“If you detox ole Tibs, he might come apart at the seams,” Detan said.
Tibs shot him a sour look that he felt rather proved the point.
“I assure you it is perfectly safe, sirs.”
“Welp, tallyho then.”
Detan dropped his towel and eased down the slick steps into the warm water. He’d experienced a lot of nice things in his days, mostly having to do with whiskey and women and the occasional warm rainfall, but this was pure bliss. He murmured his appreciation, feeling his joints give up their stiffness, and closed his eyes. For a moment, he almost forgot this wasn’t at all why he’d come here.
Tibs followed him in, looking rather like a drowned sandrat. The steward placed a couple of glasses of cactus flower liqueur on the salt slab, delicate red buds perched on the rims of the glasses. Presumably, the idea was to drink them before the salt ran out, and that seemed like a grand old time to Detan.
“I’ll return to check on you in a mark, sirs. Please do ring the bell if you require anything.”
“Will do, New Chum.”
The steward beamed at them, lingering a moment to see if he were needed further, then hurried back down the steps. Detan watched him go and let loose with a low whistle as soon as he was out of earshot. “Poor sod, I don’t think he has a chum in the world.”
“Sorry luck he’s found one in us then, eh?”
“If by sorry you mean marvelous, then yes. Did you see the ink? Methinks our stalwart steward is hiding a less than reputable past.”
“Something you’d be familiar with.”
“Oh, come off it. Ever seen anything like it?”
“You think the kid’s got a crew?”
“He might have, some people are capable of making more than one friend. Didn’t seem much impressed with the noblebones, come to think on it. Might be he’s casing the place.”
Tibs let out a low and weary sigh. “Leave the lad be, not everyone’s neck deep in conspiracies just because you are.”
“As you like. We really gonna sit round in this stew all day?”
“Long as they’ll let me.”
Detan drained his glass and hiccupped. “Pah. You’ve no imagination. Did you see the cubbies where we put our things? No locks!”
“This is a respectable place. Things don’t go missing.”
He slapped the water with his open palm. It was a meaty, satisfying slap. Then he snagged up Tibs’s glass and downed that, too. The old fool was likely to get drunk and careless if Detan didn’t get the good stuff out of the way for him.
“You heard the man, he’s giving us a mark to have a look-see.”
“He’s giving us a mark for the soak.”
“Nonsense. Let’s go!”
Detan moved to the steps, but Tibs grabbed his arm so hard and fast he slipped and flopped face-first into the water. He came up sputtering, and gave Tibs a shove. “What was that for?”
“Just wanted to remind you, real clear, that the young Lord Honding is said to have lost his sel-sense in a tragic mining accident back in Hond Steading. Your freedom depends on that neat little rumor.”
He flushed. “Oh, come off it. That overinflated sack deserved it.”
“Might be, but Aransa isn’t a friendly town for your type. Watch yourself. Sirra.”
Detan rolled his eyes and pulled himself out of the tub, sloshing water over the edge. An angry hiss issued from the vent far below, and he shuddered. It was one thing to work the firemounts for selium, there was just no other way to get it, but surely there were safer methods of taking a bath. He wrapped his towel round his hips and waited for Tibs to do likewise.
He did not.
“What’s the problem now, Tibs?”
“I’m going to soak.”
“Huh. Well. I suppose it will improve your aroma. Carry on, good man, and look for me to return before the mark burns down.”
“Try not to get killed.”
Detan sniffed and set off, wet feet slap-slapping on the warm rock walkway. The amenable steward had done him the favor of showing him the most direct route between the lush baths and the men’s cubby room, where the gentle guests left their outer shells for the duration of their luxury. Trusting lot, these bathgoers.
The way was clear as far as the cubby room, and there Detan hovered at the entrance for a good long while with his ear pressed up against the door to make sure there wasn’t so much as a mouse-shuffle inside. Gauging the room empty, he slipped through the narrow door and shut it with a soft click behind him. He winced. The steward had been flapping his lips so much that Detan had missed that particular noise the first time through. Nothing for it, he decided. And anyway, there wasn’t a soul around to hear it so far as he could tell.
He tiptoed down the row, peeking into the stuffed cubbies until he came across one that appeared more stuffed than most. Marking the spot, he doubled back to his own accoutrements and slipped his leather money pouch from the folds. It was his favorite pouch, it’d been the first thing he’d stolen when he returned to the Scorched, and he’d be sorry to lose it. But then, he was pretty sure he’d be seeing it again quite soon. He kissed the goatskin and tucked it in amongst the robust man’s vestments. Then he shoved Tibs’s into the cubby of the big man’s friend for good measure.
If he was going to stick his neck out, he’d be fried if he wasn’t going to invite ole Tibs along for the ride. It wasn’t right, leaving your friend out of things just because he was a mechanic. And anyway, Tibs’s clothes were reeking just as much as his own were.
Doubling back to his cubby, he scooped up both his and Tibs’s clothes, then fled the scene.
Chapter 7
The warehouse district had always been dark, but now that Thratia’s compound loomed above the wide mud-brick buildings, the once familiar streets seemed to grow seedier in her shadow. Somewhere from within the compound the thready whisper of music struck up. Soft, but growing. Thratia’s entertainment getting ready for her guests tonight.
Ripka bit her lip, forcing herself to ignore the swathe of excess shade laid over the building she was reconnoitering now. She could not let her prejudices against the ex-commodore cloud her judgment; make her rash. Not tonight.
She crouched alongside Banch and their newest recruit, Taellen, relying upon a hip-high stack of ruined crates to obscure their presence. On the opposite side of the targeted warehouse five other watchers lurked, awaiting her signal.
The cold of the desert night bit into her flexed knees, stiffened her tensed back. She shifted her weight, pretending to adjust the angle she held her crossbow at, but found no relief. They had been a half-mark lurking behind that pile of detritus, and the sour stench of alley garbage was growing disturbingly less noticeable. Ripka resolved to give herself a full, hot bath just as soon as she got home.
“That’s the place, I’m sure of it,” Taellen murmured and gestured with his charcoal-blackened crossbow.
“So you’ve said,” she whispered, nudging his weapon back below the line of the broken crates. “Now hush.”
He grunted, sullen, and she bit her tongue to keep from reprimanding him further. This had been his find, and she was grateful for it, but the lad was too eager to lay claim. Too eager, she suspected, to prove he served Aransa. He’d only moved to the Scorched a single moonturn ago and still carried a Valathean accent – and a Valathean name, despite her urging to change it. Aransa may be governed by Valathea, but the people of the Scorched liked their names harsh as the landscape that housed them.
Banch lifted a hand in the air, his finger extended, circled it, then pointed. Setting aside her annoyance, she squinted through the dark at the window he indicated. The curtain flicked aside, the edge of a man’s face peering out into the dark. Ripka held her breath as he scanned the area beyond, then let the curtain fall back into place. Had he seen them? Heard them? She cursed her inability to communicate with her other team.