did not disgrace themselves by running, but they helped a dazed Oiler to his feet and hurried back down the path all the same.
Ripka felt as if she were witnessing something deeply private as Enard observed his old gang mates retreat up the crumbled slope. He seemed open to her, vulnerable in a way she couldn’t quite place. Marya. Ledi. How long had he carried those names on the off chance he would need them as weapons? How many more weighed him down? Alone on the beach with him, Hessan their only witness, she wondered if she were any safer now than before the Glasseaters had arrived.
Enard shook himself and straightened his shoulders, the rigidity of his bearing chasing away his phantom grace. So that was how he’d hidden his talent for violence so long beneath her nose. Only then did he turn, and his brows shot up as he hurried toward her. She must have looked a mess, kissed all over with minor scrapes and cowering on the ground like some strange crab.
“Are you all right, captain?” he asked. Despite her reservations, she felt the weight he lent to the word captain like a balm – it was no nickname for him. He believed in her old station, even if she had left it far behind.
“It’s all surface,” she said as he helped her haul herself to her feet. She winced, examining the deep gouge left across the soft pad at the base of her thumb by the cord. “Well, except for that.” She gave her fingers an experimental wiggle and hissed through her teeth from the pain. Still movable, so nothing vital had been severed, but she’d hurt for weeks due to it – if not full moon turns – and the threat of it festering was quite real. The guard hadn’t struck her as the cleanest of folk.
“And you?”
Enard prodded his cheek and cringed. “A passing annoyance. Our brave escort?”
Ripka smirked at the serious way he pronounced brave, and knelt beside Hessan. He lay on his side, groaning softly, hands limp against the ground. With care she felt around his head with her good hand and found a knot forming near the base of his skull. She sighed. He must have struck his head against a stone when he fell and, based upon his current incoherent state, she guessed a mild concussion had occurred. Pity, that, but he would live. She doubted they would have lived if she hadn’t gotten his whistle away from him.
Shouts sounded nearby. Guards rushed haphazardly down the path, cutlasses and batons both wavering in their hands. Ripka shook her head in disappointment. If one were to trip, they could knock the whole pack down. Someone was bound to get stabbed in that scenario.
“Step away!” A guard barked at her as he drew near. She frowned, thinking she recognized him, but all their faces were beginning to blur together for her. If she had had trouble keeping track of the individual members of her watch, she had no doubt Radu couldn’t name even half his staff.
Raising her hands to show they were empty, save the whistle dangling from her wounded palm, she backed slowly from Hessan.
“He has a slight concussion,” she explained. “I suggest you get him to the apothik. Correct teas will ease his disorientation.”
“Be quiet.” The guard gestured a few of his colleagues towards her. Peacocks, all of them. She wondered if any were Kisser’s loyalists, and if they might have an idea of what Hessan was out here for.