Dedication
For Mom.
More.
Chapter 1
It was a pretty nice burlap sack. Not the best he’d had the pleasure of inhabiting, not by a long shot, but it wasn’t bad either. The jute was smooth and woven tight, not letting in an inkling of light or location. It didn’t chafe his cheeks either, which was a small comfort.
The chair he was tied to was of considerably lesser quality. Each time Detan shifted his weight to keep the ropes from cutting off his circulation little splinters worked their way into his exposed arms and itched something fierce. Despite the unfinished wood, the chair’s joints were solid, and the knots on his ropes well tied, which was a shame.
Detan strained his ears, imagining that if he tried hard enough he could work out just where he was. No use, that. Walls muted the bustle of Aransa’s streets, and the bitter-char aromas of local delicacies were blotted by the tight weave of the sack over his head. At least the burlap didn’t stink of the fear sweat of those who’d worn it before him.
Someone yanked the bag off and that was surprising, because he hadn’t heard anyone in the room for the last half-mark. Truth be told, he was starting to think they’d forgotten about him, which was a mighty blow to his pride.
As he blinked in the light, the blurry face of his visitor resolved into an assemblage of hard, almond-brown planes with sandy hair scraped back into a tight, professional plait. Ripka. Funny, she looked taller than the last time he’d seen her. He gave her a stupid grin, because he knew she hated it.
“Detan Honding.” He liked the way she said his name, dropping each syllable in place as if she were discarding rotten fruit. “Thought I told you to stay well clear of Aransa.”
“I think you’ll find I’ve been doing my very best to honor your request, watch captain. I am a paragon of lawfulness, a beacon for the truthful, a–”
“Really? Then why did my men find you card-sharking in Blasted Rock Inn?”
“Card sharking?” he asked in the most incredulous voice he could muster. “I don’t even know what that is. What’s a sha-ark? Sounds dangerous!”
Ripka shook her head like a disappointed proctor and took a step back, tossing the bag to the ground. Detan was sorry to see such a fine sack abused so, but he took the chance to take in his surroundings. The room was simple, not a stick of furniture in it aside from his own chair and the corner of a desk peeking out from around the eclipsing curve of the watch captain.
By the color of the warm light, he guessed there weren’t any windows hiding behind him, just clean oil lamps. The floor was hard-packed dirt, the walls unyielding yellowstone. It was construction he recognized all too well, though he’d never had the pleasure of seeing this particular room before. He was in the Watch’s station house, halfway up the levels of the stepped city of Aransa. Could be worse. Could have been a cell.
Ripka sat behind what he supposed must be her desk. No books, no trinkets. Not the slightest hint of personality. Just a neat stack of papers with a polished pen laid beside it. Definitely Ripka’s.
Keeping one stern eye on him, she pulled a folder from the stack of papers and splayed it open against the desk. Before it flipped open, Detan saw his family crest scribbled on the front in basic, hasty lines. He’d seen that folder only once before, the first time he’d blown through Aransa, and it hadn’t had anything nice to say about him then. He fought down a grimace, waiting while her eyes skimmed over all the details she’d collected of his life. She sighed, drumming her fingers on the desk as she spoke.
“Let’s see now. Last time you were here, Honding, you and your little friend Tibal unlawfully imprisoned Watcher Banch, distributed false payment, stole personal property from the family Erst, and disrupted the peace of the entire fourth level.”
“All a terrible misunderstanding, I assure–”
She held up a fist to silence him.
“I can’t hold you on any of this. Banch and the Ersts have withdrawn their complaints and your fake grains have long since disappeared. But none of that means I can’t kick your sorry hide out of my city, understand? You’re the last person I need around here right now. I don’t know why you washed up on my sands, but I’ll give you until the night to shove off again.”
“I’d be happy to oblige, captain, but my flier’s busted and it’ll be a good few turns before she’s airworthy again. But don’t you worry, Tibs’s working on getting it fixed up right.”
“Still dragging around Tibal? Should have known, you’ve got that poor sod worshipping your shadow, and it’s going to get him killed someday. What’s wrong with the flier? And stop trying to work your ropes loose.”
He froze and mustered up what he thought was a contrite grin. Judging by the way Ripka glowered at him he was pretty sure she didn’t take it right. No fault of his if she didn’t have a sense of humor.
“Punctured a buoyancy sack somewhere over the Fireline Ridge, lucky for us I’m a mighty fine captain myself, otherwise we’d be tits-up in the Black Wash right about now.”
Her fingers stopped drumming. “Really. Fireline. Nothing but a bunch of uppercrusts taking tours of the selium mines and dipping in at the Salt Baths over there. So just what in the sweet skies were you doing up there?”
A chill worked its way into his spine at her pointed glare, her pursed lips. Old instincts to flee burbled up in him, and for just a moment his senses reached out. There was a small source of selium – the gas that elevated airships – just behind Ripka’s desk.
A tempting amount. Just small enough to cause a distraction, if he chose to use it. He gritted his teeth and pushed the urge aside. If he were caught out for being a sel-sensitive, it’d be back to the selium mines with him – or worse, into the hands of the whitecoats.
He forced a cheery grin. “Certainly not impersonating a steward and selling false excursion tickets to the baths. That would be beneath me.”
She groaned and dragged her fingers through her hair, mussing her plait. “I want you out of my city, Honding, and a busted buoyancy sack shouldn’t take more’n a day to patch up. Can you do that?”
“That would be no trouble at all.”
“Wonderful.”
“If it were just the buoyancy sack.”
Her fingers gripped the edge of her desk, knuckles going white. “I could throw you in the Smokestack and no one in the whole of the Scorched would lift a finger to find out why.”
“But you wouldn’t. You’re a good woman, Ripka Leshe. It’s your biggest flaw.”
“Could be I make you my first step on a downward spiral.”
“Who put sand in your trousers, anyway? Everyone’s wound up around here like the Smokestack is rearing to blow. Pits below, Ripka, your thugs didn’t even take my bribe.”
“Watch Captain Leshe,” she corrected, but it was an automatic answer, lacking any real snap. “You remember Warden Faud?”
“’Course I do, that fellow is straight as a mast post. Told me if he ever saw my sorry hide here again he’d tan it and use the leather for a new sail. Reminds me of you, come to think on it.”
“Well, he’s dead. Found him ballooned up on selium gas floating around the ceiling of his sitting room. Good thing the shutters were pulled, otherwise I think he would have blown halfway to the Darkling Sea by now.”
Detan snorted. He bit his lip and closed his eyes, struggling to hold down a rising tide of laughter. Even Ripka had a bit of a curl to her mouth as she told the story. But still, she had admired the crazy old warden, and Detan suspected she might just consider carrying out the man’s wish of turning him into leather if he let loose with the laugh he was swallowing.