He growled and kicked the side of the bed that the letters said Pelkaia’s son had made her. Kicked it so hard his teeth rattled, but all it gave him back was a hollow thump.
He froze, staring at it. “Oh.”
Detan dropped to his knees and yanked aside the smooth blankets, the thick quilt. He shoved his hands under the small space between the bed and the floor, recalling his sel-sense, remembering the faint tinge of it when he’d first entered the apartment. When he hadn’t found any, he’d assumed it was just the phantom of the sel wall clinging to him. He could be a real idiot sometimes.
His fingers found the iron ties on the feet of the bed, anchoring it straight into the ground, and he almost laughed at the simplicity of it all. Fumbling, searching, following his sense, he ran his hands up and grasped the smooth vellum bladder of a sel sack, bulging and full. Enough for her to spend all the time she desired practicing her art. An idea came to him; another option.
“I’ve found her stash, Tibs!”
“Marvelous,” he droned.
“Might be we don’t need her at all.”
“Hold on now…”
He got the cap off and focused all his strength on drawing out a small blob. It was bigger than he would have liked, but it would do. He closed it back up and nearly skipped to the vanity chair. He brushed the folder of letters and drawings aside, and shifted his little blob until it rested on the vanity’s top. It fought back, trying to rise up and float as it was meant to, but Detan was strong enough to hold the little ball in place. He was strong enough, all right.
The trouble was making sure he didn’t get too strong all of a sudden.
“I don’t think this is wise…”
“Shut up, Tibs, I need to concentrate. Go on ahead and talk to our New Chum eh? Dawn is coming and this is going to take me a while to get right. Best be sure the flier’s ready to go when I get to the Fireline.”
“We can still find the doppel. If we surmise that she has yet to leave the city, then–”
“No. This way… This way no one has to die.”
“You sure about that?”
“Just go.”
Tibs grunted his disapproval, but he knew as well as Detan did that their chances of finding the doppel before the sun rose were damn near impossible. He had a shot with this. He could do it. He just had to practice. And concentrate. And not get too angry.
He thought of Pelkaia, nursing her pain over all those years. Growing stronger. Better. Refining her raw talent into something that would serve her. Detan didn’t have years. But he had a whole lot of anger. He was not, however, angry enough to be a complete idiot.
“Wait!” Detan blurted as he heard the door creak open. Tibs paused, his steps going silent. “Use the replacement cabin you fashioned for the Larkspur. Wreck it in the middle of the Black, and stash some water in there for me, will you?”
Tibs chuckled, but the sound was raw. “As you say, sirra.”
The door clicked shut.
Detan exhaled, counted to ten, then slivered off a bit of the sel and floated it up to his cheek.
Chapter 32
Thratia had retrieved Ripka’s blues and forced her to wear them. It shamed her to know that she would stand before the people of Aransa in judgment while wearing the uniform she’d donned to protect them, but the warden had insisted. And though she’d rather rip the coat off and smother Thratia with it, she wasn’t exactly positioned to protest.
“I am sorry about this, you know.” Thratia sat on the mudbrick bench beside her and leaned her head against the wall, giving them the illusion of intimacy. All around her Thratia’s militiamen skulked, hands ready on weapons. Ripka made a point of not looking in the Valathean dignitary’s direction. She kept her eyes straight ahead, her gaze indistinct. She would give them no sign of her anger. Of her fear.
The guardhouse was still night-chilled, and they’d lit only the bare minimum of lamps to stave off the desert heat a little longer. Ripka was grateful for that. She was going to have plenty of time to get acquainted with the sun, no sense in rushing it.
“If you were truly sorry you’d let me go.”
“Can’t do it. I know you think I’m after the power, captain, but the truth is I want the best for this city. The only way it’s going to survive what’s coming is with a strong hand at the tiller. Something Galtro just couldn’t provide.”
“So you got rid of him, then? I’m going to die anyway, you might as well relieve the burden with a confession before I go.” She clamped her jaw shut, regretting the ragged anger of her tone.
“Galtro was dead the moment he took that job. It was just a matter of time.” She shrugged one shoulder, infuriatingly indifferent to the destruction she’d wrought.
“His wardenship candidacy?”
“No, no. Being the mine master. You haven’t been here long enough to see it, captain. I know you come from a town with no sel mines. The truth of it is, souls just don’t last that job. Suicide, or a vengeance killing, one or the other always catches up eventually.”
Ripka clenched damp palms, taking a breath to smooth the raw edge creeping into her voice. “He was good at his job, he made sure the miners were as safe as they could be. Only had one accident during his whole tenure.”
“One’s enough. Regardless, there are other duties that come with that job.”
“Like what?”
Thratia tipped her chin in the direction of the whitecoat. Callia had her back to them, long and straight, impervious to the dust and grit all around her. Ripka got chills just looking at her. She pitched her voice low.
“What will you do with Aransa, Thratia?”
The once-commodore pursed her lips and leaned forward, letting her forearms rest against her knees. She stayed quiet longer than was comfortable, Ripka’s stomach knotting over and over again. When Thratia spoke, her voice was markedly gentle.
“You won’t be around to see it, lass. And that’s a blessing.”
Thratia pushed to her feet and dusted her hands, wiping away Ripka with each stroke. “Best prepare your conscience, yeah? Sun’s coming up.”
Gathering a breath of courage, Ripka said, “I’ve a favor to ask of you, warden.”
Thratia paused, cocked her head to the side to watch Ripka from one eye. “Ask it.”
She clenched her jaw, knowing what that meant. Knowing no promises would be made, no favors kept if they didn’t thread their way conveniently through Thratia’s plans. Ripka straightened her shoulders and met Thratia’s stare. “Whatever happens, do not instigate a purge.”
Genuine surprise widened Thratia’s eyes, pursed her lips. Ripka held her breath as the ex-commodore cast a sideways glance at Callia. The whitecoat wasn’t paying them any attention. Thratia turned, leaned down to bring her face closer to Ripka’s and whispered, her voice harsh and her breath hot with anger. “Understand this – I will not allow such a thing to happen. Never.”
Ripka leaned her back against the cool wall and watched Thratia stroll to Callia’s side, her heart thundering in her ears with every step. Of course. Thratia’d never wanted a purge for Aransa; but the doppel sure had needed a stick of fear to jab Ripka with. Sick laughter threatened to break through Ripka’s lips, but she swallowed it down.
Watching from beneath her lashes, Ripka studied Callia, or tried to, her attention kept drifting to her once-sergeant. Banch stood beside the whitecoat at parade rest, wringing his hands behind his back because he thought no one would notice them. He kept trying to catch Ripka’s eye, to give her some sort of signal that he was sorry. That he’d never wanted any of this to happen. That he’d had no idea he’d be the new watch captain.