Laella stepped close to the captain and dropped her voice to a low hiss. “I will forgive this trespass against the Fleet, if you relinquish the prisoners to my control.”
The knot of his throat bobbed twice in quick succession. He nodded. “They are yours.”
Laella turned sharp on her heel, skies bless her, and strode up the stone steps like she owned them. The stunned watchers shifted aside to let her pass, then reluctantly fell into step once more, herding their prisoners back up toward the lobby. Detan was chagrined to spot a wide, delighted smile on Pelkaia’s borrowed face.
They passed the rest of the way up the steps in tense silence, save for the labored breathing of a few – Detan included – who’d rather overdone it in all the excitement. His face ached, making deep breaths an uncomfortable arrangement, but he figured a little sting was easier to deal with than convincing that captain to give up his charges willingly.
Wasn’t the first time he’d riled a man into punching him, and it wouldn’t be the last.
While Laella and the captain filled out the necessary transfer paperwork – all forged on Laella’s end, of course – Detan slunk over to Tibs, Pelkaia, and Coss. He didn’t dare say a word, but it felt good to have the thing – or people – he’d come to filch close by. Made him confident he’d win through. And had the added benefit of hiding him from view of the cursed apothik roaming around the lobby, checking the watchers for injury. Last thing he needed right now was a sour memory of whitecoats and cold potions setting off his fear – and his anger. He was already a might uncomfortable with the selium plastered to Pelkaia’s face.
“If that will be all…?” Laella said, letting her tone make it clear as a blue sky that had better be all.
“Yes, of course,” the captain said, his voice subdued now that he’d screwed himself out of his quarry. Detan couldn’t blame the man. He knew what it was like to lose your temper, to lash out without thought and ruin damned near everything. “Gag ’em up for transport,” he added.
Detan blinked as the meaning settled over him. He turned, caught Pelkaia’s eyes growing wide with panic. “That’s not necessary,” he rushed over the words, reaching out to stop her watcher.
Too late. The watcher wrapped a clean, white linen gag around Pelkaia’s mouth, tugged it tight against her cheeks. Against her false, selium-crafted cheeks, Pelkaia was good, but she couldn’t shift the sel that fast. No one could.
Her flesh shimmered in the tell-tale hues only sel could produce.
“Doppel!” the watcher who’d gagged her cried and leapt back as if his fingers had been burned.
A roar of outrage waved through the gathered sea of blue. Detan looked to Tibs, to Pelkaia, to Coss and to Laella. All wore baffled faces.
There was no conning their way out of this. Doppels were put to death. Always.
“Run!” he yelled, kicking the legs out from under the watcher standing between him and Pelkaia. The dock wasn’t far. They could make it. They had to.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Nouli’s name?” Ripka asked, taking a half-step backward.
The muscles of Kisser’s neck jumped and she closed the distance Ripka had put between them. “Yes. Tell me how you know of my uncle.”
Ripka licked her lips, resisting an urge to glance to Enard for guidance. She knew Detan’s story of Nouli’s exploits as well as he did. “Detan Honding told me of his inventions. Of his time spent in Valathea, and with Thratia Ganal when she took over the Saldive Isles.”
A soft sound escaped Nouli’s lips, something between a moan and a curse, and he shuffled away from them, covering half his face with one hand as he eased himself onto a bench with the other. He knocked piles of clothes to the ground, and didn’t seem to notice. Ripka’s stomach fell. This was the great Nouli Bern?
Kisser stepped to Ripka’s side and dropped her voice, nearly pressing her lips against Ripka’s ear as she whispered, “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to him?”
Ripka’s back stiffened at the insinuation that she meant Nouli harm. Enard placed his hand on Kisser’s arm and turned her, gently, toward him, his voice soft as silk. “Tell us.”
She snorted and shook him off. “Why would I talk to you, Glasseater?” She shooed them away. “Get out. Leave him in peace.”
Ripka locked her gaze on Nouli, on every deep line of his wizened face, trying to judge what he’d say, what he’d do. She wished Detan were here. He was better at reading people and adjusting schemes on the fly than she was.
Skies above, until a year ago she’d never needed to have schemes outside of the petty politics of the watch.
“We don’t mean any harm,” she said.
“It’s all right,” Nouli spoke to Kisser without looking at her. His shock had faded, his face slack. He appeared calm to her now, though she couldn’t tell if it was his strength or his panic that had fled him. “Let her speak her piece.”
Kisser huffed and crossed her arms. It was as much permission as Ripka could ever hope to get. Stifling an urge to shove Kisser aside and drop to her knees before Nouli, she cleared her throat and said, “I know you’ve been here a long time, Master Bern. Have you heard of Thratia Ganal’s seizure of Aransa?”
He wiped his hands on a clean cloth thrown over his shoulder and glanced at Kisser.
“Tell her what you want, Uncle, you’re the one who wanted to hear what she has to say.”
With a sigh he stood, shaky, and settled onto a stool behind the table, making a shield of his instruments. He gestured to a few crates scattered nearby. “Please, sit. I suspect this conversation will take longer than anticipated. Yes, I am aware of Ganal’s dictatorship in Aransa. What does it matter to you?”
“Aransa was my city… my home. Though I knew her rule would be with a firm hand, I had not guessed that she would go so far as to buck all imperial influence. She’s created a city-state for herself, independent of the governance of Valathea.”
“So she thinks,” Kisser scoffed.
“Hush,” Nouli said. “Please continue, Miss…?”
“Leshe,” she reminded him. Ripka took the proffered seat on an old crate, and Enard dragged over its twin to sit beside her.
Enard cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Master Bern, but before we continue it would be a comfort to know your mindset in regards to the exiled commodore. Were you friends?”
Nouli snorted. “Your comfort does not concern me. I will hear what you have to say, and I make no other consolations.”
Ripka narrowed her eyes upon the aging engineer. His fingers drummed incessantly on the top of his table, their movement blurring the hint of a tremble in his long limbs. His spectacles had slid down his nose, the tip of which was quite red, the vessels all around it burst near the surface. His swinging emotional state – his physical presentation – she’d seen those symptoms many times before. Kisser hovered close to him, fidgeting as if unsure what to do with her hands.
“Are you well?” Ripka asked.
“If I am ill, it is because I am sick of having my time wasted.”
The clearsky. The air heavy with mudleaf. Ripka couldn’t help but press. “I see. Perhaps you should be more careful in the sampling of your own wares?”
His eyes bulged. “Enough! My health is not for you to remark upon. Tell me why you’ve come or I will have Kisser toss you back in the well.”
Kisser flinched, a minute movement, but enough to cement Ripka’s suspicions. “You’re not really prisoners, are you?” She stood and leaned toward them, falling into her old role as investigator as easily as slipping on a favorite glove. “Both of you.” She tipped her head toward Kisser. “Your special privileges, your fear of real names.” She pointed to Nouli. “Your workshop, tucked away amongst the guards’ quarters and yet hidden from them still. This grating–” she gestured toward the metal mesh laid over the place where a window should be, a multitude of pipe mouths angling toward it to vent their fumes to the outdoors, “–it’s camouflaged on the outside, isn’t it? Not all the guards know you’re here – Warden Baset certainly doesn’t. So how? Who’s sheltering you, Nouli? Who’s funding your sordid concoctions? And why are you making them here?”