Just the way the Least would want her.
Ayaan slapped her cheeks to try to get her blood moving again and hurried aft. There was still a chance, a chance to do some good. Without the girl on the flying bridge they couldn't release the underside compartment hatches, they couldn't flush the Tsarevich's army of undead. They could still... the fire...
Ayaan had never known the girl's name. That had been intentional'in case any of them were caught they couldn't give each other away. It just seemed horrible now. She had gotten the girl tortured to death, might as well have fed her to that brute herself and for what? For... Ayaan stopped herself. The liches were still all up in the superstructure, in the mess she had just left but the Tsarevich and Amanita were in the tower. If the liches knew about the girl they certainly knew about the Siberian and the plan to torch the tower. They could catch her at any moment, they could kill her from a distance. If she acted quickly enough, however, if she didn't stop to think, maybe she could still sell her life dearly. It was all she wanted. At least it would be enough.
He was there'the Siberian'standing outside the tower as she drew near. Just standing there, waiting for her to come and tell him what to do. She rushed up waving her hands and yelling at him, not caring who might hear, screaming at him to start the fire but he just stood there, looking at her, his face strangely empty of emotion.
She got close enough to touch him but she didn't. She knew something was wrong. He opened his mouth to speak and then he started coughing, spasmodically, horribly, gagging and choking and spitting. Dark clouds of spores erupted from his mouth, stained Ayaan's clothing where they flecked across her. The sea breeze tore the rest of them out and away to float over the ocean. The Siberian's skin darkened, started to turn blue. Not from anoxia, though he was clearly suffocating. It was a creeping kind of mold, like Penicillin growing on bread, that changed his color. It swarmed up and over him, dry smut dripping from his tear glands, furry mold sprouting from his ears, from his nose. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Cicatrix walked out of the deck-level entrance to the tower. She had the doctor, the hand surgeon from the stern, on an actual leash, a dog collar around his neck.
'Tell her what you do to her,' Cicatrix demanded, and forced the man to his knees.
He stammered and sobbed and tried to look up at Ayaan but he couldn't, he didn't have the strength.
'Tell her!' Cicatrix screamed, and kicked the man in his ribs.
'Stop. I know what he did,' Ayaan told her. Clearly he had divulged her secrets. Given away her grand plot. She couldn't blame him, either. He had a badly-sutured wound on the end of his right arm where one of his hands used to be. He probably begged them to leave the left one intact, would have done anything for that. Ayaan wondered if he had told them how many bones were in his hand, how many muscles.
A wave of revulsion for the broken man swam up her innards, blossomed in her throat. He should have died, he should have thrown himself over the side of the boat before confessing. It was what she would have demanded of herself. She tried to tell herself that the threat of death would make this man do anything'anything to survive. It was hardly a unique perspective. It wasn't hers, though. Ayaan had grown up listening to stories of glorious martyrs, of those who traded their lives on Earth for the greater good amd the Paradise that awaited. She had seen so many things, learned so much, but she didn't suppose she would ever have real sympathy for such a coward.
Her mouth filled. She spat on him.
'You've caught me,' she told Cicatrix. 'I won't apologize. As one living woman to another all I ask for is a clean death.'