Bits of selium hung in the air, particles so fine he hadn’t noticed them before. They glowed before him, like motes of dust in a sunbeam. People were talking around him, high and strained, but he couldn’t make out the words. He could sense it everywhere, an impenetrable, constant cloud. There was selium below the table, too. The table that was trapping him.
Finesse.
He turned his anger in upon himself, and the table cracked beneath him.
“Shut him down!”
“Shit!”
Detan crashed to the floor, heaped amongst the rubble of his makeshift gurney, and rolled on instinct to the right. His moment of clarity was lost, the miniscule flecks of sel once more beyond his senses. The back of his shirt was burned clear off, he could feel scraps of it sticking in the mess of his flesh. Flesh that stank of char. His stomach gave a traitorous rumble.
No time for that.
Sourceless hands reached for him, and he swung his arms in a wide arc, letting the chunks of wood dangling from his chains do the work for him. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled into a hallway, crashing against the opposite wall as his feet tangled in debris. Cursing, he kicked himself free and hopped-ran down the hall toward the friendly, air-serpent door. Footsteps pounded behind him, urging him forward.
He got the door open, bloodied and bound hands slipping too many times on the polished brass knob. He stumbled out into the faint light of fake stars and froze. Soldiers ringed the cabin, alerted by the sounds of the blast. Silvery steel glinted all around him, brighter than the pinpricks of sel had been. He could feel the selium above, swelling the buoyancy sacks.
These were evil people.
Just one little spark.
His fellow captives looked up at him, shocked out of their stupor, eyes wide with horror.
Detan let his hands fall, sank to his knees. Something encroached over his senses, fell like a curtain. Heavy hands closed on his shoulders, and a smaller one grasped his chin, tipped his head back. For a single thumping of his heart he stared into Aella’s eyes, a sliver of worry hinted at by fine wrinkles in her forehead. Then Callia laid a cloth over his mouth, and he breathed deep the aroma of golden needle.
Cold water shocked him out of his drugged stupor. Detan jerked upright, the chains around his wrists and ankles snapping him back down. He blinked, groaning, struggling to clear water from his eyes. He found himself chained face-down on a rough woven cot, too scared to move lest he disturb the early crusting over of the scabs on his back. Whatever had been left of his shirt was cut away, though the smell of burned fibers remained. He turned his head and peered through the distortion of water caught in his lashes.
Figures swam into view before him. The attendant retreated from his side, an empty bucket in his hands. Callia strode forward with Thratia in her wake. The refined calm of the ex-commodore’s face was lost under a storm cloud of anger. Detan forced the biggest, stupidest smile he could muster onto his face. They were still in Aransa.
“Hullo, commodore. Coming with us to Valathea?” The words raked hot coals over his throat, but it felt good anyway.
“Hardly. Is this yours, Honding?” Thratia stepped aside so that he could see the man who stood behind her.
“New Chum!”
“Good evening, Lord Honding.”
“What are you doing on this broken crate?”
“I’ve come to retrieve you.”
He rattled his chains. “I don’t think these people push over for politeness, New Chum.”
“Your man here,” Thratia prodded New Chum in the side with the pommel of her blade, and Detan realized he’d never even seen her draw it, “is proposing a trade.”
“A trade? What for, a day pass to the Salt Baths?”
“For my ship.”
Detan swallowed, licked his lips. Was the steward here on Tibal’s behalf, or had he turned over on them? With Detan’s mind made sluggish by the golden needle he’d begged for, he couldn’t make the pieces fit. Couldn’t be sure.
New Chum had to be here with Tibal’s consent – had to be. It wouldn’t make any sense for him to come and trade for Detan if he were working on his own. He’d be after something more lucrative for himself.
“So, it occurred to me,” Thratia stepped forward and knelt before Detan. She lifted her blade and laid it, light as a feather, just against the underside of his chin. She tilted his head up, peering into his eyes so intently it made his skin crawl, “that you do know where my ship is.”
“As a matter of truth, I don’t. In fact, it seems you and I are the only ones who don’t know where the damned thing is hiding.”
She grinned, not a pleasant effect. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s occurred to me that Tibal, the doppel, and quite probably Ripka all know where it is. What about you, Callia? You got a manger full of sensitives here. Can’t you find a little ole ship? Or are you holding out on your bosom companion?”
Thratia stood and turned to the imperial, nothing at all friendly in her expression, which pleased Detan something fierce. Driving a wedge between those two was almost worth the scorched back. Almost.
“Can any of these husks sense my ship?” Thratia demanded.
Callia rolled her delicate shoulders. “We’ve tried, of course. We are still here because we suspect the doppel may have to move the vessel soon, and in doing so we will note its presence. But, for the time being, no, we do not know where it is.”
With Thratia’s back turned and Callia’s attention on her, Detan stole a glance at Aella. The cursed girl winked. He had no idea what to make of it.
“Very well.” Thratia sighed and turned back to Detan, waving her blade absently at New Chum. “What’s to stop me cutting it out of your steward, then?”
New Chum cleared his throat for attention. “Foreseeing your conclusions, I’ve arranged for the ship to be destroyed if Detan and I are not both well and free when we arrive at the location.”
“Really now.” Thratia scowled. “And just what other arrangements have you made?”
“Our terms are quite simple. The commodore, Dignitary Callia, Detan, myself, and a single escort of your choice are to go to the location of the ship. Whereupon, if Detan and I are released unharmed, we will turn the vessel over to you and then leave Aransa in your capable hands.”
Detan tried to keep his face impassive, but that didn’t sound right to him. It wasn’t the way Tibal worked whenever he took the reins – a fair trade of hostages just wasn’t his style. And there was, of course, no possible way Thratia or Callia would ever just hand him over. Not without blood. He shivered. Fortune was smiling on him though, because none of the involved parties saw the shadow of doubt worm its way across his face.
Thratia replaced her sword and crossed her arms. “And how will we get there?”
“I would assume on one of this vessel’s fine emergency fliers.” The steward gestured toward the small dinghies tied to the rim of the deck.
“Fine. Pick someone useful to take with us, Callia.”
She pointed a slender finger to Aella. “Go prepare yourself, and a flier.”
The girl stood and bowed. “Yes, mistress.”
As she disappeared to the other side of the ship, Detan overheard Thratia whisper to Callia. “You sure you want that girl with us?”
“Oh, yes.”
Detan frowned. He didn’t like any of this at all. Not only was Tibal up to something, but Callia obviously had her own ideas about just how this was going to go. He bit his cheek and scowled at the empty air. He hated being left in the dark, but he could work with that. Most of all, he hated being useless.