Emmy

Zecha screeched and took a long slash to the head, then found himself pinned against the cages.

‘No!’ Emmy cried.

Blood poured from a fresh wound, rivulets of red running down Zecha’s face. The Masvam pressed his forearm to his victim’s neck, allowing only a sliver of air to pass through Zecha’s throat.

‘Think you that you escape?’ he snarled. ‘Think you that you save your friends can?’ He laughed again. The sound sent an icy shudder down Emmy’s spine, right to the tip of her tail. ‘Pshala,’ he spat. ‘Metakalan make me laugh. Could I snap your neck now and—’

‘Yamor, cease.’

As Yamor released his throat, Zecha breathed in sweet life. Still pinned, he couldn’t double over to scrabble for breath. Emmy silenced her sigh of relief and pressed herself tight against the bars.

Three more Masvams strode up the deck, trailing the tang of salt and beer. Two of them, Emmy knew. Mamusan and Kelom. The other, three torques of gold on his upper arm, was unknown.

‘But Ysmas Pesmam,’ Yamor said, his words petulant, ‘he deserves die.’

‘By not your word or hand,’ Pesmam snapped.

Pesmam shoved Yamor aside. Freed at last, Zecha gasped for breath.

‘Your name, what is?’ Pesmam asked. His orange eyes glinted.

Zecha gulped more air and shook his head. Pesmam grabbed his chin, jerking his head up, crumpling his face.

‘Your name, what is?’ Pesmam said again.

Still, Zecha did not reply. Pesmam wrenched him up by his half-crushed throat.

‘I let not Yamor your life take,’ he snarled, ‘but will I if —’

‘Zecha!’ a voice cried. ‘His name is Zecha!’

Emmy’s eyes snapped to Charo, whose face was lined with despair. Pesmam dropped Zecha and clicked his tongue.

‘You, Zecha,’ he said, his tongue stumbling on the unknown name, ‘is fool. Need you punishment.’

‘Throw him to the sea!’ Kelom said, rubbing his claws in glee.

‘Shut up,’ Pesmam snapped. Kelom recoiled. ‘Too easy.’

Pesmam cupped Zecha’s chin in one hand. Zecha tried to look anywhere except at the Masvam but found himself forced to stare into his eyes.

‘Far too easy, it would,’ he purred. He rubbed a gentle circle on Zecha’s cheek. Zecha stiffened and tried to jerk away. ‘Need I to make example of Zecha.’

He released Zecha’s head and turned towards the rows of cages. Yamor pinned Zecha’s arms.

‘A lesson, this is,’ Pesmam said in a grand voice. Despite the oddness of his language, the meaning was clear. ‘Prisoners of Masvam Empire, all you. Escape you, or try, will you to afterlife hastened—lingering and painful it be.’

He turned to Zecha and stared, chin held high. His orange eyes flickered.

‘First, you be.’

Pesmam jolted forward. There was a dull sucking sound and it took a long moment for understanding to dawn. Time stilled. Zecha stared at Pesmam. Then he looked down—at the dagger jutting from his abdomen.

Emmy couldn’t even scream. All she could smell was blood.

Pesmam yanked the dagger out with a twist and Zecha finally howled, clutching at his stomach and falling to his knees, tail between his legs, his talons turning red.

The captain stepped back and wiped the dagger on his salt-stiffened trousers. His lips curled and he took a long look at the sets of eyes that stared at him from the darkness of the cages. He pointed to the prone form.

‘Watch him die,’ Pesmam said. ‘Decide you to follow him, know you what awaits.’

At that, Emmy found her voice again.

‘Zecha, no!’ she cried.

Pesmam grunted, lips twisted in a mordant grin.

‘Come,’ Pesmam said. ‘These pchak, no food.’ When the Metakalans’ fear rose, it fed Pesmam’s satisfaction. He spat on Zecha’s head. ‘Thank you, your dying friend.’

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With that the three Masvams strode off. They sealed the hold behind them. The slam rattled Emmy’s teeth. Once more they were left in grim darkness. The sweetness of the sea air was gone.

Emmy didn’t care about that.

‘Zecha!’ she cried.

The only response was a sudden thump, followed by a whimper just audible above the creaking ship.

‘Zecha, can you hear me?’ Emmy continued, her voice rising. ‘Zecha, please!’

‘Zecha, answer her!’

Charo’s voice was a sharp strike. Zecha moaned again and struggled to rise. He slammed, face down, onto the filthy deck. Detritus lapped around him. Blood coursed from his wound.

No matter how hard they tried, they could elicit no further response.

‘Zecha, no,’ Emmy whispered. ‘Don’t leave me. I need you…’

In the darkness, truth shone. It wasn’t until those words were uttered that Emmy realized how true they were. For the longest time Zecha was the only one who never judged her appearance, never called her a Moon Rogue, never cast her aside. Until Charo, he was the only one she called a friend. He was always there with kindness in his eyes and joy his heart, despite his longing to be something he couldn’t be.

And now? Emmy’s gaze slid sideways to Charo. She was slumped against the bars, one claw stretching for Zecha’s hand. For the sweetest of moments, Emmy had two friends. Now, it seemed, she would be left with one again.

No.

Determination rose. She wouldn’t lose Zecha, not if it took everything she had. Not if it killed her. Drawing in a deep breath, Emmy reached for her lock again.

She rattled it, wrenched it, planted her feet on the cage front, yanked as hard as she could. Emmy grunted, growing more desperate with every minute. Zecha was below her and he needed her. She could save him, she just knew it. Somehow, she knew she could. Her mind was reeling but she knew if she got to him, was able to lay her hands on him, somehow she could save him.

Everything else fell away. The sounds and smells of the hold, the sharp taint of others’ desperation. All that mattered to Emmy was saving her friend.

‘Zecha,’ she said over and over like a mantra. ‘Zecha, Zecha, Zecha…’

Fatigue pressed upon her but Emmy kept going, until her mantra turned into a series of sobs.

Her despair was interrupted.

‘Emmy, don’t torture yourself.’

Blinking, Emmy looked to the source of the voice. In the darkness, Charo’s eyes were lost in black shadows.

‘You need to, stop,’ Charo said. Her words were leaden. ‘It’s pointless. You’ll never open it.’

Emmy shook her head, desperate claws aching as they kept working at the lock.

‘What choice do I have?’ she asked. ‘Zecha’s going to die. I need to help him.’

Her gaze slid to Zecha. He still hadn’t moved. Her heart clung to the hope she could get out, or that they might be rescued, that they could get Zecha help…

‘Maybe…’ Charo started. She trailed off, as if the words she was to speak cut her tongue. ‘Maybe Zecha’s better off dead.’

Her voice hitched as the name passed her lips.

No.

There was a frantic scrabble as Emmy yanked at her cage again. Her shoulders rose and fell. Her fists clenched and unclenched to the rhythm of a sudden, silent battle-chant.

‘I won’t accept that. I won’t accept that!

‘Emmy…’ Charo began.

Ignoring her, Emmy kept working at the lock. The tips of her talons bled into the metal.

‘Emmy!’

This time it was Charo’s voice that struck like lightning. Emmy stilled.

‘Listen to me,’ Charo continued. ‘I don’t want to be a slave again. I’d rather die. And I mean that. I’d sooner cut my own throat.’

Her voice hitched. Tears tracked down her face, cutting a sharp line through the grime. Her hands and shoulders pulsed as she stared at Zecha’s prone form.

‘But working and working at something,’ Charo went on, ‘that will never come to anything is pointless. It’s madness. So stop. Just…stop.’

The sting of Charo’s words sobered her, and Emmy reluctantly released the lock.

‘Charo, I…’

Emmy knew Charo needed words of encouragement. She knew, as a friend, that it was her job to keep trying, in spite of everything. That was what was supposed to happen. That was why she had pulled and pulled at the lock until blood coursed down her claws and her hands. But the naked honesty of Charo’s words took her own words away.

Charo filled the silence between them.

‘Maybe Zecha is better off dead,’ she repeated. Her voice was flat. ‘I say that because know what our future holds. It’ll be filled with humiliation, servitude, and an eventual lonely death when we’re of no use any longer. I’ve been there. I’ve lived as a slave, and it’s no life at all. You’re not considered a living thing. You’re passed through families like a possession. You’re bought and sold in the same way as livestock.’

‘Charo…’ Emmy said, but nothing further came.

Charo kept talking, the words monotone.

‘I was taken into slavery when I was six,’ she said. ‘It was the Valtat. They got me. The Masvams let them through their borders, into Linvarra, where I was hatched. I don’t know if I had a moi or a poi or siblings or any family at all. I was chained by the neck and pulled onto a podium, and they were shouting things in languages I didn’t understand. Then I was bought. My first job was as a potwash in a scullery, where I was chained to the wall for nearly all the day. I’ve been bought and sold five times—five times from six to fourteen. And then I found you.’ Her voice changed, suddenly thick with tears. ‘And I found Zecha, and everything was alright—until the Masvams came. But that’s why I say Zecha is better off dead, and we might as well be, too.’

Tears flowed through her grime-encrusted face again.

Emmy swallowed against her own tears. It was the first time Charo had spoken of her life before the apothecary apart from the mention of the mistress who stabbed her.

‘I understand all that,’ Emmy said, ‘but I have to try and save him. He’s my friend. He’s—’

Emmy’s words died as a muffled boom sounded in the distance. Cries of fear gave way to the numbness of shock. Then the Metakalans burst into whispers.

There was another blast. Charo’s anguish broke. She stared with a twist of confusion that mirrored Emmy’s own.

Cocking her head to the side, Emmy listened hard.

‘Something is wrong,’ she said. ‘They’re shouting.’

Sure enough, the crew’s cries rose with further blasts. The hold erupted with a barrage of shouts. Above, the explosions drew closer.

‘What’s happening?’ someone cried.

‘Is this it? Is this the end of us?’

Emmy ignored them and gritted her teeth. She didn’t care about the others and their fears. She didn’t care about what was happening outside. She had eyes for only one.

Zecha’s prone form slid on the deck, covered in filth. If this is the end, so be it, she thought. If we must die, I’d rather we died together.

At least in death, perhaps they would be free.