And there was Aella, a smug smile on her rounded lips, her arms crossed loose and easy as her loyalists continued to fan out around them all, tucking them into a neat little trap. Just a matter of time, and then she’d have them all in hand. For Thratia. For the woman who was preparing to march on his family’s city. He could be done with her. Wipe out Thratia’s secret weapon before it ever got pointed his auntie’s way.
Anger constricted his chest, the layer above sang to him, the boiling of his blood harmonizing with it. Heat radiated from his injection site. As if his blood knew the choice he’d been given and was hungry for his answer. The eyes of the injured watched him. Tibs’s words rushed back to him: This plan ain’t what we do. So you best figure out another way.
Detan picked another option.
“I apologize,” he lied, eyes locked on Aella because he daren’t look at Tibs. “I will come freely with you, Aella. There is no need for us to take up anymore of the commodore’s time. Please see to it that her ship is refilled with the selium it needs to cross the sea safely.”
“What?” Tibs blurted.
Aella’s eyes narrowed. She took a hesitant step forward. Detan didn’t think Coss could condense sel again even if he’d wanted to.
“And if I decide I would prefer you all to stay?”
He cocked his head to the side and allowed his gaze to drift upward, to the layer they all knew was there, his palm angling just a touch. He said nothing. Let the ease in his shoulders and the serene mask plastered across his face communicate his intent. If Aella deigned to take them all into her clutches, he would do it. And, oddly, he did not think she was capable of stopping him.
“Very well,” she said eventually. “And the other prisoner?”
Tibs. Detan’s heart ached. “I see no reason why the commodore’s custody would not be sufficient.”
“Sirra,” Tibs said in the same tone he always used when he thought Detan had come up with a particularly idiotic idea. Detan said nothing, turned to look at Pelkaia instead, to be sure she understood his intent. Her false face was twisted with disgust.
“Very well.” Aella flicked a hand and her cohort moved forward. “My people will see the others back to their ship to be certain of their… safe return.”
“Detan?” Tibs’s voice cut. Pain weighted him down, threatened to crush the breath from his chest. That slight plaintive note in Tibs’s tone was worse than a slap. Worse than anything. But he had to keep his head up. Had to keep himself together.
This was the way. The only way any one of them could walk off this island without wading through a pool of blood first. And maybe, just maybe, he might be able to work some chaos from within Aella’s world. It would be the hardest game he ever played, but he could make her trust him. Make her think he was her man in mind and body. Had to, if he was going to wring any good out of this.
“We’ll be back for you,” Tibs said, too loud as he struggled to help Coss away. Aella’d heard. She must have. He winced, knowing what he must do. Knowing the rift he’d have to carve to drag Aella to his side. To make certain Tibs didn’t get himself killed coming back for him. He made his face a mask of angry stone, and faced Tibs.
He couldn’t look him in the eye. Had to stare at a point just above his head. But Aella wouldn’t be able to tell that, and Tibs wouldn’t see the difference. He always missed the finer points when he was truly hurting. And Detan meant to hurt.
He forced his voice to calm indifference and said, “Don’t bother.”
Tibs froze. “You don’t mean that.”
“I’ve accepted Aella’s offer of knowledge. We’re done. Go.” He flicked his wrist, the dismissive gesture of a noble to a servant. Tibs drew back as if he’d been struck.
“You don’t have to do this,” he insisted, voice harsh. “We can find another trade. Another way–”
“This isn’t a trade!” Detan forced himself to his full height. Forced himself to cut the air with his hands as he spoke. Funneled all his anger at being caught in this trap into his voice, and redirected it at Tibs. “You wanted me to seek help? Well I fucking have!”
“Not from her.”
“Then from who? Pelkaia has made it clear as a spring sky she doesn’t want me on her ship. You don’t have a lick of sel-sense in that whip-thin brain, and there ain’t another sensitive with the knowledge I need in the whole of the Scorched. Unless you’d rather I throw myself straight on the steps of the Bone Tower?”
“We can find someone else, anyone!”
Aella said, “Gentlemen, please–”
“Shut the fuck up!” they said in unison.
Detan clenched his fists, breath heaving. The rubble strewn all around him felt close, choking. This had to cut. Deep.
“What good are you to me? You can’t even stand seeing a bunch of blue-coats bleeding on a beach. These years, you’ve only grown weaker, while I’ve grown stronger. Leave! There’s nothing more I need from you.” His voice rasped. He couldn’t help it.
“Need? Need?” Tibs’s wild brows drew down into an angry crease. He loosed Coss, lunged at Detan, gnarled hands outstretched to grab his shirt, face blossomed all over with red blooms of rage.
One of Aella’s goons got an arm around Tibs, hauled him back out of strike range. Detan bit his cheek until it bled to keep from calling out. To keep from blubbering apologies until they were both weeping. Aella let him stay like that, numb and staring, until his companions disappeared within the walls of the Remnant.
Tibs did not look back.
Aella’s hand lighted upon his shoulder. He was proud of himself for not flinching.
“If Ripka’s still here, you best let her go before I lose my pits-cursed mind.”
“I’ll release her and your other friend. This trade is worth that much.” Her fingers curled into his shoulder, a perverse mirror of Tibs’s earlier support. He bowed his head. He could not help it.
“Come now. Let’s find you a room, and some food. We have much to discuss.”
He followed Aella into what was left of the yellow house, the shadow of the Larkspur boring a condemning hole into his back with every step.
Chapter Forty-Three
Each time the trapdoor was struck, the corpses piled on it jerked and twitched. They had to shove them back onto it, keeping the weight centered, keeping their boots on top of the door to hold it down. The door jumped again, jarring Ripka’s teeth. She flexed her fist on the cutlass she’d stolen and scowled.
“Where in the pits is that idiot?”
“The Lord Honding is rarely late,” Enard drolled, pushing a flopped-over arm back into the pile with the edge of his cutlass.
“Rarely on time, is more like.”
“As you say, captain.”
“Is he really a lord?” Honey asked, her glassy eyes wide. Ripka snorted.
“In name only.”
“Little more than a scoundrel, my dear,” Nouli added.
And yet they were all waiting for him. Hoping for him to come and save them as soon as he could. They searched the skies, but did not speak.
The trapdoor thumped again. Honey shrieked and leapt back, taking her weight off her corner of the door, hopping around like her foot was on fire.
“What in the–”
“They stabbed my foot!” She rocked back and sat hard on her rump, holding up the sole of her boot for all to see. A neat two-inch gash opened it, blood seeping out to the baked tiles. As one, they stepped back from the trapdoor.