He forced himself onto unsteady feet, took a breath that stung brighter than a hot poker, and began to hobble toward the washrooms. "No violence, you’d more ‘n’ likely crack your own skull open. You just make sure our cursed flier is ready to go when we need it. I don’t want to get stuck on this rock a heartbeat longer than I have to be."
"Fine, fine." Tibs scowled and kicked the ground. "But I want you carrying this." He returned his attentions to the hideous crate and produced a thin leather bladder, its mouth tied tight and the strings at the end of either tie weighted by heavy clumps of lead. The bladder drifted through the air, no bigger than his fist, fighting against the weight at the end of those ties.
Detan swallowed. He didn’t need to strain his senses to feel the selium constrained within that balloon. "Would look a mite funny, a man rumored to have lost his sel-sense walking around with some of it."
"I’m sure you’ll think of some explanation. But for the moment, sirra, it’s the only weapon you’re any good with."
Gritting his teeth, Detan took the ties of the balloon between two fingers and held it out before him as if it were liable to burst into flame at any moment. He supposed that wasn’t too far from reality.
"Seems drastic."
"If you’d had it last night, you’d be walking straight today."
"If I’d had it last night, I might very well be a smear on the road today."
Tibs shook his head. "Take it. Or we leave Aransa. Now."
"I..." Oh, that was tempting. He wasn’t too entangled with Halva, they’d scarcely been seen in public together. He could skate off without a word, and Aransan society would just cluck their tongues and chalk it up to the behavior of those odd Hondings.
He remembered, bitter as his medicine, the sneer of those men in the night. They knew he’d gone to see Halva. They’d take their price from him—or from her. Detan’d never counted himself a particularly principled man, but he had his limits.
"Fine." He gripped the strings tighter. "But get that damned flier ready."
Tibs snapped a mocking salute.
Detan scowled to himself as he waddled off to the blessed steam of their private bath. At least the tunic Tibs had found was loose enough to hide the cursed little balloon.
PART THREE
11
Dusting be damned, Halva would not miss the afternoon watering of her garden treasures. The worst of the filth had been washed away, those trinkets which she kept closest to her heart secreted within drawers and whisked off of pedestals. In the end, she had left most of the Erst valuables out. What wouldn’t she trade to be able to wed Cranston with father’s blessing?
With care she drew water from the family’s heavy clay cistern, filling it to the second etched line from the top in the glass pitcher. She noted the day and amounts in her notebook, then went about dampening roots.
A soft rustling caught her attention, past the hairy empress fruit-vines, toward the back wall which butted up against the edge of the fourth level. Halva frowned, fearing some foraging creature, and slipped off her walking slippers. She picked one up and crept forward, shoe poised to strike whatever vermin had wandered too close to her garden.
From between the thornbrush a very, very human muttering emerged. Halva froze, fire racing through her veins, heart pounding hard enough to set her lips trembling. Cry out, or...? Her body moved before her mind arrived at anything like a decision.
She leapt, angling herself so that the thorns of the brush wouldn't snag her, and brought her shoe across in a vicious swipe where she had heard the voice. Her wrist jarred as she struck true, numb spiderwebs racing down her arm. She was scarcely able to hang onto the shoe. A man cried out, the words meaningless to her, and she brought her arm up again for another strike.
"Hold!" The voice was familiar enough to make her hesitate, the toe of her shoe pointing at the blue skies.
"Who are you?" She forced herself to stand tall, pushed back her shoulders and deepened her voice. "If you do not show yourself in peace this instant I will screech to bring all of Aransa down upon you."
A soft chuckle grated against her nerves. "I hope there won’t be need of that."
Halva took a frantic step back as the figure moved, parting the thorny arms of the brush with extreme care. A tall silhouette against the sharp light, it took her a moment to place him. She dropped the shoe. "Cranston?"
He smiled ruefully, and rubbed at his reddening cheek. "I suppose I deserved that."
"Yes, you did." She folded herself into his arms, trembling all over with evaporating nerves. "Just what on the Scorched were you thinking, sneaking around my garden?"
He squeezed her tight, nestling his cheek against her hair. He smelled of dust and air and warm, milled hardwood. "That I would surprise you?"
She snorted and stepped back, holding him at arm’s length. "You mean, that you could avoid speaking with my father."
He grimaced, then winced as the expression moved his sore cheek. "The thought might have crossed my mind." She brushed still-trembling fingertips against the arc of his unharmed cheek, admiring the shy curl to his lips, the ruggish twist of his wavy hair. It had only been a handful of days, and yet his simple presence soothed her, burnished away the nervous clamor of her heart.
"I missed you," she murmured, fingers trailing to his lips.
From the open hallway door came the soft thump of someone knocking. "Oh! He’s here. You must hide." Panic fluttered through her once more as she pushed and shoved, forcing Cranston back into the thornbrush.
"Hide? What—who’s here?" he stammered.
"Please, I’ll explain later!"
A worried frown cracked a line between his brows, but to her relief he acquiesced, hunkering down amongst the biting brush until she could scarcely tell where he had gone. Heart hammering, she hurried away from the spot as to not draw any undue attention his way, and attempted to straighten the ruffled bun of her hair. It was only when she had gotten halfway to the garden’s proper entrance that she realized she’d forgotten her shoe.
Her father met her first, pausing to give her a strange glance, a curious glint in his pale grey eyes. Whatever suspicions he may have harbored he shuttered as he stepped aside to allow the Lord Honding to pass.
Detan wore a pale green tunic and bark-brown trousers, cut loose in the southern fashion. The casual intimacy of him appearing before her in such a relaxed style caused a faint blush to rise unbidden to her cheeks. There was something reserved about his movements—nerves, perhaps?—and he had the pale look of a man who’d gotten little sleep. But his smile was easy, even if his bow was unusually stiff.
"I hope my late arrival did not put you off my visit entirely." He glanced to her bare foot and grinned.
"Not at all, my Lord, I sometimes... endeavor to feel the spryness of the soil." She cringed inwardly, wishing she’d taken the time to think of a more believable excuse—or at least spared a moment to reclaim her slipper.
"Your attention to detail is most admirable. Please—" He gestured toward the table and chairs at the center of the garden. "May we sit a moment? I’m afraid I’m not quite myself."
Cold sweat trickled between Halva’s shoulder blades and threatened to break across her brow. "Oh? Are you unwell, my Lord? Come inside, I’ll make you tea."
She stepped forward in an attempt to push him into the house with the mere force of her presence, but he had already moved to the side and laid a hand upon the back of a chair. That hand trembled.
"My Lord?" She threw a worried glance to father, whose face was drawn in pale confusion.
"Shall I call an apothik?" father asked.
"No," Detan spoke a little too fast, the word coming out sharp. "I just need to sit." He lowered himself with care into the seat, wincing as his weight settled. "I am quite embarrassed to admit that I was robbed last night on my way back to the Oasis."
"Robbed!" Halva could not tell which voice carried deeper outrage—hers or father’s. She put aside fears of th
e poor, battered man spotting Cranston and crossed to him, kneeling down to take a good long look in his soft eyes. They were bloodshot, but the pupils appeared to dilate well and tracked the finger she held up before them.
He smiled, and reached out to catch her hand in his. "I am whole, I promise you. My manservant is quite accomplished in these things. It’s only... I may have rushed myself too much to reach your door this afternoon."
She smiled despite herself, and patted the hand that clasped hers with the other. "What happened?"
"Oh." He waved his free hand dismissively. "Low-level sorts, just picking on a man out alone wearing a nice coat." He sighed. "I was fond of that garment."
"Did they take much, my Lord?" father asked.
"Aside from my dignity, only some walking around grains. Nothing substantial. I daresay they were rather upset with me for having so little. Probably incensed them to the beating—ah, forgive me, Lady. You do not need to hear such ghastly things."
Halva stood and squeezed his hand. "I would beat them myself if they were here now."
"Halva!" father snapped.
"Well, it’s true." She tossed a bit of hair that had fallen from her bun off of her shoulder. "I cannot believe the Warden allows ruffians to travel so high in the levels. What good are the stair guards if they can all be bribed with a bottle? But nevermind that. Here, let me fetch you some tea."
His grip tightened about her fingers, halting her turn away. "I would speak with you a moment, if I may?"
"Speak, speak," father said, waving them away with both hands. "I’ll see to the tea."
Before Halva could protest, Detan pulled her down into the chair beside him. There was something serious about his gaze, unsettling enough to force her to pay attention, though her mind kept wandering to Cranston crouched in the thornbrush. The intensity, she felt, went beyond his upset at having recently suffered a beating. This was something else.
Her throat went dry as he leaned forward, nearly pressing his lips to her ear as he spoke. "Halva, I had not meant to do this, but I find I must tell you—"
"Remove your hands from her!" Cranston fought his way through the brush, tearing both skin and cloth on the hooked thorns. Halva bolted upright, thunked her head against Detan’s in the process and let loose a rather unladylike curse. Detan was quick to follow her and—skies bless him—immediately stood between her and what was, to him, an unknown intruder.
"Who in the pits are you?" Detan’s voice was rough with anger, but otherwise calm. His hand drifted toward the overlap of his tunic above his pants. Halva’s heart leapt with fear as she realized he was reaching for a weapon.
"Peace," she blurted, grabbing his hands to keep him from producing whatever tool of violence he had secreted. "I know this man, he means me no harm."
"Blasted skies!" Father stormed into the garden. "Must you sour every aspect of my daughter’s life?"
"This, this scoundrel was whispering against her ear!" Cranston thrust his finger Detan’s way.
She summoned her courage. "It isn’t what—"
"You don’t have to answer to him, my dear," father said. "This ‘scoundrel’ is a gentleman. And one is prone to whisper against an ear when they are asking for another’s hand in marriage!"
All three blurted, "Marriage!?"
"But I—" Detan paused to look down at her. His expression was bright, bewildered, his brows knit together with honest confusion. "We’ve known each other such a short time. I can’t imagine—well. I mean, would you really?"
Unable to help herself, she laughed a little at his bemused expression. But before she could speak, father said, "Well, answer the man, Halva!"
Her feet rooted to the spot, her hands dampened with nerves. Father stared at her with wide-eyed excitement, clearly having misunderstood Detan’s question. He’d only meant—well, she knew it was simple curiosity. But if she refused outright, she had no doubt he would disappear from her life.
No welcoming party. No chance to out him for the scoundrel he was in front of father. And no possible meeting with Warden Faud.
She chewed her lip, wrung her fingers together. Cranston’s gaze bore into her side like a hot iron, she dared not look at him. Instead she stared hard at Detan. His expression shifted from bewilderment, to shock, to a hint of fear. He parted his lips, closed them, then parted them again. She had to do something—anything—to keep him from clearing the air. From politely excusing himself from her home, no doubt forever.
Cranston would understand. She would just have to explain it to him later.
"I—uh, I will?"
"You would?" Detan sputtered, still not quite understanding.
"What?" Cranston’s voice was so cracked with anger and sadness that Halva’s shoulders drew down in shame.
"Marvelous!" Father bounded forward and wrapped both her and Honding in his arms.
Whatever father said next, she could not hear over the sound of Cranston slamming the door on his way out.
12
"Walk me through it again," Tibs said.
They stood across the street from the station house of the Aransan watch, huddled in the shadow of a tenement building. Detan fluttered his hands through the air in a noncommittal gesture, unwilling to take his eyes from the yellowstone building across from them.
"It’s quite simple, Tibs. I’m engaged to be married. Wedded bliss, matrimonial delights, that sort of thing."
"I understand the condition, sirra. It’s the how of it, and the why exactly, that feels quite beyond my reckoning."
"Must you always be such an inquisitor?"
"In this instance I believe it’s called for."
"Well, I could hardly say no to the Lady, could I?"
"Then she asked you?"
"Not precisely..."
"Then you asked her?"
"Certainly not!" Detan scowled at the raised brows of his friend and drew his fingers through his hair. "Her father quite misunderstood me, and rather insisted his daughter answer the question I had not asked. Why she said yes, I can only imagine. But the fact is she did, old chum, and so here we are. I could hardly tell her I hadn’t meant to ask for her hand after she’d agreed to the thing. I’d have been thrown right out on my backside, and I hadn’t even gotten the chance to explore the place yet. It’s not my fault my mannerisms were misinterpreted."
"Your mannerisms?"
"I may have drawn close to the Lady so as to intimate that our thug friends may also be a threat to her."
"Drawn close? Really?" Tibs’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Fine, we’re stuck with it for now. But why in the blue skies are we going to the watch? I’m not keen on throwing myself in a cell, though you’re welcome to."
"Protective measures, you see. The dear lady is in a tizzy about throwing the largest engagement party Aransa has ever seen. I’ve no doubt that our rough little friends will catch word of the thing and come to pay us a visit during the festivities in an effort to extort further gains from us."
"And you’re certain of this because...?"
"It’s what I would do." He grinned and slung an arm around Tibs’s shoulders, marching him towards the station house door. "But if we beg for defense from the watch, then they wouldn’t dare move against us, or her, so publicly."
"And what makes you think the rusted old watch-captain will believe you? Last time we blew through Aransa Captain Ganner threatened to hang us by our toenails."
"Because, old chum. Aransa has a new Watch-captain."
Detan pressed a palm against the heavy wooden door and swung it inward on well-oiled hinges. He squinted against the low light of the lanterns, blinking in the stone-chilled air. The door opened upon the station’s central waiting room, but Detan hardly recognized it at first glance.
Someone had removed the mangy old rugs that used to line the floors and seen to it the tightly fitted rock had been swept clean. The entire perimeter of the room was ringed in bright lanterns, and although their light could never compete with the brillianc
e of the desert sun, they did an admirable job of chasing away the gloom.
A long, wide desk stood against the back wall, an alert young man in watcher blues standing straight as a mast pole behind it. Tables and chairs had been brought into the center of the room, and many held watchers and citizens alike going over local business.
It was all so very neat and modern that it made Detan’s head spin.
"This... Might not be a good change for us," Tibs murmured.
A suspiciously cheerful looking woman approached them, her uniform coat pressed nice and crisp. "May I help you?" she asked, and Detan was a little startled to hear a friendly lilt to her words.
Detan forced himself to smile right back at her. "I’ve come to speak with the new watch-captain."
"New? Oh, you must have been out of Aransa for quite some time. Captain Leshe has been our guiding light for years now. What is it you wish to see her about?"
Leaning forward, Detan pitched his voice to a soft whisper. "I’ve come to report a mugging."
The blasted girl chuckled. "I’m afraid the Captain doesn’t have much time for simple theft." She half-turned and gestured to an empty table. "If you two would have a seat, I’ll send a watcher over as quickly as possible."
"Now, see here..." Detan hesitated, not quite certain what would win the woman to his side. "I’m sure you’re all very good at whatever it is you do, but it’s the Captain herself I need."
"I assure you that any of our watchers is more than capable—"
"I also have an invitation for her."
"Sir?"
He waved a hand through the air, suppressing a flinch as Tibs’s heel dug into the top of his foot. "For a wedding. My wedding. I mean to say, my engagement party."
Her eyes narrowed just a touch which, Detan decided, was well enough. If she grew suspicious enough of him she just might call the Captain over anyway. "If you are indeed friends with the Captain, then I suggest you offer your invitation after her daily work is done. Now please sit, and I will fetch someone for you. What is your name?"
The Proposal Game Page 5