The market itself was an oddity found only in the lower levels. While the uppercrust were able to do their browsing and purchasing during the day, those workers who toted the upcrust packages to and fro had to wait until the rise of the red moon to see about their own daily business. After certain hours, it was the only worthwhile place in the whole blasted city in which to acquire any kind of meal.
"Well," Banch said again, "let’s get a move on then. I’m sure the Captain wouldn’t want you parted from your rightful property."
Detan wasn’t sure of any such thing, but he wasn’t about to let Banch know that. Plastering on a delighted grin, he threw an arm around Banch’s shoulders and ushered him forward, through the relatively safe walls of the Oasis. "Banch, my good man, you are a real treasure! An Aransan hero!"
Detan pretended not to hear it when Tibs snorted behind them.
By the time they reached the eleventh level, the night market was in full swing and the moon was at full rise. They bought honeyed millet cakes from a gap-toothed street vendor, and even Banch’s fingers were sticky when they arrived at the docks.
The docking of airships in most Scorched cities was something of a pain. Keeping selium outside of the buoyancy sacks of the ships proved troublesome, as it was prone to escaping without the counterbalance of a heavy craft weighing it down. Many families chose to keep their crafts anchored close to home, tying them down to modified roofs and fences, but the unique nature of Aransa’s stepped-level design allowed for another sort of arrangement: the edge of the levels themselves.
Docks sprouted all along the edge of the eleventh, protruding like crooked teeth over the twelfth. When the design had first been proposed, Detan had caught rumor of consternation by those caught beneath the overhang, but they soon withdrew their claims. After all, a constant source of shade could be a blessed comfort in the desert.
He skimmed his gaze over the hodgepodge of ships and dinghy’s at rest in their stalls until he found his flier. The ship that served him as a better home than any well-made bed ever had wasn’t much to look at, and he preferred it that way.
It was long and flat, maybe a dozen and a half long paces from end-to-end, crafted in the style of the old riverbarges with its sel-sacks ballooned up above it under thick rope netting. Though rectangular of body, Tibs had worked up a neat little pyramidal bowsprit to make it a hitch more aerodynamic, and Detan had made blasted sure that the pulley-and-fan contrivance of its navigational system was made of the best stuff he could afford. Or steal. Even its accordion-like stabilizing wings, folded in now, were webbed with leather supple and strong enough to make a fine Lady’s gloves feel coarse and cheap.
Midship, just behind the steerage, rose a plain-walled cabin just wide and long enough to house two curtain-partitioned sleeping quarters. It was a good show for guests, but the real living space was hidden in the flat hold between deck and keel. Though the space was not quite tall enough for Detan to stand straight within, it ran the length of the whole ship—a sturdy little secret placed there by the smugglers who had originally built the thing.
"Ah, the sight of her is a balm against the sun," Detan murmured.
Banch smacked his lips. "Which one is she then?"
"There, the flat-bottomed flier without a name." He pointed as he hurried forward, the ticket-stub for his dock rental gripped tight within a fist he hid in his pocket. It had been a skies-blessed stroke of luck that the toughs who’d robbed him had missed it, otherwise those downcrust bastards might be toddling around the skies on his bird even now.
"Why doesn’t she have a name?" Banch asked.
Tibs said, "Detan has enough trouble remembering his own."
All three shared a chuckle, though Detan and Tibs had been telling a variation of that joke at every other dock they put in at. Truth was, a name was something you could attach a story to. If they’d named the flier The Bird or some othersuch nonsense, then soon enough rumors would drift around the Scorched of the trouble people had whenever The Bird stopped for a visit. Wouldn’t be long before dockmasters turned them away. He had a enough trouble already evading the rumors of the Lord Honding and his roguish tendencies. At least he could wave away any stories attached to his name as upcrust affectations. Stories that followed a ship, however, had a tendency to stick.
But unnamed fliers weren’t uncommon, even if his was a bit big to be waddling around the sky without a moniker.
Detan handed the stall tab off to the wharver and the man lead them down the rows of ships. He paused before the flier and untied the single stretch of rope that blocked off entrance to the flier’s gangway. The cheeky wharver gave them an elaborate bow, then spat over the edge of the level and trudged back to his post.
They scrambled onto the deck and cast off, Detan throwing the lines free while Tibs manned the complicated steerage podium covered in crank-wheels and levers. Banch stood at Tibs’s elbow, sticking close, his stance splayed just a touch too wide, knees bent as he adjusted to the subtle sway of flight. He was still munching on a millet cake, lips smacking, but Detan pushed the sound out of his mind.
Night breeze washed over him, and the nice Watcher was all unawares that this little surprise he was in the process of arranging was not for Lady Halva’s benefit. No, if Detan had his way then the Lady wouldn’t know that the flier was tied just beneath her garden’s ledge until he was well on his way out of the city.
Detan sucked down a deep breath and bore his teeth at the moon. Use him. Hah.
The door to the cabin swung open, cheap hinges cracking in complaint. Detan spun in time to see Tibs leap to the side, slamming the gear-lock into place as he did so. The flier would not climb, sink, or turn until that lock was disengaged. From within the cabin two familiar brutes emerged. Each carried a heavy looking pry-bar. Detan doubted those tools had ever been used on wood. His stomach churned. They had, apparently, gotten a look at his stall tab after all.
"Our little friend came back early," one of the men said.
"Put down your weapons," Banch dropped his honeycake and yanked his baton out, sticky fingers white knuckled about the handle. "I am a watcher, and you two are under arrest."
The second man whistled low. "A real live watcher, eh? Good. Now we have someone official to watch us kick these two heads in."
They advanced, and Detan found himself sweating despite the bite of night.
15
"I told you I would find him, not bring you to him," Silka whispered. They crouched in an alleyway on the thirteenth level, hair and bodies hidden underneath old burlap tarps that Halva had once used to shade a few plants from the sting of the sun. It was the best she could do—not even Silka owned clothes plain enough to go without remark in this neighborhood.
"He should hear it from me," Halva said.
"I’m not even sure seeing you is a good idea. By the pits, darling, as much as he loves you he must also hate you right now."
"He wouldn’t."
"You can’t know."
Halva bit her lip to keep from saying something she’d regret. Silka was right, of course. There was no possible way for her to be certain about Cranston’s state of mind and, if she were being truthful with herself, he had every right to hate her. She just didn’t much like being truthful with herself. Not at this moment.
The door of the squalid little tavern they’d been watching swung open, spewing yet another of its guests out into the night. The man—or woman, Halva couldn’t be sure—staggered down the gently sloping lane, spilling droplets from the mouth of the clay bottle they carried.
"Are you sure?" Halva asked again, sensing her friend tense in exasperation at her side. "I can’t imagine he’d come to a place like this."
"I’m sure. Only his sister was at home, and she told me that their parents had put a hand on each shoulder and thrown him out for the trouble he was causing. Drunk, of course. She said he always comes here when their parents are tired of him."
"It’s all so dismal."
"When
you’re getting drunk on the cheap you don’t usually mind the decor."
Halva felt the sharp edge to Silka’s tone and fell into silence. This was precisely the sort of lifestyle she was trying to avoid with her scheming. This, and winding up on the arm of some rich idiot she didn’t—could never—love.
The door creaked open a second time and spit a familiar silhouette onto the street. Halva sucked air through her teeth so fast she whistled, then clenched her jaw to keep from crying out. Cranston staggered just as comically as the person who’d preceded him, but now that weaving walk felt tragic to her.
Swallowing the shame that welled up within her at the way she’d dismissed the earlier person, Halva straightened and adjusted the lay of the burlap wrapped around her. She needn’t have bothered—she looked like a half-empty grain sack in it no matter what she attempted.
Exchanging a fortifying glance with Silka, she stepped out into the street. Then hesitated. Silka, skies bless her, strode on ahead, leaving Halva safely concealed in the shadow of the alley’s maw.
Silka approached Cranston as if he were a frightened dog, one hand out and her chin tipped down. Halva couldn't hear what was said, but the tones were soft and smooth. After a moment, while Halva’s stomach worked itself into knots, Silka pointed back toward the alley and Cranston looked up, peering into the darkness.
He staggered toward her. Nerves clamped her throat shut, and it was all she could do to keep from bolting back down the alley.
"Halvie?" he said.
"Oh Cranston, it’s all just a terrible scheme. I didn’t mean any of it," the words fell from her lips, all in a rush, jumbled up against one another so tight that she feared he wouldn’t understand her. She squirmed, twisting the rough burlap between her fingers until it made her skin pink and raw. He squinted down at her, and she imagined she could hear his alcohol-addled mind working through everything she’d just said.
"I, uh, I know," he spoke with care, making certain not to slur his words. "It’s all right, love. Silka told me everything." He grinned and held out his arms. "Everything’s all right."
Tears she hadn’t known she’d been holding back streaked down her cheeks, hot and salty. She folded herself against him, burying her face in the firm slope of his shoulder. He wrapped her up tight in his arms, and though he stank of sweat and fermented grains the embrace was still sweet.
"But you should go," he whispered against her ear, "your father will wonder if you’re out so late."
"To the pits with him—"
"Hush, love." He brushed her hair, fingers a little clumsy and fumbling. "He means to do his best for you. When—" He cleared his throat. "When will this be over?"
"Tomorrow night." She made the words a promise with the force of them. "That’s the engagement party. Warden Faud will come, and then.... Well. We’ll see."
She felt his chin bump the top of her head as he nodded. "Silka will steal the atlas in Honding’s name." His voice hardened with conviction. "I should be there. I should help her."
"Cranston, sweetie, father would never let you in the door."
He sighed so heavily he felt like a deflated buoyancy sack in her arms. "I know, I know, it’s just..."
Halva chewed her lip as he trailed off. "Maybe Silka and I can work something out. If I distract daddy, then—"
He pressed a finger to her lips. "Focus on what you must do. Send Silka for me if you need help. I..." He cleared his throat and glanced away. "I'm sorry you've seen me like this."
She smiled and kissed his finger. It tasted of dry, fallow soil. "I'd be stupid-drunk too if our positions had been reversed. It's all right. I'll come to you the moment it’s over. Goodnight, Cranston."
"Good night, Lady Erst."
He brushed his lips against her forehead and escaped her embrace, walking with just a little less stagger now as he turned up the winding lane. Up, back toward home. Halva’s shoulders slumped with relief and she nearly fell as Silka put an arm around her waist.
Silka said, "It’s not over yet."
"No, it isn’t. But it’s better."
They were not five steps down the road when a ragged creature stepped out before them. Halva stopped hard, heart racing. Silka took a half-step forward, reaching for something hidden amongst the folds of her burlap.
"Easy," the creature’s voice was raspy but still distinctly feminine. "I’m not looking for a fight, Lady Erst. Silka Yent."
Halva’s eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
A sandpaper rasp escaped the woman’s lips, "Just an old geezer who wants to wish you congratulations on your engagement to Lord Honding. The word's on the wind all over the city, miss. Not every day a Lordling like that ties hearts."
Giddy relief almost pushed a giggle through her lips, but she swallowed it down and forced a polite smile. "Thank you kindly, ma’am."
Silka angled herself to urge Halva onward, and she dipped her head to the woman in leave-taking.
"It’s just a shame," the woman said, "that you have another lover. Wouldn’t want the wedding to be called off, oh no, not with a match like that."
Bright embarrassment painted Halva’s cheeks and she stopped mid-step. "What are you implying?" she snapped.
"Not implying any old thing, just stating a fact. ‘Nother fact is, full mouths don’t have much to say." She stuck a filthy hand out, palm up, and rubbed her fingertips together.
Revulsion swelled in Halva’s belly. She’d brought no grains with her, hadn’t even considered that she might need them. What a damned stupid thing to do. Swallowing her pride, she fumbled through her burlap wrapping in search of any likely piece of jewelry.
Silka said, "I’ve got a few—"
"No." Halva found the clasp of her bracelet and undid it. It was a simple piece, crafted of silver and real carnelian. A gift from father, brought back after his last successful excursion. There hadn't been any new gifts since then. "Here." She shoved the piece toward the woman’s hooked fingers. "Take it and leave me be."
The woman snatched the bracelet and brought it close to her eyes, peering all along its length. No doubt she’d already assessed how much it was worth at the local pawn dealers. How much of whatever vice she favored she could get for it.
"A lovely start." The woman chortled and vanished the bracelet into her ragged clothes. "I’ll be seeing you again soon, lovie."
Humming some delighted tune to herself, the wretched creature wandered away—down the lane—and left a chill deeper than the desert night behind her.
"What a monster." Silka broke the silence, fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. "Do you want me to go take it back?"
"No." Halva shook her head and pulled the burlap close, trying to ignore the sensation of her skin crawling. "No. Let her think she’s secured something for herself. It's just one more day. Remember what we said? About what I wouldn’t give?"
Silka’s lips twisted in disapproval, but Halva ignored her. It was going to be okay. Cranston had said so.
Just one more day.
16
Detan was gratified to hear Tibs let out rather unmanly squawk as he danced out of the reach of one of the men’s pry bars. Of the two attackers, one was considerably shorter than the other, and Detan was a little dismayed to see that one decide to take after Tibs. Great. That meant he had to deal with the taller of the two—and that piece of crusted leather looked meaner than a wet rockcat.
Detan was certain he really hadn’t seen the man before. The shorter man he knew for one of his market-road attackers, the other’s face was completely new, if not predictable with its scars and smears of dirt.
Wonderful. There were even more men out there wanting to crack his head than he had thought.
Banch let out a cry and sprung forward, putting himself between the tall man and Detan. For just a moment Detan stood there, feeling silly in his oversized tunic with his empty hands while all around a battle raged. Then he remembered himself.
Tibs had gotten a big, flat wrench in his han
ds and was doing an admirable job of knocking back the stocky bastard’s swings, but he was losing ground fast. Yelling something even Detan didn't understand, Detan rushed across the deck and threw himself on the back of Tibs’s attacker. The air thumped out of him as his chest collided with the man’s back, cutting off his cry. Bright hot pain sparkled behind his eyes, all the bruises from the night before rearing their ugly little heads to remind him just how things had gone the last time he’d been stupid enough to get tangled in a fight.
He wrapped his arms around the big man’s neck and held on for dear life, squeezing for all he was worth as the bastard swung his arms about.
"Pitsdamnit! Hurry up Tibs!"
Staggering to his feet—when had he fallen?—Tibs lurched forward and struck the man about the middle. The big man grunted, wheezing against the force of Detan’s arms around his neck. He swayed a little, and Detan bore down with all his strength.
The world washed out from under him as the man collapsed. Detan let loose a mousey yelp as they slammed against the deck, all tangled up together, and in his scrambling to get away he just got tangled tighter.
"Hold still!" Tibs yelled.
"Banch! Help Banch!" Detan squeaked, trying to shake off Tibs’s assistance while still worming to his feet.
"Easy," Banch said nearby, his voice soft as a man coaxing a startled goat. "That’s all taken care of."
"Bloody skies." Detan let himself go limp. "Could have told me sooner."
"You were too busy screaming your fool head off," Tibs said as he got his hands underneath Detan’s armpits and slung him back to his feet.
Detan stood and surveyed the damage. As far as he could tell, the flier was without injury. Sure, Banch was sprouting a red river from his nose and Tibs’s cheek was swelling up like he’d kissed a scorpion, but the flier’s smooth deck was unmarred save for a few red speckles, and the hinges on the cabin door seemed to have survived the abuse.
The Proposal Game Page 7