“I’ll be blasted. Is that all… salt?”
The steward was a hard slab of a young man in a crisp black suit, his brass buttons polished to perfection and his mud-brown hair oiled into non-negotiable stillness. He was giving old Tibs a once-over, and it was clear to Detan that the fellow didn’t know what to make of a patron bringing along his manservant. To clear the air a bit, he gave Tibs a companionable thwack on the shoulder and gestured to all of what surrounded them.
“Can you imagine, Tibs? All this must have been drug up from the flats, that’s halfway to the Darkling Sea from here.”
Tibs gave an appreciative whistle, and the steward rallied to his profession, sensing his rank was indeed somewhere below the manservant.
“Indeed, sirs, the salt bricks you see here in the Grand Cavern were quarried to the specifications of Aransa’s Founder, Lord Tasay, who missed the luxurious bathing houses of his home in Valathea and sought to make Aransa a destination of luxury as well as commerce.”
“Well, aren’t you just the font of history.”
The steward bowed. “It is my duty to guide and inform, sirs. Is this your first visit to the Salt Baths?”
Detan stepped out of the way of a few of the folk they’d ferried in with. Now that everyone’s eyes were adjusted the regulars went about their business like they owned the place, and Detan considered the possibility that at least some of them must have a staked interest. After all, someone had to pay for the upkeep.
“That obvious, eh?”
His smile was dutifully abashed. “I mean no disrespect. It is my duty to assist, sirs.”
“Lead on then, my good man.”
The steward bowed again, something Detan wasn’t quite sure if he liked. Sure, the respect it afforded him was nice, but all that bobbing about was starting to make his head spin.
Tibs eyed the grandeur all around them with deep-rooted suspicion, his wrinkled face pinched up tight. “Don’t suppose this is what Ripka had in mind when she paid us,” he whispered.
Detan waved a dismissive hand. “I doubt the dear watch captain would complain about the improvement to our…” he wrinkled his nose, “auras.”
They followed the steward out onto one of the sel-lifted walkways, milling along behind the group of uppercrust who’d come over with them. The pack of well-to-dos were making a sweet time of it, putting their heads together and whispering between giggles.
He tried to ignore it, he really did. But when he heard them make a smart remark about Tibs’s hat he couldn’t help himself. Opening his senses, he felt for the sel in the walkway and gave it a little nudge.
Ahead of them, the walkway lurched. If anyone had thought to look Detan’s way at that moment they would have seen him put a steadying hand on Tibs’s shoulder just before the thing went wonky. The upcrusters cried out, toppling and tangling in a tumbleweed heap, and Detan got his other hand out just in time to grab the steward’s jacket to keep him from going full over.
The steward’s jacket twisted, skewing around his neck, and for the barest of moments Detan caught a glimpse of tattoo snaking across the strident young man’s skin. Scales, yellow and red ink with a slash of black through it, the hint of a serpentine body. He thought he recognized the mark, but couldn’t quite place it.
When the swaying came to a stop the steward rushed forward, leaving Detan alone to suffer a sharp elbow in the ribs from a surly Tibs.
“Oof!”
“You deserved that, sirra.”
Realizing that there was no point in arguing just who, exactly, deserved what while Tibs was in such an uncharitable mood, Detan decided to take advantage of the situation. He swaggered forward and offered helping hands to the felled noblebones, hefting them to their feet while his fingers helped themselves to their pockets. Not one of them noticed. They were all too busy working out where to place the blame.
“Just what sort of hovel are you running here?” The man who had expressed terror at the presence of thieves jabbed a stubby finger at the steward as he was hauled back to his feet.
“I assure you, sir, that the Salt Baths have your safety as our top priority–”
“Hogwash! I will see this place–”
“Well, now,” Detan drawled as he helped a lady to her feet and dipped his fingers in her one unbuttoned pocket. “I daresay this isn’t the fault of this fine establishment.”
“Oh? You do, do you?” The man rounded on Detan, the steward all but forgotten in the face of a juicier target. “And what would a dustswallower like yourself know about fine establishments? Why, the very idea that they even let you in here–”
“I reckon it’s not the establishment’s fault.” He stomped a foot down on the path. “Because these selium-supported walkways do have a weight limit.”
The noblebone’s mouth opened and worked around, his cheeks going firemount red as he choked on anger. Detan just stood there, fists on his hips, giving the wide man a wider smile, all full of teeth. He waited, letting the silence drag on, letting people come to their own knowledge that the man had nothing more to say.
With a confounded grunt the noblebone threw his arms in the air and stormed off, the meeker members of his party drifting along in his wake. When they were well out of earshot, Detan turned to the steward and clapped his hands together. He was not surprised to find a tight smile on the man’s otherwise professionally placid face.
“Well! There’s that. Now why don’t you show us the baths, New Chum?”
He bowed. “This way, sirs.”
The baths were set aside from the salt-brick cavern, and the bemused steward explained that it was to keep the steam from melting the walls, which made sense, now that it was brought to his attention. Salt and water got on a little too well to be expected to keep themselves presentable in close company. Detan and Tibs found themselves alone in the western wing of the bath halls, a coincidence no doubt engineered by the sharp-eyed steward.
These were the nice baths, no mistake about it. The tub they occupied was a massive affair of green-veined soapstone, or so Tibal insisted. It stuck out from the walkway on a narrow spur of matching rock, its weight supported by virtue of its walls being hollowed out and filled with sel.
They were higher up than the other bathers, and if Detan glanced down he could see similar arrangements sticking out all along the cavern walls. Tubs burdened with a mingle of male and female uppercrusts were arranged in such a way as to grant each group a semblance of privacy, and the venting ground below which kept the tub water warm sent up wafts of nearly-scorching steam.
The steward had assured them it was perfectly safe, that their particular bath had been in operation since the place’s very founding and had never faltered. That didn’t reassure Detan much. Things that had lasted since time immemorial had a way of going to the pits whenever he stuck a toe in them.
“Can I get you anything, sirs?”
Tibs poked at the slab of pink-veined salt floating on the surface of their tub. “What’s this for?”
“That’s the salt part of the bath, sir. It is good for softening the skin and detoxifying the humors.”