“You’ll have no argument from me–”
“Be quiet!” The force of his own voice rubbed his throat raw. Callia flinched, and her momentary lapse of control made him smirk. “That. That little, little scrap, is a list of deliveries. All this time – all this sand-cursed fucking time – I let my fear hang on you. You and your puppet masters. Stupid, stupid man that I am. Thratia trading deviant sel-sensitives for Valathean weapons. Cruel. Typical of her – believable. But do you know what else is typical?”
“I grow weary of this.” Callia gestured toward him, a casual turning of the wrist, and he felt the sense of decay within him intensify. He staggered sideways, clutched his side, sweat forming rivers all across his skin. Tibs gripped his arm, held him upright.
Detan drew his lips into a skeletal grimace. Clinging to what control he had left, he reached out, shunted aside his sense of the cloud above and grabbed for the bee nearest Callia.
It was instinct, pure and primal. He didn’t even feel the surge go out. The bee burst apart, roiling with flame. Not close enough to do more than singe the cursed woman, but it was enough. Callia swore, leapt to the side. Her grip on him extinguished as she dealt with the shock and pain.
He extended himself until his muscles quivered, taking the cloud in mind once more. All around him he felt the sel in the bellies of the bees more keenly. But they were a tight-packed mass. To try and blow just one again would mean losing control and blowing them all. New Chum was out there. Ripka and Aella. He couldn’t risk it. But now, with the weight of the cloud resting heavy on his mind… Now he had an idea. An option.
“You. Will. Listen.”
She glared at him, but said nothing.
“Why was she disposed of, Callia? Why was General-fucking-Throatslitter kicked out of the Valathean Fleet? It wasn’t for cutting throats, we both know that.”
Callia licked cracked lips. “She wouldn’t relinquish power after conquest of the Saldive isles.”
“Wouldn’t. Relinquish. Power. And you’ve been giving her weapons – weapons! I’d wondered, wondered why Thratia cared so much about cutting Galtro down where he stood. She’s a psychopath, power hungry, cold hearted. Pressed for time by you. But she’s not stupid. Never that. She risked a lot, killing the mine master. Could have just won the seat fair as scales but no. He needed to go then. The doppel was just a convenient scapegoat.
“He was going to fix the mines.” He thrust a finger towards the hive-infested pipeline. “Get Aransa’s selium production back up to a hundred percent. It was his job, to keep them running, and by the pits he was good at it. But without that sel honey, the Grandons couldn’t make their liqueur, and without that conveniently unique good to export, how was your little friend Thratia going to hide her distribution network?”
“She wouldn’t–”
“You have no idea what she’s capable of. How many arms do you think she needed to take Aransa? Placid, scared Aransa. Too frightened by the specter of the doppel to do any harm, too happy to have her by half. They would have voted her in – she didn’t need all of that. Not here.” He thrust a finger at the paper. “Pick it up.”
Never taking her gaze from Detan she crouched, took the slip of paper in one hand and stood. She did not read it so much as flick her eyes to it in brief increments, absorbing the information in bits while refusing to release her awareness of her surroundings. He’d expected as much.
As he watched, her face grew drawn, her jaw tense and her lips pressed bloodless. He knew what she was seeing – had read it himself. A list of coordinates, deliveries made and planned, all over the Scorched. All of the Grandons’ honey liqueur. The liqueur, and their false-bottomed crates.
He watched understanding settle within her – smooth the tautness of her shoulders, darken the glare of her eye. Callia folded the paper along its crease, tucked it into a pocket. Evidence, he presumed, for whatever she meant to bring against Thratia. Whatever she was planning, it was already too late.
A shadow passed above them, bigger than any selium-enriched bee, and all three looked to the sky.
Happy Birthday Virra! swung into position above them, slicing through the cloud of angry insects. Ripka roared something incomprehensible as stingers alit upon her arms and cheeks and chest – any likely fleshy place. Callia’s face twisted in annoyance and she reached up to extend her selium power to Ripka.
But Ripka didn’t have a lick of sel-sense in her entire body.
The watch captain swung down from the thick rope-ladder and lashed out with one of Tibs’s strange, overlong wrenches. She cracked Callia straight in the head, and the bitch went down like a landslide. Detan would have whooped with joy, if the area wasn’t then immediately invaded by the bees.
They were flooded by the things. Detan dropped to his knees, saw Ripka slip the ladder, lost track of Tibs as he rolled in the dirt, stings blossoming all over like molten metal was raining down upon him. He screeched into the buzzing madness, felt his grip on the selium cloud slip.
Remembered it.
Straining against his pain, Detan yanked the cloud lower, tugging it below the cloudline until anyone who looked up could see the pearlescent globule. If anyone could see anything at all through the mass of buzzing life all around them.
He drew it lower, lower, trembling with the strain until the first of the pits-cursed creatures caught a sniff of it. It was irresistible to the little bastards.
All in a rush the swarm lifted, delved into the cloud of nectar. Detan laughed, wild and high, as he shoved himself up on his elbows and tipped his head back to watch the sky. His selium cloud was requiring less and less energy to hold as the infestation gobbled it up. He frowned, struggled to his feet and saw Tibs do the same. They stared at one another, stupefied with relief. Even Ripka was back on her feet, looking like she’d made love to a cactus, but otherwise whole.
Callia lay unconscious between the three of them, her breath coming easy, a little trickle of blood seeping down her temple. Detan’s fists clenched. He stepped toward her.
“Wait,” Aella rasped, as she dragged herself to her feet and trudged toward them. “Leave her.”
Detan’s head throbbed so hard he could barely think. “She’s a monster.”
“She thinks you are, too.” Aella set her feet apart, braced herself, and held out a threatening hand. “I said leave her. I’ve still got enough left in me to handle you, Honding.”
He gritted his teeth, clenched his fists in impotent rage. “Come with us.”
“No one’s going anywhere.” Thratia’s voice, sharp as her will, cut across them all. The four jumped, guilty as if they’d been caught with their hands in the agave candy, and stared at the relatively unscathed ex-commodore. Detan blinked, not understanding, then looked beyond her and saw the sail of Callia’s dinghy flapping limply. She’d gotten to it in time. Pitsdamnit.
“You’re done, Honding,” Thratia called as she collected her discarded blade. He could almost hear the smirk she wore.
Detan realized he’d sunk to his knees, Tibs crouching at his side. Didn’t know how he’d gotten there, but the sooty ground felt soft. Nice. Better than the cloud pressing in on his head.
Ripka and New Chum staggered toward them, and a lump formed in his throat as he saw Ripka reach for the knife he’d given her. She was so blasted shaky New Chum had to lend her an arm, but she came to stand before him. Between him and Thratia.
“You’re outnumbered, warden.” Ripka said. “Best hurry back to Aransa before things get violent.”
Thratia spat in the dust. “You’ve got less strength in you than a fresh-plucked whore. Lay down your weapon and I’ll consider not stuffing you head-first in a pipeline.”