“Hey,” he rattled his chains. “Can’t take me there like this, can you?”
Chapter 40
They’d taken the chains off, but Detan was not yet a free man. He stood on the deck of Callia’s flier, a little dinghy used to shuttle a handful of people to and from the big ship when proper mooring was elusive. Wasn’t nearly as big as his own flier, which he took a gleam of pride in. He had to find something to feel good about. Had to keep his head up.
Thratia kept tight to his right hand, her own hand never straying far from the grip of her cutlass. She kept throwing him glances the same way he reckoned she would throw knives. He kept his eyes skittering all over the place, never focusing on one spot in particular. Didn’t stop him from feeling her presence, though. Didn’t stop him from smelling the anise-spice she wore in her hair.
With Thratia so close, he could imagine she thought him dangerous. Which was nonsense, of course. Aella had his sel-sense crushed good and proper, and any attempt at physical resistance would get him quite literally crushed by Thratia. Still, it was good to be given the courtesy of being assumed a threat.
Aella piloted the flier, but not through any sel-manipulation. She kept him cut off, and he assumed that meant she was cut off too. She piloted it in the usual way, with fan and rudder and sail, her young face stern with concentration. Not for the first time he wondered just what, exactly, all these deviant sensitives were being trained for. Whatever it was, he wanted no part of it.
New Chum was kept from him, clustered up toward the front of the dinghy where he could give directions to Aella. Which was a real frustration, because Detan would much rather be trading glances with that rascal than Thratia. Under New Chum’s guidance, it wasn’t long until it became clear to all aboard they were heading straight for the Smokestack. Detan grinned.
“My men have been all over the Hub and the baths,” Thratia said. “You’re telling me she hid the damned thing there anyway? How?”
New Chum turned to her, gave a stiff bow from the waist. “My apologies, warden, but there are other places on the Fireline beside the baths and Hub.”
Callia chuckled, tried to stop it and ended up snorting. “Damn clever for a doppel.”
“Damn clever in general,” Detan snapped before he could stop himself. “She’s not a creature, Callia. Unlike your lustrous self.”
Callia looked at him, slope-browed and bored. Like a rockcat who’d been insulted by a cockroach. Why would she care what he thought of her? Far as she was concerned, he was a creature, too. She turned away, dismissing him with her back. Detan sighed and tried to catch New Chum’s eye, but the dour little man wasn’t having any of it.
He’d never been so ignored in all his life.
Much to his relief, Aella brought the dinghy up at a sharp angle, making everyone scramble for a handhold, and crested the conical ring of the Smokestack’s mouth. They hovered there a moment while Aella listened to New Chum give her directions to land. Detan strained forward, eager to see whatever Tibs had waiting for them.
It wasn’t much. The flat bed of the firemount’s plug was dusted over with fine ash, a few black rocks poking their thumbs up here and there. The great pipe mouths that fed into the lines draped over the sides of the cone, boring deep into the grey plug. Most had been burned to a crisp, leaving little more than smoldering heaps of rubble to block the bore mouths, but one or two were still operational. Detan shivered.
That was one job sensitives were too valued to be assigned. Diviners would find the pockets, sure, but it would be plain old laborers who cut through the crust with pick-axes and diamond-edged shovels, hoping they’d find the pocket before they found the magma. Hoping that when they did find the pocket it didn’t blow itself out and fling them all from the top of the firemount.
Mine masters didn’t mind a blowout. It made it easier to anchor the mouth of the pipeline. And anyway, selium pockets never ran dry so long as the firemount had any kick to it.
Detan allowed himself a conciliatory smile. It looked like they had experienced some trouble getting the lines set up. While the pipelines were draped over the conical ridge at regular intervals, there was one glaringly bald spot. He could only hope no one had died to find out that pocket wouldn’t give.
The craft rocked as Aella brought it down. Apparently the firemount had its own ideas about air currents. Detan itched the palm of his good hand, wanting nothing more than to reach out and feel those strange eddies for himself. He’d never flown through a firemount’s mouth before. If he lived through this, he’d have to make time for it.
Even if he’d probably get harpoons launched at him from the line defenders, it’d be worth it.
“Move, Honding.” Thratia grabbed the back of his neck in one fist and shoved him forward, down the little gangplank Aella had extended for their egress. New pain seared down the fresh scabs of his back, and he hissed air through his teeth.
Detan looked at the girl, but she was busy making sure the burr-anchors bit snugly into the ground. He wondered if Callia ever did any of her own flying work. He glanced back at the imperial, with her singed and bloodied white coat, her nails lacquered the same blue as the sky, and decided that was very, very unlikely.
New Chum positioned himself at the spearhead of the group and motioned further down the wall, toward the bald patch of ground where there was no pipeline. “This way, if you please.”
Their morbid little party set out, traipsing across the belly of the firemount. Detan imagined he could feel it rumble in distaste beneath him, annoyed by the human presence using it as their own personal meeting place. He tried not to think about that too much.
As Thratia herded him across the sooty ground he tried to keep his head down while keeping his eyes up. He had a rather strong suspicion that unless he played scared senseless she wasn’t going to be any nicer than she already was.
That made him dizzy, so he gave up and looked around brazenly instead. What was she going to do, blind him?
He swallowed, and went back to keeping his head down.
As he stole glances around the broken land, he noticed one distinct thing missing from the cracked landscape: the Larkspur. There were heaps of magma rock and dunes of ash, glittering blades of shattered obsidian, whirls of breath-stealing heat. But no ship.
Except, to their right, a little disturbance in the soot. A small smudge of irregularity that he recognized as the footprint of his own bedraggled flier. But the Happy Birthday Virra! was nowhere to be found.
Thratia stopped their progress with a soft growl and shoved Detan forward. “To the pits with this,” she muttered, and Callia gave her a tight nod.
“Tibal!” she called above the gritty winds. “If you want this sorry sack of flesh back you show yourself!”
Detan stumbled, exaggerating his overbalance to get as far away from Thratia as possible, and rammed smack into Tibs as he stepped out from around a pillar of black stone. Detan froze, chest to chest with the man who might be his only friend in the world, heart hammering to wake the dead. He wanted nothing more than to grab Tibs by the arm and sprint for it.
But this wasn’t his game. Not anymore. And he had no idea what good ole Tibs had in mind.
That rangy sonuvabitch put one hand on Detan’s shoulder and shoved him back toward his captors. Detan staggered, this time doing his best to keep his balance in check, absolutely straining his core muscles to stay upright. To stay as close to freedom as possible. He glared as hard as he could at Tibs, knowing full well the freak show behind him couldn’t see.