Page 5

Silverbacked Toady

Rumi

Rumi woke to a dim room.

A small cylinder hung from the ceiling emitting a sickly green that made the walls ripple, ribbons of light wobbling against writhing shadows.

A pair of wool blankets lay folded on the cot beside her; their itchy fabric scratched her arm.

Her ruined robe, also folded, rested on top.

A lumpy, smelly cot with a measly pillow barely offered any comfort at all, and the frigid metal of the cot frame seeped through the flimsy mattress.

The dank, windowless room was punishment, she supposed, for roughing up the colonel. It had been worth it.

Her muscles were lead again, her body refusing to heed instructions.

A groan of frustration grated from a throat thick with disuse.

Curse him.

Curse Colonel Callum Reid and his band of soldiers.

May he rot in Behiba’s watery prison, forever feeding upon the same poison he had subjected her to not once, but twice.

After what felt like an eternity, she was able to sit up.

The ache in her belly informed her she had been here for a while.

Her eyes followed the chain from the cuff of her ankle to the railing of the metal bed frame.

There was no wood, nothing at all that had ever grown or lived interrupted the drunken dance of the nauseating green light.

Not that she could use her Ti’la in her condition.

She had completely depleted her energy by calling upon her magic too soon, leaving her utterly exhausted. Anger and sadness spurred her movements, even as hopelessness oozed into her bones.

Beside the stack of blankets and clothing was a single metal stool, and sitting on top was the colonel’s clipboard and notebook.

The objects, harmless as they were without the man holding them, stirred a rage that stewed deep within her.

The boat swayed and her stomach floated to her throat, threatening to spill out of her mouth.

After several long inhales, Rumi sluggishly snatched the clipboard up, inquisitiveness overpowering her anger, and read as quickly as she could.

His writing was neat, a series of tightly packed common-tongue symbols marching across the page in symmetrical lines.

The notes covered dozens of pages from his first interrogation to the last few times he had looked in on her while she had been unconscious.

Behaviors.

Measurements.

Hair color, eye color, down to how many freckles were on each cheek.

Her stomach dropped when she reached the pages at the bottom of the notepad.

There were sketches of her braids.

Detailed drawings depicting her facial tattoos and pointed ears.

Small, unfamiliar symbols marked up a female silhouette, apparently noting various features.

His detailed writing even described scars, abrasions, and bruises.

Below an image depicting the most recent wounds, the ones he and his lackeys had given her in the other room, was a series of numbers and letters.

Rumi shoved the pages away, disgusted. The notations reminded her of the sort of writing the scientists in Corsin would use when they discovered new plant life, trying to identify medicinal uses.

The colonel had interrogated her about her tattoos.

And her magic.

Her fingers trailed down the line of ink adorning her chin and she winced as she brushed the bruise on her jaw.

No one had ever hit her like that before.

She had suspected that she was too valuable to damage, but clearly that was not the case.

Was this some kind of sick game to brainwash her until she confessed to crimes she did not commit? Her pulse thrummed in her ears and a sweat broke on her brow at the thought of being chained here for weeks to come. Dying here. Fuck, she did not want to die here.

Damn him.

Rumi flopped back onto the bed, the drug still numbing her limbs, ignoring the strange and off-putting smells that puffed up from the mattress.

The room was stuffy.

Suffocating.

Quiet.

Rumi had never been somewhere so devoid of life.

To distract herself, she focused on moving her toes, each one.

Then her legs and knees.

When she was strong enough to stand, she paced as far as the chain would allow, the scraping of metal on the floor filling the silence.

It was a long time before her door opened.

Colonel Reid entered, his uniform replaced by a form-fitting grey shirt with padded elbows and a pair of slate-grey trousers with patches over the knees.

He wheeled a metal cart into the room, carrying a silver platter with a domed lid and a pitcher of water.

Her stomach rumbled at the sight, the promise of food after…however long it had been.

She ceased her pacing and met his green eyes.

She was certain she saw a flash of surprise behind them that betrayed his usual confidence.

What it meant, she did not know, but perhaps she could use it against him. She tucked the thought up her sleeve for later.

He crouched beside the tray, observing her with his pale eyes, his gaze unnerving.

He seemed to strip her bare as he scoured her from head to toe.

He started with her hair, and despite herself, she glanced left and then right at her tangled mess of braids and curls.

He scrutinized her face, his eyes pausing at her tattoos before casually meandering over her clothing.

She understood now that he was simply studying a strange creature, trying to peel back the layers of her culture by sight alone.

Rumi pinched her eyebrows together, growing impatient with being treated like a specimen; her sore jaw clenching and unclenching as she waited for him to tell her what hoops she would have to jump through to get the food.

And she would have to—she needed to eat.

Her stomach growled audibly at the thought.

He cocked an eyebrow and gestured to the food on the tray.

The slight pause, a hesitation that seemed unusual for him, had her shoulders tensing warily.

“We need some rules.”

He stated, that strange accent of his stretching out his vowels, each word melting into the next.

“You don’t try to hurt me, and I won’t hurt you.

You want out of this room? Try askin’.

Show me you’re not going to jump into the sea just to spite me and make me have to take a swim to keep you from drownin’.”

He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face.

Looking closer, Rumi noticed shadows under his eyes and a deep exhaustion that echoed in her own bones.

“Do not worry.

I can swim well.”

“I suppose that’s good to know.”

His lip quirked.

“Miss Arryvian, I had hoped to develop some sort of understandin’ during this time before I hand you off to my superiors.

You are…an important link in learnin’ about your people and culture.

My own curiosity, if you will.

Perhaps any knowledge you share will help your…case.”

He barely hid the grimace that told her how he actually felt.

He found her repulsive.

Rumi raised her eyebrows in disbelief and crossed her arms over her chest.

“If you try to hurt me again—”

he started, before she interrupted.

“I believe I was successful.”

His glare brought her a strange sort of satisfaction.

“If you hurt me again, you’ll be deprived of more than my company.

My food and fresh water, sunlight, and fresh air.

All life besides your own.”

She tried not to let him see her shudder at the idea of total isolation.

He lifted the lid off the platter, and steam billowed out.

Grilled fish rested on a bed of wilted leaves, a mound of savory grains beside it.

He picked up the fork and flaked off a mouthful of the fish and popped it into his mouth, following with a generous forkful of the greens and grain.

“If it’s poisoned, I’ll be sick right with you.

Besides, this was my dinner.

I doubt my crew would bother with tryin’ to kill me.”

He wiped the fork on a piece of cloth that lay next to the plate.

“If you can resist being feral, I have enough to share.”

He arched an eyebrow again, in a fashion that already infuriated her. “Truce?”

“I will consider it,”

she replied after a moment.“You had knowledge of my location. How?”

She stared at the fish for a moment before forcing herself to stay trained on his eyes, ignoring the feast before her.

“My orders—”

he hesitated before hardening his gaze, “I don’t have my copy on me, but they’re on board, locked in my quarters.

They included a map with landmarks.

They described your companions—the guard and escort.

They told me where to find you, describin’ you in detail.

Simple and straightforward, for once.

That was before you turned into a wild beast, snarlin’ and spittin’ like a vicious cat. Before you skewered me with that wooden knife you made.”

“Twice,”

she added with no small amount of satisfaction.

“Yeah, twice.

But, if I recall, I’m still up by one.”

He poured a glass of water, ignoring her glare.

“Would you like me to taste it first too? Even if you are ornery about food, you need water.

Goin’ without will make you sick.”

When she made no move to comply, he sighed, raking a hand through the golden hair on his head.

“The governor sent out the request, okay? I took the job, and you’re lucky for that.

I don’t wanna force you to do what I want.

Others aren’t always so generous.”

“Lucky?”

A dry huff swirled from her mouth.

“You tell me that you volunteered to invade my home and kidnap me, and you believe I should be grateful to you?”

Her eyes slid to the water and her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

“I am not grateful to you.

I only drink—and eat—so I may escape.

And I will escape,”

she promised, reaching forward to take the water, and downing the glass more quickly than she intended.

A trickle trailed down the corner of her mouth and she wiped it away with her fist.

“Lucky,”

he stated with a solemn nod.

“You’re a woman on a ship full of lonely men.

I’ve heard of female prisoners,”

his lip curled in disgust, “bein’ dishonored and used as sport.

That’s not gonna happen to you.

I’ve seen prisoners carried off the ship with their skin torn or cut off in patches.

Bones broken, ankles hobbled.

Abused and humiliated.

But none of that’ll happen to you—I won’t allow it. You’ll stand trial for your crimes, as healthy as you want to be.”

Rage smoldered through her blood.

Was that a threat? His accent was thick and sometimes difficult to understand, but his meaning sunk in after a few breaths.

For a moment, her eyes dropped to where she had stabbed him, and a flicker of remorse twinged in her chest.

She dismissed it with a toss of her head and crossed her arms once more.

He was the enemy.

Whatever altruistic justifications he had to tell himself to sleep at night, she did not believe him. Humans always wanted something.

Aba had many enemies, but she did not know of anyone who hated her enough to have her framed.

And she was clearly being framed.

Were they trying to force aba’s hand? Was there a ransom? So many questions flitting through her brain, she did not realize how distracted she was until she found herself staring at his well-muscled chest, the pectorals easily visible beneath the thin fabric—blinking, she swiftly looked away.

Anyway, she could not trust anything he said.

“It’s important that you regain your strength,”

he continued.

“I’d like to take you topside.”

He paused and tipped his head.

“Would you like that? Tasting the sea breeze and feeling the sun on your face?”

Eager goosebumps flared across her flesh at the idea of escaping this miserable room, even if it meant being supervised.

“Do all Arryvian have bronzed skin? Or, does your skin darken only during the summer months?”

He tilted his head inquisitively and continued.

“Do you get snow in your tree cities? What about the leaves? Do they change color when the seasons grow colder? Do the leaves drop? I bet there’s a lot of leaves.”

He said the last part almost to himself.

Excitement made her heart dance—the love for her home shining through an unintentional smile she felt tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Then she snapped her teeth closed, wincing as a sharp pain radiated through her skull, and she glared at him.

“I am not so foolish, Colonel.

First, it will be questions of leaves and the seasons, then it will turn to the paths through the trees and bridges, things that only my people know.

I am not so easy to buy and I will not sell out the secrets of my people.

You managed to get in, did you not take a moment to look around before you defiled my home with your stink?”

She murmured insults under her breath, and turned away from him.

But not before snatching a roll from the plate.

He chuckled, “You don’t like the way I smell? Perhaps you could recommend what herbs or fruit oils I should wash with instead.

Being able to bathe every day, even on board a ship like this, is one privilege I enjoy.”

He touched the side of his nose, “Do you bathe in a tub? Or in the rain? Perhaps a waterfall?”

He picked up a roll and tapped the crusty golden top.

“These would be superb with honey.”

As he paused, she felt his eyes on her back.

Studying her.

Assessing.

Trying to determine if he had found a weakness in her armor.

She heard him walk toward the door, tapping a series of knocks.

“Sir?”

A voice came from outside her prison.

“May I have some honey, please?”

He asked, the way a child might ask for sweets.

“Right away, sir.”

She listened as the colonel’s shoulders brushed against the wall, leaning against it, she imagined.

“I noticed structures not built by bees but used by them, back in your forest.

The bees were visitin’ the white trumpet-shaped flowers bloomin’ on the vines.

I saw the woven trellis supportin’ the sweet blossoms.

It’s one similarity between our people, apparently.

We both like honey.”

She turned her face slightly, her braids trailing over her back, tickling her gently, as she caught him with the corner of her eye.

“The silverbacked toady is covered in a syrupy substance that smells sweet and slightly floral.

It sounds harmless and looks welcoming.

The toad will hop toward you, appearing friendly.

It is not.”

She turned further toward him, her eyes clashing with his.

“The mucus is alluring and highly addictive.

While its victim is drugged and lethargic, the toad consumes it day by day until all that remains are sticky bones.

I do not trust your niceties, Colonel.

Go and enjoy your privileged bath and honeyed bread.”

“I didn’t know about the silverbacked toady.

That’s both—”

he paused, considering, “grotesque and fascinatin’.”

“Colonel,”

the voice returned to the door, which opened wide enough for a woven basket to pass through before closing again.

Callum folded himself onto the floor, within arm’s reach of the plate resting upon the metal tray, and rustled through the basket.

“I usually bathe to start my day.

There’s still many hours before I retire.

Would you like some honey?”

“No.”

She turned away briskly, keeping her spine stiff and her chin lifted proudly.

“You are the toady.

Sugary sweet and only pretending to be nice so you may get what you want.”

“You’d rather I wasn’t pleasant? That I didn’t want to share things I enjoy?”

He bit into what she assumed was a honey slathered-roll and a blissful sigh passed his lips.

She whirled with a snarl lacing her teeth.

“I would rather be back home.

I would rather that I was not locked in a room with a…”

her tongue twisted as she tried to remember the word in his language.

“A villain.

I would rather not be poisoned.”

Rumi threw her half-eaten roll at his face and shoved herself further onto the bed, wedged farthest from him with her back to the room.

“I will not answer any more of your questions.

Leave me be.”

“Does that mean you’re done with the fish? Surely you must be hungry after so long without food.”

She tossed him another crude gesture over her shoulder with a growl—maybe this time he would take the message to heart.

Stoic and resolutely silent, for once, he sighed resignedly and she heard him reorganizing the tray before wheeling it toward the door.

Only then did she glance his way, her eyes focused on the sliver of light between the door and the frame that led toward freedom.

“I’ll keep my promise, Arryvian.

You’ll be delivered.

You’ll stand trial.

You’ll answer for the lives your poisoned oritium claimed.”

As the door closed, the writhing green shadows seemed to return in his absence, as if his presence had banished them only to have them reappear once she was alone, to keep her company in the lonely cell.

But her peace did not last long.

He returned with a deck of playing cards.

He dealt, shuffled, and played some sort of solitary game, the silence broken only by the slapping of cards.

His very presence irritated her.

Why would he not just leave her alone? She did not know how long she had been unconscious the second time, but she imagined it must have been at least a couple of days.

That meant that they had been sailing for about a week, if her guess was correct.

Most trade routes took about four weeks to travel—two at least and six at most.

She hoped aba was dealing with her disappearance well.

And her brother, poor Mbali.

The boyish cheeks he never seemed to grow into…the thought closed itself around her heart and squeezed.

Did they believe her to be dead? And her trade partner, Jonathon.

They had had a meeting scheduled before she was taken.

Did he think her disrespectful for not attending? And Zinhar. What did he think of her disappearance?

Her thoughts shifted from one topic to the other with each slap of the cards on the floorboards, raising her shoulders closer and closer to her ears as she tensed.

“Do you mind?”

She snapped, whirling to face him.

“Mind what? You want to play?”

He asked.

As always, his voice was carefully controlled.

This was just another ploy to coax her into interacting with him.

“You do not care what I want.”

“The things you demanded aren’t things I can give you.”

“You can leave,”

she pointed out.

“The door is there.

I am sure your soldiers would do as you asked them to.

Play your games with them.”

“Actually, my job is to learn from you.

So far, you have two skills: witchy-plant magic, which I can’t duplicate, and obstinance—or maybe it’s stubbornness.

I’m trying to figure out which it is; I’m thinkin’ stubbornness.

Either way, you’re good at teaching that.”

He dealt another hand, oblivious to the rage coiling in her stomach.

She growled, the insult stinging her pride, and rolled onto the bed, unfurling one of the blankets and covering her pointed ears with her arm to block out the sound.