Inherit the Flame

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  “City’s not my responsibility.”

  “Isn’t it, Tibal Honding?”

  His head snapped back, those dark eyes narrowing, and for just a moment she thought she’d triggered his well-hidden temper. But no, that wasn’t anger ghosting his features. That was pain, pure and simple. She’d hit him. Hard.

  “That ain’t my name.”

  “The Dame seems to think it is.”

  “You think everything the Dame says is gospel?”

  “Convince me otherwise.”

  “Not my job to put your head on straight, and we don’t have time for this nonsense.”

  “I’m making time. Talk, Tibal. What in the fiery pits is your relation to the Dame?”

  “Why are you so damned desperate to know?”

  “Because you told me a story.” She stepped toward him. He stepped back. “Don’t you remember? At Thratia’s party, you told me all about how you and Detan met. How he stumbled across you, and you found common ground in trying to control your tempers. You earned my respect with that story, before I ever knew you. And I’m wondering now – how much of the time we shared together was based on lies? If your tempers are mirrors, then…” She let her gaze slide to the shadow of a firemount.

  “You think I got the power, too?” He yanked his hat off and slapped it against his knee to clear the dust. “Woman, haven’t you been paying attention? What Detan’s got is rare, I can’t shift sel any more than the Dame can. And anyway.” He twisted the brim of his hat between his fingers, picking at the singed spot that had been Detan’s doing.

  “What I told you was true.” He held up a hand to stop her asking more questions. “I wouldn’t lie to you now, and I didn’t then. You want to know what the Dame knows? Fine.” He blew air through his whiskers hard enough to make them flutter.

  “Rew Honding is my father by blood, though I never met the man. Some uncle of the Dame, old feller, but my ma liked him well enough for a night and sent him along the next day. Didn’t know who he was at the time, till the Dame came along collecting any information she could about Honding bastards. Eletraia – that’s Detan’s mother – had just died and the Dame wasn’t one for birthing her own heirs. Anyway, she made a note of my existence and moved along, ma never heard from her again. But I did.

  “She came by the settlement I’d ended up in after the Fleet had let me go ‘cause the war with the Catari had gone cold. Ma was doing well enough, running her tavern, and I didn’t have any taste for that work, so I’d found an engineer to take me on repairing airships.

  “One day the Dame shows up, real quiet like. Came in on a small ship with just a pilot and a single guard, a man named Gatai. You’ve seen him around the palace as the keymaster, but I always suspected he was more than that.”

  He tipped his head back, squinting at the sky as if he could see his past painted in the clouds. Ripka held her breath to keep from peppering him with questions. This was the most she’d ever heard him talk all at once.

  “Anyway. She wasn’t dressed up fancy or anything, but I knew her, and she looked bad. Real tired. Said her heir had been in some trouble, maybe lost his sel-sense, and was rambling the Scorched a lost man. But she’d been keeping tabs on him, and he was flying straight my way. Asked me to keep an eye on him, help him pull himself together. That if she were to lose him then I was the only one of the bloodline left, and it had to be maintained. Was real animated about that. I told her to go suck gravel. But…” He sighed and shook his head. “Detan showed up the day after she left. I ain’t never seen a man so much the mirror to me before. Never met a soul who understood… Shit.”

  He shoved his hat back on hard enough to cover half his forehead. “That’s what you wanted to know, anyway.”

  “I didn’t know,” she said, quietly, and reached out to touch his arm lightly in comfort. He shook her off.

  “Now you do, and I don’t want to hear a damned thing about it again, understood? This ain’t my city. Never going to be. I mean it, this city ain’t my responsibility.”

  “Is your conscience your responsibility?”

  He pursed his lips, spit on the dry ground, and grated out the words, “Wherever it is you’re going, Leshe, I’ll be there.”

  Leshe. He never called her that. Captain, sometimes, and mostly Ripka. But her last name… There was only one person she knew of he consistently called by his family name, and it was, she thought, maybe the greatest honor he could hand her.

  “See you there, then,” she said, and told him the way to Latia’s house – how to mark it, by its shape and its color and its position against the side of a firemount. Then she left him in the alley, stomach churning with uncertainty, to begin the circuitous route to Latia’s.

  Leaving him there, not knowing for sure whether he’d come or not, was the greatest leap of faith she’d yet taken in this city. She hoped they both landed on their feet.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Detan made a point of hiding in his room as the Dread Wind approached Hond Steading. He did not want to watch the city of his birth roll into view. Did not want to stand at the prow alongside Thratia as he bore witness to whatever defense the city he’d sworn to serve with his life had mustered against her coming. Did not, most of all, want to see familiar faces in those forces, and know that they believed him on the other side of the line Thratia had carved into the whole of the Scorched.

  Thratia, of course, had other plans.

  “Honding.” Misol’s voice boomed as she thumped the door to his cabin with the butt of her spear. “Get your lazy ass out here.”

  “I’m airsick.” He made a few attempts at a retching sound. Misol just laughed.

  “You can’t possibly expect me to believe that.”

  “Food poisoning?”

  “Naw.”

  “Moral quandary heavy enough to progress to physical illness?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Figured. Detan grunted as he pushed himself to his feet, taking a moment that he told himself wasn’t stalling to rub the ache from his knees. That ache was getting more and more frequent, lately. Probably his desire to stay far away from Hond Steading locking up his body, while the ship carried him steadily onward. Though he’d hoped to stay hidden, he hadn’t relied on the fact. He’d dressed himself in the soot-grey finery that Thratia had provided him with, the ochre-orange trim hinting at a threat he didn’t feel himself capable of.

  Ever since Aella’d taken his injections away, he’d spent half of every night sweating himself cold, struggling to rein in his sense so he wasn’t so keenly aware of the great balloons of selium transporting the Dread Wind through the skies. Cursed child had just laughed at him when he told her he was on the verge of blowing them all to bits.

  Misol wasn’t alone. Aella smiled at him as he opened the door, all sweet politeness, and swept into a slight bow. Misol gave him the once-over he now knew was her way of checking for weapons. Funny she should be worried about him packing a knife. He couldn’t wield a knife against anything bigger than a steak, and he had all that lovely selium above his head to use if he really felt like sticking it to them all.

  Probably it was a force of habit for her. Just like giving her a once over – checking for loose pockets, poorly fastened jewelry, and anything likely to steal – was a habit of his own.

  “You are required,” Aella said the words like she’d been practicing them.

  “Thratia giving you etiquette lessons, little squirt?”

  A scowl crossed her face – fleeting, but definitely there – and he allowed himself a brief smirk. Wasn’t often he was able to get the wind up that girl.

  “We are entering a tenuous, diplomatic arena. Please try to remember that you were born for just these types of negotiations, despite your more recent… adventures.” Her smile returned, flashing with real pleasure so that he knew she was about to say something truly nasty. “We’d hate to have to resort to violence because you flubbed the diplomacy.”

  “Have I ever
told you what a charmer you are?”

  She rolled her eyes and turned her back on him. The girl had ditched the white coat at Thratia’s request, but Detan knew well enough that a viper could be painted as plain as a garden snake, and its fangs were still loaded with venom.

  They escorted him toward the prow of the ship. Every step he took, his legs felt heavier, until he was just a single step away from Thratia and he could have sworn his boots were made of lead.

  He knew what he’d see at that prow, and he didn’t want it. Didn’t want the city of his birth burned into his mind’s eye from this angle, didn’t want to go to sleep at night seeing it from the sky, knowing he was about to descend upon it to work out the final throes of his battle with Thratia.

  For that’s what this was, he realized, as he stood a step behind her, letting her long, straight back fill his vision so that he did not have to look upon the city she eclipsed so fully. From the second he set foot in Aransa, he’d loathed her and goaded her. He’d known so little about her then, only the rumor of her exile, her reputation for viciousness. Those two things were all the excuse he’d needed to justify taking her flagship, the Larkspur, out from under her nose.

  Had it really been just the prize of the ship that’d lured him, then? He doubted that truth now. He’d seen her, a proud and impervious woman, kicked out of the same empire that’d turned against him – that’d split his flesh for curiosity’s sake – and loathed her for the freedoms she claimed for herself.

  He’d been jealous of her, and wanted to take something from her. And in doing so he’d kicked a hornet’s nest, roused the specter of the whitecoats to chase him again and stumbled into the horror of Thratia’s bargains – deviants for weapons, though she claimed her reasons were worth that tribute.

  He could not reconcile her. He hated her, even as he admired her, and knew he must defeat her here in Hond Steading even as, deeply, secretly, he knew that her winning here might not be the worst thing to happen to his city. Valathea taking full control – that would be the real pitfire. And Thratia’s attention was no doubt drawing the empire back to Hond Steading like moths to a flame.

  He imagined pushing her over the prow. Imagined her breaking, fragile as glass, against the bedrock of his homeland. Imagined her entwined with him, too, taking control of his body and his life as the new Dame of Hond Steading by marriage and – and… And some cowardly part of him welcomed that; thought, wouldn’t it be easier, to let this woman who was so sure of herself make all the hard choices? Wouldn’t it be so much cleaner, to let her take control and do as she claims – kick the Valatheans out of the Scorched? He could sympathize with that sentiment. Wanted it, desperately.

  But he knew how she’d go about it. Knew she’d trade innocents for the future betterment of many, knew the way she gambled, knew the way she played her hands. And at the heart of everything she did there was blood, and pain, and hadn’t he seen Aransa? Quieter than it’d ever been, people taking to the streets only to go where they absolutely must, and then as quickly as possible.

  Thratia’s reign was one of control, of fear and blood, and bargains he could never bring himself to make.

  He did not know if he could do better than her. But he had to try.

  She turned. Though he’d been standing perfectly still, he felt frozen all the same. Cursed woman had a way of looking at him that made him feel as if she’d stripped every thought he’d ever had bare and laid it out under a microscope for the sort of cold examination she was capable of in all things.

  That stare was momentary, though. She smiled, and though he knew the expression was faked, that was the danger of Thratia – how natural it seemed, how gentle and kind and impromptu. If he had not been staring at her in the moment when she’d speared him with that first glance, he’d think she was genuinely delighted to see him. Thratia was a woman of bargains, even in her own mind. And now she’d decided to trade on being gentle with him. That chilled him more than her cruelty.

  “Stand with me,” she said, and extended her hand to him. He could never look upon that hand without imagining Bel’s blood on it, but this was just one more move on the board toward his victory, and his city’s freedom. He took her hand, and ignored the deep-seated cold of her flesh.

  “The Dread Wind made good time,” he said, for he’d long considered small talk the easiest way to pry away at a person’s true thoughts.

  “It was made for this day.”

  And many more to come, no doubt. He held no illusions that Thratia would be done with the Scorched after she took Hond Steading. She could call the hulking thing her flagship, but it was first and foremost a warship built to last.

  She drew him forward. He forced himself to look.

  Hond Steading, from above. He loved this view. Had loved it all his life. And for just a moment, he shoved aside the reality of his arrival. Ignored Thratia’s cold hand, fingers folded like spider’s legs around his.

  Here was the bedrock of his birth. The great valley of the city, sprawled between the trailing arms of five massive firemounts. Larger and more vibrant than any other city the Scorched had to offer, Hond Steading drew its water from a delta to the north, aqueducts the likes of which hadn’t even been seen in Valathea transporting that precious fluid south to support the citizenry. Three firemounts bounded the south of the city, the two larger loomed to the northern edge. Each bristled with metal fittings, all five mines active as the sensitives of Hond Steading drew forth its surplus of selium. Some of the richer districts had taken to building with sel, as was the fashion in Valathea. Great platforms held by thick guy wires added extra levels to the estates of the wealthy, many lush with gardens.

  His heart clenched with joy. His city, his home, had thrived in his absence.

  And then, inevitably, he looked for the Honding family palace.

  It spread up the steep slopes of the city’s largest firemount, set further forward than the rest of the city, the district at its feet a patchwork of beauty in architecture. Its grand spires were hemmed in by walls that were more decorative than functional. And, from its many airdocks, a fleet like none he’d ever seen before took to the sky.

  Auntie Honding had spared no expense in the defense of her city. A great wall of ships lifted, staggered throughout the sky in such a way as to make their numbers difficult to count. His stomach sunk, seeing the Valathean banner flying from many a mast, and he knew just where his auntie had allocated much of the funds – straight from the empire’s coffers.

  She wouldn’t have had a choice. Even with their selium surplus, they could not bend time to make so many ships before Thratia’s arrival. They’d have to borrow them from somewhere. And yet, he’d hoped…

  Thratia squeezed his hand. She leaned forward against the railing, her other hand gripping the smooth metal, her gaze avid as she flicked it over the opposing fleet. There was a hunger so deep in her it unsettled him. The very defense his auntie had mounted enticed her, pleased her. Here was a woman so in love with domination that to see her victim squirm and lash back gave her deep-rooted pleasure. He suppressed a shudder.

  “Boarding flags!” A crewman called out.

  “Let them close,” Thratia commanded.

  Detan squinted through the mass of ships. A larger vessel pulled away from the rest, cutting the sky with delicate ease. Four figures stood on the prow of that ship, a mirror to Detan and Thratia’s own position. Detan leaned forward and released Thratia’s hand so that she would not feel his heart thundering through his palms. Dame Honding he knew at a glance, but the others… Ripka? Tibal? He was not sure he could stomach admitting his betrothal to Thratia Ganal with those eyes watching.

  The ship sped closer. Detan took a halting step back, making a low keening sound in his throat. Misol and Aella pressed the space behind him instantly, Aella’s power flowing over him like a balm – he hadn’t even realized he’d reached out his senses.

  He could not yet see the face of the woman standing next to his aunt, but the s
hape of her was forever burned into his memory.

  “What is it?” Thratia asked and, skies curse the woman, there was genuine concern in her voice.

  “Ranalae,” he said.

  She hissed and turned back to watch the ship’s approach, while Detan stood stock-still, a slow pain spreading in his chest.

  “Breathe,” Aella whispered.

  He did. The pain eased.

  “Keep me leashed,” he begged, and she nodded with such serious concern he could have hugged the little witch.

  The ships eased alongside each other. Each thud of a gangplank snapping into place was a nail through Detan’s heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ripka arrived first of the group. Latia had drawn her curtains, but still a warm, homey light escaped around the edges. Ripka wanted nothing more than to drag herself to that door, to pound on it and throw herself on Latia’s fussy ministrations. But it was a bright day, and Latia had drawn the curtains. Whatever was going on inside those walls, she wanted no one to see.

  Enard and Honey could not have possibly made it to Latia’s house before Ripka, hampered as they were by Honey’s injury, and Tibal would not risk knocking on a stranger’s door. Which meant that something else had happened. Something Latia did not want the average gravel of the city to see.

  Ripka leaned her back against the wall of a closed tavern and caught her breath. Silence pervaded the neighborhood so early in the morning, its bohemian residents still in bed or off to see to more mundane chores. The scarce population was a false wind, so far as Ripka was concerned. There were fewer eyes to note her presence, but she stood out like rain on a summer day. Especially standing about in her hotel robe with hints of blood beginning to seep through around her thighs and hips.

  Footfalls alerted her to a passerby, and rather than being spotted she ducked down into a service alley that ran alongside the tavern. It stank of stale ale and fouler things, but Ripka’s watcher training had long ago bashed any squeamishness out of her nostrils.