“It’s not right. Doing to her what I’m running from myself.”
“She’ll have a chance at life. As it stands, Ripka will die. She’s not valuable enough for them to save her life, you know that.”
He stood and paced. Back and forth, back and forth, cutting a trough through the floor with the force of the anger in his steps. Tibs was right, he knew it. He knew he had to find this woman, to trade her life for another. Had to take the scant sel he’d found covering the alleyway and send up a flare, something to get her attention. To lure her near so he could talk her into a trap and hand her over, tied with a bow, to the very people he was running from. If that was even enough to get her attention in the first place, there was no guarantee she’d come running when he signaled.
He growled and kicked the side of the bed that the letters said Pelkaia’s son had made her. Kicked it so hard his teeth rattled, but all it gave him back was a hollow thump.
He froze, staring at it. “Oh.”
Detan dropped to his knees and yanked aside the smooth blankets, the thick quilt. He shoved his hands under the small space between the bed and the floor, recalling his sel-sense, remembering the faint tinge of it when he’d first entered the apartment. When he hadn’t found any, he’d assumed it was just the phantom of the sel wall clinging to him. He could be a real idiot sometimes.
His fingers found the iron ties on the feet of the bed, anchoring it straight into the ground, and he almost laughed at the simplicity of it all. Fumbling, searching, following his sense, he ran his hands up and grasped the smooth vellum bladder of a sel sack, bulging and full. Enough for her to spend all the time she desired practicing her art. An idea came to him; another option.
“I’ve found her stash, Tibs!”
“Marvelous,” he droned.
“Might be we don’t need her at all.”
“Hold on now…”
He got the cap off and focused all his strength on drawing out a small blob. It was bigger than he would have liked, but it would do. He closed it back up and nearly skipped to the vanity chair. He brushed the folder of letters and drawings aside, and shifted his little blob until it rested on the vanity’s top. It fought back, trying to rise up and float as it was meant to, but Detan was strong enough to hold the little ball in place. He was strong enough, all right.
The trouble was making sure he didn’t get too strong all of a sudden.
“I don’t think this is wise…”
“Shut up, Tibs, I need to concentrate. Go on ahead and talk to our New Chum eh? Dawn is coming and this is going to take me a while to get right. Best be sure the flier’s ready to go when I get to the Fireline.”
“We can still find the doppel. If we surmise that she has yet to leave the city, then–”
“No. This way… This way no one has to die.”
“You sure about that?”
“Just go.”
Tibs grunted his disapproval, but he knew as well as Detan did that their chances of finding the doppel before the sun rose were damn near impossible. He had a shot with this. He could do it. He just had to practice. And concentrate. And not get too angry.
He thought of Pelkaia, nursing her pain over all those years. Growing stronger. Better. Refining her raw talent into something that would serve her. Detan didn’t have years. But he had a whole lot of anger. He was not, however, angry enough to be a complete idiot.
“Wait!” Detan blurted as he heard the door creak open. Tibs paused, his steps going silent. “Use the replacement cabin you fashioned for the Larkspur. Wreck it in the middle of the Black, and stash some water in there for me, will you?”
Tibs chuckled, but the sound was raw. “As you say, sirra.”
The door clicked shut.
Detan exhaled, counted to ten, then slivered off a bit of the sel and floated it up to his cheek.
Chapter 32
Thratia had retrieved Ripka’s blues and forced her to wear them. It shamed her to know that she would stand before the people of Aransa in judgment while wearing the uniform she’d donned to protect them, but the warden had insisted. And though she’d rather rip the coat off and smother Thratia with it, she wasn’t exactly positioned to protest.
“I am sorry about this, you know.” Thratia sat on the mudbrick bench beside her and leaned her head against the wall, giving them the illusion of intimacy. All around her Thratia’s militiamen skulked, hands ready on weapons. Ripka made a point of not looking in the Valathean dignitary’s direction. She kept her eyes straight ahead, her gaze indistinct. She would give them no sign of her anger. Of her fear.
The guardhouse was still night-chilled, and they’d lit only the bare minimum of lamps to stave off the desert heat a little longer. Ripka was grateful for that. She was going to have plenty of time to get acquainted with the sun, no sense in rushing it.
“If you were truly sorry you’d let me go.”
“Can’t do it. I know you think I’m after the power, captain, but the truth is I want the best for this city. The only way it’s going to survive what’s coming is with a strong hand at the tiller. Something Galtro just couldn’t provide.”
“So you got rid of him, then? I’m going to die anyway, you might as well relieve the burden with a confession before I go.” She clamped her jaw shut, regretting the ragged anger of her tone.
“Galtro was dead the moment he took that job. It was just a matter of time.” She shrugged one shoulder, infuriatingly indifferent to the destruction she’d wrought.
“His wardenship candidacy?”
“No, no. Being the mine master. You haven’t been here long enough to see it, captain. I know you come from a town with no sel mines. The truth of it is, souls just don’t last that job. Suicide, or a vengeance killing, one or the other always catches up eventually.”
Ripka clenched damp palms, taking a breath to smooth the raw edge creeping into her voice. “He was good at his job, he made sure the miners were as safe as they could be. Only had one accident during his whole tenure.”
“One’s enough. Regardless, there are other duties that come with that job.”
“Like what?”
Thratia tipped her chin in the direction of the whitecoat. Callia had her back to them, long and straight, impervious to the dust and grit all around her. Ripka got chills just looking at her. She pitched her voice low.
“What will you do with Aransa, Thratia?”
The once-commodore pursed her lips and leaned forward, letting her forearms rest against her knees. She stayed quiet longer than was comfortable, Ripka’s stomach knotting over and over again. When Thratia spoke, her voice was markedly gentle.
“You won’t be around to see it, lass. And that’s a blessing.”
Thratia pushed to her feet and dusted her hands, wiping away Ripka with each stroke. “Best prepare your conscience, yeah? Sun’s coming up.”
Gathering a breath of courage, Ripka said, “I’ve a favor to ask of you, warden.”
Thratia paused, cocked her head to the side to watch Ripka from one eye. “Ask it.”
She clenched her jaw, knowing what that meant. Knowing no promises would be made, no favors kept if they didn’t thread their way conveniently through Thratia’s plans. Ripka straightened her shoulders and met Thratia’s stare. “Whatever happens, do not instigate a purge.”
Genuine surprise widened Thratia’s eyes, pursed her lips. Ripka held her breath as the ex-commodore cast a sideways glance at Callia. The whitecoat wasn’t paying them any attention. Thratia turned, leaned down to bring her face closer to Ripka’s and whispered, her voice harsh and her breath hot with anger. “Understand this – I will not allow such a thing to happen. Never.”
Ripka leaned her back against the cool wall and watched Thratia stroll to Callia’s side, her heart thundering in her ears with every step. Of course. Thratia’d never wanted a purge for Aransa; but the doppel sure had needed a stick of fear to jab Ripka with. Sick laughter threatened to break through Ripka’s lips, but she swall
owed it down.
Watching from beneath her lashes, Ripka studied Callia, or tried to, her attention kept drifting to her once-sergeant. Banch stood beside the whitecoat at parade rest, wringing his hands behind his back because he thought no one would notice them. He kept trying to catch Ripka’s eye, to give her some sort of signal that he was sorry. That he’d never wanted any of this to happen. That he’d had no idea he’d be the new watch captain.
Poor sod didn’t even know Ripka had recommended him.
Taellen lingered nearby, back straight enough to match the whitecoat’s, a barely controlled tremble of fear in the tightness of his jaw. Though he stood at attention, his eyes were downcast, his mouth curved into a soft frown. Ripka couldn’t work out why Thratia had decided to drag the rookie out here for this, and decided she didn’t care. Whatever the reason, there was nothing she could do about it now.
She closed her eyes and sighed. Banch was a good man. He wouldn’t be fool enough to let his emotions be played by a common murderer. He’d take care of the city when she was gone.
Gone. She had to stop thinking like that. Detan was shifty as the night, but he had a core of goodness in him. He wouldn’t let her down if he could help it.
As the sun crept skyward, spilling warmth and light through the cracks in the brick, she couldn’t help but think of all the things she might have done differently in her life. All the paths that wouldn’t have led her to this bench.
Digging deep, she summoned up the face of her mother. Her father. How long had it been? She’d lost count, and time apart had smoothed the details of her recollection. One piece was still clear, her father’s voice, raspy with dry amusement, spine like iron, brain like a boulder, that’s my girl.
“Time to go, captain.”
Ripka stood. Straightened her blues. She did not let them help her up the ladder.
Chapter 33
On the Scorched, the heat rose before the sun did. Detan felt the first probing rays of it before the light crested the flat and ruddy horizon, bringing prickling sweat and parched lips. He shifted the too-wide shoulders of his stolen shirt and dreamed of water.
He wouldn’t dare drink. The veneer was too thin, and his struggle to keep it all in place was doing more to make him sweat than the sun ever could. Just ahead rose the guardhouse roof from which the guilty of Aransa were given their choice with the rising of the sun: face the axe, or walk the Black Wash and let the desert decide the depth of your sin. Ripka wouldn’t take the axe, he was sure of that. She would take her chances with the wilderness that had forged her.
If she didn’t, Detan was going to be mighty upset.
Light snapped free of the horizon at last, chasing down the heat. The mud and stone buildings of Aransa grew warm and vibrant in the rays, no longer grey and dingy under the shadow of night. There was movement amongst the people gathered, anxious and tense. Sour sweat tinged the air, a bitter mingling of excitement and heat and fear.
Dark figures emerged upon the roof, familiar to him even in silhouette. Thratia, slender and full of swagger. Ripka, stiff-backed and stern. Thratia’s militiamen came behind, and the round-shouldered form of Ripka’s sergeant. Another watcher hovered beside the sergeant, his movements furtive and uncertain, but the cut of his coat gave away his profession. And another Detan didn’t recognize.
Squinting, he watched the unfamiliar figure. The doppel? No, she wouldn’t dare come this close. Thratia was bound to have a sensitive amongst her guards, and she would have them on high alert this morning. The unknown figure was tall, rectangular beneath the hem of a long coat. He swallowed, and decided to move before his fear anchored him.
Whatever was being said up there, he couldn’t hear it. His focus on holding his sel mask was so intense he didn’t dare think on anything else. He sidled up to the crowd and weaved his way through while keeping his head down, his face hidden.
Elbows bumped him, fingers reached for his pockets. Sweat threatened to mar his mask, to set his tenuous control trembling. Someone grabbed his wrist, jerked him to the side. Detan staggered, jostling those pressed up against him, and glanced back to see a stone-grey sleeve attached to a rather scarred face.
“Just what in the shit are you doing–” Foamy flecks burst from the militiaman’s lips, his voice a growl above the complainant murmur of the crowd. Detan jerked his arm, yanking his wrist free. His hastily wrapped, rubbed-raw hand scraped in the grip of the militiaman’s. Needles of pain threatened to overwhelm his control but he bolted forward, spurred on by fear, shoving people aside in his need to reach the roof before Ripka could make her decision. Before that stone-sleeved arm could detain him and ruin the whole thing.
Luckily, no one kept an eye on the guardhouse door, but he supposed that was only natural. Only an idiot would charge up there uninvited when a death sentence was being handed down.
He burst through the door and scrambled across the small room, sucking down air that stank of all that was left unclean in the cells, and found the ladder to the roof. No time to think. No time to let himself back down. He grabbed the rungs and hauled himself up into the full light of the sun.
“Hold him.” Thratia’s voice was cool as the desert night, but he sensed a tinge of high-strung unease in it. Rough hands, familiar to him now, dragged him off the last bit of the ladder and his head rushed and buzzed as he split his attention between holding the sel mask and watching the people on the roof.
“Well, well.” Thratia prodded his face with one finger, and he damn near laughed as her mouth opened and her pupils widened enough to make her whole eyes black.
It was just a thin layer. He didn’t have the requisite skills to change its structure, to shift the color. But he could make it thin enough to make it clear, and even clear sel rippled when touched. One little ripple was all he needed to sell the thing. A murmur passed through the crowd, and Detan had to fight down an urge to try and listen to what they were saying. The words didn’t matter. They’d seen the sel on his face. He could wager a good guess what the whispers were about.
Her dark eyes narrowed with resumed control. “What are you up to, Honding?”
He rasped a laugh. “I’m honored you think my technique is the truth, but we both know the Honding lad doesn’t have enough sel-sense to illusion up a turnip, let alone a face.”
“Then why don’t you show us your real face, doppel?” Thratia’s voice was smooth, bemused. The expression she showed him now was not one belonging to a woman who had just captured the thief of her finest possession. It didn’t matter. He just needed the crowd to believe it.
“You don’t deserve it,” he spat.
Her lips twitched and she stepped back, arms crossed over her ribs. “All right then, creature. Where’s my ship?”
She’d made her voice loud, loud enough to be heard by the people gathered nearest the guardhouse, so Detan did the same. “I destroyed your ship. Smashed it against the sand, every little bit of it, over and over again.”
Another ripple passed through those gathered, but it was nothing compared to the bright spark of rage on Thratia’s face. Apparently she was more than willing to believe he’d done her ship harm, even if she couldn’t swallow him as the doppel.
He’d never seen such anger before. Her whole body went rigid, every last muscle winding up in preparation for a strike that wasn’t coming. She may have been a cruel woman, but she had mastered her temper long ago.
“You broke. My ship.” There was nothing bemused about her voice now.
“Don’t believe me? Take a look.”
He gestured to the Black Wash, and prayed Tibs had made it look good. Thratia snatched a sighting glass from Callia’s outstretched hand and snapped the little brass tube open. She brought it up to her eye and scanned the darkened sands. Even Detan could see it with his naked eye, a little heap of brown wood in the middle of the obsidian sand.
“Why?” Her voice was tight, irritated, but not yet convinced. The false cabin hadn’t supplied nearly enough materi
al to make it look like a whole ship had been destroyed out there.
“This city, your city, murdered my son.” The words sounded false to his ears, hackneyed and bitter. Whatever Pelkaia would have said in truth, he couldn’t imagine. A real mother’s grief was far beyond his basic mummer’s skills. But he’d pushed out the words with all the venom he could muster, lifted his head high with defiance. It’d have to do.
Another wave through the crowd, this time stronger. Thratia rolled her eyes, all the hot anger evaporating from her posture. Detan clenched his jaw, waiting for Thratia to act. To call him out. To expose his tone for lacking a real mother’s grief. Instead she stepped forward, laced her fingers under his chin and tipped it to the side so that she could whisper flat against his ear.
“Careful now. I’ve been having a little chat with my friend, the Lady Callia. You see her there?” She turned his head for him, just enough to see the willow-thin figure of a woman dressed in pale blue silks, a slim-cut white coat on despite the heat. Everything about her posture radiated boredom, but she was looking at him with eyes so intense it made him want to squirm.
Fear shot straight through him, tingling his toes and chilling his guts so fast he nearly lost his hold on the sel. He grabbed it again, straining his senses with a grunt, and nearly overdid it. The corners of Thratia’s eyes crinkled, recognition of his struggle, and she kept on whispering. “She let me know a little secret, understand? Let me know that that conning fop Detan Honding is a very wanted man indeed.”
He swallowed dry air. “So what? The people gathered here see a doppel squaring off with their new warden. Officially the punishment for doppels is death.” He raised his voice, clear and high so they could all hear it. “I choose to walk the Black.”
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