33rd of Uirra

ARRAMY

[Addended From the Personal Correspondence of Brenorra Warring]

Brenorra:

I've rewritten this four times now, and you probably won't even find it. I'm nearly out of paper, so I fished this one back out of the bin.

Why did I just tell you that?

I'm writing to let you know (scratched out lines)

Flaigha. I've never been one for sending letters. Yet another thing I find myself doing because of you. I also keep whistling that (scratched out word) tune you were always humming. Kyrro looks at me like I've gone crazy. It wouldn't be so bad if it were a shanty, but no, it's a dance tune.

What am I doing? You didn't need to know that either.

I reached Aethscaul two weeks ago.

This will come as no surprise to you, but my welcome was not exactly warm. I was nearly shot by a sentry before I had even passed the outer rocks.

The pirates were on high alert. They had heard about NaVarre and Orrelian and were anticipating an invasion. I also arrived the same day they received word from their Illyrian commander: Coventry forces are crossing the southern border of the Illyrian Exploratory Region, and all able-bodied men and women have been summoned home.

The pirates are running under NaVarre's second, a terrifying Illyrian woman named Ulari.

You would like her. She wears shark teeth in her hair.

The threat from the Coventry must have outweighed possible invasion. As soon as I was brought into her office, Ulari offered me a deal. I would train her pirates in Coventry tactics, and she would allow me to captain the Stryka again, this time under Illyrian colors.

The Stryka was still there, intact and resting in harbor. The pirates had no use for her, preferring their light coursers, and after six months without orders, Commander Kyrro had allowed the crew to disband. Many of them joined the pirates, including Kyrro, but when they learned that I was back, all of them volunteered to sail again under my command.

So now I am on my way north, with a familiar deck beneath my feet, a full complement of guns at hand, and a dependable crew.

And I'm one step closer to finding out if you're alive, or if I'm chasing shadows and you never left the mainland.

It has been three months since I last saw your face. Please be alive. Stay alive. Stay alive until I can find you again.

Rathe

~~~

BRENORRA

Clang-clang! Clang-clang! Clang-clang!

I lunged upward on the first sound of the bell, going from horizontal to standing before I had even opened my eyes. Opening my eyes didn't help at all. For several seconds the floor rocked like the deck of a ship, and I stumbled over nothing, my sleep-deprived brain tricking my feet into stepping wrong. I went still, blinking at the rows of bunks lined up along each wall, barely visible in the blue-grey light creeping through shuttered windows.

Around me, women were rising, silently pulling their jumpsuits on over their small clothes, moving around in the dark of the bunkhouse with an ease born of familiarity, their breath pluming in the predawn air.

There were too many women. The floor wasn't really moving. And the back of my neck was stiff, the tattoo raw and burning.

I wasn't on the cargo ship anymore.

I was a slave in a Coventry compound.

Taking a breath, I ground my teeth together. Think. You have to blend in. With a quick check to make sure Arramy's pendant was still hidden beneath my clothing, I shoved my feet into the shoes I had been given, glad I had been too tired to take off the jumpsuit before collapsing onto the bunk during the night.

The others filed out of the bunkhouse through a door at the end, and I trailed after them, trying not to let myself shuffle. My ankle irons still weighed down my feet, but the chain was gone, removed by the orderly that had escorted me to the bunkhouse. My legs didn't seem to understand that fact, though. Char's awkward, hobbling gait came to mind as I caught myself shuffling again, and then had to actively think about walking with a full, natural stride.

Shacklefoot...

The bunkhouse was one of several similar low, squat buildings marching along the brow of a rocky, pine-studded hill. A clearing of sorts had been worn into the soil in front of the buildings, the pine needle carpet thinned through to pale, dusty soil packed hard by the passage of countless footsteps.

Everyone was getting into line. Food. Maybe they were getting into line so they could have food. My stomach rumbled at the thought. Just the prospect was enough to make my mouth start watering, and I hugged my middle, as if pressing on my ribs would somehow satisfy the starving monster roaring to life in the curve of my spine.

The huts on either side of ours had emptied in a similar manner, twenty or so women gathering in front of each rickety stoop. All of the women were dressed in red jumpsuits. Theirs were faded to greyed rust, the knees patched, the cuffs fraying.

I glanced down. Mine was bright, unforgiving scarlet, the stitching still neat, creases still crisp. There weren't any other new jumpsuits in my group. The rest of the new girls were in the next hut over. That wasn't the only difference. All the women around me were sturdy, with muscles that spoke of hard labor. Several of them were a full head taller than I was, with strong backs and broad shoulders.

Pickle on a pudding... l wonder what pickle pudding tastes like? As if that would matter. I probably wouldn't even taste it... My stomach let out an unholy yowl, and the towering woman to my left glanced down at me, a momentary sneer tugging her lips askew.

She might have said something, but a bell rang, and she and all the other women turned abruptly and began making their way along the dusty path, winding between the pines before descending the hill toward a squat concrete building in the middle of a circle of pavement.

I caught the whiff of food, and almost whimpered out loud.

The squat building turned out to be a meeting hall, or canteen of some sort, with a large central room. There were armed guards at the door, both outside and inside, but I didn't really notice much other than the tin kettles on a long bench beneath an equally long window. There were no tables or chairs. Only an expanse of bare concrete floor, and three paintings on the wall opposite the window, arranged between swags of orange and black bunting.

To my growing concern, the women weren't lining up to get the food. Instead, they moved into a grid formation of equally spaced rows and columns, all of them facing the paintings.

I did the same, but not without looking back at the tin kettles. The air was cool, and steam rose from the hinged lids, the smell of boiled grain sneaking out to tease my hollow stomach.

For several long, weird seconds, nothing happened. The guards at the door gazed impassively from under heavy helmets, and the women all stood there, hands at their backs, feet apart, and stared at the paintings.

Finally, when I was about to ask what was going on, another bell rang.

All around me, the others bent stiffly at the waist as two women and several more guards came into the room, entering through a doorway off to the left.

The woman in front was obviously important. She was wearing a dark grey military jacket and matching breeches, her hair slicked back into a severe knot beneath a short-brimmed red metal hat. She raked the bent-over slaves with a narrow, critical gaze from beneath that hat, her left hand wrapped tight around the handle of the braided whip tucked into the crook of her arm. She progressed slowly through the ranks of women, inspecting everyone, but taking her time in front of each new arrival.

Behind her, the second woman ­— a slave like the rest of us — ticked things off in a ledger, avoiding any eye contact.

I swallowed and made myself study the floor. I just had to wait a little longer. Just a little longer. Then maybe there would be food.

The woman in the red tin hat stopped in front of me, the toes of her knee-high shiny patent boots planted neatly together. There was a moment of silence that stretched too far. Then she heaved a disgusted sigh. "What am I supposed to do with this?" she muttered in High Lodesian.

I didn't dare look at her, my heart beating hard in my throat.

"Well? What's wrong with it? Why wasn't it sorted into Hospitality?" the woman snapped, her body turning slightly as she looked at her mousy little note taker.

"Ah, it ah... it says she had Red Valley fever," the assistant quavered, reading from the front pages of her ledger. "She's been marked unfit for Hospitality, Manufactury and Medical."

Another pause. Another disgusted sigh. "Well, give it a half-ration. Might as well save the food if we're not going to get the labor." The patent boots started moving on down the line.

"Yes, Kreighvalden Ygraine," the mousy note-taker mumbled, scribbling something in her ledger before trailing off in the kreighvalden's wake.

I inhaled, heat flaring up my neck. I lifted my head just enough to shoot a glare at the back of the kreighvalden's little red hat while she strode up to the front of the gathering and saluted the three paintings.

Her voice was loud, but flat, almost monotone as she addressed the portraits, "May the sun always shine on you."

"We serve the greater good this day," the women droned, their voices blending eerily together.

"May the grass always spring up beneath your feet."

"We serve the greater good this day."

I licked my lips, refusing to say those words.

"May your great plan usher in a glorious new era." Red Hat waited for the women to finish their answer, then turned smartly on her heel, surveying the backs of the slaves bowing before her. "Long live the Order of the Coventry." She waited another second, then lifted a hand, as though offering up the kettles at the back of the room. "Sit."

As one, the women sank to their right knee, then their left, then sat on their feet, waiting with heads down while the guards took up the kettles and began moving up and down the rows.

There were no utensils, no bowls. You held out your hands, and the guards ladled a glob of hot, over-boiled barley into your fingers.

I winced, but started eating anyway, ignoring the heat, hardly caring that my glob was only half the size of anyone else's. It was more than I had been allowed to eat at a time for the last three days. It could have been made of wool and lead shavings and I would have eaten it.

Five minutes later, we were done, up, and on our way farther down the hill to the livestock barns.

As we were given the tools we would need to start mucking pens, the towering woman who had sneered at me earlier bent close, the better to whisper in rough, heavily accented Altyran, "You're done for, you are. The Ogress believes it's her duty to thin the herd... Small ones like you excite her prey drive. She'll make your life a living hell until you break."

It wasn't necessary to look at the woman to know her words weren't meant as a warning or friendly banter. She was simply stating a fact.

I ground my teeth and took a shovel.

I had survived the bin. I would survive the kreighvalden. I had to. Even as I told myself that, a weight settled over my shoulders, dragging at my weary bones. The mountain of odds stacked against me had just gotten higher.

~~~

AN: I don't know why this chapter whipped my butt, but it did. I hit a major pile of writer's block, which doesn't happen to me often, I rewrote it twice, had a bunch of other stuff happen IRL, and just generally found myself slogging through it, all for an 'in between' chapter that isn't even all that complicated. *Heavy sigh*

Here's hoping the next one is easier, now that I've climbed the hill on this one. 

For now, I'd love to know what you're thinking. These letters from Arramy... Bren's reaction/situation... anything you've got. 

And as always, thank you so much for reading! It means the world to have you here. I appreciate your patience and long-suffering so much. 

Sincerely,

Anna