“Good morning, Lord Honding, Captain Leshe. May I interest you two in a much-needed bath, and some fresh clothes?”
“No time for niceties. Thratia and her watchdog are going to start getting jumpy when her gallows men aren’t back with us in a mark or so,” Detan said.
“Direct to the flier, then?”
“Onward, my good man.”
He let the steward lead the way amongst the winding platforms and in between the wide baths. Tibs dropped back beside him and whispered, “Thratia buying it?”
“Nope, and it seems she and the imperial have had a little chat about yours truly.”
“I see. I distinctly remember having warned you about this exact situation, sirra.”
“Are you rubbing it in?”
“Yes, yes I am.”
Tibs and New Chum had stashed the flier on a little outcropping on the back edge of the Salt Baths. Its buoyancy sacks bulged above it with fresh life, and an extra had been strapped to the bottom. He caught sight of the daisies and Happy Birthday Virra! scrawled all over the old leather in purple paint. His throat clotted, his chest clenched. He closed his eyes and drew a breath, focusing on keeping his selium ball still. He’d live with those daisies. For Bel.
The little craft floated just off the edge of the cliff, securely tied with two thick ropes. Down the side a rope ladder hung, its end trailing through the empty air at the height of Detan’s hip. It was a welcome sight, his little bird all patched up and flying true. He just wished it were bigger.
“We’re going to be real close to capacity now, so mind your movements,” he warned.
New Chum let out a polite ahem. “If you’re overloaded, sir, I will volunteer to stay behind.”
“You sure as shit will not. Thratia will find her way here eventually and some sniveling rat will remember you were the only one in the baths when we escaped. And then what will you do? Run back to your old friends for protection?” New Chum winced, unconsciously covering his tattooed shoulder with one hand. “No,” Detan said. “No arguments. All of you up that rope, now.”
Tibs swung on first, scrambling up the ladder in a way that reminded Detan of a knobby-limbed lizard. He cringed, and waved Ripka ahead. She stored her knife-thing with care before climbing cautiously skyward. The steward went next, and Detan was proud of his vessel for not swaying in the slightest.
He checked the string securing the sel to his hand, and it was only his reaching to tighten the knot that kept his arm from being skewered by an arrow.
“Hurry!” someone yelled, probably Tibs by how exasperated the yell sounded. Detan lunged for the ladder but felt like he’d run smack-first into a wall instead. He went down hard, flat on his chest on the unforgiving rock, all the air knocked from his lungs. Cold shock seized him, radiating from his calf.
By the time Detan had gotten some air back in and the white light left his eyes alone he could see boots – far, far too close – charging up the walkway toward him. Nice boots. Imperial boots.
They’d take him alive. Not so much the others.
Ignoring the fire in his leg he surged sideways and pulled the slip-knots on the flier’s tie lines. Someone screamed above him, a lot of someones, but the words didn’t make much sense. Tamping down his fear and his anger at having been caught he reached his senses out, felt for the sel in the sack of his flier, and shoved. The craft lurched away, fearful cries turning into frantic yelps, and the shadow of the flier that had lain over him slipped off into the blue, leaving him to face the sun alone.
Something tugged on his fingers. He looked up, saw the ball of sel escaping from under the cover of Ripka’s coat. His attention had waned too much, he’d been lazy. Undisciplined. Auntie Honding would have skinned him for such a mistake. But he still had some sel left.
Still had his anger.
Refocusing, he gathered together what was left outside of the coat, let the blue cloth slump to a heap by his head. He reshaped it, making it a glittering, hovering windowpane. Just like he had when he’d made the imitation doppel mask. At least he could still count himself a quick learner.
The man leading the imperial troops smirked at it, suspecting it a doppel’s trick. “It’s a little late to try and hide your face from us.”
Trembling, sweating, Detan bent all his will to keeping that sheet as wide as he could. The imperial waved his men forward, and just as they stepped through the membrane of sel, Detan let loose.
He didn’t get to see the looks on their faces, the flash was too bright, but from the sound of their screaming, Detan knew he’d done real damage.
But not enough. More imperials emerged from the baths, little more than a line of smudged silhouettes before his fading gaze. They were hesitant, coming slow and scared. Wasn’t much he could do now, but he hoped that display had at least made one of them wet themselves.
He was grinning when unconsciousness took him.
Chapter 36
It was all she could do to keep from falling over the edge as the flier shot through the empty air. Tibal stood – how, she had no idea – swearing his mouth bloody as he worked the craft’s rigging in a desperate attempt to slow their flight. She wanted to help, but she didn’t have a clue how to go about it. And anyway, if she let go of the railing both her arms were wrapped around she was certain she’d go spinning off into oblivion.
“That’s it! Pull it round!” Tibal screamed above the rush of wind.
Ripka went red in the cheeks as she realized the steward was on his feet, working the mess of rope and pulleys as if it were the easiest thing in the world for him. Whatever they were up to, it must have worked, because the flier shuddered and swayed, slaloming to a stop so sudden she wondered for a brief second if she’d died and landed in the sweet skies.
After making sure whatever they’d done was secure, Tibal and the steward abandoned their posts and raced towards her end of the flier. It wasn’t a very large craft, just a dozen or so long strides across, but still they came hurrying. She was relieved to find out it wasn’t due to worry over her.
“I can’t see any detail from this far off, but the cliff is definitely blackened,” the steward said, holding up a hand to guard his eyes against the sun’s glare.
“I can’t see much better myself, damned man must have blown us halfway across the Scorched. Sometimes I think there’s nothing between his ears but grit and piss.”
“Shall we go back?” The steward was already edging toward the helm.
“Sure, but just to make sure he’s still alive. I reckon they’ll be gone by the time we get there. Detan will have left a handprint for me if he’s still kicking,” Tibal’s voice rasped. He shook his head and plastered on a fake smile. “And anyway, it’s on the way.”
Ripka managed to pull herself to her feet and straighten her wind-twisted shirt. The men were polite enough to pretend not to notice. “On the way to where?” she asked.
“To see that damned doppel, of course. I’m thinking she’s the only one who can lend us a hand getting Detan out of the chop.”
Ripka’s gut clenched, she busied her hands straightening her hair while she spoke. “She’s a murderer, Tibal. Killed a good man. Maybe two.”
He huffed and hawked over the side of the flier. “Yeah, well, she can join the club. You can’t tell me you’re not a member yourself. No one is a watcher long without taking a life that deserves to be left alone.”
Her fingers froze in their fussing, claw-like and petrified. She swallowed, forced herself to draw her hands away and rest them easy at her sides. “I’m just saying she can’t be trusted.”