“Ah, Thratia.” He raised his hands to the sky, wide apart, as if to hug all of the ships of her fleet hanging there in the night. “I could snuff every last ship of yours from the sky, right now, and not break a sweat. Did you know that? What your pet whitecoat was training me to do? Control and strength. That is what I have, now, thanks to you. This city is protected. Never forget that.”
He nodded to Gatai, who signaled his guards to take Thratia, one arm in each hand, and steer her toward the connected gangplank. He watched her go, something like melancholy coming over him. Such passion. Such strength. She could have been marvelous, if she hadn’t decided to be a monster instead.
With Thratia removed and the gangplank retracted, Detan held out his hands as he had when he spoke to her. All around him hushed. He’d made no secret of his deviation after the wedding. Hadn’t even bothered to lower his voice as he spoke to Thratia about dashing all her ships from the sky. There was no point to that, not any more. If Hond Steading were going to get its lord back, they were going to get him in the full light of what he was. Maybe they’d accept that. Maybe they wouldn’t. He wasn’t even sure he was prepared to stick around to find out.
He knew what they must be thinking, watching him now. That they suspected him of preparing to do the very thing he’d threatened Thratia with. Why else would he make them move all the ships in her fleet over the empty, eastern flats outside the city?
He didn’t mind the speculation. Truth was, he wanted Thratia to worry a little. His sel-sense expanded. Slowly, deliberately. Not the desperate grab he had made when he sent up the firemount. No, this time he really had learned control. It helped that someone wasn’t currently trying to choke him to death, of course.
Thratia’s fleet was massive, but his sphere of influence covered it easily. He held all those buoyancy sacks in his mind, explored them with care, felt his way around their valves and internal workings. Then pushed. Hard.
Gasps from the deck all around him. The fleet shot away, arcing out into the night, shouts of surprise from their decks dwindling with distance just as quickly as the ships dwindled from sight.
On each and every ship, he’d vented just enough selium to accelerate them a day’s flight away in a matter of a few marks. And depleted their reserves enough that they’d have no choice but to return to Aransa.
Detan slumped against the rail, sweating, panting. Explosions he could do without breaking a sweat. Fine work, careful work, was another matter entirely. Those selium sacks weren’t the only thing he’d depleted. He’d never been so worn through in his life. But he was done, now. It was over. And the thing he wanted most in the world at that moment was a long, hot, bath. They’d still be around when he was restored, and the very thought made him grin.
Auntie stepped up to his side and laid a blanket over his shoulders. Her small, bony hand patted the small of his back.
“You’ve done well today. Come on, let’s take you home.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Ripka stayed close by Detan as the ship shuddered against its dock, returning them all to the palace. He’d made a show of being fine. Of being hale. His normal, cheerful, wisecracking self. But when she caught him at off moments, when he thought she wasn’t looking, his face creased with pain, with sadness. Whatever had been done to him while at the mercy of Thratia – whatever he’d been forced to do – would be a long time in healing. If such wounds could ever heal.
Right now, it was easier to worry about Detan’s state of mind than her own. Everytime she closed her eyes – every time she so much as blinked – she saw the faces of Falston’s wife, his daughter. Heard the echo of her whispered plea to keep him safe overlaid with the rattle of his final breath.
“Something’s wrong,” Honey whispered.
Ripka tensed, and leaned against the railing to get a better look. The palace seemed fine, if dark and a little quiet… Which didn’t make much sense, now that she considered the fact. The palace should be alive with light, the servants busy cleaning up the mess, and the Dame’s guard rooting out any of Thratia’s leftovers.
“Detan,” she said quietly.
He paused, one foot on the gangplank. She chucked her head toward the palace and he looked, really looked, and hissed quietly to himself. “What in the pits is it now?”
He turned, taking on an air of command she’d never seen him employ before, and pointed to the Dame’s guards. “You two, forward positions, weapons out. We may have hostiles. Auntie, my dear, I suggest you stay aboard the ship with an honor guard, just in case.”
“And you?”
He looked grim. “I kicked this hornet’s nest. I’ll see it through.”
Ripka and Honey fell into step behind Detan, the two guards taking point. Ripka itched to be in their place, but Detan had given his orders, and she wasn’t about to start undermining him now that he was showing some initiative as a leader. She was half-worried that if she drew attention to herself, he’d order her back. And then she would have to defy him. Some orders, she knew from long experience, were just plain stupid.
Weapons readied, the guards opened the door and edged inside. “Clear,” one called.
Detan held out a hand to indicate those on board the ship should hold position and followed the guards inside. Ripka drew a cutlass she’d collected from some corpse or another and saw Honey do likewise as they followed him into the faintly lit chamber.
The entrance foyer for the dock was dark, but the space beyond – to the hall where the wedding had been held – was bright as day, bleeding light across the floor. A beacon. A lighthouse warning of dangerous rocks.
The first guard across the threshold went down, blood fountaining from his neck, legs kicking as the life poured out of him. The second moved to forward position, brought his shield arm up and swore as something heavy thundered against it.
“Fucking imperials,” the guard barked, retreating.
Detan grabbed the man’s shoulder and hauled him back, out of the line of fire that had taken down his comrade. An arrow skittered across the floor in his now-empty place. Honey drifted forward, pulled by the promise of violence, and Ripka snapped a hand out to grab her arm and stop her. She pouted, but hung back anyway.
“What’s the situation?” Detan asked.
The guard stared at the kicking corpse of his friend. Detan swore and dragged the man further away from the door, physically turning his head to look him in the eye. “Report, soldier.”
The soldier snapped to his senses at the command in Detan’s voice. “They’ve got the hall secured. The exterior doors appear to be barred, though I couldn’t get a good look at them. Armed sentries on every internal door.”
“Uniforms?”
“Light blue.” Ranalae’s imperials. Wonderful.
“Numbers?” Ripka demanded.
“I don’t know – fifty?”
“Shit,” Detan said. Ripka had to agree. He thought a moment, pacing as he tapped his forehead. “How’d she get them in? Thratia’s been watching those ships to the north like a bloodhawk, not a one’s made a move. They even turned some back a few days ago.”
“Oh,” Ripka said, feeling rather stupid.
He spun on her. “What? What is it?”
“I thought… Pits. I thought I was working on infiltrating Thratia’s network. It all looked the same – talk of political change. Weapons smuggling. Deviant smuggling. Never quite caught up with her, turned out I was knocking on a false door, but there was something going on in the city. I should have remembered where she learned her tricks.”
“Ranalae’s got people. In the streets. Same as the night Aransa fell?”
Ripka nodded, slowly. “I’d bet my life on it.”
“You might have to.” He tugged at his hair, scowling, then turned on the guard. “How many of you in the palace?”
There was a time, Ripka recalled, when Detan would have been horrified at being so near the man dying on the ground beside him – out of reach, beyond hope of medica
l aid. Now, he scarcely glanced the man’s way. And when he did, there was only a faint flicker of pain in his expression, quickly overrun by angry determination.
“No telling what’s left after the imperials swept the place, if they even did, but there were two hundred of us before tonight’s, uh, celebration, sir. Lord.” The soldier cleared his throat.
“Right. Go back to the ship, warn my aunt – ah, the Dame – of what’s going on and leave her with a guard, at least five, then take the rest and go round up your fellows. Gather together in this room in no less than a mark, do you hear me? It’s imperative we use our numbers to regain control while we have the chance.”
Detan caught Ripka staring and blinked at her. “What?”
“You… have a plan.”
He grinned. “Rippy, ole girl, I’ve changed. Hopefully for the better. Now go.”
“Wait.” Ripka stepped in front of the guard. “We’re not alone here. There’s a whole citizens’ brigade outside those walls, just waiting for a chance to aid their city. They’re no soldiers, but they’ve had a week of watcher training. They just need a signal to converge on the palace.”
“Rippy! You’re brilliant!” He reached to scoop her up again and she ducked away, swatting at him.
“Don’t you dare. Soldier, there’s no time to do the signal properly. Can you use a bow?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Fire lit pitch arrows at the northern garden trees. That was our backup plan for tonight.”
His eyes widened. “Those trees are very tall, ma’am.”
“Yes, and bordered by stone walls and not near any domiciles. That’s the idea. Now go.”
He saluted them both and took off at a dead sprint.
Ripka eyed Detan. “And just what do we do in this plan of yours?”
“We make a dramatic entrance. And stall like our lives depend on it, because they definitely do.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
The servants, skies bless them, still hadn’t touched Tibs’s old room, which meant Detan found a whole pits-load of sel to work with. He hunkered with Honey and Ripka in the foyer where the first guard had fallen, looking pretty ridiculous as they each carried a massive balloon of selium on a rope. Honey was looking at hers like she wanted to stab it. Based on what he remembered of Forge and Clink’s stories, she probably did.
“You sure about this?” Ripka asked.
“I saw Pelkaia do something like this once. Worked a treat. Trust me.”
“Was it on fire when she did it?”
“Well, no, but have a little faith, Rip ole girl. The Valatheans will shit themselves.”
“Charming.”
He mimed a noble bow for her. “Miss me?”
She grinned, just a little. “Yeah. Kinda. Don’t forget, Enard and Tibal are both in there.”
“Pah, New Chum is a marvel with a blade and Tibs is far too crafty to get himself caught in that nonsense. They’re probably skulking about these halls worrying that we’re in there.”
“I hope you’re right.”
He did, too, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. The thought of either of those two stuck in that room with the Valatheans made his blood boil, because he had no doubt they’d be used as pawns against him. The very idea that anyone he cared about would be harmed as a proxy to harming him made him want to tear the whole damned city down. A sentiment he needed to keep on a very, very tight leash.
They’d left those two with Gatai, looking after Tibs’s little overindulgence, and if Detan was very lucky then they weren’t even aware of the trouble brewing in the wedding hall. He tried not to think too hard on how luck had been playing out for him, lately.
“Think the brigade is in position?” he asked.
Ripka leaned back to glance out a window, where a smear of yellow light graced the clouds from the tree fire. “Any time now.”
“Honey, my dear, you don’t have to join us. If you’d prefer to wait on the ship–”
Both women stared at him like he’d just started burping up snakes. “Uh. Right. Never mind. Onward.”
As one, they slashed the balloons of selium and let the gas coalesce into a shimmering cloud above their heads. Wasn’t as much as he’d like to work with, but the only other source was in the flier, and that would have taken far too long to siphon out safely.
He extended his senses, gathered all that gas into a cohesive cloud, and found the center of himself. Calm, Ready. Onward, indeed.
He pushed outward, mentally, shoved that cloud of selium through the door in front of them for all he was worth. Cries of alarm echoed in the room, shouts and stomping of feet. He swirled the gas up, tracking it in his mind, envisioning all those lanterns his auntie had dangled from the ceiling to celebrate his wedding, and pushed. The lights went out with a snuff.
The brigade, skies bless them, didn’t need another cue. Shouts echoed as the bedraggled crew stormed the palace, and it wasn’t long before the heavy crack of the massive wooden doors breaking down filled the air.
He gave it a couple of beats, just to let the brigade get inside, then muttered, “Let there be light.” He reached out, grabbed the selium trapped in the ceiling, sectioned off a small sliver of it, and fed his rage into it. The hall returned to light in a violent burst, and it was a testament to his new finesse that he didn’t blow the damned ceiling off by feeding his anger into the remaining selium. Those lanterns still being fed oil caught, burning merrily, while some burst and dripped flaming oil to the floor. Oops.
Ripka and Honey were through the door the second the lights came back on, sabers out, stances ready. Neither of them found shields, but neither seemed to mind. Especially Honey. That girl had taken up singing at the top of her lungs, some ancient mourning rite that gave him shivers straight to the bone, as she waded into the fray.
Detan hung back, aware of his vulnerability when the blades came out, and focused on manipulating what selium he had left. Didn’t last long.
“Honding!” Ranalae’s voice, firm and irritated. “You have until the count of three to show yourself, or I slit your cousin’s throat. One. Tw–”
That was that, then. Time to play a different game. He strolled into the hall like it was his own idea, hands in his pockets, eyebrow cocked like he couldn’t quite imagine what they wanted from him. Ranalae and Aella stood toward the front of the room, Callia huddled at their feet, and a rather bored-looking imperial lingered just a step behind them. An unsteady Tibs was held up between two surly looking imperial bruisers in mussed coats. Detan grinned. At least Tibs had gotten a few shots in.
“Hold,” he ordered and, to his surprise, the brigade listened. No one quite put their weapons down, but they backed away unsteadily, pointy ends still pointed in all the right places, eyes wary as they examined their imperial contestants. The brigade had Ranalae outnumbered, easily. But she had Tibs. Pits-fucking-damnit.
“Now Ranalae, this is mighty rude of you. You’re a guest in my home.”
“Spare me the polite-lord act, Honding. Order your men to put down arms.”
He rolled his shoulders, trying to ignore the fact he’d just seen New Chum slinking up behind Tibs and his guards, a knife in each hand. Damn man could move like a rockcat on the hunt when he wanted to.
“Naw, don’t think I’ll be doing that. I think you’ll be handing Tibs over, nice and gentle, or I’ll rip this place to itty bitty bits.”
“You won’t,” she said, rolling her eyes.
Detan caught Aella’s eye, stared hard at her. “Fucking try me.”
“He might,” Aella conceded. “He has become increasingly more unstable since his time in Hond Steading. I suggest a removal from the local stimulus to enhance further study.”
“Suggestion declined,” Detan grated.
New Chum moved. Faster than Detan could follow he swooped in, opened the hamstring of one man and plunged his blade into the kidney of the other. Both went down, hard, spasming on the stone, and Tibs stumbled forward, star
tled by the sudden freedom, lost his footing and skidded across the floor. Ripka was there in a flash, grabbed Tibs by the shoulders and hauled him up and away.
New Chum pivoted, blades flashing, ducked in low and tight for Ranalae’s stomach and then – Misol. Detan’d forgotten about fucking Misol, who worked for Aella, not Thratia. The damned doppel dropped her false face as a random imperial alongside Aella, half-turned, and with a casual thrust sank her blade straight through New Chum’s loyal little heart.
“No!” Ripka screamed. She lunged forward but Tibs had her now, and that was for the best, because Detan was real sure Ripka wasn’t prepared to take on Misol. Not now. Not blind with rage as she was.
Detan was having his own anger problems.
“You fucking monster!” He reached for the sel above his head, shaped it, formed it into a spear twin to Misol’s favorite little toy and aimed it straight at her face. In a blink, it was done. The explosive force knocked what was left of Misol’s body back against the wall in a greasy, red stain.
Aella’s sphere of dampening fell around him, cutting him off. Ranalae brushed gore from her shoe.
“Well, that was disappointing,” she said.
His vision fogged. He couldn’t look at New Chum. Couldn’t look at Ripka. Couldn’t stand to see either the tears hot on her face nor the blood pumping, endless, from New Chum’s shuddering chest.
Pits below, but he wanted to close that distance. Wanted to tell Tibs to let Ripka loose. They should shove some cloth in that wound, get some salve – something, anything. But that was a killing wound, and he’d only be buying time, and with Ranalae and her nasty coterie hovering nearby Detan couldn’t even get close. Couldn’t even hold New Chum’s palsying hand as he passed to the endless.
“Enard,” Ripka said, and her voice was so very cracked and broken that the mere sound of it nearly cut through Detan’s resolve.
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