Tibs sighed as he turned to go. “You really are terrible at this,” he muttered under his breath. Detan smiled to himself as he followed his old friend out into the deepening dark.
Chapter 9
Even from their narrow vantage, hunkered down under the shadow of a recessed doorway across the street, Detan could tell that Thratia was a woman of fine taste in parties and in guards. The whole of her compound was alight with oil lanterns slung from the eaves, hired hands keeping a careful eye on the flames as they wavered in the dry breeze. The great stone wall that encircled her abode had one side of its black iron gate propped open, three guards with seven facial scars between them keeping an eye on the ticket checkers and guests alike. It all would have been simple as sand in their new suits with their official tickets, if those rats weren’t checking for family crests.
“Chances of admittance do not look good,” Tibs said. “There’s no way Thratia put the Honding family on the nice list.”
“I’m aware of my familial peculiarity, old chum, but thanks for the chin-up.”
“My job’s to keep the ship buoyant, not your spirits.”
“Oh? And where is this buoyant ship you speak of?”
Tibs went quiet, and that was all right by Detan’s thinking. He was, after all, trying to concentrate, and the prattle of his erstwhile companion was most distracting. On the other side of the great wall, Detan’s extended senses could just pick up hints of selium.
Thratia was a grand host, and she had provided floating dining tables for the favorites of her guests to dine upon. There appeared to be a few of the platforms meandering the garden, not yet burdened with the bustles and bootstraps of the noblebones, and he was having a pit of a time finagling one nearer. They remained stubbornly just beyond his natural reach. He could strain himself, but not without risking the fine edge of his control. He hissed through his teeth in frustration.
“Come on then, let us have a closer look at the festivities.” Detan tried to keep his voice light, but he knew Tibs would see through to the strain of his annoyance.
Tibs’s face soured, but he fell in step and slunk along beside him. Thratia hadn’t made any effort at all to blend in with the local residents. Her compound was bigger than any normal house had a right to be, and as such she’d had to stick it in amongst the warehouses, claiming their superior infrastructure better suited her needs. Clever little witch. It also put her stronghold right in the heart of the city’s commerce, and Detan would bet his own shorthairs there wasn’t a deal that went down in the whole of Aransa she didn’t have her spidery eyes on.
Clever or not, the neighborhood was a right peach to sneak around in. Great shadows extended from the eaves of overlarge buildings, and as the sun was long since set the only establishments with any life and light in them were those who served cheap, hard brews. And what would you care about a couple of men slinking around in the dark if you had a pitcher of liquid fire to yourself?
Detan allowed his senses to guide him, homing in on the one dining platform that was set further off from the others. He only stepped in a foul puddle once.
Twice.
“Here’s the place,” Detan said as he shook out a disturbingly damp pant leg.
It was a good spot, generally speaking, in that it was well shadowed and smelled of piss in the way only a secretive alley can. It was particularly good for him, because hovering on the other side of that thick stone wall was the object of his sensory affection. It occurred to him then, that even if he could get the thing to come up to them, they had no way of getting up to the top of the wall to meet it. He could bring it back down the other side to meet them, but that may just push his luck a tad too far.
“Huh.” He scowled at the wall, willing a solution to present itself.
Tibs cleared his throat. “Is sirra, perhaps, thinking we would have better luck if we were to climb the ladder there and join those few revelers on the roof of this establishment?”
Detan was more than a little abashed to find the roof Tibs indicated was just behind them. Its top was aglow with wavering beeswax light – the cheapest candles to be had on the Scorched – and a dozen or so malformed shadows danced and sang at the night. Not to the night. No, they were definitely singing at it. The aroma of cheap beer wafted down, along with another sickeningly familiar bouquet.
He then realized why the alley smelled of piss.
Detan grabbed Tibs’s arm and hauled him out of the way just before they would have been anointed, and heard wild laughter from above.
“Hey, you two!”
Detan tipped his head up for a look, fearing another downpour, but it was only a face stuck over the edge. “Hullo!” Detan called.
“Got any beer?”
“We’ve got money!”
“That buys beer! Come on up!”
Detan scrambled up the ladder, Tibs quick on his heels. The rooftop party was stuffed with the type of folk Thratia might have hired to guard her doors or watch the lamps, but clearly their services had not been needed this night. The young man who’d called them up staggered over and shoved out a hand, snapping his fingers. “We don’t take paper tickets here, you hear?”
“Splendid!” Detan dropped a full silver grain into the man’s hand.
He squinted at it.
“This real?”
“Yup.”
“Whoo! Hey, guys! We’re going to Milky’s tonight!”
A cheer went up, but it wasn’t for Detan, it was for Milky’s. Which he supposed was well deserved, as he had yet to meet a harder working bunch of girls. With the revelers’ time committed for their immediate future, Detan grabbed Tibs’s arm and dragged him to the edge of the roof nearest the wall.
From this new perch, he could make out the extravagant garden Thratia kept with the extra water rations she no doubt paid an exorbitant sum for, and he cursed her for having the forethought to plant a variety of thick-canopied trees just on the other side of her long wall.
“It seems Thratia was aware of this fortuitous proximity, old chum.”
“It does indeed.”
“No matter. Allow me to concentrate.”
He closed his eyes, ignoring the reek wafting up from the alley and the jeering of the revelers. He expanded his senses just to the selium in the immediate area, and found his floating dining station with ease. He nudged it, just a touch, to see if anyone had already come aboard, and found it delightfully without passengers.
“Uh, sirra…”
“Let me concentrate.”
Emboldened, he tipped the platform so that anything not anchored would slide off, and was rewarded with the platform’s sudden but invigorating lift. He subdued it, listening for a cry of alarm, but heard none.
Tibs tugged on his sleeve, and he swore as he nearly lost control of the platform. He shook the old lizard off and scowled into the dark, “Keep your pants on, old fool.”
Guessing the area to be empty for the time being, he allowed the platform to drift upward until it rested just beneath the treetops and then leveled it with care. He opened his eyes and squinted into the brush.
There, he could see it. A bit of yellow-painted wood peeking between the branches.
He could also feel something rather sharp pressed against the small of his back.
“Seems to us.” Beer-laden breath wafted over Detan’s shoulder. “That men in such fancy clothes would have more than one silver grain. Eh lads?”
A grumble of consent was raised behind him, a few hoots thrown in for good measure. With his hands up to show they were empty, Detan turned around very, very slowly. It was no less unsettling to have a knife pointed at your front than to have it sneak up behind you. He tried an affable grin. The young man appeared rather unimpressed.