When we next breached, I swiped a finger through the snow again to point Meela in the direction of our current. Once more, I managed to keep the action subtle enough that no one noticed.
After travelling another quarter-tide that felt like a year, my captors began arguing about whether to detour to find food or keep taking this current. I silently hoped for the detour. My stomach was painfully empty.
“We need to veer further east, anyway.”
“No, we don’t.”
“We do. The acoustic channel is east.”
“That one goes to the luna bin, you cod.”
“I thought that’s where the king was headed.”
“No, he’s headed towards their queen. She’s in high security. West.”
I looked up at the wordqueen, hoping someone would elaborate.
No one did, so I said, “Is that where I’m going? High security?”
“No, darling,” said Thetis. “You’re inked for execution.”
Somehow, the threat incited no reaction in me. Maybe because I’d suspected as much for a while.
“So what did those prisoners do to avoid being executed?” I said.
“They have valuable information to give His Majesty. You, on the other hand, are no more than a glorified anarchy warrior.”
Yes, a queen would have key information to give. It sickened me to think what Adaro might be doing to extract such information.
“So what’s theluna bin? Do you get the word frommoon?”
They exchanged a look that told me I was right. They were talking about the Moonless City.
“Queen Evagore’s alive, then,” I said. “Interesting.”
Thetis tensed. “We didn’t say—”
“Nice work, fishface,” said Nestor.
“Not much she can do with that, anyway, guys,” said Beluga.
Frustratingly, he was right. The rest of them appraised the ropes binding me to them and relaxed.
Evagore was alive. She was somewhere in a high security prison, being pried for information.
I considered what kind of information that might be. Insight into her kingdom? It must have been something vital. Adaro wouldn’t keep opposition alive unless he got something out of it.
“I’m starving,” said Beluga, scanning the ice. “Can we veer closer to land?”
I tried to imagine where they would keep high-security prisoners. It would have to be somewhere remote, off-limits to civilians and humans.
Abandoning pretense, I said, “Where is the high security prison? Can’t be anywhere near Utopia.”
“Like we’re telling you,” said Nestor. “Even if you are about to be executed.”
I considered whether it would be worth sweet-talking the information out of him—but I couldn’t bring myself to charm these idiots.
We made a sudden stop.
