Inherit the Flame

Chapter Twenty-Five

Detan found food in his room, a cold plate of hard cheese and crackers left sometime in the morning. The sustenance wasn’t much, but he’d eaten worse fare, and the solidness in his stomach was enough to spit some vigor back into his veins.

Best not to think about veins.

A niggling itch had anchored itself in the crook of his elbow. Nothing based in reality, he knew it was little more than his mind reminding him of what it was missing. Still, hard to ignore a figment of your imagination when it was working up real, physical distress. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and froze.

Cursed skies, he was a mess. Passable for any working man of Aransa, sure, but that was hardly the point. His hair, still wet from the wash-water, slumped across his forehead, and though his clothes were fine he’d put no care into wearing them. They hung untucked and loose, rumpled and just as ragged as his face. He looked the part of a drunkard and a wastrel, not a lord of high station. Certainly no fiance to Thratia Ganal.

And his image mattered now, make no mistake. He’d hardly enter into any con game playing a nobleman in a state like this. Why was the simple fact he was playing at being himself any different? Tibs would have slapped him upside the head, to see him now. This was not how the game was played. Loose and by ear, surely, but not sloppy. Never that.

With renewed vigor he straightened his clothes and made close acquaintance with a comb. Now he was ready. People were keen to let a man in a crisp suit go wherever he wanted.

Down on the dock, where so very much of his recent life had turned for the worse, he paused for a quick reconnaissance. Aella’s ship, the Crested Fool, drifted lazily from its rope ties. The ship was a solid transport vessel, but Thratia’s dock had been built for a grander ship, for the Larkspur he had once stolen from her and handed into Pelkaia’s care. The Crested Fool looked like a child’s toy in comparison. It just so happened that this particular toy belonged to one demented child.

No guards made their presence known on the dock. In fact, the place was practically deserted. Detan huffed and tugged his freshly ironed lapels. All that work to prepare himself, and he didn’t even have a keen-eyed servant to charm his way past. Such a waste of his brilliance.

As he jogged up the gangplank, it occurred to him that someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make it look as if this ship was of no consequence.

“Ahoy!” he called, pausing while his voice echoed throughout the apparently empty ship. No response. Not even a board creaked under his boot to welcome him. He eyed the ship from keel to bowsprit, recalling what little he’d had access to during the long transit from the Remnant to Aransa.

Aella had kept him cooped up in his cabin at the aft end of the ship, allowing him time to roam the deck but otherwise corralling him to his room and her laboratory. Both rooms were in the ship’s aft. And though Aella’d never struck him as a particularly reasonable girl, it did make sense that she’d cloister those things which she did not want him stumbling across toward the fore.

He shoved his hands in his pocket and affected a merry saunter so that anyone who happened across him would think him out for a stroll, not a snoop. The Crested Fool stretched long and flat, looking more like the worn leather of an old shoe than an airship. Its buoyancy sacks were practical things, a careful network of sewn and waxed leather held snug under a knotted net of flax rope. All of the cabins were clustered in the center of the ship, a smaller mirror of the vessel’s overall shape. Some stroke of genius had inspired the maker to be certain the buoyancy sacks kept the cabins in their shade for most of the day, shielding weary travelers from the harsh desert sun.

A cute little ship, purpose built for hauling people, but not a ship he’d ever want to steal. Pity, that. He was itching for a good heist.

Casting a glance around to make sure he was still alone, Detan strolled along the cabin building, testing doors until he found one unlocked. The hall was dark, the lanterns shuttered tight, but not yet coated in dust. Detan frowned at the nearest lantern, grabbing it from its loop. They hadn’t been in Aransa long, but dust was quick to settle in this city, and someone had gone to a whole lot of trouble to make it look like this ship was being neglected. Certainly the servants weren’t popping on board to give it the occasional dusting. Someone used this lantern – recently, and regularly. But whoever that was, they hadn’t been kind enough to leave behind a flint.

He glared at the cold wick and gave the lantern a shake, just to hear the oil slosh in its base. He didn’t dare go back to his room, or leave the ship to trouble a servant for a flint. No one knew he was here, and every chance he took had to offer a really fucking great payoff to be worth it.

But with the door shut behind him, as it must be to hide his presence, the hall was pitch black. He glared at the hall, glared at the lamp. Neither obliged him with a solution.

He wasn’t carrying a flint, but the selium Aella had given him to practice with was still tucked into his pocket, returned there on a whim after he’d washed and changed. Aella’d worked him until his senses were numb, but still… He had been practicing, and improving, hadn’t he? And what good was all this work, all this pain and sacrifice, if he could not use the things he’d learned to further his own goals?

He was not stressed. Not angry. No one was about to watch him struggle at his work. The shadows certainly wouldn’t judge him. Before he’d consciously made his decision, he breathed out, long and slow, forcing some of the tension out of his muscles.

The selium bladder was no bigger than the palm of his hand. The kind of thing rich families used to send strips of painted paper into the sky at celebrations. He extended his senses even as he whisked off the cap, holding the selium in the bladder against its will to rise. He sectioned off the tiniest fragment he could imagine and still control, a sliver no larger than his pinky nail, and floated it free before clamping the cap back on.

Easy, now. With deliberate movements he slipped the bladder back into his pocket and let awareness of it fade from his mind. For just a breath his senses threatened to extend to the mass of selium hidden in the ship’s buoyancy sacks above, but his long practice with Aella allowed him to shunt the greater mass away and focus on the smaller sliver.

It came so simply to him he almost shouted with triumph, but the surge of pride threatened to overwhelm his control. Easy, he reminded himself. Smooth and focused.

Measuring his breathing, he steadied himself. He’d trained for this so many times, been taunted by Aella every time he failed. Now, on his own, when he truly needed his power, it would not fail him. He would not allow it. Fingers calm as stone, he flicked open a pane of glass on the lantern and crouched to set it on the floor just in front of him. He stayed in that crouch, sweat seeping through the back of his shirt, but ignored the dual exertion of mind and body.

His senses screamed for finer control still. Never before had he been so keenly aware that his senses were deadened to the reality around him, never before had he felt the ache of that loss. Callia’s injection, and later Aella’s, had opened up a world to him that he had never even imagined might be real. Coss’s world. A world suffused with selium on every level, so small as to be invisible to the naked eye.

Skies, but he missed that extension of his power. Curse Aella and her games – for that’s what they were. The girl played cool-hearted, she even had keen-eyed Misol fooled, but Detan noted the subtle pleasure she took in fencing with him, and winning. No body numb of heart would bother with such an endeavor. No matter what Aella thought about herself, or tried to present herself as, that girl could feel, deep down. Maybe not as strongly as the rest of the world, but without motivation driven by emotion she would have been an automaton long ago, a husk bowing to whatever Callia ordered of her.

Instead, the girl had poisoned Callia into helplessness, stolen her and her subjects away to serve under Thratia, and usurped her position as researcher of deviant sensitives. What that had to say about Aella’s emotional core… well. Detan knew he’d be well to never trifle with that young lady. Their verbal fencing aside, to truly raise Aella’s ire would be a death sentence – no, not that. She’d find something worse for him than death. He’d never claim she wasn’t creative.

He shuddered and snapped back to himself. Focus, it seemed, would forever be his greatest obstacle. That, and controlling the flow of his rage.

He reached for his anger. It leapt to him, ready as always, a stoked bed of coals deep in his chest hungry for outlet. Even in his most serene of moments he’d known it was there, hiding beneath his flesh, lurking in the shadowed corners of his mind. He liked to think he was not a hateful man. Liked to think that his desire to do good with his skillset was proof enough that his anger was not his master.

But he could never get away from it. No matter how powerfully Aella made him focus, or meditate, his mind was never truly empty. He could not change the manner in which his deviant power affected selium, no matter how much she hoped otherwise. He could move it, shape it, and urge it to tear itself to shreds.

He wondered if that meant that he secretly wanted to tear himself to shreds, too.

But that line of thought was not helpful now. One task. He’d set himself one simple job – find Clink and Forge and engender their help. Aella’s lessons yoked his every thought, but he could not allow them to master his every movement.

He was stalling. Avoiding applying his carefully measured anger into the little sliver of sel that he had, without conscious thought, floated over to rest on the wick in the lantern. It shimmered there, its pearlescent structure evident even in such a small amount, taunting him. A flame that shone but cast no light.

Aella had taught him the benefit of physical movement, a mirror of his intention, and so he visualized himself snapping his fingers to ignite the small globule and then, giving himself no more time to worry nor secondguess his ability, made the movement in truth.

Snap. Anger. Shut it down.

The speck of selium tore itself apart, and with a muted whoosh lit the wicked-up lantern into life.

He jumped to his feet and pumped the air with a fist, very nearly knocking the lantern over in the process. He bit his lips to stifle a cry of triumph. Such a simple thing, that tiny flame, but that thing existed at the very edge of his control. It’d been harder for him to light that wick than it’d be to blow the bulk of selium floating the ship. Or, at the very edge of his sphere of awareness, the massive firemount that loomed near Aransa, and all the secret pockets of selium bubbling within.

That froze him in his celebration. At the moment he’d reached for the sliver, his awareness had expanded, wider than it ever had. Standing here, toward the peak of the mountain that housed Aransa, he could feel all the small and large pockets of selium hidden beneath the solid stone of the firemount a half-day’s walk away. In all the time he’d spent in this city in the past, never before had he been able to reach so far with such accuracy.

The thought chilled him to the core, snuffing the sparks of his victory.

Never mind that. Focus on finding the girls.

The lantern cast sharp shadows as he scooped it up and sauntered down the hall, testing every door handle he passed. Locked, all of them. But he wasn’t here to snoop behind locked doors. He was here to find two trapped women. Each handle he made sure to jiggle, until at the fifth down the line an irritated voice called, “It’s locked, you moron. You locked it your damn self.”

Detan grinned, recognizing the exasperated tone. “That you, Clink?”

Shuffling behind the door, then a soft thump as someone clunked their forehead against the wood trying to get a good look through the crack between door and jamb. “Well I’ll be fucked, it’s the Honding. Come to threaten to blow us up again?”

The lantern in his hand felt a little heavier. “I had no say in that. And, hey, I picked the right pouch, didn’t I?”

“Our hero,” Clink drawled. “The creepy little witch with you?”

Detan caught himself grinning at the blank face of the door like the madman he probably was. He could see why these two had gotten along well with Ripka. “It’s just me.”

“And a lockpick, I hope.”

“Uh, about that…”

A soft groan, then Forge said, “I told you he was a coward.”

“Hey, I’m not saying it won’t happen, I’m saying it’s not the right time.” He scowled at the door, wishing he could see their faces, wishing he could show them his face, and all the well-practiced expressions of assurance he could dance across it to help convince them.

“Talk to us when you got a plan, soft man,” Clink said. Forge didn’t bother hiding her laughter.

“That’s what I’m here for.” He threw an enigmatic smile at the door, then rolled his eyes at his own showboating. Tibs would have pissed himself laughing at that little move.

“Cute. More talk, less dancing.”

He bit his tongue to stifle a quip and cut to the meat of the matter. “I want to set you free.”

“Funny you should forget the lockpick, then.”

He grimaced and thumped his forehead against the door, letting them hear it. “I told you, I can’t manage that just yet. It’s too dangerous. You’re in the heart of Thratia Ganal’s compound, in Aransa. Did you know that?”

A pause, then Forge spoke, “No, we didn’t. We haven’t seen the sun since Aella dragged us aboard this ship, and frankly we’re starting to think we’re going to die before we get to see it again. I understand she’s keeping us on hand to keep you in line, but she forgets us sometimes. No food last night, and this morning she didn’t even mention it when she brought our rations. We had more freedom on the Remnant.”

“Fiery pits, I had no idea she’d forgotten about you.”

“Really,” Clink drawled. “And we were fresh on your mind, were we?”

That hit the mark so soundly he nearly dropped his lantern. Figured Ripka would ally herself with women clever enough to see right through to the core of him. “I can apologize all night, but that won’t help you. What I can do, is promise you this. We’re moving to Hond Steading soon – I don’t know when. A week, probably. In the meantime I can work on Aella, make sure as the skies are blue that you both get moved there with us. Hond Steading’s my city, I… I can help you better there. Send you to ground in a safe place, to escape the chains that bind you here.”

A soft snort, then a murmuring of voices as the women conferred. Forge said, “And what do you want in return?”

“I never said–”

“Didn’t have to, Honding. Cut the goatshit. You need something from us, something in Hond Steading. What is it?”

He flushed, embarrassed they’d seen through him so easily. “You in particular, Forge. I will have need of your special talents.”

“And if I help you, that will see both Clink and I free?”

“You have my word.”

“Fat lot of good that does us, but I suppose we don’t exactly have a better offer at the moment.”

“Freedom in Hond Steading, a stipend to see you well established, and, if my guesses are correct, a possible reunion with your other friend that escaped with Ripka – Honey, I believe you told me her name was.”

Silence, then, “We like her well enough when she’s chained. Not sure the girl’s worth the risk when she’s loosed. But we’ll take your offer, Honding. Pity we can’t shake on it.”

“I’ll make sure your meals are remembered. Take care.”

“Don’t get killed before you can spring us,” Forge said.

He grinned, and rapped twice on the door in affirmation before taking off back down the hall. It seemed a pity to snuff the lantern after he’d gone to so much trouble to light it, but he couldn’t very well take it with him. He blew the flame to death and hung the lantern, then stepped back onto deck. The sun was high, just beginning to trail over the other side of Thratia’s compound where it would eventually go to rest for the night somewhere behind the firemount that was Aransa’s twin. He blinked in the brightness, settling his vision, then strolled toward the gangplank, circling around to the other side of the cabins.

As soon as he turned the corner, he froze.

Thratia stood on the dock, a small entourage of very armed men and women at her side, deck hands scurrying about the opposite side of the u-dock in an effort to make those ties ready. She spotted him there, cocked her head in mild curiosity, but seemed otherwise uninterested in his presence. The Crested Fool was Aella’s ship, after all, and its contents were the girl’s business. Detan wondered if Aella had ever bothered mentioning Clink and Forge to Thratia. By the bored expression on the woman’s face, he doubted it. There was no irritation in her posture, no tension that he might have stumbled across something he wasn’t meant to find. Thratia was not at all interested in Detan’s presence on the Crested. She was, in fact, staring straight over his shoulder.

With a sinking feeling in his gut Detan turned, slowly. A ship larger than any he’d ever seen blotted what was left of the fading light, a massive bulk of wood and sail headed by a sharp, cutting prow. The mere proximity of all that selium made Detan’s skin itch. It loomed toward the dock, slow and steady, aiming right for the space alongside the Crested Fool.

Detan scurried off the smaller ship before the larger could close the distance. He’d never been keen on trusting his safety to the piloting skills of others. Thratia acknowledged his presence with a distracted nod, her gaze stuck on that hulking mass. He sidled up to her, daring to take the place at her right side, and asked, “What in the pits is that thing?”

She shot him a fierce grin. “That is my new flagship, and our transport to Hond Steading.”

It drifted closer, the voices of the dock hands rising in panic as they scrambled to make ready for the leviathan’s arrival. Detan’s throat grew dry, his stomach heavy, as he began to make out the fine detail on the ship’s deck. Massive harpoons dotted the rails, and structures the likes of which he’d never seen before adorned the silk-smooth deck. Whoever the ship’s captain was, they were a deft hand, for they sailed the ship with firm and steady grace. Detan swallowed to regain his voice.

“When do we leave?”

“Two days,” Thratia said, and there was more passion in her eyes as she looked upon that ship than he had seen all through the night spent in her bed.