Honey hewed a path with her song, and all around her joined a chorus of screams.
No time to waste. Ripka bolted for the path the table had carved, Enard tight on her heels. She ducked a fist, twisted away from someone reaching for her, vaulted over the twisted tangle of wood and limbs, scrambled across the shattered rubble. All the while that high song keened in her ears, sending gooseprickles down her spine. She knew that Honey danced at her side, saw the fans of blood unfurl themselves to the sky as her expert swipes of that too-sharp knife opened throats and hearts and lungs to the bright of day.
Inmates ran, screaming fear and wards against evil alike. Anyone of them could have tackled her. Anyone of them could have put a stop to the slaughter, if only they’d work together, if only they’d mob her. Ripka feared at any moment they’d be swamped, driven under a frantic press of bodies, but the moment never came. The terror of Honey’s grace, the nightmare of her song, pushed them back. Paralyzed them.
Ripka tamped down her own fear, and fled. She was a practical woman. Survive now, vomit out your fear later. Impossibly, she stumbled through Misol’s half-open door, shoulder slamming into the wall opposite, the cold stones a balm to her nerves, to her burning muscles. Enard stumbled in after her, then Honey leapt within. Misol slammed the door shut, plunging them into the faint light of a single oil lamp.
“Well,” Misol said, regarding their panting, sweating, blood-spattered party. “It seems I can’t leave you alone a moment.”
“Honey…” Ripka gasped, trying to reclaim her breath, and forced herself to stand tall, to reach for the woman to see if she were injured.
“I’m all right,” she said, her voice a fainter strain of rasp than usual.
“Your voice…”
She looked at the knife in her hand dripping crimson. “It’s not good anymore, I know. I sang too much.”
Ripka stared, knowing without asking that Honey never sang unless she had a knife in her hand.
“Charming,” Misol drawled.
Ripka gathered herself. “Forge and Clink are on the level above, we’ve got to get them out before the other inmates find a way up to them.”
Misol shook her head. “No time. This place is boiling, we gotta take our exit while we still can.”
“But they–”
Honey pat her arm, making gentle shushing noises. “Don’t worry, Captain. They’ve been here a long time. They’ll be all right.”
Ripka pressed her lips together. “Fine. But I will not let that favor go unreturned for long.”
“Come on, let’s get moving. Boss wants to see you,” Misol said.
Ripka spat foamy blood. “I won’t see that shit-sucking rat Radu–”
“He was never the boss here.” She took the lantern in hand. “Try not to drop too much blood on the rugs.”
“All right,” Honey whispered, humming a soft, fairytale tune as they trailed after Misol’s lantern in the dark.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Detan stood beside Pelkaia with his wrists in chains, watching the so-called inescapable Remnant prison rise from the horizon before him. Despite his unease at what was to come, he allowed himself a small smirk. It was going to be a pleasure to ruin the reputation of the empire’s finest prison.
Whatever they’d gone through – whatever tension thickened the short space between him and Pelkaia – was worth it to wrest Nouli from the empire’s grip and rub their noses in their failure. Once this was done, he’d spread rumors and seeds of tavern songs all the way back across the Scorched to Hond Steading to rub the embarrassment deeper.
If he returned home. Pelkaia’s words hung over him like a death shroud, clouding his mind and obscuring all future options. He’d have to tie the ends off on this scheme before he could get a clear head around what was going to happen next. He swallowed dry air, remembering the gleaming firemounts of his home city.
“Don’t see it,” Tibs grumbled. Detan started, peering into the curtain of mist that hung over the rocky island. Tibs was right. The signal they’d devised with Ripka had not yet been flown, or else it’d been taken down. There was no way to be certain what had happened, save that neither Ripka nor New Chum had attempted to make any contact with them. Which meant they were still within those sheltering walls and hadn’t yet found a path to communication with the outside world.
He shivered. Maybe the captain and the steward were comfortable being hemmed in, but Detan’d go mad by the second day if he’d been the one slinking around those halls. He could only hope his companions had had an easier time of completing their task than he had.
“Then we’re going in blind,” Detan said.
“Was to be expected.”
“Not a lot of arts and crafts on the ole Remnant, eh?”
“I reckon not.”
“Will you two,” Pelkaia grated, “please explain yourselves?”
Detan locked eyes with Tibs and arched a brow. They still hadn’t informed Pelkaia that their intention was to free Ripka, New Chum, and Nouli. He reckoned it’d be rude to spring an uninvited guest into the party, but Tibs gave a slight shake of the head, and Detan decided to listen to him for once. They didn’t have the others safely in hand yet. There was no telling what Pelkaia would do if he explained his ulterior motive. Anyway, it was a right bit unsettling talking about anything at all with Pelkaia while she was strutting around wearing Thratia Ganal’s face.
“We’ve got a system,” Detan warmed to the half-lie, giving her a small shrug. “We signal if we’re ready for intervention. Ripka’d run a flag up somewhere – special design, we’d know it if we saw it, and it ain’t there.”
“She knows you’re coming?” Coss asked, not bothering to hide the incredulous lilt to his voice.
“How could she not?” There was more edge in his tone than Detan’d intended. He was trying to keep himself light, cheerful. The same man of rambling home and rambling tongue that’d first strolled onto the Larkspur, hoping the crew would forget his fireworks display and start laughing again. Hadn’t seen so much as a smile since the cloud suck, but he kept on as best he could.
Still, the insinuation that Ripka and New Chum would expect him to abandon them rankled. What kind of flimsy sack did they think he was? He stifled a sigh. The rambling probably wasn’t helping his case on that account. Hard people to charm, these crew members of the reborn Larkspur.
Wasn’t his little snap that’d made the whole crew fall silent, though. Down below, the Remnant was in chaos. Smoke billowed up from what he assumed to be the rec yard, knots of men and women fighting or fucking or just generally shoving up against one another, he couldn’t tell. Panicked guards scurried about the place, brandishing batons but quite clearly overwhelmed by the mess of it all.
Detan’s smirk grew into a full-fledged grin, and a bubbling little chuckle escaped.
“What is it?” Pelkaia demanded.
“I’d bet my shorthairs Ripka had her hands in that hubbub.”
“Not a bet anyone is wanting to take.”
“Their loss.”
Coss chuckled, covered it with a rough cough, and Detan could have kissed the man. Finally some pits-cursed levity. Tense people made him nervous. He’d found them to be prone to overreaction, and usually in his direction.
“Captain,” Laella said, appearing at the rail with a pinched expression between her brows. “There’s sel somewhere down there. A lot of it.”