“I’m a danger to myself with that thing. At least you’ve had some proper training.”
She took it with care and turned it around in her hand, bright metal glinting white hot under the glare of the sun. He’d always presumed it was a pretty good knife, at least the person he’d pinched it from didn’t seem the type to mess about with inferior goods, and from the way she grunted approval he supposed that assumption was correct.
“It’s in the imperial style, but I can work with it,” she said.
“Valatheans even make their knives differently?”
“They’re lighter, usually. They’d call this a shortsword, since it’s about the length of the average forearm. They’ve got hollow handles that sometimes get filled with selium to make them move easier, but this one’s empty.”
Yeah, I needed that tiny bit of sel in a hurry once… long time ago. “Makes sense, considering I got the thing in Valathea.”
He tried to ignore her incredulous stare as she asked, “You’ve been to Valathea?”
“Not willingly. More importantly, you can use it?”
“Sure.” She took a few experimental swipes. “Not much different from my cudgel in length, just lighter.”
“Do a lot of slashing with your cudgel, do you?”
She blinked at him as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Every day, just about.” Her hand went for the spot on her belt, but when it came up empty her lips turned down. “Though I suppose not anymore.”
“You’ll live through this, you know,” he offered, dabbing sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his stolen shirt.
“Yeah. I know.”
Detan bit his lip and kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t any good at making people feel better, unless it consisted of him making an ass of himself for their amusement. Whatever was going on in Ripka’s head was her business, and he figured it was safer for the sanity of everyone involved if he didn’t try and mess with it. She was focused on getting through alive, and right now that was all that mattered.
Especially considering he was starting to rethink his boast about the heat not killing you.
Tibs’s cache had done him a world of good, but his earlier attempts to keep the sel smooth and calm had taken too much out of him. He was breathing hard, panting like a mongrel, and from the sting around his mouth he supposed his lips were cracked despite the salve he’d slathered on. He had no idea how Ripka was staying on her feet, but he guessed it wasn’t easy as she didn’t look any better than he did. At least, he hoped she didn’t look better than he did.
But the ridge was getting closer. They were near enough now that the angle of the sun threw the shadow of it in their path, and though the shade was minimal it was a blessed relief from the full-on glare. The Salt Baths hovered above them, the ferry dock sticking out from the rockface like a crooked thumb. There wasn’t any light seeping from the main entrance, or spa-goers moving about the place.
“Looks like Thratia shut down more than just the lines to the Hub,” Ripka said.
“Makes sense. If she’s got people waiting for us, she won’t want any witnesses.”
Ripka snorted. “Why would she care if I survived the Black?”
“Same reason she cares about finding her ship. It’s a matter of pride, and it would catch up with her eventually. Undermine her iron fist.”
“Wish I could bust her down,” she muttered under her breath.
“You can’t. Now hush and keep that knife ready.”
“Sword.”
“Sure.”
This section of the Fireline boasted no value to be had. There were no selium pockets, no thermal vents, not even cacti could be farmed in the listless soil. The stones were craggy and pitted, giant broken teeth rising up out of the sand. It was a good place to hide something, if you had the mind to, and Detan was fairly certain Thratia did. If he’d shown up with the doppel, then she’d want someone here, ready to act. She just wasn’t the kind of woman to leave loose ends hanging.
Neither was the whitecoat.
He slowed down, his feet swimming in his pilfered boots, his grip on the string tethering the ball of sel so tight his fingers were turning purple. Knowing he wasn’t much use face-to-face, he drifted back and let Ripka scout ahead, relying on whatever skills she had been given by her Watch training. Surely they had to train the Watch to handle ambushes.
Straining his senses, he couldn’t make out any sel nearby, which was probably just proof that he wasn’t very good at sussing out the stuff. With the Smokestack so close, his senses should have been overwhelmed. But they weren’t, as usual. All he could make out was the slight throb of the ball hidden in Ripka’s coat. Sometimes, he didn’t know why he bothered trying.
He let his sensing attempt drop, and that’s when Ripka yelped. It was probably supposed to be something like a war cry, but all he heard was a girlish squeal followed by snarling as she swiped the knife-sword at a man suspiciously devoid of uniform.
The would-be assassin lunged sword-first from amongst the broken rocks at her, but she’d gotten her stance ready in time and knocked his blade against a rock so hard the metal screeched. Detan stopped dead in his tracks, shifting his feet in anxious unease. What was he supposed to do?
Just stand there and bonk people with his balloon?
Ripka staggered from the force of her blow, then squared off her shoulders and brought the blade back nice and quick to open the man’s stomach. His breakfast met the sand, and he followed close behind. Wiping hair from her eyes, she scooped up the dead man’s blade and thrust it handle-out at Detan.
He stared at it as if it were a viper.
“Take it.”
“That’s, uh, not really a good idea.”
“Well I can’t use two, now can I?”
She thrust it forward again, insistent. With a grudging sigh he grasped the grip in his wounded hand and took a few experimental swipes. The disdainful curl of Ripka’s lip told him all he needed to know about his form.
“There will be others,” he said, anxious to smooth away his obvious ineptitude.
“Of course there will,” she snapped.
“Well aren’t you just full of sunshine.”
She eyed him. “I am.”
“Ah. Right…”
They moved side by side into the scattered rocks, in theory covering one another’s flank. Ripka positioned herself on his left, the side holding the sel, which made him so nervous his fingers trembled. He supposed it was at least better than having her on the pointy side. Probably. Maybe.
He hoped.
As they crept closer to the first incline of hard rock which led up into the cave network that made the baths possible, something bit him. He jumped and swore, then looked down at his shoulder to see a long gash welling with blood.
“Oh, those bastards.”
Behind him, stuck butt-up in the sand, was a thick black quiver. He wanted to stomp it, but as another winged by him and snapped its neck against a rock he figured that might be a waste of time. Ripka tore off at a sprint, angling straight for the crossbowman’s hiding spot. It was a narrow ledge, tucked up in the rockface to the left, and it didn’t look like he’d have enough time to get out or draw another shot before she got to him.
But there were a few standing rocks near the ledge, tall and wide, a little extra shadow bleeding out around their edges.
“Look out!”
Ripka slid to a stop, kicking up a wide cloud of dust, as three men loped into her path. Every last one of them had a sword, and every last one looked ready to use it. Ripka took a step back, getting out of strike distance, and slipped into a ready stance. Damn fool of a woman.
He looked at the sword in his hand, the weapon he didn’t know how to use. He looked at the sel floating just before him, the weapon he was too scared to use. Where was Tibs when he needed him?