Stomping down her pride, she let Junie go and popped to her feet, backing up a step to put the fallen woman’s body between her and the advancing bruiser. His scarred lips twisted in a grotesque smile.
And then he stopped short, the smile fading from his rage-blushed face.
Enard stepped beside Ripka, hands held easy and open at his sides, narrow head tilted as he watched the bruiser approach. She frowned, not understanding the big bastard’s hesitation. Surely two unaffiliated newbies didn’t threaten him? Was there a guard nearby?
“Tender?” the big man asked.
Enard shrugged a little, saying nothing.
Guards swarmed them, breaking apart the knot of prisoners and carting off the injured. Ripka let her wrists be bound behind her back, let herself be dragged away, mind whirling. As she was herded toward her cell, she caught Enard’s eye, and mouthed, “Tender?”
“Later,” he said, and winked once before they were shoved into their respective cells with empty bellies and fresh bruises to nurse until the morning.
Chapter Four
Three bunks were bolted to one wall, a scraggly rug nailed to the center of the floor. The bunks sported the barest of linens, and not so much as a trunk for clothing cluttered the empty room. Tibs tugged his hat down, no doubt to hide an insufferable smirk, and sat on the middle bunk. His long legs dangled, bootheels hooked on the bottom bunk’s rail, and he stretched spindly arms up to rest against the top bunk. In effect, cutting Detan off from any of the sparse cabin’s small comforts.
“And just what do you suppose we’ll do if we can’t win Pelkaia to our cause?” Tibs asked.
“Bah, she’ll come around. You know how old Pelly can be. Fickle as her face, that woman is.”
“As you say, sirra.”
Detan frowned. Tibs only called him sirra when he thought Detan was being particularly idiotic. He couldn’t think of a thing he’d done in the last few marks that was worse than usual by his persnickety companion’s estimation.
“Who put sand in your trousers?” he asked, and turned to examine the door that held them. The Larkspur had been constructed to the rigorous specifications of its previous – and intended – owner, the exiled commodore Thratia Ganal. Ruthless woman that she was, Thratia was more inclined to cut throats than corners with construction. Unfortunately for Detan, it seemed Pelkaia kept up with the commodore’s maintenance schedule. The hinges were well-oiled, the ever-shifting gaps between the boards filled with waxen mortar.
“You’ll pardon my sour mood if I find it a touch worrisome we’re sitting above all this–” Tibs stomped a boot on the annoyingly well-cared-for floor, “–and you seem pleased as punch to make things go boom.”
Detan hid a grimace by giving the door another close examination. “It wasn’t my intention to make use of my sel-sense, but Pelly put me rather in a spot. If I refused, she’d realize how unpredictable my talent has grown, and then where would we be? If she doesn’t think she can use me, she won’t help, and if she won’t help, then Ripka and New Chum will have to get real cozy out at the Remnant, because our trusty ole flier sure as shit isn’t going to fare well crossing the Endless Sea. Not to mention pass for anything like an official vessel once we get there.”
“Making the lady’s face go up, I understand. But that stunt with the knife?”
Detan fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. “Saw that, did you? Err. Ah. Well, I mean, it was such a small amount.”
“And did you mean for that demonstration to be quite so large?”
“Not exactly, of course, but…”
Tibs sighed, low and ragged, and the sound was like raking a bed of nails over Detan’s conscience.
“Look,” Detan said, turning to look Tibs in the eye. “It’s getting better. I’m regaining control.”
Tibs pursed his lips like a fish’s kiss, exhibiting his whole opinion in one bitter expression. The ship shifted, changing course with a sudden jerk, and Detan grew aware of the vast selium stores beneath his feet.
All that sel, and all it would take from him was one flare-up. One tiny spark of rage to set the whole contraption ablaze. His stomach sank. This cabin wasn’t so different from the one he’d been held in, near on a year ago now. The bunks were new – the rug a nice touch of homeliness – but the warm scent of the wood, the subtle tinge of leather and iron in the air, dragged at him. Pushed at barriers he’d long since held in mind.
Little ribbons of pain drew his attention. He’d been scratching at the interior of his elbow, at the ruby-red scar that Callia’s needle had left behind.
It’d been year, sure. A year since that whitecoat, Callia, had strapped him to a table in a room on another airship. A year since she’d experimented upon him on behalf of the empire, dug around in his flesh and his blood to see what made his destructive sel-sense tick. Funny how that single event haunted him more than the first time he’d been a guest of the whitecoats.
That first time, he’d been locked away in the Bone Tower like a proper prisoner. He’d had the scent of char from accidentally exploding his selium pipeline – and his fellow sel-sensitives – fresh in his nostrils. He’d given up then. Given himself over to whatever harsh end the empire had planned for him in their quest to dig the truth of his deviant sensitivity out of him.
But he had escaped. He’d tasted clean air, open air. Found his way back to the Scorched and found a friend in Tibs, too. And that’s why it’d hurt so much, that second time, a year ago. Brief though Callia’s experiments upon him had been, not even the invasive prodding of the Bone Tower had left him so hollowed out inside. So unsure of the nature of himself and his ability. And Tibs had been there for him through both returns from the whitecoats’ clutches. He owed Tibs so much. More than he could ever find the words to say.
Detan dragged his hands through his hair and stared at his feet.
“Sorry.”
Tibs shrugged, a slow roll of the shoulders that dismissed their whole argument, and pushed his hat back. “Think she really will come ’round?”
Detan settled cross-legged on the floor and rubbed the rough side of his cheek. They’d been a week in Cracked Thorn before opportunity had arisen to get himself arrested, and his chin hadn’t seen the slick side of a blade since. He wiggled his bare toes.
“Don’t know, truth be told. I figured the bait of the deviant list would be enough to tempt her along, but she didn’t seem half so interested as I’d hoped.”
“Oh, the list that doesn’t exist?”
Detan scowled and shushed him. “Keep it quiet, lest you want her to tip us over the side.”
“Had you considered, by any chance, telling her the truth?”
He stood and paced, irritated by the tight confines and lack of control. Wasn’t right to keep him cooped up like this, not when he hadn’t done Pelkaia any direct harm. It was downright inhospitable, come to think on it.
“Think she’d let us keep Nouli, if she knew what kind of knowledge he holds?”
“We can only keep him if they can find him.”
“They will. He’s there. If anyone can suss that wily rat out of hiding, it’s Ripka Leshe.”
“Wish I could say I shared your faith. Not that the lady’s skills are in question – I’m sure she’ll find him, if he’s there to be found – but what kind of man will he be? You think he couldn’t have gotten out on his own, if he wanted it?”
Tibs plucked a deck of cards from his breast pocket and flicked out a hand. Detan stopped pacing and crouched down to gather up the fallen cards. Having something in his hands, something to do, kept his mind moving along smoothly.