The Kraken King Part VII: The Kraken King and the Empress?s Eyes (A Novel of the Iron Seas) Read online

  Titles by Meljean Brook

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  DEMON NIGHT

  DEMON BOUND

  DEMON FORGED

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  HERE THERE BE MONSTERS

  (A Berkley Sensation Special Novella)

  THE KRAKEN KING

  Part I: The Kraken King and the Scribbling Spinster

  Part II: The Kraken King and the Abominable Worm

  Part III: The Kraken King and the Fox’s Den

  Part IV: The Kraken King and the Inevitable Abduction

  Part V: The Kraken King and the Iron Heart

  Part VI: The Kraken King and the Crumbling Walls

  Part VII: The Kraken King and the Empress’s Eyes

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  (with Maggie Shayne, Marjorie M. Liu, and Alyssa Day)

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  (with Susan Sizemore, Erin McCarthy, and Chris Marie Green)

  MUST LOVE HELLHOUNDS

  (with Charlaine Harris, Nalini Singh, and Ilona Andrews)

  BURNING UP

  (with Angela Knight, Nalini Singh, and Virginia Kantra)

  ANGELS OF DARKNESS

  (with Nalini Singh, Ilona Andrews, and Sharon Shinn)

  ENTHRALLED

  (with Lora Leigh, Alyssa Day, and Lucy Monroe)

  The Kraken King

  Part VII

  The Kraken King and the Empress’s Eyes

  Meljean Brook

  InterMix Books, New York

  INTERMIX BOOKS

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE KRAKEN KING AND THE EMPRESS’S EYES

  An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  InterMix eBook edition / May 2014

  Copyright © 2014 by Meljean Brook.

  Excerpt from Here There Be Monsters copyright © 2012 by Meljean Brook.

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  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63926-9

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  Version_1

  Contents

  Titles by Meljean Brook

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Letter

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Special Excerpt from Here There Be Monsters

  About the Author

  The Imperial City, Nippon

  June 6

  My dear fearless brother,

  I’ve finally done something that you haven’t, despite all of your travels: Today I crossed a coral bridge in the Living City. You should applaud me. It was a terrifying endeavor. The bridge traversed the river between two of the city’s tallest towers, and was high enough that an airship flew beneath our feet as we walked its length.

  So please applaud me. Because I am wretched and cannot congratulate myself.

  Oh, Archimedes. There have been times when I unexpectedly received from you long letters that were more revealing than any of your other messages. I came to recognize that those letters were written while you faced some mortal danger—such as when your spark lighter died in the mountains and an ice storm closed in, when you were trapped while zombies battered a crumbling door in Venice, and when you were courting Captain Corsair. So many letters. And each time, I believed that you wrote them as a farewell, so that there would be nothing left unsaid if you weren’t lucky enough to escape the danger. But I was utterly wrong, wasn’t I? I didn’t realize it until now, when it is my turn to write a longer letter.

  If you could see the bridges, you would be all amazement. From the moment I spotted similar walkways in the Fox Den, I wanted to run across them, yet they are nothing compared to those in the imperial city. Were a sunset to be poured into the shape of a building, it would resemble the towers, and the bridges are filaments stretching between them—appearing so thin and unsubstantial from a distance, but upon drawing nearer, the strength of the structure reveals itself. Sunlight glitters over the coral as if it had been fashioned of crushed crystal. The flowering vines winding through the balustrade create a parade of blossoms in the loveliest pinks and red. The roadway is rough-textured, so there is no danger of slipping, and wide; a steamcart rolled past us with room to spare for a buggy on its other side.

  Yet from the moment I stepped onto the bridge, the urge to flee back to the tower flattened my courage. I could barely force myself to cross it, even though our destination was the most splendid temple I’ve ever seen. If Mara and Helene weren’t with me, and the thought of revealing my distress hadn’t been so unendurable, I don’t know that I would have ventured more than a few paces.

  I felt certain, utterly certain, that as soon as I began to cross it, the bridge would fall out from under me.

  And I can’t account for the fear. There are so many things I’m afraid of, yet great heights has never been one. It was nothing to look over the side, even as I walked. But not a second passed that I didn’t feel the terror of the bridge dropping from beneath my feet. It makes so little sense. How many balloons have we jumped from together with gliders strapped to our backs? I didn’t feel the same fear then.

  I don’t know when I became this woman. My distrust of people is a sensible one. How many have given me reason to be cautious? Yet now I’m distrusting even solid structu
res. What will be next? Will I stop eating, fearing that I’ll choke because I won’t trust my teeth to properly chew my dinner?

  No doubt you are laughing at me as you read this. You are pointing at what I’ve written and shaking your head because the true source of my fears is all so obvious. Laugh all you like, my brother. I’ve written far too many stories to be incognizant of how one fear represents another . . . and I have just been married.

  I love him. More than ever I believed possible. Never did there exist a man more suited to both my heart and my mind. And despite the turmoil surrounding us, these past few days have been the happiest I’ve ever known.

  So I’m terrified that it will drop out from under me. I’m utterly certain that it will—and my heart has no glider to break my fall.

  But I did cross the bridge. And I understand these longer letters now. They are not farewells, are they? Because what use would it be to write a good-bye that would be lost in the ice or a zombie’s teeth? None at all. No, those letters were to remind you of every reason you had to escape the danger you were in, to fight past any hopelessness or despair. Because what good are the words you’ve written if they are never delivered? They would be naught but ink staining a paper clutched in a dead hand. They only mean something when the letter is read, and if you didn’t fight, those words would never be said.

  So I will battle my fears. And when you arrive, I hope to meet you on the other side, smiling.

  Always,

  Zenobia

  Chapter Twenty-five

  When Zenobia had begun sketching out her new story in the jellyfish balloon, the outline of a plot had almost written itself: a tinker would topple a tyrant.

  So simple. And no wonder. She’d written it so many times before.

  Sometimes the antagonist had been less of a tyrant and more of a villain, yet still Archimedes Fox had been there, fearless and charming, defeating the oppressor with his charm and his sword. He’d been followed by Lady Lynx, with her fearless swagger and perfect aim. Now Zenobia was writing about a tinker girl who would build a machine that could toss a despot from his throne. It was the same. Exactly the same. The girl was smaller and weaker than Archimedes Fox and Lady Lynx, but she was just as fearless, with a sharp tongue and brilliant mind—and with no real doubts about whether she would win.

  Zenobia had gotten it all wrong. Every step her tinker took needed to be an act of courage—not just the final step, surrounded and protected by a mechanical suit. Her tinker needed to fear defeat. If she didn’t, the victory would be too easy. Perhaps even meaningless.

  Blast it all to hell. Every word she’d written, pure rubbish. Nothing to do but start over.

  “Did you still intend to join us— Oh.” At the chamber door, Mara took a step back and spread her hands, as if in surrender. A bathing basket hung from her elbow. “I’ll come back when you aren’t as murderous.”

  Murderous? Probably. But Zenobia had reason.

  Pure rubbish.

  She ripped the paper from beneath the typesetter and slapped the machine closed. “I’ll come.” A bath had to be better than soaking in the foul dregs steaming from the pages in front of her. “Let me gather my things.”

  As she stalked toward the screen shielding her dressing area, Mara came into the room and reached for the shredded page that had fluttered to the floor. “The work isn’t going well?”

  “I ought to burn it all.”

  Like Ghazan Bator had burned Zenobia’s last manuscript. Oh, he’d done her a favor. He’d done the world a favor, sparing them the offal dripping from her pen.

  “I’m glad that you’ve been giving Helene duplicates to take with her, then.”

  “I learned my lesson.” Zenobia belted the long, wide-sleeved robe that she’d purchased the previous day specifically for this purpose. There wasn’t a single tub on their tier of the tower, and a bowl of warm water simply wouldn’t do any longer, so she would traipse two levels down and frolic in a public bath. “There’s always some rebel general waiting to throw my work on a fire.”

  Though maybe it hadn’t been such a favor.

  “You didn’t have Helene post this?” Mara asked, and Zenobia peeked around the screen. The mercenary had found Zenobia’s letter to her brother, sealed and still sitting beside her typesetter.

  “I wrote it after we returned from the temple walk this morning.” Though if Zenobia had written the letter earlier, she still wouldn’t have given it to Helene to send. “And I didn’t know where to have it posted. Archimedes must be on his way, don’t you think?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then I’ll wait to give it in person. Or have you do it. That would be best.”

  “Why best?”

  Because although Zenobia had the courage to give it to her brother now, she wasn’t certain if she would when he arrived. Exposing so much of her heart—even to Archimedes—was difficult. Terrifying.

  One step at a time.

  She emerged from behind the screen. “It’s best because I would probably burn it first.”

  “Why would you— Oh. No. Don’t tie that sash in the front. You might as well hike the hem up around your waist and hang a vendor’s sign around your neck.”

  Blast it all. Zenobia tugged the wide belt free. On their walks and in the Fox Den, she’d noted that most women wore it with the knot at the back, but there had been some who didn’t. “I assumed it was just to make their stomachs look flat. And that those who tied it the other way were pregnant.”

  Mara’s brows shot up. “Are you?”

  A prospect both wonderful and terrifying—but unlikely. The timing wasn’t right. It had been almost a month since her menses and they were due again soon.

  But it was possible. “If I am, I suppose I will know it before long. But I only knotted the sash in front because I couldn’t figure out how to tie it behind my back.”

  “You could have tied it in front and twisted it around to the back.”

  And of course she told Zenobia that after she’d untied her knot. Snarling a little, she started over. “Why are these so impossibly wide? It is like tying a ship’s sail around my waist.”

  Grinning, Mara watched her struggle with the sash for another minute. “You’re making a mess of that. Let me help.”

  With a sigh, Zenobia let the mercenary do what she could. Her gaze landed on her typesetter, but she couldn’t dredge up any irritation again. Instead her chest tightened with the same heavy and breathless anxiety that had filled her as she’d written Archimedes’ letter.

  These past few days had been so wonderful. Every moment with Ariq. These explorations through the city with her friends. Even the rubbish she’d written seemed better than anything she’d created before.

  Dare she hope that it might endure?

  Behind her, Mara said softly, “Helene didn’t look very well when she left.”

  “No.” Pale and ill, her friend had returned across the Red Wall shortly after they’d completed their trip to the temple. “I don’t think the mask agrees with her.”

  Or rather, the fear of what would happen if they were outside the quarantine and she was forced to choose between removing it or being sick in it.

  Zenobia didn’t know if Mara had guessed the truth of Helene’s condition. Most likely, the mercenary had. But Zenobia wouldn’t mention her friend’s pregnancy; better to blame it wholly on the masks.

  “I don’t think they agree with anyone,” Mara said.

  No. Not the people who wore them or the unmasked people who tried not to stare. “Perhaps we will stay in this tower on her next visit. As we can tolerate the masks better, you and I can go out alone.”

  “You never ventured out so often in Fladstrand.”

  “No.” Zenobia had liked that town well enough. There hadn’t been as much to see, that was true. Yet that wasn’t why she went out so often now. “I didn’t care to go out. But even if we were back home, I couldn’t be content staying in my parlor now.”

  Even thou
gh she had just as much to write. Because the world had always been so small, and that had been her escape. But now . . . she wouldn’t be content until the world around her felt as big as the one in her head.

  “Well, I won’t argue,” Mara said. The sash pulled tighter before loosening again. The mercenary huffed out a little breath and started over. “I can never tie the complicated ones. I’ll have to use the same knot the men do. You’re a foreigner, so no one will care.”

  Zenobia didn’t either. She would be untying it as soon as they reached the baths. “Why won’t you argue? Did you and Cooper suffer such severe boredom in Fladstrand?”

  “No. At first, perhaps, we wondered if we’d made a mistake. It was a drastic change for us. So quiet. We wondered if we should take on smaller jobs in addition to yours. Then the kidnapping attempts started. So it got better.”

  “How fortunate for you, then, that so many blaggards were trying to abduct me.”

  Mara laughed. “It was. It still is.”

  “But . . . you wanted a quiet situation. To start a family.”

  “Yes. But we don’t want to sit and rust, either.”

  And Zenobia had been worried they wouldn’t renew their contract because of the danger she’d put them in? No wonder she liked writing stories so well. She would never understand real people. “Do you prefer being here? Aside from the masks—and the Empress’s Eyes.”

  Which were unavoidable. The clockwork devices watched them on every street, on every level of every tower. Only their personal chambers boasted any real privacy.