Detan grinned, recognizing the exasperated tone. “That you, Clink?”
Shuffling behind the door, then a soft thump as someone clunked their forehead against the wood trying to get a good look through the crack between door and jamb. “Well I’ll be fucked, it’s the Honding. Come to threaten to blow us up again?”
The lantern in his hand felt a little heavier. “I had no say in that. And, hey, I picked the right pouch, didn’t I?”
“Our hero,” Clink drawled. “The creepy little witch with you?”
Detan caught himself grinning at the blank face of the door like the madman he probably was. He could see why these two had gotten along well with Ripka. “It’s just me.”
“And a lockpick, I hope.”
“Uh, about that…”
A soft groan, then Forge said, “I told you he was a coward.”
“Hey, I’m not saying it won’t happen, I’m saying it’s not the right time.” He scowled at the door, wishing he could see their faces, wishing he could show them his face, and all the well-practiced expressions of assurance he could dance across it to help convince them.
“Talk to us when you got a plan, soft man,” Clink said. Forge didn’t bother hiding her laughter.
“That’s what I’m here for.” He threw an enigmatic smile at the door, then rolled his eyes at his own showboating. Tibs would have pissed himself laughing at that little move.
“Cute. More talk, less dancing.”
He bit his tongue to stifle a quip and cut to the meat of the matter. “I want to set you free.”
“Funny you should forget the lockpick, then.”
He grimaced and thumped his forehead against the door, letting them hear it. “I told you, I can’t manage that just yet. It’s too dangerous. You’re in the heart of Thratia Ganal’s compound, in Aransa. Did you know that?”
A pause, then Forge spoke, “No, we didn’t. We haven’t seen the sun since Aella dragged us aboard this ship, and frankly we’re starting to think we’re going to die before we get to see it again. I understand she’s keeping us on hand to keep you in line, but she forgets us sometimes. No food last night, and this morning she didn’t even mention it when she brought our rations. We had more freedom on the Remnant.”
“Fiery pits, I had no idea she’d forgotten about you.”
“Really,” Clink drawled. “And we were fresh on your mind, were we?”
That hit the mark so soundly he nearly dropped his lantern. Figured Ripka would ally herself with women clever enough to see right through to the core of him. “I can apologize all night, but that won’t help you. What I can do, is promise you this. We’re moving to Hond Steading soon – I don’t know when. A week, probably. In the meantime I can work on Aella, make sure as the skies are blue that you both get moved there with us. Hond Steading’s my city, I… I can help you better there. Send you to ground in a safe place, to escape the chains that bind you here.”
A soft snort, then a murmuring of voices as the women conferred. Forge said, “And what do you want in return?”
“I never said–”
“Didn’t have to, Honding. Cut the goatshit. You need something from us, something in Hond Steading. What is it?”
He flushed, embarrassed they’d seen through him so easily. “You in particular, Forge. I will have need of your special talents.”
“And if I help you, that will see both Clink and I free?”
“You have my word.”
“Fat lot of good that does us, but I suppose we don’t exactly have a better offer at the moment.”
“Freedom in Hond Steading, a stipend to see you well established, and, if my guesses are correct, a possible reunion with your other friend that escaped with Ripka – Honey, I believe you told me her name was.”
Silence, then, “We like her well enough when she’s chained. Not sure the girl’s worth the risk when she’s loosed. But we’ll take your offer, Honding. Pity we can’t shake on it.”
“I’ll make sure your meals are remembered. Take care.”
“Don’t get killed before you can spring us,” Forge said.
He grinned, and rapped twice on the door in affirmation before taking off back down the hall. It seemed a pity to snuff the lantern after he’d gone to so much trouble to light it, but he couldn’t very well take it with him. He blew the flame to death and hung the lantern, then stepped back onto deck. The sun was high, just beginning to trail over the other side of Thratia’s compound where it would eventually go to rest for the night somewhere behind the firemount that was Aransa’s twin. He blinked in the brightness, settling his vision, then strolled toward the gangplank, circling around to the other side of the cabins.
As soon as he turned the corner, he froze.
Thratia stood on the dock, a small entourage of very armed men and women at her side, deck hands scurrying about the opposite side of the u-dock in an effort to make those ties ready. She spotted him there, cocked her head in mild curiosity, but seemed otherwise uninterested in his presence. The Crested Fool was Aella’s ship, after all, and its contents were the girl’s business. Detan wondered if Aella had ever bothered mentioning Clink and Forge to Thratia. By the bored expression on the woman’s face, he doubted it. There was no irritation in her posture, no tension that he might have stumbled across something he wasn’t meant to find. Thratia was not at all interested in Detan’s presence on the Crested. She was, in fact, staring straight over his shoulder.
With a sinking feeling in his gut Detan turned, slowly. A ship larger than any he’d ever seen blotted what was left of the fading light, a massive bulk of wood and sail headed by a sharp, cutting prow. The mere proximity of all that selium made Detan’s skin itch. It loomed toward the dock, slow and steady, aiming right for the space alongside the Crested Fool.
Detan scurried off the smaller ship before the larger could close the distance. He’d never been keen on trusting his safety to the piloting skills of others. Thratia acknowledged his presence with a distracted nod, her gaze stuck on that hulking mass. He sidled up to her, daring to take the place at her right side, and asked, “What in the pits is that thing?”
She shot him a fierce grin. “That is my new flagship, and our transport to Hond Steading.”
It drifted closer, the voices of the dock hands rising in panic as they scrambled to make ready for the leviathan’s arrival. Detan’s throat grew dry, his stomach heavy, as he began to make out the fine detail on the ship’s deck. Massive harpoons dotted the rails, and structures the likes of which he’d never seen before adorned the silk-smooth deck. Whoever the ship’s captain was, they were a deft hand, for they sailed the ship with firm and steady grace. Detan swallowed to regain his voice.
“When do we leave?”
“Two days,” Thratia said, and there was more passion in her eyes as she looked upon that ship than he had seen all through the night spent in her bed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The streets of Aransa baked in the heat, but there was no temperature save the killing field of the Black Wash that could ever make Detan feel clean again. He moved with purpose, letting the fancy clothes Thratia’d dressed him in cut a swathe through the city’s crowds, and tried, very hard, to ignore the sting of his raw skin beneath those shiny, shiny clothes.
Two nights now. Two nights in Thratia Ganal’s bed, and there was no scrub-brush in the world that could strip the scent of her from his memory. Nothing in the world that could undo the betrayal of his body, responding to her need though it turned his stomach.
He couldn’t think on it. Not too long, anyway. Every time the memory threatened to surface it slid away into some black pit in his mind, leaving him unsettled and restless but, at the very least, capable of functioning.
Even his memories of his time in the Bone Tower were clearer.
His destination loomed into view, shaking him back into himself. The thing about mercers, even the wealthiest of the bunch, was that they all had the same boring sense of style. Gr
andon’s offices were located in a squat, squared-off building topped with a roof of dark-stained wood. Expensive stuff, that wood, but he figured Grandon could probably afford it. Pits, he’d probably be able to afford another one after the order Detan was prepared to place.
Grandon’s lobby sported a prim little receptionist hard at work under a massive mural of the Grandon family crest. She whipped her head up from the file she’d been prodding at as Detan entered, and plastered on a smile quick enough that he almost believed it was real.
“Welcome to the Grandon Trading House. Do you have an appointment?”
He sauntered forward, making a show of pulling his crimson-lined collar straight, and leaned one arm on the woman’s desk.
“Not an appointment, exactly. Renold and I are old friends, I’m sure he can squeeze a little time in for me.”
She lifted a brow like she’d found something suspicious on the bottom of her shoe. “Then you know that Mercer Grandon is very busy. Is there a general question I can assist you with?”
Right. In his long experience, it was easier to worm one’s way past a guard than a sharp-eyed receptionist. He hadn’t meant to play this completely straight, it just wasn’t in his nature to stick to a single path, but there was only one thing that could get him past those narrowed eyes without her ringing for the watch to escort him out.
“I’m prepared to place a large purchase, and need to consult with Renold directly regarding delivery times.”
In one deft movement she plucked a ledger from under her desk and flicked it open to the appropriate page. “In that case, sir, I would be happy to set you an appointment for a future date with Mercer Grandon, or perhaps one of his junior salesmen. Are you free on the third of this week?”
He rubbed his temples as if fighting back a tension headache. “I leave tomorrow, and skies willing won’t be back to this city in my lifetime. My old pal Renold would be very, very upset to hear he’d lost this opportunity, miss. And I will inform him – letters don’t need appointments, after all.”
She pursed her lips and snapped the ledger shut. “I see. I will inquire about his availability directly, then. Who should I say is calling?”
“Detan Honding.”
She paled, and he felt like a bigger rockbrain than usual. Figured she’d have heard of him – most of the city had, by now. Thratia’d made sure of that. He could have skipped that whole song and dance and just cut straight to who he was, and what he wanted, and no doubt she would have seen him straight to Grandon’s door. Now she had to keep up appearances by asking the man, and Detan feared Renold’s surly streak just might see him kicked out the door. Served him right, forgetting his name was just as deft a tool as any other he had up his sleeves.
“A moment, Master Honding.”
She disappeared down a hallway, heels click-clacking on the hardwood floor, and it didn’t take her long at all to come click-clacking back, a little furrow between her brows that Detan couldn’t quite read.
“He will see you now.”
Grandon’s office was a study in sand and glass. The wall behind him was pockmarked with hexagonal windows, a high shelf encircling the whole room crowded with vials of all the various sands of the Scorched. Detan had never taken the man for being particularly interested in the geology of the region, but then, he hadn’t really thought much about what Grandon may or may not like. Save, of course, that he liked his food and his women and couldn’t give two shits for anyone serving him.
“You,” Grandon said, splaying both his hands on the chunk of wood that was his desk, “better have a very good reason for coming here.”
“Why thank you, I will take a seat. Your hospitality is always so refreshing, Grandon old pal.” Detan sauntered forward and flopped into the chair across from Grandon’s desk, leaning back to kick an ankle up on his knee. He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, flicking his gaze around the room. “I’d ask you who your decorator is, but I suspect I’m looking at the man himself, am I right?”
“You have until the count of ten.”
“Now, now, aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”
“One. Two.”
Detan threw his palms up to forestall the count. “All right, all right. Always in such a rush, you mercers are. Time is money, and all that.” Damn his tongue. He was stalling, and he hadn’t even meant to. He was just loath to speak the words he needed to get his point across. “You may have heard of my impending nuptials?”
Grandon’s face went slack. “Everyone has heard.”
“Marvelous,” he lied, and clapped with pretend joy to cover the sour note in his voice. “Then I’m sure you can help me. I wish to purchase a large quantity of your liqueur for the happy day. A gift to my bride and our guests, to remind her of old times.”
The mercer’s fingers curled slowly to fists atop the desk. “You may remember that the local supply of honey was severely depleted after… the accident at the Hub.”
“Certainly a little explosion wasn’t enough to undermine your entire enterprise, Grandon. This place of yours,” Detan gestured to the finery all around them, “isn’t suffering from the lack.”
“True. My business survived your little fit. But the liqueur has become a dear thing, rare and precious. A top shelf varietal hardly seen outside this city. Steel, you’ll find, is the bulk of my business now. Pre-sharpened, of course.”
Ah. So Thratia no longer saw a point in hiding her weapons beneath crates of other goods. Figured. “But you do still sell the stuff?”
“For a price.”
A price to make even the richest selium trader blush, he had no doubt. This wasn’t just about the scarcity of honey in Aransa. Grandon was punishing him. Funny thing was, the abuse gave him a fleeting sense of relief. “I’m prepared to pay.”
“Nothing counterfeit, I assume?”
He smiled and flicked lint from the cuff of his pant leg. “Do you think me a pauper, Grandon? I have the routing cipher to the Honding coffers. Any counting house in this city will confirm them.”
Grandon raised both brows, greed overriding his anger. “You’re prepared to pay so much for a gift?”
“For my darling wife? Nothing but the best.”
“Well then.” He leaned forward, dragged a ledger open and dipped a pen into his inkwell. “Let’s talk logistics.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The guards, it seemed, just weren’t going to cooperate. When daybreak streamed through the tiny, most assuredly locked, window in their room, the guards knocked heavily on their door before barging in. Bleary-eyed and irritated, Ripka dragged herself to a seat in her bed, blinking back sleep. Honey sat awake in the bed next to her, gaze surprisingly sharp despite the early hour and late night. Probably a habit she’d picked up at the Remnant. Ripka hadn’t been locked in that place long enough to develop the same talent.
“Don’t you sleep?” she muttered at the guards who’d barged in, but they scarcely even glanced her way. Maids of the hotel brought in trays of porridge, fried eggs, and garden herbs, along with two tiny spoons, and scurried back out into the hall. Ripka watched all of this, dumbstruck. She’d been hoping for a communal breakfast with the boys, not a few trays delivered before she’d even had a chance to braid her hair.
The guard was beginning to close the door, the maids safely back in the hall.
“I have to use the privy,” she blurted, which was true enough, but she wanted to stop the rush of events, to have a moment to get her head on straight and possibly come up with a way to exploit their breakfast. The guard, a woman with a permanent scowl on her lips, sighed heavily and jerked her head toward the hall.
“One at a time, no dallying.”
Ripka hurried to her feet, and nearly lost control of her legs as the sore muscles screamed in protest the moment she put weight on them. Honey shot out a hand to steady her, and she took a moment to gather herself while the guard huffed in annoyance. Ripka shot her a sour look. Such impatience would never have been t
olerated in her watchers.
They were shuffled, one at a time, to a small water closet stuffed at the back of the floor’s hall. Before Ripka could formulate anything like a plan, she found herself standing back in her room, the door locked firmly behind her, her nightshift too thin against the morning cold and her hair all a tangle.
“Well,” she said, scowling at the food that’d been left for them. “That was disappointing.”
Honey shrugged, stuffing her mouth so full with greasy eggs that her cheeks bulged. At least someone had the foresight to provide some soothing tea for the poor woman’s throat.
“Eat,” Honey muttered around a mouthful, arresting Ripka in a circle she hadn’t even realized she was pacing.
“Ugh.” Ripka flopped to the floor, cross-legged before her tray, and grabbed one of the crusty slices of bread. She knew she’d need her strength, but she was so irritated with the situation it was difficult to muster up an appetite. Yet, as soon as the bread touched her tongue, her stomach grumbled with anticipation. Honey giggled.
“All right, all right, you win,” Ripka said around a smile and a hunk of bread. Sweet skies, but she hadn’t realized how long it’d been since she’d eaten anything. The previous night seemed ages ago.
“What are we going to do?” she muttered around a mouthful. Honey shrugged and pushed a piece of cheese from her plate to Ripka’s. It hadn’t been a real question, anyway. She was thinking out loud, keeping her voice low so the guards wouldn’t overhear.
“Two guards in the hall at all times, it seems. One for each room. I got a look at the building as we walked up last night, and I think the guys’ room is the mirror of ours. So they’ve got a small window, too, but even if the guards wouldn’t hear us breaking the glass we’d all be shredded to bits by the time we squeezed through that little hole, and then there’s the climb down to deal with, and the walls looked pretty smooth.”
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