“You’re a thief and a liar, Honding, but you haven’t stolen from me. Let him up.”
The knee disappeared and the meat-hook hands came off. He pushed himself up and wiped the smear of blood from his nose onto his sleeve. Thratia’s lip curled in disgust at that, which gave him a little tingle of pleasure.
“What’s this about, warden?” He laid all the saccharine respect he could over the word warden, but she was too cranked up to notice. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flush. She even had a strand of hair out of place, her knuckles gone rough and pulpy by a recent strike. He was, Detan realized, quite probably a dead man.
“What do you think?”
She pointed. Detan stared.
Out past the elegant shape of the Larkspur, the whole side of the Smokestack was glowing bright and angry. The flames must have gotten loose in the Hub, must have reached beyond the ready feed of wood and paper to rarer delicacies. Detan’s throat went dry. Reaching up from the Hub, long arms of flame crept along the side of the Smokestack toward the divot of its mouth.
The selium pipelines were made of leather. Leather smeared with fat to proof it against the monsoon season. Ready fuel for a hungry inferno. Aransa’s whole economy – done in by the flash of one measly little lantern.
“Wasn’t me,” he blurted.
“Clearly.”
“Warden,” the strong-arm interjected. “It may be he was involved. Those who came across on the ferry said the watch captain had an accomplice, a lanky man. And here he has just now returned with her.”
Thratia moved so fast Detan barely saw it. She spun around and brought her hand up and down, one swift axe-blow, on the back of the strong-arm’s neck. He grunted and staggered forward, eyes rolling up. The militiaman beside him grabbed him just in time to keep him from going full over the edge of the dock. Thratia didn’t seem to notice the assistance. Or at least, she didn’t care.
“Idiot.” There was no malice in her voice, just motherly disappointment. “This man here may be a scoundrel, but he wouldn’t set light to the whole of the Hub on purpose. His heart’s too soft to doom a whole city like that.” She scowled, rubbing the side of her hand. “And he wouldn’t have done such a fool thing on purpose and leave his partner to rot. No, if he’d planned this little disaster he and Tibal would be halfway across the Scorched by now.”
Thratia turned away, her victim forgotten. She tucked a flyaway piece of hair behind her ear and gestured toward the ground, where a bit of not-Ripka was visible underneath the knees and elbows of a half-dozen of Thratia’s people. Detan tried to muster up the nerve to be offended that Thratia had thought her the bigger physical threat, but didn’t have it in him at the moment.
Tibs was still here, then. But where?
The militiamen dragged the doppel to her feet, and he was a little irritated to see that she had escaped without a nosebleed to match his own. Women, always getting unfair treatment. Her jaw was set tighter than he’d ever seen it, the tendons on either side of her neck sticking out from the strain, but she kept her mouth shut, which Detan reckoned was the wise choice given the current mood of the room.
Detan cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone light. “Speaking of that old rock, where is Tibs?”
Thratia smiled. It was horrible.
“Bring her out.”
“Her? Now, Tibs may be a little slender about the waist, but–” He swallowed his own rebuke. From amongst the crates Lady Grandon was shuffled forward, her lips hidden beneath a spit-wet rag. The lady’s delicate wrists had been tied together with supple leather, her ankles little more than a hand’s width apart. Her hair, so perfectly coiffed upon their last meeting, was skewed and skirling in the open air of the dock.
She held her chin high, but… her eyes. Those were terrified. Detan opened his mouth, and found no words worth saying.
“Did you think you wandered my city completely unwatched?” Thratia tsked. “Every soul you’ve shared more than a passing glance with, I’ve had noted. Every time you’ve exchanged words with a cart-vendor, ears I own have written them down.”
“Why?” he said, voice coming out higher than he’d intended. This wasn’t right. And where was Tibs? Did he make it out?
“You carry quite the reputation. But then, so do I. Or have you forgotten?”
“Release her.” He found old strength in his voice, lost the flippant roll of syllables he employed to pull people along whatever nonsense train of thought he wanted them to follow. He knew that wouldn’t work here. Not now. Not with her.
“Ah, so you do remember your teeth, lordling. I will, however, have to decline your request. You see, you’ve allowed me a handful of opportunities. I’m going to craft you an enemy tonight, Honding.”
“There’s nothing that says we have to be enemies, Thratia, just–”
“Not us, you empty sack.”
Lady Grandon closed her eyes, gave a subtle shake of her head. Detan hadn’t the slightest clue what it meant. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides, physically grasping for some sort of solution, for some path out of the mire. Desperate for an option that didn’t end in blood. He glanced to the doppel, found her face unreadable.
“Bel’s husband is an ambitious man, I can respect that,” Thratia said, but all Detan really heard was the woman’s name. Bel. Bel Grandon. He cursed himself for not knowing her better, for not understanding any of what he’d just stepped in.
Played it too loose, Honding.
The warden paced before Bel, tapping the flat of a longknife against her thigh with each step. It was the vilest weapon Detan had ever seen. Long and fire-blackened, the tip swooping up in a wicked curve. He swallowed, forcing himself to watch her face, not her blade.
“But his ambitions have led him astray. He snuggles up with the empire, giving the Valathean mercers prices he doesn’t share with the Scorched. Now, I can’t have that. I need his distribution network. Especially after tonight’s… setbacks. And so–” She turned, pressed the tip of her knife beneath Bel’s chin. “You’re going to have to go my dear. I am quite sorry, but it accomplishes two purposes I cannot overlook.”
Detan lurched forward, the movement pure instinct, and found his upper arms held fast by two iron-handed men. He thrashed against them, knowing it was useless. Knowing he didn’t have a chance against common street toughs in a fair fight, let alone against trained men of the commodore. Better not make it fair, then.
He opened his sel-sense wide, casting about for the tiniest sliver of the gas. Something he could use. The Larkspur’s laden buoyancy sacks filled his mind, crowding out all finer sense. He couldn’t even detect the thin film laid over the doppel’s face. In the shadow of such a presence, he could sense nothing small enough to use. And if he reached for the Larkspur itself… He shivered. It hadn’t come to that. Not yet.
“I will make damned sure Grandon knows whose hand murdered his wife. I will do everything in my power to turn this against you!”
Tears slipped down Bel’s cheeks, her lips moved, murmuring beneath the gag. Thratia cocked her head, listening, and Detan’s heart leapt. Did Bel have something to bargain with, something worth her life? She was landed by birth. It was possible.
“No, my dear. That would never work.”
Thratia leaned forward, held Bel’s cheek in her empty hand, and pressed her lips to the trembling woman’s forehead.
Blood erupted. Detan hadn’t even seen the knife move.