This was not-Ripka, he reminded himself. Not the straight-laced, stern-hearted woman of the law he’d thought he was dealing with. He knew nothing about her, save she had a dead son and a whole mess of blood in her past. Heart hammering, he forced himself to stay still. To breathe.
To resist the urge to reach out and rip off the sel coating her smug little face.
“We’ve got to get back,” he modulated his voice to sound calm, certain. “We can take advantage of the chaos of the fire. Thratia will be distracted. We’ll slip in the way you came and shove off with the Larkspur.”
“Just like that?” There was a lilt to her voice, a sense of what – uncertainty? Fear? Probably madness, if the strange glint in her eye was anything to go by. Eyes that, he realized now that he saw them up close, weren’t quite as grey as Ripka’s – a smudge of golden green intruded upon her irises.
“Just like that. No more Aransa. No more Thratia. You’ll have the Larkspur to do with what you will.” And all those names and addresses went to smoke in that fire. No more murder, too. No more blind, flailing, revenge.
“Thratia deserves–”
“Something you can’t give to her. You can’t fight her straight on in her own compound. You won’t win. You’ll waste the opportunity, and be too dead to come back and try again.”
Her lips pursed, frustrated, sullen. He held his breath.
Not-Ripka stepped away, her hand falling from his chest. Detan suppressed a burst of nervous laughter. His head swam, his pulse thundered. He needed to end this. To get back to Tibs and get gone.
“Let’s go,” he said, faking confidence.
When they reached the Black Wash it felt as if half the night had gone, but the moon had only drifted four marks through the sky. Enough time to make it back before the sun devoured them, but barely. He stood still for a moment, imagining himself rooted to the ground right through the soles of his boots, and let the desert wind play its way over his skin and dusty clothes. He cast an eye to the night sky, silently daring the sun to rise, to catch him out on the Black and burn all his pain and frustration away.
When not-Ripka stepped beside him he uprooted himself and ran his hands through his hair, tugging and mussing, then set off toward the city with ground-eating strides. The doppel was a good head shorter than him, so she had to quicken her pace to keep up.
High above, a shadow stirred. The Hub ferry shuddered out onto its guy wires, the rectangular blot of it little more than a black smudge against the navy sky.
“Is that–?” she asked.
He watched it toddle along. Didn’t matter how slow the blasted thing was, it’d reach the city long before they ever could. His fists clenched, a thirst for flame rising within him.
“That’s the news getting ahead of us,” he said.
Her hand drifted toward the hilt of her blade, she half-turned toward the Hub. He knew what she was thinking. It’d crossed his mind, too. They didn’t have to reach the city before the ferry – they just had to reach the Hub’s dock before the ferry made land in Aransa. Two quick chops with that shiny little knife of hers and they’d plummet to the sand below. Thratia would suspect the fire had disabled the ferry, the flames were already a warm smudge of a glow against the side of the Smokestack, but she wouldn’t know about the so-called watch captain’s involvement. Wouldn’t have a chance to figure out Detan had his hands in it.
It’d be so, so, easy.
“No,” he said, and reached back to lay his hand across her sword arm. “There’ll be no more death, if I can help it.”
She eyed him long enough he began to fear she’d shake him off and make for the Hub on her own. But then she nodded, a sharp little jab of the chin just like the real Ripka would do, and let her hands fall free at her sides.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Honding.”
He turned back toward Aransa, and ran to beat the shadows above.
Chapter 28
Thratia’s compound had gotten some life back in it, and Detan wasn’t too sure that was a good thing. Fresh light speared bright and angry through all the windows, the silhouettes of armed men and women passing by them on the regular. There wasn’t any pattern to it he could work out, just a frenetic sort of activity that lacked a focused, guiding hand. Just the kind of hand Thratia was supposed to be providing. Maybe he was lucky. Maybe she was still out.
“Keep your head down, eh?”
Not-Ripka nodded and turned up the collar of her shirt to hide her jawline. Not that it did her much good in being inconspicuous. Everything about the way she moved told the story of her confidence, that she was top-of-the-rock in any room she entered. The blasted woman had gotten far too good at playing the real Ripka.
Lucky for them both, the guards posted at the gate didn’t seem to notice, and the guards usually posted at the big double doors weren’t there at all. Once inside, they tore off down the hallway to the stairs which lead up to the dock. All the while Detan’s heart thudded in his ears, warning him that they were moving too fast – someone was going to notice. Going to stop them. Going to ask questions.
Or they were expected.
Shit.
Just a few marks ago he’d have felt right at home in this sordid little game, but now that Tibs was mixed up tight in the danger all he could think about was getting gone. Shoulda’ listened to Ripka the first time. Or had that been the doppel? He was starting to lose track himself.
“Whoa there.” As they topped the stairs, one of the guards he’d seen moping about the hallway earlier in the evening put an arm out, blocking his path.
Detan pulled himself up straight and tried to keep the doppel in his shadow. “What are you stopping me for? Thratia wants me locked up snug with her big balloon and if she finds me out here in the hallway pissing around with you I guarantee it’ll be your nose that gets skinned.”
The sniveling little rat smirked and put his arm down. “Sure. My mistake. Allow me to escort you.”
Detan’s neck went stiff and his fingertips twitched, little beads of sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. That bluster should not have worked. He couldn’t bolt, not now, not with the doppel a step behind him and Tibs a door ahead. He tried to keep his chin up as he followed the strong-arm to the dock, but there was no keeping his gaze steady. His gaze darted around, trying to make sense of every shadow and coming up with nothing at all. He closed his eyes, took a slow breath, and stepped through to the dock.
Someone had had the fool idea of lighting lamps all around the place, and the whole thing was lit up so bright his eyes watered and his vision went muddy. While he was blinking the wet away, the strong-arm said, “I found the thieves, warden.”
They were swarmed. Before he could get his bearings straight he was thrown to the ground, the crack of his head against the floorboards bringing another burst of light to his eyes. Tears mingled with blood as he snorted and choked from a fresh nosebleed. His cheeks burned with angry heat when someone laughed.
As his vision cleared he saw the muscled hands holding him were sleeved in the slate-grey linen of Thratia’s private militia, no mere thug was holding Detan pinioned against the deck. He couldn’t see where the doppel had gone, but he figured she wasn’t looking much better than him right now. He hoped she could keep her face together for their new company.
“I didn’t steal a damned thing!” he called, blowing a rather undignified bubble of blood out of one nostril.
Someone’s knee bit into his back and he grunted. With the side of his face pressed to the deck he couldn’t see much of anything, but then a familiar black-dusted boot eclipsed his vision and he found himself wishing he could go back to not seeing anything at all.