So she shrugged. “What does it matter?”
“See,” he told Einar. “Age is only a number.”
She ignored both of them, including Einar’s grunt of laughter. “Wills, can you strip that thing, now that it’s inert?”
“Of course, my queen.”
The bone-reader was so unassuming when he wasn’t acting crazy that it was easy to forget what he’d done out in the real world. It would be a mistake to get too comfortable with his sanity. She couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t suddenly decide she had to die because it was bound to happen at some point, according to his predictions. Dred watched his back warily as they moved.
When they approached, the unit was still active, but it lay in several chunks as a result of the misfire. The corridor was black nearly a meter around the unit, and even now, the heat was astonishing; Dred felt it through the soles of her feet.
I can’t believe Jael survived this.
After donning protective gloves, Wills bent and popped out the power source, and the machine went still. Wills studied the Peacemaker, then added, “I’ll need help hauling it.”
Dred held up a hand. “We’ll leave the parts here and grab them on the way out. Nobody will bother them in the time it takes for us to get to the salvage bay and back.”
“But you want them stripped now?” Wills asked.
“That way we don’t stop long as we’re leaving. I suspect we’ll be weighted down.”
It seemed like the most logical suggestion to Dred, and the other two men didn’t argue, so she figured they agreed. Beneath her watchful eye, Wills went to work with his ubiquitous toolkit. Occasionally, he asked some help from Jael or Einar with a stubborn piece, but soon enough, he had all the usable gear laid in a neat pile.
“Ready?” she asked the three men. When she received a trio of assenting nods, she added, “Then let’s go loot some gear.”
* * *
TAM had been keeping an eye on Lecass for a third of a turn. The maniac preferred things under Artan’s rule, and he had been pushed out of the new regime entirely. Men like him didn’t take kindly to loss of power. He was just surprised the brute hadn’t made a move yet. But maybe he was holding his grudge until the moment when it would do the most damage.
Ike followed his gaze. They were sitting at a table, chopping vegetables for Cook, who was in no mood for nonsense. Somebody had stolen some of his supplies—rare, dried spices—that took forever to grow and process, and he was demanding in his silent, furious way that Tam do something about it. He had no time for small matters like this, but things would escalate if he didn’t step in, and Dred, who had been gone for a long time, wouldn’t thank him if she returned to a bloodbath.
Muffling a sigh, he turned to Ike. “What do you think, prank or serious theft?”
“Not sure. Lecass looks awfully amused.”
“You think he’s behind this? It doesn’t seem like his style.”
“He could be just enjoying the chaos,” Ike suggested.
A new fish made the mistake of asking Cook what was for dinner, and the man replied by throwing a knife at his head. The man ducked just in time; the blade clanged against the metal wall all the way across the hall. Then Cook stalked over to fetch his weapon and resumed preparation of the next meal. Shoulders down, the fish slunk away, but it had become clear to Tam that he had to find those spices before somebody died over them.
“Property check,” he shouted. “Somebody’s got sticky fingers.”
Tam sent guards to round up all the personal belongings that had been stored by men currently on patrol elsewhere. The Queenslanders moaned, but nobody protested. Since everybody got enough to eat, there was no excuse for pilfering from Cook. Plus, it was straight-up stupid, pissing off the man who made the food.
With Ike’s help, he rummaged through all the packs and pouches until he found the missing items. Tam was honestly startled to unearth them in Lecass’s bag. From the man’s expression, he was, too. Lecass was an ass**le with a lot of enemies, people he’d wronged under Artan’s rule. The punishment for theft wasn’t death; Dred couldn’t afford to lose men over such a light offense. Which meant somebody wanted to see Lecass shamed and flogged.
Tam gave the spices back to Cook, then he turned to Lecass. “You know the punishment.”
“I didn’t take that shit,” the larger man snarled.
“Evidence says otherwise.” Though he disliked the sense that he was being manipulated, Tam couldn’t see a way around the inevitable. Finding the spices in Lecass’s pack was enough to convict him, and the other inmates didn’t like him well enough to allow mercy.
“Touch me, and I break your neck.”
Cook took exception to that. He laid down his spoon and took up his two biggest knives, then he joined Tam quietly. Cook was a tall man, burly, without Einar’s muscle mass, and Tam could remember every word he’d ever spoken in Tam’s hearing.
So when he said, “Try,” to Lecass, that made seven.
Being a spymaster hadn’t equipped him for direct confrontation or keeping order. Tam would’ve been lying if he hadn’t been grateful when Calypso appeared on his other side. The mistress of the ring didn’t usually involve herself with mundane matters, but there was no doubt she was dangerous. None of Lecass’s usual supporters came forward; they knew better than to intervene in an earned punishment. If they did, they’d earn a taste of the same, and while whippings weren’t usually fatal, there was always a chance of infection setting in.
“The spices were among your things. That means you pay,” Calypso said.
Other Queenslanders gathered around, eager for some drama. Tam would’ve thought that imminent invasion by Priest and Grigor, along with a terrifying alliance with Silence, should be enough to tide them over for a while, but apparently these men never grew glutted on bloodshed. He steeled himself to do what was required.
“You have a choice. I administer the lashes now . . . or we can confine you, so that the Dread Queen can punish you properly upon her return. What do you prefer?”
Hatred burned like dying stars in Lecass’s eyes. “Get it over with, bitch queen’s mongrel.”
Cook and Calypso lashed Lecass to the metal frame where they had recently tortured a prisoner. To his credit, the man didn’t struggle, though his limbs were rigid with fury. Tam said to Cook, “As the offended party, you decide how much he pays. How many strokes?”