“Well, watch captain, maybe we can help each other out.”
She looked like she’d drunk sour milk. “You’re kidding. Only way you can help me is by getting gone, Honding. You understand?” Ripka turned away from him and sat behind her desk once more, her thigh bumping the side with a light clunk as she did so. Detan allowed himself a little smile; so the brave watch captain wore body armor while in his presence.
“Oh, pah. You and I both know that if Thratia wants the wardenship she’s going to take it. People fear her too damned much to risk not voting her in. And you’ll be too busy chasing your boogeyman to do anything about it.”
“Fear? You got it wrong. They respect her, and that’s the trouble of it. She’ll get voted in, nice and legal. No need for a coup,” she said.
“So what if I could… undermine that respect? Make a public fool of her?”
“The only public fool around here is you.”
“Well, you want me gone, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And I don’t have a flier to get gone with, do I?”
She just frowned at him.
“And you want Thratia undermined, right?”
“I suppose…”
“So I’ll steal her airship!”
“You’re out of your sandbagged mind, Honding.”
“No, no – listen up, captain.” He leaned forward and held his hand out, ticking off the fingers with each point he made. “Thratia’s got power here because she’s got respect, right?”
“And money.”
“Right, and money. So we can get rid of her respect, and a substantial chunk of her money, in one big blow.” He made a fist and raised it up.
“You only made one point there, and you’ve got five fingers.”
“Er, well. That doesn’t matter. It makes sense, Ripka.”
“Watch captain.”
“Watch captain.” He gave her a smile bright as the midday sun and leaned back in his chair with his fingers laced behind his head. “It’s brilliant. She’ll look like a doddering fool and you can swoop in and save the day. Then let me go, of course.”
She snorted. “Why in the blue skies would I want to do that?”
“Because I’d tell Thratia it was your idea if you didn’t, obviously.”
“And then I look the fool for letting you escape.”
“No, we let it sit for a while. I’ll slip away after you’ve got the wardenship secured. Tell everyone you shipped me off to serve hard labor on the Remnant Isles.”
She started, eyes narrowing. “You think I want to be warden?”
Had he misjudged? Detan held his hands up to either side, palms facing the sweet skies to indicate he would defer to her better judgment. “Well, you must. Or you’ve got someone in mind, surely?”
She pressed her fingers together above the desk, the arc of her hands outlining the mouth of a cave, and leaned forward as she thought. It was odd she seemed to be thinking so hard about this. He’d thought she’d have someone in mind worth the promotion, but he still couldn’t help but grin. Her body language was open, interested. There was a little furrow between her brows, deep and contemplative. He’d got her.
“Mine Master Galtro would be a good candidate,” she said, and he chose to ignore the hesitance in her voice. Didn’t matter to him who she picked. He planned on being long gone by the time that particular seat was being warmed.
He leapt to his feet and clapped once. “Good! Marvelous! Hurrah! We have a warden! Now you just need to let me do my–”
“Whoa now. What’s in this for you?”
“The thrill of adventure!”
“Try again.”
“Fine.” He huffed. “Say, perhaps, the ship has a little accident in all that excitement. Say, just for example, that some convincing wreckage is found made of the right materials, with the right name emblazoned on the heap. Say that to all the citizens, and let me keep the blasted thing.”
She drummed her fingers on the desk. “Thratia’s compound is the most secure in the whole city. Just how do you think you’re going to get anywhere near her ship?”
“That’s my worry, partner.”
“I am not–”
“Watch captain.”
She scowled at him, but quieted.
“Look, don’t worry over it all too much and don’t count on it yet either, understand? I’m going to have a look around, see if it’s even doable, and then I’ll contact you again with our options.”
“You get snagged, and I’ll swear I sent you packing this day.”
“Wouldn’t expect it any other way.”
“And if you can’t find a way to work it?”
“Tibal will have the flier fixed up by then, nice and smooth.”
Ripka eyed him, hard and heavy, and he thanked the stable sands that he had a whole lot of practice at keeping his face open and charming. She grunted and dragged open the top drawer of her desk.
“Here.” She tossed him a thin cloth pouch and he rolled it over in his hands, guessing at the weight of the grains of precious metal within. “You’ll need to stay upcrust if you want any chance of getting eyes on Thratia, and I’m guessing ole Auntie Honding hasn’t provided you with an allowance fit for something like that.”
Detan winced at the mention of his auntie, the stern-faced warden of Hond Steading, a mental tally of guilt piling up for every day of the calendar he hadn’t bothered to visit her. Forcing a smile back into place, he vanished the pouch into his pocket and half-bowed over upraised palms. “You are as wise as you are generous.”
“Get gone, Honding, and don’t contact me again until you’ve got a plan situated.”
Detan Honding prided himself on being a man who knew not to overstay his welcome. He made himself scarce in a hurry.
Chapter 2
“Fresh up from the southern coast,” Sergeant Banch said as he passed her an amber bottle, its contents labeled by a stamped blob of wax so cracked and chipped she couldn’t make it out. Like it mattered. Ripka tipped her head back and drank.
The mud wall of the guardhouse was cool against her back, the bottle warm in her hand, and the memory of the rising sun still rosy on her cheeks. So what if the bench was stiff beneath her? So what if the stench of fresh blood clung to her nostrils still? She drank deep, ignoring the murmur of the crowd dispersing just outside the guardhouse door.
It’d been one sand-blighted morning. Executing a man was never her favorite service to perform on behalf of the city, but with rumors flying wild about a killer on the loose, and Warden Faud not two days in the dirt, the city was wound up tight. She’d never seen such a turnout before. She only wished she could have given them the blood of Faud’s murderer, instead of some sandbagged thief. Doppel or no, she had no taste for executing nonviolent criminals.
Ripka glanced toward the ceiling, squinting as if she could see through the rafters to the freshly minted corpse of the doppel who’d stolen Mercer Agert’s ship. Brave son of a bitch, he hadn’t blinked when she’d asked if he wanted to meet the axe or walk the Black. He’d opted for the axe, which always surprised her. But then, walking the Black was one pits-cursed way to go.
The Black Wash spread out between the city’s lowest wall and the rugged slopes of the Smokestack – the great, looming firemount from which the city mined its selium. Composed of glittering shards of firemount glass, the path between the city and the Smokestack was blisteringly hot during the day. Merely standing on the black sands could leave your face burned within a quarter-mark.
As long as Ripka’d been in Aransa, she’d never heard of a soul making it across the sands alive. First your face burned, crisped up under the glare of the sun, and any stretch of skin not covered in cloth was quick to follow. If your shoes weren’t sturdy enough – and most condemned were forced to walk in prison garb: thin boots, linen jumpsuits, no hat – then the unweathered shards of black glass would work their way through to your feet before you’d reached the quarter waypoint. By halfway, you were leaving bloodied smears in your wake. By three-quarters, most lay down to die.