Inherit the Flame

Chapter Twenty-Six

The streets of Aransa baked in the heat, but there was no temperature save the killing field of the Black Wash that could ever make Detan feel clean again. He moved with purpose, letting the fancy clothes Thratia’d dressed him in cut a swathe through the city’s crowds, and tried, very hard, to ignore the sting of his raw skin beneath those shiny, shiny clothes.

Two nights now. Two nights in Thratia Ganal’s bed, and there was no scrub-brush in the world that could strip the scent of her from his memory. Nothing in the world that could undo the betrayal of his body, responding to her need though it turned his stomach.

He couldn’t think on it. Not too long, anyway. Every time the memory threatened to surface it slid away into some black pit in his mind, leaving him unsettled and restless but, at the very least, capable of functioning.

Even his memories of his time in the Bone Tower were clearer.

His destination loomed into view, shaking him back into himself. The thing about mercers, even the wealthiest of the bunch, was that they all had the same boring sense of style. Grandon’s offices were located in a squat, squared-off building topped with a roof of dark-stained wood. Expensive stuff, that wood, but he figured Grandon could probably afford it. Pits, he’d probably be able to afford another one after the order Detan was prepared to place.

Grandon’s lobby sported a prim little receptionist hard at work under a massive mural of the Grandon family crest. She whipped her head up from the file she’d been prodding at as Detan entered, and plastered on a smile quick enough that he almost believed it was real.

“Welcome to the Grandon Trading House. Do you have an appointment?”

He sauntered forward, making a show of pulling his crimson-lined collar straight, and leaned one arm on the woman’s desk.

“Not an appointment, exactly. Renold and I are old friends, I’m sure he can squeeze a little time in for me.”

She lifted a brow like she’d found something suspicious on the bottom of her shoe. “Then you know that Mercer Grandon is very busy. Is there a general question I can assist you with?”

Right. In his long experience, it was easier to worm one’s way past a guard than a sharp-eyed receptionist. He hadn’t meant to play this completely straight, it just wasn’t in his nature to stick to a single path, but there was only one thing that could get him past those narrowed eyes without her ringing for the watch to escort him out.

“I’m prepared to place a large purchase, and need to consult with Renold directly regarding delivery times.”

In one deft movement she plucked a ledger from under her desk and flicked it open to the appropriate page. “In that case, sir, I would be happy to set you an appointment for a future date with Mercer Grandon, or perhaps one of his junior salesmen. Are you free on the third of this week?”

He rubbed his temples as if fighting back a tension headache. “I leave tomorrow, and skies willing won’t be back to this city in my lifetime. My old pal Renold would be very, very upset to hear he’d lost this opportunity, miss. And I will inform him – letters don’t need appointments, after all.”

She pursed her lips and snapped the ledger shut. “I see. I will inquire about his availability directly, then. Who should I say is calling?”

“Detan Honding.”

She paled, and he felt like a bigger rockbrain than usual. Figured she’d have heard of him – most of the city had, by now. Thratia’d made sure of that. He could have skipped that whole song and dance and just cut straight to who he was, and what he wanted, and no doubt she would have seen him straight to Grandon’s door. Now she had to keep up appearances by asking the man, and Detan feared Renold’s surly streak just might see him kicked out the door. Served him right, forgetting his name was just as deft a tool as any other he had up his sleeves.

“A moment, Master Honding.”

She disappeared down a hallway, heels click-clacking on the hardwood floor, and it didn’t take her long at all to come click-clacking back, a little furrow between her brows that Detan couldn’t quite read.

“He will see you now.”

Grandon’s office was a study in sand and glass. The wall behind him was pockmarked with hexagonal windows, a high shelf encircling the whole room crowded with vials of all the various sands of the Scorched. Detan had never taken the man for being particularly interested in the geology of the region, but then, he hadn’t really thought much about what Grandon may or may not like. Save, of course, that he liked his food and his women and couldn’t give two shits for anyone serving him.

“You,” Grandon said, splaying both his hands on the chunk of wood that was his desk, “better have a very good reason for coming here.”

“Why thank you, I will take a seat. Your hospitality is always so refreshing, Grandon old pal.” Detan sauntered forward and flopped into the chair across from Grandon’s desk, leaning back to kick an ankle up on his knee. He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, flicking his gaze around the room. “I’d ask you who your decorator is, but I suspect I’m looking at the man himself, am I right?”

“You have until the count of ten.”

“Now, now, aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

“One. Two.”

Detan threw his palms up to forestall the count. “All right, all right. Always in such a rush, you mercers are. Time is money, and all that.” Damn his tongue. He was stalling, and he hadn’t even meant to. He was just loath to speak the words he needed to get his point across. “You may have heard of my impending nuptials?”

Grandon’s face went slack. “Everyone has heard.”

“Marvelous,” he lied, and clapped with pretend joy to cover the sour note in his voice. “Then I’m sure you can help me. I wish to purchase a large quantity of your liqueur for the happy day. A gift to my bride and our guests, to remind her of old times.”

The mercer’s fingers curled slowly to fists atop the desk. “You may remember that the local supply of honey was severely depleted after… the accident at the Hub.”

“Certainly a little explosion wasn’t enough to undermine your entire enterprise, Grandon. This place of yours,” Detan gestured to the finery all around them, “isn’t suffering from the lack.”

“True. My business survived your little fit. But the liqueur has become a dear thing, rare and precious. A top shelf varietal hardly seen outside this city. Steel, you’ll find, is the bulk of my business now. Pre-sharpened, of course.”

Ah. So Thratia no longer saw a point in hiding her weapons beneath crates of other goods. Figured. “But you do still sell the stuff?”

“For a price.”

A price to make even the richest selium trader blush, he had no doubt. This wasn’t just about the scarcity of honey in Aransa. Grandon was punishing him. Funny thing was, the abuse gave him a fleeting sense of relief. “I’m prepared to pay.”

“Nothing counterfeit, I assume?”

He smiled and flicked lint from the cuff of his pant leg. “Do you think me a pauper, Grandon? I have the routing cipher to the Honding coffers. Any counting house in this city will confirm them.”

Grandon raised both brows, greed overriding his anger. “You’re prepared to pay so much for a gift?”

“For my darling wife? Nothing but the best.”

“Well then.” He leaned forward, dragged a ledger open and dipped a pen into his inkwell. “Let’s talk logistics.”