“Yes?”
“I asked around about that man of yours. I don’t know what you know, but… He’s trouble, missy. Watch him close.”
Ripka clenched her fists in frustration. “What do you mean?”
“Glasseaters don’t just leave.”
Kisser’s boots crunched away over tree deadfall, leaving Ripka alone with her plans and her worries. With a heavy, exhausted sigh, she sank back down to the loamy ground, praying to the sweet skies that sleep would carry her through the rest of her isolation.
It began to rain.
Chapter Nineteen
Stuffed into Pelkaia’s stolen commodore coat, Jeffin looked like a young lad playing dress-up in his daddy’s wardrobe. Detan fussed with the lay of the boy’s lapels to see if he could coax the shape of the coat into giving him some dignity.
“No use,” Tibs said.
“What’s the matter?” Jeffin asked, turning himself this way and that before a long mirror they’d found tacked up in one of the larger cabins.
“You don’t exactly strike a commodorial figure, my dear lad.” Detan tried to muster a grin. Catching himself in the mirror, he realized it was more of a grimace.
“More commode-ial,” Tibs added.
“Not. Helping.”
Detan eyed the girl, Essi, sitting on the costume trunk from which they’d pulled the commodore’s coat. Her surly face, her rigid shoulders, her ruthless nature. She’d make the perfect commodore, if only she were a decade older. Essi caught him staring and sniffed, flipping hair from her eyes.
“Won’t work,” she said.
“I know.” He sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair, giving it a good shake. No better ideas came to him. “Anyone you’d recommend?”
“Sure,” she said.
“No,” Jeffin snapped, perking Detan’s interest with his obvious hatred.
“Who?” Detan spun, abandoning Jeffin to address Essi.
“Laella, of course. Not a drop of Catari in her. She may be a deviant, but she’s purebred Valathean, and she knows it.”
“Rude?” Detan asked. “Impervious to criticism?”
“That’s her,” Essi agreed.
“Annoying as the day is long,” Jeffin grumbled.
“Perfect. Bring her here.”
“If you want.” Essi dropped down off the trunk and stretched long and hard before making for the cabin’s slim door. “Stay here,” she said, “I’ll be right back.”
Detan paced the small cabin while they waited, ignoring the admonishing glares of both Tibs and Jeffin. Neither of them could contribute what he needed now, for what he needed was a picture-perfect authority figure, capable of withstanding even the tightest of scrutiny from the watchers. Detan would play the role himself – he’d been raised to it – but the watchers had already seen him in the role of Step, average Fleetie, and the sudden promotion would give them pause. And might give him a noose to contend with.
“I don’t see what’s wrong with my appearance,” Jeffin protested.
Detan sighed. “A certain strength of chin is lacking, amongst–”
The door banged open. Essi lead a stiff-backed Valathean girl into the cabin. If she’d been a Scorched girl, he’d guess her to be to be somewhere in her early twenties, but the Valathean blood ran so boldly through her veins that Detan guessed her older – late twenties, at least, possibly early-to-mid thirties. Her skin was dark as obsidian, her eyes wide set and amber of hue, her posture firm an elegant. She wore the long, flowing robes imperials favored, accentuating her slight frame, her black hair in tight braids bound against her head.
Upon sighting Detan, she quirked perfectly arched brows and smiled, cautiously. “Lord Honding?”
“I am Detan.”
“May the blue skies bless our meeting, my lord.” She laced her fingers together and held them up to the sky as she bowed over them, the most formal of Valathean greetings. Detan returned the gesture on instinct. His form may be lacking after years without practice, but his aunt had spent a great many years drilling such courtesies into him.
“Skies keep you, lady, but there is no need for such formality with me. I’m just Detan.”
“But a Honding in truth?”
“I am that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck where his family brand puckered his flesh. “But I prefer Detan, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Her full lips pursed, but she nodded her assent. “If you wish. Now, you have asked for me?”
Detan eyed the girl from head to toe. She was willowy, as was the common body type of Valathean women, tall and narrow of every limb. Her slim face regarded him with care, brows pushed together in mild consternation, every line of her body radiating controlled calm. He shared a look with Tibs, who gave him a nod of agreement.
“And what is your odd little talent?” he asked.
Laella’s gaze flitted to lock with Jeffin’s. Something venomous passed between them in that moment. Jeffin’s brows pulled so far down in annoyance that Detan half expected his face to scrunch up so that his eyebrows became his moustache. It was only a heartbeat’s time, but the exchange gave him pause. Things were not so sunny aboard Pelkaia’s ship after all.
“I am a mirror-worker, like Jeffin.”
“I see.” Detan sensed he was treading dangerous waters, but he had scant time for diplomacy. If they were going to fiddle about wasting marks getting Pelkaia and her first mate out of the clink, then it needed to be quick. The longer he waited, the closer monsoon season crept.
“And would you be able to accompany us on an excursion?”
“You’re not allowed to leave the ship,” Jeffin said. “Captain’s orders.”
“Captain ain’t here, lad,” Tibs said in his slow, easy drawl. “And this lady might be able to help us get her back.”
Jeffin’s lip curled in a subconscious sneer as Tibs said the word “lady.” Detan grimaced, knowing what was coming next. Before he could interject, the lad thrust a finger at Laella. “She cannot be trusted.”
Detan sighed. Well, there might be something to the boy’s anger. Might as well dig up the root of it. “Why are you ordered to stay on the ship, Laella?”
“I am the captain’s latest rescue, before yourself, of course. She likes to keep us all aboard until we have proven to her the extent of our abilities, and the quality of our control.”
“And how is the quality of your control?”
Essi said, “She bested Jeffin when the captain put them through their paces.”
“That true?”
A tiny, modest smile flitted across Laella’s lips. “Some think I was given easier tasks. But yes, it is true.”
“You were given easier tasks!” Jeffin took a step toward Laella. The woman’s only response was to lift her chin. “And I say your joining us was far, far too convenient. If you’re not an imperial spy, then I’m a bumbling idiot.”
“You’re a bumbling idiot,” Detan said. Laella had the grace to cover her laugh with her fingertips.
Jeffin whirled on him, still shaking that finger, cheeks near as red as his hair. Detan stared in detached wonderment. Was this what Pelkaia allowed to run amok on her ship? Rivalries? Classism? If he’d known ahead of time what divisive lines had been drawn between her crew, he might have tried another angle.
Now, though… now he was tired of it all. And frustrated, and anxious to get their plans swung into full motion. But before he could move on, he’d have to try and mend what Pelkaia had let fester.
“I don’t understand,” Jeffin’s voice was scarcely controlled, his lips flecked with spittle. “How you can trust that… that… that Valathean. She’s not Scorched! Not like us!”