“But you–”
“I just didn’t want the competition!”
New Chum staggered over to them, missing his eyebrows, with Pelkaia held upright between himself and Ripka. Without another word they hurried as best they could toward the ships while Thratia and Callia were laid out flat.
Happy Birthday Virra! and Larkspur were in excellent shape, not even a singe on their gleaming hulls. The bubble of air around them was strangely cool despite the raging inferno of the sky above. He glanced over his shoulder at Aella.
She winked.
Chapter 42
The dinghy had been too damaged to return them to the compound, and so they took the ferry, and wound their slow way up the cursed levels of Aransa. With every step Aella took fresh agony wormed its way into her arms, her chest, her legs. A great welt on her throat flared each time she breathed, and though the air was hot and her body exhausted she forced herself to take only the shallowest of breaths.
Sweat did not pour from her, it simply emerged, a glistening sheen from head to foot that did little to cool her in the stale air and instead served only to increase the stinging of her wounds.
And yet Aella smiled. It was tight, controlled, not enough to give away her joy, but she had to do something – something beyond trudging through the heat with her head down – to express her triumph. Not that Callia would have noticed.
Aella spared a glance for her mistress. Callia was carried ahead of her on a shaded palanquin, the curtains snapped tight to hide her from the sun. Well, that’s what she’d said. Aella suspected that she just didn’t want the people of Aransa to see her in her defeat. In her pain.
Which was probably wise. The people had certainly come out to see whatever there was to see.
They lined the streets, peered through half-shuttered windows. Each and every one struggled to pick a direction in which to look. Either at the strange procession making its way before them, or at the fire in the sky.
Most looked up. Aella did, when she was sure she wouldn’t lose her footing.
The clouds had long since boiled off, and the empty blue vault was smeared in flame. Sourceless, relentless, flame. Every breath she took smelled of the chalk-dirt aroma of cracked stone and gristle roasting over hot coals. Great swathes of sunset colors roiled out of control, on occasion mingling with the selium in such a way as to draw out its opalescent streaks of iridescence.
Those streaks never lasted long. The fire was ravenous for them.
Aella began to lift her stinging arm, to hold her hand palm out to the flaming sky in supplication. She stopped herself just in time, but still let slip a dreamy sigh. If she had known Detan was capable of such beauty, she might have contrived to keep him.
Pretending to duck her head once more, she looked through her lashes to be sure that Thratia had not seen her moment of weakness. The warden strode before Callia’s palanquin, head straight, jaw set. Though her body was scattered with welts and the skin of her left side was scorched red and raw she moved with determined calm, her eyes roving over those who had gathered to watch her pass.
She looked proud, confident despite her injuries. As if the fire in the sky were her own doing, and everything was as it should be. Aella found herself wondering just what that showmanship cost her. Just how deeply would the new warden sleep tonight?
She caught herself sneering at the back of Callia’s palanquin and bit her lip, tucking the expression away. Everyone had their own weaknesses and strengths, she reminded herself.
The doors to Thratia’s compound were thrown open for them, all the second and third-ranked of Thratia’s little militia spilling over themselves to offer assistance. The laborers who Thratia had pressed into carrying Callia were released and replaced by guards with fresh backs. Apothiks appeared carrying trays of salves and teas and other accoutrements of their business.
Aella nearly jumped out of her tenderized skin as a stranger tugged gently on her sleeve for attention. The man was rough of face, handsome in his own way, and carried the most disarming smile she’d ever seen. He proffered a wooden tray to her, strange jars splayed over its surface.
“This balm,” he pointed to a jar of green soapstone, “will ease the sting, miss.”
“Thank you.” She snatched it from the tray and then attempted an encumbered half-bow over a palm laid open to the sweet skies. The man smiled, bobbed his head, and moved along. Apparently a simple jar of goop was all the care she was going to get.
“Enough of this circus.” Thratia’s voice, stern despite her exhaustion, froze in place every soul within the room. “It is time for the empire to leave Aransa.”
A little trickle of dread excitement wormed its way into Aella’s heart. She shifted, trying to get a good view of Callia’s palanquin through the press of servants. A bruised-plum hand nudged a curtain aside, and Callia leaned her head out. “The empire will forever be in Aransa, warden. It is the way of things.”
The freshly minted warden pulled herself up to her full height, and Aella felt a thrill buzz through her mind and heart. Whatever was about to happen here was new. After a lifetime of laboring silently in Callia’s lean shadow, anything new was a crisp delight.
“Escort Dignitary Callia and her charge to their ship.” Thratia spoke to her militia, but her eyes did not leave Callia’s. Much to Aella’s disappointment, Callia snapped her curtain shut and ended the confrontation in silence.
Aella sighed. Change was sometimes too much to hope for.
Guards armed with weapons Callia had helped smuggle into Aransa herded them up the stairs, and Aella allowed herself a slim smile at Callia’s lack of power. Even if the dignitary wanted to protest, she was being carried on the shoulders of Thratia’s people. Her autonomy had been revoked.
As Aella trudged up the steps she smeared the salve from the green jar across her wounds, savoring the cool tingle that radiated from whatever herbs had been mashed into the concoction. She spared a glance for the apothik who had brought it for her, but his balding pate was lost in the press all around. She stopped looking the second she stepped onto the dock.
Their cruiser was gone.
A midsized barge hung in the empty space of the u-dock, its overhead buoyancy sacks bulging against the ropes that held them in place. Stabilizing wings hung half open from the front and back, and all of Callia’s attendants were crowded into the center of the ship, held in an uneasy cluster by a line of crossbowmen spread out around the curve of the dock. Of the deviant sensitives, there was no sign. Along the ship’s rectangular haul, The Crested Fool was painted in gilded yellow.
Aella was forced to stifle a giggle.
With utmost care, the guards eased Callia’s palanquin to the ground and pulled away her sheltering curtains. From amongst her cushions the battered whitecoat leaned forward, fists clenching the front poles of the palanquin so tight Aella suspected the flimsy, Scorched-grown, wood would snap.
“What is the meaning of this?” Callia grated.
Thratia gestured with a wide sweep of her arm. “You promised me a ship, and weapons. Now I have everything we agreed upon.”
With a grunt of pain-mingled rage Callia jerked herself to her feet and thrust a finger Thratia’s way, her other hand drifting for the grip of her saber. Aella cringed, hoping her mistress would not be so stupid as to get them all slaughtered to assuage her indignity.