8. The Assassin in the Night
The Assassin in the Night
Outside the docking pod, it’s a different world.
I could be standing in a hallway in a manor house.
The walls are panelled. The ceiling is high.
The wooden floor is scrubbed clean. Rather than candles, the space is lit by sticks of laser light, and at least a dozen soldiers in red and brown uniforms are heading quickly up or down the hallway.
Cosmer leads us towards a grand staircase. Drake and I follow with Dezeeves tailing after us.
As if from nowhere, a woman pops up by Cosmer’s side and falls into step with him. She’s short and slight with cropped, mousy-coloured hair, and she treads confidently, firmly, head held high. Her young age aside, she looks in many ways more like a captain than Dezeeves does.
“I won,” she tells Cosmer playfully.
“I’m not accepting that.”
“It’s going on the winners’ board.”
“No, it’s not.”
Dezeeves’ voice cuts in from behind us.
“Riss. Superb timing.”
We all stop walking. The woman named Riss turns.
“Dezeeves,” she says calmly. “About just now—”
“You testing the limits of Lartosi ships, the competence of their shipwrights, and perhaps even the laws of physics themselves – in a craft worth the Provision of fifty villages?”
“Just a bit of fun,” she says, shrugging her slight shoulders. “No harm done.”
“As I said, superb timing.”
Dezeeves takes a step forward, waving a hand in my general direction.
“This is Ara, our newest prisoner.”
Riss looks openly disgusted.
“Oh. Right,” she murmurs, as though not quite sure what this has to do with her.
“She will work in Intelligence with you,” Dezeeves continues, elongating every word. “You will be her keeper. I’ll expect you to manage her Integration plan.”
Her whole face changes. Her jaw might come apart from her face any second now. “But, Dezeeves—”
Cosmer stifles a laugh with his hand – and Dezeeves turns on him.
“And you, Cosmer, will be Drake’s.”
“What?” he yells.
Dezeeves smiles a crinkled smile.
“A good match, don’t we all think? Now, I believe that is my work here complete. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get to The Bridge. Report to me in the morning for your full plans.”
He sweeps along the corridor, his long leather coat catching the air behind him.
After seemingly shaking herself, Riss sprints after him, calling his name.
Cosmer just stares after them with an expression that makes him look young somehow. Like he’s a boy who has just been told playtime is over.
But Drake’s features remain unrevealing. He stands with his perfect posture, a certain aura around him. As if he isn’t a prisoner at all, but a crew member, like everyone else – or maybe even, their senior.
He says, rather boredly, “I assume prisoners of war can still eat. Is it Deck 5 for the Mess Hall?”
It is, indeed, Deck 5 for the Mess Hall, which turns out to be a cavernous, panelled room with large portholes running along one wall. Stars are visible in the night sky beyond them. A simple standing clock tells me it’s almost twenty-three past the hour.
Cosmer points to one of the long shabby wooden tables that run the length of the room.
“Sit. Stay.”
“We are not dogs,” Drake retorts.
“In here, as far as anyone will be concerned, you are. And since I now have to keep you both alive – just do what I say. Okay? I’ll try and see if any of the cooks are still around.”
While he heads off towards a hatch in the wall, Drake and I seat ourselves at the wooden bench nearest.
We’re not the only people in here. A large group of older, bearded men are gathered around another table. Some are laughing uncontrollably. Others are ogling Drake and I in a way I don’t like.
“Just ignore them,” Drake mutters.
I state the obvious. “They hate us.”
“We are enemies in their territory. They would.”
“How are we going to survive this?”
“By trying not to die.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I would never have thought of that.”
He snorts.
But I suppress my own smile.
How can I tell him what I need to get off my chest?
“The both of you up there,” I start. “It put us all in danger.”
To his credit, he does give me an apologetic look.
“I regret my actions. But every soldier knows not to call another a coward. It is the highest insult that could be delivered. He knows nothing about me.”
And neither do I, I think, as I study him.
His nose is still crusted with blood from the fight.
“Oh,” I say. “You’ve got… May I?”
Drake nods, stiffly.
I tear a loose strip from my dress and clear the blood, trying not to catch his eyes for fear I’ll embarrass him.
Quieter, I say, “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly fine,” he answers. “Though I’ll admit I didn’t expect him to have such a right hook. Or be able to feint so well.”
I crumple the cloth.
I speak carefully. “Cosmer knows how to fight. In Hevalla, every scrap of food matters – it’s the nature of the Provision system. And our families are poorer than most. He learned young.”
“You said you didn’t know him.”
“I know. I was just angry at him.”
He seems to expect me to say more, so I mumble, “He was my friend. And he hurt me.”
“He looks the sort of idiot who would.”
“Don’t say that. He isn’t an idiot. I just misjudged his character.”
“And are you always a poor judge of character?”
I smile faintly. “I’m friends with you, aren’t I? You tell me.”
“Ara. I am glad we have agreed to be alli—” He cuts himself off. “Friends. Whatever Integration entails, we will need to keep our heads about us, to keep our loyalties.”
“That’s what I want. I can’t fight against Rhavna—”
I have to stop myself, because Cosmer emerges from the hatch. He plops down opposite us, dumping a tray on the table. The two wooden spoons, blunt metal forks and small plates of cured meat and pickled vegetables clatter.
“Keep your cutlery,” he says. “We carry our own and clean them ourselves. Prevents infections from spreading.”
I’ve never heard of such a thing. But I guess an infection would take down a tightly packed place like this.
I stare at the tray. Only two plates.
I tilt my head at Cosmer.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes as he states, rather bluntly, “I’m not allowed to eat the food they serve on the ship.”
Well, that’s bizarre.
I don’t hide my bafflement as I ask, “Why?”
He shakes his head.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But don’t you get hungry?”
“I do,” he states. Tight. “Sometimes.”
“So, how do you eat?”
“I find ways,” is all he says.
Drake scratches his jaw. “Punishment?” he asks him, coyly. “Or sacrifice?”
“None of your business. And you will speak to me as the officer I am to you.”
That settles the matter.
Cosmer glances at me, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flask. Places it on the table, by my plate.
I stare at it. It’s undoubtedly silver and engraved with a spiralling pattern.
Where did he get something like this? I’d seen identical flasks, and similarly crafted items like goblets and timepieces, around the Palace or being worn by royals.
“Take it,” he says.
I do take it, but loosely. I’m scared to get my fingerprints on it. It’s too beautiful. “Thank you,” I say.
“Nice flask,” Drake says. I realise he’s been watching it, too.
“It does the job.”
“Rhavnan crafted, surely?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Cosmer responds, seemingly disinterested. “Is it?”
I pass the flask to Drake, who lifts it up to the light to inspect it. As he does, I spot an inscription in Rhavnan at the base.
For your holy water. –D
“Yes. Certainly Rhavnan. I could even take a good guess as to the smith.” Handing the flask back to Cosmer, he says, “Been looting from dead soldiers, have we?”
Cosmer glowers. “I will remind you, again, to speak to me with respect.”
A brief pause.
Cosmer adds, to me, “And – only so that we’re clear of my character – it was a gift.”
He seems sincere.
Drake doesn’t reply. Just lifts a piece of the rubbery cured meat we have been given with his fork and manoeuvres it to his mouth, which he hardly even opens. He hardly even chews. I wonder if he eats the way he pilots a ship – or seems to do anything. Measured, and perfectly.
I inspect my own helping. While the meat in no way looks appetising, I decide it will be a bad idea not to eat it.
Who knows what the next few hours, days, weeks will hold?
And if there’s one thing my life in Hevalla has taught me, it’s to never turn down a meal.
There’s always a chance it might be your last.
It’s unbelievable to me I once ate six course dinners in a palace.
A moment later, Riss charges in like a thundercloud. She’s carrying a large wooden crate in her skinny arms.
“No luck?” Cosmer asks, as she sinks down.
“No,” she snaps. “Dezeeves has been very explicit that this arrangement needs to work. And that the prisoners should be Fully Integrated by the time of the next Seventh Day.”
Cosmer splutters. “Less than a week? Does he think we can make miracles happen?”
“The prisoners are right here,” I mutter, since they seem to have forgotten. “We can hear everything you’re saying.”
Riss unfolds a piece of paper and begins reading off it in monotone.
“Prisoners must wear the black uniform they have been issued with. They are not permitted to carry a weapon or a radio, or to meet alone, and must abide by The Accords. Each prisoner will be the responsibility of their keeper, who will supervise their Integration. This arrangement will remain in effect until the prisoner has been deemed Fully Integrated.” She shoots us a look. “Do you need me to repeat anything?”
I shake my head. Drake does not.
“You’ll get full plans in the morning,” she continues. “They’ll have everything you – or we – need to do to get you FI’d.”
I feel myself frowning as I try to take it all in.
“So, this conversion work Dezeeves does. It will make us—”
“Hevallan soldiers,” she confirms. “No different from anyone else on the ship. You’ll be willing to die for the country. You’ll have no doubt in your mind, or your heart, that Hevalla should be at war with Rhavna. And should win.”
Silence.
We must look strange. Cosmer, so solemn. Riss, radiating fury. Me, gaping.
Drake just looks the same as always.