“You recall I was a steward at the Salt Baths in Aransa, of course. But that was not my only experience with such work. I come from a family of particular valets.”
“Valets?” She leaned closer as his voice lowered to keep those nearby from overhearing.
“Yes. Personal stewards, of a sort. My family’s specialty was... clandestine. We were valets for the Glasseater bosses. First in Valathea, then the Scorched when they expanded. We did odd jobs for them. Private work, you understand. I received my name when I was assigned a post at a boss’s tavern. I tended bar – and kept an eye out for a certain amount of misbehavior from his compatriots.”
“I see. And so they called you Tender, for your work.”
“And for how I left those I found misbehaving.”
Ripka felt her world shift. Patient, kind, affable Enard had been a crime boss’s right-hand. A knee buster. An assassin, quite probably, if it came to it. Certainly not the gentle, well-mannered young man Detan thought he’d picked up looking for an adventure in the Baths. This was a man with a reputation. A reputation dark enough to frighten that big bruiser. She paused until the knot in her throat smoothed away and she could speak without a hitch in her voice.
“Not a job someone leaves lightly.”
He stared at his hands, folded with care on the rough tabletop. The muscles of his jaw jumped. He swallowed before he spoke.
“No. It isn’t. My reasons are personal, though I think you would agree with them. There was a certain woman who I felt was undeserving of my work.”
“And so you left.”
“And so I fled.”
“Ah.” She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples to keep from grinding her teeth. If they were looking for him still, and she had no reason to doubt that they were, then being recognized here was dangerous for them both. His reputation settled between them, heavy and cold.
“Did the others know? Detan and Tibal, have you told them?”
“They knew I left the Glasseaters, nothing more. They asked no further questions.”
“Of course they didn’t. Denial is Detan’s greatest talent.”
She closed her eyes, imagining wringing Detan’s neck for the position his willful ignorance had put her in. Enard could out her if he chose, reveal her as Aransa’s ex-watch-captain to all these bitter souls. Might have to do it as a bargaining chip to save his own ass from the wrath he brought chasing him. Isolation ensconced her once more. She blew out the breath she was holding, and looked at him long and hard.
“What will you do?” she asked.
“I’m here to get Nouli out. To get him to Hond Steading where he can do some good. That’s all.”
“Right,” she said, “as am I.” She had no choice but to believe him, and no desire to do otherwise. Whatever he’d been, he was her friend now. If she couldn’t rely on him, she might as well throw herself to the sharks and be done with it all.
“Is that all?”
She stiffened, not liking his sudden change of topic. It was a tactic she’d used herself many times in interrogation rooms. “What do you mean?”
He picked up his spoon and pushed gruel across the plate once more. “Seems a lot of trouble to go to, to help out one city that you’ve never even stepped foot in. I grant you, protecting Hond Steading from Commodore Ganal is a noble goal, but I had wondered… If you might have another motive. Some unfinished business here, from your time as a watcher.”
Ripka twisted her spoon between her fingers. There was no sense in lying to him. If she did so now, she might break the fragile trust they’d re-established. He knew that, of course. It was why he’d chosen now to ask his question, when he’d had ample time before they’d ever arrived in the Remnant. “I won’t lose another city to Thratia Ganal.”
“Ah. It’s atonement for you, then.”
“It’s the right thing to do,” she snapped and pointed the spoon at him. A bit of gruel dripped off the end.
“Forgive me. It’s just that, it had occurred to me, that you could easily serve Hond Steading’s bid for freedom by enlisting yourself in their watch. Bringing your expertise to their planning.”
She pulled the spoon back and slumped over her meal, poking at it. “Forgive me, if I’ve lost a great deal of faith in the systems of the watch. Now. Will you help me find Nouli? Are we committed to this plan together?”
A sly grin overrode the consternation that’d been building on his features, and he glanced pointedly at the prison walls. “I think we had better be.”
She choked on a laugh. “In that case...” She told him about the strangeness she’d seen around the compound, the way Misol had stepped out of the empty sky alongside the tree. He listened, nodding slowly, polishing off the last of his food as she spoke.
“We’ll have to get a closer look at that building,” he said. “I accepted the work detail I thought would be most appealing to Nouli, maintaining the water systems. The infrastructure is shockingly well cared for. I suspect he must have had a hand in its maintenance, and yet I haven’t seen a sign of him. When I asked the other lads if they’d heard of a man too smart for his own good being brought in, a man with a mind for machines who didn’t look like he belonged here, they all get tight-lipped. Like it’s a ghost we’re talking about and if anyone says his name he’ll come screaming out of the dark.”
“So they know something.”
“But they’re not telling me. And it may be a good while yet before I have their trust enough to get them to talk. Men like these, they don’t play loose with information. Even if it’s just what color the sky was that morning, they’ll clam up and tell you they don’t know – ain’t never seen no sky, nor no colors.” He finished with a drawling flourish, and she had to stuff bread in her mouth to stifle her chuckle.
Despite Clink’s objection to the grains, Ripka found she had no trouble at all devouring the bread. Whole loaves like this were a rarity in the inland cities of the Scorched. And, she felt a little more personal about it now. Like she’d earned it.
“We don’t have time for them to loosen up. Detan and Tibs said they’d come for us before the monsoon season starts up, after that no one sails for the Remnant for months.”
“So we’d better work quick.”
Ripka watched him trace his finger over the plate’s edge in thought, round and round. A kernel of an idea solidified. “You still got your waterworks patch?”
He turned so she could see the pipe and wrench motif whip-stitched to his sleeve. “I suspected that, although my initial inquiries were fruitless, it would be a good idea to keep it up for a while. I can’t imagine Nouli taking an interest in any of the other work details.”
“Farming could use an efficient touch,” she muttered, then snatched up his plate.
“Pardon, captain, but what are you doing?”
She reached across the table and gathered up a few half-chewed crusts left by other inmates, a couple of soggy fruit cores, and any other food detritus she could get her hands on, piling them on both of their plates.
“Help me get these loaded,” she said. “I have an idea.”
For the first time since their arrival, she saw Enard grin.
“Happy to be of service, captain.”
I’m sure you are, she thought, then pushed the bitterness aside. They had work yet to do. Together.
Chapter Eleven
A donkey stood braying on the deck of the Larkspur, and if it shat itself before they’d gotten it off the ship Pelkaia was going to toss whoever caused the delay over the rail. Even if it was Coss. Maybe especially if it was Coss.
“I don’t see why it has to be just the two of us,” he said.
“Because eventually it will be the four of us, and that’s a large enough party to raise a few eyebrows.”
She tugged a waxed tarp taut across the empty bed of the two-wheeled cart hitched to the donkey. On the other side of the cart, Laella fussed with one of the thin ropes meant to hold that side of the tarp in place. Pelkaia bit
her tongue as Laella’s delicate fingers fumbled through the simple loops of a slip knot. The only way that pampered young woman would learn any practical skills at all was by figuring them out for herself.
“The weapons will be heavy,” Coss insisted.
“That’s what the donkey’s for.”
“Essi could obscure our escape.”
“And risk revealing us all as deviants.”
“Oi.” Essi stomped her small bare foot and waved a hand in the air. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. And, cap’n, I just got back from saving Honding and Tibs’s butts. Used my power, and no one noticed. Well, I’m sure they did, but who cares? I could help.”
“You’re not coming with us.”
“But I just–”
“And you shouldn’t have. Stars above.” Pelkaia tipped her head back to glare at the clouds building in the sky. “Am I not the captain of this ship? Aren’t my orders law on these decks?”
“Well, sure, but we’ll be leaving the deck. And I’m real good with donkeys.”
“I’m better with ’em,” Jeffin said. “My parents had a whole mess of ’em when I was growing up. Let me lead the cart, I practically speak donkey.”
Essi smirked. “Explains your ears.”
Embarrassment rashed Jeffin’s cheeks and his shoulders hunched forward. Laella stifled a chuckle behind an upraised palm, fudging her knots in the process. Jeffin erupted in spluttering insults, setting off a chain reaction of chatter from Essi and Laella.
Pelkaia slammed her fists against the cart’s rail, frightening everyone into silence. The donkey brayed.
“That’s enough. I didn’t pull you all out of death’s reach so you could bicker like children on my ship, understand? I command the Mirror, and that means its crew too. Unless any of you would like to disembark and make a fresh start in Petrastad?”
Silence met her hard glare. Essi fidgeted with the ragged ends of her sleeves while Jeffin and Laella stared at the deck boards, shame-faced. Without a word, Coss handed her one of the two crossbows still in working order. She jammed it under the tarp. Laella scrambled to finish her knots while Pelkaia slung the donkey’s leads down from around its harness, giving the poor creature a stiff jerk. It snorted, but followed her to the gangplank all the same. At least the donkey was obedient.
Laella scurried a few steps after them. “I’ll relieve Jeffin on the mirrors while you’re gone.”
Pelkaia eyed the half-flopping knot Laella had tied on the tarp, and shook her head. “No. Don’t care how good you are with sel, girl, you’re still too Valathean. Jeffin will keep the mirrors up.”
Laella’s mouth dropped open. “But earlier Jeffin said you said–”
“I. Said. No.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, but she held her palms up toward the sky and bowed over them stiffly, the most formal of Valathean agreements, then turned tight on her heel and strode back toward the cabins. Pelkaia sighed. She never should have picked up a daughter of wealth and privilege. Laella was far too soft for the work they needed to do.
“Jeffin,” she said, and he snapped a salute so quick he nearly took off an eyebrow. “I know it’s been a long day, and you’re tired, but hold those mirrors out a little longer. And if Detan Honding comes anywhere near my ship while I’m gone, you’ve my permission to hang him from the mast by his balls.”
“Yes, captain.”
“And you.” She pointed a finger at Essi, who stood stalk straight at the attention. “You keep both those feet on this ship, understand?”
“Yes, captain.”
She puffed out her cheeks and nodded. “Good. Keep your heads down, all of you. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
She gave the donkey’s reins another tug and the animal ambled down the gangplank onto the roof. The patient beast cared not a whit for the yawning open space on either side of the plank, and Pelkaia found herself admiring the animal’s calm. Or maybe it was just too stupid to know the danger. Something the beast more than likely had in common with most of her crew.
After they’d lead the animal down a series of switch-backing ramps and into the city streets, Coss swung up into the driver’s seat and Pelkaia settled into the back of the cart, her crossbow close to hand. Coss snapped the reins, urging the donkey onward, his shoulders hunched up as he studiously surveyed the streets. He hadn’t said a word to her since they’d stepped off the ship.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Coulda used their help,” he said.
“They’d get in the way. You know that.”
“Would they?” He snorted as he guided the donkey down a side street. “You’re itching to turn them into an army, Pelkaia, but you won’t let them take any real risks. I know Essi’s young, but she’s clever, and that Laella is champing to prove how useful she can be. Every last soul we picked up – even the weakest of them – has spent most of their lives hiding their power just to stay alive. They’re not going to forget all of those skills just because they’ve found some safety.”
“They’re all too soft to handle off-ship missions. Once we get them some training with these weapons–”
“Soft? We found Essi picking pockets in Tanasa and Jeffin running dice scams in Kalisan. These aren’t calm cities, and those aren’t pleasant professions. They may not have spilt a warden’s blood like you, but they’ve got teeth. You just have to let them get used to the idea. Let them pull a few jobs, maybe rescue a few deviants on their own instead of you and me always swooping in on point.”
“Essi and Jeffin are close, sure, but Laella? Or old Ulder? Sharpest thing Laella ever held was a sewing needle, and Ulder’s half-blind.”
“Yet he’s the best at running the sails up. And Laella’s the strongest sensitive we’ve got, though you seem in denial about it. Jeffin may have come along first, but that’s a matter of chance, and you’re running him to dust trying to keep her from contributing. You should have given her mirror duty tonight.”
“They’re not ready. None of them are.”
“And what, exactly, does ready mean to you? A week ago you were running on about how they were ready to start weapons training. Now they can’t even tag along on a simple grab-and-dash.”
“That was before Honding entered the mix. I played him once, Coss. But it was a near thing. I’m not sure I can do it again. I don’t even know what he really wants from us.”
Coss sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know why that man’s got you so spooked.”
“You haven’t seen him work, you don’t know what he’s capable of.”
He flicked the reins and the cart shuddered as it turned down a narrow street. “I’m about to find out.”
Chapter Twelve
“This is a terrible idea.” Tibs slouched, hiding his whole body in the shadow of his hat.
“So you’ve expressed. But it seems we are committed for the time being, and as such must make the best of it.”
“I believe the best of it, in this instance, would be to run away and never look back.”
Detan scoffed, but couldn’t shake a suspicion that Tibs was right. They crouched in the shadow of an awning, pretending to be just another couple of drunks out in the cold night of Petrastad, chatting off their buzz or working out where to get another.
Petrastad’s nightlife pulsed around them – subdued, but not insubstantial. Unlike the inland cities of the Scorched, Petrastad didn’t have to wait until the harsh sun had set to get its vices out of its system, and as such the nightlife was quieter than most cities of the scrubland. Which was too bad, because Detan suspected that he and Tibs could use the extra cover of a rowdy crowd.
From within the unsettlingly tall building Detan rested his back against, soft music burbled forth. Some sort of rhythmic drum-and-pipe affair, and by the sounds of the hoots and whistles accompanying it there was at least one under-clothed person involved.
Truth be told, he’d much rather join them – even if it meant he’d be the one stripping
to his smallclothes – than undertake this foolish plan. But these were Pelkaia’s terms for loaning him the use of the Larkspur to collect Ripka and New Chum and, with the monsoon season fast approaching, he couldn’t allow them to wait much longer. Ripka would no doubt hang Detan by his tonsils if he left her rotting in the Remnant any longer than required.
He tried to put Ripka out of his mind, though he imagined he could feel her narrow, almond eyes boring holes into the back of his neck. New Chum, at least, would have the decency to ask him which body part he wanted to be hung from.
Down the street a little ways the road widened, emptying out into a bulb-shaped courtyard. In the center a tiered fountain tooted dual jets of water, a gross display of Petrastad’s overabundance in that particular resource. A planter ringed the fountain, thick with flowers rare to the Scorched. The whole courtyard was dotted with trees and benches meant to shade weary citizens.
Detan eyed those trees, suspicious. Birds probably roosted in them, ready to shit on any unsuspecting shade-partaker. Not to mention the bugs. A tree like that could host an army of the crawling bastards. He’d much rather take his rest under the shade of a nice, wide awning. Or the shelter of a lovely woman’s shared parasol.
At the blunt end of the courtyard, a building hunkered. Its front portico was low and single-stepped, lined with fluted columns of grey stone that looked distinctly out of place amongst the muted browns and reds the Scorched usually had to offer. The sigil of the Imperial Fleet was carved in thick grooves above the building’s wide, double doors, the grooves themselves stained with black ink. The whole affair very nearly screamed municipal.
A single guard lounged outside the door. He leaned against the wall and smoked a rolled cigarillo, his shoulders hunched against the sea breeze. Detan could sympathize. The man’s job wasn’t an exciting one. The building he watched over was a Fleet administration office – containing records, maps, payment boxes for Fleeties too far afield to be given their pay directly.
Break the Chains Page 8
