Encrypted

  Not surprisingly, the dead man was not talking. Likely he had given up all his secrets to his interrogator. Tikaya glanced around, noting that the pliers, knives, and other implements she could not name had been meticulously cleaned after use and returned to the storage rack. Little else caught her eye, though, and she decided it would be wise to finish up and find a spot with people around.

  She headed back to the stairs. Someone had shut the door at the bottom. She tried the knob, but it did not turn.

  A kernel of dread formed in her gut.

  She tried the door again. It could just be a flaky knob, but no. It was locked. She pounded on the door. Maybe someone working upstairs would hear her and let her out.

  “Is anybody out there? Hello?”

  No one came.

  Tikaya leaned her forehead against the cold wood. Ottotark must have locked the door on the way out without Agarik noticing. Maybe he had even ordered the men clearing bodies to work in a different building. She swallowed. Odds were Ottotark could make sure Agarik stayed busy for a while too.

  The rack of torture implements flashed into her mind. “Dolt,” she cursed herself. Of all the places she could be trapped with that man, this had to be the worst.

  She slipped the razor Agarik had given her out of her boot and unfolded the blade from the wooden handle. It seemed a puny tool compared to those in the other room. If Ottotark worried about her having weapons, he would not have chosen this spot. He obviously did not see her as a threat in close combat, and rightly so. This was no archery competition where she could stand back and plunk arrows into a target.

  She needed to catch him by surprise. She hoped she had time to set one up.

  Tikaya checked the supply closet. An idea came as soon as she saw the kerosene tins. Unlike the whale oil her people used, the vapors ought to be flammable. She grabbed a paint pan, a full tin of kerosene, and a box of friction matches. She would only have one chance. It had better work.

  In the torture chamber, she closed the door part way. Footsteps thudded in the corridor on the floor above. She swallowed. If that was Ottotark, she did not have much time.

  The safety lid of the unopened kerosene tin thwarted her fingernails, and her shoulder sent stabs of pain through her when she tried to brace the can with that hand. She huffed in frustration. Then she remembered the razor. Agarik’s tool would help after all.

  She gouged a hole in the top of the tin and, careful not to spill any on herself, poured kerosene into the paint pan. The fumes stung her eyes, but she dared not slow down. Footsteps thudded on the stairs. For once, she had reason to thank her height. Though the doors had been made to accommodate the tall Turgonians, she reached the top without trouble and balanced the pan. The footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs, and the lock clicked. The door creaked open.

  Tikaya hopped into the shadows beside the door.

  “I know you’re down here, bitch,” Ottotark said. “No point in hiding.”

  Tikaya’s breathing sounded loud in her ears, and she tried to quiet it. She yanked her left arm out of the sling, ignoring the pain, and dug out a fistful of matches. In her right hand, she held a single one. The tremble to her fingers annoyed her. She eyed the pan atop the door, and doubts flooded her. It was too stupid, too obvious. Children did this as a prank; it was not a way to attack an enemy, a bigger stronger enemy who would probably only be angered by the attempt.

  “I’m going to wipe that arrogant defiance off your face,” Ottotark growled. A door creaked. He was checking the closet.

  She swallowed. Would he notice the missing kerosene? Or would he smell it before he entered her room?

  “You don’t act like a prisoner, not like you should, and the captain’s too lenient. You screwed us during the war. You gave our secret orders to the Nurians. They knew just how to ambush the Crusher. All those men—my brother—didn’t have a chance.” The heavy footsteps thudded closer. “I’ve been waiting to avenge him since you came on board.”

  Ottotark shoved the door so hard it cracked against the stone wall. Tikaya jumped back and almost didn’t see the trap spring. Kerosene drenched him, and the pan clattered to the floor.

  “What the—” He stumbled into the room.

  She slammed a boot into his backside with all her strength. He pitched forward, though he turned the fall into a graceful roll and came up facing her. She kicked the door shut and scraped a match against the stone wall. The scent of sulfur stung the air.

  Ottotark snarled and started to lunge. She almost threw the flame then and there, but she kept herself to holding it out and shouting.

  “That’s kerosene you’re covered in!”

  Ottotark paused, just short of springing.

  “Ever wanted to be a human torch?” Tikaya asked. “You could look just like all the dead soldiers here in about three seconds.”

  He snorted. “You’ve not steel enough to kill anyone.” But his gaze stayed on that match, and he did not advance.

  “I’ve killed more people than I can count since this nightmare started. First on the Nurian ship and then in Wolfhump.”

  Ottotark’s eyes widened. “The captain was right. You killed Commander Okars!”

  Admitting that might be stupid, but it might convince him she was a threat. She needed to resolve this before Ottotark realized she would run out of matches eventually. She had to gamble. “Yes, and I liked him a lot more than I like you.” She tried to put a manic expression on her face as she looked him up and down. “I can’t imagine anyone would even miss you. Maybe I should just—”

  “Wait!” He licked his lips. “What do you want?”

  “Your word that you won’t touch me ever again.” It was another gamble. Just because Rias’s word meant a lot to him did not mean every Turgonian shared that viewpoint. Still, there were several words for honor and promises in their language. Maybe it was not that big of a gamble.

  And Ottotark winced. If his word meant nothing, he would have agreed quickly. He would not be thinking it over.

  The first match was burning low. She lit a second from it, then tossed the discard into a puddle of kerosene at Ottotark’s feet. The vapors ignited and flames roared, hurling shadows from every corner of the chamber.

  Ottotark leapt away, slamming his back against the dangling corpse. “Shit, woman!”

  “Your word or you’re next.” The confident steely tone of her voice surprised her.

  “Fine, fine. I won’t even touch you if you’re dangling on the edge of a cliff, begging me to pull you to safety.”

  “Excellent.” Tikaya stepped to the side of the door. “You first. We’re going up to the others before I let you out of match range.”

  Teeth bared, he edged past her and sprinted up the steps. Tikaya would not have kept up, but he crashed into someone in the hall upstairs.

  “Sergeant Ottotark, what are you doing?” It was Bocrest.

  Tikaya stepped out of the stairwell, and both men turned. Ottotark thrust an accusing finger.

  “That crazy bitch doused me in kerosene and threatened to light me on fire!”

  “Because you locked me in the dungeon so you could rape me, you sadistic prick.” The burning match had gone out, but she clutched the box in her hand, prepared to light another if need be. She eyed Bocrest, who lifted a lantern and eyed her back.

  “Ms. Komitopis,” he said, “we call it an Interrogation Station, not a dungeon.”

  Curse him, he sounded amused. At least he had used her name. That was a first.

  “Ottotark, go get cleaned up and find a rack,” Bocrest said.

  The sergeant slunk away, muttering under his breath.

  “What were you doing in here?” Bocrest asked with no preamble, no apology for his loutish man.

  Tikaya thought about lying, but reminded herself she wanted the captain to trust her. For now. And she did not think her true purpose that condemning. “Looking for the fort commander’s office. If anyone has more relics or rubbings, I figured it’d
be him.”

  “I just came from there. It’s been searched, probably by whomever tortured the Nurian. There’s nothing, not even Colonel Lancecrest’s orders.”

  “Colonel...Lancecrest?” Tikaya asked.

  “Yes, usually we’d have a general commanding a fort, but this is a small outpost.”

  “It’s the name, not the rank, that surprised me,” she said. “There was a Turgonian named Lancecrest studying at the Polytechnic when I was a student.”

  Bocrest shrugged. “Probably one of the younger ones. There are nine or ten kids, and they’ve had to make their own ways. The family’s poor as pond scum. Their lands were salted during the Border Wars, and you couldn’t grow a weed there now.”

  “So, just a coincidence, you think?” As she recalled, that Lancecrest had been studying archaeology; he had shared a couple classes with Parkonis.

  “The colonel’s body is up there in his office. If he was plotting with some relative, don’t you think he’d have figured himself up a better deal?” Bocrest headed for the stairs. “Get some sleep. I’ve got to look at this Nurian body. One cursed mystery after another up here.”

  “Captain?” she called, halting him on the steps. “Why is your team here, with me and Rias, instead of hunting for whoever sent that box to your capital? It might have originated in the tunnels, but surely the people who found it didn’t stick around and post it from there.”

  The flickering lantern played shadows across Bocrest’s face. Answering was probably a violation of orders, but he had already doled out some information when they discovered the cube. Maybe he would divulge more.

  “Someone was sent to hunt down and kill the person who delivered the box,” he said. “We are here to seal the tunnels.”

  “Oh?” Tikaya sensed a cover story. “Why would you need Rias or me if that’s all you’re planning to do?”

  “We need to make sure we find all the possible entrances and exits. You two will ensure we don’t stumble into the kinds of traps that devastated the last group.”

  The blasting sticks they were carrying were the only things that led credence to his story. Tikaya believed him about the attack on the university—something had started this wave crashing toward the beach—but, now that she’d glimpsed the potential for genocide these artifacts offered, she wagered sealing the tunnels was at the end of a list Bocrest received. Wouldn’t the Turgonian emperor love to have some of these weapons for his own use? With which to utterly destroy anyone who defied the empire? She swallowed. Like her people?

  She should to talk to Rias, see what he thought about this. She blinked. Or should she? Whatever had happened, he seemed loyal to the empire through and through. What if he merely shrugged and went along with the mission?

  Bocrest was watching her through narrowed eyes, and she feared too many of her thoughts traipsed across her face.

  “I understand.” She smiled innocently. Nothing to worry about from her. “You mentioned something about sleep? Where would that be done here?”

  “Officer billets are the single-story building across the courtyard, flag out front.” Expression unreadable, he turned and descended the stairs.

  * * * * *

  As Tikaya approached the billets, she yawned so widely tears sprang to her eyes. They froze in her lashes. The air smelled of burning coal, and light brightened the windows on an end room. A marine stood outside the door, rifle crooked in his arms.

  She paused. Only Rias would be under guard. What would he think if she strolled into his room at night? Would he assume she wanted... No, surely not. Neither of them had slept the night before, and her shoulder nagged like a cranky child.

  “Help you, ma’am?” the marine asked, no doubt wondering why she lurked in the shadows.

  “Can I, uhm, er...” Tikaya pointed to the door before her linguistic skills could fail her further.

  Lanterns burned so it was not likely Rias would be in bed naked, though that thought made her blush.

  The marine sniggered. “Captain just said to keep him in. Didn’t say nothing about keeping anyone out.”

  “Thank you.”

  She slipped inside. A coal stove glowed cherry, spilling warmth into the room, and a narrow bunk piled with blankets awaited. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Rias was not naked. He sat at a desk, still wearing those shackles, though a pencil tucked above his ear destroyed the felon look. She grinned at the papers scattered across the desk and on the floor all about his chair.

  Weariness darkened the skin under his eyes, but he stood and smiled. “Tikaya.”

  She strode to the desk, hardly noticing that her hip caught the corner, and wrapped him in a one-armed hug. Between her sling and his chains, it was an awkward embrace, but she did not care. After dealing with Ottotark and Bocrest, it felt wonderful to lean on someone pleasant.

  Rias laid his forehead on her shoulder. “I’ve been tasked with pinpointing the origins of the rocket and estimating the area that was affected by the cubes. I figured you’d be too busy puzzling over those runes and I wouldn’t see you for the rest of the night.”

  “Actually, I was busy almost turning Ottotark into a human torch.”

  His muscles tensed beneath her arm. He drew back to meet her eyes. “What happened?”

  Tikaya shared the story, deliberately putting more emphasis on the mystery of the tortured Nurian than the sergeant’s actions. She probably should not have mentioned Ottotark at all—no doubt Rias would worry about her—but she admitted to a little pride that she had handled the odious man herself instead of falling apart. Maybe Rias would be proud of her too. Dumping kerosene on someone was no feat of brilliance, but a month ago, she probably would not have had the wherewithal to think of anything while locked in a dungeon with a rapist on his way. A month ago, she had been hiding from the world because she was too much the coward to go back to work—to her passion—because she associated it so much with Parkonis and lost dreams.

  “Ahh,” Rias rumbled when she finished the story, and his muscles relaxed. “I feel remiss that I wasn’t there to demonstrate the use of those torture implements on Ottotark. But you’re clever and capable, and, alas for my ego, I don’t think you need my help in these matters.”

  She absorbed his praise; it warmed her more than the heat radiating from the stove. “Don’t worry. I need your help in other matters.”

  “Oh?”

  “Someone has to catch me when I trip.”

  His eyes crinkled. “That has been a daily occurrence.”

  He held her gaze, and Tikaya was suddenly aware of the heat of his body. If not for the chains keeping his wrists close and his arms between them, she could have leaned against his chest and...

  Rias cleared his throat and stepped back. “I need to finish those calculations. If there’s someone out there with another rocket—”

  “Of course,” Tikaya said. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. I can—”

  “No!” Rias seemed to realize his objection too loud, for he shrugged sheepishly. “I’d like you to stay. I promised you dinner, remember? And...” He dragged a second chair to the opposite side of the desk and cleared a space. “You can work with me, or you can sleep of course too.” He waved toward the bunk. “You must be tired.”

  Tikaya dug into the big pocket on the side of her trousers and pulled out the journal. “I wouldn’t dream of sleeping before sampling a Turgonian dinner.”

  “Excellent. I’ve got a treat.” Rias sauntered to a credenza. He slid a parcel wrapped in brown paper off the top, plopped it on the desk, then knelt before a cabinet. “I found the colonel’s personal stash.”

  She unwrapped the parcel and crinkled her nose. “Salty fish? I don’t wish to sound ungrateful, but isn’t this from the same provisions we’ve been eating all week?”

  “Yes. That’s not the treat.” He laughed and pulled out two small glasses and a bottle filled with amber liquid. “This is.”

  Reverently, he carried the bottle over and set it
before her. Applejack.

  “That’s a thirty-year-old label.” He uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses. “Since you’re from the land of rum, I thought you’d like to sample a good Turgonian alternative.”

  Tikaya sniffed the subtle apple aroma and found it pleasant. She expected the applejack to burn her throat, but the liquid slid down smoothly, like her father’s finest barrel-aged rum. “Nice.”

  Rias beamed, took a conservative sip from his own glass, and returned to his work. Though her eyes were gritty, and her muscles ached, Tikaya opened the journal to study the runes. More than once, she paused to watch him zip through calculations without the benefit of a slide rule. Despite the horrors all around them, she enjoyed the companionable moment, sitting there with Rias, him with his work, she with hers.

  It occurred to her that this was an opportunity to ask him his real name, to find out who he had been during the war and what he had done. Except the very fact that he had not told her made her hesitate. Would the truth create an insurmountable obstacle between them? Maybe she should wait. It seemed a shame to ruin this first peaceful time together.

  Maybe she was still a coward, after all. She sipped her drink. No, she would ask. Just not tonight. Tomorrow night. She would find a time tomorrow night and ask then. No matter what.

  Comfortable with the decision, she leaned back in her chair. The applejack left her with a warm muzzy feeling. Her gaze drifted to the sleeping area where the furry blankets and pillows appeared far more comfortable than anything on the ship. It was not a big bed, but she supposed a couple of creative types would have no trouble...

  No, that she would certainly not do without knowing who Rias was. “It’s too bad. I’ve finally got you in a private room with a bed and—”

  The pencil in his hand snapped, and he gawked at her.

  Erp, had she said that out loud? Tikaya stared at the amber liquid, feeling betrayed.