Chaos, it seemed, was unwilling to loosen its grip.
Those who had chased them to the edge of the garden had turned back toward its heart, but they’d only discovered further trouble in the manner of two pissed off beggar-women. Or muggers. Whatever they were, they were working up a storm of trouble. To his deep dismay, he saw his own harassers had arrived, free of the ties they’d left them in. Detan grimaced. Must have taken them all night and morning to sneak their way up to Halva’s level, but they’d done it, and looked mighty upset they’d missed his appearance at the party.
Tables were knocked over. Gallant men whose worst experiences with pain had been getting belted as boys tried to subdue the terrors, but it was no use. In the middle of it all Halva and Silka stood, back to back, the botany book clutched tight against Halva’s chest and a cheese knife clutched tighter in Silka’s fist.
"I feel we should do something," Detan said as the shadow of Tibs fell over his shoulder.
"We do have a Watcher to hand."
Detan frowned down at the tumult below and heaved a sigh great enough to send spirals of pain lancing out from his abused ribs. "I suppose we do have to let him out eventually."
He turned and adjusted his tunic, feeling the selium balloon Tibs had given him what felt like ages ago now. He’d been subduing it subconsciously, holding the cupful of it steady in his mind. Now that he made himself actively aware of it he could feel it tugging at him, desiring nothing more than to fly away.
A small thing, that giant’s fistful of sel. But enough, perhaps, to ease the fall of a man from a height. A height safely away from spear prods and thrown rocks. Detan winked at Tibs, relishing the confusion wrinkling the man’s forehead, and strode forward with newfound confidence of his own. He wrenched open the trapdoor and was slammed in the chest by a barreling Watcher.
"Urgh!" His back slapped the deck and once more all the air escaped him, white stars of pain dancing before his darkened eyes.
He heard Tibs say something, the words themselves lost to the ringing in his ears, and then the great weight was heaved off his chest and air returned to him. Gasping, he levered himself to his feet and leaned forward, hands propped on his knees. That cursed Watcher stood between him and Tibs, baton wavering as he tried to decide which one of them he’d more enjoy bashing.
"Peace," Tibs said, "we don’t mean you any harm."
"You are both under arrest! For counterfeiting coinage and imprisoning a watcher of Aransa. Kneel on the deck of the ship so that I may properly restrain you."
Detan shared a look with Tibs. It was difficult not to laugh.
"I understand your position," Detan said. "Really, I do. You spent a rough night and I’m sorry for it, but we didn’t set you free just to go on a nice little walk back to the station house. The Erst family home is under attack, and requires your assistance."
His eyes narrowed. "You’re lying."
"See for yourself." Detan gestured toward the forward rail and lifted both his hands into the air, palms forward, to show they were empty of any weapons.
Banch half scuttled, half walked to the rail, never taking his eyes from them and never once letting his baton drop. As he reached the edge he bent his knees to be ready to spring away and braced one hand on the rail. Detan rolled his eyes.
"Just look, won’t you?"
Banch peered over the edge, and swore some rather un-Watcher-like words. "What did you do?"
"Me?" Detan threw his arms in the air. "I didn’t do a pitsdamn thing. Whatever that is happened after I’d left."
"Right after?"
"I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying. Are you going to help those people, or not?"
"Of course I am! Take this ship down so that I can disembark, then kneel in the manner I directed."
Detan snorted. "Not going to happen. I’m not bringing my flier anywhere near that madness, and I’m sure as shit not kneeling down for you."
The muscles of Banch’s neck strained so that Detan feared the man would burst. "Then how do you expect me to help them, Lord Honding."
"Funny you should ask." Detan pulled the balloon from under his tunic and held it out. "This should be enough to break you fall."
"You can’t be serious."
"Better hurry. Sounds like a real disaster down there."
Banch tapped the baton against an open palm. "I could force you—"
"No," Tibs said in the hardest voice Detan had ever heard him muster, "you couldn’t."
The knot of Banch’s throat bobbed once, twice, and then he threw his hands in the air and tucked the baton away. "Fine, give me the blasted thing. But if you ever set foot in Aransa again—"
"So we’ve been told." Detan looped the little ball of sel around Banch’s wrist and cut the metal weights free. "Best hold onto that with two hands."
With Tibs and Detan ushering him forward, Banch approached the edge of the flier and peered down into the chaos in the garden. He put one foot up on the rail, then spared a glance back at Detan. "I don’t suppose I could entreat upon your sense of mercy to bring the ship lower?"
"Fresh outta’ mercy. You’ll be fine. Unless you weigh considerably more than I’ve guessed."
The watcher swallowed, self-consciously adjusting his weapons belt, then heaved himself into a sitting position upon the rail. His feet dangled over the empty air, and he leaned forward as if testing the waters of a very hot bath.
"On with it." Tibs gave the watcher a shove.
With a startled yelp Banch tipped over, flailing to get both his hands on the balloon string. Detan rushed forward and gripped the rail, peering down at the dark blue blob as it slalomed gently on the faint breeze.
"Huh, it worked," Detan said.
"Had your doubts?" Tibs asked.
"A wise man is never certain."
"Lucky us we’re blessed with your sagacity, then."
Detan snorted as cries of alarm began to rise up from the party goers. He pushed away from the rail and strode back towards the helm, not wishing to see what would happen next. He’d done what he could, and felt certain that if he were to stay any longer it would only make matters worse.
As he took up the primary wheel he felt an urge to reach out with his sel-sense, to feel the great buoyancy sacks suspended above the deck and guide the flier through the skies by the force of his whim, not the strength of his arms. But he was too close to the city yet, and any hint of sel-ability might make him a more hunted man than he already was.
Selium-sensitives worked selium mines. He’d done that.
Once.
Tibal slid up beside him, hands folded behind his back. Detan had no doubt in his mind that Tibs was the better pilot—the better man all around, if he were being real honest—but still he clung to the wheel, turning the flier’s back on the sweep of Aransa.
Tibs let him, stifling any complaint. Both of them holding back on any words at all until they were well out over the empty scrubland and sands.
"I hope," Detan said, "she won’t be too upset by my abandonment."
"Something tells me she’ll be fine."
Tibs pulled that strange fruit he’d shared with Faud out of his pocket and sliced off another chunk, chewing it over with care. Detan eyed it, suspicious.
"Seems strange, her wanting to use the Honding name just to get an audience with the Warden."
"Her family was having some trouble fulfilling an old concordant. I doubt her father was keen on a change." Tibs chewed noisily.
"Wonder if she was ever interested in marriage at all." Detan cursed himself for the traitorous hint of wistfulness creeping into his voice.
"I imagine she was," Tibs said, his tone perfectly flat.
"Wonder if she’ll ever forgive me."
"I imagine she will."
Detan glanced sideways at his old friend and saw a tell-tale crook to the corner of his fruit-smeared lips. "You seem mighty knowledgeable of the Lady’s proclivities."
Tibs smirked. "I had a rather
illuminating conversation with my wife."
"Your what?" Detan jumped, jerking the wheel so that he had to scramble to get the flier laid out straight again.
"You met her. Miss Silka Yent, the martial woman."
"You didn’t—I mean, how? When?"
He shrugged and tossed the stone of the fruit over the side of the ship. "Wasn’t nothing romantic. She was in a hard place—marriage, the Fleet, or poverty. Didn’t have any suitors in particular in mind, so—"
"So you offered yourself?"
"Seemed, after all that trouble, that somebody should be getting married."
"I see." Detan laughed, a wild and frantic sound. "So, no more blood money, then. At least somebody will be relieving the counting houses of it."
"My thoughts exactly."
Detan shot Tibs a scowl, but he just wiped the fruit stain from his lips on the back of his sleeve and wandered off to see to the fitting on one of the fans, leaving him alone with his thoughts. And the book. With a weary grunt he chocked the wheel, heading straight northeast toward Hond Steading, and dragged a crate over on which to sit. The atlas he pulled out and laid in his lap, flipping through decades of family history—of exploration. It was a singular work, and Auntie Honding would be right proud to own it.
And if she didn’t, he might just push her off the flier with a selium balloon of her own.
20
Halva sat on the balcony of her father’s home, sipping tea through bruised lips. The sun dusted a sunny beam across her table, warming the stiff ache that had crept into her muscles and joints. While the bulk of the party’s turmoil had avoided her, she still felt its aftereffects in the tightness of her back and the sore complaint of her feet.
A mild annoyance, truly, to have gained everything she desired.
Silka lounged across from her, the cross-stitch hoop she had been laboring over the past half moonturn forgotten. Her friend bore the purpling bruises of battle, as she’d happily jumped into the fray, but she wore them with languid contentment, cat-like pride.
"I think," Halva said into the stretching silence, "that things might have gotten out of hand."
"Really?" Silka drawled, "I hadn’t noticed."
Halva grunted a laugh, a soft sting radiating from her mouth. The bruising of her lips she treasured, pressing the rim of her teacup against them to spread the slight pain deeper. Those she had earned from her lover’s lips.
"Well," Silka pressed, "is it done?"
Halva gave her friend a coy smile over the rim of her teacup. "There are so very many things to which you might be referring. I hardly know where to begin."
"Then begin with the pears."
"Ah, yes." She felt her grin twitch, growing sly without her permission. "Daddy and Faud stayed up well into the night, drinking brandy and comparing scrapes from the kerfuffle. Like two great, old war buddies come together to compare scars. They have become, I fear, the best of friends. And the good Warden has made certain to draw up and have signed all the paperwork appropriate for a new family concordant."
"Hah!" Silka clapped her hands in delight. "I knew the Warden wouldn’t be able to resist once he’d had a taste. The Botanist Lady Erst. I think it rather suits you."
"As do I." She grinned, popping a leftover millet cake into her mouth.
"And the other?"
"Hmmm?"
"Don’t tease. If you are to be married in truth then I must have a dress for the occasion—and so it’s best you warn me now, so that I will have the time to figure out how to purchase one."
She nearly choked on her cake. "You would wear a dress, for me?"
"Of course I would, ninny. Now go on, spill."
A flush crept its way to Halva’s cheeks as she wiped the sticky honey from the cake clean on a small napkin. The memories were all still so very fresh, so very personal. And yet, she knew there would never be a day in which she could recall them without a blush.
"Cranston was lingering nearby, of course. And while daddy was busy with Faud, well, we... Talked. He was so very sweet, Silkie. He promised to wait, no matter how long it took."
"And? How long should it take?"
Halva grasped the new silver chain that hung round her neck and pulled it out, revealing the gold band dangling from the end of it. Plain as it was, it was the most precious thing in the world to her.
"Daddy insists we wait a respectable amount of time after ending my ‘engagement’ with Detan, but hinted that it should be about the time our new concordant arrives."
"Wonderful!"
"And that should be enough time," she said as she slipped the engagement band back into its hiding place, "to work up some scheme for you."
"For me?" Silka’s eyes went wide with feigned ignorance. "Whatever do you mean?"
"Do you think me blind to your troubles? I have been thinking on your mother’s ultimatum, marriage or the Fleet, and I wonder if—"
"Oh please, no more schemes for at least another turn of the moon. And regardless, I assure you, I’ve taken care of my future already."
Halva went stiff and cold all over. "You didn’t."
"Didn’t what?" She hid her expression behind a cup.
"You did! You signed up for the Fleet! Black skies, we can get you out of this mess. Just let me—"
"Whoa." A tiny chuckle snuck through. "I didn’t do any such thing."
"But it was marriage or the Fleet..."
"Yes, and?"
"You married? When? Who!?" Halva burst forth from her chair and stood with her fists clenched, looming over Silka as if she could squeeze the information out of her with the sheer force of her presence. With a shameful grimace she sat back down and smoothed her morning dressing gown.
"It was at your party, in fact. Out in the garden. That young man your Detan was with offered me, well, his veteran’s stipend, really. It’s all just a marriage of paper, but it’s enough to keep me independent."
Halva’s mouth worked around empty air as she struggled to organize her flying thoughts into words. "Tibal? Detan’s traveling companion is—is—your husband?"
"On paper." Silka shrugged.
"How can you be sure it’s not another trick of theirs?"
"I thought of that, and I knew you’d protest, so I went to the counting house this morning to see if I could make my first withdrawal." Silka pulled a leather thong from around her neck and deposited a well-polished veteran’s shield in the center of the table. Halva stared at it, disbelieving, but her shock only ran deeper as Silka produced a slim leather envelope from her robe. She sat it on the table with a tell-tale clatter.
"I can hardly believe it." Halva picked up the fine leather envelope and weighed the contents in her hand. Judging by the weight and volume they were silver—and plentiful. She couldn’t recall ever having held so many grains at once before. "You’re a rich woman, Mrs—?"
Silka pointed to the medallion. "Turn it over, I think you’ll recognize the crest."
Halva flicked it over, and squeaked with shock at the familiar lines staring up at her. "Well then. What will you do now?"
A little grin crept its way across Silka’s features. "I’m considering mounting an expedition to explore the midlands of the Scorched. An event, perhaps, wherein one might require the keen eye of a botanist?"
Halva felt her lips contort to mirror Silka’s grin. "I just might know someone."
Though their cups were already half-gone, they held them up to one another and clinked a joyous toast.
"To your future, Mrs. Wels," Silka said.
"And to yours, Mrs. Honding."
The Adventures of Detan & Tibs Continue in the
Scorched Continent Trilogy
Steal the Sky
Break the Chains
Inherit the Flame
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The Proposal Game Page 10