“Lookin’ lovely,” Coss said with a little smirk. “Do something with your hair, did you?”
“Nothing ever gets by you.”
“We’re almost in visual range for you blindies. Time for our esteemed commodore to make an appearance, eh?”
“Lead the way.”
The Mirror slewed to a halt alongside the jetty, looking for all the world like an imperial patroller. While the ship settled she scanned the scene, taking in the half dozen watchers and the bound-and-bagged man in their charge. He stood barefooted on the hard stone, his breeches scarcely reaching past his knees and his shirt smeared with filth. Some over-puffed watcher in a faded blue uniform had been encouraging him toward the edge with the point of a cutlass, but now that Pelkaia’s ship had arrived, his attention wavered. Pelkaia prayed to the sweet skies that the condemned man wouldn’t take the distraction as an opportunity to end his own life.
“Ho, watchers,” she called as she slung herself over the Mirror’s rail and onto solid land. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Coss scrambled over after her and circled those gathered, edging toward the captive man. Pelkaia forced herself to keep her gaze on the watchers. Coss knew his business.
A watcher sheathed his cutlass and stomped toward her. The crust of a grey beard ensconced his sagging chin, and he had a few more bars stitched to his shoulder than the rest. As he moved, the other watchers turned their gazes after him, intent.
“Got ourselves a damned deviant, commodore.” He cut a tight bow and gestured toward the waiting prisoner. “Care to do the honors yourself?”
She glanced at Coss, who held the captured man’s bound wrists. Good, the condemned wouldn’t do anything too stupid with Coss there to anchor him. Her crew dropped over the rail and fanned out around her, hands held easy at their sides. The watch-captain flicked narrowed eyes from one to the next, and rested his hand on the grip of his cutlass. Pelkaia sighed.
“What was his crime?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“You heard me, what did this man do?”
He hawked and spat. “Crime of being a viper-kissed deviant, is what he did.”
“Really,” she drawled. “And did anyone happen to see him perform these deviant abilities?”
“Uh.” One of the younger watchers stepped forward. “I did, commodore, begging your pardon. Saw him myself. Mercer Trag has… er, had… this pin, you see. Pretty thing you stick on your coat, real fancy. Was bragging about it, showed how there was a little ball of sel inside it, and it was nice, I’ll grant you, and then this man–” he pointed to the convict, “–says how he’ll, ah, give the Mercer something pretty to choke on, and poof, the thing burst into flames.”
“I see, a smart-lipped firebug. Of course. And did he do anything else? Is anyone dead or grievously injured due to this man’s behavior?”
“No, commodore, but–”
“And is the penalty for petty destruction of property in Cracked Thorn death?”
The watch-captain’s lip curled in disgust. “Being deviant is crime enough.”
“I will hear what this man has to say for himself. Coss, bring him.”
The watch-captain’s cheeks grew red with the effort of containing his anger. “Now wait a moment, commodore–”
She held up a hand and snapped it into a fist, cutting him off. “Do you mean to contradict the order of a commodore?”
“No, but–”
“Then be silent.”
Her crew moved around her, shifting their positions to make it clear weapons were easy to hand. The watchers, to their credit, stood stiff-backed and allowed their hands to creep toward their own weapons. Pelkaia resisted an urge to sigh again. If only they knew her appropriation had nothing to do with petty jurisdiction politics.
Coss dragged the prisoner over and ripped the bag off his head.
Pelkaia stared.
“Detan. Honding.”
Deep sun lines creased the corners of his eyes, and his hair stuck up in all directions. The sharpness of his chin and cheeks gave away a certain lack of consideration for proper nourishment. He grinned at her. That same, stupid grin he’d given her the first time she’d seen him.
“Pelly, old girl, I do love the way you say my name.”
“Coss, throw him off,” she said.
“Don’t throw me. But do throw that bag off. It stank.”
Coss stood where he was, baffled, looking like he was about to pinch the Honding to see if he were real. For his part, Detan appeared nonplussed. Irritation raked over her spine, raising gooseprickles. She opened her fists with the sudden desire to choke the mad bastard.
“You two know each other?” The watch-captain freed his cutlass, triggering his men to do likewise. Each blade was a fine piece of work, unblemished steel with the gleam of regular oil. They were probably the best kept things in the whole of this tumble-down town. Pelkaia snapped her fingers low and to the side. Coss nodded, and began to cut Detan free.
Chapter Two
Knives came out all around him, looking rather pointy, and Detan took an involuntary step backward. The sturdy man with the too-clean hair holding him by the ropes stopped Detan’s retreat and leaned down to whisper, “Got a weapon?”
Detan blinked. “Gosh, me? I’m really more a master of the art of running away.”
Pelkaia’s man scowled at him, and he beamed right back, biting the insides of his cheeks in frustration. This was taking longer than he’d hoped.
The man cut his ropes and the blood rushed back, tingling his fingertips. Detan sighed with relief and rubbed the life back into his hands. It would’ve been embarrassing to lose a finger due to lack of circulation.
He clapped. A big, echoing crack that slammed the ears, courtesy of the mighty strange acoustics caused by Cracked Thorn’s placement. All eyes turned to him, bright as the metal in their hands. For a heartbeat, he hesitated. What could he say to these wound-up vultures to keep them from plucking each other’s eyes out?
Pelkaia’s man pushed the grip of a knife into his palm. Poor bastard probably thought Detan knew how to use it. He hoped it wasn’t the only one the man’d brought. Detan tested its weight, as he’d seen many knife-carriers do, and found it lighter than it should have been. Hesitantly, he extended his sel-sense. The thing had sel in its handle, making it as light as it was sharp. Detan frowned at it, something like an idea coming to him. A bad idea, more than likely, but he’d never been picky with a plan when the alternative was being stabbed. Clearing his throat, he reseated an affable grin.
“Commodore! There is no need for arguments, these men have proven well how ardent they are in carrying out the good laws of Valathea. Why, they were so damnably thorough I didn’t even have a moment to explain that they had passed the test before we all ended up out here.”
Pelkaia’s eyes narrowed beneath the mask of her borrowed face, and he forced himself to stride forward without care, surreptitiously unscrewing the ball at end of the dagger’s grip. A few tiny sel beads leaked out, struggling to rise. He centered himself, pushing aside any hint of fear or anger, as he held the sel in his mind.
This was his element, he was good at this. He would not lose control. Not again.
“A test?” The watch-captain grunted in disgust. “My man saw you work the deviant power with his own bald eyes. You sayin’ that was staged somehow? Mercer Trag’s pin catching fire like that?”
Detan chuckled as he sauntered forward, walking the border between the two sets of blades. Their points followed him as he passed. He itched to sprint away, to throw himself over the edge and trust to luck, but he forced himself to stand tall. To slip a pinch of sel between thumb and forefinger.