Detan eased a step back, wiping spittle from his sore cheek. “Really, my dear, try to stick to one theme of animal.”
She glowered and whirled to face Thratia, who had the grace to cover her wide smile with the tips of her fingers. “I want him thrown to the Black Wash, warden! This man is a mongrel–”
“Another animal?”
“Be silent!”
Detan was beginning to feel dizzy when Halva spun upon him and jabbed a slender finger into his chest with each word she spoke. “You lost the right to say anything at all to me when you left me without so much as a peep! I thought you were dead!” Her eyes welled.
He frowned at the glimmer rimming her eyes, at the finger prodding him in the chest. Halva had always been one for histrionics, but this was a bit much. They’d hardly known each other, after all, and… His eyes narrowed at a suspicious glint.
“Is that a wedding ring on your finger?” he blurted.
She snatched her hand back and clasped it in the other. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve married Cranston Wels. He’s a gentleman.”
“Cranston! Your father hated that slag –oh.” He sifted through memories long-since buried, recalling Halva’s too-eager proclamations, the strange man who had leapt over the lady’s garden wall, red in the face and screaming mad. Cranston Wels – it must have been. A man so slack-witted her father would have never permitted the match. Unless, of course, Daddy Erst felt he had barely escaped a much direr pairing.
“You used me!”
Halva’s tears vanished without so much as a sniffle, and she rolled her big, glassy eyes to the skies. “Try to control yourself, my dear.”
Detan gawped more like a landed fish than a landed man. He found he harbored a new appreciation for Halva Erst.
“As entertaining as this is, I am a busy woman.” Thratia’s soft voice cut through the haze of his wonder.
The effect on Halva was instantaneous. She ducked her head and dropped a low curtsey to Thratia, who didn’t seem to care one whit. “Now girl, I need you to answer me honestly, do you understand?”
“Yes, warden.”
“I’m not the warden yet.”
Her smile was coy. “Daddy said it’s only a matter of time.”
“That may be true, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Now, did you see Watch Captain Leshe last night at the party?”
“I did, she was lingering on the second story balcony, drinking herself stupid with that rat.” She pointed an accusing finger at Tibal who grinned a little, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“Wasn’t like that, missus. Was just a drink or two, not the whole bottle or nothin’.”
“I don’t care about your drinking habits, Tibal. Did she leave the balcony at any point, Halva?”
“No, not until the band stopped playing. Then she went down to break up a fight.”
Thratia’s brows shot up. “There was a fight at my party?”
“Oh, just a tiff over a girl.”
Thratia waved it off and nodded. “Very well. You can go now, Lady Erst.”
“But–” She looked hungrily at Detan, which was a most unsettling experience for him.
“Go now, before you make a fool of yourself. Highroad, and all that. Off with you.” Thratia shooed her away as if she were waving at a gnat. Lady Wels-nee-Erst harrumphed and expanded her sun parasol with vigor. She strode from the room, leaving a trail of jasmine perfume in her ruffled wake.
“Strange girl,” Thratia said. “I have no idea what you saw in her.”
Detan had the grace to look chagrined. “I really did want her father’s atlas.”
Thratia sniffed and tossed her hair, sharpened pins glinting. “Well, mongrel, I believe the doppel has taken some interest in your pathetic hide.”
He clapped his hands, unable to hide the relief in his eyes. “Excellent. We will take the most wonderful care of your gorgeous ship.”
She barked a short laugh and turned back to him, one eyebrow arched. “Do you think me cruel, Honding? Heartless – maniacal, perhaps?”
His relief evaporated under the heat of her regard. “I never said–”
“You’d be correct, in many ways – few of which you understand. You might think all those things of me, Honding. But don’t ever think me stupid.”
“I would never–”
“I know you think me a poor fit for Aransa. You and your new creature-friend, no doubt. No, don’t protest. Play at ignorance all you like, and ignorant you might be, but you’re enamored with the very idea of the doppel, aren’t you? It’s what you want to be – what you wish you were. An independent element, moving against the stability of the empire. But you’re not. You’ll never be.”
Thratia stepped close to him, her breath hot and near enough that he could smell the bright-eye berries she brewed in her tea. His stomach lurched at the saccharine scent – at her nearness. He’d almost rather her breath stink of wine. At least that way she would have drugged herself with something to make her slow-witted instead of sharp.
Before he could squeak any kind of response, any denial to collusion with the doppel, she pressed her hand over his mouth and gripped. Hard.
“You’re clever, I’ll grant you that. And I don’t believe the rumors you’ve gone cracked in the head, not wholly. You’re scared. I see it in the way you move, hands shaping half-formed thoughts, shoulders closed forward in defense even while your hips stay open, ready to run. I’ve made a study of it. The way people stand and the way they say what they want you to think they think. You jump from town to town, harassing anything with even the slightest stink of the empire on it but never, never, reaching your hand out to harangue the real seed of your terror.
“I don’t know what happened to change you, Honding. I don’t believe losing your sel-sense alone did it. Whatever happened to you, know this: that creature is little more than a murderer. Justified, possibly. I have no idea, nor do I care. But that thing has put terror in the hearts of the Aransan people. So you think real hard. Who’s better for this city? The woman the people want to elect, or the choice of a man so addled he can’t tell a flower from a thorn?”
“Mmmrpf,” he said.
“If it’s the Larkspur you want to watch over, then you may have it.” She shoved him away and jerked her chin toward a militiaman. “Take them to the Larkspur. Let them be extra bait upon the trap. Do not, under any circumstances, allow them to leave the dock or this compound. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Heavy hands closed around Detan’s arms, and he had to fight back an urge to jerk away. She turned her back on them, forgetting them the moment they were out of sight. But he saw the way her shoulders slumped, saw the subtle sigh leave her. The future warden, it seemed, was very tired indeed.
He frowned, mind racing as he was dragged back, Tibs hauled along beside him. Something she had said… Extra bait. But what was the original? The ship? Would she really risk her treasure just to capture one doppel?
“What’s the hurry, Thratia?” he called, heels thumping against the stairs as he was dragged up them. She paused and turned back, face impassive. But her head was tilted forward, just the tiniest bit. She was listening.
“You worried it’s your head she’s coming for next?” His ankles burned as he dug his heels in, trying to slow the progress of his cursing captors. Thratia just smirked, an uncontrolled reaction. She didn’t fear for her own life, then. But why the rush?
He recalled the shadow of the Valathean cruiser drifting overhead, mooring itself to one of the compound’s less glamorous docks. Was she trying to clear away the problem before Valathea could instigate a purge? Had that been how she managed to maintain all her imperial connections, despite being expelled from the Fleet? A promise to clean up Aransa? If they performed a purge immediately after her taking the wardenship, the city would be paralyzed. Useless.