“That won’t take long to work. We should be ready.”
Enard nodded and sat his still-full cup carefully down on a passing dish-tray. Ripka and Honey followed suit. “I have a feeling there’s little we can do until the action starts. With luck, the Lord Honding will inform us further.”
“Have you seen Captain Lakon? I should warn him.”
“Sir, please, wait your turn,” a guard was saying firmly at the front of the room. Ripka pressed to her toes to see over the heads of those around her. Tibal stood in front of the couple’s banquet table, swaying with drink, a cup still clutched in one hand. Not the honey liqueur, thank the skies, but it seemed Tibs hadn’t needed the extra kick to get drunk in a hurry. He pinned a hard stare on the guard and slurred. “I’m family.”
“Shit.” Ripka dropped back down from her toes.
“What?” Enard pressed.
“When did you last see Tibal?”
“He was right behind me during the ceremony.”
“Drinking himself stupid.”
“Oh. Shit.”
“Right.”
“It’s all right,” Detan’s voice echoed through the hall. He hadn’t seen the man was Tibal yet, couldn’t have. Ripka swore and elbowed her way through the crowd, but she was too far back. There was no way she could peel him away in time. “Let the man give his blessing.”
The crowd broke in front of Ripka. Tibal sauntered forward, set his cup down on the table in front of a slack-jawed Detan, and smirked.
“Congratulations on the nuptials, cousin.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Detan couldn’t shut his mouth. He knew it was open, knew he should probably do something about that. This was his wedding, after all. Walking around catching flies in his wide-open trap was probably not the done thing. But he couldn’t help himself.
Tibs. Drunker than he’d ever seen him. And cleaner, too, in a pretty neat-looking suit that Detan wished he could swap him for. And he had just declared himself Detan’s cousin. In front of Thratia. Worse, in front of Ranalae and Aella who, even though they were seated down Thratia’s side of the table, Detan could tell clear as day were practically salivating at the thought.
“Tibal,” Thratia said, with a surprising amount of grace. She held her hand out to him and, to Detan’s great horror, Tibs took the clawed thing and bowed politely over it. “Always a pleasure to see you.”
“Welcome to the fucking family,” Tibs drawled.
Detan cleared his throat. Hard. Tibs didn’t seem to notice, the damned fool. Where was Ripka, anyway? Someone desperately needed to reel Tibs back in, and it couldn’t be Detan.
“I am delighted to hear you’re a part of our little family. The Hondings are so sadly small in number.” Thratia continued with the whole polite-elegant act. Detan gripped the handle of his fork and considered sticking it in her eye. He could probably get away with it. At least until her guards punched him full of arrows.
Detan stared hard at Tibs and willed him to keep his trap shut. Tibs was just as inclined to listen to Detan’s attempt at psychic orders as he was his verbal ones.
“Bastards aren’t hard to come by in any family, Commodore.”
He snapped her a salute that was, under the circumstances, pretty crisp. Detan supposed Fleet soldiers had a lot of practice saluting their superiors even while toasted.
“A bastard, you say?” Ranalae leaned toward him across the table, dissecting him with her eyes. “What side? Who are your parents?”
“Tibs,” Detan said quickly, “is merely like family. More like a brother to me, than a cousin.”
Tibs rounded on him, and from the surly look in his eye Detan knew he was about to open his mouth and ruin the whole damned thing by insisting they were blood-related.
The first militiaman dropped. Wasn’t as dramatic an affair as Detan would have hoped. In the interests of not tipping their hand, dear Pelly had laced the last shipment of honey liqueur lightly. But it was laced, golden needle pumping through the veins of every grey-coated guard in the building, thanks to Gatai’s deft efforts.
The first guard, standing just a few paces away from the table, wobbled a bit, his knees going loose as string. His head tipped back and down he went, all that fancy armor making a mighty racket as he connected with the floor.
There was a pause. Then a scream. And the guards began to drop, one by one, some unfortunate guests following suit. Chaos erupted.
Detan let out a woofed sigh of relief and slipped his hands behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and kicked his boots up on the table. “About damned time.”
Thratia sprung to her feet, fists planted on the tabletop, glaring down those gathered as if she could scowl her guards into getting back on their feet. “What have you done?” she hissed.
“Me, personally? Not much, really. Just sat around and waited. You really should have disciplined your guards better.”
Black-coated servants moved through the crowd, pretending to see to the fallen militiamen, but surreptitiously binding their hands and ankles so that they would be no threat when they eventually roused themselves. Detan figured there were probably a few knocked heads in the crowd, maybe a few broken bones, and that was a shame. But still a whole pits-load better than an all-out war.
Thratia was on him faster than he could blink. She had him by the front of his jacket in one iron fist and yanked him to his feet, sending his chair flying. The tight buttons of his coat and shirt scrunched, constricting his throat as she dragged him face-to-face with her, his legs too tangled to gain any purchase. He knew she was strong. Hadn’t counted on her being powerful enough to toss him around like a doll when enraged.
He sputtered, tried to suck a breath down but she gave him a shake. “You damn fool of a man. This could have been peaceful. Now your city will have to bleed. But you, first. I’ve seen what you’re capable of. I was an idiot to ever let you come within a stone’s throw of a firemount.”
He tried to squawk out a protest, but there was no air left in him. He got his feet under himself, found purchase, prepared to kick away from her grip and reached out, grasping for her other arm. The arm holding the knife pointed at his gut.
“Hey, Thratia!”
Thratia half-turned. Ripka decked her so hard a tooth flew.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The most satisfying feeling in the whole of Ripka’s life thus far was watching Thratia’s gore-smeared tooth pop right on out of her smug mouth. The pain in her fist was well, well worth it. Thratia twisted, hit the ground with a meaty slap. Ripka was on her in an instant, grabbed her by the arm and flopped her over onto her stomach while Detan scurried backward to get clear of the scuffle. Not that he’d ever been any use in a fight.
Thratia kicked back, hard as a donkey, and all the wind left Ripka as her stomach exploded in pain. Detan got ahold of himself, then, darted forward and whacked Thratia across the back with a chair. Not the cleanest move, but considering the legs broke clean off the chair, he’d hit her with enough force to do some damage. Thratia cursed up a bloody storm and shoved her hands under herself to get upright again, but Ripka was already there, forcing her down, digging her elbow hard into that tender spot Detan had made.
The guards at the door had checked her for weapons, but they hadn’t been bothered about the silk ties around Ripka’s thighs and upper arms. It didn’t take long to have Thratia hog-tied and gagged, for good measure. Spitting mad, but subdued all the same.
“Got the bitch,” she said, when she’d tested the ties and they held.
Before she could get to her feet Detan swooped her up in both arms, let loose a mighty whoop, and spun her about, laughing. Her ribs sang with pain.
“My boy,” Dame Honding said, “the poor woman is injured.”
He pouted a little as he sat her down. “Sorry, sorry. Are you all right?”
“Nothing a little rest and wine won’t heal.” She inclined her head to the Dame, who returned the gesture a little deeper than was
strictly necessary.
“Captain!” Enard ran up to the table, sweaty-faced and panting. “Fighting on the steps. Seems those guards didn’t take their medicine.”
“New Chum!” Detan had never looked so deliriously happy.
Enard grinned and inclined his head. “Good to see you again, sir.”
“No time for reunions,” Ripka said. “Who’s on the steps?”
“Honey and some watchers.”
“My guards?” the Dame asked.
“In the mix too, ma’am.”
“Good.”
Figured Honey went straight for the bloodbath. Damned good thing she was on their side. Ripka vaulted over the table, pausing long enough to pick up a meat-knife, then spun around slowly to survey the situation. The wedding guests had mostly fled when the fighting broke out, and now all that was left in the ceremonial hall was a pile of grey-clad militia being overseen by the servants of the palace. No Ranalae. No Aella. No Callia.
Tibal let out a little groan and crouched down by the banquet table, drawing up his knees as he shoved his head into his hands. Ripka and Detan converged on him, her fingers going straight to his pulse while Detan knelt alongside him and rocked back on his heels to watch.
His pulse was slow, but steady, his forehead warm and clammy with sweat.
“You got into the booze early, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Coulda’ warned me,” Tibs growled at Detan.
“And missed your stunning display of welcome to my new ex-wife?”
“Ass,” Tibs muttered.
Detan put a hand on Tibs’s shoulder to steady him. “Missed you too, Old Chum.”
“Did you drink any of the honey liqueur?” Ripka demanded.
Tibs squinted at her through bleary eyes. “I’m still standing, aren’t I?”
“Technically–” Detan began, but she cut him off.
“Right. You handled?”
Detan glanced to the servants, caught sight of Gatai coming his way, and nodded. “I’ve got this. We’ll start moving the militia to their ships.”
“Ships?”
His expression darkened and he glanced over at Thratia, still thrashing against her bonds. “I want none of this stain to remain in Hond Steading.”
“Understood, Lord Honding.” She saluted him with a wink and dashed after Enard, discarding her meat-knife for a few of the blades from the pile the servants were busy collecting from the sedated guards.
The doors to the stairs stood open, and she could hear the fighting even from the far end of the hall. The sun had sunk to the other side of the palace by the time she made it to the stairs. Knots of men and women contested in shadow, hard-fought but, from what Ripka could see, the matter was almost settled. There were a great many more grey coats scattering the ground than black or blue.
She caught sight of Honey down toward the bottom of the steps. Cursed woman hadn’t even stuck around long enough to pick up a proper weapon. She was ducking and weaving, dancing under longer cutlasses to score hit after hit with a meat-knife. Singing at the top of her battered voice all the while. Alone as she was, she had her contestants well in hand, so Ripka jumped into the nearest fray.
Some grey coats had pushed two watchers against the flat wall of the palace’s opened doors and were hammering them with sloppy blow after sloppy blow, but time and numbers were on the militia’s side. They were four against two, and the watchers they had penned were growing tired.
Ripka darted in, opened up the side of one and leapt away before the other could get turned about. One of the watchers closed that opportunity, took a hit on the hip but shrugged it off to ram her cutlass guard-deep into the chest of her opponent. Ripka winced at the pale look on the watcher’s face that had nothing at all to do with exertion.
Watchers didn’t see a lot of death, not by their own hands. They were trained to subdue, if at all possible. But it was damn near impossible to subdue a determined killer with a sword without doing mortal damage. She’d seen the results of knock-out blows to the head. If it were her, she’d rather be run through than knocked silly.
The second watcher moved in and between them they made short work of the last grey coat. Ripka gave a little thanks to Thratia for making her people so easy to pick out. It’d come as a surprise in Aransa, where the sudden flood of supporters had frightened everyone into their homes. Here and now, the coats only served to make her angry. And to give her a target to hit.
She spun around, looking for a new mark. Honey’d done her work and was on to another knot of fighting, Enard at her side. Where the fuck was Tibal, anyway? Not that he was handy in a fight, but still. If he’d run off to drink some more after that little display of his she’d pull his tongue out far enough to slap him with it.
Midway down the steps a couple of the Dame’s guards fought back to back with Falston, a bunch of his watchers busy taking the last hits on their own battles. Ripka jogged down the steps, intent on joining Falston in his defense.
The watch-captain slipped.
His heel caught the back of a step, bloodied from the battle, and as Ripka pumped her legs as hard as she could, urged herself to move faster toward him, his legs went out from under him, boots kissing the air. He let one short cry break free and then he was down, the hard stone steps knocking the air out of him, maybe even breaking his back.
“Falston!” she yelled, trying to get the watchers’ attention. Trying to get anyone, anyone at all, who was closer than she was to step in. To help. But the Dame’s people were hard pressed, now that they’d lost their third. But the grey coats weren’t.
Easy as you please, a militiaman turned, stabbed down, took Falston right through the heart. Ripka screamed defiance, flung herself at the man, connected hard and went tumbling with him down the steps. Somewhere in the tangle she got her legs around the man’s waist from behind and dropped her weapons, grabbed the man’s head and smashed it, hard as she could, into the edge of a stair. His body spasmed beneath her, jerking in a way that didn’t mean resistance – only death. She did it again. Again.
Enard grabbed her arm and wrested her to her feet. “What –?”
“Falston.” Every speck of her body ached, elbows and knees scraped and bleeding. Something clicked alarmingly in her foot when she stood. She shook Enard off, pushed through the pain to jog up the steps. The militia was dead, or subdued. Silence cloyed thick in the blood-heavy air. Somewhere, Honey sang a lullaby.
His watchers had already gathered around him, a semi-circular wall of blue. She shouldered through, vision blurry at the edges with fear and disbelief. Falston lay as he’d fallen, cheeks puffing with bloat as his blood flowed down the incline of the steps into his face. She dropped to her knees, scooped his head into her arms.
The life had already fled him.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Dark had fallen on Hond Steading by the time they managed to pack all of Thratia’s ships full of her people. She had not brought many, so assured was she of her victory, but it had been enough to take up more than half the night. Some, he was sure, had skinned themselves of their uniforms and escaped into the city. Aella, Callia, and Ranalae, of all people, had disappeared in the fray. He would have to deal with them sometime soon, that reckoning had always been coming for him, but not tonight. Tonight he was ridding himself of the monster he’d brought here with him.
Detan no longer knew the time, and he didn’t care. He was worn through, tired down to a core of himself he hadn’t even known existed. Every time he glanced at Ripka, a little worm of guilt burrowed even deeper inside him.
He’d never met the late watch-captain of Hond Steading, but he had meant something to her. And that meant he had been a good man.
A man accustomed to blood, surely. A man who’d signed up for a violent life, who knew someday he might die in the service of the city. But a man who hadn’t had to die tonight, of all nights, on the steps of the palace he served, in a hard-fought battle that was, ultimately, Detan’s doing. Detan coul
d have just married Thratia. Could have given himself over to her scheming. Could have thrown himself from the roof of the palace, too, and tonight’s bloodshed might not have happened.
But he had chosen to fight back. And the consequences, though smaller than all-out war, had been dire. And he was not yet done.
“Bring her in,” Detan ordered. It was a strange thing, to hear easy authority in his own voice when he wasn’t intentionally faking it.
He’d had a team of the Dame’s pilots take the Dread Wind away from the palace after it had been loaded with Thratia’s people, save one, the woman herself. Now, his auntie’s flagship pulled up alongside the Dread Wind, and found a handful of her soldiers had already freed themselves and were pointing harpoons at his ship. Detan sighed.
Thratia stood alongside him at the rail, wrists bound behind her back with chains and her ankles sporting matching jewelry. The gag had been removed, but she’d been silent. Until now.
“I could order them to knock you out of the sky.”
“You’re on this ship too, Thratia.”
“And are you so certain I wouldn’t find that acceptable?”
He chuckled and shook his head, leaning forward to rest both hands on the rail. “You forget, O wife of mine, that I’ve come to know you better in these last few months. You won’t take that route, because it’s final. I’m setting you free. You can go home to Aransa, regroup if you’d like, but you can’t do that if you die here, tonight. And you’re never done, are you?”
“And knowing this, you would let me go?”
“You will not come here again.”
She shook her head. “I am not trying to encourage you to kill me, Honding, but you cannot be that daft. You know I will come for you. And this time, there will be no play at peace. I will have this city. I will have this whole cursed continent. I tried to play nice with you. Tried to show you why I do what I do – but if you will not bend, then I will be forced to break you.”
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