Tides of Maritinia (26 page)

 

CHAPTER 36

“A clever boy. Tht was what my fatherr used to cll me.”

–
J
AKOB
B
RYCE

I
stood at the bottom of Stairway 4. After drowning for months, the first section had been pumped free of water by the Empire's engineers. Given another week, they'd have every last waterlogged cabin of the Ministry airing out.

I knelt on the still-­damp floor and sifted through my satchels to select the perfect cuda for the newly opened hatchway. Every entrance required a blessing.

Holding one above my head, I studied its gaping jaws before tracing a finger along its length to the crescent-­shaped tail. Yes, this was the one.

I stood up, and like the other two functioning entrances to the Ministry, I rested the cuda on the upper lip of the hatchway.

I hoisted the two-­and-­a-­half-­foot redwood cuda up to my shoulder and took hold of my satchels. The staircase was dark, none of the lights having survived so long underwater. I didn't let that deter me. I started up, barnacle shells cracking under my heels.

I kept climbing, the light from the corridor dimming until I was bathed in complete darkness. Progress was slow. After every upward step, I had to hunt and peck for solid footing with the toe of my boot.

Fifteen stairs up, I found the rhythm and picked up the pace, planting one foot after the other with confidence. Stumbling a few stairs later, I slowed back down. Had to be patient. I could afford to be crazy—­no choice on that score—­but I couldn't afford stupid.

Halfway up, I'd worked up quite a sweat, the redwood cuda feeling slick against my fingers. One slow step at a time, I climbed toward the surface, toward the promise of relief in the form of fresh air.

Reaching the top, I squinted against the bright lighting inside the dome. I breathed deep of the briny breeze blowing through the open doorway on the opposite side of the dome and headed into the wind.

I didn't stop walking toward the doorway. Piles of junk sat to either side of my path. Old fishing nets and crab traps. Stacks of bamboo and mammoth bone.

I picked up my pace, his protests turning more urgent with every step. Reaching the doorway, I halted under the arched stone, my toes hanging over the edge of the short step that led out to the sunbaked stone.

I reached out a toe and touched the creviced rock.

I pulled my toe back and watched sunbeams ripple off the surface of the lagoon. Soldiers stood guard around the atoll. Heavily armed, they kept their eyes peeled for approaching boats. On the pier, a group of Jebyl were busy setting up tables and chairs in preparation for the talks that would begin tomorrow afternoon.

Perhaps twenty feet straight ahead, the water pumps' power lines snaked along the stone. Starting from Dome 2, I traced their path with my eyes until they disappeared behind a short stack of crab traps beyond Dome 5.

said Pol.

Yes. They'd clear all the crab traps hanging off those lines before rerouting them properly through the protected conduit, then under the ocean bottom to the turbines. They had much to do.

So did I.

Turning around, I surveyed the interior space. To complete my carving, I needed fishhooks. To write the story I'd promised to Emmina, I needed pen and paper. And I hadn't even started carving the cuda's corkscrew tongue.

Caring very little about creating a mess, I dumped bins and emptied jars until I found the fishhooks I needed. Next, I sought pen and paper by rummaging through storage cabinets until my eyes landed on a large metal object leaning against the wall. Shoving aside a stack of crates, I stepped up and put my palm on the missile.

said Pol.

Yes, Mathus had thrown it in as a bonus. And hidden away as it was, it had so far escaped the new contingent's notice.

I wrapped my arms around the metal tube before lifting it away from the wall. Knowing firsthand the kind of damage it could do, I took great care as I began to lower it toward the floor. Bending over, I felt the strain on my back as I continued to control its fall. When the missile was a few inches from the floor, the weight got the better of me, and the fear-­inducing thud echoed over and over in my pounding heartbeat.

I felt along the steel until I found the seam and pressed in with my fingers to pop open the control panel. Inside was a touchpad under a small screen.

Pol recited the numbers, and I punched them in as fast as I could.

He started over, and I took some pleasure making another mistake.

Glad he couldn't see the smile forming on my face, I asked him to start again.

I laughed.

I kept up the game for a while. Kept it up until my cheeks ached from smiling so broadly.

I said finally.

said Pol.

The interface appeared to be identical to the missile platform's. The icon in the corner was for syncing to a control system. The icon down below was for enabling and disabling the warhead. And on the right was the timer.

I did.

Carefully, I stood the missile back up and leaned it against the wall. Pol wanted to send it back home with me. The Empire could use it, he'd said. My Maritinian vacation was almost over, and this missile would be my only souvenir. It was fitting, really, the way Pol had it planned out. Only the Sire deserved such a fine gift.

Now where did I put those fishhooks?

I
rubbed one weary eye, then the other with the back of my hand. I didn't feel sleepy. My mind was too preoccupied for that. But my strained eyes kept blurring after so many hours of carving.

A glance at the morning sun beaming through the doorway confirmed I'd been at it all night. Embedding fishhooks along the cuda's spine had taken longer than I'd expected. I'd painstakingly laid them on an angle so each barb would be the high point, the fish's back now a danger to anybody who dared reach close. My fingertips were plenty sore from getting hooked while adjusting and readjusting. The spacing from fishhook to fishhook had to be perfect.

Perfect.

I'd switched to working on the cuda's tongue midway through the night. The rough-­hewn corkscrew needed more work to meet my standards. Eight inches from end to end, the tongue's tight spiral was just a quarter inch in diameter. I'd properly hollowed out the interior of the helical structure, but the edges still showed whittle marks where they should be smooth. Setting the wooden corkscrew on the table, I watched closely as I rolled it forward. Verifying that the corkscrew maintained a smooth drilling motion as it rolled, I decided it would have to do for now.

Cupping the cuda's lower jaw, I lifted the mouth of the wooden fish. Taking the sharpened tip of the corkscrew tongue in one hand, I inserted the other end between rows of cuda teeth. Pushing backward, I fit the tongue into a notch at the back of the cuda's mouth.

I stood and walked around the table to view my artwork from different angles. The tongue looked fearsome, jutting out from between spiked teeth. And the spine of fishhooks befit the angry soul he represented.

My chest filled with pride. By far the finest work I'd ever done. I hadn't yet carved flaming fish scales along its sides, but that could wait. Emmina would be along sometime today, and I'd told her I'd write her a story.

I took up my pen and wrote with my eyes open.

The Flesh Eater King

He built his throne on an island of dead. He shouted orders from lips smeared with blood. Bring me more wine! Bring me more to eat!

His subjects tried to please him. They understood it best to not upset the order of things. His term was to be only ten years. Another king would come soon enough. A kinder king.

Keep him entertained, the ­people thought. So singers would try to tickle his heart, and jesters would try to tickle his ribs. When they succeeded, they'd be rewarded with ample bounty. But when they failed, he'd chain them to stakes. He called them his little garden.

He was a caring gardener. For the thirsty plants, he carried a watering can. And for the unruly plants, he took up pruning shears so he could cut himself a little snack.

As the years passed, his subjects counted the days, always thankful to be one day closer to the end of the Flesh Eater King's reign.

The ­people had high hopes for the king in waiting. A man of simple means, he knew little of how to rule a kingdom, but he had ten years to prepare. Unlike his predecessors, he never talked to the generals, for he had little interest in learning how to run an army. Nor did he talk to his world's mayors and chiefs. He didn't care much for politics. The only thing he wanted to learn was wisdom. So he spent ten years sailing the seas to speak with all of his world's elders.

Festivals erupted on the last day of the Flesh Eater King's term. Soon the sun would set, and when it did, so would his reign.

A new king required a new island. Separated from the old king's island of dead by a narrow channel of water, the new king had chosen to raise his island on the backs of his subjects. If he ever lost their support, all they had to do was walk away and let him drown.

But when the sun began to set, the Flesh Eater King didn't move from his throne. Instead, he said he quite liked being king. So much, in fact, that he'd decided to keep his kingdom.

He turned to his queen and told her she would never be betrothed to the new king as was tradition. And if she ever tried to run away, he'd take a thousand heads for every hour she was missing.

The queen agreed. She knew to take his threats seriously.

The Flesh Eater King turned to his generals. I'm hungry, he said. Bring me that other king's leg on a platter!

The new king had spent the afternoon watching the sun sink toward the ocean. Standing by his throne, he waited to take his seat when the moment arrived.

But before the sun could touch the water, a boat approached. The new king's subjects hurried to form a dock. Using legs as pilings, and bent backs as planking, they provided a short pier for their guests.

The Flesh Eater King's generals marched across the spines of the new king's subjects to arrive on the bamboo platform atop the new king's island. Behind them came the queen.

I cannot marry you, she said with a slight bow. The Flesh Eater King has chosen to retain power.

The new king accepted the news with a nod. You understand what this means for our ­people?

She simply said, Yes, I do. But there is no other choice.

I understand, said the new king. And why are you here? he asked the generals.

One held up a machete. We've come for your leg. Give it, and you may live, but never as king. Don't give it, and we will kill you and all of your ­people.

The new king looked down through the slatted bamboo floor at the men and women who held him above water. They shook their heads in unison. Their message was clear. You mustn't give in.

But the new king knew nothing of war. Fight, and they'd all die, just as the generals said. So he steeled his voice, and said, I will give you my leg. But first, I must have some wine to dull the pain.

The generals agreed that he be allowed to drink.

The new king looked down through the slats and saw the disappointment in his subjects' faces. He knew he hadn't lived up to their expectations, but he felt buoyed by the fact that they continued to hold his island above water. As he'd thought, they'd proven to be more loyal than they were vindictive.

You have five minutes to drink your fill said one of the generals.

Fine, he said before excusing himself to enter his hut. He went to his fish tank, and, using a net, he scooped out the one with the green stripes. He wasted no time biting off its head and swallowing it down. He stuffed the remainder of the beheaded fish in his pocket.

Looking down through the bamboo slats to the men and women below, he saw understanding in their eyes. He waited for the first cramps to let him know the poison had sunk into his tissue before stepping back outside.

He dropped his robe and straightened his waistwrap before sitting on his throne.

Take what you came for, he said.

The queen refused to turn her back as the generals made quick work of hacking off his left leg.