Beside him, Tibs chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Detan snapped, though at the sound of Tibs’s amusement the rising tide of his anger crested and broke.
“Well, it’s a pretty good move, don’t you think? I reckon you’d do the same, if you were him.”
“Pits below, Tibs, don’t encourage the man.”
“Not like he’s here to hear it.”
Detan scowled, but the raw edge of rage had gone out of him. His sense of sel closed, his heart slowed its frantic pace. It was, in fact, a tidy little move. Put in the same position, he probably would have pulled something similar.
He was going to enjoy ripping it all apart.
“I say.” He whirled back upon the proprietor. “Try not to let any more strangers walk off with our things while we’re out, if it’s not too much trouble.”
The wiry old bastard snorted and flipped a page on his ledger. “No promises, boys. No one in Aransa who’s got all their sand between their ears is going to help you against Grandon. That man keeps a grudge closer than a lover and has the grains to back up anything he wants to do. He comes back asking for your shitshorts and I’ll hand ’em over with a smile.”
“Charming,” Detan muttered.
Then brightened.
“There is one brave soul in all Aransa willing to stand with us against Grandon.”
“Oh,” Tibs groaned. “We’re going back on the ferry again, aren’t we?”
Detan threw an arm around Tibs’s shoulders and ushered him back out into the street. “Didn’t I tell you? A lifetime’s worth of goodwill!”
Chapter 15
Ripka sat in a creaking chair by Galtro’s low fire, watching the man bumble about the place like he was the visitor. Between them was spread a selection of Aransan street-cart delicacies. As far as Ripka could tell, the mine master’s hearth didn’t even have a cooking pot.
But the mug in her hands was warm with thornbrush tea and, if she were being honest with herself, her own dinner would have been comprised of street-cart foods. In fact, she knew the morsels arrayed before her well. It was nice to know that Sala on the next level up was making his pulpleaf pastries again, sticky with agave syrup. Ripka picked up a spitted wing of shaleowl, breathing deep of the peppery spices rubbed into the crisp skin.
“Who needs a wife, eh?” Ripka said around a mouthful of crunchy meat, and suppressed a grin as she watched Galtro flush. The full saying was, who needs a wife when you’ve got street-carts and whores. Language like that was forbidden to Galtro’s sel-sensitives, at least while they were Hubside. She’d heard a fair share of crude things leave the miners’ lips once they were back in the city, and deep in their cups; usually directed at her, after she’d herded them into a cell for the night so they wouldn’t be a danger to themselves or others.
“A wife’s the last thing on my mind, captain.”
“Ripka,” she corrected.
“Names matter, lass.”
She wiped grease from her fingers on a small cloth napkin. “I know it well.”
A real smile flickered across his craggy features, but only for a moment. His eyes turned down to his folded hands, his own selection of foods left to go cold.
“Feter told me nothing of worth,” he said, and the words fell like cage bars over any pleasure she had fostered.
“I see. Thank you for trying.” She swallowed hard, working the meat down a throat gone dry as the Black Wash. By the way he spoke – no preamble, straight to the point – she surmised that Feter’s lack of professed knowledge was the last thing weighing down his mind. But it was, at the moment, the greatest weight upon hers.
Her whole tenure as watch captain had passed without the need of torture. Maybe the answers the woman held weren’t that important. Maybe she could be left to stew in boredom on a poor bed. Maybe she’d eventually talk just to have something to do.
And maybe that would take months, and they’d all be ground under Thratia’s boot by then.
After a moment’s pause, Galtro rose and paced to the window. Ripka did not bother to look at the view, she knew he’d stare straight across the Black to the faint lights of the Hub clinging to the Smokestack beyond. Even at night, watchfires were left lit and guards lingered against the slim possibility of a selium thief.
No, the view wasn’t what was interesting. Galtro kept his shoulder blades angled inward, his hands clasped tight at the small of his back. His chin was downcast, his gaze flitting erratically. He could not be still. His fingers fidgeted, twisting a ring on his right hand around and around. If he were in her interrogation room, she would expect a full confession any moment. And so, she did what every good investigator does. She chewed her food, and waited for someone else to fill the silence.
“Do you know why I decided to run for the wardenship?”
She had thought she did, but the reedy tone of his voice told her the answer would not be what she expected. “No.”
“I know I won’t win, of course.”
“There’s always a chance.”
“No, my dear. Even if the people were to vote for me en masse, it would only be a matter of time before an accident befell me. It is safer, for me, to be the clear loser, I think. That way Thratia will not fear reprisal from my supporters, because there won’t be enough to pack a ferry.”
“Then why bother?” The words came out bitter and clipped. He should want to win. If Thratia took power, there was no telling which path Aransa would march down. Ripka was certain Thratia would be quick to dissolve the Watch and fill it with her own people. Or worse, threaten those already wearing the blues into marching to her beat. She’d already made it clear she’d raise the Hub’s production quotas, putting the line workers at risk for the sake of surplus. Galtro’s lack of care needled Ripka, pushed the fine edge of her temper.
Fearing what she might say next, she pressed her mug to her lips and sipped slowly, carefully, breathing deep of the steam. Giving Galtro a chance to make himself heard while she settled her irritation.
“So that the sensitives will understand that they have an advocate, a voice. Someone willing to stand up and speak for them, even if they won’t be heard.”
She sat the mug down with as much care as she had used when sipping from it, and allowed her hands to curl into fists against her thighs. “The miners are the most cared-for people of any Scorched city. Food, housing, it’s all seen to. Why would they need an advocate beyond what they already have?”
“They have those things because they are press-ganged.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he turned from the window and cut a hand through the air to silence her before she could begin. She sat, dumbfounded, strangely relieved. She hadn’t even known what she was going to say.
“Sel-sensitives are born with a gift, yes, but due to the nature of their inheritance they are stripped of their futures. Yes, they will be cared for. Only the finest of apothiks, and the best pick of food for them. But that is a small prize in exchange for the possibilities lost. The sensitives spend their lives moving selium around, or scouting for it in the deep caves, or else traveling as diviners, rarely pilots. And that is all they will do.