Inherit the Flame

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  His cheeks flamed red. “Cowards calling themselves refugees is all we’ve seen come through Hond Steading. Opportunists seeking succor from the Dame’s teat, more like. Anyone with any grit has stayed in Aransa. She was elected, as you know. Fair as a calm sky.”

  “Elected? And who counted those votes? Commodore Ganal stepped into a power vacuum that her own games had caused–” Ripka carefully danced over the issue of Pelkaia’s involvement. “–and assumed control without the consent of the people. No voting ever took place when I walked those streets, and I left on the day she decided to call herself Warden.”

  “Left? I heard you were run out. A traitor made to walk the Black Wash. Why in the pits should we listen to you?”

  Ripka hadn’t counted on that story making it to Hond Steading, but of course Thratia would have it spread. She’d been in the city long enough to set her people to whispering – and even before then, Ripka had no doubt that Thratia’s counterintelligence were working hard to keep Hond Steading’s loyalties divided. Explaining the circumstances of that walk, her so-called execution, would take too long – and muddy the waters. She needed something quick, sharp, if not entirely truthful, to clear her name.

  “If I had walked the Black, would I be alive to stand before you today?”

  Awkward shifting from those in the front rows who had murmured on Hammod’s behalf. No one survived the Black. That was common knowledge. And if she had, then she certainly didn’t fit Hammod’s mold of a cowardly opportunist trying to take advantage of the Dame’s hospitality. Before Hammod could gather himself for another volley, she pressed on.

  “This is what Thratia does! She gives herself all appearance of legitimacy, pretends to legally hold the things she’s actually taken. Do you think she came here simply for a wedding?”

  Ripka jabbed a finger at the sky, and the silhouetted fleet hanging in it. No one could doubt those ships had been outfitted for war, not romance.

  “Do not let her poison your minds. Do not let her assume control through your complacence. We have already seen a demonstration of her willingness to cause destruction to achieve her desires – yes, I place the blame of last night’s eruption at her feet. Do you not think she has a weapon capable of demonstrating such power aboard that fortress ship of hers?

  “That was a message for the Dame and her troops. But it was a message you, the people of Hond Steading, must hear. The watch is not enough to keep these streets safe, I promise you that. More souls are needed. Able, quick-minded individuals who want to keep their home, their city, safe. There is no telling what Thratia will do next. I cannot guarantee anyone’s safety.

  “She will try to take this city legally – by marrying its heir. And I tell you this, he wants no part of that plan. But your ruling family is being held prisoner. Their hands are tied. It is up to you to protect yourselves, now. The time for polite discourse has passed.”

  A few whoops from the audience gave her heart, but the crowd was mostly inclined to quiet chatter. Her heart sank. This was the wrong audience for this. These were people who wanted to talk out their problems. A good and noble thing – but Thratia Ganal would let you talk all day while she maneuvered a crossbow behind your back.

  Hammod scowled and stomped off toward the line to speak, cutting her a hard glare. Ripka closed her eyes a moment, head bowed over the podium. She knew the rules. Dranik had explained them to her. If she stood mute for more than a minute, she would be removed, and the next in line would have a chance to speak. They could go back and forth like this all day, bickering over the ethics, the legality, while Thratia’s warship had a speargun pointed at all their necks.

  She laughed, loud enough to be heard, and lifted her head, letting her tired eyes roam those gathered. When all had quieted, she lifted her hands, her raw and bleeding fingers, and examined them in the harsh morning light.

  “Last night I dug the bodies of your fellow citizens from the ruin of their homes. Forgive me if I am short of words.” She put her hands back down, gripping the edge of the podium. “If you wish your city to survive the coming weeks, come see me. Otherwise, make use of this forum while you can. Thratia will not let you keep it long.”

  She strode off the stage to profound silence, and did not bother to stop to sign her name in the speaker’s log as was tradition. Her hands shook with anger at her sides, her focus so narrowed that all she could see was the route out of this place – this place of pointless bickering.

  Once out on the street, she tipped her head back and glared at the sun, then flicked her eyes away before they could ache. She was going to lose another city to Thratia Ganal. She didn’t know what she wanted to do more: strangle someone, or drink herself stupid.

  A footstep crunched behind her, hesitant. She spun, expecting Dranik.

  A young man she didn’t recognize jumped back from her sudden attention, pupils wide. “Captain Leshe?” he asked.

  “Miss Leshe suits me fine,” she said by reflex.

  His grin was fierce. “Not to me. Not to us.”

  She blinked. Over his shoulder, a few dozen youths filtered out of the forum, shifting anxiously in the dusty street, each and every one trying to get a good, long look at her. She forced herself to pick her head up, to push her shoulders back, but found she’d never left that posture behind after all.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, not daring to hope. They weren’t all young, some grey heads mingled in the group, their numbers swelling until Ripka couldn’t keep count.

  “Where do we sign up?”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  After Clink and Forge so rudely abandoned him to seek their freedom, Detan paced the empty residence halls of the palace, wondering just what in the pits everyone was up to, but not quite curious enough to go find out for himself. It’d be just his luck Ranalae was planning some new heinous experiment for him. Or worse, his auntie and Thratia were busy picking out decorations for the wedding.

  Thing was, he knew where he was going from the moment he wandered away from the east wing. Knew where his feet were leading him, though he didn’t allow himself to approach the thought. There was one place in the palace he’d avoided since coming home. One room he hadn’t dared to poke his head into.

  Tibal’s.

  The door swung open easily under his hand. Unlatched, unlocked. Left ajar, as was often Tibs’s way when he was head-deep in a project and couldn’t be bothered with niceties like closing doors and bathing. A fan of dust cleared away in the wake of the door. Not even the servants had bothered to touch his room. Detan couldn’t blame them. Last time he’d tried to polish a wrench Tibs hadn’t talked to him for a week.

  It’d been the longest they’d gone without talking, before the Remnant.

  He stepped inside. His fancy, polished boots felt strange clicking across the gritty floor. Tibs’s sheets were a twisted mess on the narrow bed, his tools spread out around the room in a pattern that made perfect sense to Tibs, and no one else. Detan reached for a hammer, thought better of it, and pulled his hand away before his fingers had brushed the surface. Touching Tibs’s tools pissed him off, and though he’d probably never be privy to Detan’s little saunter through this room, the habit was ingrained. Living as close together as they had on the flier had given them both clear boundaries to be respected. Mostly so they wouldn’t kill each other.

  He shivered. Tibs had left the door to the airship dock open, probably never bothered to close the thing the whole time he was here. Damned man never felt the cold, not even during the harshest of winter nights in the highlands of the desert. Despite the airflow, the subtle scent of machine grease and leather clung to the fabric in the room. A phantom of Tibs’s presence.

  A long, dingy linen curtain hung in the doorway to the airship dock. It fluttered in the faint breeze, kicking up swirls of dust. He pushed it aside, and stepped onto the dock.

  The Happy Birthday Virra! was in the best shape he’d ever seen her. Her woodwork had been polished to a high, glossy shee
n, her brass fittings bright as flame. Tibs had tied her sails and pulled in the wings, but he didn’t need to see either unfurled to know they’d been replaced with better stock, the broadcloth sails gleaming with wax, the stabilizing wings webbed with fresh, supple leather. This was a ship ready to fly.

  Tibs could have taken off at any time. Could have turned his back on everything that’d gone wrong between them. But instead he’d waited, and worked, and cleaned up the old bird until there was nothing left to polish.

  “Where are you?” Detan asked the breeze.

  The deck swayed under his step, a familiar sensation that almost made him choke up from pure longing. Without thought, he moved to the captain’s podium, ignoring the empty nav deck behind him, and put his hands upon the primary wheel, set his legs in the wide stance he took while piloting.

  He could leave. The flier was ready to go. There were probably provisions in its hold, and all his old clothes and trinkets. Money, too, and the means of making more counterfeit grains. Without him, Thratia would have no legal claim to the city. She’d have to take it by force. And he had no doubt she would.

  He sighed and stepped back from the podium, peeling his hands away from the warm wood reluctantly. A corner of paper caught his eye, wedged beside one of the smaller wheels.

  He plucked it free, annoyed that debris had gotten caught there, and nearly choked on his own spit.

  Sirra scrawled across the outside in Tibs’s sloppy script. He opened it.

  * * *

  Knew this would get you. Just couldn’t resist the old bird, could you? Pains me to leave her here, but the Dame’s getting itchy with me and I can’t stick ‘round much longer. I think Ripka’s got some sort of plan, but she’s mighty pissed with me, so I don’t know if she’ll let me in.

  Sirra. Detan. Look. You know I ain’t good with words. I don’t even know if you don’t already know what I’m trying to tell you. Thing is, Dame’s getting itchy because she knows my parents. Knew my pop, anyway. You remember your old uncle Rew? I’m his bastard, sorry to say. Not many knew, only my ma and the Dame. But when you went to the Bone Tower the Dame went a-huntin’ for Rew’s blowbys and found me. Heir and a spare, you know? But I don’t want it. Never had. Keeping you out of too much trouble kept my sorry ass from getting branded for next in line, and I’m sorry for that.

  Thing is, keeping your sorry ass out of trouble may have been the deal I made with the Dame to start, but that changed. We ain’t cousins. We’re friends, and that matters more than any blood. If you can’t see that, you’re dumber than that rock you got for brains.

  Guess you know why we got matchin’ tempers, now.

  Don’t do anything too stupid. I’ll see you soon.

  * * *

  The paper trembled in his hand, and it didn’t have a thing to do with the wind.

  “Honding, are you in here?” Thratia asked.

  Detan near jumped out of his skin. He folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket, trying desperately to gather himself. She was across Tibs’s room in a moment, shoved the curtain aside and squinted at him with tired, dull eyes. They sharpened in a hurry, though, as she focused in on him standing on the deck of the flier, just behind the captain’s podium.

  “Leaving so soon?”

  “Just checking her fitness,” he said and shrugged, strolling across the deck. It took everything he had to jump down to the dock while maintaining nonchalance. “By the look of you, you’re the one preparing a run. Getting cold feet, dearest?”

  Not so much as a frown. She gripped his elbow and steered him back into Tibs’s room, out of the light and into the gloom. She looked even more haggard in the half-dark.

  “While you’ve been checking on your toy, I’ve been working with the Dame to secure aid for those damaged by your little outburst. It’s taken damn near every apothik I brought with me, and supplies are running low. What in the pits did you do?”

  The words fell as a blow to the chest. Thratia hadn’t been doing anything nefarious while he’d been running around getting Forge and Clink freed. She’d been hip-deep in the rescue relief, working alongside his auntie to get the city tidied up. She’d been right where he should have been, if he had any sense at all.

  “You want to know what I did,” he grated, “ask Aella and Ranalae.”

  “I did. I want it from you.”

  “They ambushed me. Pushed me as hard as they could thinking they could control me, and it turns out they couldn’t. That enough for you? To know your nasty little friends tried to make me choke to death on selium and I damn near tore the city apart because I couldn’t help myself?”

  That wasn’t tiredness in her eyes, he realized now. That was regret, plain as the sky was blue. She’d counted on Aella’s ability to control him, counted on her own, probably, and now she was looking at him like he was a defanged snake who’d grown new teeth.

  “Can you control yourself in the future?”

  “You keep that bitch Ranalae away from me, and we’ll see,” he snapped. But it was the wrong thing to say, and he knew it the moment it was past his lips. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw tensed. The second she was done with him, the second she had a marriage contract or an heir in her belly or whatever the fuck else she wanted off him – he was dead. Or worse, she’d hand him over to Ranalae to make nice with Valathea while she gathered herself for another push in some other Scorched city.

  “I’ll instruct her to avoid you.”

  “You’ll instruct the diplomat of an empire in which you hold no standing, to stay away from a man in a house where you also hold no power?”

  “No power?” She snorted. “A formality that will soon be resolved. The wedding’s in a week, Honding. Try to leave us a city to rule in the meantime.”

  “Us? Don’t pretend to me, of all fucking people, that I’ll have any say in matters once you have your contract signed.”

  She sighed and shook her head, the sharpened pins she wore in her braids clinking. “I’d prefer a partner, at the very least. You know my motives.”

  “Am I not a prisoner, then?”

  Again, that tension in the jaw. “You never were.”

  Technically. He wanted to scream technically into her calm face. But that was how she did things. Pushed people around until she’d gotten them positioned to do the things she wanted of them of their own will. But she’d given his leash a bit of length, and he wasn’t about to lose it.

  “Then I’m free to leave the palace?”

  Her gaze flicked to the Dread Wind, positioned to destroy the city if she decided to take it by force. Subtle, but effective in chilling him straight to the core. That was the thing about Thratia. Her best threats were the ones she never said out loud. “You are.”

  “Excellent. I have an errand to run.” He turned from her, strode toward the flier like he had every right in the world to take it.

  “Honding,” her voice held an edge, a warning.

  He threw a cheerful grin at her over his shoulder and blew a kiss. “Fear not, sweetums, I’ll be back before dark. Feel free to smash the city to pieces if I’m not.”

  “Honding!”

  But he was already on the deck of the flier, the tie-ropes kicked free. The day was calm, his sel-sense was keener than it’d ever had been. He didn’t even need the sails as he unfurled the flier’s wings, and took to the sky.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Falston gave the watcher training grounds over to Ripka, and a single watcher for each dozen recruits that came for the citizens’ brigade. They were slow to learn, sweating in the sticky desert sun, the monsoon winds blowing in off the northern coast heavy with moisture. But they were passionate, and brave, and in the end that was all Ripka could expect of them.

  She sat on one of the benches lining the training ground, watching the last of them get put through their paces in the safe use of a baton, a bandana wrapped around her forehead to keep the sweat out of her eyes. Soreness suffused her, but she couldn’t remember the last time she�
�d been this at peace.

  Lakon spotted her sitting there, broke off his conversation with a watcher administrator, and strolled over. “Pleased with the results thus far, Captain?”

  “Better than I could have hoped for. They’re green, that’s for sure, but they’ve got more passion than most first year watchers I ever saw. At least this lot isn’t in it for the pay.”

  “Got a lot of opportunists like that, in Aransa?”

  She shrugged. “No more than usual in any city. Living in the Scorched isn’t an easy life. I don’t begrudge them signing up if their heart isn’t in it, so long as they do the job and do it well.”

  “Those tend to learn to love the work, in time.”

  “If they have a strong leader.”

  “If they do.”

  He cast her a sly look, and she tipped her head back against the wall, chuckling.

  “Enough patting ourselves on the back. What are you doing for dinner tonight, Leshe?”

  She blinked. “Me? Back to Latia’s, more than like. I owe that woman a fistful of grains for the care she’s given me.”

  “Kalliah, my little girl, wants you to come by to eat with us. Been talking about that ‘lady captain’ since the day she saw you come by the station house.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “She’s six years old, doesn’t have to have a reason. And anyway, the wife and I would like to have you.”

  She glanced sideways to the courtyard, where Enard and Honey were putting a few late-night recruits through some basic combat training while Tibal looked on. Falston must have caught the look, because he snorted and said, “They can spare you a night. You’ve done a lot for this city. Let us give a little back.”

  “All right, all right. Let me clean up first, I’ll meet you there.”

  “Don’t keep us waiting,” he said, and passed her a note with a hasty diagram on it outlining the directions to his home from the station house. She took it and raised both brows at him.