“Thank you, ma’am, but no. We are quite busy today. Have you heard of the death of Warden Faud?”
“Who hasn’t? I don’t get out much anymore, you understand.” She eased herself into a chair and rubbed her knees with an embarrassed smile. “But I do get to the market one level down twice a week. Why, I was just there yesterday. It’s all anyone can talk about. Did you say your name was Ripka?”
The watch captain blinked. “I did. Is that significant?”
“Ah, well, it’s just that it’s a Brown Wash name, like my own. I bet you have an Uncle Rel or Rip, eh? Silly unimaginative lot, our folk. Slap an ‘a’ or ‘aia’ on the end and, ta-da, you have a beautiful baby girl.”
That got a genuine smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I do indeed, but I have been gone from that village a long time.”
“Me too, me too.” She rubbed her knees some more, letting them see a bit of pain in her face. They didn’t hurt, but no one ever feared a viper with broken fangs. “What can I do for you?”
“There has been some speculation that the late warden was murdered by a doppel.”
Pelkaia rankled at that, but kept her face as smooth as she could make it without sel. Being called a doppel was deeply disrespectful, but she doubted this girl knew any better. Illusionists could do so much more than hide beneath another’s face. Fires above, the girl didn’t even realize Pelkaia was a proper illusionist.
“You don’t say? Well, I’m just an old sel mover, not even a shaper. I can shuttle the stuff along all right, but I’m no illusionist. I don’t know any, either. Most of us don’t chat much once the contract with the mine is up, you understand.”
Ripka’s brows went up at the term illusionist, but she let it hang. Many of Aransa’s older citizenry refused the new terms for the strongest of the sel-sensitives. The elderly carried more of the indigenous Catari blood, from the time when Valathea suspected interbreeding was the only way to raise sensitives. The words of their great-grandparents filtered down the generations to their lips. Ripka couldn’t rightly suspect her for such a small thing. Still, it felt like a little rebellion. A tiny triumph.
“I’m sure that’s true, ma’am, but in the interest of protecting the city I’m afraid we’re going to have to search your residence. Do you consent?”
“Certainly.”
Pelkaia was proud at the breeziness of her voice, the unconcerned wave of her hand inviting them to have a look-see. Inside she was furious. The question of consent was moot, and the theater of Ripka even bothering to ask insulting. Pelkaia was damned sure that if she’d refused she’d find herself in the clink while the Watch tore her home apart.
The man, Banch, strode forward and began opening cupboards, rooting around her plain stone mugs and lifting up pictures to see if there were any hidden cubbies lurking behind. Pelkaia watched the watch captain’s face as she observed her partner’s proceedings.
Captain Leshe was thin of lip and kept them pressed tight, her small pupils following each of Banch’s intrusions. There was distaste in her posture, a certain rigid formality that was an attempt to separate what she knew was wrong from the job she had to do. Ripka seemed to be a good woman. It was too bad Pelkaia’s plans might eventually require her disposal.
“How long have you been living here?” Ripka asked, as if her little piece of paper didn’t say.
“Oh, ten years now. I was able to buy the place outright when my boy Kel died at the mines. The bereavement stipend, you understand.”
The captain’s gaze flicked back to Pelkaia, leaving Banch unwatched as he poked around her bookshelf. Apparently, that little piece of paper didn’t have all the facts after all.
“You had a son, Miss Teria?”
“Oh yes, fine boy he was.” Pelkaia licked her lips and looked away. To make herself vulnerable to this woman, this authority figure, was asking too much. And yet, she had a duty to Kel, didn’t she? He’d died a working man, the victim of unsafe conditions allowed to fester in the mines. It might rustle the captain’s suspicions, but Pelkaia reasoned that if she let her voice waver and her eyes mist Ripka would view her as sunk deep in grief, too tired and worn to do any kind of damage. Pelkaia found it too easy by far to dredge up the required quaver to her voice, the moisture to her eye.
“He had a real talent for sel-sensing. Might have become a shaper, with practice, maybe even an airship captain. But he died in that rockslide on the Smokestack’s third pipeline. His whole line went with him.”
“I am sorry for your loss, ma’am, and I thank both you and your son for your service.” Her words were automatic, rote. Pelkaia wondered just how many times she’d spoken them.
Service? More like servitude. “Thank you kindly, captain.”
“What’s through here?” Banch had given up his search of the bookshelf and stood pointing to the thin curtain that separated her sleeping room from the common. Pelkaia’s skin went cold, her palms clammy. She had to resist an urge to clear a knot of fear from her throat.
“Just my bedroom.”
Banch exchanged a look with Ripka, who gave him a curt nod.
“I am sorry,” she said when Banch pushed the curtain aside and went within. “But the protocols are very precise.”
“Don’t worry, dear. I understand the shackle of protocol. I worked a line myself, you know, before I became too infirm for it.”
Ripka frowned at her chart. “Forgive my prying, ma’am, but it says here you’re only forty-eight.”
“Yes, but I took some damage to my knees and haven’t been right since. The bonewither caught up fast with me, you understand. I hope you’ll forgive me sitting down through this interview of ours. Please do help yourself to a seat if you’d like.”
The watch captain waved away her offer, shifting her position so that she could better keep an eye on her sergeant. Pelkaia turned to watch as well, and had to suppress a flinch as he dipped his head under her bed. The sel sack was well hidden, but if he were to touch the underside of the mattress he would surely feel the seams. She forced herself to breathe easy.
“Captain, you best look at this,” Banch said.
Pelkaia’s heart raced, sticky sweat beading on her brow. With an apologetic shrug Ripka stepped half into the bedroom, head cocked to one side to see whatever it was Banch had found. “What is it?” Ripka asked.
Pelkaia knew. Slowing her breath, she slipped her hand down the side of her chair and nudged aside the flap of quilt draped over the back of it. Cold steel met her fingertips, and she coiled a fist around the grip of a hidden blade. Tensing her core muscles so that she would be braced to strike, Pelkaia leaned forward, sliding her feet back, bending her knees like springs.
She could stash the bodies somewhere. Pretend to be Ripka in truth for a while.
Banch thumped her bed on its post. “Let the record show that this is some fine construction.”
“Ah, well.” Pelkaia played off the nervous tremor in her voice with a contrite chuckle. “My Kel made it for me. Saved up his wood allowance for a year to get the materials and make it. That was after my accident, mind you. The mattress is no sel cloud but it’s llama-stuffed and just fine for me.”
The sergeant pressed his hand into the mattress top and nodded appreciatively. “Fine mattress. Your son did good work, ma’am.”
“You’ll have to excuse Banch,” Ripka said while suppressing a smile. “He’s a connoisseur of naps.”
He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Nothing worse than an uncomfortable rest, I stand by that.” He brushed his hands together, the search forgotten. “Might sweeten up your disposition, getting a good rest, captain.”