“I feel it,” Pelkaia confirmed.
Detan was tempted to reach out to confirm the hidden lode with his own senses, but he refrained. He didn’t need another accident on his head.
“Backup storage for refilling the transport ships?” he asked.
Pelkaia regarded him with one of Thratia’s eyebrows arched. “Too large for that. Can you pinpoint it, Coss?”
He leaned against the railing, the muscles of his neck bulging as he focused his sense. After a moment, he grunted. “Seems to be concentrated over there.” He gestured to an empty stretch of tumbled-down stones and scrubby cypress trees.
“Interesting,” Pelkaia mused.
Detan’s skin crawled. Wasn’t a thing there that could hide so much of the stuff, not even a half-hearted attempt at a gardener’s shed. “Any chance it’s an underground cache?”
“No,” Coss said.
Well then. Someone had an awful lot of sel on the Remnant, and was able to use it to hide whatever it was they were storing the sel in. A few beads of sweat prickled between his shoulder blades, turning cold in the insistent ocean breeze. A doppel, perhaps. Or something else. Something new, like what Pelkaia had amassed on the Larkspur’s shining decks. Could be a special prison for rogue deviants, as the guards back in Petrastad had implied. Could be a trap.
No going back now, though. Not with Ripka and New Chum down there somewhere, waiting for him to swoop in and swoop out with them safely in his charge. Not like Pelkaia would have agreed to turn around, anyway. Not with the Larkspur bare to all who looked at her. No doubt the shifty woman was already planning how to wrest away the prison’s selium supply so that she could use it to mask her ship.
As they drew near the island, the crew drifted away from the fore rail, taking over the piloting of the ship with their hands instead of their senses. It wouldn’t do to let the whole of the prison know the Larkspur was manned by a couple handfuls of over-powered sensitives. Not yet, anyway.
Pelkaia turned her back to him, directing her crew with sharp hand signals. Tibs sidled close to him, voice low. “You ready for this?”
“You’ll find me up for the most daring of feats, the most courageous of rescues, the–”
“Just try not to get anyone killed we don’t want dead.”
He sighed. “You’ve no sense of theater.”
“You’ve no sense at all.”
He grinned, relieved. Tibs wouldn’t bother to insult him if he still had his mood in a dark knot over Detan’s failure to win Pelkaia’s tutelage. The ship shuddered as an upward gust of wind rocked the sails to one side, the crew overcorrecting without the ease of their sel-sense to guide the ship into port. Damn silly crew, gotten lazy through the use of their talents. Detan itched to scurry over to the captain’s podium, Tibs at the nav, and guide the ship smooth as silk against the dock, but the chains around his wrists held him steady. He had a new role to play. One he’d spent far too many years avoiding.
Wary of the winds, the Larkspur slipped up alongside the Remnant’s largest dock. He gave the tie-posts along the dock a wary eye. They looked far too flimsy to hold a ship as large as the Larkspur, but they’d have to do. At least their flimsy construction would make a speedy escape easier, if it came to that.
The roof was aswarm with guards. They rushed toward the dock with red-slapped cheeks and panicked expressions. A few of them hung back, casting nervous glances at the riot brewing in the rec yard below. They hadn’t a clue what they were supposed to do now; see to the new vessel, or assist their comrades with their work. Good. Confusion within the ranks made a situation easier to manipulate.
“State your business!” A man with a few more stripes on his sleeve than his fellows barked up at the ship. The crew swung the gangplank around, and Pelkaia mounted it at an easy stroll. The guard’s face paled. Apparently even the rats of the Remnant were familiar with Thratia’s sharp visage. Hopefully not too familiar.
“I’ve brought your warden a present. Where is he?” Pelkaia’s voice was so like Thratia’s it made Detan’s stomach swoop with nerves.
“I don’t know…” he stammered, glancing toward the other guards who all rolled indifferent shoulders at him in response. “The prison is on lockdown,” he explained, seeing the distasteful sneer curling Pelkaia’s lip. “Inmates got it in their head one of their own was an informant, some lady blue coat, and went wild. Warden could be seeing to business anywhere.”
Ripka had been outed. He felt the reality of it like a slap, like a stab to the heart. His breath quickened, desiring nothing more than to bolt down the gangplank and out into the fray, to fish Ripka out and whisk her away to safety. How he’d manage that, he had no idea. He’d be more likely to get himself killed than pull off any rescuing. But the urge was there, distracting, sharpening the edge of his nerves.
“I see.” Pelkaia sauntered down the gangplank. Coss gave Detan and Tibs a nudge and, obedient as prisoners, they shuffled down after her. “And where is this troublesome woman?”
“Shit if I know,” he said, his neck flushing after he realized what he’d said. “I mean – down there, somewhere. If her dorm guards are doing their jobs then they’ve locked her up until this calms down.”
Detan swallowed sour spit. He sincerely doubted her dorm guards had done anything of the sort. Where would she go, if pressed? Would New Chum be implicated along with her? Would she even have the option of escape – or was she down there now, fighting for her life?
He leaned forward to try and see over the roof’s edge and Coss gave him a sharp cuff on the back of the head. He grunted, but held back a snappy retort. You’re a prisoner, don’t blow it.
“Given that your establishment is so clearly out of control, I must insist you bring the warden to me.”
Keeping the Larkspur at her back, her escape route open. A clever idea, if she truly meant to deposit Detan and Tibs then be on her merry way. He considered that this might be a double cross, that she might be entrusting the dangerous “worldbreaker” to the containment of the empire’s grandest prison.
But she wouldn’t. She knew as well as he did that they would not keep him here. That it would be the Bone Tower for him – and a forging into a weapon only the empire could wield, whether he willed it or no. He’d plucked her out of the way of that fate once before. No matter her feelings toward him now, he knew she wouldn’t leave him to that very fate.
He hoped.
“We don’t know where–”
“Find. Him.”
“Ma’am, you’re going to have to wait–”
“Ma’am?” Pelkaia strode forward until she was a forearm’s length from the guard. “Do you not know me?”
“Commodore Ganal.” He cleared a hitch in his throat. “Forgive me, but, our resources are strained as it is. If you could wait here–”
“Enough. What sort of joke is the empire running here? My crew and I will help you secure your prison, and then we’ll see to the warden.”
The guard’s throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever he wanted to say. “I’ll take you to the warden’s office.”
He tried to make his tone stiff, firm, the voice of authority letting Thratia know just what was going to happen in this place that was under imperial control. Poor sap didn’t realize the hesitant flicker of his gaze, the little twitch at the bow of his lips, gave away his certainty – that no matter that the prison was dissolving into chaos all around, the warden would be in his office. Possibly under lock and key, and maybe even hiding under his desk.
A glance passed among the other guards, a less subtle movement, something he was sure Pelkaia wouldn’t miss. They were hesitant, but hopeful. Hopeful that Thratia Ganal would take control of this situation, and possibly control of their warden, and put things to rights.