Tides of Maritinia Page 13
I looked inside myself and couldn’t believe what I’d started.
I reached for the bottle. It had no chance of lasting the night.
CHAPTER 16
“Stay onne stepahead of your enemy. Easy to do when you know whre they’re goingg.”
–JAKOB BRYCE
Flanked by two guards, I walked up the pier. The sun continued its slow descent, now just four fingers from dipping into the salty bath. Bright rays reflected off the Ministry domes and drilled into my pained pupils. This hangover had been dragging me down the entire day.
Still no response.
On one level, I understood why he was so upset. He felt my affection for Sali was causing him to lose control of me. But I knew better. He didn’t understand people. How could he when he wasn’t a person himself?
I waved good-bye to my escort and turned for the missile platform. The tower wasn’t any taller than it had been yesterday, but its skeletal frame was now fleshed into a sturdy structure. The launcher had been mounted on top, its two arms stretching left and right like the wings of a giant eagle feathered with missiles.
Approaching the section of collapsed stone, I stepped onto the makeshift bridge, lagoon to my left, open seas to my right, the two kissing under my feet. I marched past the guards as the barge set sail, workmen waving from the railings.
A voice called at my back. “Colonel!”
I looked over my shoulder to find Dugu hustling up. His face was perfectly round, a crescent-shaped smile cupping his nose. I’d forgotten what he looked like without that camera covering his face.
“How’s the cheek, sir?” he asked.
“Getting better.”
“My family wait-ed up for me to get home last night. They couldn’t believe I was actually onstage for the ceremony. Everybody’s talking about it.”
I smiled as best I could.
“Do you think the angry souls really kiss-ed you?”
“I have no idea.” And I didn’t. “You know what, Dugu? I was wondering if you wanted to take a permanent post with me?”
“Sir?”
“I want you to be my guard as well as my personal assistant.”
“Really?” His chest puffed to equal the girth of his belly.
“Absolutely.”
“When do I start?”
“Right now. I’ll leave it to you to tell my regular detail they’ve been dismissed.”
I headed for the tower with my new assistant in tow.
Captain Mmirehl stood in front of the tower, watching me approach. Cocking his chin in the direction of the departing barge, he said, “They’re all done. The platform is totally operational.”
“Good.”
“Where have you been all day?”
“Home. Where’s Mathus? I need to talk to him.”
“Why?”
“I want to see what he thinks of a tent.”
“A tent for what?”
“We need to cover this tower,” I said. “When the Empire comes, we don’t want them to see it from space.”
“They can see from space?”
I nodded.
Mmirehl rubbed his chin. “I’ll order it done.”
“You don’t want to talk to Mathus first?”
“Mathus is gone. His work here was finish-ed.”
The voice in my head took me by surprise.
We passed another hatch with a sign hanging on the wheel lock: Flooded. It seemed that almost half of the underwater structure had been abandoned to the sea. When the Empire returned, the engineers would have to make fixing the water pumps their top priority.
Dugu pointed a finger down a long corridor. “I think they lock-ed her up somewhere down there.”
We marched forward, our shoes slapping at the thin film of water on the rusted-steel floor. Another left, and we found a pair of guards standing outside a hatch. Stepping up, I waved them aside.
“No, sir,” said the one of the left. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
I straightened my spine and leveled an authoritative stare. “Excuse me?”
“Captain Mmirehl’s orders,” said the one on the right.
“I may be a foreigner and therefore an honorary colonel in this Navy, but I’m still a colonel. Move aside.”
Standing at attention, he stared past me. “We cannot comply without direct orders from the captain, sir.”
“Step aside, soldier,” I growled, “or I’ll feed you to the cuda.”
The one on the left said, “I’m sorry, sir, but we answer to nobody but Captain Mmirehl. We are members of the People’s Protection Force now.” He held up a fist for me to see. Long urchin spines had been run through the skin covering his knuckles, blood oozing from the fresh puncture wounds. The second soldier showed his fists, his swollen knuckles freshly tattooed to look like teeth.
Sensing my confusion, Dugu put a hand on my shoulder and leaned toward my ear. “It’s an old tradition among warriors, sir. When they touch their fingertips to their hearts in greeting, they want people to see their knuckles and know that their generosity has limits.”
“Charming.”
“All of the PPF recruits are getting their knuckles adorn-ed.”
Captain Mmirehl came from around the corner. “What’s going on here?”
“Tell your men to step aside.”
A grin leaked across his narrow face, and his eyes danced along with his one-word response. “No.”
My lips were squeezed tight, same as my fists. “You can’t keep me out.”
“Per the admiral’s order, the People’s Protection Force is a wholly independent branch of the military. Nobody goes through that hatch without my approval.”
It was becoming obvious Mmirehl’s secret police wasn’t an overnight invention. He’d launched it with such efficiency, it must’ve been in the works for months. All he’d needed was an excuse to enact it, and my botched body disposal had served that excuse to him with butter and jam.
I crossed my arms to say I wasn’t going anywhere. “I demand to see the Falali Mother.”
“Is that all?” He pointed at the hatch behind my back. “She’s in there.”
My brows bunched up, and I pointed straight ahead. “Then what are they guarding in there?”
Mmirehl stepped between his guards and spun the hatch’s wheel lock. He opened the latch with a clank and swung open the door. He ducked to get through, and without even a glance in my direction, he pulled the hatch closed behind him.
The wheel lock spun and stopped with a hollow clang.
Stunned, I stared at the closed hatch.
“What’s going on in there?” I asked the guards.
“Sorry, sir,” came the response.
I looked at Dugu, who shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
“Fine,” I said with a throw of my hands. “Fine.”
I turned around and opened the hatch to the Falali Mother’s cabin. No, not her cabin. Her cell.
Leaving Dugu in the corridor, I ducked inside. The cabin was a long rectangle except for the slightly curved outer wall from which two portholes stared like a pair of charcoal eyes, the left with a rivulet of tears trickling down the wall to form a small puddle on the floor. A single chair gave the face a nose, the Falali Mother perched atop with her knees hugged to her chest.
“Where’s your sleeping mat?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Where did you sleep?”
“I didn’t.” She kept her voice level.
I poked my head back out into the corridor. “Get her a sleeping mat, Dugu.” Looking at the other guards, I asked, “Have you been feeding her?”
“I ate,” I heard her say behind me.
I craned my neck to look at her. “Bathroom?”
“They bring a bucket when I ask for it.”
“Has anybody come to see you?”
“You’re the first.”
“They can’t treat you like this. You’re not a common criminal.”
She stared down her nose at me, no easy trick from her seated position. “You are most obviously incorrect.”
Her headdress sat piled on the floor, and her sandals marked the place her feet would be if she didn’t have them pulled up. Her eyes sat in sockets that sagged like dishrags.
Without turning around, I called to the corridor, “And bring a washtub with soap!”
I sat on the floor, my back against the wall. “I didn’t know the Admiral planned to lock you up.”
“I know you didn’t. I’ve come to know you better than that over the last few years. How’s Sali handling this?”
“We both drank the night away.”
“You have to watch out for her. Her flow is a turbulent one, but she carries the spirit of Falal in her heart.”
“Indeed.” I didn’t want to praise Sali further for fear of sending Pol into another fit.
The Falali Mother pointed at the open hatch door. I pushed it shut with my foot.
“I won’t make a statement,” she said.
“Of course not. I’ve come to know you better than that, too.”
“Have they said anything about me to the public?”
“They made up a fake assassination plot and said you were in hiding.”
She rolled her eyes. “The admiral is beyond hope, isn’t he?”
“He’s not currently open to reason. That’s for certain.”
“So how are we going to get me out of here?”
“We have to convince the admiral to let you go.”
“And how do we do convince him?”
“With the truth. We spread word that you’re being held against your will.”
“His regime must fall,” she said.
CHAPTER 17
“It’s natural for an operaitive to sympathize with the local populatipn. But can I ever truly be ont of them?”
–JAKOB BRYCE
I put the claw to my lips and pulled out the sweet and stringy flesh with my teeth. I tossed the shell out the window like so many other shells Sali and I had picked clean. The crabmeat couldn’t be called tender, but at least its sweetness added a little flavor to my bland Maritinian diet.
Sated, I rinsed my hands in one of the water-filled basins that sat atop each table.
“Ready?” asked Sali.
The meeting. It was time to see the Falali Council of Interpreters. “Ready,” I said.
We stood and walked to the counter to pay. The restaurant owner, a tall Kwuba in silk robes, put up a hand to say he didn’t want money. Still, I took some polished abalone shells from my pocket and dropped them on the counter.
We stepped onto the quay, a broad expanse of stone that gave way to a broader expanse of water sparkling under the noonday sun. A mammoth hauling a massive load of kelp labored into our path, legs pushing like tree trunks against a gale force. Bathed in the musty smell of damp wool, we waited until the beast lumbered by, then waited some more for its load of sopping kelp to drag past.
We stepped through the trail of kelp slime, careful to keep our footing, and met Dugu, grin on his face and firerod slung over his shoulder. Together, we marched toward the quay’s far side, the three of us carving a path into the bustling crowd.
People spotted me, and their faces lit with recognition. Stopping in their tracks, they bowed their heads and touched their hearts. An old woman dropped her bag of eels so suddenly I almost tripped over the squirming silk sack. Pushing forward, we sailed through the sea of Maritinians and left a wake of figures frozen in awe.
The novelty hadn’t worn off for these people even though it had been almost two weeks since a cuda gave me its affectionate peck. Each day, my legend seemed to grow. The latest news was that the Falali Council of Interpreters had decreed the cuda’s kiss a true blessing and an incontrovertible manifestation of Falal’s will.
Time had done wonders for my cheek. The bruising had faded, and the scabs had sloughed away to reveal a pair of jagged, dotted-line scars. Ugly as the bite mark was, I wore it like a medal. Unlike Kell’s chest scar, this one was mine, and every time I brushed my fingers across the bumpy scar tissue, I felt more comfortable in this body. Putting my mark on it finally made it mine.
The crowd continued to part for us, dockhands and divers, travelers and mammoth trainers. With my fingers pressed to my heart, I asked Dugu, “Have you seen him?”
“Yes. He must be following. I saw him watching you from the restaurant next door.”
A man had been following me, no doubt one of Mmirehl’s secret police, a short Kwuba man with a threadbare aquamarine silk robe. Dugu had been the first to notice him three days ago, and the man had been my blue shadow ever since.
At the far side of the quay, I let Sali and Dugu lead the way down a broad avenue. A pair of Mmirehl’s PPF recruits came the opposite way with black sashes tied over their waistwraps. Having used up the last of the military-issued clothing, Mmirehl’s newest recruits had taken to improvising uniforms.
They strode past us, brandishing their knuckles as they touched fingers to their hearts. The one on the left had a strap of leather tied around his knuckles with bone spikes stabbed through the leather. And the one on the right’s entire hand had been dyed to match the menace in his ink-colored sash.
Sali and Dugu turned left, and I followed them into a narrow alley. We had to lose our tail before meeting the Falali Mother’s caste of high priestesses. Another left took us into a narrow gap between buildings where, single file, we scraped our shoulders along the stone walls. Up a short set of stairs, we stepped over water sluices and ducked through wet laundry. Accelerating our pace, we hustled through clothesline after clothesline of damp silks, then ducked behind a curtain hung across a broad door.
Dugu dropped to his hands and knees and peered under the curtain. Sali tapped her foot nervously, waiting for Mmirehl’s spy to go by.
I scanned the room: tiled floors and whitewashed walls with cerulean trim. Sunlight trickled down through webs of clotheslines, while water drizzled from robe tassels and waistwraps. Bare-legged men and women stood in shallow pools, scrubbing clothes against washboards carved into the faces of large stones.
Dugu stood to tell us the spy had gone by before leading us through the workspace and out to a courtyard that connected to a bone-carving shop. A pair of women stood inside, the same women from the ceremony, the ones who had scraped me raw with seashells.
“The council awaits upstairs,” said one of the women.
Sali and Dugu headed for the staircase, but I grabbed Dugu by the shoulder. “You don’t have to go up there with us. If the admiral finds out about this, I won’t be able to protect you.”
Dugu blinked and straightened his shoulders. “With all due respect, sir. Falal will decide my fate. Not you.”
“You sure about that?”
“We shouldn’t keep them waiting.” He headed up the stairs.
The awkwardly uneven stairs led to a room jammed with worktables and floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with mammoth femurs and ribs. Dim light filtered through windows coated with dust. The five high-rankin
g priestesses known as the Council of Interpreters sat shoulder to shoulder around a pedal-operated lathe.
Dugu took post before a table littered with bins of finely carved fishhooks and sewing needles. I squeezed onto a stool next to Sali, and, with no place else to put my elbows, I stretched forward to rest them on the lathe’s battered surface.
“Greetings,” I said to the quintet of sober faces. “I want to thank you for coming to speak with me. I know some of you had long distances to travel.”
“Anything for the Bless-ed Hero,” said the priestess seated next to Sali. “Have you seen the Dearest Mother?”
“I visit her every day.”
“How is she doing?”
“She’s well. They allow her ample food and drink.”
“And her spirit?”
I saw how they longed for an answer, worry written in the lines around their pinched lips and etched into the furrows of their brows. I looked each and every one of them in the eye, drawing them all in before responding. “Her spirit is fierce.”
They nodded, almost in unison, the beads on their headdresses moving to and fro.
The same priestess spoke again. If I had to guess, I’d peg her as the eldest. “Tell us about these stories of assassination.”
“Lies,” I said. “She’s in no danger. There are no assassination plots. The admiral simply refuses to free her until she makes a statement to calm the resistance.”
“There is no resistance.”
“I know, but the admiral believes there is.”
“He truly believes? Or is that another lie?”
“Captain Mmirehl is the real danger,” said Sali. “He’s the one who whispers paranoid fantasies in my father’s ear.”
“To what end?” the priestess asked of Sali.
“The man has nothing but darkness inside.”
The priestess looked to the others. “The situation is as we thought.”
“Yes, Sister Selmira,” said the priestess to my left. “The question is what we choose to do now.”
I lifted my elbows off the lathe and gathered a small pile of ivory powder into my hands. Tossing it into the air, I watched the cloud grow. “First, we must spread the truth.”