Inherit the Flame

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  “Where have you been?” she demanded when the young woman had mounted the gangplank.

  Laella’s step stuttered as she dragged herself the rest of the way up onto the deck.

  Coss moved toward her, hesitated, then stopped. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Laella said.

  “What happened?” Jeffin piped up.

  “Where have you been?”

  All heads snapped to her, eyes wide and white in the pale light. Laella reached up, tried to straighten an ashy braid, and quickly gave up. “Wading through the pits,” she said. “It’s a nightmare down there.”

  “What happened?” Coss pressed.

  “One side of that firemount – I don’t know what it’s called. The big one by the palace. Anyway, it went up. Not too hard. Just a puff, I’d guess, but it was enough to kick off a landslide that took out half the residences of the palace district. I was in the theater district when it happened. Saw the whole thing, close as one could without being crushed, anyway.”

  “You’re certain you’re all right?” Coss pressed.

  She nodded, but when Essi dragged a crate over to her she sat down like it was the plushest chair she’d ever touched ass to.

  “Lucky place to be,” Pelkaia said dryly. “Why were you there?”

  Laella stared hard at her for a long moment. “In the theater district? For the theater.”

  Essi snickered. Pelkaia cut her a look and the little brat shut right up. “Seems you’ve been going there a lot, lately.”

  “Not like there’s much to do here,” she snapped.

  Pelkaia stepped toward her. Coss put a hand on her shoulder but she shrugged it off. He’d kept her from tackling this treacherous girl long enough.

  “Bored, are you? Filling your time with other ventures, then? Ones that put you in safe range of one of Thratia’s little demonstrations?”

  “What in the ass-licking pits are you talking about?” Laella shook her head in denial, and though she was playing tired and exasperated to all those aboard, Pelkaia could see the truth in the details of her expression. The tension along her jaw, the flicker of irritation in her eyes. She felt challenged, cornered. The girl was hiding something, and Pelkaia was pretty damn sure she knew what that was.

  “You expect me to believe that all your ventures off this ship have been innocent – what – tourism?”

  Laella’s eyes widened. “You think I’m working for Ganal, don’t you?”

  “Do you deny it?”

  She barked a near-hysteric laugh. “Skies fucking above, Captain, you really have gone off your nut.”

  A few snickers from the crew. Pelkaia shot them all a hard look, and they weren’t so quick to quiet this time around. “You traitorous fucking bastards. I dragged you – all of you! – from the edge of death, and you think I’ve lost my mind? This girl hasn’t been traipsing around the city changing up her appearance every time for nothing.”

  Coss swore. Laella sucked in a sharp, angry breath. “You’ve been following me?”

  “I have a right to know where my people are.”

  She stood in one fluid movement, whatever energy skulking around the city had taken out of her flooding back in one great rush. “Fuck you, and your twisted menagerie, Pelkaia Teria. You’re a paranoid old woman with a hard-on for vengeance. You didn’t save us. You collected us, and I for one am sick of being a token on your insane gameboard. Do. Not. Look. For. Me.”

  “Lael–” Essi reached a hand toward the woman, but she had already turned and was halfway down the gangplank. Pelkaia snorted.

  “Good riddance.”

  Coss shook his head, long and slow. One by one, her crew went to their beds and locked their doors, leaving her alone on the deck, staring at the ashy footprints Laella had left behind, shaking as the mania that’d gripped her earlier faded to little more than shivering exhaustion.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The bundle of servants’ blacks made an obvious bulge beneath the front of his coat, but Detan figured no one would bother to comment on their lord’s new paunch. They had other things to worry about. Not that anyone was about to comment, anyway. The palace residence wings were as empty as a whorehouse come the dawn. Normally he would have resented the lack of an audience, but today he welcomed the solitude. Every gaze he’d caught lately housed a question he just wasn’t able to answer. Not yet, anyway.

  By the time he reached the east wing of the palace he was jumping at shadows, expecting a trail from Misol or any other one of Thratia or Ranalae’s cronies to make themselves known at the most inopportune of moments. This was the area of the building his auntie had handed over to Thratia, and each time he turned a corner he half expected to see her narrow eyes glaring him into a puddle.

  Lady luck, or at least someone pretending to be her, was smiling on him. The empty halls caused him to wonder just what exactly Thratia was up to while he was sneaking about. He had a real nasty feeling that that’d spell trouble for him in the future.

  The future. Hah. Ripka had rubbed off on him. He’d never worried about planning for the future before. Options, flexibility. These were the circumstances he created for himself.

  Not that his previous habits were doing him a whole lotta’ good now.

  Detan strolled along like he belonged there, and probably he did. He could get away with explaining he’d come to see his darling betrothed, if pressed by any wanderers. Thratia wouldn’t buy it, of course, but it’s not like she could kill him until after the happy nuptials.

  He decided it was best not to think about what she could do to him that was worse than killing.

  Gatai had said the girls were being kept in a room with a view of the monsoons, and there was only one he could think of that fit the description. A lot of windows faced the same way ‘round this side of the building, but only one room had been built at an unfortunate angle from a nearby tower that forced the winds to howl incessantly against its exterior, making the balcony all but useless. His auntie stuck guests she didn’t like in that room.

  Whether Thratia knew that or not, he couldn’t guess, but the fact was the winds were likely to keep escape via the window a remote possibility, and the howling would keep any shouts for aid real quiet. She was a clever one, his bloodthirsty little wife-to-be.

  Casting around one last time for visitors, he leaned against the door as if gathering his thoughts, tucked a hand up under the small of his back, and tapped on the wood. No response. Those winds weren’t doing him any good, either. Nothing else for it, then. He gave the door one solid kick with his heel.

  “What the fuck you want us to do, invite you in? Not like we can open the door,” Clink’s familiar voice barked.

  Detan grinned. “I’m not entirely sure I can either, my dears.”

  A pause. “Is that you, Honding?”

  “There are two Hondings in the building at present, but I believe I’m the one you’re referring to.”

  She snorted. “And are you going to be any use this time around?”

  “That’s the idea.” He wished Tibs were with him as he turned his back on the hall and slipped the two picks he’d brought with him into the lock.

  “For fuck’s sake, man, pass me those things. Ain’t named Clink for nothing, you know?”

  He blinked owlishly at the door. “Oh. Right.”

  Though the door was nearly flush with the floor, he managed to wiggle them under just enough to feel Clink snatch them away. Immediately, rattling issued from the knob.

  “Keep it down, yeah?”

  “There’s two ways to do this: quiet and slow, or quick and loud. So shut up, I’m concentrating.”

  In Detan’s experience, slow was the only way to go about picking a lock, but he didn’t count himself dumb enough to argue with a woman who’d taken the name Clink when it came to lockpicking. He bit his lips and crossed his arms to keep from fidgeting as he leaned against the door, hoping the muffle of his back would silence some of the rattling. It didn
’t.

  “Black skies,” he muttered, and was promptly hissed at through the door. Irritable women, these friends of Ripka. But then, he’d probably be pretty pissy too if he’d been locked up to use as leverage against a man he didn’t even know.

  The lock gave with a clatter and he nearly fell ass-first into both women as they pulled it wide. Clink grabbed him by the scruff, dragged him the rest of the way in, and eased the door shut behind him.

  “Skies above, I can’t believe the captain was a friend of yours. Damn incompetent.”

  He made a show of straightening his clothes. “This incompetent has just sprung you both, thank you very much.”

  Clink and Forge exchanged a long look, then glanced pointedly toward the door. “Really? And just how are we getting past, oh, I don’t know, a whole household full of unfriendlies?”

  He patted his protruding belly. “I have an answer for that. But–”

  Forge jabbed him in the chest with a finger. “You want a favor, is that it, Mister Altruism? Thought you were going to set us free out of the goodness of your little heart.”

  He winced and held his hands out in supplication. “You’re in an unfriendly city that’s being threatened with war on all sides. Tell me you wouldn’t go looking for the captain, as you call her.”

  Forge narrowed her eyes. “We might at that. None of your business, noble-boy.”

  “Agreed. But, if you do see her…” He pulled a leather-wrapped packet about the size of his palm from his pocket and passed it over to Clink. She eyed it, weighing it with care.

  “Bit heavy for a love-letter.”

  He snorted. “It’s a few things she might need, that’s all. But don’t worry, I didn’t forget gifts for you ladies, either.”

  He pulled the parcel of servants’ blacks from beneath his coat and laid it out flat on one of the two thin, hard beds that filled the room. The women fingered the material, frowning.

  “Servants’ uniforms?” Forge asked, holding one up to her body. The fit was reasonable enough, if a little large.

  “No better way to go unnoticed in a palace,” Clink said with a little grin.

  “Except by other servants.”

  “Ah, but they are very much on your side. You have only to make it to the central pantry, and you will be smuggled off into the city from there.”

  “And how do we get to this pantry?” Clink asked, eyes narrowed.

  “I will escort you, of course.”

  “The pits you will. Nothing doing, Honding. We appreciate you’ve gotten us this far but you’re a peacock in this nest. Servants may go unnoticed, but everyone notices you.”

  Blasted woman was right, no matter how he hated the fact. The role he’d chosen to play here wasn’t exactly one conducive to sneaking about. And the lord of the palace caught skulking with a couple of maids, even if they weren’t recognized, wouldn’t do him any good either.

  “Fine,” he said. “But I’ll precede you to the end of this wing as a lookout.”

  “Deal.”

  He explained the way to the pantry in broad strokes, steering them clear of the populous areas. The girls made quick work of changing their clothes. Detan was relieved as anything to see Forge slip the packet he’d given them for Ripka securely on the inside of her crisp top. It was no guarantee, but it was something. Enough to ease the tension coiled within him.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Nods from both. No time like the present for a little skullduggery, then. He pressed his ear against the door, listening for a few slow breaths to be sure they wouldn’t troop straight into some random’s path, then cracked the door just a sliver. All clear.

  A peacock, they’d called him. He could work with that. Shoving his hands in his pockets he sauntered into the hall, a pleased smile slapped across his features and what he hoped was a jaunty tilt to his chin. Tibs would probably tell him he looked stupid but, this time around, that was the point.

  The hall was clear right to the end, then Detan damned near tripped over a man strutting about in one of the grey coats of Thratia’s militia. His heart jumped clear to his throat.

  He over-exaggerated a stumble, forcing the man back down the hall that intersected the one the others were in, and threw his arms out to puff his coat and obscure any tell-tale signs of black. Servant’s garb or not, if they stumbled across someone who knew their faces, it was all over.

  “Whoa,” the militiaman said as he put an arm on Detan’s shoulder to steady him. “You all right, sir? Look like you seen a ghost.”

  “Didn’t hear you coming, good man. This wing of the palace is dreadfully quiet. Why is that? Where is everyone?”

  The man’s face scrunched under the one-two punch of questions, trying to find a place to latch onto without overstepping his position too much. Detan made a show of straightening his clothes while the man thought, flapping about and generally being an annoyance.

  “Lots to be seen to, sir, and it’s still early yet.” Was the answer he eventually arrived upon. Which possibly told Detan more about the militiaman than he’d intended. Bloodshot eyes. Droopy, sallow cheeks. Detan knew the look of a man sneaking away for a nap when he saw one.

  “Indeed.” He put on a lofty tone of voice, looking down his nose at him. “And with so much to do, what are you doing back at the apartments, then, forget something?”

  “Oh. I. Uh, er…”

  Detan put an arm around the man’s shoulders, turned him back down the hall from which he’d come, and lowered his voice to whisper conspiratorially. “I understand, man, I do. Thratia’s one pits-cursed taskmistress, isn’t she? But I can’t just let you saunter on. Hurry back to your duty, and I’ll have the servants bring you some bright eye berry.”

  The man swallowed. “You won’t report me?”

  “Me? Nah. Truthfully, I understand. It’s been a long couple of days, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  He bobbed his head a few times in an awkward half-bow, half-salute, and trundled off down the hall as quick as his leaden legs would let him. When he was well and truly gone, Detan let out a huge sigh of relief and grinned to himself. Still got it.

  “Way’s clear, ladies.” He grabbed the corner of the wall and swung around to face them.

  They’d already gone.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Ripka had stood in front of a lot of crowds in her time as watch-captain. Had given her fair share of speeches, most of them structured in the formal trappings of her station. Each time she’d felt calm, assured. She knew her place, and the people she addressed knew it, too.

  Now, her stomach coiled in knots. The forum was a much bigger venue than Dranik had made it out to be, and after the eruption the people of Hond Steading had come out in force to discuss the matters of their city.

  On the edge of the palace district, shoved up against the backside of the main market, an amphitheater had been carved into the ground. Bright morning sunlight spilled across the hundreds of eager and wary faces crowded into the stone-cut benches, the steady rustle of cloth and murmur of voices reduced to a low hum by the fine acoustics. As Ripka lined up with all of those who wished to speak along the side of the stage, half the eyes in the place clung to her like thorns. Of all those lined up, she was the outsider. The one speaker the citizens did not recognize as a regular.

  No different than quelling a riotous crowd, she told herself, and had to stifle a wolfish grin lest those watching think she was mad. At least these people were less likely to try and tear her limbs off.

  “Next up,” the organizer boomed from above the podium. “Ripka Leshe, of Aransa.”

  Game time. Her fear fled in a flash, anxiety melting from her limbs as her focus narrowed to the podium, and the crowd. There was nothing else in all the world.

  Dranik followed her, standing a respectable distance behind her as she placed her palms on the cool stone lectern and leaned earnestly forward. He was not there to speak. Everyone who frequented the forum knew hi
m, and knew that his physical presence was a silent endorsement of what she had to say.

  “People of Hond Steading,” she began, thanking the sweet skies for Latia’s knowledge of tea that her voice was smooth and without hitch. She pitched her tone low, going for carriage, and the clever acoustics of the forum did the rest. “I am the watch-captain of Aransa, or was on the day that city fell, and I have come to tell you of what happened in the streets that day.”

  Outbursts in the crowd, indistinct but clear in tone: shock, smug recognition. She held up a fist to silence them and, to her surprise, they quieted immediately.

  “The day Aransa lost its right to determine its own warden, its own leadership, the streets were flooded with coats of grey.” She tipped her head to point toward the shadow of the Dread Wind over the Honding palace. Any citizen aware enough of the city’s events to attend this forum must have seen Thratia’s militia about, their grey uniforms a ghostly contrast to the ruling family’s black.

  “It was my job, my duty, my honor, to protect that city’s right to govern itself under the guidance of Valathean law. I failed that night. I failed in the weeks leading up to that night. And I have come to you, today, to tell you all the ways in which I have failed. So that you – so that we – may not fail again.”

  She gathered breath to dive into her next point when a man shouted from the front bench, “Who says a city has fallen just because Thratia Ganal governs it?”

  Murmurs of assent spread out around him. The organizer scowled and stepped forward, intent on silencing the man, but Ripka held up a hand to stay him. If she did not face criticism head-on, she would win no one’s mind or heart today.

  “Speak your name, dissenter,” she said.

  He stood, a thatch of grey hair set aglow atop his head by the angle of the sun. “I am Hammod. All who attend this forum regularly know me.”

  She ignored the scorn in his voice, the hint that because she was not a regular here, she was not welcome. “Hammod. Have you met someone who has lived under Thratia’s rule?”