As he tipped the brim of his hat down over his eyes to add that roguish mystique the upcrust ladies were all aflutter over, Detan reflected that all the posturing in the world wouldn’t make up for the holes in the knees of his britches. Which left the gentleman’s last resort – good, hard grains.
It didn’t help matters much that Tibs was trying to blend in the same way. Detan leaned over to hiss a whisper at the man, which was a funny thing to do when you were both slouching like your spines were made of rotwood.
“You’re supposed to be my manservant, remember? Don’t look so blasted confident.”
Tibs rolled his eyes. “Why can’t you play the manservant for once?”
“Because I actually know the plan. And besides–” he waved an arm down his torso, “–no one would believe it.”
“You’re right, you’d make a terrible manservant.”
“You dustswallower! I’d be a marvelous–”
“Excuse me, sirs.” The ticket seller reached their spot in line, his little pad of yellowed passes ruffling in the breeze. “It’s two silver grains each to the baths.”
Detan wasn’t much surprised to see Tibs’s jaw drop open at the price. Tibs wasn’t a man to go about wasting his grains, and during normal circumstances Detan was right glad for his persnickety friend’s tight-pocket affectations. Now, however, required a different sort of dealing. The kind of dealing that got filthy men past top-button gatekeepers. In Detan’s experience, such a thing required the liberal and unfettered lubrication of gold. It was just a crying shame he didn’t have any.
“Only two? By sel! Such a bargain. Certainly fair enough to leave a little left over for yourself, eh my good chap?” Detan leaned in as he spoke, plunking the requisite grains into the official looking pouch as he plunked another silver in the man’s personal pocket. While the ticket seller had been looking at them like something unpleasant scraped off his shoe, he now seemed inclined to their favor. Or, at least, he wasn’t scowling.
The ticket seller tapped his pocket with the edge of his hand, feeling the weight, and shrugged. He took their names on a slip of paper, his brow raising slightly at Detan’s, but the silver weighed enough to stifle any comments.
“Enjoy the baths,” was all he said.
After he shuffled off, Tibs hissed in Detan’s ear. “Moonturn’s worth of rent, that was.”
“And a lifetime’s worth of goodwill!”
“If by a lifetime you mean until we find ourselves in this line again.”
“Do you ever plan on seeing the baths again?”
“Well, no…”
Detan beamed and threw his arm around Tibs’s shoulder. “What did I tell you? A lifetime’s worth of goodwill!”
Chapter 5
Pelkaia sat before her vanity mirror and squinted at the unfamiliar face staring back at her. Somewhere along the way she’d gotten wrinkles. Common enough in the desert, where the air was dry and one was prone to spend most of one’s days squinting under the sun, but she’d missed the transition. Too long spent beneath other people’s faces. She was beginning to forget herself.
She dipped her fingers into a jar and spread beeswax ointment around the corners of her eyes, the creased side of her lips. Fat lot of good it would do her now, but at least it was something. Replacing the lid, she glanced down and realized her hands were still smooth – too smooth. With a sigh she attuned her mind to the fine second skin of selium over them and peeled it away. Once freed of her shaping, the substance lost its warm skin tone and shifted back to the strange, multifaceted pearlescence that was its natural state. She gathered up the modicum of it, forming a ball, and danced it through the air before her eyes.
Child’s play, such a simple shaping, but it had always amused her. Had. With an unneeded wave of her hand she guided the hovering ball toward a vellum sack sewn within the mattress of her bed. She knelt beside it and concentrated for a moment, making sure all the selium already within would stay put, then whisked the mouth open and bundled the little sphere in with the rest. Pelkaia sat back on her heels, letting wrinkled hands rest over her kneecaps.
She was running out of time for play.
She made quick work of checking the weights hidden in the hollows of her bedposts – it wouldn’t do her any good to have the thing floating off – and then stood and gathered her hair into a matronly bun. Slipping her fingers into her pocket she touched the little note card that warned her that the Watch would soon knock on her door. It paid to be known as the lady who handed out sweets to the young scoundrels of the neighborhood. Never a strange occurrence passed her by, never an odd event was missed. The coming visit wasn’t a direct inquiry, of course, just a general checking-up on those sel-sensitives who claimed aged or injured retirement.
The very thought still tied her stomach in knots.
If the knock had come a day ago, she would have gladly turned herself in. Pelkaia held no illusions that her crimes would remain undetected much longer, that she would be able to escape the net tightening around her. She had done what she meant to do, and then sat back and waited for the axemen to catch up. Now… Now she realized her work was not yet done. And she had found a way out. A hole in the net.
She smiled when she recalled spying the Honding lad in the Blasted Rock Inn, savored every whisper she’d ever heard about his strange abilities. His simple presence had reminded her that she was not alone. That the Scorched was not comprised of only those who could find and move selium, and those who couldn’t. There were others like her – many, perhaps – whose abilities deviated from what Valathea accepted. Others, maybe, who might rally to her cause. If only she could find them.
When she’d had him taken to the station house, she’d intended only to needle him to discover what he knew about the state Aransa was in, to see if she could push him into assisting her crusade against the empire in some way or another. When he’d mentioned stealing Thratia’s ship, well, it had been all she could do to keep from squealing with delight. She shivered as she recalled how close she’d come to blowing the whole thing when he’d asked who Ripka would support as warden. How the thought of failing then had turned her stomach to ice.
Funny, that, how quickly one’s mind can change.
She felt the watch captain’s presence moments before the knock sounded, one-two, firm and insistent. It was nice to know that the coat she’d traded for Ripka’s original had gone unremarked. It’d taken her ages to sew tiny bladders of selium into the hems of it so that she could feel when the real article was near. Getting the amount just right so that the whole thing didn’t float away had given her quite the headache at the time.
Pelkaia gathered herself, faked a smile, and kissed the locket which held her dead son’s face. When she opened the door, she found herself staring into the face of the watch captain, a shrewd young woman with serious eyes. Pelkaia noted that she had a freckle on the underside of her chin, and a tilt to the nose that she’d missed. She made a mental note to include those disparities in her next iteration of her.
“Good afternoon, Miss…” Ripka glanced down at a list of names. “Miss Pelkaia Teria. I am Watch Captain Ripka Leshe, and this is Sergeant Banch Thent. May we come in?”
“Yes, of course.” She stepped to the side and opened the door wide for her new guests. “I’m afraid the place is not very big, but you are welcome to it. Can I make you tea?”
The watchers spilled into her little sitting room, their brilliant blue uniforms gaudy against the drab simplicity of her few possessions. They stood, critical eyes sweeping the place from top to bottom, and Pelkaia was certain they saw nothing of interest. Just the small pieces of a lonely woman’s life. Ripka shook her head.