Inherit the Flame

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  He’ll do. Thratia’s words filled every silent moment of his mind. Whatever that viper was up to, he didn’t want anything to do with it, but he could hardly run off now that he’d taken things so far. He had Thratia’s trust, insomuch as she allowed him to wander her city a free man, and that was a prize he wasn’t quite ready to squander. With her trust, he could do a lot of damage to her plans from the inside – if only he knew what they were, what angle he should take.

  Aransa was quieter than it’d been since he last walked its streets. A strange hush encapsulated the city, swathed it in muted cotton wool. Last time he’d been here, night was the time to be on the streets, to be seen. There’d been raucous parties and overflowing bars. Except for one night, the night Thratia took control. And it seemed the fear of that night had yet to die out.

  A red door appeared to his right. Detan stopped cold, drawing a curse from a man who had been walking behind him. Dust hung heavy on the air, clung to his boots and his hair. He shoved his hands in his pockets, stared at that red door a little longer.

  The Red Door Inn. Not the most imaginative name, but in a city full of working-man taverns and rough-and-tumble gambling halls, it stood out for the simple fact it wasn’t an allusion to a curse word or a carnal act. He’d been through that door once. Invited by a sharp-eyed woman who’d wanted to ask him how he’d lost his sel-sense, so she could save her daughter from working the mines.

  He hadn’t lost his sense, of course, and though he didn’t tell her that, he’d tried to make her understand that chasing that path was a dangerous one. What she’d decided to do to keep her daughter out of that hard, hot life, Detan didn’t know. Whatever her plan had been, she’d died before she’d had the chance to see it through. Cut down, bleeding her last on Thratia’s dock, all because Thratia wanted to pin the murder on Detan.

  The parlor of the Red Door Inn was cool, kept insulated from the desert heat by its thick mud-stuccoed walls and lack of windows. He didn’t recall opening the door, but the brass knob was in his hand, and he stepped into the chandelier light of the entry hall.

  “May I help you, sir?” A man in the red-vested livery of the inn hovered at his shoulder, his smile pure solicitation. Of course the welcoming was warmer than last time. Despite the dust on his boots, Detan was a whole lot cleaner than he’d been the last time he’d stepped through that door. Aella hadn’t let him take any of his old clothes with him to Aransa, and so he’d been trussed up in upperclass wear – slim, dark trousers, a contrasting cream vest, and matching dark jacket. Sometime along the way, he’d started dressing like the man his auntie had always wanted him to be. Too bad the inside didn’t match the exterior.

  “A table, please,” he said. The thought of cloistering himself away in one of the Inn’s private booths drew him like a moth to a flame. Something strong to drink, and a curtain to pull against the world. In one of those little booths, he could almost pretend for a moment that the world outside was friendly.

  The attendant led Detan down the steps of the inn, deep into the bottom levels where only the richest patrons lingered. Detan wondered, fleetingly, if Thratia had put the word out amongst high-brow places that he was residing in her compound now, but cast the thought aside. No, this wasn’t Thratia’s doing. Between his clothes and the brand on the back of his neck, Detan had enough cachet on his own to warrant this flavor of treatment. Didn’t much like being reminded of the fact, though.

  A familiar voice shook him out of his moping, brash and male, behind the cloak of a curtained booth. The man called for an attendant, slurring slightly, not reaching for the bell meant to do the job for him. Detan froze.

  “Sir?” the attendant asked, all professional concern.

  “I…” he cleared his throat. “I’m going to say hello to an old friend.”

  The attendant followed his glance to the booth with the slurring man and frowned, weighing the guest’s probable desire for privacy against both rebuking Detan’s wish and having to deal with the drunken man. He eventually shrugged, and gestured toward the booth.

  Detan moved before he could think better of it and pulled the curtain. He sat.

  Renold Grandon peered at him across the thin, lacquered table. Smoke curled around the man’s eyes, and a glass dangled from his swollen fingers – twin to a litter of empty glasses filling the narrow table. Red blotches bloomed like storm cells across his cheeks, and cactus-prickle stubble clung to his sagging chin.

  Detan did not believe in ghosts. But sitting in that booth, that same booth where Bel Grandon had summoned him to to ask a question all that time ago, he thought he could feel her. She was in the smoke swirling between him and Renold now, in the heady-sweet scent of alcohol in the stale air. The very memory of her stern gaze forced Detan to sit straighter with some foolish hope that, if only he presented himself well, he could do honor to her memory.

  He bore Renold’s drunken stare, and thought of the first time he’d seen the man. Bloated on his own importance, swaggering with his mistress as he gallivanted through the Salt Baths. Renold had done nothing to offend Detan, save being a likely target when Detan was in need.

  Detan had looked at Renold Grandon, and thought, he’ll do.

  And an innocent woman had died.

  And countless futures were snuffed to dust with her passing.

  “You,” Renold said, but there was very little malice in it. Just a wan sort of tiredness that bit deeper than anger ever could have.

  “Me,” Detan agreed.

  Renold looked at him. Really looked. His swollen face puckered up as he squinted, digging with his gaze into all the details that made up Detan now. His clean hair, his expensive clothes. The leanness of his frame, and perhaps even the slight hunch he harbored due to pain in his shoulder from Aella’s careful administrations. He swept all this up, counted it, and with a snort dismissed Detan as irrelevant. Little more than a fly drawn to the stench of his sorrow.

  “I didn’t–” Detan began, but Renold cut him off with a sharp gesture, spilling dribbles of liquor down the side of his hand.

  “You didn’t hold the knife that split her throat,” he sneered. “You don’t have the steel in you. But she does, our fearless commodore, and you riled her up as sure as a man pulls back a knife hand to strike.”

  Detan swallowed, laced his fingers together under the table to stop their tremble. “Thratia killed Bel to make you hate me. To make you hunt me.”

  Renold studied the depths of his glass, as if he could see his dead wife’s face lurking within. “Told you that, did she? And you believed her? Dumber than I thought. No. She knew I’d never believe a floundering fop like you could have ever spilt real blood. Not Bel’s, anyway. That was a warning for me, not you.”

  A little flare of anger sparked in Detan’s blood, fleeting but sharp. Sel’s presence loomed in the liqueur, in the lanterns, in the… He shut his sense down. Forced himself to focus. “And this is how you answer her?”

  Renold’s bloodshot eyes roamed the empty glasses on the table that his wife had used so often to host her private meetings. He breathed deep, let out a slow breath, and pierced Detan with a stare. “Virra, our daughter, captains a ship in Thratia’s fleet as a sensitive pilot. It was Bel’s greatest ambition to see that Virra never had to work the mines. Yes. This is how I answer her.” He bared his teeth. “And aren’t we all just one big happy family?”

  Ill with revulsion, Detan pushed to his feet and staggered through the curtain that separated that booth from the rest of the world. The cool opulence of the Red Door Inn pressed all around him, mirroring a deeper cold, one which ensconced his bones and chest and made him gasp despite the delicately perfumed air.

  Ignoring the concerned queries of the valet, he dragged himself up the stairs to the final floor, legs growing heavier with every step, and only when he was out on the blistering hot streets of Aransa, dust on his shoes and dry air whipping the moisture from his eyes, his lips, did he feel he could breathe again.

  He
had been so very tempted, walking down these beaten streets to this pristine door, to flee. To take to the open skies once more. To find another flier, another path to freedom from duty and consequence. Now the very thought churned his stomach, broke sweat across his chest and brow.

  What good was his freedom, when he had done as Thratia? What good was he, when he had looked at a man and thought: he’ll do, without ever considering the breadth and depth of the consequences?

  Whatever freedom existed for him out there in the empty sky, he had not earned it.

  Detan straightened his lapels, stood tall and brushed the dust from his coat sleeves. Aransa stretched out around him in all directions: the shanty towns downward, the tenuous government-worker class upward, and topping it at its very peak, lower only than the city’s highest garden, Thratia waited.

  She’d looked at him, and said, he’ll do. He knew not what for, yet, but with the memory-scent of Bel’s cigarillos warm in his nostrils, he was going to find out. And whatever the consequences were, wherever the pain fell, Detan would see it through, or break himself trying.

  Chapter Twelve

  Enard caught Ripka by the arm in the hall on her way to Dame Honding’s sitting room, causing her to nearly jump clear out of her skin.

  “Enard!” she gasped, then stifled a laugh when she saw the embarrassed shock in his eyes.

  “I apologize, Captain, I thought you had seen me.”

  “Ah, no, that’s my fault.” She ran a hand through her hair and offered him a small smile. “Between the bright berry tea, and my adventures with Honey this morning, I’m wound up tighter than a harpoon spring.”

  He frowned. “Tell me.”

  She did. It was so very easy to spill her thoughts to Enard. He listened attentively, asking pertinent questions, and as she expressed her suspicion regarding Thratia’s influence in the city via the cafes, his growing alarm reassured her she had not been mistaken, there was a real threat lurking within Hond Steading’s walls.

  “That is troubling news. Are you going to report to the Dame?”

  “I had thought as much, I have a few marks yet before that performance Latia wants us to join her for.”

  “May I go with you? An extra set of eyes and ears couldn’t hurt.”

  She grinned, just a touch. “Are you worried about me?”

  “I – ah – well. You’re perfectly capable, of course, and Honey–”

  She squeezed his shoulder. “It’s all right, Enard. It’s even a little sweet.”

  He clamped his mouth closed so hard she watched his lips disappear.

  “Come on, let’s see what the Dame thinks.”

  They found the Dame surrounded by her attendants, head bowed as she listened to a portly young woman explain something that, by the way she was gesticulating, was of grave importance. Ripka pinched Enard’s sleeve and they found an out of the way spot toward the back of the room to wait, just within sight but not intruding. When the five people who had come to beg the Dame’s ear had said their piece and been sent away, the Dame fixed her gaze – Detan’s gaze – upon Ripka and curled her fingers to gesture her forward.

  “Ripka Leshe, Enard Harwit. How are you two finding my city?”

  “It is in danger, Dame.”

  She pursed her lips in a tight smile. “I am aware of such matters.”

  “Not from Thratia’s advance, though that is an obvious threat. No, you have an insurgency brewing from within.”

  She stiffened, fingers coiling tight around the ends of her chair’s armrests. “It is only due to my great respect for you as Aransa’s watch-captain that I ask, so tread carefully: explain, quickly.”

  Ripka began with her time in Aransa, and her too-late discovery of the honey liqueur crates in which Thratia had hidden her weapons, then moved onto her brief interview with Captain Lakon, and her trip to the bright eye berry cafe. She left out the names of Dranik and Latia, but the implications were strong enough. A taste for revolution was brewing in Hond Steading, and Thratia had lit that spark.

  The Dame leaned back in her chair, regarding Ripka and Enard in a silence so stretched Ripka had to resist an urge to fidget. At last, the Dame said, “Do you know how I spent my morning?”

  “I do not, Dame.”

  She gestured vaguely toward a door to the right of her meeting room. “Negotiating. Treating. Hammering out plans with my empress. Or a representative of her, at any rate.” She sighed. “Her highness is unfortunately unable to travel, and her surrogate leaves much to be desired, in my opinion. Do you know her? Ranalae Lasson?”

  Ripka shook her head.

  “Ah. Then you don’t quite understand.” Her expression twisted, but she was quick to school it into indifference. “Ranalae. I knew her father, a kind man, but she is no child of his. She has joined the Bone Tower, and spearheads the whitecoats. Yes, I see your horror. I would not treat with them, were there any other option. Rumor has reached me from Valathea in regard to their methods, and I know Detan was in their vicious care, tricked away from me. I should have never let him go, but… They said they could cure him. I should have known better.”

  She pulled herself up, rolled her shoulders as if shaking off a great weight. “Regardless, Ranalae is who my empress sent, and while she inquired about Detan’s health she otherwise left the subject alone, she knows it is thin ground on which to tread. She comes offering me troops, fortifications. And if Thratia’s insurgency has taken root in my city, as you claim, then I need Valathea’s aid more than ever.”

  Ripka swallowed around a dry throat. “At what cost?”

  “Ah.” The Dame smiled. “I knew you were no fool. They ask I rescind Hond Steading’s independent status. That we become a vassal of Valathea in whole, turned over to their rule and their law.” She waved a hand. “No more forums. No more watchers hired by my choosing. It’d mean Fleetmen taking over the streets, while the power transitioned. And, upon my death, they’d appoint a warden of their choosing. Certainly they would allow the illusion of a vote, but the matter would be settled long ahead of time. The Hondings would no longer own this land, we would lease it. And Detan would never be able to return to his home without fear of capture by those–” She cleared her throat. “By his enemies.”

  Ripka’s stomach soured. “You would do this?”

  “Valathea’s hand on Hond Steading’s tiller, or Thratia’s. I am honestly not convinced that either is the better option. Now I lean toward Valathea, as they at least I know well. The Honding family was once ruled by that governance, and I trust my empress, if not her envoys. We would only go back to how things were in the early days of the city’s settlement. I do not think the upheaval would be so great.”

  “How long until the Valathean troops arrive?”

  “Two weeks, perhaps. The monsoons may hold them back, but they were already prepared to fly.”

  “And when must you give your answer?”

  “My dear, I have already given it.”

  Ripka clasped her hands behind her back so that the Dame could not see her tighten her fists. “They would have to pass the message. Even with signal flags and the finest runners it would be a while before the troops received orders to move. Thratia is already on her way, or so I surmise. She may be here before them.”

  “And if she is, Valathea will be the hammer that smashes them against the anvil of our city. But I have faith that Thratia is not completely mad. She will see reason, I hope, and realize her defeat has already been made.”

  “And in the meantime, do I have your permission to root out Thratia’s network here in the city?”

  She flicked her fingers, as if brushing the idea away. “If it entertains you, yes. I know you are a woman of action. And the information will be very useful to Valathea, once they arrive.”

  Ripka tucked her head in acknowledgement. “Thank you, Dame.”

  The Dame dismissed them by turning to a nearby attendant. Back in the hall, heart pounding in her throat, Ripka made a sharp right and angled f
or the stairs that led up to the smaller airship docks. Enard jogged at her heels, and though her breath came hot and her legs burned from the speed at which she took the stairs, she did not slow down. Not even for a moment.

  “Where are we going?” Enard asked, a little breathless.

  “To find Tibal. I find myself in sudden need of an airship.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m going to stop that messenger.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  With every step she took up the long tower stairs, Ripka cursed Tibal for picking a room so high above all the others. Enard’s steady panting at her heels cheered her, for at least she wasn’t the only one struggling with the climb.

  “Why he chose the top of this hideous tower…” she muttered.

  “I believe he did not wish to be bothered.”

  She snorted. “Should have known better. Now I’m just going to be annoyed when I finally get to him.”

  “I would not wish to be on the other side of your ire.”

  The simple admiration in his tone both warmed her and sent a thread of nervousness throughout her. She had no time to think of such things – to explore the fine edges of her affections. The task she had set herself, saving this doomed city from both Thratia and Valathea, securing its independence as a beacon in the Scorched, was too great. The fall of Aransa, her failure to protect those people, shadowed every crevice of her thoughts. To succeed here, to save Hond Steading, would do more than fulfill a duty. It would return to her a piece of herself.

  She reached the top of the tower, damp with sweat, and took a moment to lean over her knees and catch her breath.

  The door to Tibal’s suite of rooms was shut, a foreboding silence leaking out all around it. The harsh rasp of her breath and the steady thump of her heart were the only sounds, so high up in the squared-off tower of the Honding family palace. Dame Honding had called this tower the crow’s nest, for its height and the airship moorings along its top. Ripka wondered just how crow-like Tibal had become in his self-imposed isolation.