Inherit the Flame

Chapter Seventeen

The skeleton of the Ashfall Lounge was a burnt out warehouse on the outskirts of the city; the flesh was something else all together. Its performers had swathed the building in garishly painted linens, hiding the worst of the damage with sheets of fabric painted with the names of the performers, and the cost for entry. They’d crowded the soot-stained eaves with paper lanterns, covered with squiggles and dots to throw patterns against the cloth and wood.

Patrons milled about the exterior, talking to be heard over the soft threads of music seeping through the ramshackle building. Laughter and song and the vapor of alcohol mingled on the breeze, tinged with something else. Something Ripka couldn’t quite place.

“They’re so happy,” Honey murmured.

The shock of that statement stopped her walking. That was it, that was all there was. These people were happy, out enjoying the night and the company of others despite everything. Despite knowing their city was doomed to fight for its freedom, despite knowing full well that the armies of Thratia were only days away – perhaps even here already, if rumors of a convoy spotted to the west could be believed.

Unlike Aransa, these people hadn’t suffered weeks brewing in tension. Hadn’t strained under the fear of a doppel in their streets, of their warden murdered and who knew how many officials lined up next on that shadowy boogeyman’s chopping block. The people of Hond Steading were used to coming up on top. Ripka wasn’t even sure that they knew what it was to fear for a nation, for a people.

It should have brought her joy, to see so many of them without care. Instead, her stomach clenched. A people easy with themselves, mollified and convinced of their invincibility, were difficult to mobilize. Thratia would arrive to find a city full of fat goats, ready for the slaughter.

“Come on.” Ripka urged herself forward. “Let’s go find Latia and get some seats.”

Progress through the crowd was slow, halting. People did not endeavor to block her path so much as be completely indifferent to the fact that anyone of their number might have a sense of direction, of urgency. Ripka’s training ticked away, marking certain groups as more likely to cause trouble than others, rankling at the sight of knots of people blocking exits. Worse yet, vendors clustered in triangles around every door, hawking beer and wine and portable foodstuffs. Didn’t they see that this place had already burned down once? Fire was a real hazard on the Scorched, if they kept the doorways clogged, then–

“Here.” Honey’s short fingers gripped Ripka’s shoulder, stopping her mid-prowl of the perimeter. She pressed a lopsided clay mug of something dark and grainy and frothing into Ripka’s hand. “You need to relax.”

Ripka took a long sniff. The sweet aroma of fermented grains startled her – this was no backwater swill – and the smooth warmth of it going down eased knots she hadn’t realized she’d been bunching in her shoulders.

“Thanks.” She took a longer pull as Honey bought a beer for herself.

Someone banged a spoon against a tin cup and the collective heads of those gathered lifted to the noise, everyone turning to mill into the husk of a lounge. Ripka followed, hesitant, and every time she wondered about the structural integrity of the building she took a deeper drink of her beer. By the time they were gathered in the lobby, her cup was half empty.

“There you are!”

Ripka turned just in time to see Latia swoop down upon them. She’d piled up her hair in a mass of a bun, shoved a paintbrush through it to keep it in place, and donned the biggest, sparkliest set of hammered-copper earrings Ripka’d ever seen. A brief impression of the woman was all Ripka could gather before she was having her cheeks kissed in a dizzying rush, then Latia grabbed her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length, nodding to herself.

“This shade of red does become you.”

Honey grinned a bit over Latia’s shoulder and Ripka shot her a sour look. “Honey decided I needed an update.”

“A woman of few words, and excellent taste. I love it!”

Latia gathered Ripka’s shoulders under one arm, Honey’s under the other, and steered them firmly through the crowd toward a scattering of wood pallet tables that filled the floor before a burlap-curtained stage. She claimed a table toward the middle of the room and ushered both Ripka and Honey into chairs. One look at their drinks, and Latia clucked her tongue.

“For you, Ripka darling, that brew is just fine, but Honey! My dear, that just won’t do for that poor throat of yours. You!” She flagged down a harried-looking serving boy and thrust a finger at Honey’s cup. “Get this poor dear a dark tea with whisky and honey, warmed up, now, and be quick. The dear girl is injured, for skies’ sake.”

Latia dropped copper grains into the boy’s outstretched hand and he raced off. “There!” She collapsed into her seat in a puff of stone-smoothed linens and dust.

“Where is Dranik?” Ripka asked when Latia paused to take a breath.

“Oh, him.” Her face screwed up as if she’d tasted something sour. “Off on one of his little missions of truth and right-thinking, no doubt. Probably haranguing some poor passers-by in the market about the glory of a representative government.” She sighed heavily. “He is such an earnest, yet tedious young soul.”

“Is he not your elder brother?”

“Pah. Age is in here, my darling.” She tapped her temple with one finger, a bit of mustard-yellow paint dried on its tip. “And as such he is decidedly my younger fool of a brother. Poor dear. Mama poured a bunch of nonsense into his head, he hardly stood a chance.”

Ripka pressed her lips shut to keep from inquiring, fearing that if she seemed too eager to learn about Dranik’s politics she might stir suspicion. Latia was Dranik’s gatekeeper. If Ripka could ingratiate herself with the woman, then maybe she’d let her get a closer look at what was really going on.

She was forming a tree of questions in her mind to peel away the truth when the waiter arrived and plunked Honey’s new drink down. Before Ripka could find a proper opening question, the candelabras lining the walls were snuffed and all conversation fell to a soft murmur. While each table had its own guttering candle, the stage glowed with oil lamps, a brighter light than any of the candles could give.

The stage glowed like a stoked ember. Sorrowful notes from a violin moaned from behind the curtain, their hollow tone carving out a matching emptiness in Ripka’s belly. She leaned forward, and noticed Honey doing likewise. Honey’s eyes were rapt, glowing in the unctuous light from the lamps, her golden curls all aflame on the top of her head. Her bee-sting full lips moved, slowly, mouthing the tones of the violin.

Honey had seemed focused but bored when she danced death among the rioting prisoners of the Remnant. Now she was enraptured. Ripka swallowed a long sip of her drink, trying to tell herself her fingers trembled because she was overtired.

A woman’s silhouette stepped behind the thin curtain. She stood in profile, one arm extended to the sky, the other crooked at her back. She’d curled and teased her hair so much it obscured the shape of her face, of her shoulders. Just the slim curve of lips and nose were visible beyond the ringlets. Ripka leaned forward, trying to discern some telling feature, and the lips moved. The woman sang.

The sound was low, haunting. Shivers coursed up Ripka’s spine, trailing goosebumps across her entire body. Beside her, Honey mouthed the words, the barest whisper slipping past her lips. Neither the language nor the tune was familiar to Ripka, but the glaze over Honey’s eyes was enough to tell her the woman knew every word.

She nearly jumped out of her skin as a shadow fell over her shoulder, the presence of a man behind her, body warmed with exertion, shocking her out of her reverie.

“What are you doing?” Latia whispered, a low hiss.

Ripka forced herself to wrench her gaze away from the figure on the stage and turn in her seat. She was a little jealous to see Honey ignore the interruption, so intent was she on the performance. Ripka went cold.

Dranik hunched behind her, alongside his sister, his hair stiff with sweat and his forehead gleaming. Even in the near-dark of the candlelight the angry bruise marring his cheek and jaw stood out.

“You have to hide me,” he whispered, voice strained with urgency.

“I’d like to drop you down a well,” Latia snapped, earning a sharp hush from the table next to them. Dranik’s gaze flitted around, uneasy. Ripka knew that pattern of looking – he was checking to see if he’d been followed.

“Let’s talk outside,” Ripka whispered. If Dranik was going to interrupt the performance for her, she’d be damned if she was going to be left out of any juicy information.

Dranik paled a little. “Not out front.”

Ripka bit back sarcasm and nodded. Luckily for them all she’d made a habit of checking every room she entered for entrances and exits while in the watch. “There’s a door on the back end of the bar, a service entrance that dumps to the side of the building. We can loop around to the back from there.”

Nods all around. These two clearly weren’t used to handling themselves in any flavor of real crises, they’d handed the tiller of the situation over to her without a second thought. Ripka stood, careful not to scrape her chair, and soft-footed her way toward the door, drawing a few murmurs of annoyance from the other patrons. She’d expected Honey to stay behind, but the woman followed them, head tipped toward the stage no matter which direction they turned.

The bartender threw her a sour look as she grabbed a nearly spent candle from the edge of the bar, but said nothing. The door was unlocked and didn’t so much as creak as she swung it open into the night. Though the place was half-burnt, someone had obviously put some thought into oiling the hinges.

She shivered in the night air, missing her watcher coat, and checked down both ends of the alley before ushering their little group out. The moment the door shut, Latia jabbed her brother in the chest with one finger.

“Just what in the pits are you doing?”

He shifted his weight side to side, glancing down the lane toward the front of the building. Ripka decided to save him.

“Let’s talk around back.”

Latia rolled her eyes and flounced her skirts, but followed Ripka all the same. A packed-dirt patio reached from the back of the performance hall to a haphazard stone fence stacked high as Ripka’s shoulders. The sight of it made her uneasy – such structures were known to collapse in Aransa – so she sidled a little closer to the building. A door stood in the middle of the back wall, a few chords of music seeping out, and piles of cloth and broken or half-finished stage props dotted the area. Dranik made a complete survey of their environs before he dared to speak.

“We have to get away from here, Latia. They’ll find me any moment – you must hide me!”

“Hush.” Latia crossed her arms and stared down her long nose at him. “It’s bad enough you disturbed the performance, don’t yell so that the whole theater can hear you from out here, too.”

“Latia,” Ripka said, watching yellow bile tinge Dranik’s cheeks. “He’s serious, I think. What happened, Dranik?”

“Later,” he hissed, though this time he kept his voice down. “They don’t know my name. If we go to your studio–”

“I am in the middle of a piece!”

“Shhh,” Honey murmured.

They all stopped cold, every last gaze swiveling to the golden-haired woman. Her head was no longer tilted toward the building. She’d turned slightly, angling her body the way they’d come, head cocked as if listening. Ripka heard thudding, thought it was the sound of her heart, but it was too disjointed. And growing louder.

“Company,” Ripka whispered, and slid into a ready crouch.

Dranik moaned and slunk back, grabbing his sister’s sleeve to yank her towards a deadfall in the fence. She swore and stumbled, painted sandals twisting in the dust.

Precision echoed in those footsteps, a practiced pattern that thundered through Ripka’s memory. Long shadows appeared at the end of the alley, the hint of firm-lined coats evident about the pursuers’ collars. She did not need to see them to know those coats were blue.

Shit. The shadows stretched, drawing closer, and her breath came harsh between her lips. Honey’s fingers grazed her arm, and the simple touch returned her to herself. She wouldn’t have to fight them. She just needed to get Dranik and Latia out of here. Preferably without being recognized.

“Go,” she ordered, jerking her chin toward the break in the wall. Latia was first through, shoved by her brother, Honey tight on their heels. Ripka hesitated only a breath. She threw the candle.

Her aim was true. The sputtering stub of wax crashed into a pile of stage debris. She pivoted and sprinted toward the gap in the wall. Honey gripped her wrists, helping her over a low mound of rubble, as the first shouts filled the patio area.

Shouts, followed by a gut-churning whoosh. Ripka winced at the sound of the flames, the shouts of pursuit shifting to shouts of alarm. Watcher coats were made to smother fire, she told herself. They’d be all right. The patrons in the theater wouldn’t even notice.

Latia and Dranik were halfway down the road, Latia limping but pumping her arms as if her life depended on it. They cut a straight path down the center of the road. Ripka bit her lips and shared a look with Honey, who shrugged. Some people were just shit at situational awareness.

Honey at her side, Ripka jogged up to the siblings. “We need to get off the main road.”

Dranik’s eyes bulged. “Right. I, uh–”

“This way,” Latia said. She tore off toward a thin side street, the windows facing the road shuttered. Honey scampered forward and slipped her arm around Latia’s shoulders, supporting her to ease her limping, and Dranik trotted after.

A sharp whistle pierced the night. Ripka winced. She knew that sound. Though most of the watchers must have stayed behind to deal with the fire, they’d been tagged by a scout. No scout worth their salt would let a group of fugitives out of their sight before backup arrived to help.

“Go on,” Ripka ordered. “I’ll lose the scout.”

Honey threw a concerned glance over her shoulder, brows pinched together, and Ripka gave her a little nod. It was all right. She’d meet them at the studio, later. A brilliant smile flashed across Honey’s face and then she was gone, ushering the siblings down the road.

Ripka slowed her jog, taking in her surroundings. The streets were dark. Those who ran the theater must have chosen this district for its lack of population. Hond Steading’s roads sprawled in all directions, the twisting maze of a neighborhood had sprung into life spontaneously, without any pre-planning. She could use that.

She toed the ground, feeling the packed earth, the slick smoothness of the fine layer of dust that covered everything in the Scorched. She’d missed that dust while she’d been on the Remnant. It had always served to remind her how tenuous her footing truly was at any given time.

The whistle sounded again. She ducked down an alley, pressed her back against the still-warm mudbrick, evened out her breathing, and waited.