“There’s no need–” he said, but they were yelling some local charge and Tibs yanked back on his arm so hard he stumbled, fell backward against the low wall.
It was lower than he remembered. The top of it smacked him square in the back of the thighs and he reeled, arms windmilling, top half leaning too far over the edge for him to regain his feet.
Fear of falling surged through him, his recent perilous descent cutting-bright in his mind, memory of having the breath whipped from his lips and his limbs twisted by treacherous currents all too fresh. Pits below, but he’d rather face that frying pan than another fall through the empty dark.
Tibs shoved his chest, and over he went.
He landed flat on his back in a moldering heap, all the air whooshing out of him even though he was panting with panic. Tibs landed beside him, light as a cat, though his feet disappeared into the ground as if swallowed. Detan opened his mouth to swear or scream or just generally curse the world bloody, caught a whiff of the fetid pile all around them, and fell into a coughing fit.
There was yelling above, angry and sharp but far away. Something thunked near his head – the frying pan? He rolled to get a closer look, morbid curiosity directing him now, but Tibs had his hands under his arms and yanked him to his feet, then dragged him off away from the compost pile that had been their soft landing.
“I hate pits-cursed mushrooms,” Detan croaked when he could breathe without spasming again, when Tibs had herded him safely into some dense maze of alleys he hadn’t bothered mapping.
“Yeah, well, they like you.” Tibs flicked something grey and slimy and cone-shaped off his shoulder. Detan shivered and flapped his coat like it were a pair of wings to shake the debris clean.
“Probably picked up some freakish infection from that mess,” he grumbled, trying to peer at his skinned-opened palm in the low light but seeing little more than a dark, muddled mess.
“Wasn’t nothing more noxious than you in that heap.”
Detan laughed, the sound a little high, a little frantic.
“What next?” Tibs asked, his voice soft but gravelly, grounding Detan’s mounting mania in an instant.
What next, indeed. He scowled at his hand, thinking. He needed medical aid, the kind you pay for, and the grains that didn’t tumble out of their pockets in the fall were back in their rooms – no doubt watched by Thratia’s people. The flier was safely stashed with New Chum, but they couldn’t make that crossing until he was bandaged up.
And the only apothik he’d known inclined to offer him any flavor of charity was, well… And Ripka sure as shit wasn’t able to offer him any assistance. She was getting ready to walk for a crime he’d done.
He swallowed. Something the doppel had said, about her people’s remedies… He closed his eyes, pressing them tight enough to summon the motes. Remedies for a long-lived people, and the spicy-sweet aroma of her perfume, worn close but still detectable. A scent he’d encountered once before.
Detan snapped his eyes open, grinned at Tibs. “It’s time to pay the doppel a house call, old chum.”
Tibs gave the black-grey sky a surly eye. “Don’t much think the lady will be in residence at this particular juncture.”
“Lucky for us it’s not her company we’re after. That woman’s Catari, I’m sure of it, and those folk keep their remedies close.”
“More likely to poison yourself than heal that hand.”
Detan bit his lips, muting himself for just a breath, then said slowly, “It’s not just the medicines. I’ll need a weapon, soon. Doppels like to keep the medium of their art close to hand, and I doubt she’ll be popping by home to collect her stash.”
Tibs bristled all over like a rockcat sighting a coyote. “Bad idea.”
“And would you rather have me running around with a sword or one of those ridiculous crossbows the Watch is so fond of? I’d be more likely to put your eye out than Thratia’s. And anyway, we’re going to need a way to get the doppel’s attention.”
“Destroying half the city would do that, I grant you.”
“Then we’re in agreement!” Detan raised his hands to clap and caught himself just in time with a grimace.
“Small problem with your brilliant plan, sirra. I reckon you just happen to know where she lives now, hm?”
“We did get acquainted. Being complicit in arson together will do that to a pair.” He strode off, barreling ahead as if he knew where he was going through the nest of side streets, knowing only that he couldn’t stand still.
“And just where might that be?” Tibs said, a shadow at his side, not bothering to correct his course. Knowing, just as Detan did, that he had to work it out for himself.
“Fourth level – amongst the retirees and their lot. Can’t miss the place.”
“Really.”
“Yessir.”
“Fourth level.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Gotta go up to get there. Back through the market.”
Detan groaned. The sooner he could show Aransa his retreating backside, the better.
Chapter 31
At night, the miners’ quarter was quiet. These were hard working men and women, tired souls who spent their days laboring for the right of Aransa to exist, and when they went to bed at night little stirred them. Which was too bad, because Detan was mighty willing to do some stirring up.
“Where to?” Tibs asked.
“To the door of spice and vanilla.” He tipped his head toward a block of apartments which had a slight downcrust lean.
The building was a smashed together collection of miniscule apartments meant to make it look like the city cared, like the empire looked after the well-being of the sel-sensitives who served it. They weren’t bad, Detan had to admit that much, but they weren’t near enough compensation for what the sensitives were put through. Not near enough at all.
Lights were snuffed in all the windows, shutters left open to let in the cool of the desert night. Just one set of windows was sealed tight, the ones he was looking for. With a clenched jaw he stepped right up to the sun-bleached door and pounded on it. Once, twice, three times. Nothing but silence.
“We’re in luck, the lady isn’t home,” Detan said.
“But her neighbors are.” Tibal gestured with his chin to small faces peering down at them from the curtained windows. Little white eyes that flashed away like minnows in a pool from his sharp regard.
“There won’t be trouble,” Detan said.
“You sure about that?”
“Not really. But it sounds nice.”
He’d seen floor plans like these before. They used them often enough in Hond Steading. Drawing from memory, he followed the wall down to where there should have been a split between this building and the next. The builders always said the narrow alley was for safety in case of fire, but really it was a repository for nightsoil and garbage. He froze, realizing he’d walked right past it to the next building.
“Oh, that rockviper…”
He spun around and walked back real slow this time, letting his fingertips brush over the face of the building until they tasted empty air.
“Well, that’s unusual,” Tibs said.
He stared down at his hand, buried up to the knuckles in what looked to be a rotted section of rock. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could feel the fingernail-thin veneer of selium laid over the alley’s entrance, could sense it extend all the way up to about twice his own height. It was starting to fade, now. Little tattered ribbons of it coming undone at the anchor points, revealing slivers of the garden behind the facade. He wondered if the neighbors had ever noticed. He doubted they’d have said anything if they did.