“Yes, captain.”
She puffed out her cheeks and nodded. “Good. Keep your heads down, all of you. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
She gave the donkey’s reins another tug and the animal ambled down the gangplank onto the roof. The patient beast cared not a whit for the yawning open space on either side of the plank, and Pelkaia found herself admiring the animal’s calm. Or maybe it was just too stupid to know the danger. Something the beast more than likely had in common with most of her crew.
After they’d lead the animal down a series of switch-backing ramps and into the city streets, Coss swung up into the driver’s seat and Pelkaia settled into the back of the cart, her crossbow close to hand. Coss snapped the reins, urging the donkey onward, his shoulders hunched up as he studiously surveyed the streets. He hadn’t said a word to her since they’d stepped off the ship.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Coulda used their help,” he said.
“They’d get in the way. You know that.”
“Would they?” He snorted as he guided the donkey down a side street. “You’re itching to turn them into an army, Pelkaia, but you won’t let them take any real risks. I know Essi’s young, but she’s clever, and that Laella is champing to prove how useful she can be. Every last soul we picked up – even the weakest of them – has spent most of their lives hiding their power just to stay alive. They’re not going to forget all of those skills just because they’ve found some safety.”
“They’re all too soft to handle off-ship missions. Once we get them some training with these weapons–”
“Soft? We found Essi picking pockets in Tanasa and Jeffin running dice scams in Kalisan. These aren’t calm cities, and those aren’t pleasant professions. They may not have spilt a warden’s blood like you, but they’ve got teeth. You just have to let them get used to the idea. Let them pull a few jobs, maybe rescue a few deviants on their own instead of you and me always swooping in on point.”
“Essi and Jeffin are close, sure, but Laella? Or old Ulder? Sharpest thing Laella ever held was a sewing needle, and Ulder’s half-blind.”
“Yet he’s the best at running the sails up. And Laella’s the strongest sensitive we’ve got, though you seem in denial about it. Jeffin may have come along first, but that’s a matter of chance, and you’re running him to dust trying to keep her from contributing. You should have given her mirror duty tonight.”
“They’re not ready. None of them are.”
“And what, exactly, does ready mean to you? A week ago you were running on about how they were ready to start weapons training. Now they can’t even tag along on a simple grab-and-dash.”
“That was before Honding entered the mix. I played him once, Coss. But it was a near thing. I’m not sure I can do it again. I don’t even know what he really wants from us.”
Coss sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know why that man’s got you so spooked.”
“You haven’t seen him work, you don’t know what he’s capable of.”
He flicked the reins and the cart shuddered as it turned down a narrow street. “I’m about to find out.”
Chapter Twelve
“This is a terrible idea.” Tibs slouched, hiding his whole body in the shadow of his hat.
“So you’ve expressed. But it seems we are committed for the time being, and as such must make the best of it.”
“I believe the best of it, in this instance, would be to run away and never look back.”
Detan scoffed, but couldn’t shake a suspicion that Tibs was right. They crouched in the shadow of an awning, pretending to be just another couple of drunks out in the cold night of Petrastad, chatting off their buzz or working out where to get another.
Petrastad’s nightlife pulsed around them – subdued, but not insubstantial. Unlike the inland cities of the Scorched, Petrastad didn’t have to wait until the harsh sun had set to get its vices out of its system, and as such the nightlife was quieter than most cities of the scrubland. Which was too bad, because Detan suspected that he and Tibs could use the extra cover of a rowdy crowd.
From within the unsettlingly tall building Detan rested his back against, soft music burbled forth. Some sort of rhythmic drum-and-pipe affair, and by the sounds of the hoots and whistles accompanying it there was at least one under-clothed person involved.
Truth be told, he’d much rather join them – even if it meant he’d be the one stripping to his smallclothes – than undertake this foolish plan. But these were Pelkaia’s terms for loaning him the use of the Larkspur to collect Ripka and New Chum and, with the monsoon season fast approaching, he couldn’t allow them to wait much longer. Ripka would no doubt hang Detan by his tonsils if he left her rotting in the Remnant any longer than required.
He tried to put Ripka out of his mind, though he imagined he could feel her narrow, almond eyes boring holes into the back of his neck. New Chum, at least, would have the decency to ask him which body part he wanted to be hung from.
Down the street a little ways the road widened, emptying out into a bulb-shaped courtyard. In the center a tiered fountain tooted dual jets of water, a gross display of Petrastad’s overabundance in that particular resource. A planter ringed the fountain, thick with flowers rare to the Scorched. The whole courtyard was dotted with trees and benches meant to shade weary citizens.
Detan eyed those trees, suspicious. Birds probably roosted in them, ready to shit on any unsuspecting shade-partaker. Not to mention the bugs. A tree like that could host an army of the crawling bastards. He’d much rather take his rest under the shade of a nice, wide awning. Or the shelter of a lovely woman’s shared parasol.
At the blunt end of the courtyard, a building hunkered. Its front portico was low and single-stepped, lined with fluted columns of grey stone that looked distinctly out of place amongst the muted browns and reds the Scorched usually had to offer. The sigil of the Imperial Fleet was carved in thick grooves above the building’s wide, double doors, the grooves themselves stained with black ink. The whole affair very nearly screamed municipal.
A single guard lounged outside the door. He leaned against the wall and smoked a rolled cigarillo, his shoulders hunched against the sea breeze. Detan could sympathize. The man’s job wasn’t an exciting one. The building he watched over was a Fleet administration office – containing records, maps, payment boxes for Fleeties too far afield to be given their pay directly.
And weapons. Lots and lots of weapons.
No one in their right mind would try breaking into a place like that. Unfortunately for Detan, Pelkaia had never seemed particularly in a healthy mental state of being. And he really, really needed the use of her airship.
“I could just steal the Larkspur again,” he muttered.
“That worked so well last time.”
A gust of wind snapped across his cheek, stinging it cold, as if the weather itself were urging him to hurry on. Ripka and New Chum were waiting.
“Shall we check round back, then?” Detan asked, shaking out his legs to get some warmth back into them. After all of this was done, he’d be finished with coastal cities for the rest of his life.
“I don’t know, shall we?” Tibs said, his voice raised with a mocking edge. Detan scowled at him and stalked off, wending his way to the back of the Fleet building without making the path look too direct.
Sneaking, misdirection. These were things he could do. Had done a hundred times a hundred over. They strolled up alongside a residential building. All the shutters were drawn and thin cracks of light leaked out like tears along the rough walls. A broad road separated the back of the Fleet building from the residential block, its face worn through with countless crisscrossing wheel ruts. A heavy, metal set of double doors faced them, a single guard looking as bored as the first lingering beside them. The door’s hinges were large, but supported by wood framing. A weak point. If he could wedge some sel in there he could blow them wide. Just as Pelkaia had said.