Inherit the Flame

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  If Callia hadn’t dipped that needle into his vein, he might have believed her. Might have tried just that. But he could see it, now. That infinitesimal world beyond the ken of unaltered eyes. Sel wasn’t something that one could run from, not on this world, anyway. It was in his blood and his air and his bones, and even if he fled clear to the other side of the world, he suspected he’d find it there, too.

  Running just prolonged the inevitable. He paced the length of his room, juggling options, when a solid knock on the door made him damn near jump out of his skin. He cleared his throat to get his dignity back, and said in the most authoritative voice he could muster, “Enter.”

  A parlour maid he didn’t recognize let herself in, and offered up to him a thick package wrapped in coarse linen. “Master Gatai said I should bring this to you, straightaway.”

  “My thanks.” He took the bundle from her, tucked it under his arm to the sound of rustling cloth and paper. She bobbed her head and made a dash for the door, then paused halfway out with her hand still on the knob, a little worried wrinkle dimpling her chin.

  His stomach sank as she glanced back over her shoulder at him, eyes a little wide with worry. “My Lord?” she asked.

  He forced himself to smile, knowing what was coming. She’d ask about the eruption. She must know his secret, probably the whole city did. Thratia certainly wasn’t trying to hide his deviation. Would she be so bold as to claim the destruction he’d wrought in his name?

  Despite the stew of fear in his head, his voice was cool, calm. “Yes?”

  “Nice to have you back, you don’t mind my saying.”

  She flashed him a grin and darted out the door in a rustle of skirts. Detan nearly burst into a fit of anxious laughter. Gatai had said the servants were with him. There must be outliers, of course, people bought over to Ranalae or Thratia or who just plain didn’t like him. But, skies above, to have any support at all was a balm.

  He made quick work of the package and found two servants’ black uniforms with a folded note tucked inside. Gatai’s precise handwriting greeted him.

  My Lord Honding,

  Your guests await you in the eastern wing, and have a lovely view of the oncoming monsoon winds. Recent events require my attention, but I trust you will handle all things with care.

  Your Servant,

  Gatai

  A lot could be hidden behind servants’ black, or so his auntie had said, and Detan grinned as he thumbed the fine material. While all eyes were off him, it was time to make a few social calls.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Latia welcomed the watch-captain of Hond Steading into her home with little more shock than a slight widening of eyes and what was, perhaps, a rather heavy pour of wine into her own glass. Honey was less pleased with the situation.

  “He tried to arrest you,” she protested from the divan Latia had propped her up in with heaps of pillows, and teas that, no doubt, made her tongue looser than usual.

  “Won’t make that mistake again,” Falston said with a smile that never quite reached his eyes. He kept on looking at Honey like he knew her, which was, as far as Ripka could reckon, not a good thing. She’d never pressed Honey on what had landed her on the Remnant, but she could damn well guess, and if the captain had any prior knowledge of her exploits his friendliness might well fade in a hurry.

  “What happened tonight,” she said to draw his attention to her, “may be only the first demonstration.”

  That got his attention. His head whipped around like the wind, eyes narrowed. “Demonstration? Is that what you call tonight’s horrors?”

  “Me? No. But you bet your ass Thratia Ganal does.” She wasn’t sure, of course, but Detan had been the source of that explosion – and there was just no way she could allow herself to believe he’d done it of his own free will. Someone pushed him to it, and Thratia had both the means and the access. Whatever power struggle was going on in the Honding palace, Thratia had just made the breadth of her arsenal very, very clear to her opponents. Ranalae was probably wetting herself with excitement at that little display.

  “And why in the hell would she want to wound and scare the ever-loving shit out of the very people she claims she wants to rule with a benevolent hand?”

  Ripka’s smile was tight and sad. “Never said it was a demonstration for the people, Captain.”

  He knocked back a heavy swallow and squinted at her. “Cut to the point, lass.”

  “This marriage of hers to Detan. It isn’t what you think it is. Isn’t what the whole city thinks it is.”

  Tibal cleared his throat roughly and she cut him a look to shut him up. They needed the watchers on their side if they were going to protect the people from whatever struggles were going on in that palace, and if she had to expose Detan’s deviation, then so be it. Wouldn’t be much longer he could keep that information under wraps, anyway, no matter what he did. Either Thratia’d let the cat out of the cave, or he would do something rather dumb, and rather public.

  “That accident, three years back? The one he lost his sel-sense in?”

  Falston nodded. “Whole city knows that story, lass. Dame sent him to Valathea to see if he could recover his sense, but he left there and went rambling, causing trouble for the empire. Truth be told, the city is fond of their heir. Not a lot of love here for the empire, you understand. What with us being independent and all. We get the shit end of their trade taxes.”

  Ripka found her lips had grown heavy. She took a long swallow, closed her eyes, and breathed out real easy. There was no going back from this. But then, they were already in the shit up to their eyeballs.

  “Wasn’t his sel-sense he lost, just his freedom. He’s a deviant, Captain Falston. He didn’t mean to, but he caused that explosion, and he was sent to the Bone Tower to figure out just how that trick of his worked.”

  Falston sucked air through his two front teeth, gapped just like his little girl’s, and stared at the silty bottom of his empty glass. Latia scurried to refill it. He took another long draw. “Heard rumors of that nature. Never counted ‘em for much.”

  “And?” she pressed, stomach sinking.

  “Heard rumors of the Bone Tower, too, and those I thought likely enough. Nasty shit, there. Is it true?”

  “Worse than the rumors know.”

  “Pitsdamn. What is our Dame doing, letting those vipers in her house?”

  Ripka shook her head. She wasn’t quite sure she knew herself, but the last thing she wanted was the watchers turning against their Dame now, when everything was on the line.

  “Couldn’t rightly tell you. I think they got into her head, Detan told me–” She had to clear her throat. “–told me they talked her up with ideas of curing him, of making him safe again. I think she bought it all. Regrets it now, more than like, but he hasn’t been home since he went to that tower. I don’t know that they ever talked about it.” Her gaze tracked to the window, toward the blown head of the firemount. “Bet they’re talking about it now.”

  “What in the fiery pits is he doing back here, then, if his power’s so unstable? I’d want to stay far away from firemounts, in his position.”

  Tibal snorted, and Ripka cut him a look. Falston might be tired and a touch drunk, but he picked up on it in an instant. “What’s that you’ve got to say then, man?”

  “Now’s not the time for this,” Ripka urged.

  “Pits it isn’t.” Falston set his glass down and gripped his knees with both hands as he leaned forward. “You’re telling me a mountain of a tale, Captain. I got a lot of respect for you, you know that, but something this big, I gotta make sure I see all the faces. Tell your part then, man.”

  Tibal nudged back his ashy hat and frowned at them both. “Detan was a friend of mine, long time now. Just reckoning that he ain’t ever been known for his sense.”

  Falston grimaced. “All that power, and no sense? We got to get him the pits out of this city.”

  She could see the notion dancing around in his red-webb
ed, glassy eyes. Quick as he said the words, his mind caught up with the possibility. If they couldn’t get him out safely, they’d have to kill him. To protect the city. After tonight’s demonstration, Ripka’d be thinking the same thing if their roles were reversed. If Detan had so much as made the firemount of Aransa hiccup while she’d been the city’s watch-captain, she’d put an arrow in his eye and mourn the loss as necessary for the greater good.

  Even now, she didn’t know the man’s state of mind. Had only her own intuition and experience with him to rely upon, but she had to believe he hadn’t done tonight’s damage on purpose. The man she’d known, the man she knew, would rather run than risk an innocent. Which meant he was cornered so hard he had nowhere to flee.

  “He’s a prisoner,” she said slowly, rolling every word over in her mind before she spoke. “What happened tonight? That was his doing, but not his will.”

  “You can’t promise that,” Falston protested. “He’s a Honding. Solid leaders, but known for their tempers.”

  She couldn’t promise him, not really, and it tore her up right to the core. She struggled with something else to say, something to convince the man that keeping Detan safe – and getting him away from his captors – was the best possible course of action. But every one of those paths was a lie, and the words died halfway to her lips.

  Silence stretched, and with every passing moment an empty maw inside her grew, gnawing up her hope and her sympathy. Removing Detan – assassinating Detan – was the best thing for this city. Thratia wouldn’t have her pawn, her weapon, and the city’d be safe from his outbursts. It made terrible, terrible sense.

  “I promise it,” Tibal said.

  He pushed his hat all the way back so the room could see his eyes, the mudcrack fractures of wrinkles radiating from the corners. In the dim candlelight, caked all over with the dust of rubble, he seemed older. Ancient. Something in the sharp edge of his wiry jaw reminded her of Dame Honding when she was putting on her game face.

  “Forgive me, sir.” Falston swung around to face Tibal. “But who the pits are you to guarantee such a thing?”

  Tibal thought a moment, lips pursing as he chewed over an answer. “His friend. And that’s all that should thrice-damned matter.”

  He cut Ripka a glance that made her wince. “Tibal’s right. Doesn’t matter what Thratia’s done to him, Detan’s no killer. He’s a prisoner, and he needs our help. I’ve no doubt he’s planning to undermine Thratia before this is all done. He’ll need the watch’s help, too.”

  Falston leaned back, wicker creaking, and stared hard at Tibal for a while. If he saw the family resemblance, diluted though it was, he didn’t say anything. Just chucked back the rest of his drink and nodded.

  “Right, then. We have an awful lot to plan, and very little time. When do you lot suppose he’ll make his move?”

  Tibal snort-laughed. “The wedding, no doubt. Damn fool likes an audience for his self-diagnosed cleverness.”

  “Hmm.” Falston stroked his whiskers and frowned. “Watch is looking kind of thin lately, and the wedding’ll draw out a big crowd. Hard to keep our corners covered, especially with a chunk of the inner wall down.”

  “Wedding’s a week out,” Ripka offered. “Not a lot of time to train, but we could get some bodies on board all the same.”

  Dranik jumped to his feet. “A citizen’s brigade!”

  Falston frowned. “A what now?”

  “Citizen’s brigade,” he over-pronounced each word as he paced, rubbing his raw hands together. “After the quake tonight, it should be no trouble to get people interested in joining up to protect their neighborhoods. Tell them it’s a preparedness plan, in case of emergencies natural and political. They’ll get it, I’m sure. So many people in this city are just looking for a way to help it themselves. They love their homes, Captain. Let them throw in.”

  “And how would we go about getting the word out about something like that?”

  Dranik beamed from ear-to-ear. “The forum, of course. Tomorrow is a free speech day, you won’t even have to sign up in advance, Ripka.”

  “Me?” She coughed on a drop of wine gone down wrong. “Need I remind you I’m a fugitive of the palace?”

  “Bah,” he waved a hand, “everyone around here’s heard of the watch-captain of Aransa. And I bet Captain Lakon’s watchers will be just too busy with the rebuilding effort to go after you. Isn’t that right, Captain?”

  Falston grinned. “Better her up there than me.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Coss insisted she was being paranoid, but what in the Black did he know? The crew avoided her. Barely spoke to her. Kept their eyes averted every time she passed. She might be a sick woman in both bone and brain, but she wasn’t stupid. Never that. Paranoia ran in her blood but it didn’t own her. Nothing did. Not even the land that’d birthed her.

  She reveled in the silence of the light step she’d spent her whole life cultivating as she paced back and forth across her cabin, back and forth, hands clasped tight behind the small of her back, head pointed down. She wasn’t foolish enough to risk catching another glimpse of her naked face in the mirror, not after what she’d seen last time. Her mother’s face, staring back at her, young again and eyes bright with the madness that had taken her grandmother to her grave. Sweating and raving and beating her breasts.

  Pelkaia stopped pacing, realized she’d forced her hands up and was pulling at her hair, clumps of dirty blonde strung between her fingers. She flicked them to the floor and strode over them. Silent. Silent. She was a hunter, an agent of revenge. In one night she’d brought Aransa to its knees for what its officials had let happen to her son. Why should she shy away now, now, when the ultimate author of her son’s death – the real author, the woman who had signed her damn name to the paper – was near at hand?

  There was nothing for it. Her crew was against her. Thought her mad. Wouldn’t so much as lift a finger to help her. Their laziness made them complacent. No, worse, implicated – yes, she was sure that was the word. In doing nothing they were as much a part of Thratia’s schemes as her militia was.

  Maybe, if she could prove to Coss that they were working against her, working for that bitch Thratia, then Coss would see. Would come over to her side of things. Beg forgiveness. Help her knock Thratia from the sky and into the dirt.

  The obvious choice was Laella. That girl was pure Valathean aristocracy, though she did her best to hide it around Pelkaia. But you couldn’t hide who you were from her, oh no. Pelkaia had made a life of studying the mannerisms of others so that she could copy them. Could pick and choose what she needed to construct a new, false persona or imitate an old one. Laella was good, but no one was good enough to hide from Pelkaia. She saw every twitch, every hidden smirk, every lofty mannerism. That girl was full of herself. And hiding something. Didn’t she sneak off the ship at all hours?

  Where was she now?

  Chill night air blasted against her skin as she opened the door, the scent of ash and fire heavy on the air. Pelkaia threw an annoyed scowl at the sky. Her crew, all of them, milled around the deck of the Larkspur, peering over the rails, pointing and talking in low, worried voices.

  “What’s happened?” she demanded, stalking up to the rail to stand alongside Coss. He shifted his coat from his shoulders and settled it over hers. She hadn’t even realized she’d strode out into the night in little more than her leggings and shift. But then, half the crew looked like they’d been rustled out of bed, too – mussed hair and coats thrown over nightclothes. Had something awakened her? She couldn’t even remember.

  “Trouble with the firemount by the palace. Had a small blowout a few marks back, but seems to have settled down now.”

  “Thratia.”

  He raised both brows at her. “Really? And what would she have to do with a perfectly natural occurrence?”

  “Don’t be daft. She has the Honding. I told him to leave this place before he did harm. How bad?”

  Coss looke
d away from her, hunkering his shoulders so that he leaned slightly back from her side. “Hard to say. Relief’s been at it all night. Some of us wanted to go lend a hand, but looters come out on nights like this. Didn’t want to leave the ship unwatched.”

  Pelkaia stifled a need to point out that such decisions were hers to make. She’d had her fill of arguing with Coss as of late, and though she balked at his supposition that she had grown untrustworthy and unwell, a tiny piece of her, some calm core separated from the manic desperation that hummed through her, wondered if he were right. If she should just hand over the ship’s control to him, and seek help. Or lay down to die. Was it too soon for that?

  She’d forgotten how old she was, again. That couldn’t be a good sign.

  The dock they’d hired berthage at creaked as a single pair of footsteps pattered toward them. Laella. Her hands were white with dust, her hair and robes streaked with more of the same. In the faint lantern light of the docks, a heavy mask of makeup had been smeared across her features, sweat and grit mingling on her skin in sticky clumps. She walked like a woman exhausted, a woman defeated, but not a woman who’d been injured.

  Pelkaia’s eyes narrowed. That the girl had been out was no surprise, but that she’d been out on a night when Thratia’s little demonstration was made, well. Thratia knew damned well the type of people living aboard the Larkspur. Though the Dame had given them express permission to stay in the city, there was nothing stopping Thratia from reaching out to a wayward deviant who spent more time off the Larkspur than on it.

  Wouldn’t Thratia just love that, too? Twisting the mind of a woman Pelkaia had saved. Stealing a human being’s loyalties from the woman who’d taken her ship. Laella’d be the perfect mark. Leaving all the time, already closely tied to Valathean nobility. Gods beneath the dunes, the two might even know each other through previous social circles. Laella’s family had been high-born, rich mercers. The kind of people Thratia loved to use.

  Her fingers curled protectively around the Larkspur’s rail. There would be no spy of Thratia’s aboard her ship.