by the exiles will rise to heat the guards, who will heat the governor and his family.
At some point everything probably worked. But the fact that the prison is now run by its inmates means new tunnels are dug and resources diverted, so now the lowest level is like a giant starfish expanding forever.
Guards and governor still have their quarters above the starfish’s body. Unfortunately its legs are now so far under the sheet ice, the center cannot hold; private kingdoms are created, passing from generation to generation. At the same time, little principalities are built, often hacked directly out of the ice. These tend not to appear on any of the existing maps.
Debro’s done her research. I wonder if knowing what she does makes things worse or better.
“Okay, boys…We’ll take it from here.” The words are arrogant, an open challenge to the guards, who scowl but bite their tongues.
The man facing them laughs.
Tall and missing one eye, he wears his beard braided and twisted about with copper wire. “I’m Ladro,” he announces. “I run this section. You’ll need to remember that…What happened to her?”
He’s looking at me.
“Spoke out of turn.”
“And him?”
“The same,” says the rat-faced man, who wears dried blood like a beard of his own.
“You’ll learn.”
“I have,” he says.
Ladro smiles. It’s not a kind smile, and I wonder if the new prisoner realizes he’s just spoken out of turn again. But the rat-faced man’s correct: He does learn. Because whatever he’s been clutching so tightly to his chest is gone and both of his hands are now empty and hanging loosely at his sides.
“Your ring,” I say to Debro. “Swallow it.”
She looks shocked.
“Now,” I hiss. “We’re about to be taxed. You’ll lose it if you don’t.”
Reluctantly she pulls the signet from her little finger.
“Do it.”
While she’s still hesitating, I grab the ring from her hand and swallow it as discreetly as I can. When I glance across, Anton is grinning.
“Turn out your pockets,” orders the man. “Put your open hands in front of you. I won’t bother strip-searching, because the guards will have done that already.”
We do what we’re told.
“Here’s how it’s going to work. You’re going to give me anything you’ve got left. If you refuse, I’ll break the arms of the people standing on either side of you.”
“You can’t—” one man tries to say; he doesn’t get to finish his sentence.
“Pick him up.”
Someone does.
“All right,” says Ladro. “Turn out your pockets and offer up your hands.”
Walking down the line, he stops occasionally to thrust his hands into a woman’s jacket or check that the out-turned pockets of a man really are turned out far enough.
Roughly every third person has something. Wedding rings are plentiful, and one man has a neat little watch that looks like it does an awful lot more than simply tell the time. Ladro stops when he gets to me and gapes at what rests in the palm of my broad hand.
I think I’ve overdone it, but his amazement stops him from thinking too hard about why I haven’t tried to keep it hidden for longer.
“Where the fuck did you get that?”
“Stole it.”
He picks up the little Death’s Head dagger and turns it over in his hands. It’s short, double-edged, a blade made for slicing rather than stabbing deep. Being Death’s Head, its decoration is minimal and the scabbard almost bare.
It belongs to Horse, whose real name is Sergeant Hito, my minder back on General Jaxx’s mother ship. I imagine he knows to the second when I took it. He’d put it on the side in a bar, turned away to look at something, and seemed not to notice it was gone when he turned back.
“You stole this?”
I nod.
“Where?”
“In a bar from a Death’s Head sergeant.”
Ladro considers that, decides it’s plausible. “And how did you get it past the guards?”
“Swallowed it.” I look at him. “Just threw it up a little
At some point everything probably worked. But the fact that the prison is now run by its inmates means new tunnels are dug and resources diverted, so now the lowest level is like a giant starfish expanding forever.
Guards and governor still have their quarters above the starfish’s body. Unfortunately its legs are now so far under the sheet ice, the center cannot hold; private kingdoms are created, passing from generation to generation. At the same time, little principalities are built, often hacked directly out of the ice. These tend not to appear on any of the existing maps.
Debro’s done her research. I wonder if knowing what she does makes things worse or better.
“Okay, boys…We’ll take it from here.” The words are arrogant, an open challenge to the guards, who scowl but bite their tongues.
The man facing them laughs.
Tall and missing one eye, he wears his beard braided and twisted about with copper wire. “I’m Ladro,” he announces. “I run this section. You’ll need to remember that…What happened to her?”
He’s looking at me.
“Spoke out of turn.”
“And him?”
“The same,” says the rat-faced man, who wears dried blood like a beard of his own.
“You’ll learn.”
“I have,” he says.
Ladro smiles. It’s not a kind smile, and I wonder if the new prisoner realizes he’s just spoken out of turn again. But the rat-faced man’s correct: He does learn. Because whatever he’s been clutching so tightly to his chest is gone and both of his hands are now empty and hanging loosely at his sides.
“Your ring,” I say to Debro. “Swallow it.”
She looks shocked.
“Now,” I hiss. “We’re about to be taxed. You’ll lose it if you don’t.”
Reluctantly she pulls the signet from her little finger.
“Do it.”
While she’s still hesitating, I grab the ring from her hand and swallow it as discreetly as I can. When I glance across, Anton is grinning.
“Turn out your pockets,” orders the man. “Put your open hands in front of you. I won’t bother strip-searching, because the guards will have done that already.”
We do what we’re told.
“Here’s how it’s going to work. You’re going to give me anything you’ve got left. If you refuse, I’ll break the arms of the people standing on either side of you.”
“You can’t—” one man tries to say; he doesn’t get to finish his sentence.
“Pick him up.”
Someone does.
“All right,” says Ladro. “Turn out your pockets and offer up your hands.”
Walking down the line, he stops occasionally to thrust his hands into a woman’s jacket or check that the out-turned pockets of a man really are turned out far enough.
Roughly every third person has something. Wedding rings are plentiful, and one man has a neat little watch that looks like it does an awful lot more than simply tell the time. Ladro stops when he gets to me and gapes at what rests in the palm of my broad hand.
I think I’ve overdone it, but his amazement stops him from thinking too hard about why I haven’t tried to keep it hidden for longer.
“Where the fuck did you get that?”
“Stole it.”
He picks up the little Death’s Head dagger and turns it over in his hands. It’s short, double-edged, a blade made for slicing rather than stabbing deep. Being Death’s Head, its decoration is minimal and the scabbard almost bare.
It belongs to Horse, whose real name is Sergeant Hito, my minder back on General Jaxx’s mother ship. I imagine he knows to the second when I took it. He’d put it on the side in a bar, turned away to look at something, and seemed not to notice it was gone when he turned back.
“You stole this?”
I nod.
“Where?”
“In a bar from a Death’s Head sergeant.”
Ladro considers that, decides it’s plausible. “And how did you get it past the guards?”
“Swallowed it.” I look at him. “Just threw it up a little
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