Taellen grabbed the reins to the cart and she took up guard in the back with another of the Watch. Her sticky crossbow she kept close to hand, but it was one of the smuggled blades she held, turning it over in the slim light as Taellen drove the donkey back to the station house.
The metal was smooth, the forging done well enough to keep any pits from marring the surface of the blade. It had been oiled recently, an unctuous film coating her finger as she stroked the length of steel. Ripka sniffed the smear on her finger and frowned when she did not recognize the scent. Where had these weapons come from? And why so many? Importing weapons was not illegal in Aransa, but clearly someone wanted to avoid raising suspicions.
Someone. Hah. She knew full well who had done this, even if she couldn’t prove it.
“Captain.” Taellen’s voice drifted back, soft and uncertain.
“Yes, watcher?”
“How’d you know?”
“Know what?”
“That he was a sensitive… That there was even sel in the liquor.”
She smiled to herself. “Simple observation. As you commented yourself, the man was unusually strong.”
The watcher keeping guard alongside her snorted, shifted his weight. Ripka raised her brows at that, but the man didn’t look at her, just kept his gaze tight on the prisoners. As he should. And yet… Something in the stance of his shoulders, in the purse of his lips, set her ill at ease. What was his name, Jetk? She shook her head. The Watch was getting too big – too fragmented.
“Oh. Thought you might be sensitive yourself,” Taellen said.
A cold knot formed in Ripka’s belly. “No. Not even a little bit. Don’t forget it.”
Taellen grunted apology, but Ripka couldn’t shake the serpents of dread worming their way into her thoughts. The last time someone had accused her of being sensitive she hadn’t been able to prove otherwise. It was so obvious to her, the way sensitives worked. Illusions broke down under hard scrutiny, subtle movements gave away attempted mirror manipulations.
She never could understand how anyone else didn’t see it. But after rumors began to spread through the Brown Wash that she was hiding sensitivity her fights had grown more violent, the crowd’s taunts more pointed. No one had a kind word for the woman they thought was shirking the duty that bound their own loved ones.
The second night she’d left the ring to find some flea-bitten bastard waiting for her in the alley with a broken bottle and lungful of curses, she’d taken her prize purse and left the Brown Wash behind, joining Faud’s mercenaries on the long caravan to Aransa.
She clenched her fist on the blade’s grip, watching her knuckles grow so pale the scars didn’t show. In Aransa, she was watch captain, not some cracked-toothed fighter living from purse to purse. She had sway here. Allies. And it was true, anyway – she was no sel-sensitive. They’d believe her.
Chapter 8
By the time he returned to the bath their salt brick was halfway gone. Detan eased himself into the hot water and tipped his head back with a hearty sigh.
“You look right pleased with yourself.”
“I am right pleased, old chum. This is a lovely establishment Lord Tasay has left us. Shame his line died out, or Thratia wouldn’t be able to muss it all up by angling to get herself elected warden.”
“Right,” Tibs drawled, “because the rule of heirship has worked out so well for the other landed families and their cities.”
Detan scowled and scratched the Honding brand seared into the flesh of the back of his neck, deciding to ignore Tibs’s dig.
“Now,” he scooped up the little bell and gave it a good, bold ring, “where is that New Chum? Somebody drank all our booze and I’ve worked up quite a thirst.”
The steward came loping down the hallway, a bottle in one hand and a cheese plate in the other. Detan gave Tibs a triumphant grin, but the codger just rolled his eyes. Not a fan of subtlety, his wiry old mechanic.
“Would sirs care for another drink?”
“You’re a wonder, New Chum, a wonder!”
The steward poured out the drams and, while Detan watched, the young man’s nose began to wrinkle. “Do either of you sirs smell something burning?”
Tibs gave him a glare that could cut glass, but Detan ignored it and leaned forward over the edge of the tub, sniffing the air. “I do! Is that normal?”
With a face like an undercooked fish, the steward set the bottle and cheese down and scrambled to the end of the walkway. He stuck his head over the edge and peered about while Detan downed a few of the cheese bits. Tibs followed his lead. He’d never been the type to turn down a free plate.
“There’s something burning on one of the vents!” The steward pointed and Detan dragged his gaze along the man’s finger as if he hadn’t known where he’d be pointing. He let loose with what he hoped was a heart-broken screech and leapt to his feet, sending bath water flying in all directions.
“My hat!”
Tibs got the picture then, and lurched to his feet. “My hat!” But his mouth was full of cheese, which rather ruined the effect.
Regardless, Detan thought they both looked positively dashing as they leapt from the bath and snatched up their towels. With a hasty wrap for modesty, they charged down the perilous steps, the steward nipping at their heels, and spilled out into the dangerous terrain of the venting ground. Detan hesitated, drawing back an anxious step and chewing on his lip.
“Follow me, sirs, the way is treacherous.”
The steward strode ahead, and Detan forced himself to check his pace as he scurried along behind. His legs were longer than the young man’s, and he’d scouted the area ahead of time, but being first on the scene would let the sel out of the sack and bring the whole thing crashing down in a hurry.
When they finally made it to the vent in question, Detan pushed ahead of the steward and grabbed up his hat. Tibs’s hat. Detan was rather fond of the old thing, so he’d left it sitting on the edge just close enough to give it a character-building singe.
“Someone has burned our clothes!”
“It must have been a mistake, sirs, I can’t imagine that anyone here would do something like that.”
Detan floundered a little, but good old Tibs had caught up now and gotten all the gears of his mind grinding away.
“Whose vent is this?” Tibs demanded.
“Oh, well…” The steward flicked out the guest list folded in one pocket. Detan grinned, recognizing it from the pad the ticket-taker had written their names on. Perfect.
New Chum’s face went fishy again. “This would be the vent below the bath of Renold Grandon and his party, sirs. The man with whom you had the small confrontation on the sel bridge.”
Detan pumped his fists in the air in victory, but he hoped it looked more like anger to the young steward. Either way, it was energetic enough to set the man reeling. “That mounded ass! Come, Tibal, let us go claim our compensation. Quickly, to the cubbies, before that demon can make off with any more of our personals!”
Allowing the steward to presume he had learned the way from their walk to the vent, Detan shoved the singed hat on his head and charged off through the craggy ground after the culprits.
The timing was sweet as sel wine. Just as Grandon and his group arrived and began to attire themselves, Detan and his entourage of two burst in upon them.
“You!” He pointed a quavering finger at the man, making his eyes wild and wide.
Grandon looked up, yawned, and began toweling off his feet. Detan rather wished he’d left the towel where it was, but he was on a roll now and not about to stop for modesty’s sake.