Inherit the Flame

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  “But it could be, that’s the whole point!”

  Ripka caught Honey’s eye and mouthed, “What do you think?”

  “Thunder, no lightning,” Honey murmured.

  Ripka nodded agreement, but kept an ear on the conversation anyway. The young man’s tone was unusually earnest. She’d come across a lot of people with that kind of earnestness in their voice in Aransa. Nine times out of ten, they were just dying to tell her all about whatever strange conspiracy they’d stumbled across that week, and their evidence was always in the dying off of a tree, or the presence of game tracks where they were convinced nothing could have made them. Nonsense, on the balance.

  But something about this man told her that he wasn’t prone to that particular flavor of conspiracy. For one, he was quite a deal cleaner than the usual type, and for two, there really was something afoot in Hond Steading. She thought about approaching him outright, expressing interest in the ideals she’d overheard, but that’d raise suspicion. He must meet with more like-minded individuals sometime. If she managed to cross the lad’s path at just the right moment, then maybe…

  “Republicanism is dead,” a wiry-bearded man at a table near Ripka’s suspicious trio declared. The young man, Dranik, bristled all over.

  “There’s no proof of that,” Dranik said.

  “Fiery pits there isn’t. Look at what happened in Aransa!”

  “That was a success! Commodore Ganal was voted to her post, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Voted,” the older man slurred, making air quotes around the word with both hands as he swayed toward Dranik’s table. He thumped a hand down and made all three cups jump. “That previous warden of theirs – he was voted in, right and proper, then Thratia comes along and gets him killed and scoops the city right into her pocket. Tell me, who was running against her in this fair and enlightened election?”

  “That mine-master–”

  “Also dead! Murdered, his sel-hub burned down around him. You think that’s coincidence, I got something shiny to sell ya.”

  “Knock it off, old man,” the woman said. “It’s all just an intellectual exercise anyway. People like us don’t make these calls.”

  “People like us can!” Dranik jumped to his feet and wagged a finger at the older man. “Ganal was still elected! I’d rather a contested election than a line of succession, wouldn’t you?”

  “Pahh. Nothing wrong with a bloodline at the head. Got a lot of sense to pass down through the generations. Can’t elect experience like that.”

  “Oh, and that’s working out well. Dame Honding’s a grand woman, I’ll grant you, but that nephew of hers is a discredit to the name. Where’s he been? He doesn’t care about this city. Hardly stepped foot in it.”

  “Heard he’s hustling gambling tables in the south,” the woman drawled.

  “I heard he’s murdered someone,” Dranik threw in. “What kind of leader would that be? We need a new system in place, before it’s too late and we end up with the likes of that buffoon.”

  “You want to run elections like the other un-founded cities?” The old man snorted. “Know what they call the leaders of those places? Wardens. Like they run a prison! Hond Steading ain’t no prison. It’s a jewel. The Scorched’s jewel.”

  “That’s only because the wardens operate under the yoke of the empire. If we were to shake off Valathea’s rule, then–”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the old man sneered at Dranik. “You some kind of secessionist?”

  “I’m only saying–”

  The older man grabbed Dranik by the front collar of his shirt and gave him a hearty shake. “Saying what? Saying that bloodthirsty Ganal would be better for us than the Dame and her lineage?”

  “I didn’t mean that,” he squeaked.

  Ripka was on her feet without realizing. Between the sedative effects of the alcohol and the energizing nature of the tea, she felt a weird disconnect in her body – as if she were at once sleepy and alert, sharp but slow. Dimly she was aware of Honey rising alongside her, of the woman and the man at Dranik’s table shouting protests.

  She closed the distance. The old man was weakened by drink and age, so he put up no resistance as she peeled him off a flush-faced Dranik. No physical resistance, anyway. He spun around and loomed over Ripka, yelling into her face so that spittle flecked her cheeks. She grimaced.

  “This is no business of yours, girl!”

  Honey sidled up alongside the old man and pressed something shiny down low against his hipbone. Not too hard. Just enough to be clear of her intentions. Her voice was soft as always, but from the way the old man’s eyes widened he didn’t have trouble hearing.

  “Don’t yell at the captain.”

  Dranik brushed off his clothes and scowled, oblivious to the real reason the old man had gone pale. “This brutish behavior is the inevitable result of just the old-fashioned kind of thinking I was talking about.”

  “Out!” The waitress reappeared, her serving tray wielded like a battering ram. “I said no trouble, understand? I’m sick of your brains and your squabbles. Take it to the street, now, you’re barred for the week.”

  “But–” Dranik protested. The woman with painted fingers whooped a laugh and jumped to her feet. The man in the mustard coat had managed to fade away to another table during the scuffle. Ripka caught his eye, and he winked, then hid his face with his mug and turned away.

  “Knew this would be a good time,” the woman said.

  While they scurried to gather their things, the old man stood stock still, a little bit of sweat on his pale brow.

  “Honey,” Ripka murmured, “that’s enough.”

  She pouted, but slipped whatever implement she’d found into a pocket and slunk away from the old man to take up her usual position in Ripka’s shadow. Tray held before her, the waitress ushered all of them out onto the road and slammed the gate behind. The old man stomped off without another word. The woman gave a whoop and clapped Ripka on the back.

  “Haven’t seen you ‘round before, lady, but that was a fine showing, twisting up old Hammod like that.”

  Ripka flushed. “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  “Sweet of you, but Hammod’s all bluster. I suppose now you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s running home to change his pants.”

  “That’s unkind, Latia,” Dranik said.

  “True, though, innit?” She flashed him a grin, and he rolled his eyes.

  “So sorry to get you involved,” Dranik said, turning to shake Ripka’s hand, “but thank you nonetheless. Hammod may be toothless, but he’s got to learn that that kind of behavior is no way to argue a point.”

  “You really believe all that stuff you were saying?” she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

  Latia snorted. “He believes it well enough, it’s what he’s willing to do about it where it all falls down.”

  “Now, that’s unkind,” Dranik admonished. Latia rolled her eyes, but lapsed into silence. “I am a believer, it’s true. Say, you didn’t get to finish your teas. May I buy you another?”

  “And bend our ears?” Ripka asked. Dranik shoved his hands in his pockets and made a close survey of the ground.

  “Hah,” Latia said, “don’t let him pick the place, he’s got terrible taste. Let’s all go back to my studio. I’ve got the tea, and Dranik hasn’t got the grains to treat you both anyway. Could barely afford his own cup today.”

  “I afforded my cup just fine!”

  “Then why were you nursing it so long?”

  Dranik scuffed a kick against the dirt floor. “Fine. But I’ll replace the tea we drink.”

  “Sure you will. Care to join us?” Latia turned to Ripka and Honey, eyebrows raised expectantly.

  “What about your other friend?” Ripka asked.

  “Oh. Him.” Latia threw her hands in the air dramatically. “He’d only drink the tea to be seen drinking it, if you catch my meaning. So, what about it? Coming along?”

  “W
e’d love to. I’m Ripka, and this is Honey,” she said. Latia gave Honey the once-over and harrumphed.

  “Don’t hear a name like that every day.”

  “It’s for my voice,” Honey said. Ripka held her breath, but they seemed to take this at face value. Despite Honey’s muted rasp, she had an undeniable sweetness to every syllable.

  As they followed the two through the city, listening to them rehash old arguments, Ripka leaned close to Honey and whispered.

  “Did you get a knife?”

  “Found it.” She flashed Ripka a quick glimpse of a worn fruitknife and then slipped it back into her pocket.

  “Where?”

  “The waitress’s apron.”

  Ripka coughed on a laugh and grinned despite herself. “Honey, you little thief.”

  “She wasn’t using it,” Honey protested, a faint pout on her lips.

  “Keep it close,” Ripka said, eyeing Dranik’s back. “And hidden.”

  Chapter Nine

  Aransa. City of fire. City of blood. City of Thratia Ganal. It slid into view upon the horizon just like any other city, the sharp crags of its skyline a black blot under the bowed head of the setting sun.

  Such a city should not appear so docile, so sleepy under the lowing of the day’s light. Detan wanted to hate the sight of it. This was the city that had almost trapped him, almost enslaved him. This was the city where he dug deepest, reached out and rendered the sky in flame.

  This was the city that broke him, though it took a while for the cracks to show.

  And yet he could not hate it. Could not even summon up a mild disgust. Aransa was beautiful, with its dormant mountain cut through with streets and city life facing the relatively blank face of its commerce-supplying firemount. Those black shards of obsidian that stretched between the city and the firemount gleamed even in the setting light, their heat twisting vision into smoky waves. Somewhere beneath those shards a vast chamber of magma dwelt, merging with the desert heat to create a killing field.

  He’d walked that field, once. Walked it with Ripka, for Ripka, and had come out the other side a different man.

  No, he couldn’t hate it. Aransa was the city that’d forged him. He was only gaining temper, now. Honing his edge for what was to come.

  Closer, and the differences began to show. Thratia’s compound had expanded, bled out across the level below. The first time he’d seen it, the size had struck him as ostentatious. Now, with her walls consuming half of a whole level, he realized how wrong he’d been that first time. She’d just been waiting. Waiting to consume the city whole.

  And, in a way, he’d let her. He’d scooped up Ripka, Tibs, Pelkaia, and New Chum and sailed out across the sands, leaving Thratia to do whatever she willed. He hadn’t stayed. Hadn’t even considered the possibility of staying to fight back. He’d been consumed by the need to escape the whitecoat’s scalpel looming over his head. A fate he’d bent knee to, willingly, when the opportunity had suited him. Shame burned in his throat.

  He was coming back, now. Coming back to set things to rights, if he could at all manage the task. That’s why he’d bent knee to Aella, after all. Not just to save his friends, not just to discover the secrets of his own abilities. But to begin to balance the scales he’d left so terribly out of whack.

  Standing beside him on the airship’s forerail, Forge whistled low. “Looks like she’s ready to march.” Her hair obscured her face, but Detan could hear a hint of disdain in her tone.

  If Thratia’d bled her presence all over the upper levels of the city, she’d gone and thrown up on the mid-levels. An entire level once given over to rental docks and mercer berths was swarmed with ships of war. Where Thratia’d found the wood to construct them all on such short notice, he hadn’t the slightest clue, but they existed despite their impossibility. Probably she’d had the source for that wood lined up years in advance. Even before her exile from Valathea, Thratia had been admired amongst her peers in their Fleet for her tendency to obsessively plan all her maneuvers.

  The ships weren’t things of beauty, not like the Larkspur had been. But then, they hadn’t been built to impress – they were built for one purpose; troop transportation, and to rain fire from above. Each hull was long and lean, the cabins sparse and the rails speckled by heavy harpoon stands. Detan tried to count them, but the curve of the city hid the bulk from his view.

  “Not a fan of old Commodore Throatslitter, are you?” he asked Forge.

  Her long fingers, the nails trimmed down to stubs and the cuticles splitting, curled tight around the rail. “I got a certain amount of respect for a woman like that, you understand. No one can say she does anything by half measures, and that’s the skies’ truth, but you can’t trust her. Got no honor for anything save her own goals, and those she keeps tight to the chest. A woman like that, she’d do anything if it meant achieving her goal. Anything at all.”

  “Says the convict,” Detan mused.

  She snorted. “Your hands can’t be clean either, little lord. And anyway, I only did what I had to to make a living. Wasn’t ever quick to kill or anything like that.”

  “And how did you make your living?”

  She turned to regard him, and when he met her eyes, her look said he was the biggest idiot she’d ever met.

  “Oh. Forge. It’s in the name, isn’t it?”

  She laughed. “Now he gets it. Wrote up some false contracts, identity papers, things like that. Nothing too cutting, at least not that I knew of, and I confess I rarely looked into the outcome of my works. I was good. Real good.” She picked at her curling, dry cuticles and flicked a bit of skin over the side of the ship.

  “How’d you get caught?”

  She shrugged. “How’s anybody get caught? Overreached, is what I did. Wrote up a fake manifest for some ship, real bit of bloated nonsense, and the mercer who bought it couldn’t pull it off. He got hauled in, and I didn’t find out about it until he’d already squealed and the watch was knocking on my door. Usually it’s just a jail stint for that kinda work, but Valathea thought they might want my talents someday and kicked me to the R to keep an eye on me. Lucky girl I was, meeting Clink and Honey straight off.”

  “Clink I know, but who’s Honey?”

  Forge shook her head, slow and ponderous. She stuck her gaze on the approaching city and kept on picking at her nails. “Don’t know her real name, or her whole story. Never bothered to ask – got the feeling that she didn’t want to talk about it, you know? Of the group – me, Clink, Honey, and Kisser – Honey was the first of us. She’d been at the Remnant a long while before she hitched herself up to Clink.

  “I asked Clink about it once, how they met and decided to roll along together. She said Honey just came up to her one day, sat down beside her, and that was that. It was Clink’s second day in, and she wasn’t a fool – she could tell everyone in the place was wary of Honey. So she figured it wasn’t such a bad idea to stick with the girl. Then I came along, then Kisser, then the captain – that’s Ripka. Honey liked the captain right off, saw her fight, you know. Honey likes that kinda thing. Escaped with the captain, I think she did, anyway. Never saw her again in the Remnant and we know she wasn’t killed that day. Only Kisser was.”

  “Is Honey a short, sturdy woman with a mess of blonde curls?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Detan nodded. “I saw her that day. As far as I know, she walked out with Ripka.”

  “You know… Part of me’s happy she’s free, the Remnant’s no place to live. But the smart part of me… Well, I wonder if the world wasn’t better off with her tucked away there, you know?”

  “If Ripka’s got her, it’ll be all right.”

  Forge clucked her tongue against her teeth and leaned back to stretch. “Wish I shared your faith, little lord.”

  “You two.” Misol snapped her fingers at them as she approached. “Get away from the rail now, we’re preparing to dock.”

  “Straight to the compound, then?” Detan asked. />
  Misol shrugged. “There’s not exactly room on the eleventh, now is there?”

  They retreated from the fore rail, but Detan lingered nearby, watching the massive structure that was Thratia’s home and stronghold grow closer and closer. The pilot was fidgety with the controls, yawing the ship at random angles as he approached. Detan grit his teeth to keep from yelling at the man for being a moron.

  They angled toward the old u-dock, the very berth where he’d first sighted the Larkspur. The dock upon which Bel Grandon had died, just to make Detan’s life a little harder.

  He swallowed a lump in his throat. It didn’t go anywhere.

  The crew called out to one another, hauling ropes and throwing anchor, as the ship slid into port. Those huge, hugging arms of deck reached out to give the ship shelter, though this ship was considerably smaller than the Larkspur had been. Where once crates of supplies – smuggled weapons and uniforms – had littered the ground, there was only empty space, now.

  Empty, aside from Thratia Ganal and her entourage.

  Ignoring Misol’s warning about being near the fore rail, Detan stepped forward. He didn’t have a lot of pride left, nowadays, but he’d be damned to the pits if he cowered in a cabin while they docked. He wanted to be the first thing she saw, as this ship of hers came running to her call. Wanted her to know he’d come back, and though he’d bent knee to Aella, he wasn’t cowed. Wanted her, above all else, to see him grinning like he owned the world she’d threaded her fingers through – she just didn’t know it yet.

  Thratia stood at the spearpoint of her group of guards and attendants, posture as straight and sure as ever, chin lifted to meet the incoming ship. She wore granite-grey leggings, a bloodstone-hued tunic cut close to her lithe body. No weapons. Not even a wisp of armor. He wasn’t the only one faking confidence, then.

  Her hair was braided, pulled back from her shoulders to reveal the burn-scar that marred her cheek. The flesh rippled from the left side of her chin all the way up to her ear, the skin a warped pattern of shiny waves and eddies. Detan wondered if it hurt – if she pulled her hair from it to keep the ache at bay – but no. That wasn’t Thratia’s way. Even if it did ache, she’d still pull her hair back to display the injury.