He looked at the keys in his hand. There were only three. The one the captain had used to open the front door, another very much like it, and a third that sported an elaborate flourish on its crown. Good old Valathea. They never could keep from enjoying their own ostentation. It was just a good thing for him they’d cheaped out on the lighting and brought in candles instead of oil lamps.
“Give me your candle.”
Tibs handed it over without comment, keeping a wary eye on the door to the outside. Dropping to a crouch, Detan snuffed his candle and set it on the ground. He ran Tibs’s lit end along it until the wax was soft enough to shape between his fingers. Shutting out the sounds of battle outside the hallway, he split the softened candle into two parts and wadded each into a ball, discarding the wick. Brushing Tibs’s flame over each to keep them pliable, he smooshed the elaborate key into one glob, then counted down from ten, giving the wax time to harden around the metal. Once it was set, he peeled it carefully away and repeated the process with the other side of the key in the other ball of wax.
“Sirra…” Tibs said, a warning note in his voice as something clanged against the door to the outside. Detan grimaced, keeping his hands as still as possible while the wax set.
Three… Two…
He gently lifted the key out of the hardened wax and stuck the two halves of his new mold in his pocket. The pounding on the door grew louder, the wood shaking and the metal fixtures clattering. Detan gave the key one last check to make sure that no waxy residue had been left behind, then strode toward the door. He yanked it open, and stood face to face with a woman he’d never seen before.
And yet he knew her.
“Hullo,” he said, slapping on a disarming grin. Pelkaia wore black from head to toe, a rookie mistake, as far as Detan was concerned. Who went thieving looking like a thief? Though she’d rearranged her face – a wider nose, a rounder chin – her accusatory glare was all too familiar.
Before she could say anything, Allat called out, “Arrest that woman!”
Detan blinked, hesitating, but the shrill call of watcher whistles decided him. Blue-coated watchers streamed down the street, nearly a dozen of them, encircling the wagon Pelkaia and Coss had brought to haul off the goods.
If he got caught up in this, he’d never make it to the Remnant in time. He needed to wriggle his way free, and fast. Trouble was, Pelkaia had a cutlass already in hand, and he was all too familiar with her willingness to use it. Unless he could diffuse matters, he might arrive at the Remnant on a prisoner transport ship instead of the Larkspur.
“Drop your weapon!” he barked, shaking the key ring at her to distract her with the noise – and possibly to clue her into what he was up to.
She stepped back, startled. “What are you doing, you stupid–”
“Weapons down, all of you!” a watcher cried out, and his voice was, Detan noted grudgingly, much more convincing than his own.
Metal clattered against stone as Pelkaia dropped her cutlass and raised her hands to the air. Detan peered over her shoulder. Coss sat on the driver’s seat of the cart, a crossbow fallen to the ground beside him. They’d brought no one else that he could see, unless their other members had already fled into the city.
The guard who had been napping sat on the ground, holding his thigh and moaning. A black shaft stuck up from his leg, a pool of blood coalescing beneath him. Allat stood a few paces in front of him, his baton abandoned for a cutlass, his eyes wild and his hair a sweaty mess.
A brass whistle dangled from around Allat’s neck. Detan grimaced. Poor luck. If he’d noticed the lad had means of calling the watch, he’d have offered to go around back himself and sent the lad through to open the back door.
“On your knees!” the watcher yelled.
Pelkaia did not break eye contact with Detan as she knelt, folding her hands behind her head. Detan stared back, impassive. He’d been playacting too long to allow himself to be moved by scorn in such a delicate situation.
“Allat,” Tibs called, getting the Fleet guard’s attention as the watchers moved in to take command of Pelkaia and Coss. Detan forced himself to turn away from her, to follow Tibs to Allat’s side. He could not break character, not now, and a Fleetie’s first priority was to his fellows. He’d forgotten that – if not for Tibs’s redirection of his attention, he would have dived right in to help the watchers, and nothing looked more suspicious than a Fleetie lending a hand to the local municipality without complaint.
“He all right?” Tibs asked as he knelt alongside the bleeding guard. Detan lingered nearby, trying to keep an eye on the arrest process without being too conspicuous. Pelkaia and Coss had their hands tied and were herded toward the watchers’ waiting cart, a sad little donkey ready to pull them along.
“I’ll be fine,” the bleeding man hissed. “Missed the artery, thank the skies.”
Detan tried to pay attention to Tibs’s conversation with the guards, but he was stuck on the watchers. With Pelkaia and Coss secured, the watchers started work on Pelkaia’s cart, checking it for smuggled goods. As they worked, another watcher took up the donkey driver’s seat and flicked the reins – guiding it, and their fresh prisoners, away.
Away to pits knew where. Detan didn’t know a thing about this city aside from it was cold and partial to a fish stew. He couldn’t trail them, he’d be too obvious, and by the time he managed to slip away from his “fellow” Fleeties they’d be long gone. He didn’t have a plan, but he could stall better than a sel-less ship in a storm.
“Wait!” he yelled, holding up a hand to forestall the donkey-driver. The man didn’t so much as glance his way, but one of the watchers going over Pelkaia’s cart did.
“What’s the problem?” he asked, hooking a finger in his belt loop. This watcher was a younger man, slim of frame with well-trimmed hair and a chin bald as a baby’s ass. Still paid attention to protocol, then. Not yet jaded by his authority.
Detan’s mind raced. What could he say? The injured guard groaned as Tibs and Allat tended to him, sparking an idea. “Those two injured a Fleet guard! They’re our prisoners!”
“Hah,” the watcher said. “This is our city. You’re going to have to take it up with the captain.”
“Fine,” he scowled. “Where are you taking them?”
“You must be new here.” The watcher jerked his thumb toward a slim, round building that towered above all the others of the city. It was crafted of the same boring, brown stone as the rest, unique from its neighbors only by nature of its height and its circular construction. A beacon shone from its top, a radiant glass globe fueled by gaslight. Figured the watchers would see to it they got the most phallic building in the city all to themselves. “They’ll go in the Tower, same as everyone else arrested in Petrastad. Make your appeals for control of them there.”
The watcher turned back to his work, dismissing Detan with his back. Of course. It had to be a tower. Only one he’d ever stepped foot in before was the whitecoats’ Bone Tower, and it hadn’t exactly been a welcoming experience. Forcing himself to calm, Detan reached down and clapped a hand on Tibs’s shoulder.
“Come along, brother. Let’s go see if we can find a late night apothik to tend to our comrade here, eh?”
Tibs tied a strip of cloth around the wounded man’s leg, slowing the flow but not cutting it off completely. Reluctantly, he nodded and stood, wiping his hands on the hem of his coat. One more stain to add to the collection.
“Right you are,” Tibs said. “Allat, keep pressure on that wound, understand? We’ll send someone over quick as we can.”
The young guard looked up at them, his face almost as pale as the moon’s. “Ruma? Where…?”