“You lost the ship we sent you, and you have your weapons. Return my craft and my specimens to me immediately.”
Thratia gave a slow, slow shake of her head. “Now I have a ship. Now I have weapons. Your specimens–” she spit over the rail of the dock, “–have already been bathed, fed, and sent to their own private rooms. Under guard, of course, but with time,” she shrugged, “I do not think I will have need of guards for them. You’re free to go, Callia. Right now. Don’t test me again.”
On unsteady feet Callia stepped toward the gangplank, her eyes as wide and rolling as a startled horse. Aella sighed and started forward, offering her arm to the whitecoat. Callia took it, and Aella was surprised by how much weight she allowed her to carry.
“You,” Thratia pointed a finger Aella’s way, “have a choice. You may stay with me, or not. I will not force you either way.”
Aella pretended to take a moment to mull over the offer, then bowed her head in deference. “I will go with the woman who raised me.”
Callia snorted pride, lifted her chin with smug satisfaction. Which was, of course, precisely the reaction Aella had wanted her to have. When Callia returned to the Valathean court in disgrace, Aella would be ready. She’d have plenty of time to plan, crossing the sea on such a slow vessel.
And if Callia proved too much a terror on the ship, well then. She had her new little jar of salve, tucked safely in the loose folds of her pocket. A great many dangerous herbs could be blended in to such a base. Aella touched the jar in her pocket, treasuring it, and felt smooth letters and numbers carved, ever so tiny, into its base. She swallowed, following that little string with the edge of her thumb. A cipher. A way to communicate with Thratia in secret, if she so chose.
Aella did not dare look the warden’s way. She was too afraid she would smile.
As they crossed onto the deck of the new ship, Callia’s attendants took over, shifting her weight onto their trembling shoulders. Aella sighed. The walk had rubbed some of the salve off her arms. She opened the jar, oblivious to the threat of crossbows all around her. Thratia would not fire if there was no need of it.
“You’ve made a grave mistake,” Callia called as her men unmoored the ship. “Valathea will hear of your betrayal.”
Aella picked her head up just in time to catch a satisfied smile dance across Thratia’s tired, soot-smeared face.
“Good,” the warden said.
Aella fought down a grin, bending her head over the open jar of salve to hide it. Thratia was baiting the empire to war… She would have to work that into the plans she made as they crossed the sea.
The Crested Fool slithered out into the open sky, rising to clear the craft from the line of crossbows. Despite their haste to be away, the ship stayed lower than its preferred cruising height, wary of the fires boiling the sky above. Heat sharper than any sunlight bathed Aella’s head and arms, and in a moment of recklessness she lifted her face to that fire and closed her eyes.
“Aella!” Callia called, snapping her back to herself.
It was all she could do to keep from humming a merry tune as she returned to her mistress’s side.
Chapter 43
Detan sat on the deck of the Larkspur, a cup of tea warming his hands and a large metal firepit warming his toes. Tibal, Ripka, and New Chum sat around the same fire, their figures slumped in unconsciousness, half-drunk teacups spilled from their hands. Tea Pelkaia had made them. A few stains of the stuff were creeping across the Larkspur’s fine wood. Detan sighed. That was going to be a pain to clean up.
He hitched the thick, goats’ wool blanket Tibs had rustled up for him tighter around his waist. It was cold up here, so close to the stars, but the crisp wind felt good on his bare back all the same. Felt like it was leeching some of the heat out of his healing burns. Made his legs feel like numb, dead weight, though. Ripka burped in her stupor, a stream of drool ran down Tibal’s chin. Detan waited.
The tea grew cold by the time Pelkaia emerged from the cabin, stretching herself toward the moonlight. Her face was cast in shadow, but still he saw her turn, saw her shoulders jump just a little in surprise. She sauntered forward, wearing her preferred face, and knelt beside New Chum.
“Had too much to drink, did they?” she said.
“Something like that.” Detan leaned forward and set his mug down before him, giving it a twist as if he were drilling it into place. Pelkaia smiled, and shook her head.
“I should have known.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“How did you know?”
“I’ve been a guest of the whitecoats. Golden needle is what they use to knock off that pesky screaming and squirming that goes on while one’s being cut to ribbons.”
“Ah,” she murmured, the ghost of a real frown scampering across her features. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to bring back sour memories.”
“That’s what you’re going to apologize for?”
She shrugged. “It’s what I’m actually sorry for. Anything else would be a lie.”
“At least you’re honest.”
Pelkaia patted New Chum on the shoulder and walked around the fire to sit beside Detan, close enough he could feel the warmth radiating from her. Could smell the spicy mélange of the oils she wore in her hair. A scent that brought with it memories of her smile, obscured by Ripka’s face, flashing in the dark. Bright. Enticing. Knowing she had him on a string only she could play. He swallowed, shifted, but didn’t scoot away.
She stretched her long legs out, letting the soles of her boots draw close to the dancing flames. His own legs were crossed, and beneath the shelter of the blanket he could feel the wooden handle of his knife shoved in his boot, warm with the heat of his tired body. It would be easy.
He didn’t like easy.
“Which ship?” he asked.
She said nothing, only reached down and patted the smooth wood of the Larkspur’s deck. He nodded. “Why?”
“I told you all along it was mine.”
“Not good enough.”
She sighed, but from the corner of his eye he saw a smile pull up the ridges of her lips. “All right then. Callia’s given up the chase for now, gone north to get her sorry hide across the Darkling Sea before the monsoons strand her behind the Century Gates until the end of the season. Means we’ve got time. Time I plan on using to sharpen a stick to shove in her eye.”
“And the Larkspur?”
Her fingers spider-crawled across the deck, her palm came to rest against the cap of his knee. He did his best not to notice the heat of it. “You’re a hunted man, Honding.”
“I’ve been hunted since I fled Valathea the first time, it’s nothing new.”
“This is different. Back then, they knew your abilities deviated, but not to what extent, and you hadn’t yet done them a personal insult. Callia delayed her trip back to Valathea for a week just on the chance she’d catch you, and I would bet freshwater that she only left when she did so that she could make it there, drop her cargo, and come right back around before the monsoons really get going. After your little demonstration at the Smokestack, you’ve become worth your weight in sel.”
“I can’t even imagine a man’s weight in sel.”
“Exactly.”
He pulled the blanket snug around his waist and tried to keep his shivering from being too obvious. What little of the golden needle had made it into his system was dragging him down, making him drowsy. Detan sucked in a deep breath of the cold night air and tried to calm himself, to focus. Breathe in, breathe out. One-two, one-two.